Russka by Edward Rutherfurd Read Free Book Online

ahead of him at the edge of the glade he saw a flash of light in the trees. It was not very high up. Something in the lower branches was glittering. He could not see what it was for the screen of birches, but the sun’s rays were dancing on it, darting this way and that amongst the trees, flashing bright colours of red, silver and gold. What could it be?
    And then he realized, with a rush of joy – of course, what it must be. What else lived in a tree and shone like this? What else guarded the valuable things that people searched for – and must surely be guarding his bear cub at this very moment? What else, but the rarest and finest of all the forest’s wonders?
    It could only be the firebird itself.
    The firebird had plumage of many colours. It glistened and sparkled, even in the dark. If you could creep up and seize one of its long tail feathers, you could have anything you wanted. The firebird meant warmth and happiness. To be sure, the bear cub would be waiting there with the firebird, now. The glinting light seemed to beckon, inviting him.
    He went forward, until he was only a dozen yards away. Though he could not see it clearly, the firebird did not move but still sent out flashes of light: it was waiting for him. With a little cry of joy he ran through the screen of birch trees into the clearing.
    The face of the horseman that looked down at him from under a metal helmet was motionless. The helmet had several coloured gems set around the rim which flashed in the sunlight – like a firebird. The face was dark, with a large aquiline nose. A mane of black hair cascaded from under the helmet to his shoulders. And his black, almond-shaped eyes were cold. Behind his shoulder hung a long, curved bow.
    The little boy stood before him, transfixed. The horse this awesome figure rode was black. Its leather trappings were richly decorated. The horse had been cropping the grass in the shade beside the trees: now it raised its head lazily to look at Kiy.
    The face of the horseman did not move.
    Then he swooped.
    High above, in the vast blue sky, the heavy sun beat down upon the land at silent noon; though a faint, sultry breath of wind made a whisper in the dry barley that brushed against Lebed’s waist as she left the golden field. The dusty smell of the barley permeated the edge of the wood too. As she made her way along the open ground by the wood’s edge, a field mouse scurried out of the barley and hid under a tree root.
    Perhaps the child had only strayed to the shadows by the trees. As she walked, she called out gently: ‘Kiy, my little berry. Little Kiy, my dove.’
    The grazing cows looked up, but did not trouble to move. Across the field, skirting the woods, a buzzard glided over her in search of prey. Kiy was not there.
    She took the path that led to the place where they picked mushrooms. The woods at noon were as silent as the field and the sun broke through the cover with a harsh light. She called again: ‘Little Kiy. Kiy, my duck.’
    Hanging on a string of twine around her neck was a little talisman – a tiny goose carved out of pine wood – that her mother had given her. She pulled it out and kissed it.
    Then she searched the glades where the mushrooms were. But Kiy was not there.
    She went on to the pool. Might he have tumbled in? she wondered. Could he be there, under the still, dark water? She gazed at it. There was no sign of any body floating, and surely there was no reason why he should have fallen in, she reassured herself.
    Loudly her voice rang through the wood.
    She followed the path to the clearing. There she called out several times more, half expecting to hear his reply. Surely he could not have wandered much further?
    She went over to the stand of silver birch at the far side of the clearing and, standing still for long moments, she bowed her head before the shining screen they made. The birch was sacred, and friendly: it could help you if you prayed to it. After this she moved on. But now