Lara's Gift Read online

  “I’ve got to put my faith in the Rules. It’s what I know.”

  The deeper Papa’s words sunk into my thoughts, the more they poked at my heart. “When it comes to the dogs, put your faith in me—there will be six or seven pups born tonight. That’s something your Rules can’t tell you.”

  Papa’s eyes brightened, as they always did whenever a big litter was born. The Count often rewarded him with a heap of gold rubles. Not to mention my favorites: black caviar served on silver platters, sour cream brimming from crystal bowls, stacks of warm blini wrapped in linen spun from silk, and stuffed suckling pig dressed in horseradish—a symbol of abundance and fertility. To wash it all down, the Count always pulled out his finest bottles of iced champagne for a proper toast.

  “Shhh.” Papa put his finger to his lips. He looked over his shoulder, and then he leaned into me, his face so close to mine.

  “Do you want to live a life like Rasputin?”

  As favored as Rasputin was with the Tsar and his wife, Alexander’s family feared Rasputin had too much influence over the Imperial Family. There were even threats on his life.

  “A life like his would be awful.”

  Papa turned his attention to Zola. He twisted his long black beard, deep in thought. His gaze moved upward to the icon of the Mother with Child that hung above Zola for good luck. It had been hanging in that very spot for hundreds of years—for as long as my ancestors had been breeding borzoi for the Count and his family before him. Papa never stood idle for too long. Yet he studied that icon, as if the answer to all his questions hid behind the gold leaf of the painting.

  “Zola shouldn’t be left alone,” I said.

  Papa tried to ignore me. Quick to remind him about his own Rules, I added, “Golden Rule Number Three: Never walk away from a borzoi giving birth.”

  Papa threw his arms in the air. “Nobody’s going to work overnight on a hunch, waiting for puppies that may or may not come.”

  “I will.” It was time I prove Papa wrong about my gift.

  “Your mama needs you, as does your brother,” Papa said.

  “Mama said she’d be fine.”

  Papa frowned and his gray eyes looked as cold as a winter storm.

  “Mama understands me, Tyatya. I thought you did, too.”

  “This isn’t the life I want for you.” He tucked the loose strands of my hair behind my ears. As he put on his sheepskin coat, he cleared his throat, and raised one finger high into the air. “I don’t think the pups will come tonight, and to prove you wrong, I’ll let you stay with Zola. Just this once. If the pups don’t come tonight, then you’re to forget about the dogs and devote your full attention to helping your mama. Agreed?”

  “And what if the pups come?”

  Papa took another long, hard look at Zola resting peacefully in the straw. “The pups won’t come tonight,” he answered. “Of that I’m certain. Should a miracle occur, I’ll gladly reveal the secret behind Golden Rule Number Eight.”

  Before he could change his mind, I snatched his hand and shook it, for as much as I had begged him in the past to tell me what hid behind Golden Rule Number Eight, I never could wrench it out of him.

  “Are we done? I have work.” Papa let go of my hand and as he hurried off, he turned to me, and almost as an afterthought, he added, “If the pups come tonight, you know where to find me.”

  A big smile came to my face. “Not if, Tyatya, when.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Chara

  Outside, under a glowing full moon, the north wind whistled and beat against the stable windows, as swirls of snow tossed in the air like long fluttering ribbons—flying higher and higher until they faded into the inky darkness of the night sky. I quickly lost myself in the vanishing trails of windswept snow. If only the north wind could swoop up my baby brother and make him disappear.

  I chastised myself for such a dreadful thought and prayed the spirits wouldn’t come for little Bohdan.

  “All right, Zar. Let’s get ready.” It was Zola’s night, and I needed to make preparations. Golden Rule Number Two—Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.

  I kindled the stove and stoked the fire, for the pups would need the extra warmth. Red-orange flames roared and a blast of hot air hit my face. I pulled out the medicine box and gathered clean cotton towels and some healing herbs. From deep inside my pocket I pulled out Alexander’s knife and polished the metal blade until I could see my reflection, in case I had to cut an umbilical cord or pup’s sac. Then I sorted through a pile of bear hides trimmed with black velvet, picking the fluffiest one to line the birthing nest. I took another for myself and laid it on the straw next to Zola.

  Her dark eyes opened just a bit as she lifted her head, just long enough to take notice of the fuss I made, before letting it flop back down on the straw.

  “You’ll be okay, girl.” Slowly, I glided my hand along her big belly in search of movement inside.

  Nothing.

  Who knew how long I would have to wait, but I didn’t care as long as I remained united with Zar and the other borzoi. So I found a cozy position with Zar curled up next to me, pawing my pocket for meat.

  “All gone.” I let him see my empty hands as proof, for borzoi trusted no other sense more than their eyes.

  Zar let out a soft moan and nudged my hand.

  “Silly boy,” I said. “If I had any meat, it would go to Zola. She’s got the tough job ahead of her.”

  At the sound of her name, Zola stood and shook the strands of straw loose from her fur. A thin greenish discharge dripped from her buttocks. And like a caged, cooped-up wild animal, she paced—with commanding dignity—around the stall, panting.

  Back and forth. Back and forth.

  “The pups are coming!” I could hardly wait to see Papa’s face when the first pup came out. I hugged Zar and fought every urge to kick up my feet and dance. I needed to stay calm. For Zola.

  “When you’re ready,” I said to her, “so, too, shall be your birthing nest.” I laid the thick, plush hide down on top of the straw she had burrowed, and then brushed the fur from side to side with my hands, imagining the newborn pups, nursing, cozy and warm, nestled between Zola’s long legs.

  I kissed the icon of the Mother with Child that hung on the wall above her. For extra luck I kissed it two more times.

  “It’s time to fetch Papa, Zar.”

  Bundled up as I was when we got outside, the cold night air seeped through the seams of my coat. With Zar by my side, I dashed by the wooden chapel flanked by its bell tower, and past the tall white birches that bordered the estate—slipping and sliding on the icy patches that dotted my path along my way home. Wind-driven pellets of snow stung my face like the cuts of a thousand tiny knives. It would all be worth it to see Papa’s expression when I told him the news about the pups.

  As I unlatched the door of our home, it flew open, hurled by a gust of wind. I pushed against the heavy old slab of oak, and shut the door with a thrust of my hip. Careful not to wake Mama or Bohdan, I tiptoed over to Papa’s sleeping bench and gently shook him. “Wake up, Tyatya,” I whispered. “The pups are coming!”

  Papa rose from his sleeping bench rubbing his eyes, his fur hat planted on the top of his head. “It can’t be,” he kept saying. Still, he gathered his coat and sat down to lace his felt boots. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Zola has another week yet. Are you sure?”

  I put my hands on my hips. “You need to hurry, Tyatya. Zola’s close.”

  “I’m hurrying. I’m hurrying.”

  By the time we raced back to the birthing stall, full out of breath, Zola was moving in nervous circles, confined within the walls of the birthing stall.

  “I can’t believe it.” Papa’s mouth hung agape. He placed his hunting horn around his neck for luck.

  Zar took a cautious half step toward Zola and she growled. With his feathery tail between his legs, Zar scurried back to me and leaned against my legs, as he often did when he wanted a hug. “Sorry,
boy. All we can do is wait.”

  Poor Zola. Even though she had experience giving birth, she paced about as if it were her first time, her eyes big and wide, like a frightened doe. And all that back and forth, back and forth, made my stomach queasy.

  How I wished I could speed up the process.

  “It’s on nights like this that I remind myself how fortunate I am.” Papa held his hunting horn close to his chest. “We nearly lost the borzoi breed sixty years ago when serfs, like my grandparents, were liberated from servitude to noble landowners, like the Vorontsovs, and abandoned the country estates for jobs in Moscow and St. Petersburg.”

  Whenever we waited for a litter, Papa often reminisced about the past.

  “It’s important that we never forget—that we do what’s necessary to preserve the breed,” Papa stressed again and again. “We almost lost the borzoi once from inbreeding and outcrossing with other breeds. We must never let it happen again.”

  I placed my hand on the knife—hidden in my pocket—that Alexander had given to me. “Thank God for the Grand Duke Nicolai, who stepped in and brought the borzoi back to its pure form.”

  “And for nobles like the Vorontsovs for their choice to stay in the countryside—to continue breeding pure borzoi, despite the hardships and lack of labor,” Papa said. “Neither of us would be here today had they chosen to abandon country life for an easier, city way of living.”

  I glanced down at Zola. Everything about her was pure borzoi: long, lean, and elegant. I tried to imagine her as a sled dog or herding dog, and couldn’t. Probably because I couldn’t imagine where I’d be if the borzoi didn’t exist.

  After hours of pacing, when the clock struck midnight, Zola returned to the birthing nest. She tried to lie down, but couldn’t quite get comfortable and sprang up again, circling round and round in the same spot, straining in an effort to force out a pup.

  “Keep pushing,” I encouraged Zola.

  The first pup came quickly. Zola licked the sac off of the pup and with her teeth bit into the umbilical cord. She nudged the puppy to a nipple and the pup began to suckle.

  Unlike the agony on Mama’s face when she birthed Bohdan, Zola made it look easy.

  An hour later the second pup was born. Zola went through the same routine without complication. Like clockwork the pups continued to come on the hour. They entered their new world smoothly and gave Papa and me little reason to worry.

  Before dawn broke, Zola had birthed six pups: two brindles, one cream, a red, and two goldens. Papa kept checking Zola’s nipples, as did I, throughout the night to ensure a nipple functioned for each pup. He also felt along the full length of Zola’s abdomen to make sure that there were no more pups hiding inside.

  “Our work is done,” Papa said.

  I checked on Zola a third time just to be certain, worried that there might be a seventh pup—the one I had seen in my vision. Golden Rule Number Four: Trust, but verify.

  “I feel a little lump,” I said.

  “Impossible, Lara. I just checked.”

  “I definitely feel something. Right here on her lower left side.”

  “Let me see.” Papa’s hands moved up and down her abdomen.

  “There must be a seventh pup still inside.”

  “Hmmm … you may be right,” Papa said, giving me a good pat on the back. “Molodietz.”

  “Do you think it’s dead?” I wondered if this was why the white pup had faded in and out of my vision.

  “Could be,” Papa answered. “We need to get Zola moving again.”

  “To induce the pup,” I finished for Papa. Quickly I grabbed a lead, but Zola resisted and wouldn’t leave her pups. As Zar nudged her, slowly she began to walk with me in circles around the stall. I put her on a tight leash, for she kept pulling me toward her litter. Eventually green discharge dripped from her buttocks and I let her return to her litter.

  Zola circled around and around, straining in an effort to push out the last pup.

  “Good girl, Zola,” I said. “Keep pushing.”

  Soon Zola was licking a pup, as white as snow, coaxing it to breathe for the first time.

  “Look, Tyatya, a white pup. She looks just like Zar!”

  Even before I could check her underside, I knew the pup was a girl. The Count would welcome her because of her pure white fur, a coat fit for royalty.

  “How do you know the pup’s a girl?” Papa asked.

  “For the same reason I knew the pups would come tonight.” I wanted to gloat, but something didn’t seem right.

  Why was Zola licking so hard?

  She continued to lick harder, stroking the newborn with her tongue and nudging her to breathe. Zar whimpered and crept closer toward the pup.

  “Easy, girl.” Zola would hurt the pup if she didn’t let up.

  But she wouldn’t stop, and the pup’s pearly white coat slowly turned a dirty blue-gray color.

  Papa bent down and put two fingers just underneath the newborn’s belly. “Stoke the stove!”

  I added more kindling to the fire while Papa took the pup and held her against his chest to warm her. With his free hand he massaged one of Zola’s nipples until a milky liquid covered his fingertips. He tried to encourage the newborn to latch on to the nipple, but she just lay limp in Papa’s big hands, unable to muster a shred of strength.

  And just like the pup, Zola gave up, too, collapsing on top of the bear hide with the rest of her litter.

  “We’ve got to save this pup!” I cried.

  This didn’t come to me in a vision. I could feel it in my gut. Something big depended on her. Something bigger than all of us.

  I threw open the door to the cold cellar, where we stored perishables in a big hole dug in the ground of the stable floor. I grabbed two eggs, some goat milk, and mixed them together.

  At least Papa didn’t give up on her like he had on Zar.

  With the bottle in hand I hurried into the birthing stall. I kissed the icon hanging above Zola one more time and sat down just underneath it, while the words from the prayer, “Hail Mary,” raced through my head.

  Papa placed the newborn on my chest. “Don’t get your hopes up. She’d be easier to cull.”

  “Nothing’s wasted in trying and we’ve got everything to gain, if she makes it.” I took the nipple and dabbed drops of formula onto her lips, trying to get her to take the bottle. Please, I willed her. Drink.

  She was so small and helpless against my chest. Her body felt like a lump of cold dough. I dabbed a few more drops onto her lips, and they just dribbled down her chest. Gently, I wiped her dry with one of the cotton towels.

  Again I moved the nipple of the bottle along her mouth.

  Her head moved a tad, what looked like rooting, so I squeezed a few more drops between her lips. “Come on, girl.”

  Zar nudged the newborn gently on the rump, like any good parent urging his child to eat.

  “Was that a wiggle?” I asked Zar with hope in my voice.

  Zar nudged her again and licked her small face with his long red tongue.

  Slowly, she started to root, her head bobbing up and down, and side to side.

  “Here it is, girl.” I put the nipple in front of her mouth. “Come on now, open up!”

  The pup latched on and started to suckle. It gave me hope that she might make it. In my head, I named her Chara for the magical charm I knew she would one day work over all of us. I stroked her back with one finger ever so gently. “She took it, Tyatya!”

  Papa grinned from ear to ear. “You’re a splendid nurse, Lara.”

  His words fed my heart, for Papa seldom dished out compliments. When Chara finished suckling, I brought her over to Zola, holding her, cupped in both hands to let Zola sniff her. But Zola lifted her nose high in the air and rejected her.

  Papa shrugged his shoulders. “Golden Rule Number Five: Mothers know best. I doubt this pup will make it.”

  He offered these words as if they would console me. Instead, they felt like lots of little
needles, stabbing at my heart. To my mind, a good mama doesn’t give up. She fights for all of her children, just like my mama.

  Unlike Chara, each of the other pups nursed and looked as plump as a downy pillow.

  “You’ve earned some sleep,” Papa said to me, patting me on the shoulder.

  A mighty smile came to my face. “I’ve earned more than sleep.”

  Papa tilted his head to one side. But it was the blank look on his face that scared me more. It was as empty as the nursing bottle I held in my hand. “Oh, the naming of the pups,” he said.

  “Nyet, the secret behind Golden Rule Number Eight,” I said. “Remember?”

  “Patience, dorogaya. I need to find the right words.” Papa put his arms around me and kissed the top of my head.

  I could wait for the secret behind Golden Rule Number Eight, if it bought me more time with the dogs. “Then it’s only fair that while I wait, you let me see the last pup through her feedings until she’s strong enough.”

  Papa harrumphed. “Then I must quickly find the words to reveal the secret to get you back under your mama’s wings.”

  The little hope I had started to shrivel up. I felt empty, as if Papa could only see half of me, the part he wanted to see, the part that reminded him of Mama—the dark hair, the braids, and the amber eyes. He didn’t see the stuff that mattered, the part that was just like him. The part that lived deep inside both of us, that drove us, that linked us to the dogs.

  “Go home. Get some rest. You must be tired,” Papa said. “You can name the pups later.”

  I wasn’t about to budge.

  Papa’s brow bunched up. “Your little pup’s in God’s hands now.”

  “She needs both of us,” I told him.

  Just as Papa opened his mouth to say something, wolves started to howl. They sounded as if they were just outside the window. Zar pricked his ears, and he let out a loud bark. Zola nudged her pups in closer as Zar stormed around the stall in circles, barking nonstop, causing such a fuss he roused the borzoi in the other part of the stable to join the barking chorus.