Free The Ocean of Time by David Wingrove Page B

changed.’
    She’s listening, I know, but she makes no answer.
    ‘They would have killed us. And it would have been much worse for you. I couldn’t stand that. The thought of that bastard Krylenko touching you.’
    There’s the faintest movement, but still she’s silent.
    ‘I know how it must have seemed, but I’m still the same. I’m still your Otto. Your
batiushka
.’
    I leave it there and return to the prow, where Bakatin is whittling a piece of wood and humming to himself.
    I smile, recognising what he’s making. It is a copy of the
staritskii
. I take it from him and examine it, then hand it back.
    ‘It’s good. Almost a perfect copy.’
    He grins at me, then, lifting the ‘wand’, points it at one of the trees on the left-hand bank and makes the distinctive whooshing noise of the laser, followed by the sound of an explosion. It’s so realistic, it makes me laugh, and after a moment or two, all of us are laughing. All, that is, except Katerina, but when I glance around I see that she has come out from beneath the cart and is standing there, brushing out her hair.
    Noting where I am staring, Bakatin turns and looks.
    ‘She’ll come round, Otto,’ he says softly, keeping his voice low so as not to carry to where she’s standing. ‘See if she doesn’t.’
    Then, because it got a laugh before, he points the wand again and makes the noises, and we all laugh.
    ‘My God,’ Bakatin says, suddenly remembering. ‘The look on Krylenko’s face!’
    And he laughs, as if it’s the funniest thing in the world. ‘The look on his fucking face!’

174
    I sleep, and in the early hours of night wake from a dream in which Krylenko is stalking me, following the boat, half-hidden among the trees on the shore. I know it’s Krylenko because he has that darkly rounded hole in the middle of his forehead, while behind him his sons – two of them dead, two alive – follow him silently, waiting for his command.
    I sit up, my heart racing, and look across at the night-shadowed shore. We are tied up in the middle of the river, a rope securing us to a massive rock, which forms an island in the stream. Bakatin’s sons are asleep, snoring like bears, but Bakatin himself is awake. In the light of the three-quarters moon I can see him, sitting in the prow, staring out into the depths of the forest.
    I make my way forward and sit beside him. Turning his head, he looks at me, his dark eyes thoughtful. ‘Couldn’t you sleep?’
    ‘I was dreaming. Of Krylenko.’
    ‘Ah.’ He nods. ‘So it is. I always dream of the men I kill. For a day or two, anyway. And then they fade. Very few of them return.’
    It’s true. And I’ve killed my share over the centuries. I feel like telling him that, only I’ve broken enough rules as it is, and he’d not believe me anyway.
    ‘When will we get to the marshes?’
    ‘Tomorrow, maybe the day after. It depends.’
    ‘On what?’
    ‘On who we meet, and whether this weather holds.’
    I nod. Though the moon shines brightly down, much of the sky is obscured by ragged, fast-moving cloud. It’s much colder than it was, and there’s the feel of rain in the air.
    Bakatin yawns and stretches. ‘We’ll need to stop at Belyj, though. Stock up on provisions. We lost most of ours when we hit the barrier. And I warn you, it may cost you, my friend.’
    ‘If we must, we must.’
    He looks at me again, giving me a long, thoughtful stare. ‘You are a strange fellow, Otto Behr. A very strange fellow. That thing you do with the box.’
    ‘The box?’
    ‘The box with leaves. The one you make marks in.’
    I almost laugh. He means my journal. ‘It is a book, Fyodor. Like the priests use.’
    ‘Like the church scrolls, you mean?’
    ‘That’s right. Only whereas they write in Latin, I write in my own private code.’
    ‘Code?’
    ‘Never mind. It’s merely another language. Like German, you know,
Nemets
.’
    ‘Ah …’
    But the more I say, the stranger he finds me. For once, however,