The Trace of the Wolf

by Siegfried Wittwer

  Ten days later, with a heavy heart, he decided to slaughter one of the reindeer, even though the mountains lay before him. His food was running out. He also needed the meat urgently as food. If he walked next to the sled, the second reindeer would handle the load. He divided the meat carefully. Nevertheless, he could calculate that he would soon have to slaughter the second animal. More and more often he had doubts whether he would make it to Proschin's cave, where enough supplies were buried to survive the rest of the winter. There were too many miles ahead of him.

  Mischka began to peel the bark of birch trees with clammy fingers to expose the edible layer underneath. It wasn't an easy job in the cold. He also looked for seeds in firs and pine cones. Under the thin blanket of snow he occasionally found Irish moss, which he boiled into a thin porridge. Still, he felt his powers dwindle.

  The temperature must have dropped to minus twenty degrees by now. The icy north wind continued to refresh and sucked the life energy from Mischka's body. The ascent into the mountains was more difficult for him from day to day. Finally he decided to dig a snow cave to recover from the efforts of the march. Perhaps the wind calmed down again tomorrow so that he could continue on his way.

  However, the snow was so powdery that he could not even build a sufficiently high protective wall. So, he tilted the sled between two pines to the side and hung the fur blanket over it, thus building a makeshift refuge. Then he collected a stack of firewood and tried to light a fire with the embers in the tin pot. It failed. The wood was damp and covered with ice crystals. The frost also made it difficult to reach the ignition temperature. Mischka felt how panic began to rise in him. He forced himself to rest and beat his hands together so that the blood circulated again. Then he tried once again to rekindle the embers with birch bark and fine spruce branches. A light plume of smoke finally rose, then a bluish flame flickered along the birch bark. Mischka protected it with his hollow hand against the wind so that the flame could continue to develop undisturbed. It grew, ate around itself and jumped on the bundle spruce branches.

  He breathed a sigh of relief. It was done! Gently, he first layered small, then thicker branches over the ignition fire. Soon the sparks were flying to heaven. Before he withdrew into his sleeping bag, he supplied the reindeer with a bundle of hay. There was only a little left. Within the next few days he would no longer be able to feed the animal. Then it was time to climb the ridge on foot with the luggage. It would be exhausting, another reason to rest now.

  Behind the hills the lamenting call of the wolves sounded again. This time it was closer than the days before. The reindeer sharpened its ears and scratched restlessly with its hooves. Again and again it looked to the west, where the grey death lurked.

  "Don't worry, they won't hurt you," Mischka tried to calm the animal. To be on the safe side, however, he tied the reindeer to the trunk of the pine tree next to the fireplace and looked for enough wood to make the flames flicker high up to the sky. Then he crawled back into his bivouac and tried to sleep. But he couldn't find peace and listened to the howling of the wolf pack.

  Then their lamenting singing suddenly stopped. Only the wind whistled through the branches of the pines and birches. The silence of the wolves seemed to Mischka like a warning. Instinctively he knew that they had sensed him and the reindeer and were preparing for an attack. Strained he stared into the darkness. But in the light circle of his fire nothing was to be seen. Still, he sensed they were there. The reindeer had jumped up and trembled all over his body. The animal's eyes were white with fear. It pulled the rope to escape into the forest.

  "Stay calm," Mischka said to the reindeer. "Here you are safe. If you run into the forest, they'll tear you apart!"

  He had read that wolves never attack humans. Reports of lonely hunters being chased through the forest by a wolf pack are only legends. Wolves would only attack frozen and half-dead people. But now he began to doubt it. How would he know that it was true? Mischka took his weapons, the batons, his hunting knife, bow and arrow and a pistol with two reserve magazines. Should they actually attack him or the reindeer, he would defend himself by all means.

  He let the fire flare up and decided to light a second fire on the back of his bivouac so that none of the beasts could fall into his back. Suddenly he saw grey shadows appear between the trunks of the pines. They were there! His adrenaline level rose and made him forget all tiredness and the cold.

  He didn't know how long they would circle his bivouac. The inhabitants and the animals of Siberia had time. Surely the wolves knew that the cold was working for them. At some point their victim would have to give up, at the latest when his fire went out.

  Suddenly Mischka had a crazy idea. The wolves were used to fighting, but how do they react to music? Could it be that the sounds of his harmonica influenced these animals as much as they did the wounded and aggressive Aljoscha?

  He pulled the instrument out of his pocket and began to play the first notes. Although his hands were stiff with cold, he tried to create a gentle vibrato. A melancholy melody echoed over the snow-capped hilltop, mixed with the howling of the wind and pulled over to the edge of the forest. The grey shadows between the pine trunks remained motionless. Then one of the wolves detached himself from the group and trotted with pointed ears into the light circle of the fire.

  Mischka was about to grab his spear when he recognized the animal. It was Aljoscha! It was his companion with whom he had shared caves and supplies for a winter. Mischka moved closer to the fire so that the flames lit his face and the wolf could see him.

  "Woof," Aljoscha barked softly as if to say "Hello". Then he sat down five yards away and put his head on his paws as if he had never been away.

  Mischka put the harmonica into his jacket pocket and smiled at the wolf. "It's good to have you back, Aljoscha. It's almost like old times."

  The wolf tilted his head and blinked at him. At the edge of the forest the pack got restless. Wild growling was heard. Some animals ventured closer to the fire. Aljoscha jumped up, whisked his teeth and made a throaty sound. Immediately the animals disappeared in the shadow of the pines. Aljoscha lay down again in the snow and stretched out his legs.

  "No question, you're the boss here," Mischka nodded to him. "You've come a long way among your friends. – I, on the other hand, am still on the run. I'm not feeling very well right now. Food's scarce and the cold's giving me a hard time. I just hope winter's over soon."

  He remained silent and looked at Aljoscha. He was lean, but under his dense winter fur strong muscles were visible. He was a strong animal, a real pack leader.

  "I'm glad you're here. Another leader would have caused me a lot of trouble." Mischka looked over to the reindeer, which was frozen with fear. "This is my life insurance policy. I need the animal. I can't pull the sled on my own. We can't share this time, Aljoscha."

  As if he had understood him, the wolf stood up, yapped at him and trotted away. Three more times he turned around and looked back. Obviously it was hard for him to return to his pack. Mischka waved at him and shouted: "Good hunting all the time, Aljoscha, and stop by again."

  Once more the wolf yapped softly. Then he disappeared in the shadow of the pines. A growl died in the darkness, as if orders were given and disobedience disciplined. Then it went quiet. The wolf pack had left.

  Mischka relaxed. The danger was over. He laid some branches in the embers of the fire, crawled into his sleeping bag and closed his eyes. He could sleep soundly. Aljoscha's companions would not attack him, at least not as long as he was the pack leader. It only took a few minutes for tiredness to overpower him and he fell into a deep sleep.

  In his dream he ran with Aljoscha over a flower-covered mountain meadow towards the red glowing evening sun. Behind him, however, in the darkness of the rising night, grim-looking figures lurked, their rifles at the ready. He did not fear them, for they seemed pale and frozen, like figures from a wax museum.

  The next morning Mischka was awakened by the cold that had cr
ept into his sleeping bag. He straightened up and looked around. The reindeer lay peacefully beside the pine. Apparently, there was no danger.

  The wind had died down and the sky was cloudless. Still, it was bitterly cold. Mischka threw a few branches on the extinguished fire and lit the embers under the ashes to new life. Then he set up a boiler with snow to cook himself a hot soup of birch bark and reindeer meat. After the meal he grabbed the sleigh, tensed the reindeer and continued his march. The road was still difficult, but the wind had died down. New courage filled him.

  Three days later he also had to slaughter the second reindeer, because his supplies had finally been used up. He had nothing to eat but a handful of dried Irish moss. He loaded as much meat as possible onto the sled and hoped that Aljoscha would find the rest with his pack.

  The sled was heavy. Therefore Mischka separated himself from all unnecessary ballast. Nevertheless, he made only slow progress during the next week. Finally he left the sled behind and packed only the essentials with the rest of the meat in his backpack.

  Meanwhile the frost was not as severe as in the past days. Mischka suspected that winter would soon end and that the snow would melt. He had to hurry to get to Proschin's cave. Not only because he ran out of food, but also to cross the river in time before the broken ice floes made it impassable.

  He probably covered no more than seven to twelve miles a day, too little to keep to his schedule. But the weight of the luggage and the rough terrain didn't let him move faster. Although the backpack became lighter day by day, the fact that the reindeer meat became less and less worried him more than he would admit to himself. Mischka did not know when he would reach the headwaters of Wiljui. If he could believe the card, he needed at least another week, provided his strength did not slacken and the path did not become more difficult.

  The next day he reached a mountain range. It was the last barrier before his destination. The lower slopes were covered with dense spruce forests, while rugged rocks piled up into the sky at the top. Mischka let his eyes wander to find a favorable ascent. Finally, he discovered a channel in which the meltwater flowed down to the valley at the time of the snow melt. Rock blocks formed natural steps. Without haste, he climbed the mountain. He paused as often as possible to spare his strength. In the evening he camped on the edge of the tree line. His muscles were still twitching in the sleeping bag from the effort of ascent.

  The next morning Mischka continued on his way. Through bushes and grasslands the way led upwards, towards a incision in the rock massif, which he regarded as a pass. Once at the top, however, he found that the incision had widened into an elongated valley, the end of which he could not see. So, he shouldered his luggage and walked over gravel and debris along the valley. He put his feet slightly outwards. A sprained ankle was the last thing he needed. In addition, the bottom of the valley was covered with small areas of ice, some of which were covered by snow. He had to watch every step of the way.

  The valley became narrower and the slopes to the right and left more rugged. Finally Mischka turned around a outcrop and stared in disbelief at a steep rock face rising into the sky. Dead end! He couldn't get any further here. Even if it had been summer and he had had suitable equipment, he was not a mountaineer and could not climb such a rock wall. Disheartened, he squatted down on a boulder and covered his position. He had to turn around and find another way. It seemed as if everything had conspired against him. Time was against him, and the rocks blocked his way.

  Mischka studied the map again. It’s scale was not sufficient to find the right way across the mountain range. He had to try it again, perhaps further north, where he had passed the mountains last summer. He couldn't remember the exact area.

  In the meantime the shadows had become longer. In a few minutes, daylight would give way to night. It was about time to built his bivouac. Because there were no trees here, he had to do without a fire and therefore find a place sheltered from the wind. After a short search he discovered two stone blocks which together formed an angle and therefore offered a poor wind protection. The ground was hard and covered with stones frozen in the ground. But he saw no other way than to make camp here.

  The night was cold and uncomfortable. He found little sleep and longed for the day to come. As soon as the first glimmer of the morning rose in the east, he broke camp, chewed a piece of frozen reindeer meat and made his way back. At noon he reached his old camp site and piled up some wood to warm himself up by the fire and fry some meat. He had only four meals left, and the end of the march was not in sight. But he didn't want to think about that now. In any case, he had to find a way across the mountain range.

  As soon as possible he set off again and went down the mountain. He slipped and bruised his knee. "Bother!," he cursed quietly, "is everything going wrong now?"

  Arriving at the foot of the mountain range, he hobbled north. But he couldn't find a pass until evening. The cliffs rose coldly and repellingly into the sky, too steep for a transition.

  The next day he continued the hike. His knee was hurting and made every climb a torture. Foothills of the mountain range pushed him east and increased the distance between him and Proschin's cave. Mischka bit his teeth together. He had wandered hundreds of miles through the wilderness in the meantime, and now a mountain range should let all his plans fail?! Give up? That was out of the question for him! He'd fight as long as one muscle fiber was still stirring! He had learned to endure hardships, to ignore pain and not to leave control of his body and mind to fatigue.

  He remembered a word from the Siberian poet Innokenti Annenski: "Winter never surrenders to you! You'd better give in!"

  Well said, he thought, but I can't surrender now. I have to go.

  Determined he fought his way through the lumpy snow. Every step was a torture. But his will drove him forward. He wanted to make it, and he'd make it! With God's help, he'd make it!

  Mischka stopped in amazement. What was he just thinking? With God's help? How's that? He never cared about God. How could such a thought come to him? Had Proschin and Tima Bekow influenced him more than he wanted to admit? No, it couldn't be. He was too independent in his thinking, too critical. Did he begin to believe that there was someone who was interested in him? Trust that he was not left alone in a cold, empty universe in which only chance, struggle and meaninglessness rule?

  Mischka suddenly felt warmth running through his body, and new energy. "God," he said in a low voice, "are you there anyway?"

  Two days later the mountain range merged into a hilly landscape. Mischka breathed a sigh of relief. He's been freezing ever since he had nothing to eat. Only at the evening fire he could warm himself up a little. In order not to lose all his strength, he cut the Cambrian from birch and spruce trunks and scraped under the snow for moss and dry blades of grass. However these foods gave him too little energy.

  But on that day, he succeeded in killing a snow grouse. It was lean and had little meat, but he felt new strength in his muscles as he marched on at sunrise.

  Around noon he reached a high plateau. It gave him a view to the west. Mischka would have wanted to jump into the air if he hadn't been so tired and if his feet and knee hadn't hurt so much from the strains. Before him the plain spread out, over which he had wandered to the northeast in autumn. In the distance the white band of the still frozen Wiljui stretched out and disappeared in the south between the hills. He'd reach the river by noon tomorrow at the latest. There was a good chance he could cross it before the ice broke.

  Mischka didn't waste any more time. From the high plateau a snow-covered slope led into the valley. He pulled his leather blanket out of his backpack, sat down on it and slipped downhill. The ride wasn't fast. But he felt some stone painful, but it was still better than running. Arriving at the bottom, he immediately made his way to the river. Hope and anticipation drove him forward and made him forget his pain. He walked into the darkness and was back on his feet at the dawn of the day. Already in the morning he reached the bank of the
river.

  After a short search, he found his hidden storage space, loaded food and rubber dinghy onto the leather blanket and pulled it over the frozen river like a sleigh. The ice crunched in many places. But Mischka tried not to think about what would happen if he broke in. He arrived safely at the other shore, carried the supplies with one last effort into the cave devastated by the soldiers and lit a fire. Then he spread out his sleeping bag in the alcove above the fireplace, opened a tin can and ate the contents with ravenous appetite.

  "Thank you, Comrade Lieutenant!" His voice echoed in the cave like in a cathedral. "Without your supplies, I'd be in a bad way."

  Then he stretched out, felt the warmth of the fire surrounding him and let it carry him to the land of dreams.

  The next morning he was woken up by loud crunching and crashing. It sounded like a stone mill grinding crushing rocks. The ice of the river was broken. He had barely made it! For the next two weeks the river had become impassable.

  Stiff-legged Mischka rose from his camp. Back, knees and feet hurt from the strains of the hike. Nevertheless, he hobbled outside to observe the spectacle that nature offered him. It was impressive. The force of the flowing water pushed the ice floes inexorably downstream. They scraped along the shore, piled up on top of each other, burst into pieces with a loud crash and rolled further towards the sea. Just yesterday, the ice held the river captive. Today, however, it became the plaything of the floods.

  When will our people break the ice of dictatorship and ideology and wash it into the sea of history? Mischka pondered, leaned against the rock face and enjoyed the warming rays of the April sun. The air was still bitterly cold, but the sun already had enough power to melt the ice of the river. We too would need a change in climate so that the ice shield that clings to us can break.

  An unlucky jay rose from a birch tree on the riverbank. Surely he had built his nest there and had already incubated his clutch of eggs, while the other birds were still in the south. At minus thirty degrees he laid his eggs in the hope that the first spiders and insects would soon come to life and be available as food for the young birds.