Tate: Taras

A fine snow slowly fell upon the city of Kiev, as powdery and gritty as flakes of ash from a crematorium's chimney. The snow only barely stuck, covering the concrete like a thin, slippery membrane that was easy to forget was there right up until your feet shot out from under you and you found yourself foolishly gazing up at the sky. When the snow came down in thick, white flakes it seemed to cleanse and refresh the dusty, ancient city, or at least disguise its multitude of sins, but this snow looked gray before it even hit the ground. Eskimos were said to have hundreds of different words for snow, and the old man was sure that if they had a name for this one, it would be a curse.

Spying his fare, the man opened the taxi cab's driver's side door and slowly extricated himself from the car, steadying himself using two mismatched, wooden canes. He hobbled over to the man just exiting the airport's baggage claim and gestured meekly toward his cab, urging him in. The man was pale and muscle-bound, with a shaved head and a barb-wire tattoo creeping up the side of his neck. He turned up his lip at the old man's enticements, growling in heavily accented Russian, "F*ck off. I need someone who knows how to find sh*t in this town."

The old man cleared his throat. It had been months since he'd last used his voice. "Booze, grass, coke, guns, girls, boys... also I have just purchased a car deodorizer. It is green, in the shape of a tree and grants the illusion of cleanliness." The young American shrugged and threw his suitcase into the backseat, lunging in after it. The old man shuffled back to the front of the cab, narrowly avoided slipping on the damnable snow and eased himself down into the driver's seat.

As he put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb, the old man heard the American say, "I'm not into guys, so forget that sh*t right now. I need a piece and some blow. And girls. Young."

The old man sighed and peered out the driver's side window as they drove out of the airport complex and into the city. Because he enjoyed the architecture and never passed up a chance to see it, he guided the car past the Kiev Pechersk Lavra, the Monastery of the Caves. Some monk long ago had wandered here and chosen a cave in which to start a monastery, and Prince Iziaslav I of Kiev went ahead and just gave him the whole mount. The monks did all the work building churches and bell towers and digging out catacombs, and the Prince was blessed and ushered into heaven for gifting them a giant rock he'd probably never even known existed before then.

On their right the Dnieper river wended its way around the city, a rusted barge chugging its way through its polluted, dark water. Since Chernobyl spewed its radioactive discharge into the Dnieper over twenty years ago, the old man always had the urge to walk near the water on cold winter days just for the illusion of warmth. In a few thousand years the river would finally purify itself, but of course it had nowhere near that kind of time.

"I want girls no younger than twelve, got it? Girls that won't be missed." The American lit a cigarette, and the smell wafted up front. The old man had given up smoking years ago because it reminded him of Hollis, but on snowy days the craving for tobacco still gripped him. He breathed in deeply, enjoying even the second hand smoke, and pondered asking the American if he could have one. He decided just to be patient and take the pack later if he still felt the urge.

"Nine. I can make a call and probably get a ten year old as well. It will cost."

The American spat on the rubber mat covering the floor in the back. "Nine? F*ck that. I never done a girl younger than twelve."

The old man swerved to avoid an old woman whose heel had broken in the middle of the crosswalk. "A man with standards, and in my cab. It's a Christmas miracle."

"This ain't your cab." The young man pointed to the photograph on the back of the driver's seat. "The picture is of a young guy."

"My son. We share it. You looking for anyone or anything in particular?"

He took a drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing red. To say that he pondered the question would be going too far. More accurately, he finally remembered the answer. "Yeah. Yeah, actually, why not? I'm looking for a guy named Taras. Taras the Mutineer. Heard of him?"

The old man smiled. "The name is redundant. 'Taras' means mutineer. It would be like naming a boy 'Michael, Like Unto God'." The look on the young man's face in the rear view mirror was blank. "Michael means 'like unto God'."

Snorting, he replied, "No sh*t. My bitch in my last stretch in the joint's name was Mike. That's hilarious. My name's Ricky. What's that mean?"

"That your parents were first cousins?"

It took a good ten seconds before Ricky processed what he'd heard, then he lunged up at the old man, putting a hand around his throat. "I'll f*ckin' cut you, you f*ck with me, *sshole. You know who I am?" The old man nodded slowly, struggling to keep the car on the road, then he pointed to a bottle in a slim, brown bag on the seat next to him.

"Apologies. It's yours. And the girl, I pay for, just please don't hurt me." Ricky snatched at the bottle and nodded, satisfied with the reparations.

The old man absently rubbed his neck as they passed a block of apartments that had been entirely leveled by Germans in World War II, then rebuilt. They had also been destroyed by fire and rebuilt again in the seventies. The old man imagined the same dwellings being put to the torch by Genghis Khan's Mongols when they had annihilated the city back in the twelve hundreds. Laying waste to Kiev was the conqueror's rite of manhood. Kiev stood like a resigned, grim-visaged bride just waiting at the alter for foreign lords to defile her. The only black mark on Rome's record was that they had not invented Kiev simply to crush it. Napoleon's greatest regret in life had to have been that he failed to advance past Moscow to Kiev to deflower her.

Meanwhile, Ricky sucked at the bottle in the backseat, griping about the way Russians peppered their vodka. Normal vodka wasn't good enough? They had to put pepper in it? The old man rolled his eyes and was patient, and in a few minutes the young man was unconscious.


It was said that if the Red Lady of Babil was the oldest of them, Theophanes wasn't far behind. While Taras had never met him personally, he knew all about the ancient Greek's habits. Every time Theophanes awoke to the dawn of a new world he rose from his bed, stretched and gazed out of his window at the island of Evia sprawling beneath him. Then he sat down and wrote four words in Greek on parchment, striking out two of them. Finally, he prepared and drank an entire bucketful of poison, his body twisted at the foot of his bed, frozen in his death throes and cold by noon.

Taras spent decades of time and millions of dollars tracking down that little slip of parchment, but he had finally done it in nineteen seventy six, the so-called bicentennial year that celebrated the United States' "freedom". He brought the parchment back to Kiev and hung it on the wall of his bar, framed for all to see, though no one did. Translated from the Greek, it read: SAME SH*T, DIFFERENT DAY. The words "DIFFERENT DAY" had a line through them.

One year to the day after acquiring the parchment, Taras took it for a walk after consuming far too much vodka and stumbled into one of Kiev's more disreputable alleys. There he was surprised to see the magician putting on a show for a pack of orphan children. He had not seen the magician since the day they had made their bargain and he had performed his trick.

He flipped his cape back and forth, showing one side crimson and the other black. Gesturing for a volunteer, a boy not more than thirteen stepped forward, his step unsteady. The magician smiled at him, his mouth full of straight, white teeth, but this only caused the boy to break out in a sweat. The orphans halfheartedly jeered him for his cowardice, but even they could sense that there was something not entirely benevolent about this performance. The magician held up a hand for silence and the alley became utterly still, with even mighty and ferocious Taras standing in the back row holding his breath. Then with a flick of his wrist he flipped the cape up in the air and caught it in front of the boy, holding it in such a way that it blocked him from view. The magician's eyes shut in concentration, and from somewhere far, far away they could hear and feel a deep humming, a vibration deep in their bones. The hum combined with a high-pitched whine that hurt their teeth and caused the empty liquor bottles in the alley's garbage cans to rattle. The hum and whine grew louder and louder until most of the orphans had tears staining their cheeks, and then abruptly it ceased as if it were never there.

With a flourish, the magician lifted up the cape to reveal that the orphan boy had disappeared, and he smiled once more as the childrens' applause echoed in the alley. Before it could die down, he reached out his hand and tossed a handful of shiny gold coins among the orphans who squealed with joy. All except one tiny girl not more than eight years old who strode up to the magician and looked up at him with enormous brown eyes, asking plaintively, "But where is he? Where is my brother?" The magician silently shook his head. He began to walk away but her tiny, dirty hand grasped at his cape. "How did you do it?" Grinning ever so slightly he bent down, put his mouth to her ear and cupped a hand over it so no one else could hear. When he was done whispering, she smiled the smile of all those who have seen something truly magical. It was amused, amazed and... something else. The little girl walked away smiling and never, ever stopped.

Taras stared at the magician and pulled the parchment from his pocket. He decided to be clever. "Can you autograph this? It seems only fitting."

The magician's dark eyes stared into his and Taras wobbled, his drunkenness evaporating in an instant. The eyes stared and stared, growing larger and larger, darker and darker until the rest of the world narrowed and it seemed that there was nothing in the universe but those eyes. Their darkness was consuming, voracious and infinite. The magician never spoke, but the message resonated with hideous clarity. I have signed it. I signed the parchment and the ink. I signed the writer and his desk and the island upon which they sat. I signed the lands and the seas and the skies and all they contain. I signed the heavens and the Earth, and I signed you, Taras the Mutineer. I signed your hair, your skin, your muscles, blood and bones. My name is written in darkness upon your soul.

The mighty and ferocious Taras fell to his knees then and wept. He wept through the day and into the night. He wept until no more tears would come and then he wept some more. For three days and nights he sobbed until they came and put him in an asylum. On the fourth day he finally slept, and when he awoke he broke out of the hospital, took the parchment back to the bar, set it on its place on the wall and burned the building down, the fire spreading to the apartment complexes above and beside. Eight people died, ten suffered severe third degree burns and the entire block was utterly destroyed as it had been in the days of the Great Patriotic War, the Mongol invasion and so many other occasions when Kiev had been raped by conquerors.

Above the bar was an apartment owned by a ring of black marketeers involved in counterfeiting American bicentennial commemorative metal cookie jars. When the roof collapsed one of the jars fell down into the bar, knocked the parchment off the wall and landed on top of it face down, covering it.

The parchment was the only thing to survive the blaze perfectly intact.

When the fireman handed it to Taras he folded it, put it carefully in his pocket and decided to never again try to be clever with the magician.


Ricky Tate awoke with a start. He was entirely naked, his wrists bound with a chain connected to a thick metal hook which hung from the ceiling. Ricky swung very slightly back and forth, the tips of his toes just scraping the round, metal drain set into the concrete floor beneath him. He tried to speak, but discovered that he had been gagged, his mouth forced open wide by a foul-smelling towel.

A door opened and a gray light shone in, revealing his surroundings as being that of a simple shed, the walls adorned with rusty tools and cans of paint that had long since separated. The old cab driver strode in (suddenly walking quite well without his canes) and went over to a dusty workbench that stood against the far wall. Ricky tried to speak, but through the gag it just came out as a meaningless groan. The old man opened a drawer in the bench and brought out a hunting knife with a brown, leather-bound hilt and serrated jags on one edge of the blade.

The American knew nothing and the old man knew it. He could go through the charade of questioning him, but he was tired of speaking. Remembering the quality of their previous conversations, on the off chance that Ricky decided to try and think of something to say he decided to leave the gag in.

One to torture, one to be tortured and nothing to come of it but blood down a drain. One cut, the other screamed, nothing learned, the status quo maintained. It was all very Russian.


Leopold had visited him just after the turn of the century, right before Einstein was going to formulate his theory of special relativity again. Taras got a little thrill every time the kindly German had his stroke of genius. The thrill didn't last, but he still awaited the event with anticipation every time. Leopold bubbled with excitement, describing all the ways they could use their abilities to help change the world. His enthusiasm was like a tonic, especially considering how much time Taras had spent in Kiev, a city whose main industries were vodka and despair. Taras nodded patiently to Leopold, kicked everyone out of the bar and kept pouring drinks. He had been like that the first time, too, and he loved Leopold for it.

He had been to see some of the others with discouraging results. Nhlakanipho Mabuza never stopped f*cking one of his wives during the entire visit and as such the conversation had suffered. The Red Lady just stared at him over her veil, but at least she had given him tea. He had received the most elaborate welcome from Hollis in America, but the two had a falling out over some perceived slight over dessert and Leopold had wound up running for his life to the sea.

It was only a matter of time before the Belgian would learn the limits of their powers, and time was not a commodity in short supply. They each had their special tricks, but should they try and use them in a fashion unapproved of by the magician they would quickly find that their efforts would come to naught or even backfire.

After Leopold left, the two men having embraced and sworn their friendship, a rabid wolf emerged from the woods surrounding Hollis Crossroads and bit the popular postman Jebediah Greely on the ankle, gnawing off his foot. He died three days later. The day after he expired, one of Kiev's most promising young ballerinas-a golden-haired angel of a girl named Galina-was bitten on her rosy cheek as she slept by a giant, poisonous centipede. Her left eye ballooned and popped by the next morning, and she was dead by noon.

The two men tired of their feud after this, but Taras quit smoking as cigarettes reminded him of Hollis, and the profit from them went to his part of the world.


A flick of the knife, and another piece of Ricky flopped down on the metal drain with a wet smack. He screamed into the towel gag, and the old man sighed, bored and thirsty. It was tedious work, but he wanted to be certain that they sent no one else to Kiev. He had received the order just that morning to kill whomever they sent and had hastily stolen a taxi, all the while terrified that they would send the boy, Leopold's descendant. His relief had been palpable when he saw this thick-necked, mean-eyed primate swagger from the airport gates. He could not-would not help them in their struggle against the magician, perhaps because it was not a struggle at all. Does the horizon struggle to keep the sun in the sky in the evening, attempting to forestall the coming darkness? They sought to battle him in chess but possessed only checkers.

"Theophanes," the old man whispered to himself. "You are truly wise, my friend, or at least you became so after you sealed your bargain." From behind him Ricky Tate moaned in response. The old man chuckled and shook his head. "My apologies, my good man. I am old, I am old. I have to admit, I had completely forgotten I had not killed you yet." The knife slashed his throat and blood poured over his chest like an overflowing toilet, gushing down and pooling by the drain in the floor.

The old man eyed the cigarette pack on the workbench, walked over to it and crushed it into a ball in his powerful fist. For Leopold, he could resist. The world had only a year or two left at most anyway, he could wait at least until the next world to revisit old habits.


The Dnieper river flowed slowly by, and the old man sat at its bank struggling mightily with the tiny keys of Ricky Tate's electronic device. He would take great pleasure in hurling the annoying gadget into the cold, radioactive water when he had finished his entry. The young man had helpfully left the code key active, and while it was impossible to read what had been previously written, anything could be typed in and transmitted. It didn't matter, the magician read everything and he didn't need codes or magic to do it. Checkers vs. chess. Horizon vs. night.