Shannon Lumetta

The writer’s fingertips danced with words yet unwritten, a familiar electricity animating each gloved digit as though a keyboard lay beneath. The pattern of taps on her leg created an impatient cadence, one more than ready for the march of a new story. The crisp air all around had invigorated Muse and their stories, all within the slumbering recesses of the writer’s mind… … who had only just stepped off the plane.

It was cold for mid-April, but this wasn’t the Riviera, this was Yekaterinburg. After the London fog and rain, and a bumpy flight from Moscow, the briskness of this climate was biting. The hours of flying and connecting airports and waiting had worn her, fatigue rattling her muscles and bones thoroughly enough to negate the dry chill. The cold, however, managed to move her feet forward into the scattering crowd hustling for taxis and transportation.

Quickly spotting a sign printed neatly showcasing her first initial and last name, she raised a hand in a short wave to the gentleman holding the placard. The stoic expression set within time-carved wrinkles made her face warm with the intent to smile, but the grim flat line of his mouth halted that momentum. Instead, she pursed her lips as one corner rose in defiance, grumpy driver be damned. A bushy eyebrow above one of his deep brown eyes jumped, and her teeth broke free.

“Dobryj den’.” 

His deep baritone resonated through her chest, and she stumbled into a mirror of his slight bow toward her. An embarrassed trickle of laughter escaped her. 

“Men’a zovut Kirill,” he continued, undeterred.

The sonorous introduction opened a gate, tripping an orchestra of lyrical illustrations through her mind in three-four time and a richly melancholy minor key. Does he sing? she wondered idly, mentally attaching to him a glorious backstory worthy of the most dramatic and heartrending of operas.

“Dobryj den’,” she repeated, cringing at the discord of foreign words on her beginner’s tongue against this man’s rich tone. While her grandmother and aunt recently gave invaluable tutelage, her fumbling pronunciation was surely abrasive to native ear. “Good afternoon to you, Kirill.” 

He nodded acceptance with a prim smile, ushering her to the car as he grabbed the top handle of her suitcase and lifted it easily. Once they were both seated in the vehicle, he turned around from behind the wheel. Executing a question in crisp English, he confirmed her destination.

“Church of All Saints, yes?”

Her mouth hung open, paused briefly in surprise before she agreed with a tight nod. He held her gaze briefly, studying her as if to decipher her intent, but eventually a subdued shrug communicated his silent agreement.

For a moment, she felt all too small. An overwhelming rush of imposter syndrome swept her, leaving doubt to linger in its wake. She shook off the feeling of inadequacy as best she could, knowing how fatigue can fuel insecurities — particularly in an unfamiliar place.

She should probably rest and go tomorrow, but fantastical tales were sparking under her fingernails, the flat keys of her laptop begging to receive communion. She felt her skin draw tight and release again, her body anticipating the inspiration only miles away. Muse was anxious and there would be no sleep until they said their piece.

The drive was relatively short, merely a half an hour or so, but a fitful twenty-minute catnap was enough to fuel the writer’s eagerness to begin her quest — at least for an initial visit. 

As soon as she stepped out of the car, the sight stole the oxygen from her lungs. Golden domes shone brightly, despite the lack of sunshine. Her eyes were drawn to the highest, sharp and bright against the pale gray clouds. Air pushed violently back into her chest as the years and history trampled through her mind. Swirls of smoky voices swam around her, muted and faint, but the writer warmed, almost painfully delighted to hear the near-menacing whispers. Muse was in a savage mood, aggressively accosting her with verbose paths to explore.

Kirill agreed to deliver her bags to her hotel and return promptly, but she was already traversing the ground between the car and the darkly enchanting cathedral in front of her.

Any ambient noise — whether other travelers or pilgrims, cars or motorbikes — the writer heard none of it. The fog of Muse had trapped her attention between the fitful murmurs of ghosts. No longer did she walk in the present day, but amongst century-old memories. As she stood at the door to the cathedral, they crumbled and disappeared in the sweep of a non-existent wind, giving way to an older structure, smaller and less glorified.

The Ipatiev House, briefly the prison for the Romanov family.

Fate ushered her inside and sat her in the solid wooden pew farthest from the altar. Regardless of what her mind’s eye had revealed, the writer closed her eyes and listened while Muse twirled between veils, tapping shoulders of voices. 

The pictures she’d researched, the articles, the books, the rumors, the legends — everything is stockpiled in the grey shelves of her internal library. It was here, though, on this spot on earth, that all of it would come to life. 

She worried that perhaps she knew too much, and then certainly too little.

Then, in the midst of her doubt and desperation, the voices halted, the muddled whirs of phantom secrets silenced, and one young boy’s plea rang clearly.

“Vy slyshite ikh, ne tak li?”

The writer’s eyes flew open to find the voice did not belong to a little boy, but an old man, shrunken and reversed by time to a child’s size. His eyes twinkled while he wrung his arthritic, knobby hands together, waiting for her to process his question.

“You hear them, don’t you?” he had asked in Russian.

She couldn’t help but to stare as a result of her disorientation. It was as if she couldn’t remember entering the dwelling, or that other living people presently shared the space. The beauty and majesty of the structure from the inside warmed her heart as pieces and pictures fell into place. 

Muse vibrated with impatient glee, sending pins and needles skittering through the writer’s extremities, particularly her hands. 

Finally, the old man’s words unraveled before her eyes and dawn burst upon the horizon. The writer’s lips curved into a reflective smile, and she nodded.

The man grasped her hands in his, leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered his message in heavily-accented and garbled English, “Tell their stories.” 

He said no more, but winked as he released her palms and turned, sliding his feet along the marble toward the front of the church.

The writer’s fingertips were poised to dance.