The Firebird. Stravinsky. It was playing in the Arcadian’s head. Soon it was playing in his living area, too. As loud as he dared, balancing attracting attention to himself with outwardly expressing the joy his soul was experiencing.
And the joy was for one reason only. He had his next victim all lined up.
The voice had spoken and he had listened. Guided him and he had followed. Or he would follow. Soon. He was preparing. Getting his tools ready. Deciding on his approach.
That had been the most thrilling thing so far. The anticipation. The preparation.
This one was going to be different from the last. Very different. Far away from the other one, both psychologically and geographically. When he’d realised that, his soul sank with disappointment. He almost called it off. But he didn’t. And the more he thought about it, the gladder he was that he hadn’t done so. Because the more he allowed the plan to percolate through his consciousness, coalesce inside his head, the more he grasped how he could make it work.
The trick, he thought, would be to find enjoyment in it even though it wasn’t what he would have done given the choice. To find satisfaction while doing a thorough job, but – and this, he felt, was the important thing – to show he could be professional too. Yes. That was it. That was what he would do.
He had read interviews with film directors saying the same thing. They would do one personal project, one for the studio. One personal, one for the studio. Alternate, like that. That was what he would do. The doll was his personal project; this one would be his in-house studio job. He would bring the same degree of care and attention to it, of planning and preparation, of execution.
He smiled at the unintentional pun. No, maybe it had been intentional. He smiled some more at his own cleverness.
He would use this as a calling card. To let them know he was serious. That he could turn his hand to whatever was required. Because it was all very well doing what he had done with the doll. But that was all passion, desire. With this one he had to show detachment. There would be no time to savour his handiwork like last time. It would be a quick in-and-out job. He had wondered whether he was up for that and had actually hesitated in considering whether to do it.
But he had decided yes. Yes. Definitely yes.
It was to be a man this time. Nothing special about him, not like last time. Something else for him to be disappointed at. But after thinking it through, he had soon overcome the disappointment.
‘Gives it a… degree of symmetry,’ he had said, and he was pleased with that response. Showed he wasn’t biased, sexist. The phrasing showed his erudition, too. Never a bad thing.
And there was something else. Something practical to consider. This wouldn’t link him to the doll’s death. Apart from the end result, there would be no similarities. By not sticking to the serial killer’s usual signature, he would run rings round the police. How brilliant.
The Arcadian felt a delicious shivery thrill run through his body. He smiled once more, checked his tools. Heard the music both inside and outside his head.
The Firebird. It wasn’t just a piece of music to him. No. It was more than that. He knew all about it. Hadn’t just listened to it, but had researched it as well. He remembered a music teacher at one of the schools he had briefly attended telling the class that music was understood through intelligence. The rest of the class had ignored him, went on listening to whatever pop shit was in the charts that week. But the Arcadian had listened. Started listening to classical music. Going to the library, getting out CDs. Then getting out books to go with them, ones talking about the composers’ lives. Reading them while listening. Trying to understand what made them come up with the music they did in the way they did. He didn’t always get it, didn’t always understand. In fact, if he was honest, he hardly understood at all. And that made him angry. That made him think he wasn’t intelligent, that he wouldn’t be able to appreciate the music, that he was just like the rest of them. So he persevered. Kept on listening, kept on reading. Made himself understand, made himself enjoy it.
And now he loved it. He knew everything about it. Everything. Even the Polonsky poem The Firebird was based on.
‘And in my dreams I see myself on a wolf’s back,’ he recited aloud, ‘Riding along a forest path/To do battle with Kaschei.’ He smiled, into the music, the moment. ‘In that land where a princess sits under lock and key/Pining behind massive walls./There gardens surround a palace all of glass;/There Firebirds sing by night/And peck at golden fruit…’
He spread his arms wide at the final few lines, as if expecting applause. But only the single doll in the doll’s house looked back at him.
Kaschei. The Immortal. The Deathless. He could only be killed one way. By capturing his soul. And that was well hidden. In a needle which was in an egg which was in a duck which was in a hare which was in an iron chest which was buried under an oak tree on the island of Buyan. If the chest were to be dug up, the hare would run away. If it was caught, the duck would escape from it and fly away. If the duck was caught, though, Kaschei was in trouble. Because then they could crack the egg and take out the needle. And if that was broken, he would die.
He looked at his doll’s house. His doll, sitting there looking perfectly happy. He thought of the butterfly. Smiled.
‘We don’t need to go to all that trouble, do we?’ he said to the doll.
She stared at him, smiling. Unblinking.
‘You’re getting some company soon,’ he said. ‘A gentleman friend. Would you like that?’
The doll kept smiling.
He looked at her sitting all alone. Although she had him for company, it couldn’t be much fun. All those empty chairs in empty rooms. He felt the overwhelming urge to provide her with company, to fill the house with other dolls.
He checked his tools once more.
‘And I will,’ he said aloud. ‘Soon.’