Наталья Соколова – LIMBO (страница 1)

Наталья Соколова, Дмитрий Соколов

LIMBO

Translator's Note

The events of the novel take place in one of the most mystical and enigmatic cities in the world – Saint Petersburg, Russia. In the original text, nearly all of the first and last names were "speaking names" that added depth to each character. For the English translation, the closest possible equivalents were chosen. The names of certain locations and establishments have likewise been adapted for English-speaking readers. Only one surname was kept in its authentic form – that of the main character, which the author gave her in honor of her very first school friend.

We hope you enjoy this dark yet romantic story. Please leave your reviews! The more feedback we receive, the sooner the sequel will see the light of day – the second book in the "Phoenixes and Serpents" series.

Prologue

The old railway cuts through the dense forest. It curves and winds between tall, dark green firs and pines that stretch endlessly. Cracked, wet wooden ties flash by in the window. Despite the heavy rain and gusty wind, the train driver accelerates as fast as he can. He's been told that a woman is giving birth in the first compartment.

It's an hour and a half ride to the nearest town with a hospital – will they make it? They have to. The conductor whispered that the woman's husband is a military man who serves in the KGB1. They are traveling from Vladivostok all the way to Moscow, and now, after almost three days on the road, the labor has begun. They say it's a couple of weeks earlier than expected. The driver doesn't know anything else and doesn't want to know. The train shakes and sways at high speed. There's no time to think, he has to watch the tracks.

In the first compartment, it's quiet and dark, the curtain is drawn. A young woman, clutching her rounded belly, leans forward and closes her eyes. Her breathing is as restless and erratic as the wind raging outside, whipping the treetops. Pain tears through her body like the lightning flashes slashing the heavy sky beyond the window. Everything inside her trembles as if from peals of thunder. It seems a real hurricane is beginning.

The major in a dark gray tunic nervously crumples his black cap in his hands. He doesn't know how to help his wife. He shouldn't have taken her on this long trip, but he couldn't leave her alone in Moscow either. He had promised them not to take his eyes off her for a minute.

The contractions intensify, as does the storm. The train, flying like an arrow, suddenly brakes sharply. The rails whistle, suitcases fall from the racks. The train freezes in the middle of the wild forest. Something has happened on the tracks.

"Just what we needed!" the man in uniform mutters.

The conductor peeks in. She inquires about the condition of the woman in labor, sighing puzzledly. Then she explains: a tree has fallen across the tracks, and they can't go any further. They can't remove it themselves; an emergency helicopter has been called, but the weather is too bad for flying now, and it's unknown how long the storm will last. They'll have to choose: either stay on the train until the bad weather passes, but there's no one here to deliver the baby, as there isn't a single doctor among the passengers…

"Or?" the father's voice is taut as a string.

"Or walk through the forest to the nearest village. It's not a city, of course, but there's a local healer there. That is, a shaman…"

The woman in labor sobs, she's in pain and now scared too.

"Are you out of your mind?!" the man asks sternly. "A shaman?!"

"Yes, a Buryat2 one. I'm afraid that's the best we can hope for. A young man traveling to Ulan-Ude has agreed to show you the way. If I were you, I'd hurry before he changes his mind…"

The journey to the village is like the nine circles of hell. The icy wind howls and knocks them off their feet. There's no road, not even a path. Feet sink ankle-deep into the marshy sludge. Fir branches catch on their clothes. Holding his black coat over his wife, the man shields her from the large raindrops falling from the trees and leads her – half-unconscious – following the slant-eyed young man.

After about forty minutes, the thicket parts. A small village appears in the distance. The three of them emerge from the forest just in time – right behind them, another mighty tree breaks and falls with a crash.

Lightning flashes on the horizon. The woman stumbles and falls again and again. Everything is as if in a fog. They carry her into the shaman's rickety hut – at the very foot of the hill – already in their arms. The old dark-faced healer, seeing them on the threshold, frowns and says a couple of phrases to his wife in the local language. The wrinkled old woman shakes her head and goes to the kitchen nook, curtained off by a screen. Aluminum dishes clatter, water pours from one bowl to another.

The shaman waves his hands at the two men, hurriedly ushering them towards the exit, uttering something instructive. The major doesn't understand his words, but the general meaning is clear – they won't be allowed to watch the birth. They need to find shelter in one of the neighboring houses.

The woman leans tiredly against the wall. A fire burns in the hut, the old woman brings her a blanket, and she finally warms up. Her eyes close by themselves, her body falls into a viscous oblivion, only occasionally arching from waves of increasing pain. With each contraction, the thunder rumbles more distinctly, and the hosts become more anxious.

"Phoenix or serpent?" the shaman suddenly asks.

She doesn't understand him at all – she blinks her light eyelashes and remains silent. Sitting opposite, the healer looks at her intently:

"Phoenix or… dragon?" he repeats, looking from under his brows.

The question remains unanswered again. The shaman's wife, sighing, brings the woman in labor a wide clay cup with a steaming, hot drink.

Taking a sip, she grimaces and covers her mouth:

"It's bitter!" she pushes away the cup, nearly spilling its contents. The shaman swears. First in his dialect, then with difficulty switching to Russian:

"Immortal wing, gathered at dawn, helps open the gates of the worlds!" he again puts the cup with the decoction under her nose.

"No, I won't! It's too bitter!"

"Drink!" the old man growls like a wolf. The eyes in the narrow slits of his eyelids flash red – the fire from the hearth reflects in them so brightly that it becomes scary. "Drink! You will ruin us all!"

Tears flow down the young woman's face. Her lips twist, her fingers clutching the cup tremble. The burning poison, sip after sip, flows down her throat, befuddles her head, and ties her stomach in knots. The contractions intensify. Or rather, one continuous contraction begins, without breaks or hope for rest.

"Work, maiden," the shaman mutters, turning away. Now he seems calm and pays no attention to the fact that the wind outside is about to rip the flimsy roof off the house. "Work. The faster you give birth, the sooner all this will end…"

Meanwhile, the major, shielding himself from the bad weather with his overcoat, was knocking on the doors of nearby huts in search of a "messenger." He urgently needed to send a telegram to Moscow. There were no volunteers to set out in such a difficult hour. His clothes were getting wet, his desperation growing. Finally, in one of the huts, a sullen Buryat woman agreed to send her youngest son to the post office. Not for free, of course. She asked for a large sum of money and, in addition, a "navigator's" wristwatch.

In exchange, the host found a small, unevenly torn sheet of brown paper and a piece of charcoal, which was used in the village instead of a pencil.

"Wife in labor," the military man scrawled with a trembling hand. "It seems we've succeeded. Will contact you later. If we survive."

On the back, he wrote a phone number and someone's name and surname.

The woman's son tightened his short jacket, sat on a piebald horse, and, bending over, galloped headlong to the city – through the wind, thunder and wall of pouring rain.

Several hours later, when he returns to the village with a reply message in his bosom, the hurricane will already be over. It will get warmer. Bright sunlight will illuminate piles of destroyed village huts and barns. Only one single shaman's hut will have withstood the merciless elements that day; the other houses will be completely destroyed. Some residents will hide in cellars, some will scatter, some will die under the rubble. The boy will search for a long time among the ruins for that very capital military man but will eventually find only his ownerless cap under a fallen fence.

He will quietly peek into the sorcerer's house, see the sleeping woman who has given birth there, and on her chest – a peacefully snuffling newborn boy with an umbilical cord tied with camel wool. The shaman and his old wife will also be asleep by the extinguished hearth, and he won't dare to disturb them.

He'll go out – and will remain standing in the middle of the sun-drenched road, holding a short telegram in his hands.