Hour of the Wolf

by Andrius B Tapinas

  Sidabras waited patiently behind the bush. Apart from the serpolett, which was now parked in front of the hospital door, there was not a living soul in sight. A few moments later the Vitamancer appeared in the doorway, meticulously shielding his face from the omnipresent poisonous fumes with the lower part of his robe. He walked briskly over to the tricycle, climbed inside and departed without a backward glance. The Legate took a deep breath and a minute later, determinedly strode in through the front door. On the other side of it, in a small lobby with dirty windows, sat two soldiers, absorbed in a game of cards at a little table. Sidabras carried his bag boldly, at the same time hoping that the soldiers would not notice the missing double headed eagle – the coat of arms of the Russian Empire. But a brief unfriendly glance was all that the soldiers gave the poor civil servant, before going back to their game.

  Wasting no time to assess the situation, Sidabras walked over to the only open door, beyond which stretched a long straight hallway. With its low ceiling, crumbling tiles on the walls and on the floor and soot-stained curtains on the windows, he found the hospital dispiriting. A few steps further down the hallway he came to an alcove with a screen. Behind it and under a fly-excrement-stained portrait of perhaps the Governor or the Health Minister, sat a plump lady in a faded white smock, gazing out of a dirty barred window and munching on something. The sound of footsteps made her look over her shoulder.

  “Post,” reported Sidabras in perfect Russian. “A dispatch, to be handed to the head physician in person.”

  “Continue straight ahead,” the woman said, before taking another piggish bite of her sandwich and turning back to the window.

  Sidabras strode down the hallway trying not to make too much noise with his heels. He approached a number of doors. The last one, positioned at the very end of the hallway, displayed a sign written in Cyrillic script: Head Physician Vasilij Chardin.

  “You are the one I need, brother,” Sidabras muttered under his nose.

  At the end of the hallway was a landing with metal stairs. Sidabras assumed it was the firefighters’ stairway connecting all three storeys and going all the way up to the roof. He remembered once seeing the same type of staircase in another old hospital. Having assured himself that it was the case, he came back and quietly knocked on the Head Physician’s door. When no one answered, he cautiously opened the door and peeked inside.

  A chunky grey-haired man in a spotless white smock sat at a desk in a small office, his body thrust over a plate and chomping on a generous piece of meat. A half-empty carafe containing a whitish liquid stood on the desk beside him.

  The doctor’s cheeks were bright red, while the air in the office was permeated with the combined stench of pork and vodka. It was obvious that the Head Physician’s lunch was as different from that of the nurse as day from night.

  “Post,” Sidabras said brightly. “A special dispatch, Your Honour,” he added the first title that went through his mind.

  “Get out, beef head!” hissed Chardin with his mouth full, his gaze remaining fixed on the food.

  “Don’t you know where you leave the letters, idiot?”

  “I am awfully sorry, Your Honour,” Sidabras kept on nodding reverentially. He slipped into the office, closing the door behind him, and started creeping towards the physician.

  “But I just thought that the dispatch... was supposed to be handed in person...” he was purposely jabbering as if in a panic.

  “It could be of the utmost importance, so I thought... I said that I should probably deliver it to your Highness by hand, in order to avoid...”

  After this stream of words the physician had finally raised his head, gaping at the visitor. Fork suspended in the air, he fixed his gaze on the postman’s jacket, which was clearly too tight. Suspicion flickered in the small eyes of the doctor. Chardin swallowed his last mouthful instantly and was about to open his now free mouth to yell out, but Sidabras leaped to the desk and lightly struck the doctor’s throat with side of his palm, as if locking the words inside on their way out. Meanwhile his other hand grabbed Chardin by the hair and jerked his head back. The Doctor gasped for air, like a fish thrown onto the shore. Another swift move and he had a knife at his throat.

  “Hush, quiet!” Sidabras said.

  “Be quiet or I will slaughter you like a pig. Is that clear?” He released the doctor’s hair, allowing him to nod fervently in agreement.

  “Good,” he looked pleased.

  “And now let’s have a chat,” he suggested.

  “You have just had a visitor. Who did he come to see? Who did he talk to?”

  “How would I know?” Chardin hissed. “We have hundreds of patients here who receive hundreds of visitors. Go to the duty nurse, she keeps a log.”

  “But I think this visitor came straight to see you – the head physician,” Sidabras crackled in Chardin’s ear. “Or should I try to rekindle the master’s memory?” – a touch of blade on the fat wobbly neck caused a thin pink line appear on the skin, which was as white as snow.

  “Ouch! No, no!” the doctor squealed. The red tinge on his cheeks turned dark pink, resembling beetroot.

  “Yes, yes... he came to see me. From Vilnius. From the Vitamancers’ Lodge.”

  “Who was he? I need the name,” Sidabras pressed him further.

  “He didn’t introduce himself. Only showed a paper with a seal. Attesting to his right to visit his patients any time of the day.”

  “His patients?” Sidabras wondered to himself. “Does that mean that Vitamancers use the hospital to hide people away? I wonder who they are.” But all he said aloud was:

  “Who was he visiting?”

  “I don’t know!” Head Physician would not give in.eadHeahhhhhk “I didn’t ask him. As soon as I issued him a pass, he went to the duty doctor who was supposed to take him there. You should talk to him.”

  Without warning the office door was flung open and in tumbled a man in a white smock. A small badge saying Duty Doctor dangled on his chest.

  Sidabras instantly removed the knife from Chardin’s neck, poking it into his back instead. He pretended to be looking through some papers.

  “Sir, the patient who that visitor had come to...” he started shouting from the doorway but immediately held his tongue after realising that Chardin was not alone. The hospital head felt a quiet sign of warning in the form of a knife pressing into his back.

  “It’s fine, Sidorov, he... he... erm... is one of us,” stammered Chardin, his eyes bulging out.

  “But Sir,” Sidorov looked confused. “You told me to relay information on these patients to no one else but yourself...”

  “Good day, dear fellow. You are the person we have been waiting for!” Sidabras spoke in an inspector’s tone, which did not sound too promising. He brazenly looked the doctor over from head to toe.

  “Secret service,” he introduced himself.

  “Take no notice of my attire. It’s camouflage,” he added in a hushed voice. “So...” he turned towards the head physician. “We have received information that you have quite a few slackers under your roof here, while the factories are faced with a catastrophic labour shortage!” He cast a glance at the doctor shifting around by the door, his eyes blinking excessively.

  “So, that patient... you were saying?” reminded Sidabras. “Start speaking, dear fellow,” he urged. “Unless you have swallowed your tongue.”

  When the duty doctor, himself frightened out of his wits, noticed massive drops of sweat trickling down the temples of the almighty head of the hospital, he realised he had stumbled into a tricky predicament. He had to make the best of a bad situation, ensuing that whatever Chardin was tangled up in, he did not drag others down along with him.

  “Yes, yes, Your... Your Honour,” the doctor panted.

  “Well, that patient... he is one of the special ones, admitted to hospital pursuant to a written instruction by the Head, Mr Chardin. Yes, Mr Chardin, so...”

  “His surname?” Sidabras barked.


  “Pranciskus Baltrus... erm... son of Petras... from Vilnius. It was Mr Chardin who told me to take this visitor to his patient” – it seemed that Sidorov had become rather caught up in his role as a snitch.

  “But, but...” he stammered.

  “Yes, continue,” Sidabras encouraged him.

  “But he didn’t find his patient there,” Sidorov mumbled.

  “What?” Chardin and Sidabras yelled in unison.

  “The patient was gone,” the doctor’s voice sounded remorseful. “He was recently discharged, collected by family members and taken to Vilnius. I do not know who is responsible for his discharge.” Sidorov fidgeted beside the door, while his eyes shifted across the floor, then dashed around the office before being involuntary drawn to the postman’s bag, still hanging over Sidabras’ shoulder. The sight of the Vilnius Post Office emblem caused his facial expression to change from fear to curiosity. He did not find the camouflage very convincing.

  “Fine, Sidorov,” bellowed Sidabras.

  “Come get the boss’ plates and be on your way.” The Russian, who was used to obeying orders, reflexively stepped towards the desk.

  One long leap later Sidabras was standing next to him, punching him on the temple. With a slight groan, the doctor slumped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. There was a rattling noise and Sidabras saw a bulky key which had rolled across the floor. Sidorov must have been holding it in his hand. Sidabras picked up the key and slipped it into his pocket just in case, then went back to Chardin.

  “Who is Pranciskus?” he asked. “Tell me loud and clear.” The heavily breathing Chardin cast a disdainful glance at Sidorov, lying stupefied on the floor.

  “One of the Vitamancers, well, of those madmen.” The doctor realised that he was in danger of similar treatment to that of his colleague and did not feel like rolling about on the floor.

  “A scientist, inventor. Quite a loony. He defaced all of our walls and tore the bed to shreds. We had to tie him down with belts and gag him because of his persistent bellowing.”

  “What did he draw?” Sidabras wondered.

  “Some sort of squiggles,” head physician answered complaisantly. “Eventually he calmed down and was forgotten by everyone. No one visited him.”

  “So who discharged him?”

  “I have no idea how it happened,” the doctor was on the verge of tears. “God is my witness. I was not aware of him having any family. And the Vitamancers had told us to keep a close eye on him, making sure he stayed here.” It seemed that chaos in the hospital, which was losing its patients in inexplicable ways, worried him much less than the fury of the Vitamancers.

  Sidabras looked outside the window. Dragging this potbellied individual down to the mysterious patient’s ward would be quite advantageous but his sixth sense was telling him that it was high time he deserted this congenial clinic.

  At that moment a tall old man with a stoop and a heavy rucksack walked in through the front door. Completely ignoring the soldiers on duty, as if not realising they were there, the elder trudged down the long hallway.

  “Post!” he said dryly upon reaching the screen and the plump lady behind it, now pondering over some papers, before removing his rucksack and putting it on the floor. The man’s overcoat lapel was adorned with a shiny coat of arms – a double headed eagle, with a post horn in each of its claws. The nurse of Novovileysk mental hospital lifted her eyes in bewilderment and stared at the newcomer.

  “We’ve already had our post today... a dispatch was delivered to the head...” she mumbled scrunching her eyebrows together, trying to understand what was going on.

  Suddenly she stretched out her arm and began to turn a handle. The hallways of the hospital became drowned in the choking and wheezing sound of the siren. Instantly pandemonium ensued. The soldiers jumped to their feet, flinging their cards aside.

  With the first sounds of the siren, Sidabras picked Chardin up by his collar and hauled him to the door. It appeared that even though the Head Doctor was only up to Sidabras’ armpits and was far from being a heavyweight, his rounded body shape prevented him from being dragged along with ease.

  Sidabras pushed the door open, slipped into the hallway with the poor man by his side, and ran towards the metal stairway. As soon as he took the first step, the ground floor hallway shuddered from the running soldiers, thumping in their metal spurred boots. Their steps were getting closer very fast.

  “Where does this staircase lead to?” Sidabras thought it best to ask the man.

  “Up to the second floor and onto the roof,” the doctor’s voice screeched, as he was being dragged along.

  The Legate looked happy with the answer. After they had climbed up to the second floor, three armed men and the nurse appeared downstairs.

  “There they are!” squealed the lady in a voice of a slaughtered animal, pointing her finger upstairs.

  “Halt!” one of the soldiers bellowed.

  “Rot in hell!” grunted Sidabras, using his hostage as a shield. One of the soldiers had raised his gun but at the last minute the Legate and his hostage managed to conceal themselves in the second floor hallway. It was long and poorly lit. Sidabras thought that he made out about six doors, secured with massive bolts on the outside, and a metal ladder at the end of the hallway, its top ramming into the roof hatch. There was one problem though – two steps ahead the walkway was blocked by a metal grille.

  Legate threw Chardin to the floor, gathered all his strength, and kicked the grille. It screeched but didn’t give in. Sidabras bent over and put his fingers on the doctor’s throat.

  “Where is the key?” he hissed.

  Chardin babbled something incoherent and latched onto Legate’s overcoat. He thrashed his hand.

  “Where is the key?” he yelled. “Tell me or I will drop you down the stairs.”

  “In your pocket,” screeched the Head Physician, gasping for air.

  Only now it dawned on him what the coward was trying to say. He pulled the key that had been dropped by the duty doctor out of his pocket and inserted it in the lock. It cracked and the grille opened.

  The Legate dragged Chardin inside, leaving the grille ajar. Then, hauling the doctor along, he walked from door to door, unbolting all of them.

  “What are you doing?” Head Physician hissed. His face turned pale as death. “The loonies are in there.”

  The siren wouldn’t stop howling. Steps echoed on the stairs. By the time both men were a few feet away from the ladder, multiple creaks announced the opening of the doors. Creatures in battered grey pyjamas shuffled cautiously out into the hallway one by one. Their faces were dark in colour, hair dishevelled, eyes gleaming with a sickly light, odd sounds emanating from their half-open mouths. Some of these creatures were barefoot, and they were rapidly growing in numbers, a few psychopaths dangerously advancing towards Sidabras.

  By that time three soldiers had already reached the grille.

  “Over there, over there!” Sidabras yelled directing them in the direction of soldiers. “They will free you.”

  As if reacting to a command, the creatures, who had filled the whole hallway by now, turned to face the soldiers and staggered over to the grille.

  Sidabras breathed a sigh of relief. Even if not for long, the loonies had now become a barrier between the Tsar’s soldiers and him with his hostage. However, it did not take him long to realise that he was celebrating too soon. Not all the patients were really mad. Upon noticing the much-hated Chardin, their faces became distorted with ominous grimaces; having punched one another lightly for courage, they started to advance towards them.

  Realising that his day of reckoning had come, the doctor was now squeaking like a little mouse and clinging onto the Legate of Vilnius for his life.

  With a swift motion of his hand Sidabras pulled his revolver out and aimed it at the men.

  “Go back!” he yelled. “Go back, what did I tell you!”

  But the pistol made no impression on the men.


  With all his strength Sidabras flung Chardin into their arms and dashed to the ladder. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Head Physician, like a cannon ball, knock two of the patients down, and then, trying to save his skin, on all fours and wriggling his fat bottom, making a bid to slip to freedom through the madmen’s legs.

  Sidabras scrambled up the ladder, expecting to find the hatch locked but as a lock was nowhere to be seen, he gave a light push at the door and a moment later was walking on the roof.

  The mostly flat roof also accommodated the metal dome looming on one side of it, marked with the orthodox cross. Having concealed himself behind the dome, Sidabras squatted and inched towards the edge of the roof. One quick glance down was enough for him to realise why the hatch had been left unlocked. If a twist of fate had ever brought some ill-fated creature here, the only way open to them was to jump off the roof and crash onto the rocks.

  Meanwhile the yard became busy with the Tsar’s soldiers hastily loading their guns. Detecting a human shape on the roof, they began to yell and point their fingers at him.

  Sidabras ran to the other side of the roof in a desperate attempt to find even the tiniest of ledges that he could hold onto. He found nothing. The roof was a trap.

  Suddenly something stroked the top of his head.

  Sidabras looked up.

  Against the background of coiling streams of smoke, suspended in the air above his head hung an air balloon with the Vilnius Post Office coat of arms on its gondola.