This is the fourth chapter of Wealthgiver, an alternate history serial romance about nationalism and cave-Thracians. For the back-of-the-book description and an index of chapters, click here. For the beginning, click here. For the previous chapter, click here.
Andrei dug his walking stick into the mud and mounted another switchback.
The moon, full and enormous, cast crazed shadows over the mountainside. It was all the light Andrei had, now that he'd passed out of sight of the shepherds' house.
"If they were shepherds," he muttered to himself. "But what else could they have been? Aside from mad? Thank God she didn't have any belladonna to hand. How much soup might I have eaten before I noticed the taste? Would have had to induce vomiting."
Leafless brambles and cherry-plums clogged the goat path. Andrei looked up and down the slope, but saw no way around the obstruction.
"One would think the goats would do a better job of keeping the path clear."
But feet had surely passed over this damp, churned earth, and recently. More than Andrei would have expected. Maybe the shepherds knew about a good hot spring up here. Now, there was a way to stave off pneumonia for a night.
Yes, when he sniffed, he did catch the eggish whiff of sulfur amid the wet clay and sprouting grass of the springtime mountain. He turned sideways to the bushes and shoved his way in.
Branches rasped and crackled as Andrei forced them apart. It made an awful noise, but nobody came to investigate. The local peasants had called in their animals and put themselves to bed. The poor people. The poor, angry people.
Andrei had set off north and east from San Stefano, hoping to avoid troops of any army by traveling away from coasts, borders, and major roads, through the Rhodope Mountains. He'd had to turn sharply north, though, when he found that the entire Tamrash region was up in arms. The Bulgarian-speaking Muslims there had declared an independent republic, and Andrei didn't want to be there when they were crushed either by Turkish-speaking Muslims or Bulgarian-speaking Christians.
He'd seen the census-takers in Peshtera, too, totting up the number of villagers who spoke a Slavic language and worshiped at Orthodox churches, reminding everyone which people who did not. Pomaks, Gypsies, Armenians, Jews, and many others Andrei had never heard of, were not lucky enough to live in large, easily-mappable clusters. They'd find themselves torn apart by the new Balkan nations, perhaps literally.
Andrei didn't want to stick around to see those massacres. He put his hand up to protect his eyes from the thorns and found he made better progress without the moonlight and the shadows it cast.
After the Rhodopes, he would keep going west, through what was still nominally Ottoman Territory to Durres. From there, a ship out of Montenegro? North into Austria-Hungary?
"Or across the Ocean to Batavia, where I can learn to sleep with a pistol under my pillow for the pirates and tropical mosquitoes," he said. "God, let this be the most exciting part of my journey."
God didn't answer, but Andrei did reflect that he had a long search ahead of him, if it was for a place free of death.
"Let go of your questions, Doctor," Andrei advised himself. "You can pick them up again in the morning."
He shouldered his way out onto an open, grassy slope. Shelves of rock thrust like glowering brows over steaming cracks in the earth. Lovely. Those would make beds both warm and dry. He wouldn't have found a better place to sleep in that shepherds' house, even discounting the poison.
Andrei stopped. "Oh, Doctor, you stupid ox. So used to carrying that heavy pack, were you?" He unslung it. "So desperate to get away from those people that you spent the night hauling a load of poisoned food up this mountain."
Metal jingled as he dropped the sack onto the soft earth. From its mouth, Andrei pulled and discarded a pair of those unboiled bagels that the Turks called simit. Next came a wicker basket of crumbly white cheese, and a bag of dried fruit. None of it was safe to eat, and all of it was far heavier than it should be, given the ache in the small of Andrei's back.
He saw why when he removed the layer of provisions. Hidden under a rawhide shroud, treasure gleamed. Gold coins, broaches, rings, earrings, bangles, a whole platter, now rather bent. Silver forks and spoons, as well as wooden ones. A strange little sickle, sharp as a razor on its inner curve. A fox-fur cap just like the one the old man wore. And under that were the little clay figures. A clay horse, carefully wrapped so that its legs wouldn't snap off, a seated figure, possibly male, and a standing one, definitely female.
Andrei hit the bottom of his pack. His own food, canteen, knives, tinderbox, and blanket were all gone.
His curse echoed off the mountain on the other side of the valley.
When had that demented old man emptied out Andrei's whole pack? Why, in God's name, had he replaced the worn equipment there with this fantastic, useless treasure hoard? Were they framing Andrei as a thief? Setting up an excuse to gather a posse and hunt him down? Or using him as a mule to smuggle gold out of the country? Where the devil did the little clay idols fit in with that? And Andrei was sure that the old man had not faked his madness.
He looked out over the moonlit meadow. Water bubbling out of stone. Blood through the cracks in a mask.
"No matter, Doctor," Andrei muttered to himself. "Best to get rid of this stuff right now."
The soil of the hillside was warm and damp. It wouldn't take long to bury this strange treasure.
Nikolai could not see his Maiden, but he could hear her breath quicken. She stood beside him, warm in the dark, her eye pressed to the lens of the periscope.
"Yes," she said, "there he is."
"My Maiden," said old Brother Bogdan. "Why use your eyes? That the light you see by is cast by the Moon, and almost as maddening as wine. These visions before you are nothing but nightmares. Come away from the scope."
Nikolai agreed this was all most improper. He should never have obeyed when his goddess had ordered him to bring her here. He had been weak, but he would look weaker still if he voiced his agreement with the old man and Kori still refused to listen. As he knew she would.
"The lenses," he said, "transmit light, as the bends of a corridor direct sound. What the Maiden sees is not the terrible lies of the lunatic Binder, but something tamed and directed. Do we not say that the lie is the deepest truth?"
Brother Bogdan's robes whispered as he folded his arms. "As you say, Elder Brother."
Brother Murad, tapped his foot for attention. "My Maiden, what is the Fool doing?"
"He has a sack," she reported. "A large one. He's unpacking it. Removing food. Did he carry that all the way up the Mountain?"
"Or else the shepherds gave him those supplies," said Nikolai. "After failing to kill him or even turn him aside."
"Maybe the food is poisoned." Hope was clear in Murad's voice.
"We shouldn't have to rely on poison," Nikolai grumbled. "Someone should have slit this Fool's throat before he was halfway up to the entrance. How did he evade all the other Good?"
"It's the equinox coming," said Theodoros, the third Brother in the chamber. "They're all staying here with us."
"Perhaps." Though Nikolai had other suspicions.
"Is he eating the food, My Maiden?" asked Brother Murad.
"No. He's setting it all inside and reaching into his sack for more."
A wail rose in Nikolai's throat. He turned it into a growl. "What is that Fool about? What does this mean?"
"I think he's preparing to sleep," said the Maiden. "The set of his shoulders—he looks tired."
"I can still poison him," Brother Murad suggested. "The Fool need never awaken."
Brother Bogdan clicked gentle negation. "There is no need for that. Here, above our Depths, we can simply rip out this throat."
"I would rather interrogate him," said Nikolai. He had not entirely convinced himself with his rationalizations about lenses and corridors, and he did not like the way his Maiden was breathing. Fast and shallow, as if frightened, but with a shape to her mouth that indicated happiness. What did she see now, by the light of the Moon? What was this stranger, and how did he figure in the prophesy?
"Elder brother, why did you volunteer to interrogate him?" Kori asked.
Nikolai's own breathing had betrayed his feelings. He cleared his throat. "He is Russian, Maiden."
"You think he was sent by your family?" she asked, a smile still on her lips.
"I never had family in Russia. Only people paid to take care of me." Nikolai recognized his own old bitterness and deepened his inhalation. "Yes, Maiden. I believe that man was sent for me. It would be easy enough to slip an agent into the Tsar's army."
"We certainly did," Brother Murad put in.
"Yes," said the Maiden. "He is burying the treasure. But now he's picking something—I see it coiling. A small snake."
She was speaking almost as if reciting a vision. Nikolai tried to put a stop to this. "My Maiden, remember that you—"
She did not interrupt him with speech, but Nikolai's stomach twisted at the overtones in her sudden gasp.
"My Maiden approves of something?" Brother Bogdan, sounding as embarrassed as Nikolai felt. "What sights meet your eyes?"
"He killed it," she breathed.
The priests clicked at each other in consternation. All the Brothers felt the same. There was something in her voice that should not be. No, something up on the surface of the Holy Mountain!
"The serpent came to him and he crushed it in his fist," said Bogdan.
"What the hell does that symbolize?" asked Theodoros.
"Obviously—" began Nikolai, but once again the Maiden interrupted him.
"It means he solves problems."
Nikolai clicked his tongue. The Maiden still pressed her eye to the periscope. She still watched the stranger, her breathing quick and excited.
"May I observe the Fool?"
She started, hesitated, but stood back. "No need to ask my permission, Elder Brother."
"No, My Maiden." Nikolai tried not to reveal his relief as he leaned past her. He put his eye to the periscope, still warm from her skin. A blink. A shiver.
The Moon's lurid light shone upon the hidden entrance to the Holy Mountain. Silver grass, silver fog, and the outline of a man, black as a mole's fur. He was certainly a brute. Broad, rather than tall, with thick arms and legs and a barrel chest. A square chin, and, when he looked up, a mouth and brows that formed a pair of serious, parallel lines. One might call that expression "grim."
"What does he have in that bag?" wondered Nikolai, squinting. "Jewelry? Cutlery? Dried apples? Did he steal all that loot from the shepherds?"
The Maiden breathed on his ear. "Is he, by any chance, digging a pit to bury his sacrifice to the Earth?"
"He's returning gifts to the Earth?" Theodoros had also heard the confirming catch in Nikolai's breath. "Then he is one of the Good after all."
"No," growled Nikolai. "He's a Russian! A Fool! A damn drunken Christian. We know he doesn't speak the Good Language. The shepherds' report was very clear. He's, he must be burying loot so he can come back to it later."
"Maybe the shepherds didn't tell us everything," said the Maiden. "Why did they give him all that stuff? Why did they fill his sack-of-plenty?"
"He stole—" Nikolai's mind caught up to his ears. "Sack-of-plenty?" It was one of the Wealthgiver's most common symbols. This man might as well have come up the mountain with an invisibility cap and a three-headed dog. "It is no sack-of-plenty. Just a sack." Moonlight glinted. "Filled with gold."
Kori pitched her voice low. "Nikolai. Is that man giving his treasures to the Earth?"
Nikolai's fingernails tapped the shaft of the periscope, creating echoes that showed him her posture. Poised.
"Elder Brother?"
He twitched, shut his eyes, and found clarity again. "These are distractions. May the Light not dazzle and the Wine not blind me." He pulled his face away from the scope and straightened. "The arrival of this Fool muddies an otherwise clear prophesy: The Mistress is the Rhodope mountain and her rivers run red with the blood of our enemies. Behind her stands the Grim Master of the House of the Dead, ready to welcome the many new souls that unto him we deliver."
"If I may, Elder Brother," said Brother Murad, "it seems to me that the signs reveal we can only stand when the Wealthgiver supports us."
"Yes," said Brother Theodoros. "We must wait until certain of our investments mature before we have the financial reserves to begin this venture."
"How can one see that the Unseen One is at hand?" mused Bogdan. "A paradox. Perhaps the meaning of the oracle is that the mountain can never stand. Perhaps the spilled blood is ours."
Nikolai heard a sound from the Maiden that might indicate amusement, or perhaps frustration. He shared it.
"Still?" He rounded on the other priests. "Still you balk? The signs could not be more clear. No more inaction. No more waiting."
"We have not been inactive in our waiting," Bogdan said. "We have worked. We have made empires turn about the Red River Mountain for a thousand years and half a thousand more. If the Sultan falls, what of it? We have agents in Saint Petersburg as well."
"And agents in Berlin, who tell us that the Tsar will never be allowed to keep this land," Murad pointed out.
"Then those very agents will whisper into the ear of the Kaiser," said Bogdan.
"Who is doomed to lose his empire as well!" Nikolai appealed to the Maiden. "My Maiden, you know as well as I do how fragile is the peace of Europe. The Turks are only the first to see their subjugated masses rise. The Serbs will do the same to the Austro-Hungarians, the Caucasians against the Russians, the Africans against the British." He drew breath. "Once the yoke is removed, the oxen cannot pull in the same direction. How can two religions, two races, two languages coexist in one state without tyranny to force them together?"
"So," said the Maiden, "you want a tyrant?"
Nikolai shook his head and rubbed his tingling palms together. "My apologize, My Maiden, if I frightened you. I was too forceful. Doubtless, it was the influence of the Moon. We know what to do with this Fool; he will be no threat to the destiny you have revealed. The schemes of men are deep, but the Earth is deeper. If we deserve it, Earth will protect us."
"Earth, protect us," said the brothers.
The Maiden opened her mouth and drew in breath as if to speak. Nikolai's own lungs filled in sympathy, but it was not thanks that issued from her mouth, or even more inappropriate orders. It was not her voice at all that filled the chamber, but the keen of prophesy.
Pleistorós êrgetar. Sarḗ ton désaitar!
("Comes the Wealthgiver. May you him give her!")
The optative verb implied a certain impatience.
"My Maiden." Nikolai shuddered as his doubts and fear dissolved in worship. "Yes."
Brother Bogdan offered his interpretation. "We stand ready to run towards nationhood and war. Now, with the vernal equinox approaching, there comes a grim-faced stranger with a sack-of-plenty to the main entrance of our Sacred Depths. A warning."
"But remember the rest of the prophesy." Nikolai's voice still shook with the echoes of revelation. "Remember the armies, the gold. We must seize these treasures with our own hands. Not a warning. A trophy. We take our first victim!"
Kori inhaled and all four men fell silent. But she did not prophesy, only speak. "We welcome our first guest."
The verb they both used might equally mean "take" or "welcome," or "accept" or even "seize." Nikolai considered the implications.
"Perhaps the Maiden refers to Miltiades," suggested Bogdan. "According to Herodotus, he offered hospitality to the Dolongi. Is that the welcome of which the prophesy speaks?"
"Militiades was Greek," countered Theodoros. "This Fool is Russian."
"But does the Tsar not claim—"
"I think," said the Maiden, "it's a more ancient debt than that. What about the welcome the Wealthgiver gave the Reaper-of-Grain?"
Another interruption. Another pollution of prophesy with interpretation by the prophetess. But Nikolai could not correct his Maiden. He could not even breathe. His mind's eye turned away from images of gripping hands and crushing kisses.
"That is," Nikolai could not complete the sentence. "How could one call "blasphemy" the words of the Holy Mountain's only living prophetess? "That is an extremely surprising interpretation," he temporized.
"Then what is yours, Elder Brother?" Her voice was so sweet.
Nikolai pulled his hands away from his face and closed his eyes against the memory of Moonlight. "'Comes the Wealthgiver. May you him give her!' A brutal rhythm. A rhyme that teeters on the brink. Death comes to all of us, but now we hear its clap and rumble, as if black lightning struck our very periscope!" The walls rang with his words, true echoes that defined four expressions of shock and awe. "War masses and thunders above us. If we ignore it, if we turn our faces away and hide, we are greater fools than that stranger with his sack. He is the war! He is the death that we must accept, welcome, and take as a gift. May we give him to her. Our Mountain. Our Darkness. Our," he could think of no other feminine noun. "Our prophetess."
His weight fell back onto his heels. Nikolai lowered the arms he hadn't known he'd raised. The echoes faded away.
"Your orders, Elder Brother?" asked Murad.
"Wait until the stranger sleeps," said Nikolai. "Then, we shall welcome him, indeed."
Next: Chapter 5: A Thousand Lives
More about Wealthgiver
The periscope is a fun device!
Poor Andrei- I’m not sure the cult bros are going to give him a sincere welcome. Can’t a Russian guy catch a break?