Baba Yaga and I had not foreseen that Koshchei would flee with Aunt Marya and me, but he did. Perhaps he truly loved her; he declared repeatedly that he did. Perhaps he merely counted her as his chief treasure, the Goddess of Battle, or his last.

  Certainly he seemed to feel that we had better chance of escaping alive with his help, and in that I believe he was quite correct. He knew the country that had been his very well, and shrewdly assessed the loyalty of his former subjects in every village and hamlet we passed through, though he made a most unpleasant companion.

  No, he’s dead now. We had hardly returned home, that is to say we had hardly reached this Russian estate of mine, when he happened to walk behind an unruly horse and was kicked so severely he died. I’d like to show you the room he occupied, but as it happens I’ve lost the key. If you’ll look out here, however, you ought to be able to make out his window in the moonlight. That small round one high in the tower. See it? The wind howls in it at times, I’m sorry to say. North winds and east winds especially.

  Before Koshchei died, the three of us had been living at the Emperor’s court in Aachen. My aunt Marya did not long survive her last husband; she was struck down by the family stomach complaint within the year. I would have had to yield Falkonstein to the von Falkonsteins if Koshchei hadn’t declared the Baltic kingdoms—he pretended to rule them all, as did several others—a part of the Empire, and himself a vassal of the Emperor. The very trifling price he asked was that Falkonstein be declared to have passed to him by marriage, in perpetuity—his property and his wife’s, to descend to their heirs, several or joint. I detest the old place, as I’ve said; but there’s a certain income attached to it, and it’s useful at times to be a German nobleman as well as a Russian one.

  Now we’d better be off to bed. If you need more blankets, or would like a bite to eat or some such, call for Tasha. If the wind howls, shout for Dmitri. He’ll climb the tower stairs for you and pound on the door until the wind stops.

  Sleep? Oh, you won’t sleep. Don’t worry about that. Or rather, you already are. Mine was the Russia that never was, you see; and because it has never existed, it cannot fade away like your country, which is vanishing as we speak. It’s a pity you can visit us only in dreams, eh?

  Still, dreams are better than nothing. Tomorrow night I’ll introduce you to Baba Yaga and the firebird, or they’ll introduce you to me—it doesn’t matter.

  Yes, I hear it. Dmitri!

  Good night, my friend. Just keep your own door shut, and put your head beneath the covers. I’m going to have that window walled up one of these days, I swear.

  Dmitri, spishytye! Zadirzhytye yivo!

  · · · ·

  [The preceding story is based upon “The Death of Koshchei the Deathless” as found in Andrew Lang’s The Red Fairy Book, first published in 1890.]

  No Planets Strike

  Some say that ever ’gainst that season comes

  Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated,

  This bird of dawning singeth all night long

  And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad;

  The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,

  No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,

  So hallow’d and so gracious is that time.

  —Hamlet, Act I, Scene I

  You sure you really want to hear about all this? I mean, me and Bully weren’t really the main ones.

  Okay. Is that thing on?

  Hi. My name’s Donnie, and I’m a donkey. My friend’s name is Bully, only he’s not really a bull, you know what I mean? They cut off his—you know. So he wouldn’t get mad. That’s something lots of people don’t understand, they think he can’t. He can, only he hardly ever does. But if he does, watch out, because he’s big and real strong. I’m not big, but I’m strong anyhow. You’d be surprised how much I can carry or how hard I can kick, and I can run a lot faster than you think, too.

  As well as I can figure, we were born on Earth, only they didn’t call it that back there, they called it Texas. There was a big school that had farms and ranches all over for trying out new seeds and new ways of growing silage and all that. And before we were ever born they did stuff to us to make us as smart as most people, and worked on our tongues and mouths some, too. Not enough to make us sound like you—we know we don’t—but enough so you could understand us.

  The idea was that there’s still a lot of places like this one, where people are poor and use animals where rich people’d use machines. Like carrying firewood. If they’re rich enough to have a donkey, they use him for that, or somebody like Bully to plow or pull a cart that’s too big for me. They do all that here, probably you’ve seen it. And they thought if we could talk to those people and understand what they told us, it might be better.

  I guess it didn’t work out too good though, because after a few years they dropped the whole thing and sold us off. I really didn’t know Bully up till then. I guess I’d seen him, but there were a lot around, cows mostly. If I did, I didn’t pay attention. Maybe you’ve talked to him already?

  He’s mostly red and white, because there’s some Hereford in him, and black because of other stuff. His hump’s from Santa Gertrudis, which is what his mom was, so there’s Indian cattle and longhorns back there. I’m little, and gray like you see except for this mark on my back.

  The way we got together was, the same man bought us both. His name was Mango. Mango the Clown. He taught us a lot of stuff we’d never known about back on the ranch, like various acts and Bully to let people ride on his back. We went to so many foreign worlds with Mango that I lost count after a while. I can count up to ten, usually. It was more than that, so I started counting tens. I know you’d do it different, but that was the only thing I could think of that would work for me, or Bully either. But after a while I sort of forgot, because what difference did it make? Besides, sometimes we went back to one where we’d been before if the tip had been good.

  We’re clowns too, and we’re pretty famous now. I guess you’ve seen us.

  We’d get painted up and put on ruffs. That’s what you call the big collars, they’re ruffs. Mango’d beat his drum to get us a crowd, and we’d put on one of our clown acts.

  Like, Mango would be trying to lead me, only Bully would be lying down and Mango not see him, and he’d back into one of Bully’s horns and jump, and Bully’d beller. We didn’t any of us talk when we did our acts, and that sure was a swell idea of Mango’s, I mean nobody talking, because it would’ve got us killed here on Sidhe. Quick, too. There’s witches here, and the Beautiful Ones don’t like them one little bit.

  Then Mango’d put his finger up to his head and have an idea, and wink at everybody. He’d tie me to Bully so Bully’d pull me along, and that way I’d have to go. He’d do it, and Bully wouldn’t get up. Mango’d kick him and poke him and holler at him, but Bully’d just yawn. Finally Mango’d back off and talk to both of us, only without talking, if you know what I mean. Talk with his eyes and face and hands, and his whole body. He’d show how he got us when we were little, and what good care he’d taken of us—we’d shake our heads at that—how he’d fed us and nursed us when we were sick. Then he’d say how all that was over now. He was going to sell us to the butcher—pointing to a butcher’s shop, if there was one on that street—and the butcher’d cut our throats and skin us, and chop us up to sell. He’d say that I was pork, Mango’d say, and he’d say Bully was donkey meat.

  That’d get Bully mad. He’d jump up and paw the ground and snort, and then he’d chase Mango around and around in a big circle, with me still tied to him standing in the middle and turning around to watch them. Pretty soon he’d get tired and Mango’d get tired, and they wouldn’t run any more, just walk. Then Bully’d lie down where he’d been lying down before, with Mango panting and mopping up sweat.

  That’s when I’d come up behind him and stand on my hind legs, and tap him on the shoulder with one of my front hoofs—that usually got the biggest laugh in the whole act. He’d turn around the wrong way, and I’d be down again. I’d try to get him to get on my back, pulling on his clown coat with my teeth and pushing him with my head, and making regular donkey noises, but he never would get the idea. After a lot of that—as long as it was getting good laughs—I’d get him to standing straddle-legged and then run between his legs and sort of scoop him up. Mango was one of those tall, skinny birds, and he’d have to pull his legs way up to keep his feet from dragging. Then I’d climb up on Bully’s back, and he’d stand up, and the three of us would go ’round in a circle, me on Bully and Mango on me. And after that we’d pass the hat.

  That was just one act, you understand. We had a lot of others, and if the money was good in a certain part of town, we’d go back there again next day and put on a different act. When we’d played out a city, we’d go on to another one, and when we’d played all the cities or Mango could find a way to get to some other world cheap, away we’d go. There were places where we could’ve stayed on and on, if you ask me, just going around five or six towns. But that wasn’t Mango. If he’d wanted to live like that, he’d never have become a clown at all, he said. He told me once he wanted to see new smiles, and maybe that was it.

  We’d loop back sometimes, and loop around. But somehow we were always outward bound, out toward the rim and farther every year. He’d meet somebody, some sailor usually, and he’d talk about someplace he’d just been to, what a hellhole it was. And after that, Mango’d always be itching to go there. He’d talk about it and me and Bully’d say it sounded pretty bad, all the killing and storms, bad air, nothing but trouble. And Mango’d say think how much they’d love us there, how they need somebody like us. When Mango looked in a mirror, I don’t think he saw what other people saw, but something a whole lot bigger and nicer. And the longer he’s gone, the more I get to thinking he was right, that was what was there, and not the long skinny bird with the long skinny face that I always saw when I looked at him. Now I like to think he’s gone someplace better, that he’s played out this universe and caught a ship up to a new one where there’s sweet grass and clean water all over. Only Mango’d go down below, if he could. He’d think about how bad it was and how they needed us, and he’d say it was just for a couple weeks and go.

  That’s how it was going to be when we came here. Just a couple weeks. We’ve been here close to ten years, I think, me and Bully have now.

  There aren’t a lot of worlds with their own intelligent native races, I guess everybody knows that. And the ones that have them, that world’s theirs, and generally they won’t let humans settle on it at all. Sidhe’s different, because the intelligent race here is the Beautiful Ones and there’s nothing else in the galaxy like them. That’s what I hear, and it’s probably a real good thing too. The Beautiful Ones will let people come, only they can’t have children here. Probably you’ve heard about that already.

  People need a lot of high-class science to change genes and make something better. You take Bully and me. It was one of the smartest women on Earth that did us, and all the others there that could have done it too could’ve sat down in her living room. The Beautiful Ones don’t have any science and don’t want it, but they’ve got that built in, just like Bully’s got all his stomachs. Whenever one’s fixing to have a child, that child’s going to look a lot like she wanted it to. She doesn’t have to do anything but want, and the more she wants it the closer she gets.

  So when the first humans got here, and they had ships and crawlers and all that, the Beautiful Ones thought that stuff was really swell, and every generation got to looking more and more like people until pretty soon it was like it is now, and the Beautiful Ones look a whole lot better than real people do, taller than Mango, most of them, and faces so pretty it sort of hurts to look at them, especially when you know they’re not people at all. You’ve seen some, right?

  Well, maybe I do, but I can’t say it very good. I haven’t got all the words. They move around like they’re dancing all the time. And as soon as you see one, you know she’s the best dancer in the whole universe. Or he is. Their hair’s like the gold stuff you see in a jewelry store, and their skin’s the color of bread baking, just starting to get brown. Their teeth are just so, and their eyes are all kinds of funny colors, and change while you’re looking at them. That’s what Mango said. I can’t see most colors very good, but he knew a lot about them. I can’t dance, either, not a lick, but I sing a little. Is that enough about the Beautiful Ones?

  Okay. They wanted people to settle here, and they still do. Most won’t, because word’s gotten around. You were pretty brave to come, is what I think.

  Well, I sure hope they don’t. They’re not very good at keeping promises. I don’t think it’s forgetting or even badness as much as it’s just that the promising idea doesn’t make much sense to them. They don’t really understand it. If I were you I’d get out quick and not tell anybody I was going till I’d gone.

  People still come, though, mostly the ones that are too poor to go anyplace else. You know how it is. If a world thinks you’re probably going to need a lot of help, they won’t let you come. Not even just to stop over. But Sidhe will take all those, and the more kids they’ve got before they get here the better, so they’ll grow up right here. Because on Sidhe nobody’s going to look out for you except maybe your relatives and the folks next door.

  We didn’t have any relatives here, and we weren’t living next door to anybody, really. We were going all around the way we always did, so there was just us. People kept telling us the Beautiful Ones wouldn’t ever let us leave, so pretty soon Mango wanted to go and we came here and asked around at the spaceport. That’s when we found out the people had been right. The Beautiful Ones weren’t letting anybody go off world unless there was somebody that had gotten away already that was asking about them, and nobody was asking about us. The sailors were afraid to get off their ships, even, because they figured the Beautiful Ones wouldn’t let them back on. Some Beautiful Ones would go out to the port at night, or when it was dark weather or raining, and dance for them, dance around the ship, mostly, or make a figure-of-eight around two ships, when there was two ships, and sometimes a sailor would come out.

  Then a female or male would hook up with him, depending on what he wanted, and show him how to dance. Or her, if the sailor was a woman, and they’d all dance some more. And finally they’d go off together, with the sailor grinning and waving to his friends on the ship. That sailor’d hardly ever come back, though.

  We tried and tried, Mango talking to various ones, only nothing ever came of it. There were days—I remember two—when we went out to the port, Mango thinking we were going to get on a ship sure, only we never quite would. Then one day he said he thought he had a way to do it, but it would only work for him, not for us, so he was going to take it, and when he got off world he’d start in on anybody from Earth that he could find, viewing the ambassador, and letters, and all that, and get us off too. We said fine, because I didn’t believe he’d really get off himself and neither did Bully.

  This is something I’d rather I didn’t have to tell about, but I guess I do. The way Mango’d found, or thought he had, was to hide in a cargo canister. The one he picked was full of furs, and the captain wanted it fumigated before he’d take it on board for fear there was fleas in them or something. So they opened it up and sprayed stuff in and Mango coughed, and that was how they found him.

  And they killed him. There was two Beautiful Ones there to see nobody got away on that ship, is what we heard, and they chopped him up with their swords.

  No, they can’t make swords or much of anything. But they make people make the things for them, swords and lots of other stuff. That’s why they want people here, to make stuff for them and make stuff to trade. Like those furs. It was people who caught the animals and skinned them, and the Beautiful Ones were going to trade them off world and buy stuff they wanted, flitters and blasters and ships of their own. So they want a ton of people to do that.

  Sure they want kids. There’s Beautiful Ones on the other worlds around here now to get more people to come, and if it’s a big family they’ll pay passage. But they don’t want any kids born here, because they’re scared of them. They’re afraid that what their mothers will want is somebody that can beat up the Beautiful Ones. The mothers would want it, too, I guess, only wanting doesn’t work for people…

  All right, if you’d really like to hear. I don’t know anything about anything except clowning, I know that, and maybe it’s just being here too long. But sometimes I wonder if the Beautiful Ones aren’t right and the people wrong. Maybe people do get what they want a little, sometimes, or even animals like me and Bully do. Because everybody here kept talking about it. How if ever it happened and the Beautiful Ones didn’t kill it, that’d be one that’d put people on top and the Beautiful Ones on the bottom, or anyhow make them treat people better. That kid would be, when he grew up.

  Oh, sure. It happens. It happens a lot. Some woman and her husband get careless, or maybe just a boy and a girl. But the Beautiful Ones always hear. And pretty soon after the baby comes, they come too. What happened this time—

  Right. I’m starting off before I’m hitched up, I guess.

  With Mango gone, Bully and me figured to go on clowning by ourselves. We worked up a couple of acts for just the two of us, and we could pass the hat like we had before, holding it in our teeth. Only the first time we did it I could see it wasn’t going to work. For one thing, we couldn’t paint our faces the way Mango had, and without paint it didn’t feel right. Another one was somebody was always grabbing us and saying we belonged to him. We had to hurt a couple of those birds pretty bad, and we didn’t like that.