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The artificers had their shops in Ring Street.<\/p>\n[et_pb_section fb_built=”1″ _builder_version=”4.27.0″ _module_preset=”default” background_color=”rgba(255,255,255,0.8)” width=”80%” module_alignment=”center” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.27.0″ _module_preset=”default” background_enable_image=”off” background_size=”initial” background_position=”center_left” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.27.0″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.27.0″ _module_preset=”default” background_image=”https:\/\/societyforritualarts.com\/rw\/2024-autumn\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/09\/RW-header-3-1.png” background_size=”contain” background_position=”center_left” width=”80%” module_alignment=”center” global_colors_info=”{}”]<\/p>\n
[\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.27.0″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.27.0″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.27.0″ _module_preset=”default” width=”80%” module_alignment=”center” global_colors_info=”{}”]<\/p>\n
The artificers had their shops in Ring Street.<\/p>\n
It hadn\u2019t always been that way. In the days of the Tsars, the artificers\u2019 shops filled a splendid block of Garden Street, and their work was the envy of the world. At Perkhin\u2019s and Rappoport\u2019s, fresh flowers and resin casts and wooden carvings transformed into gold and silver and platinum through the mysterious workings of clever fingers. Even the legendary Khlamushka, the Imperial Artificer himself, kept a shop on Garden Street, right on what was now Revolution Square. It was said that no one could match the brilliant colors of his alloys.<\/p>\n
That was in the past, of course. No artificers worked in precious metal now. Most everyone who knew the magic to make cheap greenery and wood into anything that valuable left early, even before the tide began to turn against the Tsar\u2019s army. The rest, those too hopeful or unlucky to flee, had been rounded up into places called Workshops and Factories. Rumor had it they turned woodchips into gold, day in and day out, until they withered and died from the strain.<\/p>\n
So now, the artificers worked in iron and tin, copper and nickel, and they had their shops on a shabby but almost respectable block of Ring Street.<\/p>\n
And at nightfall on a chilly midweek day, Rivka the stomatologist\u2019s assistant went into number 55.<\/p>\n
Gremets kept a neat little shop, with new glass windows and a dark wood counter. Behind, the proprietor himself perched on a stool, peering at something through a jeweler\u2019s lens. He looked up at the door chime\u2019s merry ring.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf it isn\u2019t Rivkele Akhiezer back already. Are the quarter\u2019s teeth really that bad?\u201d<\/p>\n
She was a pretty woman, with a red mouth and dark, thoughtful eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe doctor needs two crowns made today, Reb Isaac. And can you come in person for a filling next week?\u201d<\/p>\n
Gremets grumbled, but his eyes were warm.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere are other artificers on Ring Street, you know. Times are hard. You and Doctor Afanasyev might give them some of your business.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut your work is better,\u201d she said, handing over the molds. Each was in its own white envelope, labeled with the patient\u2019s name.<\/p>\n
\u201cHmph. Flattery will get you everywhere, young lady. That\u2019s what they used to say. I suppose now \u2026\u201d He stopped himself, tipping the first crown onto the counter.<\/p>\n
Rivka finished the saying. \u201cConnections will get you everywhere, especially labor camps.\u201d<\/p>\n
The molded resin tooth glinted in the dancing lamplight. The electricity had been working for three days straight, but you didn\u2019t need to be old-fashioned to prefer the reliability of oil.<\/p>\n
\u201cYoung people weren\u2019t so cynical in my day.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt was different in your day.\u201d<\/p>\n
Then, Rivka\u2019s grandmother had owned a set of silver candlesticks transformed from the paper-thin calices of saffron crocus, and been married in a wedding crown of real gilded myrtle. Rivka had seen the candlesticks herself, when she was small. Yet they seemed impossible to believe. Even if they hadn\u2019t been sold, no one ever lit the candles now.<\/p>\n
The artificer rolled the crown between his fingers, feeling the jagged contour where the resin had flowed around the broken molar. Clean work. Doctor Afanasyev knew his business.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid you boil it and strain the resin? You know any impurity can cause a defect.\u201d<\/p>\n
Rivka smiled. They went through this every time.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe purest resin from two-needled pines. Boiled, strained, cooled fully, boiled and strained again, then mixed with linseed oil. No paraffin, no beeswax, only plants.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cGood. Well then. Let\u2019s see what can be done.\u201d<\/p>\n
The artificer closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. Rivka focused on his fingers, though there was never any sign that she could see. She always expected sparks, or at least a glow, but there was nothing. His pale, wrinkled skin remained the same. The resin changed, though. The surface went first, turning slowly from pale translucent yellow to shining silver opacity. He kept holding it for several moments after it looked metallic all over, lips pursed in concentration, arms starting to shake. Finally, he handed it back, warm and heavy.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere you are. I\u2019ll need a moment before the other one, I think. Some tea?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease. But I\u2019ll get it. You rest.\u201d<\/p>\n
She knew her way around the shop by now. There was always tea in the etched copper samovar at this time of day, and today, a jar of jam beside it.<\/p>\n
She slipped the transmogrified crown into its envelope and fetched two cups of tea.<\/p>\n
\u201cI had another question.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh?\u201d<\/p>\n
She sipped her tea and made a face.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat is<\/i> this?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIs that your question?\u201d He smiled wryly. \u201cThe grocer assures me it\u2019s tea, and at any rate I don\u2019t think it\u2019s poisonous.\u201d No one had real tea or coffee these days.<\/p>\n
She sucked another bitter mouthful through her teeth and smiled.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe jam is real, though.\u201d<\/p>\n
This smile was warmer.<\/p>\n
\u201cStrawberry. I opened my last jar for my prettiest customer.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNow who\u2019s a flatterer? But you had a question.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her smile slipped and she tapped the envelope with the new crown.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is nickel-chrome, you said?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIndeed. Durable, and well tolerated by most patients.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHm.\u201d Rivka looked at the counter. \u201cIt\u2019s very heavy for nickel.\u201d<\/p>\n
Gremets raised an eyebrow.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd you know, it\u2019s the strangest thing, but we had a patient with a nickel allergy. He\u2019d tried three stomatologists for the same bad molar. Would you believe your fillings were the first that didn\u2019t cause him any trouble?\u201d<\/p>\n
The artificer put his cup down.<\/p>\n
\u201cAllergies can be very unpredictable, Rivka. And low-quality material will irritate anyone.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s true.\u201d She tapped the little white envelope on the table. \u201cThat\u2019s why I tried measuring the conductivity as well as the density.\u201d<\/p>\n
Gremets\u2019s lips pursed. His thick brows drew together.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy brother trained in chemistry, you see. I used to help him study. I learned quite a lot. Even the formula for aqua regia.\u201d<\/p>\n
She sipped her tea, trying to focus on the sweetness of the jam rather than the harsh, odd taste, and smoothed her white uniform apron.<\/p>\n
\u201cAqua regia.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe alchemists discovered it. Quite a simple formula. It dissolves gold, you see. But not base metals.\u201d<\/p>\n
Gremets leaned forward across the counter. The oil lamp flickered cheerily at his side.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt dissolves nickel too. Your brother should know that.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes. But chromium would leave powder.\u201d She flicked at the envelope\u2019s closure, feeling the weight of the false tooth within. \u201cThis is gold, I think, and platinum for hardness.\u201d<\/p>\n
He folded his arms across his chest.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd if it is? These are weighty allegations, Rivka. Perhaps your brother should check your results.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe\u2019s dead.\u201d<\/p>\n
The old man murmured the blessing. Then he fixed his eyes on Rivka again.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd you want to follow him?\u201d<\/p>\n
Rivka set her jaw.<\/p>\n
\u201cI want to get out. And I think you can help.\u201d<\/p>\n
Gremets leaned back from the counter. The wall behind him was full of drawers, like tea shops once had, each one rattling with casts and carvings of standardized teeth and spare parts and all manner of useful implements, ready and waiting to be changed. It was comfortable enough, this shop. One could make do.<\/p>\n
\u201cEven if I could\u2014and I\u2019m not saying I can\u2014what do you think would happen to a stomatologist\u2019s assistant found with enough gold to get out? Where would you go? Is this how your brother got himself killed?\u201d<\/p>\n
Rivka upended her cup and finished the dregs, swallowing the bitterness for the sake of the jam.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo. He made it all the way to Lut\u00e8ce.\u201d She looked into the cup. \u201cHe died of cholera there.\u201d There were no tears in her dark eyes. These days, who had time for tears? \u201cBut he has friends there. Yankl and I\u2014my fianc\u00e9\u2014we could join them. Make a start. I\u2019ve already figured out how to hide the gold.\u201d<\/p>\n
Gremets raised an eyebrow.<\/p>\n
\u201cGo on, then. I\u2019ve heard it all before. You\u2019ll sew it into the lining of your coat. Melt nuggets of it into candles. You know a man who makes suitcases with false bottoms.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cStraw.\u201d The stomatologist\u2019s assistant clenched her teeth against the shaking. \u201cIn a mattress. No one will spot a few gold stalks mixed in with real straw. Like needles in a haystack.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cStraw.\u201d The old artificer shook his head. \u201cI used to make flower crowns for weddings, you know. Rattles for christenings. Even, once, an entire sheaf of wheat, for a roy\u2014a splendid banquet. And now you want me to turn straw into gold\u2014not that I\u2019m saying I can, mind\u2014at considerable risk to us both. Why should I do this for you, pretty girl? What will you give me?\u201d<\/p>\n
The young woman frowned. Images flashed through her mind, but she pushed them away. Surely not.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat do you want?\u201d she said, wishing her voice didn\u2019t quaver.<\/p>\n
Gremets gave her a slow, appraising look from under his thick brows. He didn\u2019t speak for a long moment.<\/p>\n
\u201cThey killed my sons, you know,\u201d he said at last. \u201cAnd my wife.\u201d His face darkened. \u201cThe soldiers didn\u2019t even give them a chance to surrender when they took our workshop.\u201d<\/p>\n
The words of the blessing came easily, though of course that sort of thing wasn\u2019t allowed. It was hard not to mention the dead, when there were so many.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou could come with us. It\u2019s only fair.\u201d<\/p>\n
Gremets laughed, with no humor.<\/p>\n
\u201cCome with you? To Lut\u00e8ce, or Gedimin, or wherever you\u2019re going?\u201d He shook his head. \u201cRivkele, this is my home. My country. That means something. My father and mother, my in-laws, my wife, my sons, all of them are buried here. If I leave, who will sweep their graves?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSo, you won\u2019t help me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t say that.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat, then?\u201d<\/p>\n
Isaac Gremets the artificer met her eyes. His face was worn and wrinkled, stained here and there from sun and chemicals. His shoulders, in his mended tweed coat, hunched forward like a hawk\u2019s.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou and this Yankl of yours want children, yes?\u201d<\/p>\n
Rivka\u2019s chest clenched.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt will take time to turn that much straw into gold. I have other duties.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSo. You will marry. I will make your straw. And when you abandon your homeland, you will leave your firstborn with me.\u201d<\/p>\n
Rivka jerked back from the counter.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n
Gremets leaned further forward.<\/p>\n
\u201cI have no sons, now. Give me an heir to love and spoil. A new son or daughter, to sweep my grave when I\u2019m gone.\u201d<\/p>\n
Rivka fiddled with the envelopes in her pocket.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd if I refuse?\u201d<\/p>\n
Gremets looked around the neat little shop. Every year, the walls were a little draftier, the lamp oil a little dearer, the electricity on for a few days less. He pinned Rivka with his gaze.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou could always stay here.\u201d<\/p>\n
#<\/p>\n
The next month, Rivka and Yankl signed their papers at the Civil Registry. Rivka\u2019s grandmother had married in a wedding crown of golden myrtle, but hers was common saxifrage, made into the lacquered black iron jewelry that had become fashionable after citizens gave up their gold for the War of Liberation. Still, they received a ration of enough sugar and eggs for a small cake. She brought a piece to Gremets the artificer. She went home with a piece of gilded straw.<\/p>\n
Time passed. And as happens with young brides, Rivka became pregnant. Now, when Doctor Afanasyev needed a crown made, old Isaac Gremets the artificer watched with sad, hungry eyes as Rivka\u2019s face turned queasy and her belly grew round. And every time, he pressed his fingers against a pale tan stalk and gave it back yellow and shining.<\/p>\n
By early summer, the couple had fourteen soft, heavy pieces of golden straw. Sometimes, when everyone else in the apartment was asleep, they\u2019d pick them out of the mattress one by one and whisper their way through the steps of the journey ahead.<\/p>\n
They stopped when the baby started to kick.<\/p>\n
In the long, hot days when there would once have been peaches and early apples in the market, the Ministry for Culture opened a new wing. Thanks to the tireless work of the Ministry for Security, several rooms\u2019 worth of decadent art from the former royal collection had been recovered from defectors and restored to the people. It would even be on display.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe should go,\u201d Yankl offered. He\u2019d seen his pretty wife\u2019s face grow gaunt, her wrists and ankles start to protrude from her thinning limbs. He missed the bright, smiling girl he\u2019d courted, before all this. Like most people in the city, he was well versed in carrying on with less than he\u2019d known before. But he was a loving groom and hoped to bring the sparkle back to her dark eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf you want,\u201d she said, slumped over the tiny sweater she never seemed to finish knitting.<\/p>\n
So, they went. Crowds flowed through room after room of the People\u2019s Palace, marveling at the splendidly carved panels, the mirrors, the crystal chandeliers. Rivka and Yankl murmured half-forgotten childhood stories about the grand balls, the sumptuous feasts, the vanished princesses. They squinted to see if they could spot the bullet holes in the walls.<\/p>\n
The tide of people bore them through galleries with azure walls and jacquard draperies of threadbare silk until Rivka\u2019s ankles ached. She was about to suggest they go home when they passed through a doorway labeled \u201cRose Reception Room.\u201d She stopped at the first case, transfixed.<\/p>\n
Gleaming objects crowded the display, each with its own typeset label.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhite gold birchbark cup of Grand Duchess Anna Nikolaevna.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cPocket watch of Count Vasily Milanovich. Gold with aluminum alloy lilacs.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cPlatinum forget-me-not christening rattle of Princess Yuliya Alexandrovna.\u201d<\/p>\n
The subtle colors imbuing the metal came from impurities, she knew, or oxidation states. Despite the muted hues, they somehow seemed more alive even than living blooms.<\/p>\n
Each work bore the same attribution: Imperial Artifice Workshop of Khlamushka and Sons.<\/p>\n
She worked her way from case to case, admiring hothouse orchids and filigreed leaves and decades-old buds that would never open. In the center of the room, on a pedestal surrounded by a low fence, sat the most magnificent work of all: a massive horn of plenty. It seemed to be woven from wheat stalks, with fat heads of plump, perfect grains arrayed around the rim. Just seeing them made her hungry. The flat wheat leaves had been twined between the stalks with faint green in the metal, and the whole structure was wreathed all about with dark ivy and luminous grapes, rich purple against the ripe wheat stems\u2019 sunny gold. Every part of it glowed, from the curled base to each perfect, unbent awn.<\/p>\n
With effort, Rivka pulled her eyes from a serrated grape leaf to the label.<\/p>\n
\u201cGold wheat cornucopia, made for the coronation banquet of the late Tsar Peter VII. Imperial Artifice Workshop of Khlamushka and Sons.\u201d<\/p>\n
Finally, it fell into place.<\/p>\n
\u201cAn entire sheaf of wheat \u2026\u201d she murmured.<\/p>\n
She grabbed her husband\u2019s sleeve.<\/p>\n
\u201cYankl. Dearest. Let\u2019s go home now.\u201d<\/p>\n
He folded a concerned arm around her.<\/p>\n
They left.<\/p>\n
#<\/p>\n
She went to the shop in Ring Street the next day, as soon as she left work. Gremets raked greedy eyes over her belly.<\/p>\n
\u201cAh, Rivkele. More bad teeth today?\u201d<\/p>\n
She wrapped her arms around her stomach.<\/p>\n
\u201cI went to the new exhibits at the People\u2019s Palace yesterday.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHm.\u201d<\/p>\n
He perched on his stool, knobbed fingers interlaced, dark eyes watching her.<\/p>\n
\u201cThey had a whole room from the Imperial Artifice Workshop.\u201d<\/p>\n
There. The slightest flicker, deep in his eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cI thought you were an ordinary artificer. Just trying to get by and not get caught.\u201d<\/p>\n
His thin lips pursed.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat else would I be?\u201d He stood and turned to the samovar. \u201cTea?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot an ordinary artificer. An extraordinary one. The kind who could turn an entire sheaf of wheat to gold for a coronation banquet.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFlatterer.\u201d<\/p>\n
He poured out two cups of tea, still with his back to her.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere\u2019s no more strawberry jam, I\u2019m afraid. Or honey, or sugar. I\u2019m told this is molasses.\u201d<\/p>\n
A spoon clinked, rhythmically, then stopped.<\/p>\n
She said it quietly.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re Khlamushka. The Imperial Artificer himself. The best.\u201d<\/p>\n
He turned around at last, leaving the tea abandoned on the tray.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re almost right.\u201d Suddenly, he was so small, and so old. \u201cI was the best. Until I trained my son. My younger boy, Nikita \u2026 I named him for the Tsar, you know. My wife wanted to call him Avram. He was better than me by twenty. That cornucopia was his design, not mine. What he might have been \u2026<\/p>\n
\u201cThey came for our workshop when they first took the palace. I happened to be away that week. When I came back \u2026 I paid a soldier to get their bodies back for me from the pit.\u201d His eyebrows quirked minutely together. \u201cThen I shot him.\u201d<\/p>\n
A sound got out of Rivka. She knew they\u2019d rounded up everyone tied to the royal household. She knew what people had done to survive, to escape. And yet.<\/p>\n
\u201cDoes that shock you? You can\u2019t have been more than ten. Younger than little Princess Yuliya, if she\u2019d lived. I made her such pretty things. A rattle for her christening. A clover spoon. Snowdrop bangles, and silver daisy buttons for her little frocks. Pretty things for a pretty girl.\u201d He shook his head. \u201cI buried them under my new name. By the time I got them back \u2013 what they\u2019d done \u2013 I only knew my Nikita by his hair. Soft, like his mother\u2019s.\u201d He focused sharply on Rivka. \u201cAnd every Friday, I visit to sweep their graves.\u201d<\/p>\n
She held his gaze. The baby kicked. Something older and sadder stirred inside her.<\/p>\n
\u201cI won\u2019t tell anyone. But I\u2019m leaving. With my child.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd if someone told the Ministry of Security what was inside your mattress?\u201d<\/p>\n
She knew what she was supposed to say, somehow, as though they were just bantering about the proper way to boil pine resin.<\/p>\n
\u201cThen I would tell them where to find the Imperial Artificer. And then, I would still leave.\u201d<\/p>\n
They exchanged a few more words.<\/p>\n
And then she left.<\/p>\n
But in the years to come, raising children of another homeland, her mind would sometimes conjure the sight of a neat little shop on Ring Street. When she drank coffee with cream, and never tea with jam, she\u2019d remember an etched copper samovar. And sometimes, tucking Avram and his brothers and sisters into bed, she\u2019d again hear that voice.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re a cruel woman, Rivkele. Now who will be left behind to sweep my grave?\u201d<\/p>\n
[\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.27.0″ _module_preset=”default” background_color=”rgba(31,215,224,0.21)” width=”60%” module_alignment=”center” border_radii=”on|15px|15px|15px|15px” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.27.0″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content”][et_pb_text module_class=”noindent” _builder_version=”4.27.0″ _module_preset=”default” width=”80%” module_alignment=”center” hover_enabled=”0″ global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content” sticky_enabled=”0″]<\/p>\n
![\"\"](\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/societyforritualarts.com\/rw\/2024-autumn\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/09\/author_photo_Rifkin_RandW-e.jpg?resize=232%2C300&ssl=1\")
J. L. Rifkin is a writer and biologist who moved from Massachusetts to North Carolina before fetching up in Ontario, where they live with one delightful spouse and two troublesome cats. They enjoy rock climbing, gardening, and completing the Toronto Public Library’s annual reading challenge. This is their short fiction debut. Look for more forthcoming fiction in On Spec: The Canadian Magazine of the Fantastic. Those so inclined can also find Rifkin’s nonfiction in Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society B: Biology, among other places.<\/p>\n
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Once, An Entire Sheaf of Wheat by J. L. Rifkin Illustrated by Kerry MairieThe artificers had their shops in Ring Street. It hadn\u2019t always been that way. In the days of the Tsars, the artificers\u2019 shops filled a splendid block of Garden Street, and their work was the envy of the world. At Perkhin\u2019s and […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":368,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","_et_pb_use_builder":"on","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"iawp_total_views":71,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-366","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry"],"yoast_head":"\n