5. The Wall

The saloon car is hot and cramped with the press of bodies. Perfume hangs in the air and catches in Marya's throat. There is too much material here, too much silk and velvet. She is suffocating in fabric.

The First Class passengers have gathered to mark their approach to the Wall—as is traditional—with a toast. On clear days it can first be glimpsed a mere fifty miles from the capital.

She has heard that there are far fewer First Class passengers than usual, despite the Company's encouragement, but it still feels crowded, the ladies waving fans in front of their faces, the gentlemen buttoned into starched shirts, faces flushed with the heat and the fiery liquor that stewards bring around on silver trays. Marya takes a sip and winces.

"They haven't been able to import any real Russian vodka for months," says the Countess, ensconced on a throne of cushions like a small and irascible monarch in the court of a tiny nation. "So we must make do, I'm afraid." She shakes her head. "I fear we have a difficult journey ahead of us. I happened to catch a glance of tonight's menu and it was not a heartening sight. Poor Vera says her digestive system simply cannot take any more peculiar vegetables."

Vera purses her lips and nods in silent agreement.

Marya reaches for a suitable response but finds herself at a loss. It is too long since she has been among so many strangers. She is aware, for the first time, of the dullness of her dress, beside the bright plumage of these men and women. She cannot help feeling that her falseness must show on her face; that this other Marya will fall from her like an ill-fitting gown.

But Anna Mikhailovna is undisturbed, surveying her court with a critical eye, and her steady stream of observation is rather soothing, demanding that Marya do nothing but listen and murmur in occasional agreement. The Countess's late husband was a diplomat, she says. "Though it was his father who encouraged it. If he'd had his way we'd have lived forever in the Petersburg swamps. It's only now he's gone I can travel for the pleasure of it." Marya notes that she has retained many of the qualities essential to an ambassadorial life, including a jaundiced eye for her fellow men.

"And that gentleman with the newspaper is a silk merchant, enormously rich, thanks to this very train, of course. I forget how to call him, they are so strange, these Chinese names. And I heard that the other gentleman goes by the marvelous name of Oresto Daud, and is from Zanzibar, which I confess I would have taken for a made-up place if Vera had not assured me otherwise. Ah, and Herr Schenk, very round and red over there, banking or some such. I met him at the Embassy in Kolkata."

"Delhi," corrects Vera.

"Indeed. A very tedious man, you see. So unmemorable he makes me forget an entire city. Please stage a fainting fit if he approaches, Vera."

Vera inclines her head.

How calm they all are,thinks Marya, these businessmen and aristocrats. They do not look out of the window, at the approaching Wall, only at each other, or sometimes at the gilt mirror above the bar.

"But in his favor, Herr Schenk is also very rich," Anna Mikhailovna goes on, thoughtfully.

Of course, who else would make the journey? The very rich do not only buy estates and fine trinkets, thinks Marya, they buy certainty. They buy the conviction that this journey holds no danger for them. She envies them their confidence.

"Well, if he is very rich then he has no need to be interesting," she says, trying to ignore the false lightness in her voice. "And besides, I have heard that an overabundance of imagination is a dangerous thing on this journey."

"Yes indeed," says the Countess. "And you, my dear? To be travelling alone, at such a young age…" She fixes Marya with a scrutinizing look.

"I am returning home to St. Petersburg. My husband and my parents died… a cholera outbreak…" She looks at the floor, her lies weighing her down.

"Oh now, I am sorry. There is no need to speak of it, don't upset yourself." The Countess leans forward to pat her hand. She reminds Marya of her grandmother's friends in St. Petersburg, those black-clad widows who took sustenance from misfortune, inhaled it like the fresh sea air that promised rejuvenation. "Do not feel you have to speak of such painful things."

Yet it is clear that the Countess longs for her to speak of it, so she says, quickly, "And that gentleman?" She nods to the man she had seen berating the porters during departure. He is speaking to a handsome young couple; or rather the two men are speaking, and the young woman looks outside, resting her chin on her hand.

"Ah, that is the infamous Dr. Henry Grey," says the Countess, dropping her voice further but speaking with a certain amount of relish. "Poor man, one cannot help but feel rather sorry for him. These scientific gentlemen do take embarrassment to their reputation terribly hard."

The story had been reported with some glee in the press, the Countess explains—Dr. Grey's famous discovery of a fossil inside the corpse of a seal on a beach in England, a fossil that showed a perfect representation of a child curled up as if in the womb and that proved, he had claimed, that animals contain within them the blueprints for their eventual evolution into the most perfect of forms, the human—it had all been shown to be wrong. What he claimed showed a human child was actually the curled form of an ancient sea creature, trapped in the limestone of the cliffs and then swallowed by mistake by the innocent seal. All Dr. Grey's claims came tumbling down, loudly and publicly. The Frenchman Girard, so proud of his theory of the evolution of forms, had mocked him on the stage of the Paris Institute. "Who could mistake a crab for a child? Only an Englishman!"

Marya feels a certain kinship with the man—she understands what it means to lose a reputation, and with it a livelihood.

"He is travelling to the Exhibition, I believe," the Countess goes on. "One can only look forward with lively expectation to what he might display. A mermaid, perhaps, to prove that we once breathed underwater?" She taps Vera on the arm with her fan, delighted by her own joke. Vera gives a dutiful smile. "Will you visit it yourself?" the Countess says to Marya.

"Visit…?"

"The Moscow Exhibition, my dear." It is Marya's turn to be tapped with the fan. "An entire building, a palace made out of glass, which does seem rather frivolous to me, but then again one never knows what people will think of next, and I suppose there are worse ways to show off how clever we all are."

Marya bites her lip. "Yes, I look forward to visiting it." She is relieved when the Countess's attention is caught elsewhere.

They have drawn close enough now to the Wall to see it rising up out of the horizon, the crenellations along its top standing out against the sky as if it were the home of a giant whose castle spanned an entire realm. Guard towers stand even higher, tricking the eye into making the Wall seem closer than it is. The passengers raise their glasses.

"What a marvel!" exclaims the Countess.

There is no other word for it. And more wondrous still to think of the thousands of miles it stretches, and the six hundred watchtowers standing sentinel, always awake, always ready. Marya clasps her hands in front of her to stop them shaking. It crosses her mind that there is something prayerful about the gesture, and she almost laughs. Beside her, Vera really is praying, her lips moving in desperate pleas for protection. The Countess simply gazes, rapt, at the approaching Wall, an expression of child-like wonder on her face.

"Isn't it magnificent? Did you ever think you would see it?" The Countess looks up at her, and she thinks again, Not like this.

They fall into a reverent silence as the train slows and the tower looms above them and the Wall grows more enormous by the second. Early evening light illuminates the gray, pockmarked stone. She had grown up with the stories of the Emperor who commanded its building, over a thousand years ago, and of the men whose remains lay mingled with its stones. And of course the tales of Song Tianfeng, the Builder, who had engineered the second building of the Wall when the Wastelands began to encroach on the Chinese Empire; the moving of the original foundations one hundred miles to the north, the astonishing task of transporting thousands of stones from the quarries of the north, the reinforcing of the stone with iron, the journey across the great plains, to bring the news to the Russian Empire and to teach them how to build a wall of their own.

Marya thinks of all the men who gave their lives to build the walls. If not for their sacrifice, would the blight have spread to Beijing and to Moscow and far beyond? Would there be horrors prowling the countryside, slinking into the cities by night?

They slow to a complete halt directly underneath the tower, a huge arch of stone rising above them. And further above still will be guards stationed on the watchtower—ten looking toward China, and ten toward the Wastelands. She knows they wear iron helmets over their masks, hammered into the faces of dragons and lions, to say to anything that approaches—We too have predators here.

Other guards line up outside. How many other companies have a private army? But, of course, how many other companies have achieved so much? She knows the details well—who doesn't? That the Company's origins go back much further than the railway, as far back as the middle of the seventeenth century, when it was a trading company—English merchants who had coveted the abundance of the silk routes and the mineral-rich lands of Siberia. That from its headquarters in London the Company grew and grew, and so did the fortunes of its members, who bought influence and positions in Parliament and houses in the country. When the changes started, many thought they would spell the end for the Company. But what could have been a disaster ended up as an opportunity. It was the Company that provided the funds and determination for the building of the railway, for the iron thread that links the continents.

And yet, these Company guards seem so small, from the vantage point of the train, though they puff out their chests as best they can to fill their military jackets. With their masks—their blank eyes and breathing tubes—they look like a mockery of the human.

"Poor souls, they must have thought there would never come another train to salute," says the Countess. "What a punishment, to be sent here."

"They are told it is an honor, the soldiers." The Chinese silk merchant joins them at the window, and introduces himself as Wu Jinlu, accompanying his name with a little bow. "They are protecting the nation," he says.

But Marya has heard the soldiers from the city garrisons tell of visions and nightmares; returnees from the Wall who tell of voices in the night and inexplicable fevers.

"I believe they say that it is haunted, the Wall barracks," says the Countess.

"Ah, the garrison ghost." The merchant smiles. "I too have heard these stories."

His Russian is fluent, though tinged, thinks Marya, with a trace of the roughness of the Moscow textile markets.

"Of course, the Trans-Siberia Company won't approve," he goes on. "A ghost is certainly not modern enough for them, and I'm sure it refuses to pay rent. Ah…" He pauses, then nods toward the other end of the carriage. "As if they were waiting for their cue…"

Marya follows his gaze to where two dark-suited figures have entered, one European, one Chinese, stopping to shake hands with some of the men and bow stiffly to the ladies. One turns his head toward her, light glinting from his spectacles, and she feels a roaring begin in her ears.

"I take it those gentlemen are part of the Company?" The Countess doesn't trouble to lower her voice.

"Yes, we are indeed honored," says Wu Jinlu. "Petrov and Li, they are called. Merchants of probability," he goes on, with a little smile.

The Countess raises her eyebrows. "And what do you mean by this?"

"I believe their official title is consultant, but they are money men—advising the Company when to buy and sell; brokering deals and so on. They keep their beady eyes on what the ladies are painting their lips with in Beijing, what the gentlemen are drinking in the salons of Paris. They deal in what future they believe the train will conjure into being."

"How fascinating," says the Countess. "And there was I, thinking that we passengers are the most precious goods onboard."

"I am sure they will do an excellent job of making us believe that," he says. "Though it is normally the Captain who provides the welcome and warning routine. It is odd, in fact, that we have not seen her yet." He looks around, as if expecting that the mention of her name will call her. "But then again, this particular crossing is—" he hesitates, "significant."

Marya takes another glass of vodka from a steward and swallows it too fast. She tries to keep her expression calm but she can feel the Countess's gaze upon her. The shrewd old woman must be able to feel the racing of her pulse, her burning skin. She must be thrilling to the knowledge that there are secrets to be hooked and reeled in.

"Ladies and gentlemen," begin the Company men, in English, "if we may have a moment or two of your attention. On behalf of the Trans-Siberia Company it is our honor to welcome you onboard, and to wish you a comfortable and enjoyable journey on this most remarkable of trains. Of course, this journey is particularly noteworthy because it will end—for those of you who wish to join us—at the Moscow Exhibition, where this very train will form the centerpiece of our Company's display, a tribute to our work and a symbol of our confidence as we enter the new century."

Marya hears the Countess give a little huff. "One wonders if such hubris is earned," she says.

The silk merchant's lips twitch. He gives a conspiratorial smile and says, in a low voice, "Do you know what the crew call them? The Crows. A fitting name, I think."

Crows. Birds of ill-omen.Her father had returned from that last crossing with tremors in his hands. He had locked himself in his study, refusing all food. News of the train's misfortune spread across the city; rumors swirled and multiplied, it was all they spoke about in the streets, their housekeeper confided, but not one word of it would pass her father's lips.

Just days after his return the Company men appeared at the door, funereal in their dark suits. She stood hidden in the doorway as her mother coaxed her father from his study, as the Company men spoke to him in low voices. She heard only snatched phrases: "a flaw… a mistake… overwork…"

When they were gone, her father retreated back to his study, but her mother remained seated by the fire for a long time. When Marya finally approached her, she said, without looking at her, "Your father's carelessness caused this."

Marya remembers standing, frozen, as her mother went on. "They say it was the glass. The glass was… wrong. After all that time he spent on it, it was wrong. It cracked." She turned to her daughter. "It was meant to protect them, but it let the evil in."

Her mother was clutching her leather-bound Bible. She had been biting the chapped skin at her lips and there was a fleck of blood at her mouth.

"He is never careless," Marya said. "They are wrong, those men." She felt a fury that she had never known before, a rage so overwhelming that she wanted to bring her fist down onto the glass top of the table, to smash the mirror where it hung, reflecting her mother's blank expression, her own face, drained of color.

"I told him that there is no protection from that place," her mother went on, her voice dull. "He would not listen. He would not see that God has forsaken it and there can be no saving the souls that go there. All those souls, lost, damned. And he will be damned most of all."

She was right, as usual. It was barely a week later when Marya found him, slumped over his desk in his study. A heart attack, the doctor said—he had worked too hard, he had not looked after himself, and then the shock of what had happened—it had all been too much, there was nothing they could have done. She feels a wave of nausea. She can't bring herself to look too closely at the scene—not here, not now.

"… And while we can assure you that the Trans-Siberian Company upholds the highest standards, we do remind you of the waivers you have all signed, attesting that you understand the risks associated with this long and ambitious crossing."

The passengers shift in their seats. It is one thing to sign a piece of paper when you are standing safely in the First Class waiting room, but quite another to think about it when on the train itself. The passenger travels mindful of the risks. It is the passenger's duty to inform the train's doctor should they feel unwell at any point in the journey. The Trans-Siberia Company takes no responsibility for illness, injury, or loss of life sustained when on the train.

No responsibility,she thinks. How clear that is.

The second time the Company men came to her home was in the days after her father's death, when she was curled up on the bed in her room while her mother waited in the parlor, surrounded by black crepe, for mourners who would not arrive. The housekeeper begged Marya to come down: "There are two men demanding to get into your poor father's study," she said. "Your blessed mother is too sad of heart to stop them. All his work—they say it belongs to them."

But Marya's head felt too heavy to raise from the pillow, too filled with fog to know or care what to say to strangers. She closed her eyes while the Company men took away what was left of her father's work and reputation, and she has not forgiven herself, she never will.

And now these men, these Crows are introducing the train's doctor, and he is speaking of the affliction they call Wastelands sickness—of symptoms and signs. She is familiar with them from Rostov's book—they may start with a lack of vigor, a feeling of lassitude, then develop into hallucinations. The afflicted may be convinced they are pursued, or that they must immediately exit the train. They may forget themselves, their name, their purpose for being on the train at all. Although they may be brought back to themselves, with prompt treatment, not all are so fortunate. There are no physical signs of the sickness; it is more insidious than that—a slipping of the mind, Rostov calls it.

"And what are we to do if we notice any of these symptoms in someone else?" asks a small woman who sits gripping her husband's hand and fidgeting with the pearls around her neck.

"Then it is your duty to report it to me just the same, for the safety of the train," says the doctor, gravely, causing the woman to grip her husband's hand even tighter.

"And now we will leave you to your drinks, and to getting better acquainted. We are sure that you will all become firm friends over the course of our journey." The Company men bow and smile, and there is a smattering of polite applause.

"Rather lacking in conviction, that last sentiment," remarks the Countess. "Though I can understand why." She gives the woman with the pearls a hard look. Then, before Marya can ready herself, the Crows are descending, making obsequious bows.

"I do hope that you have recovered from your recent troubles," says the Countess, without preamble. "It made things most awkward. I was quite worried that if we remained trapped any longer I would have to be buried in Beijing, and cheat my remaining relatives out of paying for a funeral."

The two men appear momentarily lost for words, but the Countess goes on, unconcerned. "I know there were naysayers, but I imagine that the Company can get anything it wants, in the end, is that not correct? Anyway, Marya Petrovna and I will hope that those doubters were wrong." She bestows a charming smile on them but Marya can't seem to arrange her face into the expression that she wants. She knew it would happen but now that it's here she feels she is not ready for the test—what if they saw her creeping in the doorway on that first visit to her home, what if they remember her face? Her false name and documents will not protect her then. She is finding it difficult to breathe. But the two men turn blankly polite gazes upon her, assuring her that the train is safe, and that they have every confidence in the success of their journey, before returning their attention to the Countess. There had been no curiosity, no suspicion in their eyes; she is just another young widow, returning to Russia to shrivel, and she thinks—no, they had not seen her that night, they had not thought to find out about the daughter of the man they had destroyed, to fear her anger, her grief. They had not thought about her at all.

A shudder through the carriage, and as they all turn to look outside the masked soldiers come to life, stepping backward as one, like clockwork toys. They raise their hands in salute, and then they are lost in the clouds of steam. With a jolt, the train begins to move again and they are out from under the Wall, emerging slowly into a fortified enclosure where tall poles stand, lanterns hung from their tops. To one side, a huge water clock.

This is the Vigil ground. The woman with the pearls gives a frightened squeak and flutters her fan in front of her face. Other passengers are turning away.

Marya forces herself to look.

"Would it really happen?" The Countess's voice is loud in the silence. "The sealing of the train, I mean."

Vera's lips are almost white. Someone drops a glass.

The Company men did not mention the Vigil in their speech, Marya realizes. Perhaps they feel that some things are better unspoken. Besides, it was made more than clear in the waivers they signed—surely every passenger is thinking now of the day and night they must spend at the Russian Wall before their journey would be safely over; or of Rostov's words, simple and to the point: If after this time there is found to be nothing growing, either on the outside or the inside of the train, it will be allowed to pass through the gates. And if a trace is found of Wastelands life? Then the train will be sealed. All inside will sacrifice themselves for the good of the Empire.

"It has never happened," says the Russian Company man, stiffly, his earlier obsequiousness vanished. "And we will see that it never does."

But it could,thinks Marya. Just because it has never happened doesn't mean it never will. The Company would do it, they would have no other choice—they couldn't risk the train getting past the Wall, bringing with it the taint of the Wastelands. Infection; blight.

"But the last crossing—" The silk merchant begins.

"The last crossing shows the efficacy of the protective measures within the train." The Company man raises his voice. "As you know, on that journey the Vigil was passed safely."

Though not before the deaths of at least three passengers, the newspapers reported. And her father— She stops herself, again. There will come a time when she has no choice but to look at it more closely. But not yet.

The train rolls out of the Vigil ground, through another set of tall iron gates. In the window's reflection she sees her own face, drawn and ghostly. There will be no stopping now until the Russian Wall, on the other side of the Wastelands. And the Vigil that waits for them there.