Russia, Purovsky District

Winter came for them like a hunter--slow, patient. Inevitable. 

“Shut the door, Prishka!”  The howling wind swallowed Father’s voice. Prishka closed her eyes and threw her weight against the barn door, ignoring the splinters digging into her palms from the ancient planks. The storm snapped and snarled around the unfinished boards, pulling them, mocking her pitiful strength. Zimitov and Vlad bleated from the other side. Two goats left, rail-thin and turning sickly. 

“Come on! We have to--we have to close it. Come on dorogoy, we have to hurry.” 

Prishka tried to ignore the glance he threw over his shoulder. He wasn’t frightened, she lied to herself. Father wasn’t scared of anything. She grunted and slammed a shoulder against the door, sealing the barn closed. 

With a gasp of effort, she slapped the rusted metal bar through the latch. 

“Come, come, we must go.”

“Just a--just a moment, Father, give me--” Prishka sagged, hands on her knees. Every breath she took stung her lungs and stole heat from her limbs. White snakes of frost writhed across the crystalline dirt of the courtyard, driven by the wind. The air tasted of snow. It tasted angry. 

“There’s no time. Come.” Father snatched her hand, pulling her forward. She seized the bucket beside her and followed him into the yard, bent against the wind howling from the river. The split-log fence of the yard hemmed in an expanse of desolation--empty gardens, withered tomato vines, puddles long since frosted-over. A few arthritic trees not yet sacrificed to feed their paltry fire. The house, sitting opposite the barn. In the half-light of sunset, everything looked grey. The color, being frozen out of the world. 

“But what about…” She, too, had to raise her voice over the wind. “We cannot just leave her, Father! We have to bury her.” 

She couldn’t look behind her, couldn’t look at the skeletal form lying against the wooden pen. It was only a goat, she tried to tell herself. She should be more like Father when he found the body; shocked, yes, but not sad. Only children became sad when they encountered death. She wasn't a child anymore.

“There's no time, girl. Winter hunts. Leave her.” He squeezed her wrist, hard. She wanted to scream, wanted to tell him she wasn’t a child anymore, but she knew the wind would steal her words...and he dragged her regardless. She cried out, trying to get away, but he held her tight as a vice. 

“Come, now. Come!” 

They fled across the courtyard. Mist pressed tight against the fields, black and glaring in their desolation--she knew there was nothing to see, storm or not. Last year had been a poor harvest. This year was worse. The churned mud and dirt beneath her bare feet had frozen into glass, sharp enough to cut her down.

The front door closed behind her, Father grunting as he slipped the bolts through. The wind rattled its frame, furious at being cheated out of two more bodies. She set the bucket down. At least it was warm inside. Well...warmer. 

“How is she?” Her mother looked up from the rocking crib. In the glare from the soot-choked fire, her features were pinched, stark. Like a goblin wearing her mother’s face. 

“Dead.” Father ran a hand through his hair. He stared through the floor, unable to bring himself to look her in the eyes. “A mouse chewed a hole in the pen, in the corner. She froze.” 

"Couldn't you patch it?" Mother wiped the back of a wrist against her face, smearing wood-ash across a cheek. Father shook his head. 

"Not in this cold. The ice finds a way."

“And the garden?”

Father picked up the bucket, his mouth pulled tight. “Not much. We found a few carrots still in the patch. Like I thought, the potatoes are mostly gone to rot. This is all that’s left.” He raised the bucket for her to see. 

Mother stood, swirling away to glare into the corner. She didn’t like the baby to see her angry. 

“I told you. I told you we should have kept her in the barn, with the others,” Father said. 

“Zatknis!” A dozen more lines carved into Mother's face, when she turned around. “Yes, and risk the other two falling ill? Then we would have three dead goats instead of one! Is that what you want, Alexei? Eh?” 

“For all the good the two living ones do us now. You know as well as I she was our last chance for a kid. And now, what?” 

Prishka expected her to shout, take another cut, another jab in their never-ending fights. Just like last night, and the night before. Since the morning they woke and found the first gleaming touches of hoarfrost covering the yard and fields, ruining the desperate planting of late-September cabbage. 

But her mother covered her mouth, and her barbed words turned to sobs. She turned to the corner and cried into the crooked bookshelf. She didn’t like the baby to see her cry, either. 

With a sigh, Father crossed to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. He didn’t say anything--he just stood there, connected to her. 

“We still have Zimi and Vlad,” Prishka said. She didn’t want to be useless. Little children were useless. She would be thirteen next month. She wasn’t a little child anymore. 

Her mother turned, wiping her tears. She struggled for a smile, and almost found one. 

“Quite so. Quite so, darling girl. Now,” She cleared her throat, wiping her hands on her frayed apron, “Who’s hungry?”  

She turned to the cooking pot in the hearth, busying herself. Her hands trembled only a little. “I found that last onion, dear, it rolled behind the shelf. I’ve got a stew with a little cabbage and carrot. You two, wash up before dinner. You know the rules.” 

The rainwater bucket sat in the corner, beside the empty cupboard. A hammer hung on a ring nearby. They used it to break the thin layer of ice already spider-webbing the top. 

“You missed a spot,” Father whispered to Priskha. He winked, swallowing the hiss of pain as he dipped his hands in the frigid water. His rawboned knuckles turned rose-red. 

“Where?” Prishka inspected her hands, concerned. Mother spent her childhood in the city, and enforced strict manners in the house; no dirty hands or smudged faces at her table. 

“Right there.” He flicked droplets onto her neck and she giggled, flinching away from the cold touch. They stung her skin, this far from the fire. 

“Come on you two, stop lingering. Supper is ready.” 

“I’ll hold Anatoly!” Prishka danced to the rocking crib. “Hello malen’kiy. Hello.”

Baby Anatoly wriggled, kicking and punching in his excitement to see his big sister. A blue knit cap covered the wisps of hair on his head--russet-red, just like Father’s. Prishka slid a careful hand behind his neck and bottom, just like mother taught. “Oh my goodness you’re getting so big already! Yes you are! Yes you. Mother, what’s this?”

Beneath the edge of Anatoly’s makeshift shirt--a sack of burlap, washed and repurposed--a small grouping of red stipples spread across his skin. 

“Oh that? Ah, nothing. He slept oddly during his nap, the silly boy. One arm and leg tucked beneath him. Just a bed rash--don't look at it too closely, darling.” Mother waved behind her. She didn't look up from the pot. Her voice sounded high, unsteady. Like a kettle whistling steam from her lungs, eating her words.  

They ate at the table, pulled close to the fire. Prishka balanced Anatoly on her lap, pretending to feed him bits of carrot or spoonfuls of broth. 

“We can leave,” Mother muttered, hunting in her bowl for a piece of cabbage. “Hook the two goats up to the cart. It’s only a day to Urengoy, maybe two.” 

Father shook his head, holding a hand to feel the heat of the fire. It faltered already, the pale logs collapsing in on themselves. The single window rattled as the storm rushed by. Darkness surrounded them, hungry as the frost. Prishka held Anatoly and tried not to shiver. She scooted closer to the fire. 

“There’s no place to stay, between here and Urengoy. Sleeping outside this time of year…” He didn’t need to finish. The frail goat flashed in Prishka's eyes, lying in the pen outside. 

“What about the Ibragimov’s? We could beg a night’s shelter from them. If we left first thing in the morning, we maybe could get to Urengoy by nightfall.” 

He set his spoon down in the empty bowl, grinding the palms of his hands against his eyes. “They left. A week ago, fled to Elena’s cousin in Korotchayevo. Their harvest was worse than ours, they had no other choice. If they made it, they beat the frosts by a day, maybe less.”

“Well there must be...there must be something we can do, Alexei.” Mother hissed, trying not to look at Prishka. Like the girl wasn't even there. “If we stay here we’ll--”

“You know what I think we need? A story.” His chair scraped against the worn-down pine boards, cutting her off. He reached for the bookshelf. “Prishka, what do you think Anatoly wants to hear? The Pretty Little Mouse? How about Babushka?”

“No, not Babushka. He’s heard that one too many times, he’s sick of it.” 

Mother stood abruptly, piling bowls and spoons in the crook of an elbow and stomping to the wash-sink beneath the window. 

“Oh sick of it, is he? Very discerning taste for an infant. Very well, what do you think he’d like to hear?” Father carried on, ignoring Mother. Against the fire light, his hair looked roan, the color of springtime deer. 

“What do you think, malen’kiy?” Prishka whispered, holding her ear close to Anatoly's mouth. He smelled of cradle, and milk. Easier to ignore her parents fighting, holding little Anatoly. “Tell your big sister, go on.”

Baby Anatoly looked up at her and babbled a toothless exclamation, swinging for her face with an arm, nearly smacking her in the eye. 

“Is that right? Interesting. Curious choice.” She smiled. 

“Well? What’s the verdict?” 

“Anatoly wants to hear about the Count.” 

Father raised an eyebrow. “Is that right?” 

Prishka struggled to keep a straight face. “That’s right. He’s a very intelligent baby, you see.” 

“Just like his sister and mother. Very well, the Count it is.” He reached for the red-bound book, loved to the point of falling apart. 

“Alexei.” Mother whispered from the door to the bedroom. 

“Just a second, Nina.”

“Alexei.” 

Father got up, crossing to the door. "What is it, lyubimyy?" 

He trailed off. They stood together, staring into the bedroom. A second crawled past, then two. 

"What should..." Emotion choked the rest of Mother's words, stealing them from her. She held the towel to her mouth. Father went inside, and Prishka heard the sound of scraping and grunting. They whispered, too low for Prishka to hear. 

“What is it?” Prishka hefted Anatoly on her shoulder, rising to look for herself. She wasn't a little child; she wasn't useless. 

“Nothing!” Mother spun. She clutched a still-dripping bowl with white knuckles. “It’s...it’s nothing. I think...I think we could all use a story tonight, Alexei, what do you say?” 

Father emerged from the bedroom and nodded. Something hid in his eyes. 

“Yes. Tonight of all nights, I think. Very well. Gather around, you three. Prishka, why don’t you hand little Anatoly to your mother and put another few logs on the fire.” 

“Really?” Prishka gasped with delight. “You mean it?”

“Of course. We deserve it--it’s been a tough harvest.  Why not shed a little light in here?” There were only three logs left in the stack, beside the door. The cold sent goosebumps darting across her shoulders as it slipped through the tiny cracks in the doorframe. The wind howled outside.

“We’re going to have to cut more wood tomorrow, Father.” She grunted on her way back to the fireplace. 

“Yes, of course. Tomorrow. Yes.” Father spoke to the floorboards. He caught himself, turning back to the world, to her. “Now then, everyone ready?” 

Mother sat at the table, pulling Prishka and Anatoly close. The fire flickered and grew brighter, pushing the cold away. Prishka hadn’t realized how cold it was, until the warmth caressed her skin. Hadn’t realized she, too, was shivering. 

“On February 24, 1815, the lookout at Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde signalled the arrival of the three-master Phareon, coming from Smyrna, Trieste, and Naples…”

His voice washed over them, every bit as warm as the fire. Prishka loved hearing about the Count--she'd only been pretending the baby wanted to hear about it. Father read in a fine mood tonight, a sort of energy running through his fingers. He even did the voices--he only did the voices on special occasions. Soon, however, Prishka’s eyes grew heavy as the orange glow pushed the shadows and cold from the room. Anatoly held one of her fingers in a chubby fist, already fast asleep. Father's voices seemed to blur and blend together, until they were one single drone, humming with the crackling fire in her ear.

She slept. 

She woke to someone knocking on the door. 

Baby Anatoly fussed beside her. Prishka frowned--he normally slept with Mother, on the far side of the bed. The cold found her, even stuffed beneath her blankets. The piles of hay-stuffed burlap didn’t help at all--she felt the stinging touch of winter press against her face, her feet, her fingers. 

 She turned, sure she imagined the sound. After all, there wasn’t another farm for four verstas in any direction, no one could--

Knock knock. 

“Father. Someone’s at the door,” she muttered, hunting for sleep. Father didn’t answer; she craned her neck, peering at the other bed. The bed had been shoved against the wall. He slept still and silent, pressed against the mud-packed planks. Mother curled in front of him, one of his arms draped around her shoulders. Her eyes were closed. Strange--she always rose with the dawn, stoking the fire, preparing nettle tea. Baby Anatoly huffed tiny protestations from half-sleep. 

The knocking. It would wake the baby. 

Almost as if it knew, the knocking continued, insistent. Prishka kicked out from under the burlap, wiping the dregs of sleep from her eyes. The longer the baby slept, the longer the rest of them could sleep. There was plenty of time to sleep, in the winter. 

A pile of heavy fabric slid from atop of the scratchy blanket. She didn't need to squint, as she normally did; a strange light steeped into the bedroom. She picked at the pile, shivering. A shirt, frayed and patched. A dress, the only dress Mother kept from her time in the City. Father's spare trousers. It looked like every piece of clothing they owned, piled on top of Prishka and the baby. 

Her belly grew cold. Something felt wrong. Why would Mother and Father bury them in clothes? Why would they put Baby Anatoly with her? She took a hesitant step toward the other side of the bed. 

Knock knock. 

Baby Anatoly fussed, louder this time. She wanted Mother and Father to sleep more; they never got the chance to sleep late. 

“Yes, yes, I’m coming.”  She covered him with the clothes again, making sure he had room to breathe. 

Outside the window, blue-black clouds choked the sky. Prishka shivered. The air inside the house froze, hungry for whatever touches of heat it could steal. Her breath curled in front of her, thick plumes. The wood coal-bed sat dark and cold, long since died out. She crossed her arms and hunched, stumbling to the door. They used the final chopped wood for the fire last night. The goats could wait--she’d deal with whoever knocked at the door, and cut wood for a fire first. Perhaps she could do it fast enough to have a cheery blaze for when Mother and Father woke up. 

She touched the door handle, then leapt back with a cry. The wood was icy to the touch, so cold it burned her.  

Knock knock. 

The fist against the door became soft now, gentle. Prishka slipped her hand through her tattered dress and opened the door. 

“Zdravstvuyte, little one.” A man stood at the door. His fur-lined coat was patched and frayed. The ragged ends of his hair danced in the wind, black as a raven's wing. His beard was long, unkempt. Even covered by the beard, Prishka could see the lines in his face; carved deep, like the bark of a tree. Like he'd seen a thousand winters, and buried the bodies himself. There were always bodies in the winter. 

 He held a black case in his hand, like the travelling minstrel who sometimes came to their farm. It looked as old as he, scuffed and battered. 

“Hello.” She inhaled. The air stung like bees through her nose, down her throat. 

“Can I come in?” 

“I don’t--I’m not supposed to allow strangers in the house.”  The door burned her hand, through the too-thin fabric of her dress. Her legs shook. She’d never felt this cold before; a cold that made her want to cry. 

The man knelt down, drawing eye level with her.  

“You and I aren’t strangers, malen’kiy. I’ve come to help you.” 

The world outside sat still, silent. Normally Zimi and Vlad were already bleating to be fed. She couldn't hear them. Couldn't hear anything. Fog and frost choked the farm, isolating them from the road. She didn't see a horse, or carriage. Surely he didn't walk? 

“You’ve...you came to help?”

“In my own way. Winter hunts. It is too late for some, and what little time you have is slipping with the wind. Let me in, little one.” 

She didn’t feel her legs move--they were already numb.  She stepped aside. The man brushed past her, silent as the wind. 

“I don’t...I can’t…” She stumbled, trying to think. Something was wrong, hiding just beneath the surface. She missed it. Right in front of her face. She couldn't think.

“Listen to me, malen’kiy, and listen well. The little one is sick.”  He stood by the dead fire, hands crossed over the handle of his case. “He is sick, and he needs medicine.” 

“The...baby Anatoly? No...no.” Prishka shook her head. It felt heavy on her shoulders. She remembered the red stippling across his skin. “No, Mother said he slept strangely."

“She was wrong. Or she lied; either is the same.” He wasn’t unkind, or cruel--he spoke in a matter-of-fact voice, empty of emotion. “Get the child, and as much food as you can carry. Go south. Go quickly.”

A fist of iron froze in the center of her stomach. "What?" 

"You must leave, while you still have time. Winter hunts, little one. Isn't that what your Father says?" 

She wanted to protest; she wanted to whine and cry and say she didn’t understand. But she wasn’t a baby anymore. 

“Okay. I’ll wake Mother and Father. We’ll go.” 

“No.” Prishka flinched at the iron in his voice. He saw, and his gaze softened. “No. I’m sorry, little one. They stay with me. You take the baby, and the two of you go. Your parents stay with me.”

“But...No, but I…” She swallowed. “I need them.” 

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. He stood by the fire like a statue, grim and cold.  His fingers didn't drum against his case. He didn't stammer. Prishka swallowed traitorous tears. Babies cried. She wasn't a baby anymore. “They stay with me. And if you linger, you and the little one will too.”

She clenched her fists to keep from crying, and nodded again. She remembered Father, when he found the goat yesterday. Shocked, yes, but not sad. She could be sad later. 

There was a quarter loaf of black bread, a rind of moldy cheese and the potatoes and carrots from yesterday left, all the food in the house. She stuffed them into a burlap sack, and slung it over her shoulders. 

"Why..." The tears came again, to betray her. "What is happening?  I don't understand. I don't--" The floor swelled and warped in her eyes. She felt cut adrift from reality, floating just outside of her body. 

Useless.

"It is an accident." The dark man murmured. The iron faded from his face. He walked to the bedroom--his boots clipped over the raw floorboards, the rough nails in the soles catching on the wood burrs. Mother didn't allow work boots in the house. Prishka almost said so, but something held her tongue. Some secret, clutched in the frost and fog lurking outside the window. 

He went to their sleeping forms. She didn't like the way he stood over them, dark and immaterial in the half-light, like the ravens who squawk from the pine trees in spring. 

"It happens often. It is an old house. Holes in the walls, in the corners, in the windowsills. Frost comes in. Winter hunts. Come." 

Her feet shuffled again, numb and cold. He wiped the tears from her cheeks, turned her with a hand on her shoulder. His voice in her ear lowered until it sounded like the wind whistling over the pines. "See, there?" 

In the freezing bedroom, Prishka finally saw it. What stole her mother's words, caused Father to put more logs on the fire; a jagged hole in the walls, hiding behind Father's back. The planks crumbled from the frost, falling away. He always talked about bolstering the walls. He never had time. The extra clothes for her and Baby Anatoly. The bedclothes so they would have each other, if only for a short time. Winter came for them like a hunter; slow, patient...and inevitable.

Mother and Father knew what waited for them, so long after sunset and so far from dawn. Looking at them, it seemed impossible she didn't notice before. The room clung silent and still around them, anemic without the rising and falling of their breathing. Truth settled beneath the cold. She'd never see Father smile again, never hear him do the voices when he read by the fire. She'd never eat another of Mother's meals. 

She waited. One second, another. Waited for Mother's chest to move, for her eyes to open. She'd cry about how late it was, leap out of bed and start a fire for tea. Or Father, wagging a finger about how long Prishka let the goats go without milking. Any moment now, they'd wake. Any moment, and her heart would start again. Her lungs burned--she held her breath, waiting for them to take theirs. 

Please. 

The seconds ticked past. Mother and Father stayed where they were. 

They're dead. They're not coming back. 

Hot tears, streaming from her eyes. She wasn't a baby, she wasn't useless. The frost still came for her and Anatoly, even now. She had to do something. 

Anatoly cried when she picked him up, one hand behind his neck and one beneath his bottom. He cried for Mother; Mother stayed in bed. 

“Where…” She was crying in earnest now, and hated it. “Where are we going to go?” She tucked Anatoly into a burlap sling, wrapped him as best she could. She wasn’t a baby. She wasn’t useless.

“That, I do not know. But you cannot stay here. Winter has this place--if you stay, it will have you too. Now go. Run.” 

Prishka ran.

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