246
Out in the cold, Fyodor takes the yukuri from my hands. The bird’s claws jangle dissonant notes.
—This needs to go back to the station, for logging.
Something has happened this night; we have bonded through cruelty.
—We are here to serve and protect the people, he continues. —What we do is a duty. Not many want to be in the difficult position of enforcing what is right, but we must not allow them to corrupt us.
We have reached the point where we must part company, our homes in opposite directions.
—Goodnight, then, I say. —Tomorrow we can see if Raisa has recently frequented any art or poetry societies in Bohemia.
Fyodor nods and pats me on the shoulder. —Xороший мальчик.
I cannot go straight home. My body feels rigid, as though the creases of my uniform are made of steel; I need the night wind to blow free my agonies. I walk into the forest, shelter by a tree and roll a cigarette. There is a cruelty to the blizzard, as if some malign force were hissing through a kalyuka. I am about to begin the long journey home when I hear a distant howling.
The snow confuses the direction of the noise. It seems close, then far, and when I turn back, I realise that I have strayed further into the forest than expected, for the light of the tavern is 247no more than a distant wink. I discover a muddle of footprints and reach into my pocket for the handle of my knife.
Suddenly, the noise is sharp and close. A group of men have surrounded a wolf – my wolf. They are drunk; their fumes cut through the falling snow.
—Fuck off, I say, filled with loathing. —I am an officer of the CRG and if you do not leave this animal alone, I will report you to the Czar.
I draw out my card.
—This is a dangerous vuk, one of them says. He is bald and I hate his baldness.
A flash of silver as he wields his knife.
—Vermin, another spits.
—As you know, I reply, —the directive changed last month.
—Filthy beast. Louder this time.
I raise my gloved fist.
—You must leave, I assert.
The bald man’s eyes gleam.
He slashes at my wolf’s flesh.
I feel the howl of pain in my gut.
—A lack of compliance will result in your immediate arrest and imprisonment.
The men squabble. Two want to fight; three are afraid.
A second howl, as a parting kick is delivered to the wolf, and I roar:
—GO NOW!
They leave slowly, to prove they are not intimidated. Once they have gone, I put my hands on him, giving him my warmth. The wound is above one of his forelegs and the flow of blood dyes the snow. I hold his paw and whisper to him. His claws lacerate my skin. 248
—We will find help, I tell him over and over. —We will find help.
He stands up shakily, his injured leg buckling. A sick fury curdles my stomach, an urge to pursue the men and turn their gut strings into music, but I remind myself to keep calm, for I might outrun death with timely choices.
We make slow progress. I coax the wolf on, though movement only intensifies the blood loss as muscle and bone work beneath his skin. When I wrap a handkerchief around the wound it becomes scarlet within minutes. At this hour, the darkness thickens so, and I think of Raisa painting oils on to canvas in layer upon heavy layer. The snow is swiftly filling our footprints and I am not sure which are mine, and which might belong to the men who attacked my wolf, which way is which way. There is the shape of a building ahead, and the trees thin. I have gone in the wrong direction, away from the tavern, but perhaps, perhaps it might still offer us shelter; I believe it to be an emergency hut Fyodor and I once inspected. I recall the little woman with the beard who ran it, Baba Slata. But: it is boarded up. Not the hut I remembered; this is a church, the windows smashed in places. I climb on to a ledge and peer through a hole in the stained glass – the missing eye of a saint – to see pews, torn hymn books, a scramble of rats.
—We’ll forge on, I tell the wolf. —Just a little further.
On we fight, the snow becoming tidal, my wolf close to collapse. On we fight, the trees funereally quiet, as though silently judging us fools, our footsteps a hypnotic rhythm, and the snow’s embrace becomes a siren, whispering that if we were to lie down, it would enfold us in a peaceful sleep. Up surges the life force. It slaps me in angry, urgent contradiction – Hurry. Move. Find shelter. I am boosted by a brief conviction that I, 249with my will, my courage, my determination, can defy the elements. But then another wave of weariness comes, until every footstep is a Herculean challenge, and the horror washes over me: prayer would be a foolishness, no greater being will care if the cold murders me, I will be just another statistic in a world where people are dying all over. I may never see her again. No fate will ever reunite us. All is chaos.
Raisa once described how she came across a Ruthenian soldier in the woods. He had crawled a long way from his battlefield and across our border, dying not with the noble grace depicted in books, but through a slow process of ruination: his mind fading, his breaths coming in sudden bursts, less and less and less. Is she far away now? In another country, with new papers, a new shade of hair, a new lover? My body is grey with the tiredness of so many lost years without her.
A distant light saves me from collapse. There is the jingling of a bell.
It is a sleigh-carriage, dragged by wolves, steered by a boy in furs.
The huskies
howl,
My wolf replies in a whimper
I sink to my knees,
Whispering
Please
Please
The boy climbs down
Lifts his lantern,
Its blazing light an eyeburn 250
He says something in a dialect
I cannot decipher
Blackness.
Furs.
My wolf’s breath on my neck
Jolts
The carriage drawn up mountainwards
The air becoming thin and sweet,
Snow eases stars above green trees
A door
Light spills out.
The boy’s arm around me as I stagger forwards
A squat woman with a beard
Welcoming us in
As we tumble into the warmth, into the light.