Free The Ocean of Time by David Wingrove Page A

It’s spectacular, and when I turn to look at them, I see how each of their faces is filled with awe.
    ‘You want a go?’ I ask Bakatin.
    He swallows, then nods.
    ‘Here,’ I say, placing it in his hand carefully. ‘Let me show you. You lift it thus, and aim it, and then you squeeze. So …’
    I let my hand fall away as he lifts the
staritskii
and, squeezing, lets off another bolt.
    It seems to leap from his hand to the tree, which jumps into the air in a great ball of flame.
    This time, the three sons cry out gleefully and whoop, jumping up and down excitedly like children.
    Bakatin turns, looking at me, grinning broadly.
    ‘Fyodor,’ I say abruptly, seeing where he’s pointing the
staritskii
. ‘Keep it pointed away from us. Look … let me take it from you.’
    Bakatin does as he’s told, jerking the weapon round to face the far shore again.
    ‘How does it do that?’
    I pluck the weapon from his trembling hand, then answer him. ‘It’s like I said. It gathers in the air and binds it together, then sends it out as a stream of fire.’
    ‘Ah …’ But I see that for all my attempts to disabuse him of the notion, it’s still magic to Bakatin. Powerful magic. He tries to look at me, but his eyes are drawn back across the river to the flaming stumps and the dark patch of smouldering undergrowth that are all that remain of the two trees.
    ‘Ah …’

173
    That night, for the first time since the start of our journey, I sleep ‘alone’, in the bottom of the boat, alongside Bakatin and his sons.
    We wake early and make breakfast in the half light before dawn. I’m about to go and check on Katerina when I see her, leaning out over the side of the boat, retching into the water.
    I sigh and look away, upset by the sight. Have I scared her that much? Is she
that
afraid of me?
    I must do something. Only for once I don’t know what. As she retches again, I slip away, returning to where Bakatin and his sons are packing up. Bakatin looks to me, a knowing look in his eyes, then throws me my pack. He seems to want to say something, then decides against it.
    We set off before the sun has risen, the river wreathed in mist as the day begins. I take a turn at one of the oars, and am still there, toiling away, as we approach the trading post at Velizh.
    Bakatin calls on us quietly to ship our oars, and we do so, drifting slowly past the jetty and the clutch of ragged huts.
    Velizh is abandoned, not a sign of anyone, and further upstream, Krylenko’s compound – a small palisaded fort, built on a turn in the river – is likewise bereft of life.
    Word of our coming – perhaps of the great sorcery I worked – has clearly gone ahead.
    ‘They are afraid of you,’ Bakatin says. ‘You can imagine what was said.’
    The trouble is I can, and hope that the ripples won’t spread too far, the rumours get too much out of hand. It was a mistake, I know, to use the weapon, but it was my only option. Now I must hope that word of it dies down – that nothing gets into the history books, even as a footnote – in case the Russians get to hear of it and send an agent back to check things out.
    We burn the compound to the ground, then row on until, just after noon, the wind picks up, blowing from directly behind us, allowing Bakatin to ship oars once more and raise the sail.
    Katerina is asleep, turned on her side in a foetal position beneath the cart. For a time I crouch there, staring at her, moved by her beauty. Then, from habit, I take my journal from my pack and begin a new entry.
    I’m partway through when I hear Katerina waking. I turn in time to see her turn about and stretch. Her eyes open and for the briefest instant she looks directly at me, a faint smile coming to her lips. Then memory kicks in, and she turns her face away, her whole body stiffening, withdrawing into her shell.
    I close the journal and put it away, then look to her again.
    ‘I’m still
me
, Katerina,’ I say quietly. ‘I haven’t