Yaroslaw's Treasure. Myroslav Petriw

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СКАЧАТЬ into the building, and Ratibor found himself engaged with the lot of them. A Tatar leapt in through a window, rolling upright to his feet just to Ratibor’s right. Off flew the fur-trimmed Tatar hat.

      “Zdorov, Pane Sotnyk!” greeted the voice of Vyshata, Ratibor’s desyatnyk.

      “Hail, Vyshata!” yelled Ratibor as he ran up the stair.

      “The city has fallen. It’s a melee out there,” Vyshata reported. “Here, let me hold them off.”

      A Mongol followed Ratibor up the staircase, who was in turn chased by Vyshata. A dozen more chased Vyshata. Ratibor dove headfirst over the balustrade, grabbing the rope on the way over. Not to be outdone, the Mongol did likewise. Seeing a dozen pursuers, Vyshata threw his sword at them, and placing a dagger in his teeth, dove for the hanging rope himself.

      The weight of three men on the rope was more than the chocks could bear. As the chocks slipped free, the three men dropped into the hole, snapping to a stop when the slack was taken up. They grabbed for the ladder.

      There was a great rumble and the Pysaniy Kamin began to roll.

      Part I

      VANCOUVER, CANADA

      August 2002

      YAROSLAW HELD the tiller in his right hand while tensioning the mainsheet with his left. Heeling to starboard, the sailboat seemed to come alive. Releasing his grip on the main, Yaroslaw switched hands and turned to tilt the outboard motor out of the water. Astern, the boat’s wake painted a smooth ribbon on the water. To port, low hills were interspersed with buildings and trees. To starboard, a forested peninsula jutted into the wide bay against a backdrop of more distant mountains. The sloop rocked as it broke across some waves, a forgotten wake reflected off a stony beach. Yarko returned his attention to matters of sailing. Reducing his pull on the tiller, he pointed the boat more sharply into the wind. Instantly the boat heeled even more and picked up another knot of speed against the splashing of salty foam.

      “I see your seamanship has improved,” said Yarko’s father, Mirko, as he quickly hardened the starboard jib sheet to match the new heading. “You’re learning fast.”

      “The world is for the young, Dad,” said Yarko with his wry smile, “and you’re getting a bit old for this.”

      Mirko raised his eyebrows at his son’s remark and cuffed him affectionately on the head. Despite their teasing of each other, father and son were close. Mirko was also proud of his son. At twenty years old, Yarko had turned into quite a good-looking young man. He wasn’t tall, but his broad shoulders spoke of many a late hour in the gym. He had finished his third year of university and had been accepted into medical school. This caused his mother no end of joy, although Yarko himself was not looking forward to the long nights of study.

      Such thoughts were on everyone’s mind as the family enjoyed their last cruise of the summer. The Vancouver sun still shone warmly, but gone was the mid-summer heat wave of early August.

      “I smell a hint of fall in the air,” said Luba, Yarko’s mom, as she climbed from the cabin to join the men on deck. She had been resting below while Yarko and Mirko were busy on deck. She had waited until the sails were raised, the motor silenced, the fenders put away, the docking lines coiled and hung below, and a steady northwest course set. When this chaos of a dozen tasks on deck calmed down, Luba left the cabin to enjoy the warmth of the sun and the scenery of the Pacific coast. Her chestnut-brown hair was flecked with bronze and gold. Dark eyes sparkled from under her bangs as she stretched her legs in search of that last chance for a tan. She looked more like Yarko’s older sister than his mother.

      “Less than two weeks to go before school,” she added with a hint of satisfaction well understood by all mothers. “Then I’ll finally have some rest.”

      From the darkness of the cabin a voice protested this ominous forecast. Mark, Yarko’s eighteen-year-old brother, climbed out of the cabin’s opening, his mouth still bearing the reddish evidence of a feast of barbecue chips.

      “You look like a clown,” teased Yarko, with a sarcasm that was sure to elicit a response.

      “And you’re an asshole,” came the predictable response. “I’ll kick your ass in the water.”

      Mark always had the last word. Although younger, he was taller and no less muscled, so this was no empty threat. But Yarko ignored Mark’s challenge. There would be no crisis, as the brothers loved each other in a way only brothers can.

      * * *

      The sailboat was called Tryzub, Ukrainian for trident, the heraldic symbol of the Ukrainian coat of arms. A blue-and-yellow flag fluttered on the starboard shroud. In this way, Yarko’s father maintained the memory of a country he had actually never seen. It was August 24, 2002 – the eleventh anniversary of the proclamation of Ukrainian independence. The trip was the family’s way of celebrating.

      The Tryzub sailed past anchored freighters, tacking twice before finally aligning her course with the evergreen shores of the Sunshine Coast. The metropolis of Greater Vancouver, with a population of nearly two million, lay but a few miles behind, but the steep pine-covered shore of Bowen Island off the starboard bow betrayed no sign of mankind’s presence at this distance. That was the remarkable nature of this place. Despite its growing population, Vancouver had not scarred the primordial beauty of its surroundings. The rugged shorelines were covered in evergreen forest. Distant peaks glistened white against the azure sky. The Georgia Strait, which divides Vancouver Island from the mainland of British Columbia, provided sheltered waters for small craft to explore its various islands. Setting a course northward, Yarko had the westerly wind on his port beam.

      The Tryzub held this comfortable course all day, until the setting sun threatened to slip behind the mountains of Vancouver Island. Deprived of its energy source, the wind died to a whisper. For a brief moment, the orange sun to port scattered a path of fiery flecks on the waters leading towards distant Schooner Cove on Vancouver Island. Yarko squinted, scanning for other watercraft, or the barges and log booms that were a constant hazard in these waters. None could be seen. Before them rose the dark mass of Lemberg Point on South Thormanby Island. Yarko knew, from countless lessons in Ukrainian history, that Lemberg was the Austrian name for the Ukrainian city Lviv, the City of Lions. Yarko’s grandparents had emigrated from Lviv during the Second World War.

      The boat’s destination was a bay just to the west of Lemberg Point. Mirko dropped the leg of the outboard back into the water and started the motor. Yarko now steered a westerly course while his dad busied himself lowering the sails. Mark went below to find a jacket. It was getting chilly.

      * * *

      “Could I go to Europe, Dad?” Yarko asked. He was dreaming of the beaches of the French Riviera, the limitless autobahns of Germany, and the vestiges of imperial splendour in Vienna. “Not now, I mean, like, next year. Next summer. I can make enough money to cover both school and the trip.”

      His father thought for a moment before answering, casting a long glance at the shoreline. “I understand. I think I just might agree to that. You’re certainly at that age when you need to explore the world, to spread your wings. However, you should also go to Ukraine, for at least a week.”

      “Damn it, Dad! I don’t want to go to Ukraine. There’s nothing there for me. And my Ukrainian isn’t all that good. I’d rather go to Austria, then to Germany or France.”

      “Not quite true, Yarko. There is a reason for you to go. For one, by going there you’ll СКАЧАТЬ