The Shaman of Kupa Piti

by A. Nybo

  He had wandered into Sergei’s space—even worse, his hospital ward—and unthinkingly disparaged his way of life. Having prior knowledge that Sergei and his family had suffered ridicule and ostracism all their lives due to their spiritual beliefs only made his behaviour worse.

  “That was a real arseholish thing for me to do,” he admitted. “I really am sorry, and I do want you to tell me what is going on. From where I’m standing, it is just a mess of things that makes no sense.”

  Sergei nodded, but wariness clouded his eyes. “I can’t tell you what happened to the others,” warned Sergei, “but I can tell you what happened with me.”

  Nodding, Leon took a recording device from his pocket and set it on the trolley.

  “Is that on?” asked Sergei.

  “Not yet, why?”

  “I will tell you what happened on record, but not why.”

  “Will you tell me why it happened off record?”

  Sergei raised a challenging eyebrow. “I’ll tell you, but it’s up to you if you hear it.”

  “I’ll do my best. Now, I’m about to start this.” He hit the Start button, ran through the interview preamble, and asked Sergei to recount the attack.

  “The man you are looking for is Evgeni Volkov,” said Sergei.

  Caught unawares, Leon had to collect himself. “You know him?”

  “Yes. I knew him back in Murmansk Oblast. He would have been about fourteen or fifteen back then.”

  “Is he the man going by the name Pavel Bobrinsky, the man whose picture I showed you?”

  “Yes, but like I said, he was only young back then. He looks very different now.”

  “And you’re sure that the man who attacked you was this Evgeni Volkov?”

  “Yes, he admitted that’s who he was, and he said things no one other than Evgeni would likely remember. Or even know,” Sergei added as an afterthought.

  “Such as?”

  “How he used to follow me around. Things I called him.”

  “Did he indicate why he attacked you?”

  “He said it was because I killed his boss.”

  “Who was his boss?”

  “Grigori Mishurin. Senior.”

  “Did you kill Grigori Mishurin?”

  “I haven’t seen Grigori in fourteen years. I was in Coober Pedy at the time of his death.” Sergei’s gaze hinted at caution, but Leon sensed he was being purposely misled. It didn’t matter; he could check the dates.

  They ran through the events that had occurred, by which time Sergei was visibly tired. Leon formally wrapped up the interview and turned the recording device off.

  “Are you okay?” he asked as he tucked the recorder into his bag. Sergei’s sandy eyelashes closed so slowly Leon thought he might not open his eyes again.

  “Mouth is sore.”

  “Shall I call a nurse?”

  “Nyet.”

  “I’ll leave you to rest. Do you think you’ll be up for a visit later?” He smiled. “From Leon,” he assured him. “Not Doris.”

  Sergei nodded. “Da.”

  Unable to help himself, he brushed his fingers across Sergei’s cheek, and the smile he was rewarded with made the breach of professionalism worth it. “Do you want me to bring you anything?”

  Sergei held Leon’s hand to his cheek as though afraid he might withdraw it. “An open mind is the only thing I want you to bring.”

  Leon smiled and stroked Sergei’s jaw with his thumb. “I’ll try.”

  BACK IN his hotel room, Leon sent the digital voice interview to the AFP for transcription and rang Lars Andersson to see what could be found out about Evgeni Volkov and to ask for any fingerprints, aliases, and records to be sent through. He also rang Charlie to tell him the suspect’s real ID.

  The rest of the afternoon he spent on the internet, trying to get his head around the idea of shamanism being a reality rather than a scam. His research offered an entirely new perspective on the topic. As he suspected, a lot of scamming was going on, but as the old adage went, where there’s smoke there’s fire—and he’d found enough informative kindling to get some smoke happening. Whether Sergei could make it catch was another thing altogether.

  He considered taking Sergei some food, but with his mouth the way it was, he couldn’t think what Sergei might find edible. He stopped in at an Italian restaurant and grabbed himself some lasagne, something soft in case Sergei wanted to have a go at it. There wasn’t a person in the world who didn’t complain about hospital food. Well, if there was he hadn’t met them.

  Even as he was approaching the room, Leon found himself smiling. Their beliefs might not mesh, but the man himself put a spring in Leon’s step.

  Sergei had his eyes closed and lay on his side facing the door. Leaving Sergei to sleep, Leon sat on the other side of the bed, where he’d left the chair earlier. He pulled out his phone, intending to continue reading about shamans, but he’d only just turned it on when Sergei stirred and looked over his shoulder.

  “Leon.” The deep voice was warm and welcoming. Sergei rolled over, his face screwed into a grimace.

  “That sore still?”

  Sergei lifted his chin in acknowledgement. “Some parts. I’ve been told it will take around six to ten weeks for the bruising to disappear.”

  “Hopefully the pain will have long abated by then. Are you able to eat something soft?” He lifted the bag that contained the lasagne. The glint in Sergei’s eyes immediately told him Sergei wasn’t thinking about lasagne. “Hey,” Leon rebuked good-naturedly. “What was it you said to me? Something about a world of trouble?”

  “I don’t have a professional interest in this,” Sergei said with a smirk.

  With no comeback to that, Leon ignored it in favour of continuing to flirt. “Besides, it wouldn’t be soft for long.”

  Sergei’s mouth twisted with amusement. “What is the food?”

  “Lasagne.”

  “Save me some. I’ve already eaten. They feed you dinner while it is still afternoon here. But go ahead and eat.”

  Leon took the lasagne out and set the bag across his lap as a kind of napkin. “You said you’d tell me what was really going on.”

  Sergei settled on his side and made himself comfortable, as if he were planning to tell a long story, which was more than fine with Leon. He wanted to spend as much time with Sergei as he could.

  “Grigori Mishurin killed my father.”

  With a forkful of lasagne in transit, Leon stopped. That was the second time today Sergei had opened with a revelation. “If you knew who killed him, why wasn’t he charged?”

  “Grigori was Bratva. It was a matter of hours between the time I reported the murder and the police arrived on my mother’s doorstep, telling her to keep her son quiet or he would suffer the same fate as his father, as would the rest of her family.”

  “You witnessed it?” Leon finished transporting the lasagne to his mouth.

  “Da,” Sergei said quietly. He took a deep breath. “Since the police weren’t going to help, the only justice I could see lay with the spirits. So I made a tupilaq.”

  “What’s that? Is that a Sámi thing?”

  “Inuit,” said Sergei. “It’s a vessel to carry vengeance. I made it for Grigori, then travelled back to the White Sea and sent it to him.”

  “The White Sea—wasn’t that where you were?” Leon asked between mouthfuls.

  Sergei studied him for a moment as if deciding how much to tell him. “Making a tupilaq is not a simple thing. It must be done in isolation for many reasons, not the least being that the process could draw unwanted attention. It is a thing that must be done in secret and can be a noisy, smelly undertaking.”

  Leon wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the details while he was eating. “Okay, so you made this tupilaq. Then what?”

  “Grigori approached me about taking my father’s place again, and so my mother insisted we escape to Finland. Nine years later I find myself in Coober Pedy, where I stayed.”

  “That doe
sn’t tell me anything.”

  Sergei smiled. “So impatient.” His smile faded. “I never thought too much about the tupilaq again. I didn’t think it had done anything, but as Evgeni told me, it had. And being young and angry, I had intended the vengeance be carried down the line of Grigori’s blood successors in the Bratva—which it apparently has. That is why Evgeni came to put a stop to it.”

  “But how did he find you?” asked Leon. “And what makes him think Grigori’s death had anything to do with you?”

  “A Karelian shaman, a knower.” Sergei’s smile wasn’t just bitter, it was downright caustic. “The Karelian knows far more about the situation than I ever did.”

  “If you made it, how can he know more about it?”

  “I didn’t know the tupilaq had worked. It destroyed Grigori’s spirit and had begun doing the same to his successional son. This is why Evgeni has come for me. Now the tupilaq has been revealed, it loses its power.”

  “If the tupilaq has lost its power, then why is he still after you?”

  “Knowing I set vengeance loose, it would be both unwise and very difficult to simply kill me. My power in this world isn’t resolved just because I am no longer a part of it. The tupilaq was discovered, but they can’t be certain that was all I set loose.”

  “Was there more?”

  Sergei’s eyes filled with restrained anger. “There is always more.”

  Leon sensed the answer didn’t just relate to the question, but to almost everything in the world. There was always the element of the unknown. The abrupt change in Sergei’s demeanour encouraged Leon away from this tangent and back to the original question.

  “How does Evgeni plan to stop you if he can’t just kill you?”

  “He will try to kill me. It just takes time. I don’t know what his exact process is, but he told me he was going to kill the bear first and then me.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The bear holds a very special place in Sámi culture. It is believed to be very close to the supernatural world—maybe in part because it hibernates. It is also seen as being very close to man as it is so high on the food hierarchy and can stand on two legs.” Sergei’s piercing gaze suggested he was about to say something controversial, so Leon schooled his features. “Some say they have seen my free soul and that it takes the shape of a bear.”

  That statement raised many questions, but Leon held his tongue, hoping Sergei would answer some of those questions without having to be asked.

  “Sámi had a very specific ritual regarding the slaying of a bear,” Sergei continued. “You could say Evgeni both gave tribute and ridiculed the old ways in what he did. Part of the hunting ritual includes birching the bear. After the bear is killed, it is whipped with birch branches, and then it is ringed.” Sergei pointed to where he had been pierced. “The slayer ties the bear to his belt by the jaw.”

  “What does that represent?”

  “I don’t know. The meanings of some of these rituals are lost, but parts of how they were performed have been recorded.”

  “What about the tattoo and all that urine that was around you?”

  “The tattoo is like a declaration of his ownership over my death. And I’m just guessing, but I think the urine was a double-edged taunt. Noaidis have always used Amanita muscaria mushrooms to assist with trances and the freeing of their spirit. Traditionally it was fed to a reindeer, whose liver filtered it, reducing the toxic effects. The noaidi would drink the urine.”

  Leon screwed his face up. “Have you ever done it?”

  “I’ve used muscimol—the drug from the Amanita muscaria—but why the hell would I drink reindeer juice?” Sergei grinned. His humour had faded completely by the time he continued.

  “They used it on the tundra before there was access to chemists, but now there are different ways. Unlike recreational users, I’ve only ever used it spiritually. I don’t like it. It makes me ill—and that’s after the potency has been reduced. There are stories about third-hand usage, where after a reindeer had processed it, a noaidi would drink it, and then someone would drink the noaidi’s urine. Whether there’s any truth to them is another matter.”

  Leon grimaced. Still, if drinking urine was good enough for Bear Grylls…. “It was Evgeni’s urine?”

  “Some of it was definitely his. I think he enjoyed pissing on me, but I think the majority belonged to others.”

  “Others?”

  “Animals, maybe?” When Sergei smiled, Leon realised his face must have betrayed his presumption that Sergei was talking about other people. “Animals are others. They have spirits, just as we do. Have you never had a pet?”

  “No, why?”

  “Anyone who has had an animal friend knows this.”

  Leon didn’t want to be sidetracked yet. There was too much he still needed to know. “Did Evgeni kill the bear?”

  “It’s not something I can know unless I attempt to free my soul from my body.”

  “Haven’t you tried?”

  Sergei’s expression was a blatant accusation of naiveté. “It is not something you do when weakened.” Sergei’s head jolted slightly, and his pained expression was evidence of his debilitated state.

  Leon leaned forwards and, about to touch Sergei, realised what he was doing and made out his movement was him changing position in his chair. He cast a guilty glance at the door to ensure no one had seen what he had almost done. “You need to rest awhile.”

  Sergei nodded agreement. “You’re welcome to stay.”

  Leon grinned. “That’s lucky, because I wasn’t planning on going anywhere yet.”

  Sergei reached out and took Leon’s fingers. The swelling of Sergei’s hand had dwindled, and it was almost back to normal. Leon was torn between allowing the touch to occur and drawing away, but Sergei’s warm, inviting gaze was the decider. Leon slid his hand deeper into Sergei’s, revelling in the connection.

  They stayed that way until Sergei’s grasp had totally relaxed and his breathing was low and regular. Leon withdrew and turned back to his phone, where he was reading about Kola Sámi, but minutes later he found himself staring at Sergei’s sleeping form.

  Sergei was nowhere near what Leon thought of as traditionally handsome, but his expressions made him wickedly attractive. He battled the overwhelming need to know more about him, the things he liked, disliked, and that they might have in common. Sergei was so different from anyone he’d ever met before. It seemed strange that even while they were both aware their beliefs didn’t jibe, their attraction to each other was palpable—even to Rodney, apparently.

  Leon couldn’t identify the bond between them, but being able to feel it so strongly while he wasn’t experiencing arousal was alarming. As long as Sergei had held on to his hand, Leon hadn’t been able to find it within himself to withdraw, which was what he should have done. But even upon reflection, it was clear to him that he wanted that physical contact no matter what. With every moment he spent with Sergei, his professional conflict deepened.

  Leon turned his thoughts back to the case and how he might catch Evgeni Volkov. It was disconcerting how calmly Sergei spoke of what Evgeni had done to him and that Evgeni planned to kill him—not that being upset about it was going to help, but it would have seemed more natural.

  After reading several more articles, he wandered out and got himself a coffee. He was well out of his depth with this case if what Sergei said had merit. Having no experience with or knowledge of shamanic life, he was unable to predict what Evgeni’s next move might be, and following police procedure had given them nothing but a box full of puzzles.

  A metaphorical crossroads was looming in Leon’s future, and there was nothing he could do to slow its approach. It was frightening as hell because things seemed to be coming at him from all directions. His beliefs were being challenged, his professionalism was being challenged, and at the same time, his emotions were running rampant—towards the victim no less.

  The thought that he was in the positi
on of power nearly made him laugh, as did the thought of Sergei being a victim. While both were true on paper, reality was far different.

  His heart beat out a double-time tattoo, and a wave of dizziness convinced him to lean against the passage wall to steady himself. As the moment of panic faded, he looked down at the coffee he knew he didn’t need. He took a sip anyway, and the action seemed to bring a sense of normalcy with it.

  He needed to focus on the present.

  Back in Sergei’s room, he sat down and continued reading. Sometime later he looked up to find Sergei rousing from sleep. His musing over the desire to lie next to Sergei and feel those taut muscles stretching against him caused him to abruptly turn his attention back to his phone.

  Sergei pulled himself up into a sitting position. “Did you leave me any lasagne?”

  Leon reached over to the trolley table and pulled it up along the bed. “Do you want me to see if I can get it reheated?”

  Sergei shook his head and pointed to his mouth. “Better at room temperature.”

  Leaving Sergei to eat in peace, Leon tried to read, but his peripheral vision kept dragging him back to watch Sergei’s slow chewing. Finally Sergei put the lid back on the container and set it in the bag. He lowered his head to the pillow.

  “Mmm, I needed that.” Without raising his head, he turned to look at Leon and smiled. “Thank you.” His smile withered. “What’s wrong?”

  Leon shook his head. Was there residual panic on his face? “Nothing. I was just wondering how I am going to catch Evgeni.”

  “With my help.”

  “I am not going to use you as bait.”

  “Leon,” Sergei said and then hesitated. “There is no other way to catch him. He is protected by the Karelian. You will not find him without me.”

  The lack of leads so far suggested there might be some truth to what Sergei said, but he found it too difficult to accept. “As soon as he comes to town, we’ll find him.”

  “No one will see him.”

  “Why? Is he invisible?” Leon smirked.