Chapter Thirteen

"My! My!" said Feofan Lapa, curling up inside a work bin in the drafty "People's Collective Time Marches Ever Forward" Watch Factory. "Your Saint Petersburg nights can be very, very cold!"

"It's thirty-six degrees below zero!" said Misha.

"Centigrade!" added Grisha.

"Hrumph!" said Avvakuum. "That's nothing! You should have been here ten, fifteen years ago! Now that was cold! So cold, mice were running up to cats, just to catch the warmth from their fur!"

Wind hammered at the jagged edges of broken window panes, and a fine snow swirled like powder in the moonlight.

"Well," said Feofan Lapa. "I suppose we should start, although I notice that one of our most loyal members is missing."

"Hrumph!" said Avvakuum. "It's probably too cold for that eternal optimist and goodie-goodie!"

"Maybe he's stuck somewhere! Or frozen!" said Masha. "I haven't seen him all day. I'm worried!"

"Bah!" said Avvakuum. "He's probably upstairs with that widow lady right now, feasting on some warm sturgeon, while we're down here shivering our tails off! Let's get going!"

"And it is not inappropriate, my friends," said Feofan Lapa, settling onto his work bench. "That we meet on such a cold night. For our story concerns an equally frigid night, here, on the frozen swamps of the Neva River--long before there were furnaces and hot water pipes and buildings such as these that surround our court yards. We are going back to the early seventeen hundred's."

"Hrumph!" said Avvakuum. "These buildings look like they've been around at least that long!"

Feofan Lapa frowned. "Let us settle down now, please. Let us hear from our beloved Cat Chronicles. Just as soon as you all relax, breathe in deeply, and stay close to one-another for warmth."

"Hrumph! Give me some room, Misha!" snapped Avvakuum.

"My elder friend!" said a startled Feofan Lapa. "What is with you this evening? You are so--so agitated!"

"Bah! I don't know what it is!" confessed the old red cat. "There's something--something in the air. Maybe it's the cold. I feel it in my old bones."

"Yes, friend, but let us settle in now for the wisdom from the Cat Chronicles. Let us go back, backwards in time. Close your eyes. It is now the year 1701, and we are with Galya-Falya, a she-cat in the peasant Fomin's household near Kolomenskoe. It is a dark and stormy night. Hear the wind howl. Hear the shutters rattle. Galya-Falya lies curled near the stove.

The thick, crooked door swings open. A puff of snow blows into the hut, and in walks Fomin. 'It's not a fit night out for man or beast!' he says, knocking the snow off his shoulders.

'My poor darling husband!' says Olya. 'Having to work with hard stones and rocks out in that bitter cold! Why, I couldn't imagine anything worse!'

'I can!' says Fomin, shaking the snow off his overcoat. He hangs his rabbit-fur hat and coat on the door peg, then walks to the stove to warm his fingers. Melting snow drips from his long gray beard. 'I can imagine something much, much colder than this!'

'Only hell would be colder, dearest,' says Olya.

'Yes, indeed!' he laughs. 'That's what I mean! A hell--this one of human making!'

'What do you mean? Are the nobles and boyars up to something again?'

'Worse! It's the czar! He's gone completely crazy this time! Crazier than when he went off to foreign parts for two years! Worse than that even!'

'What? Did he drive another wife into the convent?'

'Worse than that! Worse even than the public executions at the Kremlin!'

Fomin sits down at the table, and Olya brings him a glass of hot tea, a hunk of black bread, and a bowl of steaming kasha.

'This is the very worst!' he says, wiping bread crumbs from his beard. 'Czar Peter wants to convert this whole blessed country into a foreign land, can you imagine? A protestant land! Why, there'd be churches with steeples and organ music and paintings in them!'

'That's a sacrilege! The good Lord would never allow it!'

'The good Lord seems not to care much for what goes on in this country anymore, let me tell you! Now, our czar is back from a crazy place called Golland or something and another foreign place called Londonn, and he wants to make us into a western country! Can you imagine?'

'No, Foma, I can't imagine.' She touches his shoulder, as if sensing danger about to strike them both.

'Well, for one thing, I can't go to Moscow anymore.'

'Why, in the name of the Lord?

'You won't believe it! Our czar has shaved off his beard!'

'Shaved his beard off! How, how unchristian! How un-Russian! How un-manly too! Why, a man is naked without a beard, not wise without one!'

'Exactly so! But now our czar walks around the Kremlin with a naked face, and, worse, all who appear in court must have naked faces too! Vadim just came back from the Moscow markets. He barely escaped! They have barbers posted at all the city gates! You get fined if you have a beard!'

'Why, the men will all look like monkeys, or worse, Poles! This indeed a dark sign. And it was predicted, was it not? Peter is the Antichrist, and this is the end of the world--the year five thousand!'

'Oh, he's changing that too!' says Fomin with a rough laugh. 'He's changing over to a foreign calendar, so it won't be the year 5000 anymore. It will be the year 1700 or something! Can you imagine! He's tinkering with everything!'

'The Lord will surely strike him down!' says Olya, crossing herself.

'This is not the world of the Lord, I fear,' says Fomin. 'I haven't told you half of it. I am conscripted.'

Her face turns white. 'What, dearest! There's a war?'

'No war, but worse, perhaps! Peter has decided that Moscow--that the gold-domed churches and the Kremlin armory and the palaces--they're not good enough for him. He wants to build a new capitol--a new city. It will be the devil's own capitol--you'll see! There'll be Lutheran-style churches and German palaces and Italian buildings! And the madman's building it all on the Neva!'

'The Neva? I never heard of it.'

'Of course not! No one has! It's a Finnish word. It means, 'mud,' and it's a river delta that's aptly named. It's muck and mire three months out of the year, and frozen mud and tundra nine months.'

'It sounds terrible! A place for exile!' shudders Olya.

He takes his wife's hand. "Oi, and I'm going there, dearest. I've been conscripted.'

'But, but, why? What have you done?'

'It's not punishment, dearest--although it really is. All stone masons, all carpenters--we have been drafted to go north to the mud-lands!'

Poor Galya-Falya thinks of how much she will miss her poor master, who has been so kind. She and Olya both shall miss him.

'Well!' says Olya. 'Then I shall go to!'

Galya-Falya swallows hard.

'It's not a woman's place' says Fomin. Galya-Falya nods readily, in agreement.

'A woman's place is next to her husband,' says Olya.

'Not necessarily!' thinks Galya-Falya.

Olya embraces her husband. 'I will come with. We will make do, somehow. We'll build a cabin, just like this one perhaps.'

'On mud?'

'Oh, I'm sure there's some land there that isn't mud. And we'll build a warm stove, just like this one, and we'll even bring our dearest Galya-Falya, for company and for good luck!'

Galya-Falya shudders in the corner. If there's one thing a cat hates more than change in routine, it's change for the worst. And this sounds like a definite change for the worst.

Months later, a pale, thin spring spreads across Kolomenskoe and the surrounding hills. As soon as the mud has dried and the rutty roads are passable, a caravan of peasant carts sets out from the village for the north. Fomin drives the third cart while Olya sits in the back. Curled in a corner, hidden from the fates by a coarse blanket, jostled by ruts and rocks, bounces one frightened Galya-Falya."

With that, Feofan Lapa yawned and stretched. "We conclude our story here for now, my friends--leaving poor Galya-Falya in the lurch, as it were. It is cold, and we must find warmer spaces for this bitter evening."

Avvakuum crawled out from under the parts bin. He shook himself. Springs and screws and tiny metal arrows flew in all four directions. Misha and Grisha headed for the door, and made their way in the moonlight across the brittle snow. Avvakuum hobbled back to his building, and the Yauza River elders slid out onto Popov Street, heading back to their headquarters.

"That Feofan Lapa sure knows how to tell a story!" said Misha.

"He sure does!" said Grisha.

The snow crust crackled under their paws. "Maybe we should stop in at the Glasnost and see our friend Koshka," said Masha.

"There's so much construction stuff going on--so many workers and foreigners and capitalists and government delegates--we shouldn't go near the place," Misha answered

"Well then, I'm--I'm worried about Koshka," said Masha. "No one has seen him all day!"

"Don't worry at all about him! ," said Grisha. "Our Koshka knows his way around. He's an expert at survival! Why, I'll bet you, while we stand here shivering in the cold, that the nice widow Petrova is this very minute feeding him a thick pork chop."

#

There was no pork chop and no widow Petrova in Koshka's life at that very moment, however. The poor cat was under the death sentence of Comrade Rassolnikov, and Osip the apparatchik and former waiter had dragged him out of the Glasnost Hotel into the frosty night.

"Forgive me for what I have to do!" Osip whispered in the empty court yard. "I've never killed a cat before, believe me! Never! A rat once. A hen once. But never a cat!"

Osip grabbed Koshka tight around the middle. "Oi, such a cold night it is, and such a warm cat! What a shame! Let's see no--how to finish off a cat. Oi, I don't know! Everything's frozen. You can't drown it or bury it. Here, maybe I can smother it. Oi, I feel it breathing on me! God forgive me! Devil don't take my soul! Let's see, should I break its neck? Now there's a way to finish off a cat, a dumb beast--that's all it is, to be sure! Why, it's just a hen with fur instead of feathers--that's what it is. A dumb beast."

Osip's bony hands wrapped around Koshka's neck, tightened, then loosened.

"M-e-o-w!" went Koshka.

"Oi, I can't do it!" sighed Osip. "And it's a full moon too. Ay, I can't do it! And tomorrow's my mother's name day--God rest her soul! My own dear mother!"

Osip's hand still held tight around Koshka's middle.

"M-a! M-a! M-e-o-w!" went Koshka.

With that, Osip slumped into a snow bank, still clutching the cat. "My dear, dear mother! Salt of the earth! And she had a dear cat too--who licked Osip and liked little Osip! My mother's own cat, my own dearest mother! And what has become of your son, mother? Oh Lord, he's nothing but a bandit! A black-marketeer! And now, a killer of cats! Of innocent, warm, furry cats! Oh, Lord save us all! The devil would never let me rest! Would never let my dear mother rest! And, oi, it's a full moon tonight! And her name day too!"

His hands tightened again around Koshka. "But oh, what to do? I have to obey. Rassolnikov's will must be done!"

"M-e-o-w!" went Koshka, softly, like a village kitty.

Osip looked up at the moon. "But Thy will be done too!" He crossed himself with two fingers, still holding tight onto Koshka. "Help me, oh Lord! Keep the devil at bay!"

"M-e-o-w!" said Koshka softly.

"I can't! Oh, I can't kill this--this creature of God!" Osip sobbed. "But I can't go back inside either!" He shivered, tightening his coat around his neck. "Oh, Lord or the devil--somebody help me now!"

With that, he got up and walked towards the driveway. "Aha!" he pulled open the back door of his rusty old van, opened a wooden crate, tossed out a rusted wrench, a crowbar, and hammer, and threw in Koshka. Then Osip grabbed a blanket from the bottom of the van, and a pile of smelly rags. "Look! I've made a warm nest for you--just for the night. It even has some straw, newspapers too, nice soft rags, and the truck will keep you out of the wind. Tomorrow, we'll drive to the dacha--to the dear country cottage where dearest mama once lived!"

The door of the van slammed shut, and Koshka heard Osip's footsteps disappear over the crunching snow. Koshka's life had been saved, luckily, but he was still not out of danger.

And, what about the world? There was a plot to kill the leader. Only Koshka knew! Only he could save the world from the kapitalist assassins! This was--let's see--it was the evening of the eighteenth of February, and the leader was coming on the twenty-first. How could he save anybody--much less his own fur--while locked up in a rusty old van?

He banged at the crate with his paws, then with the full weight of his body. No luck.

"M-m-m-r-r-o-o-o-w-w-!" He howled with all his might. One cat would be enough to save him. He howled again, then waited. No one approached. He howled again, praying Avvakuum would hear, or Misha or Grisha or Feofan Lapa or Hagia Sophia even. Oh, where was Masha, his Masha?

No one came. All he heard was the stiff Saint Petersburg wind buffet the van and rattle its contents.

All was lost. Just at the very time that the world needed Wonder Cat, the nameless cat at the Glasnost Hotel had failed.

The wind pounded the rusty old truck. Koshka shivered. His heart turned sad, and he remembered another winter day, long ago.

#

Winter had come in 1982, the same way winter always came. The Nevka froze over. It snowed almost every night. Branches became slick with ice, then cracked and broke in the wind off the Baltic.

It snowed almost every night. The world looked fresh and clean. Even to Koshka. The battleground had turned white and flat too. Who could tell that decisive battle had been fought there--the concluding battle of a war Koshka had caused? No one knew. The holder of the secret was himself wiped off the earth, like the leaves from the lindens, but never to return. And although Koshka prayed that something white like snow could wipe away his pain, he did start to forget about the kittens, about his Katyenka. No, 'forgetting' was not the right word. He started not to remember so often, or maybe when remembering, it was not quite so hurtful. Wounds turning to scars, probably. And those thick scars meant Koshka had lost a taste for life, had loss his love, his vitality.

He remembered the dead kittens. He remembered dead Igor too. The world of cats--it was cruel. What was it all for? Fights for territory, to eat. Eating to be strong, to protect territory. Sleeping to rest for eating. What was it all for? Surely the world of cats lacked for an answer. And maybe the world of humans too--that strange universe populated by two-legged creatures with arms and hands that gestured and held things.

Then as if on cue by some hidden, inner frozen well-spring that made weather conform with state of mind and heart, a long freeze came to Leningrad. No water flowed, even when pipes burst. And even the smoke pouring thick from chimneys and stacks turned too soon to thin, failing wisps, cruelly snapped by the wind the way a cat breaks the neck of a rodent.

Koshka settled into the warmest part of the cellar, not knowing or caring that even the warm was cold.

But then, days later, nature teased. The orange sun seemed lower and brighter and water drops formed on windows. No, it was too early for spring. but maybe this was a rehearsal. Puddles formed in the yard, and the humans spoke to one-another with lightness in their voices.

Koshka felt an aching, vague desire inside. No, it wasn't hunger. He'd just eaten. Warmth? No. It was warm enough; as if enjoying the respite, the heat pipes almost swelled and sweated, trying to gain future advantage over their foes.

It was curiosity that called. Lying curled in a corner had its limits, Koshka decided. It was time to do what he used to do--explore.

So, the vague desire led him out of the cellar, through the hallways and out to the court yard. Children played in the snow. Humans walked by arm-in-arm or hand in hand. Koshka felt vaguely uneasy, as if jealous or something.

Maybe things were better in the next court yard. No. Still the same vague jealously or emptiness greeted him there, this time only in different clothing. It was the same at the next court yard. And the next too.

Then he was making his way along the boulevard, his paws tapping a neat rhythm on the thick, damp snow that was almost warm. Laughing boys with hockey sticks ran past. One aimed a stick at Koshka. "Dumb cat!" the red-faced boy snapped. "He, guys, look at that dumb cat out in the snow!" The boys laughed, but kept on their way.

Koshka shrugged, knowing that boys that age are not to be heeded at all, but ignored.

Two more court yards. Still the same, but different. Koshka kept on, as if convincing himself something would change. The next block was empty, surrounded by a wooden fence that swayed like a river. Koshka slipped through a slit near the ground and shook the mud from his claws. Mud, he marvelled! It was almost like spring! And something deep inside him, long buried for the cold, stirred--it wanted to smile.

It was a construction site. Or a destruction site. It was always hard to tell. A pile bent scaffolding lay off to one side. There was a big hole in the ground, one half covered by a slanting snow drift. A wheel barrow stood on one while like a limping old lady, and towards the center, away from the fences, a solitary pipe stuck out from the ground. It was a water pipe, Koshka could tell. It had burst during the last cold spell, probably spraying for hours. Then later somebody had taken the trouble to scrape away the snow, and now there was a hockey rink.

Koshka, having been recently reminded of the wisdom of avoiding twelve-year old human males, slunk towards the pile of scaffolding.

"Hey!" one of the boys called out. "Let's make a snow fortress!"

"Yeah!" went up the chorus. "And a snow man too!

"Yeah! Not a little kid's snow man, but the biggest, meanest, ugliest snow man anyone has ever made!"

"Yeah!" The cry went up. And soon boys clumped chunks of snow together between their mittens, then they rolled the little balls across the ground. As they rolled, the balls grew bigger and bigger, bigger and bigger.

"Hey, a rat" yelled one short boy in a red jacket. "Let's get the rat and roll it into the wall of the snow fort!"

"Yeah!" went the cry, and the boys ran after the rat.

But the rat, being faster, fled out across the field and under the fence.

The boys charged towards the fence like an army. "Yeah!" was their cry, and it echoed across the buildings that looked blankly back at them.

Four boys ran to the far end of the field, where a tool shack lay slanting against the fence. "Let's get us some tools for the fort!" one yelled. All four tugged then kicked at the door. "Yeah! Some hammers and nails and mallets!"

More boys ran towards the shed.

"Hey, there's a dumb cat in here!" yelled one boy from the shed. Soon, there was a flash of gray, and a cat sped across the field, coming right towards Koshka.

Koshka's eyes narrowed, then opened wide. Gray. No. No The cat brain is a wily thing of its own. No. No. Gray. It could not be. But yes, it was coming closer, and yes, it was a gray cat. And. And yes, it was not just a cat. It was Katyenka.

"Katyenka!" Koshka yelled out. But she didn't hear. She was closer now. Koshka could see terror etched deep in her soulful eyes. "Katyenka!" he screamed.

How could it be? He wondered for an instant. How could it be? Yes! Igor was gone. Yes. Igor had kept her, as a prisoner probably. And then he was gone and Katyenka, banished, had to make it on her own. She, being the mate of a defeated warrior, had to leave the colony and make it on her own. That's what had brought her here, to the empty yard between the place where Koshka lived and the place where she had lived, where Igor had lived.

The thoughts whirled around just for a second. "Katyenka!" he called out again.

She didn't hear. Too many boys shouting. Their boots tramping across the ice and snow.

"Get that dumb cat!" yelled the boys from the shed.

"Yeah, get that dumb cat!" yelled the boys by the scaffolds.

"We'll get that dumb cat!" yelled the boys by the broken pipe. they grabbed their sticks, and threw their skates to the ground.

"No!" said the boys running from the part of the field with the shed. "We'll get that dumb cat!"

"No you won't!" said the boys from the scaffolds.

It was like a dance. Boys dashed towards the center from all directions, slipping and falling in a rhythm all their own on the ice and snow, and all the while Katyenka ran straight from the shed towards the scaffolds.

"Katyenka" shouted Koshka. "Be careful!"

She was getting closer. Fear loomed bigger in her eyes. Then a cloud of puzzlement. "K-K-Koshka?"

"Don't come this way!" he screamed. "Watch out for the boys! The ones from the scaffolds!" His heart leapt. Katyenka. His Katyenka.

"Koshka?" she cried.

"Run the other way!" he shouted as loud as he could. His eyes flashed at the field. Yes, the boys from the shed were gaining, but ahead of her, off to Koshka's right now, ran the boys from the scaffold. Off to the left ran the boys from the pipe, but there was room, one chance for escape, off to the left, to Katyenka's right.

"Run to the right!" Koshka screamed.

"Koshka!" she called out. "Koshka! Save me! Save me!"

"Run for the right! You can make it!"

But she kept running straight, and the white line of snow between her and the scaffold boys got smaller and smaller.

Now there was no easy escaping. The boys from the pipe were closing in, with their sticks waving high in the air. "We'll get the dumb cat!" he shouted.

"No, we will!" said the boys from the shed, and they were getting closer too.

There was no hope. Only one last chance. Yes, one possible way to save her. Koshka dived onto the snow from the scaffold and howled as loud as he could.

"Hey, another cat!" yelled a scaffold boy. "Look, over there!"

"We'll get that one too!" said a scaffold boy.

"No, we will!" Said a pipe boy, turning to run to the right. And soon, there was a thick line of legs between Koshka and Katyenka.

But, oh, pain, the legs could not blur the sight from behind, where Katyenka was. The pipe boys had gained on her. They had formed a circle. They screamed. "We got it! We got it!" Sticks went high into the air.

And a wail went up. A wail like the world had never heard.

And Koshka' heart went dead. His heart. His soul. But his body, no. Somewhere, in the part that says legs move and muscles tighten fast, Koshka turned and spun on the ice. And in no time he was running towards Katyenka.

Whack!

A board came crashing down on his head.

Whack!

And another.

Still, he headed for Katyenka.

"Let's play hockey!" yelled a voice.

And a stick flashed alongside Koshka, and he spun, helplessly, spine first, across the ice, away from the scaffold, away from the pipe, away. Away from Katyenka. Away.

And in the circle at the center, around Katyenka, who had not howled for the longest time, the sticks stopped swinging in the air.

"Make a snow ball!" came a command, and the circle of boys moved as if one lumbering body.

Whack! Another stick hit Koshka, this one driving him hard into the fence. And the boys turned from him towards the body of boys at the center. "Yeah, make a snowball of it!" went the cry.

And from the fence Koshka saw the body of boy bodies moving, like a lumbering circus bear, across the ice, and the boy body became a wedge and at the point of a the wedge was a ball growing bigger and bigger and bigger and from gray to whiter to whiter and whiter.

Koshka's face turned up to the sky. Higher than the flat orange sun on the horizon. And a wail went up from his heart, to nowhere, to everywhere.

#

"Where's Koshka, the cat at the Glasnost Hotel?" Anna asked David the next night.

"Has anyone seen Koshka?" the widow asked.

Rassolnikov overheard. He smiled, rubbing his hands together. One enemy eliminated. Soon, others would be gone too. The widow and her niece. Then the big one. Things were on schedule at last!

#

That night, the gathering of cats began a half hour later than usual.

"Let's wait just a few more minutes!" pleaded Masha.

"Yes, let's wait!" said Misha and Grisha. "He'll show up! He never misses a meeting, our Koshka!"

"Hrumph!" said Avvakuum. "He missed one last night! It was probably too cold for the little naive optimist!"

"I'm really worried now!" said Masha. "It's not like him to stay away. He's one of our most loyal members."

"Hrumph!" said Avvakuum. "With all the changes going on over there--all the construction crews and workmen and vans and trucks--he's probably busy feasting on roast chicken and sturgeon. Why, the kapitalists have arrived! He's probably got a linen napkin tucked around his neck this very minute--feasting on Khamburgerz and sipping Pepsi Kola!"

"We can wait no longer for stragglers," said Feofan Lapa finally, lifting himself onto the center work bench. "We will begin the recitation from our beloved Cat Chronicles."

The cats found their respective places in parts bins and on work benches and tables. Masha the house cat perched on the work light that hung over the benches.

"We go backwards in time," sang Feofan Lapa softly. "Backwards, slowly, ever so slowly. Back to the time of Galya-Falya, the poor peasant cat bouncing in a cart between Moscow and the frozen mud lands to the north.

Now Fomin and Olya and Galya-Falya arrived at the place where the River Neva flows into the sea. Fomin the peasant stone mason found shelter on Hare Island, although Galya-Falya knew not how that island received its name. There were no hares or rabbits--only stone masons, carpenters, Russian conscript laborers called in from exile, and Swedish prisoners of war.

'We will not survive a winter here,' Fomin told his wife. 'Look, there are no buildings--no place to go for shelter, and it is far colder here than in Moscow.' He set about making a hut from tree trunks and plaster. Galya-Falya scoured the muddy ground for food scraps, but the men were so hungry, they had gnawed all the meat off bones and sucked the marrow.

In the weeks that followed, an oblong outline of high walls began to take shape, and inside the wall a steeple rose--a tall, slender thing, unlike the cupolas the workers knew.

There was little food. Some of the Muscovite workers tried leaving, but they were captured and returned, put in with the conscripts. Fomin decided to stay. 'We'll do our jobs as best we can. We will survive, Olya, at whatever cost!'

Then the rains came--first one day then a second then a third. On the fourth night, it was still raining. Galya-Falya felt too weak to keep herself dry. There was an empty, gnawing feeling in her stomach, and her fur hung loosely around her ribs. At the edge of the island, she saw muskrats and rats and mice running from the water's edge. She wanted to dart after the rodents--it had been a long time without meat. But there was something strange about the way the island seemed to be getting smaller by the moment.

'A flood!' she told herself, and she ran to Fomin's shelter, meowing and fussing and pawing until he and Olya awoke.

'She's just too hungry!' said Olya, turning over under her blanket. 'Galya-Falya, hush now! Let us rest!'

But Galya-Falya persisted. "M-m-m-e-e-e-o-o-o-w-w-w!"

'There's something wrong,' said Fomin. 'I know she's hungry, as we are, but there's something wrong--I can tell.' He put on his coat.

'You're going out in this fearful rain?' asked Olya.

'Yes!'

Fomin followed Galya-Falya through the dreadful, blinding rain, until they stood on the banks of the river, far from where the banks used to be. 'Flood!' called out Fomin. He swept up his beloved pet. 'Flood!'

He ran through the small settlement with Galya-Falya in his arms.

'Flood! Get up! Get out! Flood!'

By morning, the winds blew and the island lay covered with water. The workers watched, from the higher banks on the east, as muddy waters swirled around their shelters. 'This is the devil's place!' muttered one worker.

'Thank God, we got out in time!' said another. 'Thank you, Fomin the stone mason! You saved all our lives!'

'Ura!' cried out the workers and conscripts. Fomin bowed humbly, but did not mention his cat.

The rains finally stopped and days later, the muddy water receded. Fomin worked on the steeple, as best he could.

'Look,' he told his foreman. 'I have worked on churches and mansions and even a palace addition, but I have no idea what to do here. This construction--the laying of the stones even--it's all new to me, as if I'd never cut or set a single stone before.'

'Just do what you're told, and do it the best you can,' said the foreman.

The next day, Fomin was high on the steeple. A group of strangely-dressed men approached the base of the tower, and the foreman crawled down to meet them. They were all shaven, and all wore short coats, so unlike the Russian-style caftans and robes. They talked among themselves, waving their hands as they spoke.

Then another man approached, dressed in simple workers' clothes. From the steeple top, the length of his shadow said he was very tall. He had a round face, jet-black hair, and round dark eyes. He opened a scroll in his long arms, studied it, then squinted up at the steeple, then back down at the scroll. He said something Fomin could not hear. The other men nodded.

The foreman climbed back up the steeple.

'What is going on?' asked Fomin.

'He is pleased with your work.'

'Who? That tall foreigner?'

'Him!'

'Him who?"

'The tall man with the scroll!' said the foreman impatiently.

'And who was that?'

'Oh, just some man named Czar Peter Romanov!' said the foreman laughing.

That night, the men met at the base of the steeple. 'We have topped it!' said the foreman. 'The last stone--the highest stone is set! And next spring, the church will be finished, and the czar will have us all there for a service.'

'We'll all be dead by then,' said Tikhon the mason.

'Not if we work hard,' said the foreman. 'That is Peter's clever plan! He forces us to work hardest now--in the late summer, knowing we are in a race for our lives, against winter.'

'It's a race we're destined to lose,' said Tikhon.

The night was windy and cool. A wet wind blew off the sea. The workers lit a fire. Men and women gathered, and Galya-Falya approached too, hoping for a scrap of chicken or pork or the chance to fend with a soup bone.

'The church steeple is topped,' said the foreman.

'It is not a church without a cupola!' said another worker.

'It's the work of the devil!' whispered a third. 'The Lord will not allow it!'

An old hag stepped close to the fire so that deep shadows showed in her wrinkles. She raised her hands, and they cast big shadows across the crowd. 'It is the devil's own work, and those who made it will be punished. Woe to the country that has turned its back to the Lord!'

The wind howled suddenly. People shuddered, moving closer to the fire.

'Hush, old woman!' came a voice from the crowd. 'It is treason that you speak!'

The old woman's eyes flashed in the darkness, and she waved her waking stick in the air. 'Nay, it is not treason! You defend the Antichrist himself!'

A gasp went up from the crowd.

'Hush, woman!' said the foreman. 'Watch your tongue, or we'll all be executed for treason!'

'Better to die for defending the Lord than to die for building the devil's own temple!' said the woman. 'There's a difference between heaven and hell, you know!'

'Hush!' snapped the foreman.

The old woman stepped closer to the fire. 'You mark my words now!' She pointed her stick at Galya-Falya. 'As this cat--the devil's own witness--is witness to my words, all who have built the devil's tower will perish!'

'Begone, old woman!' said the foreman. And the old woman faded into the crowd.

'Who is that old hag anyway?' asked a voice in the crowd. 'She makes me shiver! Which worker did she follow here? Let her go back to Moscow where she belongs!'

'She's not with us!' said the Muscovite masons.

'Nor with us!' said the Muscovite carpenters.

'Nor with us!' said the conscriptees.

"She's not one of us!" said the Swedish prisoners, shrugging their shoulders.

The crowd fell silent. The wind blew, and cinders flew from the fire.

'I feel a hex on me!' said Tikhon. 'I feel the curse itself, in that wind.'

'Me too!' said a voice in the crowd.

'Me too!' said the voices. 'Me too!'

Tikhon pointed at Galya-Falya. 'And there's the devil's witness! You heard the old hag! Get that cat, that devil!'

Galya-Falya was on her four paws in no time. In a flash, she turned and dashed through a forest of human legs.

It was not fast enough. A pair of hairy hands with swollen knuckles held fast to her midsection. "Is this someone's pet cat, or is it truly the devil's witness?' he asked.

No one answered.

'Is this anybody's cat?' repeated the man.

Eyes turned to one-another, and shoulders shrugged.

'Why, it's yours, isn't it?' asked Tikhon, pointing towards Fomin. 'Haven't I seen this very cat near your hut?'

'Why--why, no!' said Fomin. 'I--I hate cats! My wife Olya does too!'

He tugged at his wife, who nodded and smiled. 'Yes, I cannot stand the presence of cats!' she said.

'Well, then it's nobody's cat! Let's kill the monster!' said a hoarse voice.

'Bash it with a stone!' said a voice.

Fomin, seeing his cat in the hands of the carpenter, was silent. So was Olya.

Galya-Falya was so shocked and saddened, she was almost ready to die. How could her own masters, her friends and saviors, turn so, especially after she had saved their lives?

'Kill the devil!' someone cried.

'Kill the devil! Kill the devil!' went the chant.

Galya-Falya sought out the eyes of her master, but he blinked, then turned away. Olya did likewise.

Galya-Falya struggled, but in vain. The hands held her tighter. Across from the place for the campfire, a thick-set man in muddy boots bent down and grabbed a jagged stone. 'I will do away with this devil!' he said, stepping towards Galya-Falya.

Galya-Falya's paws stretched out, as if to stop the man. She looked for Fomin. He was gone. For Olya. She was gone. The man in the muddy boots approached, lifting the stone in the air.

Then a voice boomed out in the darkness. 'Is that all you people have to do is torment cats?'

The man drew out of the darkness, nearing the fire. Galya-Falya made out his profile. He was tall, very tall. His boots were nearly as tall as some men. He wore thick trousers and a thick, short jacket. His face was barely visible under a brimmed hat, but it was clear that he was beardless. 'Give me the cat!' he commanded in a weary voice.

'Yes, oh great czar!' said the man with the rock, bowing low to the ground. The man holding Galya-Falya bowed, and handed the cat to the czar.

'Hail, oh great czar!' said all the other humans, bowing low to the ground. Fomin fell to the dirt. Olya too went prostrate.

'Get up, all of you!' commanded the czar. 'Do not grovel like slaves! Get your rest this evening, and tomorrow you shall work with all your energies! I shall punish no one for this stupid night of treasonous talk and backward superstitions! But I will surely punish any person who does not work honestly and as hard as he or she can!'

With that, Czar Peter turned away from the fire and disappeared back into the darkness of the night from which he had emerged.

'Come, poor cat!' he said, patting Galya-Falya's head. 'We both must endure this old-fashioned superstition, but we will both survive, neigh, succeed! Mark my words!'

From that day, Galya-Falya stayed with Peter. She moved into his humble, warm hut. She sat on his lap late into the evening as he pored over his plans for the city. She ate royally out of a Swedish bowl, and she napped on an English carpet with an elegant design of a giant sailing ship.

They called her the royal court cat, and she was present at all the balls and services of the empire."

Feofan Lapa shifted on his table. "And so, that is the tale of Galya-Falya, the first royal court cat of Saint Petersburg. All the other cats of the realm looked up to her. She lived a long and happy life, with Peter the Great. And now, you latter-day Saint Petersburg cats will awaken at the count of five, and you will feel relaxed, revitalized, and refreshed. One. Two. Three. Four. Five."

"That was a wonderful tale!" said Misha.

"Truly wonderful!" added Grisha.

Masha the house cat swung from her light fixture. "And I'm the royal court cat of Saint Petersburg today!" Faster and faster she swung. "I'm the successor to Galya-Falya!"

"That was a happy story, for a change," said Almaz the Persian. "Too bad Koshka wasn't here for it."

"Argh!" said Avvakuum. "Happy-schmappy! Peter the Great was not so great! He was the ruin of the country!"

"That's a strange comment coming as it does, from a Saint Petersburg cat!" said Feofan Lapa. "I should think you would revere the founder of your city!"

"He could have built it in the Crimea or--or anywhere else!" said Avvakuum, shivering. "Anywhere but this frozen marsh! Why, if it weren't for Peter, we could be sun-bathing on some nice warm Black Sea beach right this minute, you know!"

To Chapter Fourteen

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