The Last Hiccup

by Christopher Meades

  The boy came to his senses only once while en route through the Circum-Baikal tunnel west of Kultuk. Other than that, he remained sedated all the way to their destination stop at the Siberian city of Irkutsk. There, Alexander met a contact who, for a fee, granted them passage over the Mongolian border without the requisite state-issued documentation. This step eliminated days from their journey, as it normally would have been exceedingly difficult to leave the country with an unconscious, hiccupping child who had no papers.

  Once they entered Mongolia, the group boarded a boat and sailed to the south side of the Egiyn River where they were met by a horse-drawn carriage. Its driver — a short, grim, deceitful man with a long mustache and enormous fur coat — was of course crooked. Even though Alexander had paid for his services in advance, the driver demanded an extra fifty percent for the inconvenience of moving the schedule forward two weeks. Alexander had planned for just such a contingency and paid the man without complaint. When they arrived at the base of the Burkhan Khaldun mountain, the driver stopped the horses and demanded additional compensation lest he leave them stranded a hundred kilometers from civilization. Alexander lost his temper and engaged the man in a ferocious argument in broken Khalkha, with sprinklings of Russian and Buryat interspersed throughout. Finally, after uttering disparaging remarks about the man’s ancestors and threatening to have Tarkov strangle him, Alexander relented. With only a rough hand-drawn map of their destination, he needed this man not only to steer the carriage along the treacherous mountainside, but also to act as a guide. He handed over more money, climbed back inside, and they were on their way up the mountain. Before reaching the summit, the carriage took a fork in the road and began traveling down toward a valley on the other side.

  About twenty minutes before they reached the valley, Vladimir awoke. He had been lying with his head in Ilvana’s lap for the last three hours and had been jostled from his sleep when the carriage rumbled through a patch of potholes. Nurse’s aide Strekov was too busy resting her eyes to notice. Vladimir’s morphine-induced torpor, languid and dense from start to finish, was difficult to emerge from. He sat up, startled but dozy, his eyes wide.

  “Relax, child,” Alexander said. “I assure you — you’re quite safe.”

  “Where am I?” Vladimir said between hiccups.

  “You’re in Northern Mongolia. We’re on our way down the great Burkhan Khaldun mountain, heading toward the valley on the other side.”

  Vladimir pointed at the sleeping nurse’s aide. He’d left behind a messy puddle of drool in her lap. “Who’s she?”

  “Her name is Ilvana. You needn’t worry. She’s harmless. The poor dear sleeps most of the time.”

  “Where’s Doctor Namestikov?”

  “I didn’t tell Sergei about our journey.”

  Vladimir’s mouth tightened. His penetrating eyes shifted. “Doctor Namestikov is going to be angry,” he said.

  Up until now, Alexander had given his rival consideration only in abstract terms. For the first time he pictured Sergei storming through the hospital in a frenzy, desperate to find his prized patient. The idea that at this very moment Sergei could be scouring the streets of Moscow, his enraged eyes red as the lining of an admiral’s coat, brought a smile to Alexander’s face.

  “Sergei has done all he can. You’re in my care now.”

  Vladimir cast a glance at the woman and then back at Alexander. He climbed up on his knees and looked out the window into the sea of lush, green foliage and then sat back down and gave Alexander his ever-present vacuous glare.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me where we’re going?” Alexander said.

  “I already know where you’re taking me.”

  Alexander leaned forward, his interest piqued. “And where’s that?”

  “You’re taking me to sever my phrenic nerve.”

  “What would give you that idea?” Alexander said.

  “I heard you talking about it with a nurse when you thought I was sleeping.”

  Alexander responded in perhaps the most gentle tone he’d affected in his entire life. “That was merely one suggestion out of many. We discarded that initiative months ago. You must understand, I’m not trying to cure your hiccups. Suppose I did sever your nerve and by some good fortune you lived through the procedure and were miraculously cured. Would everything be right in your world? Would you be able to go out into society and function like a normal person? Would you grow up into a teenager and then as a man, find employment and start a family?”

  Vladimir gave him an empty look.

  Alexander continued. “I think there is a deeper problem here. You’re a very troubled young boy, Vladimir. I want nothing more than to cure your hiccups. And hopefully someday I’ll be able to do that. But first you must quell the crisis in your soul. I’m not sure what’s wrong with you. I cannot pinpoint your dilemma and I would be ill-advised to try. It’s something you must find within yourself.”

  Vladimir’s expression, for so long a blank page, suddenly morphed into an implacable scowl. “Why do you want to help me?” he said.

  Alexander, unprepared for the boy’s question, was at a loss for words. “It’s my job to help you,” he said.

  “That’s not the only reason. You wouldn’t travel to some faraway land just to help one of your patients.”

  “Nonsense,” Alexander said. “I would do this for any of my charges.”

  “No,” Vladimir said. “It’s something else. You’re afraid of something. What is it that you’re afraid of?”

  Alexander was slowly growing more and more uncomfortable in the presence of this child. For the first time during their journey, he wished Ilvana would wake from her stupor. “It’s not that I’m afraid or that Sergei is afraid,” he said. “We’re all just concerned about you.”

  The boy glared at him, the sharp yelp of his hiccups pulsating in a monotone rhythm. “You’re afraid of what I might do. You think I might hurt someone.”

  “Would you, Vladimir? Would you hurt someone?”

  Young Vlad ignored his question. “You’re worried that I might grow up to become an evil man. You think I could one day become a murderer.”

  Suddenly the carriage lurched to a stop. Ilvana Strekov snapped to from her slumber, stretched her arms and let forth a full-body yawn. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and looked around the carriage. The boy was awake, the air in the coach thick with tension.

  “What happened here?” she said.

  The doctor remained perfectly quiet. Vladimir sat still as well, the sound of his hiccups filling the carriage. The door opened to reveal Tarkov standing outside in the damp air. He lifted Vladimir out of the coach and set the boy down on the wet grass. Alexander joined them. He pulled out his hand-drawn map and examined it in the face of the valley’s rolling hills and lime-green vegetation. Alexander discussed their destination briefly with the driver, who pointed to a hill in the far distance.

  “The horses are too big for the path,” the driver said in broken Russian.

  “Where are we going?” Vladimir said.

  Alexander crouched down to look Vladimir in the eyes. “You’ll find out when we arrive. Now, I don’t want any difficulty out of you,” he said. “You’re going to come with us whether you walk on your own two feet or I have Tarkov here drag you along in the mud.”

  Vladimir looked up at Tarkov. An absolute mountain of a man, Tarkov folded his arms to reveal thick Herculean biceps bulging under his winter coat. The orderly could crush Vladimir with a single hand. Vladimir gazed off into the distance. He was so far from the unending winter of his village. In every direction there were steep mountains and rolling green hills.

  “I suppose he’ll have to drag me in the mud,” Vladimir said.

  Alexander turned to Tarkov. “Pick up the boy,” he said. “We must arrive before sundown.”

  Led by their driver-turned-guide, the Soviets marched through the brush, alternating between muddy jungle paths and grass fields for over an hour before
they heard the distant sound of a waterfall. They advanced in the direction of the crashing water until they came to a clearing. In the middle, surrounded by mountains on three sides, was an enormous dwelling with steep arches, its intricate framework laced with ornate carvings and long red cloths. The dwelling stood twelve meters high and three times as wide. A long winding path, lined by small, meticulously aligned bundles of rocks, led up to the entrance. Tarkov set Vladimir down and stared with the others in wonder at this vast structure in the middle of a deserted land.

  They approached the front doors. Essentially a series of hollowed-out trees strung together, the doors looked fragile compared to the dwelling’s thick, sturdy walls. Shards of light darted out between cracks in the doors, revealing fragments of the room inside. Alexander knocked three times. There was no answer. “Hello,” Alexander called, his voice drowned out by the sound of the nearby waterfall. With caution, he pulled on the doors. They flung open to reveal a long, large room, empty save for a lone figure sitting in a chair against the far back wall.

  “Enter,” the figure said. Alexander ordered the others to remain outside and took Vladimir by the arm. They walked along a thick red carpet toward the figure. The walls were barren as was the ceiling, save for two enormous skylights, one consisting of blue stained glass, the other red. Two beams of incongruent light shone down to cast a nebulous purple glow about the room.

  The Russians arrived at the figure. Sitting perfectly erect on an uncomfortable wicker chair was an old Asian man, so tall and rail-thin he would tower over Alexander if he were to stand. The man’s head was shaved completely bald and his eyes were closed. His body was covered by a yellow robe. Vladimir had never seen a man so tall. Aside from their guide, he’d never seen a man with such dark skin before either. He glanced up at Alexander, who was quiet as a ghost, waiting for the man to speak.

  “Are you Alexander Afiniganov of Russia?” the tall man said in perfect Russian.

  “Yes,” Alexander said. The doctor’s rancorous demeanor had all but vanished. “Are you the Great Gog?”

  “I am.”

  Vladimir hiccupped.

  “Does the child always make that sound?” the Great Gog said.

  “Yes,” Alexander said.

  The man looked down at Vladimir and then stood, his legs stretching out like fallen trees rising from the ground. He towered over the Russians. The Great Gog took a long look at the boy. He knelt down on one knee and placed his hand to Vladimir’s cheek. Gog looked deep into the young boy’s eyes. He stared for a full minute in absolute silence before he stood up again.

  “Your fears are well-founded, Alexander Afiniganov of Russia. There is a battle being waged deep within this young one.”

  “Which battle?”

  “The only battle, Doctor — one of good versus evil. Vladimir needs time away from the world to reflect on the child he is and the man he will become. You may leave now. It is time for your party to return home.”

  “The boy is on a regimen of medication to help him sleep. I can leave you a six-month supply.”

  “That will not be necessary,” the Great Gog said. “Vladimir will no longer need his medication.”

  Alexander’s eyebrow raised. “When should we return to retrieve the child?” he said.

  “You must never return for the boy.” The Great Gog stepped toward Alexander. “When Vladimir is ready, he will leave on his own.”

  Alexander had anticipated that the Great Gog would present him with some manner of timetable, an organized method they could use to track the boy’s progress either through intermittent visits or correspondence through the post. He looked down at young Vlad and then around the room with its barren walls and hazy lavender light. For the first time, a flicker of doubt resonated in the doctor’s mind. What he had done was tantamount to kidnapping. He had no firm idea of Gog’s intentions with the boy. Were he to leave Vladimir here and the child happened to never return, there could be a litany of charges back in his homeland — child abduction, abandonment of a minor, crossing the border without proper documentation and, were they to dig deep enough, bribery and the promotion of slavery. What would happen, he wondered, if he turned around and took Vladimir back to Moscow? The answer was nothing. Absolutely nothing would change. The boy would return to Sergei’s care, Alexander would be admonished for taking a patient on a trip without permission and Vladimir would continue on his present course, one that Alexander suspected would end tragically amidst an ocean of violence and sorrow.

  To Alexander, a man of action and conviction, such a bleak outcome was unacceptable.

  “I leave Vladimir in your good care,” he said and turned to depart. Alexander walked the long red carpet to where Tarkov and the others were waiting. To his surprise, Vladimir didn’t plead with him or beg to return home. The boy stood stone-faced as always. At the door, Alexander waved farewell to the leviathan and the pale child. Young Vlad shot him one last look. It contained not happiness or sorrow, but indignation. Alexander, troubled in his bowels by an obstinate plum he’d consumed during the walk and unsure of himself for the first time, closed the doors and left Vladimir alone with the tall man.

  The Great Gog sat down in his hand-woven chair. The wicker splintered and cracked under his weight. With a content sigh, the man closed his eyes and returned to his meditation.

  “What now?” Vladimir, standing a meter away, said between yelps.

  “My people will rise from their slumber in several hours’ time,” the Great Gog said without opening his eyes.

  “And until then?”

  “Until then, we wait.”

  Vladimir looked around the empty room. Alexander had abandoned him. Sergei would not be coming to save him. The good doctor probably had no idea even where his young patient was. Nor did Vladimir, for that matter. He’d never heard of Mongolia. He didn’t know if he was still in Russia or if he’d been taken to the other side of the world. And, despite all their fears, he was still a child. Left alone in this foreign place, with the spectral purple light shining down from above and the tall man having forgotten he was in the room, Vladimir did the only thing he could do — he stood there waiting, his hiccups filling the silence every 3.7 seconds.

  He was now at the mercy of the Great Gog.

  eight

  Mongolia, 1941

  The water pummeled down from above. Thousands of shards of ice pierced Vladimir’s skin like tiny daggers. In his shoulder blades, deep incisions formed. Vladimir felt his temperature drop the moment he entered the waterfall. It was so dense he could stretch his arms to their full width and still not touch the air. Vladimir faltered under the torrent from above. Never before had the terror of dying been so immediate. It was a sensation like no other.

  Thirty minutes before, Vladimir — a young man now, twenty years old, strong with a thick, sturdy frame and capable of growing a long beard — approached the doors at the entrance of Gog’s temple. Vladimir hadn’t seen the hazy purple light inside for months, ever since Gog banished him. In that time he haunted the monastery like a ghost that no one ever saw. Vladimir lived in the trees. He took shelter in a secluded cave a kilometer away. When he was hungry, he ate. When he was thirsty, he drank. The rest of his time was spent practicing his skills as a hunter. Vladimir’s condition put him at a severe disadvantage. His hiccups announced his presence before he could catch his prey by surprise. Through sheer determination and cunning, he managed to capture animal after animal until there was not one manner of mammal, bird or lizard that he had not held in his hands.

  Vladimir had reached physical maturation, and still the tortured, jangled collection of thoughts stormed about his mind. Still they pushed violently toward the front of his skull. At times Vladimir’s year in the jungle bordered on sheer lunacy. He had taken to hunting animals as if they were humans. Vladimir would picture men, women, even children, as he stalked his prey through the wild, the glistening tip of a spear raised high above, a wild zeal encompassing him. After Vladimir
made the kill, he would retreat to his cave and scream at the top of his lungs for hours. He spent days stumbling aimlessly through the brush, holding his hands to his head, panicked, with tears streaming down his face.

  Now he returned to Gog — Gog, who in all these years had taught him nothing. Not civility or honor or passion or even arithmetic or how to cook rice. Gog, who was a monument, worshiped by his followers like a statue constructed millennia ago. Vladimir could count on his fingers the number of times Gog had spoken to him over the years. He dreaded going back. But he couldn’t live in the wild anymore. Vladimir had become a prisoner in his own mind and he had to return while he still maintained some semblance of control.

  It was the middle of the afternoon on a chilly mid-autumn’s day. The grass was frosted. Even the bright sun wasn’t enough to warm the air. Vladimir entered through the doors of the long room uninvited. Every few steps he emitted the sound of a frog’s ribbit. The Great Gog seemed not to notice. He was sitting perfectly erect in his wicker chair as always, his eyes closed, a faded monument in this empty, forsaken room. Vladimir knew Gog had the ability to hear during even the deepest of trances. He walked straight up to the tall man.

  “Gog?” he said.

  There was no answer.

  “Gog?”

  The old warrior sat perfectly still. Vladimir waited in the purple light for Gog to release a long, pensive breath. It never came. He reached out and touched Gog’s face. The tall man’s skin was as cold as the air outside. “Gog?” He grabbed the leviathan by the shoulders and shook him. “Speak!” he cried.

  Like an oak tree being felled, Gog toppled over. Vladimir stepped out of the way and Gog landed in an unceremonious heap on the floor. In the distance, Gog’s followers entered through the hollow doors. Vladimir knew how this looked: the hiccupping child, a white devil standing over top of their fallen messiah. He stared straight through them. Almost immediately the followers disavowed their silence and yelled at Vladimir in their native Buryat dialect. Vladimir braced himself for what was about to come.