Under A Blood Red Sky Part 45

'Chairman Fomenko goes up there to . . .'

'Stay away from our Comrade Chairman.'

'I thought you were trying to help this village, as part of Rafik's circle. So why . . .?'

Riddled with informers eager to earn a cheap rouble. Elizaveta's words slid like slime into her mind and she felt suddenly sick with disappointment as she realised what this man was up to.

'You're working for both sides, aren't you, Comrade Pokrovsky?' she said hoa.r.s.ely.

He moved so close she had to tip her head right back to look him in the eyes. This time she didn't step away.

'Leave Fomenko alone,' he warned.

'Why? What is he to you?'

The blacksmith lowered his bull neck till his eyes were on a level with hers. The sparks were there inside them now. 'Leave Fomenko alone. Because I say so.'

She spun on her heel and strode out of the forge.

'Comrade Morozova, shouldn't you be out with your brigade in the fields?'

Sofia would have ignored him if she could, but Aleksei Fomenko and his lean-limbed hound had stepped right into her path before she was aware of them. Her mind was churning with fears about what Pokrovsky would say to his rouble-paymasters, and all she wanted was to reach Mikhail's izba izba as quickly as possible. Now this rebuke. She couldn't bring herself to look at the Chairman, so she stared at the gentle brown eyes of his dog. as quickly as possible. Now this rebuke. She couldn't bring herself to look at the Chairman, so she stared at the gentle brown eyes of his dog.

'Did you tell them?' she demanded.

'Tell who?'

'Tell the interrogators to release Comrade Pas.h.i.+n.'

He laughed, a harsh bark that could almost have come from the dog. 'Don't be absurd, comrade. I don't have that kind of power.'

She looked up at him for the first time. His jaw was set in a stern line but today his eyes were as gentle as his dog's. She'd learned not to trust gentle eyes.

'Don't you?' she asked.

'No.'

'I see.'

She did see. She saw that Rafik's binding together of Tivil's strengths last night did produce some kind of force. Unless Fomenko was lying to her and he was the one who organised Mikhail's release. But why would he do that?

His gaze fixed on her and the strong sunlight bleached the creases from his skin, so that for a moment his face looked as smooth as a boy's. Sofia could picture him, rifle in his hand, the boy who shot Anna's father.

'Don't miss your s.h.i.+ft in the fields,' he reminded her.

She shook her head and walked on.

She slipped into the bedroom where Mikhail was sleeping. One arm was thrown out in a wide gesture of abandon as if letting go in his sleep of what he couldn't release when awake. Sofia moved silently to the bed. There were signs of his having been up and about, an empty cup by the bed and his s.h.i.+rt hanging on the rack of hooks in the corner, instead of thrown on the floor when she slid it from his shoulders last night.

She stood there quietly and studied him, watched him breathe, the slow even rhythm, the soft tiny movements of his lips. She absorbed every detail of him, not just into her mind but into her body, deep into her blood and her bones. The fineness of him, the line of his cheekbone, the thick fan of his dark lashes, even the black and swollen bruise around his eye. His chin was dark with stubble that she longed to kiss. She imagined him laughing in the snow, building a sleigh of ice. Skating on the lake and smiling with contentment as he roasted potatoes on the fire. All these things she knew he'd done, and many more when he was Vasily. But then he stuck a knife in the throat of his father's killer and Vasily died. Mikhail was born. It made no difference to her.

Vasily.

Mikhail.

She loved them both. Her body ached with loving him, but it was nothing compared with the desperate ache at the knowledge that she was about to lose him. So softly that he didn't break the rhythm of his dreams, Sofia dropped her clothes to the floor and slid in beside him between the sheets. His naked body smelled warm and musky. Her lips touched his skin. She curled her body around his and lay like that for an hour, maybe two. When eventually his hand found her in his sleep, she smiled. Slowly, without opening his eyes, he started to caress her b.r.e.a.s.t.s till a moan crept from between her lips and she heard his breath quicken.

'Ssh,' she whispered, 'you need sleep.'

'No, I need you.'

He opened his eyes and grinned at her on the pillow. Gently she kissed his split lip and drew it into her own mouth where her tongue soothed it. His groan vibrated through her own lungs and together they started to explore each other's bodies once more. It was leisurely this time as their hands moved or lingered and teased desire to breaking point - until he was inside her.

As he thrust deep within her, his lips hard on hers, she kept her eyes open, fixed on his, so close they were almost a part of her. His gaze never wavered from hers. And suddenly the terrible ache and the fear left Sofia. The ache of loving. The fear of losing. There was just this, just him, just her. Together.

49.

'I've been waiting for you.'

Rafik was seated at the table in his izba izba, his hands flat on its rough planks. He was wearing the white band round his head, stark against his thick black hair, and a soft white s.h.i.+rt with loose sleeves and, on its front, a strange geometric design picked out in intricate white embroidery. He indicated the two chairs opposite him.

Sofia and Mikhail sat down. Sofia's eyes focused immediately on the white stone that lay on the surface of the table.

'Sofia,' Rafik said and smiled at her. 'It is time for you to know more. But first,' his gaze s.h.i.+fted to Mikhail, 'what is it you want of me, Comrade Pas.h.i.+n?'

Mikhail gave the stone no more than a cursory glance, but he draped a protective arm along the back of Sofia's chair. 'Rafik,' he said, 'yesterday I was incarcerated in a filthy cell looking at a future in a labour camp - at best. Today I am here in Tivil, a free man.' He leaned forward, searching the gypsy's face. 'It's a miracle, and I don't believe in miracles.'

'No, it's not a miracle. You were saved by Sofia.'

Mikhail thumped a hand on the table, making the stone leap from its place. Rafik flinched but didn't touch it.

'Rafik, you say Sofia saved me but she claims that you did. I need to know what is going on here. People have always whispered that you have strange mystic powers but I dismissed it as village t.i.ttle-tattle, the fantasies of idle minds, but now . . .' He drew a deep breath and Sofia could see a pulse beating below his ear.

'Mikhail,' Rafik said in a soothing tone, 'I'm going to tell you a history.' With his words the thoughts in Sofia's head seemed to grow heavy. 'For centuries,' he continued, 'generations of my family were advisers and astrologers to the Kings of Persia. Their knowledge and intimacy with the Spirits made them a force that guided one of the greatest Empires in history through times of war and times of peace. But nothing . . .' he brushed a finger over the stone and eased it back into its position, 'nothing lasts for ever - not even Communism.'

He frowned, drawing his heavy black brows together. 'My ancestors were driven from their Land of Honey and fled throughout the known world, some escaping to Europe, others to India and further into the Orient, as the Empire crumbled.'

Sofia closed her eyes for a moment. 'I feel it,' she murmured.

Mikhail's solemn gaze scrutinised her face, then he pa.s.sed a hand in a gentle caress over her forehead and through the silky threads of her white-blonde hair.

'What does she mean?'

Rafik took Sofia's hands between his own, palms together as in prayer.

'She is like me,' he said.

'She's not a gypsy.'

'No. I am the seventh son of a seventh son, going back through generations of seventh sons all the way to Persia. That's where my power comes from, pa.s.sed on in a mystic connection of blood. Sofia is the same.'

'What do you mean? Is she the daughter of a seventh son?'

'No. She is the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, going back through generations. Because her mother died when Sofia was so young, she never learned from her mother what she should have been told about the power that is centred in her, drawn from the strength and the knowledge of others before her.' He pressed Sofia's hands tight together. 'My will is strong, and so is hers. But together,' Rafik continued, his black eyes searching hers, 'we are stronger.'

'But my father was a priest of the Russian Orthodox church,' she pointed out. 'Surely his faith would have clashed with my mother's . . . if what you say is true.'

'Faiths can work together. The bond they create can be a powerful force.'

She nodded. 'Have you ever spoken to Priest Logvinov here in Tivil? About working together?'

'He's not ready. Until he is, I protect him.'

Mikhail leaned forward, intent on Rafik. 'That explains why the crazy fool still has his life in one piece. I've never been able to understand why he wasn't shot or exiled long ago by the authorities. He takes risks, big risks.'

Rafik looked at Mikhail. 'So do you.'

Mikhail's mouth closed into a hard line and he sat back in his chair, eyes narrowed. 'What is it you know, Rafik?'

'I know you bring a saddlebag of food home from your factory canteen each day for the Tushkov family.'

Mikhail said firmly, 'That would be illegal. The canteen food is meant for the Levitsky workers only.'

'Please be careful, my love,' Sofia whispered.

A shout in the street shattered the moment. They heard the sound of boots pounding outside, the growl of a truck engine revving impatiently. Children were bounding up from the school, voices in the street raised in dispute. Rafik and Mikhail hurried to the door.

Only Sofia remained where she was. She was staring at the white pebble. She touched it and it was ice cold.

'Sofia,' Rafik demanded harshly behind her. 'What have you done?'

Aleksei Fomenko, the Chairman of the Red Arrow kolkhoz kolkhoz, stood in the grip of two burly soldiers outside his house. Around them swarmed the kolkhozniki kolkhozniki. News travelled fast in the fields.

Sofia forced herself to watch. The way the uniformed soldiers manhandled him as though he were dirt. The erect manner with which he carried himself in his check s.h.i.+rt and work trousers as though proud of them, the straight back, the accusing grey eyes that swept the crowd. The black Russian soil ingrained in the leather of his boots. At his feet lay three sacks, each one packed with secret plunder.

'h.o.a.rder!'

'Thief!'

'Filthy sc.u.m!'

'You disgusting hypocrite, after all the food you took from us-'

'Liar! All the time you were stealing for yourself.'

'b.a.s.t.a.r.d!'

A stone flew from a woman's hand and then another, which hit its target. Sofia could see the blood trickle along Fomenko's scalp. She made herself watch, but where was the sense of satisfaction she had expected? Why wasn't she enjoying the gloating and the triumph? This was what she'd wanted, wasn't it? This was what she'd sworn to do, so why did revenge taste so sour?

'We were all shocked,' Mikhail said and shook his head, his wet hair scattering water. 'I'd never have believed it of Fomenko.'

Sofia was very quiet.

Mikhail lifted another ladle of water out of the enamel jug and tipped it over the hot stones. Steam rose in a great hiss and he almost lost sight of her.

They were in his banya banya, the bath hut at the back of his yard. It was a small dark building constructed of wood with a slatted bench to sit on, a stove, and one tiny window high up to let in a sliver of light. In the hot moist air they had sc.r.a.ped each other's skin in turn with the veniki veniki, the birch twigs, and in the gloom she had ma.s.saged oils into the cuts and bruises that criss-crossed his body, kissing each one with such tenderness that he could barely keep from scooping her into his arms.

But she wouldn't let him. All afternoon she'd been subdued. She'd walked away from Rafik after Fomenko's arrest, but instead of being annoyed the gypsy had seized Mikhail's arm.

'Go to her, Mikhail. Don't leave her side.'

Mikhail had felt a thin trickle of fear.

'What is it? Is she in danger?'

'I see dark shadows gathering around her and . . .' He stopped.

'And what?'

Rafik rubbed his eyes hard. 'Just stay at her side.'

When Mikhail suggested the banya banya to Sofia, it had elicited her glorious smile and her blue eyes had lit up with delight. to Sofia, it had elicited her glorious smile and her blue eyes had lit up with delight.

'As long as I get to clean you and you get to clean me,' she'd teased.

'Agreed.'