The Woodsman of Kasmakty
Artemy breathed in deeply as he walked out onto the porch. The winter air felt cold and fresh in his lungs as the scent of pines filled his nostrils. A blanket of snow covered his small cottage during the night, turning the surrounding forest into a collage of green and white.
He pulled his gray woolen coat close around his muscular torso and stroked his long dark beard as he surveyed the winter landscape. His eyes settled on the small snow-covered mound beside the cottage, and a frown creased his weather-beaten face.
Atremy’s boots crunched in the ankle-deep fresh snow as he walked to the mound and knelt, reverently brushing away the snow to reveal a large, round stone.
“There you go, my love,” the woodsman smiled as his fingertips brushed the stone’s smooth surface. “I know how you like to feel the morning sun.”
Artemy’s chest tightened with emotion, and he blinked back the tears. Even after all these years, losing his wife was still unbearable. He looked back at the small one-room cabin that had been their home, a wisp of smoke rising from the wood-burning stove within. The two worn wooden chairs where they would sit each evening and watch the stars twinkle to life in the night sky sat just as they always had.
With a last smile at the grave, the burly woodsman shook off the feelings of nostalgia and melancholy and walked back to the porch. Great puffs of white vapor escaped his lips as he walked up the three steps to the cottage.
“How shall we start the day ?” Atremy’s eyes glanced from the axe leaning against the faded cottage wall to the five-string Birchwood gusli in the old chair. “Wood for the stove or music?”
He smiled at the wooden shaft of the axe was ancient and worn from decades of use; however, the blade was clean and razor-sharp. It would feel good to loosen the muscles of his shoulders and work out the night’s kinks with some mighty swings of the axe. Then his eyes trailed to the rays of sunlight shining on the glistening stone of the mound.
“How about a song, my love?” Artemy smiled as he sat in his chair and lay the wing-shaped gusli across his lap. There would be time to chop wood later.
He closed his eyes as the thick fingers of his left hand strummed the chords, and the harp-like melody filled the air. The tune was hauntingly beautiful and conjured visions of misty mountains and wooded vales, harkening to a time of myth and fable. Artemy swayed with the flow of the music as his fingers plucked at the strings; he recalled his wife dancing to the tune on a warm summer night, and the memory tugged at his heartstrings.
He let the strings’ vibration dance against his fingertips when he finished the melody. The woodman sighed deeply, lost in thoughts of the happy past. When he opened his eyes, he saw two figures on horseback slowly descending through the valley toward the cottage. His sharp eyes observed the lead rider was a man in the khaki coat and dark fiddler’s cap all the revolutionaries wore to imitate their leader Vladimir Lenin.
As they approached, Artemy could see the second rider was a child, a young girl of perhaps ten, riding a mule led by the first horseman. The child huddled against the cold in a ragged jacket, her dark hair fluttering in the winter breeze.
Artemy watched them slowly approach, then sighed and returned to the cottage. He lit the kindling beneath the barrel-shaped copper samovar that he used to heat and boil water. Filling the tarnished teapot with zavarka tea, he placed it atop the samovar’s chimney to heat. The wooden floorboards creaked gently as the woodsman surveyed the shelf of cups and selected one bearing the carved image of a six-legged horse. Artemy blew some dust out of the inside of the cup and then reached further back on the shelf and grabbed a mug engraved with a sharp-eyed owl. Satisfied with his selection, he placed the cups beside the heating samovar and headed outside to greet his guests.
“You are Artemy, the woodsman, yes?” the man’s beady eyes appraised the condition of the old cabin and, by the pinched look on his face, found it wanting.
“Yes, that is me,” Artemy nodded slowly.
“My name is Anisim; I have traveled a long way to find you,” Anisim gave the woodsman a feral grin and gestured to the porch chairs. “Come, let us sit and talk.”
Artemy eyed Anisim suspiciously; the man had a slight build that made his head and cleanshaven face look overly large for his body. He had a hungry look in his dark eyes that disquieted Artemy and, coupled with his sharply pointed nose, gave the man a rat-like appearance. Behind him, the young girl hung her head sullenly and intentionally averted her eyes from the woodsman.
“I think we’ll all just stay where we are,” Artemy crossed his arms and stroked his long dark beard. “I was not expecting guests.”
“Artemy, I would prefer we talk as friends, comrades even,” Anisim smiled as he drew a small dark revolver from his coat pocket and pointed it at the woodsman. The sunlight gleamed off the dark metal, and the girl shifted her feet nervously. “But it has been a long journey, and I would like to sit down.”
Artemy backed up slowly as Anisim’s feet thudded up the porch steps, his pistol leveling at the woodsman’s chest.
“Sit there. Not the one by the axe, woodsman,” Anisim gestured toward the empty seat with the gusli and then looked back at the girl. “Girl, come up here. Stand over there.” He gestured at a spot atop the stairs.
Artemy lowered himself into the seat and placed the gusli on the floor as Anisim took the chair across from him.
“Ahh, now that’s more comfortable,” Anisim sat back in the chair and crossed his legs, keeping the pistol pointed at Artemy. Lifting the axe, he appraised the blade approvingly and laid it across his lap. “It’s the mark of a diligent man to maintain his tools well. Comrade Lenin would approve!”
“Who is the girl?” Artemy studied the young girl, who stood shivering in the cold. The girl’s jacket and trousers were threadbare, and her shoes were worn so badly he could almost see her toes.
“The girl is irrelevant at the moment,” Anisim waved dismissively and then pointed at Artemy with the pistol. “You, however, are very much of interest to me.”
“I am just a simple woodsman. What manner of business could you have with me?” Artemy folded his arms across his chest.
“And I was a simple servant once, but the world changes around us, Artemy. I was an attendant in the Tsar’s household, but now Comrade Lenin rules in St. Petersburg.” Anisim laughed derisively. “The Tsar and his pretty family may even be dead by now.”
“Such matters are of no concern to me,” Artemy shook his head.
“Ahh, but they should be Artemy! Even Rasputin is dead; you have heard of Rasputin, yes?”
“Everyone has heard of the Mad Monk,” Artemy nodded slowly.
“That’s very good!” Anisim’s eyes lit with excitement. “Did you also know that the young tsarevich Alexei had hemophilia? No, of course, you did not. It was a very closely guarded secret. But when you are a servant in the Tsar’s household, you see many things others do not. I witnessed the monk Rasputin, on several occasions, ease the pain and stop the bleeding of the young heir.
“The doctors said Rasputin’s healing powers were wholly inexplicable from a medical point of view. The Tsar and Tsarina believed Rasputin had the miraculous ability to faith-heal. I thought to myself, Anisim, a man could become very rich with such powers.”
“I’m not sure your Comrade Lenin would approve,” Artemy smirked at the man.
Anisim gave a sharp, mirthless laugh that made the girl jump. “Comrade Lenin has his kingdom; why shouldn’t I have mine?”
Artemy shrugged good-naturedly and spread his hand in a conciliatory gesture. “Anisim, perhaps we got off to a bad start. I have some water boiling; let us go inside and have some tea.”
“I think we’ll stay here,” Anisim’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“Then let the girl fetch us some tea,” Artemy looked to the young girl. “I have water boiling in the samovar, and two cups are beside it.”
The girl looked hesitantly at Anisim, who looked from Artemy to her and then nodded curtly. “Be quick about it.”
The girl rushed inside; Artemy suspected she was eager to escape the cold.
“Artemy, a smart man like you might try to slip some poison into the tea of an unwanted guest. But I am smarter,” Anisim smiled maliciously at the woodsman. “Now, back to our story. After Prince Yusupov and Grand Duke Pavlovich killed the Mad Monk, I slipped into his room and acquired his journal. I knew that the secret to his powers must lay within the pages.
“He already had his powers when he traveled to Karzan, so that was of no interest to me. There was also nothing remarkable about his time at the Holy Znamensky Monastery in Abalak or his stay at Tobolsk’s cathedral.
“Ahhh, but everything seemed to change when he traveled to the St. Nicholas Monastery in Verkhoturye. There he met with an elder named Makary, and suddenly his life changed. So I went to Verkhoturye, and I sought out this Makary. Do you know what Makary told me? Before I shot him, that is.”
Artemy sat unmoving and stared coldly at Anisim, the chill wind blowing his beard.
“He told me Rasputin was obsessed with a children’s fairy tale of all things. Truly a mad monk!” Anisim looked slyly at the woodsman.
The young girl appeared from inside the cottage carrying two steaming mugs of tea.
“Thank you,” Artemy smiled at the girl and took the cup with the image of the six-legged horse. She gave him a weak smile and quickly averted her eyes again. The girl handed the owl cup to Anisim and turned to walk away, but he grabbed her arm.
“Zoya, do you know the tale of Koschei the Deathless?” he peered intently at her, and the girl nodded as she stared down at Anisim’s hand on her arm with wide, fearful eyes. “Good! Tell us the tale.”
She looked questioning at him, and he nodded encouragement, a malicious, mirthless smile on his lips.
“The evil wizard Koschei steals the princess Marya Morevna,” Zoya stared at her feet as she spoke. “The Tsar sends his three sons to rescue her. The two older boys cannot find the wizard’s castle, but the youngest son, Petr, gets a magic horse from the witch Baba Yaga and finds the castle. He kills the wizard and saves the princess.”
“And how does he kill the wizard Koschei?” Anisim nudged the girl with the toe of his boot.
“Koschie is deathless because he hides his soul in an egg. Petr crushes the egg and kills the wizard,” the girl’s dark eyes looked nervously from Anisim to Artemy.
“Very good,” Anisim clapped his free hand on his knee.
“A fairy tale,” Artemy took a long sip of tea, letting the hot liquid warm his insides. “Every child knows the story of Koschie the Deathless.”
Anisim eyed the woodsman, then sipped his tea and nodded appreciatively, “This is quite good.”
Anisim took another sip of tea and licked his lips before gazing at Artemy. “Yes, every child grows up with stories of the evil wizard and the valiant young tsarevich,” Anisim laughed. “Though I guess there are no young tsarevichs anymore.”
“Or fairy tale wizards,” the woodsman sipped his tea.
“Ahh, it’s funny you say that,” Anisim eyed Artemy. “Makary told me a different tale. A tale I had not heard before.”
“Before you shot him,” Artemy offered his cup of tea to Zoya, but the girl only shook her head and continued staring at her feet.
“Before I shot him,” Anisim nodded with a cruel smile. “He told me that the story of Koschie the Deathless was a lie.”
“That’s why they are fairy tales,” Artemy shrugged indifferently.
“Makary told me that Koschie was a great healer who mastered the art of immortality, and the young tsarevich left the wizard very much alive. The old man believed that the wizard was alive even to this day, and he told Rasputin where he could find this man. That is where Rasputin learned his powers of healing.”
“Rasputin is dead, so I guess he was not a very good student,” Artemy laughed and downed the last of his tea, placing the cup on the ground beside his chair.
“There is a difference between immortality and invincibility,” Anisim’s voice was cold as he sipped his tea. “Yes, delicious tea. Malak said Koschie was living as a simple woodsman in the mountains of Kasmakty.”
Artemy’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and then he laughed uproariously, which caused Zoya to jump in surprise.
“You think I am Koschie the Deathless,” Artemy fought to catch his breath.
“Are you not?” Anisim eyed him coolly.
“I think that old man sent you on a wild chase before you murdered him.”
Anisim studied the woodsman carefully and put the cup of tea down on the arm of the chair. He hefted the axe with his free hand, eyed the clean, sharp blade, then extended his arm to place the blade tip against Zoya’s neck. The girl’s eyes opened wide with terror as she stared at the axe head pressed against her skin, her young body shaking with terror. Artemy jumped up in protest; however, Anisim pointed the pistol at him warningly, and the woodsman sat back down.
“Zoya is an orphan. I found her in an orphanage in St Petersburg,” he eyed the trembling girl before gazing at Artemy. “She is a hemophiliac; a simple nick of the blade could be fatal. She would bleed to death unless someone knew how to save her.”
Tears streamed down Zoya’s cheeks, and her lips trembled.
“Don’t hurt the girl,” Artemy’s voice was a low growl.
“If I cut her only…” Anisim began, but Artemy cut him off.
“I am Koschie the Deathless,” Artemy sighed resignedly. “Do not hurt the girl; I will tell you what you want.”
“Ahh, now that was not so hard, was it?” Anisim smiled as he returned the axe to his lap.
“Let Zoya go inside so we can talk,” Artemy leaned back in his chair.
Anisim nodded for the girl to go and then picked up his cup of tea as she ran back into the house, a great sob escaping her lips as she disappeared into the cottage.
“Why do you care about all this?” Artemy shook his head sadly.
“Rasputin was a fool that used his gifts to chase chambermaids, and he died a fool’s death,” Anisim snorted derisively. “But with his powers, I can become rich beyond any man’s dreams. Aristocrats all over the world will pay for my services.”
“And what of those like Zoya?”
“The world has too many orphans,” Anisim waved dismissively and raised his cup for another sip of tea. The cup shook noticeably, and his eyes opened wide in alarm. He thrust the pistol towards Artemy, but his hand shook so violently that it slipped from his grip and clattered loudly on the wooden porch. The cup of tea fell from his grasp, spilling the hot liquid over his khaki trouser. Artemy quickly snatched the cup from the air before it could shatter on the ground.
“Yes, a smart man might try to poison your tea,” Artemy placed the cup on the floor alongside his and leaned back in his chair. “However, a wiser man would poison the cup.”
“Do you think you are the first to come searching for Koschie the Deathless?” Artemy scoffed at the notion. “I keep my special owl cup for just such guests.”
Anisim stared incredulously at Artemy as his body began to convulse; his lips attempted to form words but failed.
“You have a few more moments, so let me tell you the story you seek. Princess Marya Morevna was a sickly girl; she, too, was a hemophiliac. I heard of her illness and came to heal her, which I did, and we fell in love. But she was a princess, and I was just an ordinary man- even if I was a wizard. Her father refused to let us marry, so we ran away.
“The Tsar sent his sons to track us, and Petr, by more luck than skill, came upon us in the mountains. He saw that we were truly in love and understood the injustice of prohibiting us from marrying, so we struck a bargain. Petr got the story that made him the most famous of his brothers, and we got to live here in peace for the rest of our lives.” Artemy pointed to the mound beside the cottage. “Marya was the love of my life; she’s buried right over there. The gift of deathlessness only works on one, and she refused to take it; she said she could not bear the thought of life without me.”
The woodsman’s eyes looked sad as he thought of his lost love, “I have felt that pain every moment without her.”
Anisim’s body trembled so severely that his fiddler’s cap slipped from his head to reveal the last wisps of blonde hair strewn across his bald head. His eyes remained locked on Artemy, and a gurgling sound escaped his throat.
“It won’t be long now,” Artmey smiled and patted the man on the knee. “When Rasputin found me, I misread his heart. I thought he wanted to go out into the world and heal the sick. But the man had a sickness inside him that brought about his ruin, just like you do, Anisim.”
Artemy looked at the man; Anisim’s sightless eyes stared straight forward, his body still and lifeless. The woodsman picked up the fiddler’s cap and covered the dead man’s face.
Artemy smiled as he watched Zoya hungrily shovel spoonfuls of porridge into her mouth. She sat at the small wooden table where he ate his meals, looking relaxed and comfortable in the warm cottage. As she ate, he worked loose a wooden board in the wall and reached his hand deep into the darkness of the wall, his fingers searching until they closed around the small wooden object.
“Do you have any family?” He sat down across from her at the table.
The girl looked at him with sad eyes and shook her hood. He nodded slowly, his mind working as he studied her carefully.
“Are you really Koschie the Deathless?” Zoya’s dark eyes watched him suspiciously.
“That is a name I have not gone by for a very long time,” he smiled, remembering. “But yes, I am the wizard Koschie. Does that frighten you?”
The girl shook her head and she spooned in another mouthful of porridge.
“Would you like me to heal you?” Artemy leaned closer to the table.
She stopped chewing the porridge and stared into his face, her eyes brimming with tears. “You could do that?”
“I can,” He nodded.
“Would it hurt?” her eyes were wide and innocent.
“A bit. It would feel like a bee sting,” Artemy smiled reassuringly and placed his hand on the table.
He opened his palm and placed a small wooden duck on the table. The finely carved figure had each curve and feather meticulously crafted to appear like it was floating on a pond. Artemy reached over and grabbed the ducks head; the wooden figurine opened like a nesting doll to reveal a carved wooden rabbit inside. Zoya’s eyes danced with delight as she stared at the wooden figures.
Artemy lifted the rabbit out and placed it on the table next to the two halves of the wooden duck.
“Can I open the rabbit?” she looked expectantly, and Artemy smiled and nodded.
She reached her small hand over and lifted the top of the rabbit, which opened to reveal an ornately carved wooden egg. Artemy scooped up the egg and pulled it apart, laying the pieces alongside the duck and the hare. He pinched his fingers together and held up a thin needle.
“This little needle contains my spirit,” the firelight glinted off the thin piece of metal. “A very old wizard passed it to me as a young man. I will never age as long as it holds my spirit.”
Zoya stared at the needle with rapt attention.
“What would you do with it if I gave you the healing power?”
Artemy was impressed that Zoya did not need to think about the question. She looked earnestly at him, “I would heal the sick children, children like me.”
He nodded approvingly. “I have one condition.”
She looked questioningly at him, an apprehensive look in her eyes.
“I will do more than heal you; I will give you all of my powers,” Artemy eyed her curiously as she pondered the idea.
“Do you mean I will become Zoya the Deathless?” her voice came out hesitantly.
He nodded, “For as long as you wish.”
“Will you still be Koschie the Deathless?”
“I have lived a long time, over a millennium,” He smiled sadly at the young girl. “I have lived too long without my Marya, and I am tired of men like Anisim hunting me down. If I give you all my powers, I will begin to age slowly but more rapidly in time. However, I will live long enough to teach you how to use your powers wisely. I ask only one thing of you. When I die, I wish you to bury me alongside Marya. Can you promise me that?”
Zoya solemnly nodded, agreeing, “I will do this for you; I swear it.”
“Good,” Artemy smiled and poked his palm with the needle, bringing forth a tiny dot of red blood. The woodsman smiled and gave a little shiver. “Give me your hand Zoya.”
Zoya sat and stared at the dot of blood on his hand; then, tentatively, she laid her hand on the table. Artemy reached over and pricked her palm gently. The girl gasped and pulled her hand away, more from a hemophiliac’s lifetime of fear of injury than from pain. She looked down at her hand with great trepidation and let out a deep breath when she saw blood did not continue to emanate from the tiny wound.
Artemy placed the needle back in the wooden egg. Then with great care, he put the egg within the wooden hare and the hare within the duck. He slid the wooden duck over to Zoya.
“Guard this with great care, for it contains your spirit, and as long as it is safe, so will you be.”
Zoya picked up the wooden duck and clutched it close to her chest, eyes wide with wonderment.
“Come, Zoya the Deathless, let us begin your training.”