Nelzya

(The Chronicles of N.I.R.N.)

The older man's voice and subtle hand movements mesmerized him. The rough peasant had a gift for making the air around them come alive. Frozen into near immobility, he sat watching, entranced, as the rough peasants words brought the air around them alive. He tried to absorb the tales into his very soul.

"Andrie, eat. You're wasting away." He accepted the plate from the woman dressed in simple clothes. The cloth covering her hair and the double braid that he could make out beneath it signified to these people that she was married, but she didn't look very old to him.

The smell of the food assaulted his senses, racing through his body and setting his very nerve endings on fire. He surveyed the assortment on the plate as the delicious warmth from it sank into his thighs: herring and sausage, borsht with sour cream, pickled mushrooms and eggs, thick black bread smeared with pale butter, and rolls of blini filled with gooey sweet preserves. The woman was spooning a generous amount of the same preserves into the glass of black tea she had set beside him.

Shoveling the food into his mouth, he delighted in each new flavor and texture. This was like no food he'd ever see at home, where the fare of the day was the synthetic, reconstituted food the general population of Earth relied on. Granted, it was both more accurately nutritionally balanced and generally free of anything harmful to the human body than natural food, but no computer had ever freed it from the texture of wet cardboard. Besides that, the flavors tasted like they'd been sprayed onto it.

He listened to Sergei's voice as his words wound themselves around the community of people around him. Well, he thought, the synthetic food also helped preserve the resources of their limited planet: he'd heard that enough times from his mother, who had almost a superstitious aversion to the natural alternative.

A hallow emptiness formed in him and began growing as he ate. The thought of his mother made it expand and he tried not to notice the dimness that was growing in the sky. It was no use, of course. He knew that the village's meal was generally at eight and it was far too late in the evening. Savoring the feel of real glass in his hand as long as he could, he suddenly scrambled to his feet and returned the dishes.

"Thank-you. I really have to go."

He turned, retrieved his pack, and slipped it onto his shoulder.

"Andrie."

Turning back, he looked to the older man, but Sergei said nothing else to the boy. Instead, he caught his gaze and held it with his wide, expressive eyes. These people's eyes were all the same: wide, deep and full of the passionate emotion that was always threatening to burst from them. They communicated primarily with their eyes and if it was not inbred, than it was certainly taught from infancy. Andrie knew the nature of their eyes was something that was highly valued.

Sergei's eyes still steadied the boy, who had not been born among these people. It was obvious the older man had seen that hallowness invade his soul and Andrie did not need to hear aloud what Sergei was saying.

"Hold onto us, Andrie…you'll be back."

It was implied that this is where he belonged. He began to smile in acknowledgement, but stopped and tried desperately to force the emotion into his coal black eyes. He was trying to learn this in adolescence, not infancy, and he didn't know if it worked. The effort was at least noted, as Sergei did smile warmly in return.

Turning, he slipped on the other strap and felt his school supplies settle against his back as he set off into the forest.

What was he going to say this time? Even he would have stopped believing the truth if he didn't occupy his own mind. I meant to go to school… Indeed, he did mean to go to school. He always meant to. On his way, however, he always got lost in his mind and his feet somehow took him where they wanted. They never wanted to go to school.

It wasn't as if his father hadn't tried to help him overcome his truancy problem. The only thing that seemed to work for a time was when the man actually escorted him directly to his classroom each morning. His father had given up on coddling his adolescent son after awhile, however, and Andrie was back to trying to make it to school on his own again.

He couldn't say he wasn't relieved. Their computer screens were a blur of images, which the hopelessly scrambled neurons in his brain could never see. The school was full of students and instructors that seemed to be from a different world entirely. Their conversations were in a code he was never given the instructions to. Socially, they had rules he'd never been told about and he ultimately came home with an ache that gripped his entire body.

He tried to speed up his steps on the path through the trees and silently wished Sergei would stop telling the stories about Russia's old spirits. He was a devout Christian, yet he could still imagine….someone….in the blackness that was rapidly filling the trees around him. Yes, the villagers were Christian too, and yet they never failed to take the time to honor those spirits. He wished suddenly that he'd thought to bring an offering for the forest spirit. They weren't gods…they were just spirits: like fairies, he supposed.

"I'll bring double next time," he announced aloud, feeling somewhat foolish. "Promise."

It wasn't until the door to their home closed behind him that he felt alone. He slipped off his sack and placed it on the table against the wall. From there, he could see his mother scrubbing dishes at the kitchen sink. They had the equipment to do it for her, of course, but this was what she chose as stress relief.

She glanced up at him, her hazel eyes surveying him quickly. "You ate?"

"Yes, Mama."

The eyes were cold and empty, not like the villager's. She nodded and went back to scrubbing with a ferocity that threatened to remove the pattern from the dishes.

"You are stupid."

Andrie turned to see that his older brother had come into the room and was now leaning casually against the hallway doorjamb.

"Stupid moron. You have got to be the dumbest person currently on the face of the Earth. Do you know that?"

Viktor's words should have been hurtful, but they had stopped hurting years ago. They entered Andrie without touching him and disappeared somewhere in that hollow space he carried with him whenever he was away from the villagers.

"I suppose." He did answer, because he'd found his silence merely fueled his brother's attacks.

"At your age you should know how to skip and not get caught, at least occasionally."

He thought about it for a moment, but knew it was impossible. They checked for him particularly in the mornings and on the rare occasions when they discovered he had made it into school, the held onto him fiercely.

"Moron: I've got a moron for a brother."

Andrie mulled over that moron actually was a measure of intelligence that was antiquated, but he didn't bother to mention it to his brother.

"Stop it! Just leave him alone already!" his sister demanded as she entered the room. "Why do you torment him?"

Viktor shrugged, folded him arms across his chest and fixed his solid hazel eyes on Andrie.

"Maybe I'm just trying to knock some intelligence into his wooden head."

"Kolya," Natalya said gentler as she turned to him. "It's just that we don't know where you are. Something could happen to you and how would we know?"

A few things occurred to him as his sister spoke. First, that she routinely called him Kolya—a nickname derived from his middle name that he would tolerate from no one else. Second, that the people of the town generally held the same opinion of him that Viktor had. They considered him of questionable intelligence and eccentric behaviors. Wherever he went, he was noticed, stared at, talked about. Not that they cared, of course, he was simply the ripest fodder for gossip in town.

In the village, the tight-knit community would never allow anything to happen to him.

In between the two? Andrie considered that the forest path beneath his feet had never disappeared no matter how dark it became. He remembered the dark and the forest being held back around him always and it brought back the thought of the absent woodland creatures. Andrie smiled to himself. He did believe.

"See? Now what's that idiotic smile? No wonder people think you're addled!"

There was a sound from the back of the house, which made all three children glance at the hallway behind Viktor.

"Maybe you two should go mushroom picking," Andrie suggested.

The sound was louder this time, and obviously came from their father's office.

"I think he's right," Natalya said quickly. "Hurry, Viktor." They left without a basket or the floodlight that would be necessary to find mushrooms in the pitch-blackness that had settled upon the world outside. Andrie wondered leisurely throughout his life where they actually went when they fled their home like this.

He turned his gaze from the door to the hallway, where he could feel his silent father's presence. Andrie was the only one in the family who had inherited the swarthy complexion, dark hair and eyes of his Georgian father. A small man, he was nonetheless powerfully built and imposed a presence on those around that was suffocating. Andrie hoped he failed to develop that trait in adulthood from the man he so closely resembled.

"Come."

Andrie followed him back to his office, where his father sat against the front of his desk, strangely enough. He failed to close the door, Andrie also realized. His eyes moved from the open door back to his father and he caught sight of the worn leather cases piled along the wall. Sudden, all consuming horror gripped him with a ferocity that crushed his chest. His ears roared and he had to fight through the terror to hear the older man speak.

"Andrie, I'm not doing this anymore. I'm sorry I failed you, but I tried and now you're too old. It's time for you to take control of your own life. It's not going to be very long before you're going to be out in that world alone and you have no direction, have made no preparation to be able to do that. People just don't beg on the streets of Earth anymore and I can't see you doing anything else at this point!"

The boy's fists were balled so tightly he could feel the blood beginning to seep out from under his fingernails. He'd had to lock his knees to stop himself from collapsing against those cases on the floor.

"Andrie," his father continued sternly. "This is what I'm requiring—demanding--of you. You are to leave this house tomorrow, but I don't want you to come back until you're ready to prepare for your future in this world. I'll give you, get you any help you want, but it's time YOU figure it out."

"Don't take my instruments!" Andrie finally burst out desperately. "If you take them, don't throw them out—give them to a museum, the conservatory—don't throw them out!"

The older man folded his arms across his chest and seemed to consider his youngest son for the first time. "How good are you?"

Andrie's mind raced, not sure of the motivation behind the question. "I don't know, people like to listen to me."

"Beethoven, Mozart?"

It occurred to the boy it was strange his father had never heard him play. "No."

His father shifted and rolled his eyes. "Peasant music," he commented with derision. "That'll never get you into the conservatory."

Andrie felt a shudder along his back as his father's disrespect for the people who had endured, had held this land together for centuries.

"And just how did you get hold of instruments you think a museum would want?"

Andrie raised his eyes and met his father's gaze. The older man's eyes were as depthless as space, but he could see nothing in those depths. It was the first question he'd ever asked his son that the boy not only understood but also felt his father was listening to the answer.

"Because people don't know, they don't understand the work and love that goes into making a fine musical instrument anymore. They find well built instruments in their attics, their barns and I'm able to trade for them. What they have has no value for them. But you can't throw out instruments of this quality, of this history."

The man stayed staring at his son silently. He saw in the boy's eyes an understanding of the world, a wisdom that was far beyond his fourteen years. It was an unexpected glimpse into the child he'd never understood.

"I wasn't planning to throw them away. They're just mine temporarily until you show me you've been able to find a way to ground yourself. Then you'll get them back. Do you understand what I'm asking of you?"

Andrie's whole body felt weak now, hearing with relief the cases were only under protective custody. He nodded in response to his father's question. "You want me to prepare for a twenty-third century job."

"Do you understand why?"

Andrie nodded again. "You just want me to be able to live in this world."

"Yes. People do now exist without formal schooling. People do not live their lives playing folksongs and daydreaming about peasant history. Nelzya! It simply isn't done!"

Andrie grew sullen. If it was not, how was he suppose to live?

His father made the effort to tousle his wavy black hair on the way out. It was not the affection the expressive boy needed—he needed a hug: from Sergei. It was not a gesture he'd ever seen from his chilly parents.

He went and pulled one of the antique quilts off his bed, then wrapped himself in it on the back porch. Sitting in the dark, he stared up at the stars for a long while.

"Are you alright?"

In the dark, his mother only knew he had turned toward her because his dark eyes reflected the uncountable stars above him.

"Yes, just looking for Saturn and thinking."

"I guess you've been given a lot to think about."

He nodded.

"It's for the best, Andrie, really. He doesn't intend to be mean."

"I know," he responded quietly. Andrie had been forced to accept, finally, that he could not live in this world. He could see by her expression she heard something unfamiliar in his voice. Yes, it was for the best, he thought. Strangely enough, the ultimatum was just what he needed, just when he needed it. That hollowness inside had hardened, and was shrinking away beyond his grasp.

"Mama," he said as she turned to leave. She hesitated and eyed him.

"I just—I know I've never been easy to raise: downright perplexing. But I love you all, Mama, and I want you to remember I'm going to be alright even if doesn't appear that way."

She smiled condescendingly at her philosophical son and disappeared into the house. He sought her out again in the morning and was glad to find she hadn't left before him. Shouldering his pack, he kissed her cheek.

"Good-bye, Mama."

The woman considered him a moment. "Why, I think you've grown up overnight, Andrie."

He nodded. "I have, Mama: just don't expect me to be a agricultural engineer like the rest of the family."

She laughed at the notion and held the door open for them to leave together.

Andrie forcefully restrained himself and held his pace at a steady walk down the street, around the corner and a good way down the next street. He found there, as he frequently did, that he had not the self-restraint to continue such a course. The sidewalk turned from the synthetic material used to natural stone that had been taken from the ground while building a nearby complex. Under the soles of the leather boots he insisted on wearing, the stone made a sharp ting in a variety of notes.

The notes rang in his ears and swiftly erased any thoughts in his mind: sweeping through his body in sheer and utter ecstasy. His feet were pounding the stones to coax a rhythm out of them before he knew it. People stopped to stare at him as he flew down the street in concert with the music only he could hear. He didn't notice and he wouldn't have cared.

The end of the street disappointed him, but it reminded him of the task at hand. School was another right. Today his father actually hadn't told him to go to school. He crossed the street and began running. By the time he got into the woods, he was tearing his pack off and threw it with gusto into the depths of the trees.

"You can keep it, Forest Spirit! It's yours!" he screamed aloud with a sense of irony. What the Forest Spirit would want with a sack of 23rd century school supplies he had no idea, but he didn't care. He had no use for them.

Sergei looked up in response to the sound of his running feet on the dirt road. He smiled and came around the back end of the large horse he was harnessing, reigns still in hand.

"Andrie! You came early for your plowing lesson?" His pale grey eyes sparkled at the boy like the clearest morning sky.

"No," the boy said breathlessly, stopping next to him. "You're an old salt anyway," he baited the older man. "Who got you behind a plow?"

"You do what you need to. Where's your school bag?" he asked eyeing the youngster.

"I don't need them anymore," he said resolutely.

The older man stood eyeing him, threading the reigns back and forth through his weathered fingers. "So what's happened Andrie?" he asked with interest.

Among this community he was no child and he never felt like one while here. He wondered if being treated like an adult was what made him feel so settled within himself here, so sure of himself. Here he had a firm grasp of the dreams that were so fleeting elsewhere. The things he knew that were fleeting to others he never questioned here.

"You were right: I came back to stay," he told Sergei. "I need your help, please."

The broad peasant smiled wildly, his eyes flooding with warmth. He said nothing but spread his arms wide. Andrie stepped into the bear hug without prompt and stood for a long while just enjoying the warmth of the man's enormous body against his.

"He told me not to come back until I was ready to get a 23rd century job. I need to get my things."

The man nodded and stepped back. "Unhook the plow and hitch the wagon. I'll be right back."

Andrie did as instructed, vaguely curious as to where the older man went. He said nothing about it when he returned, however.

"Up you go."

Even the short trip to his family home and back set his nerves on edge. The very air in the 23rd century world irritated his skin.

"I think God had me born into the wrong place," he observed as they left the outskirts of the town.

Sergei gave him a cock-eyed grin. "So you think God makes whopping mistakes like that?"

Andrie squirmed. Put like that, it sounded so ridiculous. "Well, no…"

"Son, good or bad, our lives go along right as God planned. You can't do anything but live out what you've been given."

Andrie sighed, but it was in contentment. He liked it when Sergei called him son. The man was not really that ancient. It was just his rough peasant clothes and long beard that made Andrie think of him as so. He had once been a sailor in Russia's navy before it had fallen into utter and stagnant disuse as all of Earth's navies had. Until disbanded, they had been an archaic and impotent remnant of the past.

The wagon was passing into the village now and Andrie noticed it was strangely quiet. The communal fields were empty, as were the house gardens as far as he could see. No children, no market, no milkman was visible.

"Sergei," he suddenly said with alarm. "We passed your house. I thought I would be staying with you."

The man glanced at him briefly, but turned his attention back to the horse without comment. Andrie knew he was too old to join a full household with a mother and daughters. Even in his boyhood home he was forgetful and somewhat unaware, however. Not having been born among these people, he certainly lacked the survival skills to make it on his own.

They were nearing the far edge of the village now. Andrie knew it extended this far but had never been out here as it was a place the villagers seemed to have no use for.

A fence appeared on their right and Andrie leaned over, trying to catch a glimpse of what lie beyond. He watched as a white building grew in his vision beyond the mass of tangled vines entwining the spears of the fence.

He straightened as they approached the gate and the white marble building grew. A field of grass flowed up to an expanse of white marble steps and soaring columns. The building was obscene compared to the villager's small wooden houses and personal gardens. Unlike the fence, the grass was clipped short and well manicured.

A surge of adrenaline made his heart skip a beat. "Sergei," he asked, "Is this the village manor house?"

"Yes," the peasant responded. "It was originally wooden, but some self-important noble replaced it with stone in the 19th century."

"I didn't even think to wonder where this house was," Andrie observed with awe as they turned into the gate and approached the house. He felt like an idiot. Petty nobles had once owned all of Russia's villages and their inhabitants. The nobles determined their wealth by not only how much land they owned, but by how many "souls". They controlled the peasants' lives and world with ultimate authority. These men lived within an arms reach of the people they owned and this building reeked of this village's history.

There were peasants from the village working to control the sprawl of plants at the front of the two wings of the house that spread on either side of the steps. This, Andrie realized as Sergei stopped the wagon, is where all the villagers were.

"Sergei," the boy said as the thought occurred to him. "You can't mean for me to stay here."

"We knew you were coming and would have had it ready, but your sudden decision caught us by surprise. It won't take long to open it entirely."

Andrie sat silently as he became more and more aware of the amount of bustle going on around him. He thought of how many centuries and governments had to be endured by these serfs before they became more than property. He found the thought of reawakening their history filling him with revulsion.

"Sergei, I can't live here. NO ONE should live here," he said with determination. "It's like a monument to the centuries of struggle they overcame."

The peasant tightened the reigns in his hands and raised his eyes to the building, sitting in contemplative silence a long moment.

"Andrie," he finally intoned quietly. "When you first came to us, we knew you belonged with us: that you were a part of our community. But you're not one of us." He hesitated, turning gentle grey eyes on the boy. "We know you understand us and our world, but you understand their world too—something none of us does. That puts you in a unique position.

"We discussed and decided long ago, that when you came, this is where you belong. You know it's true that the village is a family. The man that lived here was not only our owner, son; he was also our father, our protector. The village is not complete truly without a "little tsar."

Andrie listened quietly to the man's words and heard what he was actually saying. These people had nearly nothing: no power, no building materials and only the simplest tools and resources. What they did have, however, was an unwavering grip on their culture and values, an indisolvable bond to their family, friends and fellow villagers, and an enduring strength and pride.

The little they had been able to hold onto to was more valuable to them than all of the galaxies riches and they understood they were being threatened by the outside world. They were expecting him, at fourteen, to protect them and hold back the encroaching world didn't understand. They neither questioned, nor gave thought to, how he might accomplish such a thing: they just knew he would.

The chill creeping into him came not from this task. Certainly, if he had tried to consider it rationally, he could not have thought through how he would go about protecting them. He was not rational, though. The villagers had discussed it and made the decision with much thought. The decision for the good of all made, they simply assumed now that he would do what they needed. He was so innately one of them already that he knew, as well, that he would.

The chill came from what he realized even Sergei didn't know about him. "Sergei," he said, turning dark, apologetic eyes to meet the peasant's gaze. "I know I'm old enough, but I can't live alone. There's something wrong with me," he confessed quietly.

"Is there now?" the man laughed merrily.

Andrie closed both his eyes and fists tightly for a minute. He had always found gentleness in this gruff old man. Why was it so hard to tell him the truth?

"I don't remember to do simple things, Sergei," he said as evenly as possible as he opened his eyes and looked for understanding in the man's gaze. "Important things, like taking showers."

"We don't have showers, just bathhouses."

"Then I won't remember to bathe, or change clothes, or get a haircut, or brush my hair."

"We'll not be giving any grand balls anytime soon, young master."

Andrie straightened somewhat on the wagon seat, what Sergei called him not having gone unnoticed. He was bothered by the fact that it didn't unsettle him in the least. "I can't operate a replicator and there's no way I can cook your food. It isn't really an issue, though," Andrie said, his voice rising for the first time. "I never remember to eat!"

Again, laughter shook the older man and he leaned over and gave the disturbed boy a bear hug. "We pay attention enough to have noticed these things. I'm glad you're finally getting out of the reach of the idiot who's tried to convince you there's something wrong with you because of them."

"But Sergei…"

"But nothing. So you forget to eat lunch. Instead you have a photographic memory for what you hear, see and read. Can your father make that claim?"

This time it was Andrie's turn to smile. "I haven't got a photographic memory."

"No? I'm willing to bet the conversation you related to me with your father was word for word. And do you remember the black wool pants I wore last Thursday that had the tear in them?"

Andrie's eyes were both vague and dismissive. "Your black wool pants don't have a tear, they're already patched. You were wearing your brown pants and had just ripped them on…." he stopped when Sergei flashed him a wild, wide grin of triumph.

"I think you still have a few things to learn about yourself. Come inside, I want to show you something that I know will make you more comfortable to settle here."

Andrie followed Sergei up the expanse of steps after he released him from his hug. He hesitated enough to be disturbed by the fact that the wagon was already nearly empty. Gone were his collections of antique musical instruments, leather bound books, custom-made leather footwear and page after page of hand written research.

"It's being taken care of," Sergei chided, knowing why Andrie's eyes were delaying the progress of their footsteps. "Come."

On each side, a silent person pushed a set of enormous doors for him. This is where the villagers were: every man, woman and child.

He froze just inside the door, his dark eyes running mechanically over the scene before him. A solid white marble floor flowed forward until it met an expansive white stone staircase. The staircase swept upward, where it spilled onto the second floor in either direction.

He had only taken one step into the manor house and already his ears ached from the sound of what he head. Andrie let himself become entranced by it and stared down a long moment at the sight of his black leather boots resting on the white marble floor. Finally, he kicked his heel on the stone experimentally. A crooked, wildly ecstatic grin swept over his face. His deep-throated laughter would have put Satan to shame.

Sergei's eyes sparkled. "I told you."

"Is the whole house marble?" The possibilities that presented began occurring to Andrie.

"No. The library has wooden walls and floor, the ballroom gold walls and a wood parquet floor. Come look, I'll give you a tour."

Sergei led him through a maze of rooms: a kitchen, a dining hall, a music room, a library, several rooms for plants, a game room, a myriad of undefined rooms and the ballroom with it's enormous candle-lit crystal chandeliers. The second floor ballroom spilled out onto an expansive marble patio, which in turn led to overgrown gardens.

Andrie ran his hand along the smooth marble railings that held the patio in. "What are those buildings out there?" he asked, pointing into the distance.

"The carriage house and the stables."

"This is like being in Petersburg," Andrie observed with genuine appreciation for the workmanship that had sustained this house through the centuries.

"Yes, just more manageable," Sergei said. At Andrie's surprised look, he added: "I sailed out of Petersburg in my navy days."

The boy turned and eyed the back of the house thoughtfully. The upper rooms in the back had marble balconies. His books had already been carefully stored in the library and his musical instruments he had seen resting peacefully on shelves in the music room. "I still can't live alone," he murmured almost unintelligibly.

Sergei eyed him with a tolerance he felt he was long past deserving. "You have a cook, a maid, a stableman, a driver and a gardener. And me: I'm your house servant. Of course, there's the Spirits that linger about too. Anyone else you need? No? Let me know if you think of anyone.

"Come now, let's go back in. We need you to pick out your bedroom, your study and your office. Any other private rooms you want, let us know."

Andrie followed silently, this time examing his new home with a critical eye. He was particularly judging how best to use the vast amount of space available. It didn't occur to him to either question or feel uneasy about his new place in life. This was simply to be his assigned lot among these people, his adopted family.