by R. J. Blain
“Yes, those new here underestimate our winters, and ours are mild compared to others.” The uchastkovyi returned my badge. “How well do you know Andrey Alekseevich Fedorov?”
“I do not know him well. He works inside. I have spoken to him a few times, but only enough to know who he is. He works hard, on extended hours, learning to become an operator. Did something happen?”
The uchastkovyi scowled, and I’d grown so accustomed to surly Russians I waited with the passive patience expected of me. In some ways, I liked the people of Blagoveshchensk. They came across as hearty, stubborn people who thrived in adverse conditions.
“Andrey Fedorov is dead, killed during the night by a sumasshedshiy volk, who broke free of his ved’ma and turned on his family. Andrey Fedorov was kin, a cousin.”
When I had first learned of the local werewolves and their brands, I’d also been taught the local way of warding away evil, an old gesture used as a respectful gesture of respectful worship in other parts of the world. With it had come a warning: should an official speak of wolves, the wise protected themselves.
It sickened me to use it, but my discomfort, which I couldn’t hide as well as I wanted, bore unexpected fruit. The uchastkovyi’s expression softened. “You are unaware Andrey Fedorov called a sumasshedshiy volk kin?”
“I didn’t know.”
“It is whispered he meant to become a bodark to show his loyalty, and his own flesh and blood turned on him in a fit of jealousy, first murdering the ved’ma meant to save his soul before killing his family and dragging their bodies here. We can only assume the cursed beast, twisted as he is, believes this is now his territory.”
The uchastkovyi’s words reminded me of Desmond and his son-in-law, Richard. Both had worried about my control over my wolf.
I feared I now understood the reason why.
Chapter Two
An hour after he started grilling me, the uchastkovyi introduced himself as Timofey Matveevich Vasiljev, and he was in charge of all incidents involving werewolves within the mill quarter of Blagoveshchensk. No one had seen Pyotr Alekseevich Fedorov following the rise of the full moon and the murders of his family and ved’ma. The politsiya believed the wolf hadn’t finished killing yet.
Worse, all employees of the mill were considered to be possible targets. I heard ‘conspirator’ instead, which I blamed on my long history within the United States military. My boss arrived not long after I’d been warned for the sixth time to be careful and contact the authorities if I saw anything suspicious.
“I apologize for being late. I was delayed on my way here,” the mill’s overseer said, jumping out of his truck and slamming the door.
I could smell his lie, and thanks to the Russian way of remaining impassive and expressionless, I hid my reaction. “Of course, Stanislav Dmitrijevich Morozov. It’s no problem.”
We shook hands, with the uchastkovyi leading the ritual, and both men gripped my hand in a borderline painful manner. Stanislav’s arrival ended my questioning, and when he supported my claim he’d invited me, the uchastkovyi shook his head. “It’s too bad in there for now. The wood must wait. My apologies, Sergei Sokolov.”
“Unfortunate,” my overseer murmured, unusual compared to his normal, boisterous voice. I didn’t need my nose to detect his lie.
I’d been lured to the site for questioning, and I didn’t understand why. While I’d scented other werewolves in the city, I avoided them. I avoided anyone I believed might be a ved’ma, too. Had someone noticed me despite my precautions?
I would need to be even more careful in the days to come, and I would push off transforming for as long as my wolf could handle, which could be years if necessary. I checked my watch. “If you don’t require anything else from me, I should take care of some other business. I do need to study before the library closes, and I have other errands as well.”
“Go,” the uchastkovyi ordered.
The hardest part was walking to my truck. I wanted to bolt and escape them, but I needed to be brisk at the same time.
I needed to walk a fine line.
I wanted to floor it and burn rubber in my hurry to escape, but I drove with the caution of someone who knew his truck might fall apart if pushed too hard. In case someone followed me, I went to the general store and stocked up on supplies, getting enough for the week. On my way out, I’d stop for some fresh meat and a new bone for Bodwin’s wolf.
I needed to give her a name and lay the past to rest.
To keep myself busy, I purchased the mortar I’d need to finish my fireplace in the cabin. It would be large enough for me to, if I wished, cook over it or give Bodwin’s wolf enough space to enjoy the fire with me without venturing too close to me.
She tolerated me, she even obeyed my commands, but she did not appreciate when I didn’t keep an appropriate distance.
Working on the fireplace also supported my story about what I did when I wasn’t working.
One day, I would be able to live without having to cultivate every moment to trick those around me. One day, I would be able to return to the United States and disappear in a crowd. Maybe I’d even get that cabin I longed for and the mate my wolf desired. Learning packs of werewolves existed would haunt me.
I wanted what they had, as did my wolf.
For now, I would wait and work hard to disappear, fading from memory until nobody remembered I existed.
I kept to my usual routine after work, braving the city to visit one of Blagoveshchensk’s three libraries. Compared to the United States, the government controlled information as their way of controlling the people. On the other hand, I marveled at how well educated the Russian people were, valuing what they could learn with a relentlessness I admired.
For the next few hours, to maintain my cover, I would agonize over piecing together Cyrillic script. However, instead of delving through more modern texts, I hunted new prey: Russian folklore, as seen through the eyes of Blagoveshchensk’s people.
In a world where werewolves didn’t exist in the open, how did Blagoveshchensk have a population who knew the supernatural existed, branded their faces so all would know what they were, and controlled them? I picked several books, took them to a table tucked in a shadowy corner, and armed myself with my translation dictionary. The first two, judging from their table of contents, contained nothing of use.
The third was a gold mine of information about the ved’ma, spirits, and general folklore, ranging from the legends surrounding Baba Yaga to the vucari, which translated roughly to lycanthrope in other parts of the world. Vucari were similar to bodark but not quite the same in Blagoveshchensk folklore, although the book didn’t explain the differences. I wasn’t sure how other parts of Russia viewed werewolves, but something learned was better than nothing.
According to the text, written over fifty years ago by a local, the vucari, unlike the bodark, had incurred the Devil’s wrath, and in an effort to protect the people from the werewolf’s curse, the church had crafted talismans to ward homes against them. The volume claimed that if a vucari could atone and resist the curse for a period of five years, they would rise to become a hound of heaven, a servant favored by God.
Why did Blagoveshchensk have bodark but no vucari? Did they attempt to cultivate the bodark to become vucari? The wawkalak seemed closer to the vucari to me.
Trying to wrap my head around the collision of the supernatural and the church, which I presumed to be Russian Orthodox, gave me a headache. I could deal with the supernatural and superstitious, but religious fanatics of all stripes terrified me. Sense, humanity, and fact meant nothing in the face of fanaticism.
Fanatical mothers and fathers would brand their children with crescent moons if their religion demanded it of them. They would do more than merely burn their children with silver brands.
They might kill them.
I forced myself to return to my reading, my eyes widening when the entry on the vucari delved into cures for those inflicted with lycanthropy. In refres
hing honesty, the book acknowledged few who fell to the curse could be restored. It also declared that for a vucari to return to human form and spirit, he or she needed to be humanized.
It began with the gift of a name and ended with love and acceptance.
Love broke many curses in folklore, but I also recognized the truth. When my wolf hunted, there was no room in him for such emotions. Neither one of us had opened that door since our mother’s death, and we agreed. Until we no longer had to run, we couldn’t afford to love anyone.
My wolf sighed, and I felt as much as heard his longing.
I closed the book, returned it to its shelf, and resolved to put the problem of Russian werewolves behind me. I was no wawkalak, bodark, vucari, or sumasshedshiy volk. I wasn’t Fenerec, either.
I defied such easy categorization with my glowing fur and a wolf I didn’t need to control, for he controlled himself. I could go years without shifting. I had gone over a decade without shifting when working within the military.
If I’d believed in what the book claimed, I’d earned becoming one of the so-called hounds of heaven twice over.
But, until I moved on, I would listen and learn, but I would avoid the issue of other wolves.
It wouldn’t prevent me from snatching up the single grain of hope I’d found since stepping foot into Russia. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to humanize Bodwin’s wolf, but I would try.
She needed me, and she deserved a name.
A gray, rusted-out car followed me from the library to the butcher. I haggled with the man and bartered to have a look at his truck, which was broken. I pulled my toolbox out of the bed of my truck and fought with the damned thing for almost two hours before locating the culprits, a loose bolt and a dead spark plug. The spark plug I’d identified early, but it hadn’t matched the symptoms of a dangerous rattle. He lucked out; a hobby of scrounging parts meant he had the right plug for his truck. A spark plug install, an oil change, and precautionary check of the rest of the truck later, I had the engine going.
He gave me a discount and extra meat along with two bones for my wolf and a promise of better for my big dog next week along with all the scraps she might enjoy.
For the first time since my arrival, a Russian invited me to call him by his short name, Tyoma. I delighted in sharing the same courtesy with him, and as he knew I’d grown up far from Russia, he taught me my informal name was Seryozha, and he would call me that so I might feel more welcome.
Bemused, I packed my tools, loaded my truck, and headed for home.
The same gray car followed me to the city limits before turning a different direction, and I wondered who would want anything from me. Like the other laborers, I’d let my beard grow, which changed my appearance enough I sometimes didn’t recognize myself in the mirror.
I worried the entire drive home, and when I arrived, I checked my property, but everything seemed to be in order. I released Bodwin’s wolf, chuckling at her antics when she rolled on the lawn and stretched her legs. Life as a lazy cabin wolf suited her. Her coat had grown in thick albeit coarse, far rougher than most dogs. While she sometimes permitted me to scratch behind her ears, she preferred if I didn’t touch her often. When pleased with me, she rubbed her nose against me and sat at my feet.
Most days, she bolted for the woods to hunt, but some days, like today, she stayed close, limiting her range to the yard I’d cleared of trees while I unloaded the truck. I checked my gas generator and its nearby tank, pleased with my fuel levels. In a few weeks, I would top the tank and install the exterior heaters meant to keep the fluid from freezing should it become excessively cold. It powered my chest freezer, the water heater, and refrigerator, the only appliances I needed electricity for. In winter, if it became as cold as the locals claimed, I’d craft a natural ice box to store things and hunt in the woods as a wolf should the snow prove too deep for my truck to venture through.
I hoped it did.
Before I finished my work, Bodwin’s wolf headed inside, and she took over the fur rug I left on the floor for her. With no reason to wait, I hauled in the first load of stones for my fireplace and went to work.
My conversational Romansh needed work, but I used it anyway, struggling with my limited vocabulary to speak the language Bodwin’s wolf knew best. I even apologized for not knowing any good Romansh names to give her, forcing me to pick from a different culture or my past.
My mother’s name had been Gabriella, and sometimes, she had spoken fondly of a woman she’d called Petra. For no reason other than my mother’s smile, I made the first decision to chase after a folklore, wondering if there was more to Bodwin’s wolf than a cunning animal used to living with humans.
My eyes told me no, as did my common sense, but her coarse fur told a different story.
No mundane dog I’d ever pet had a coat so coarse.
“Your name is Petra,” I said in Romansh before repeating my words in Russian and English. Bodwin’s wolf stared at me with her wolf-gold eyes, one ear twisted back.
The newly dubbed Petra turned her head and seemed less than thrilled with her new name.
“Flea-bitten titmouse,” I muttered, and since no one but her could see me, I smiled.
With the sawmill closed, I spent the new few days at home to save on gas, built my fireplace, and enjoyed the peace and quiet. When I refused to visit Blagoveshchensk, it visited me. The crunch of tires on gravel warned me I had a visitor, as did Petra’s single bark.
“Stay,” I ordered in Romansh. The wolf turned her ears back at my edict, but she snatched her bone and dragged it to the corner before pinning it between her paws. Her defiance amused me, although her choice to head deeper into the cabin assured me she would do as told. Covered in mortar, I headed to the door, relieved I hadn’t bothered removing the troublesome talisman. Better yet, I’d wrapped the scarab cuff to protect it, which transformed it into an odd, homemade brace of sorts, so unless my guest opted to be rude, my jewelry would remain a secret.
A car marked as belonging to the politsiya parked beside my truck, and Timofey Matveevich Vasiljev stepped out.
As often was the case with the locals, I couldn’t tell if he scowled for a reason.
“Good afternoon, Timofey Matveevich Vasiljev,” I greeted, hoping my formality would appease the uchastkovyi, regretting I wasn’t aware of how I should address him.
“Good afternoon, Sergei Sokolov,” he replied, and if my lack of a patronymic bothered him, he didn’t show it—or he’d believed my story about how my name had been butchered in the United States. “I would have called, but you don’t have a phone.”
“It’s the price of living so far away from civilization. I’m sorry you’ve had to come all this way. How can I help you?”
“I have some questions.”
I took that as my cue to invite the man in and begin the odd dance the locals enjoyed when welcoming someone into their home. “Please come in.” The American in me demanded I add, “Pardon my mess. I was taking advantage of the time off to work on my fireplace.” I held up my mortar-covered hands. “My dog’s inside, and she’s not used to strangers, so give her space. She won’t bother you unless you bother her. She is trained.”
“I’ll be careful. Thank you.” The uchastkovyi paused at my door, the slight widening of his eyes betraying his surprise. At the threshold, he took off his jacket and shoes, which he put in their appropriate places as expected of a guest in someone’s home. From his jacket, he pulled out a small flask of vodka.
I thanked my lucky stars I’d already put soup on the stove for the day and that it was ready to serve. Tea wouldn’t take long to provide, either, although I would have been a better host if I offered Turkish coffee instead. We went through yet another ritual among the locals, attempting a refusal of the gift before accepting his second offering. I placed the flask on my small table and gestured to my rocking chair, my shameless creature comfort. At my invitation, he sat while I bustled around my kitchen, first washing my hands before bringing
him a mug of soup.
I loved everything about the custom of feeding guests, especially when I surprised most with the quality of my cooking.
Good food put people at ease, and not even the uchastkovyi was immune to my culinary arts.
“Your solyanka is superb. Where did you get the recipe?”
“A butcher’s wife,” I replied, grateful I could tell that as a simple truth. “One of his machines broke when I was in his store, so I fixed it for him. He thanked me with everything needed to make supper that night, plus the recipe. It has become a favorite, although I embellished a little. I enjoy cooking.” On second thought, I would offer him the coffee or tea, which would fit better with my status as an outsider. “Would you like some tea or coffee? I have both, although my coffee tends to be quite strong. I make Turkish coffee.”
“You make Turkish coffee?” he asked, straightening with interest.
“I will make you some. How would you like it? How can I help you?” Turkish coffee would be a good reward for the hard work I’d done, and I’d found a little, albeit expensive shop in the heart of Blagoveshchensk with oddities from around the world, including everything I needed to make and serve Turkish coffee. As Turkish coffee used a much finer ground of coffee, I’d taken to getting whole beans whenever I could and grinding it myself.
It had taken me several months of living in the area to learn Turkish-styled coffee was the default for home brewed in Russia, but cappuccinos ruled the rare times they went to a café. Restaurants in the city also baffled me.
The locals preferred finer dining if they went out at all, and going to a restaurant meant a special occasion, something to be savored and enjoyed.
“Az seker. There has been another death.”
It intrigued me that the man used the proper Turkish way of indicating he wanted a hint of sugar in his. I sighed at the news of another death and made the loathed gesture of warding against evil. “Who has passed?”