Hour of the Wolf

by Andrius B Tapinas

  Despite being disbanded by the Tsar’s gendarmes nearly a hundred years ago, The Radiant Association had sprung back to life some years later with positive aspirations. It was to unite the students of University Dominium, as well as other individuals whose minds were focused on the national identity and Lithuanian patriotism. The Radiants’ idea was to direct their efforts at safeguarding and protecting Lithuanian language, culture and history. However, with free Vilnius becoming more and more cosmopolitan and its streets resounding with Lithuanian, Polish, Russian and even English, the founders of The Radiant Association had found themselves being ousted by a different kind of crowd. One faction – radicals and nationalists – objected to being a part of the multicultural stew which Vilnius was slowly turning into, and expressed their strong views with slogans, such as Lithuania for Lithuanians or Vilnius belongs to us! The other faction – anarchists, provocateurs or simply hooligans – found fault with Jogaila’s double cross, surrounded by the rays of the sun. The sight of it provoked their vocal disapproval, while every opportunity to let their fists fly, however small, was seized with vigour. On several occasions, the University Dominium had made attempts to dissociate themselves from the Radiant ones, claiming that the number of students this Association counted among its members was negligible.

  The biggest enemy of The Radiant Association were the Szubrawcy or The Rogues – a rather colourful organisation, with foreign students from the Vilnius Branch of the University of Krakow at its core.

  On 12 April, when Vilnius residents celebrated their Freedom Day (on that day Vilnius came out of the grip of the Russian Empire and was taken under the wing of the Alliance) the Radiants usually went out of control. The Vilnius Legion prepared for this celebration thoroughly. Many a time Sidabras had tried to convince Burgomaster Venslauskis-Venskus to put his foot down and ban the Radiants’ demonstration along St George’s Avenue, as it always ended with a fight between The Radiants and Szubrawcy without exception. But the head of the city wouldn’t listen. The Radiants had some influential figures at their side who knew how to intervene with the Burgomaster on their behalf.

  The multilingual guests of the Summit were like a red rag to a bull for the Radiants. While the colourful crowd of the Ryks Inn was their most detested target.

  “What are you staring at, boss?” yelled the leader of the Radiants Jonas Simaska. “Just get us some beer, and get it fast! Or maybe you don’t understand Lithuanian?”

  Two long leaps later the beanstalk was standing at the bar, where the crowd had suddenly thinned out. The regulars were well familiar with this mob and decided that it would be a safer option to wait outside. The stunned foreigners did not move from their places and kept staring at the man and his gang.

  That was exactly what the Radiants were after. With his back against the bar Simaska started shooting glares around the inn, trying to locate his prey. While Sidabras went unnoticed, sitting tightly in the corner, the red uniforms of the Brits screamed for his attention.

  The gang, still awaiting their boss’ sign, but already quite fired up, gulped down the remnants of their beer and demanded more. Simaska set off toward the end of the room, making his way through the crowd, carrying a pint filled to the brim in each hand. What happened next might have given the impression of being an accident. While turning with his whole body towards his associates, the beanpole bumped into the waitress, causing her to trip and spill the beer, splashing it all over his uniform. A few drops landed on the red sash on his arm.

  “Hey you rat!” bellowed the leader of the Radiants. “Are you blind? Why don’t you strain your Jewish peepers! Look, what you’ve done to my jacket, you cow!”

  Having realised that it was all coming to a bad end, the innkeeper went for his old but reliable double-barrelled shotgun, which he kept legally under the bar, and was planning to put out the fire with one shot to the ceiling. But on this occasion he was outplayed by one of the Radiants, who swiftly pressed the old man against the bar, twisting his arm behind his back, revealing his rotten teeth in a sneer.

  “Can’t you see what you’ve damaged, you Polish whore?” the man kept on swearing, frantically rubbing his sash. A moment later he moved from words to deeds by throwing the better part of the pint in the waitress’ face.

  That was too much. A man standing next to them grabbed the lower part of Simaska’s jacket, and was immediately rewarded with a crashing of an empty pint glass against his forehead with a torso twist from Simaska. Blood oozing from his cut, the waitress’ defender slumped to the ground. Suddenly they were surrounded by all the other men – who had been sitting or standing prior to that. The defender’s friend aimed his fist at the beanpole’s face, his action immediately attracting two students with Szubrawcy badges in their lapels. The beanstalk’s gang near the bar howled with joy and threw themselves into fight.

  The air became filled with yells and swearwords, and while some clients chose to run for their lives, others rolled up their sleeves and dived into the thick mass of heads, arms and legs. A pint glass flew through the air, a table was turned upside down, and then some half eaten knuckles skated across the floor. Being a nimble man, Simaska successfully ducked to avoid the punch, and then threw one himself, before sliding across the floor to bring him exactly where he wanted to be – beside the table with two British adjutants and the girl.

  Edward and Charles were about to jump out of their seats but Mila squeezed both of their hands.

  “Hold on to them, hold on to your johnnies, love,” Simaska sneered. “God forbid they slope off without paying at the end,” he added in English.

  Two chairs crashing to the floor with a loud bang, the pilots of His Majesty’s Air Force joined the ranks of the inn’s thugs. Edward grabbed Simaska by the lapels, yanking him up and making the seams of his jacket screech, before pressing him against a wooden beam. The leader of the Radiants was not cowed, but interlocked his hands above his head, intending to strike Edward on the back of the neck, but the Englishman quickly freed himself, grabbing the beanpole’s hand and twisting it backwards, and then finally turning Simaska round like a spinning top and letting him loose to crash into a pole with his forehead. This whole sequence would have pleased Sandhurst’s combat unarmed combat instructor no end.

  “They are beating Lithuanians!” Simaska howled. “Brothers, they are beating Lithuanians up!”

  A few more Radiants displaying the Pillars of Jogaila symbol stormed inside the inn. It seemed that they were attracted to the red British uniforms like moths to a flame. Two heavyset men lunged at Edward and pulled him off Simaska with great force.

  The leader of the Radiants used the back of his hand to wipe the blood, oozing out of gash in his forehead, before scrutinising the room for new prey.

  Charles looked like a bear being attacked by hounds, but all he had to do was give a good shake and several Radiants were sent flying through the air, landing a few metres away from him. Charles’ face was seized by uncontrollable spasms and his skin became as taught as a drum, multiple lumps sliding around underneath it. Something invisible was trying to get out. He clutched his cheeks as if trying to rip the skin off his face, or maybe on the contrary – do everything possible to stop the Fetch lurking inside him, which had just detected the scent of blood, from bursting out. With his guard dropped, he received a punch on the back of the neck and another one on the back. The Radiants seized the opportunity and knocked Charles down, before letting their fists fly.

  With a scream Mila broke off a shard of the glass by banging it on the table. She was ready to go and fight for her friends when the innkeeper finally got hold of his gun and fired it at the ceiling.

  “Enough!” – an imposing voice blasted across the room. Legate of Vilnius Antanas Sidabras pushed off his chair and got up to his feet. “I told you, enough!” he roared at the top of his lungs.

  All eyes in the inn turned to him. When attempting to purge himself of the aftertaste of his humiliation with beer at the Radiants’ favou
rite inn – The Bear’s Lair – later that night, Jonas Simaska agonised over what on earth had come over him to make him go at that man with a pork knuckle. And why the hell he hadn’t seen that it was the Legate of Vilnius himself before it was too late.

  The sight of the beanstalk – the brawl instigator – sprinting at him with the chunk of meat and bone swinging in his hand cheered Sidabras up. He grabbed the lad with both hands and thrust him high in the air like some sort of beetle, before hurling him at the window. A second later the knuckle flew out behind him.

  Strolling past the inn, two rather inebriated men, who only this morning had arrived from Pernarava village, were so astounded by their eventful day in Vilnius that they didn’t even bat an eye when a man shot through the inn window together with all the glass, and landed right in front of their feet.

  “See Simutis, folk don’t use doors in Vilnius: if they’re minded to leave, they just go through the window,” commented one of the men with his finger in the air.

  His companion nodded in agreement, before both of them stepped over the moaning Simaska and continued on their way.

  Their leader having deserted the battlefield, the other Radiants also lost interest in fighting. Edward and Sidabras rushed to Charles, helping him divest himself of the clinging louts, and assist him to his feet. Charles’ face was still twitching but the lumps, bound to raise someone’s suspicion, were gone. The Radiants hurriedly advanced towards the door but the innkeeper got there first, the double barrel clutched in his hands.

  “You will pay for the window,” he said in a strict voice. “And everything else that has been drunk or broken.”

  The Radiants squinted at the gun, Sidabras’ steely eyes watching them from the other end of the room. They had no other choice but to start rummaging in their pockets for change.

  The inn keeper gave Sidabras a questioning look, which was immediately dismissed with a wave of his hand. He should know that Legionnaires had more work than they could handle, and that driving petty hooligans back and forth to Sluskai was a waste of time.

  The coins chinked against the table. The shotgun barrel stayed steady. Only with the contents of their wallets shaken out onto the table did Ryks lower his gun and let the brawlers leave.

  With his shotgun safely returned to its place, he began to tip the tables back into position. The window was going to be costly and he had lost a heap of crockery, but the night wasn’t that bad after all, as eventually the Radiants had settled their bill handsomely.

  “Good timing, Legate,” he said cheerfully. “Please allow me to treat you and your friends to drinks. And, most importantly, this brave girl.”

  Sidabras and both adjutants turned their eyes to Mila, still clutching the broken glass in her hand.

  “A serious weapon,” Sidabras regarded the glass with a smile. “If you ever decide to look for work, Vilnius Legion would be glad to take you on, Miss...”

  “Mila. Just Mila. And you must be the famous Legate of Vilnius? I have heard so much about you from my uncles.”

  “We would be honoured if you chose to join our group, Legate,” Edward also put in a word.

  A shadow of doubt crossed his face as Sidabras glanced over the red uniforms. But he finally shrugged.

  “Why not?” he said simply.

  “To Hell with that Legate,” Simaska stuttered through his gritted teeth as a mix of spit and blood dribbled out of his mouth. His companions assisting him back to his feet, he felt his ribs with his hands. “We were in for some frolics, but he spoiled it completely.”

  “What’s next?” one of his companions asked.

  “Let’s go back to the Bear’s Lair,” the beanpole suggested. “I need a drink. I feel as if I have been run over by a street trolley.”

  The Bear’s Lair inn, situated on the opposite side of Mirth City, was one of those where strangers were not welcome. Besides, finding it in a narrow alleyway, when it had no sign and its doors were always shut, was quite a challenge. It served exclusively regular clients: anarchists, nationalists and radicals of all shapes and forms, the dark waters beyond the bounds of free Vilnius being their abode.

  Packed around a massive table, the Radiants were emptying pints of dark, strong and cheap beer in quick succession. As the rumour about their defeat had spread far and wide all around Mirth City, other inn clients took great pains to stay away from the foul-tempered group with red sashes over their elbows.

  “I’ll take a leak,” announced Simaska, before gingerly probing his gash, now covered with a film of dried up blood. It took a great effort to pull himself up to his feet.

  The effects of the dive through the window and the strong beer made him unsteady on his feet. Leaning on the walls along the way for support, the man reached the door and stumbled outside into the back garden. It was dark and the moon was concealed behind a screen of clouds, and only the tiniest streak of thin light escaped through one small fly-stained window. The Radiant swaying from side to side as he struggled as far as the nearest alleyway, where he began to urinate in one of the gateways with a blissful sigh. There was not a living soul on the street, as all the cavorting was taking place elsewhere.

  All of a sudden Simaska heard a clattering sound behind his back, which he chose to ignore.

  The light of the moon, having penetrated the screen of clouds, exposed an odd lonely figure, eyes glistening in a blood-red hue. Overcome by a sense of something untoward Simaska turned round. As terror took hold of him, the man was about to open his mouth to scream, but it was too late.

  When you are in good company, time flows like water. The innkeeper Ryks was generous with his offerings of food and drink, while the adjutants had a great time both laughing at Sidabras’ stories about his soldier days and telling him about Sandhurst – its odd customs and mean instructors. Both of them, however, never lost track of time and checked their watches nearly in unison. And nearly in unison, they sprang to their feet. This brought a protest from Mila. With her lips pouting, she tried to convince other parties that she was no longer a child and could decide for herself when it was time to go home. The officers, however, had decided not to bend at all, while Sidabras dryly remarked: if it was up to him, all citizens would have to be indoors at midnight, as this would bring peace and order to the city.

  Sidabras had taken a liking to both men, although he did have some reservations about Finley. The Legate’s sixth sense was telling him that something about this lad was not as simple as the impression he gave, and that he had things to hide.

  They said goodbye to the innkeeper, who assured them with several low bows that the door to the inn and the wine bar was always open to guests like them, before departing into the freshly cool Vilnius night.

  On the street the four went their separate ways. The young men hoped to find a carriage, while Sidabras decided to head for Sluskai Palace on foot. He wanted to get some fresh air and had a lot to think about.

  A few steps into his journey, he suddenly stopped. It is possible that on a different occasion he would have walked past such a thing without noticing. It is possible that he wouldn’t have really noticed it and just walked by. It is possible that he would have only remembered it later and instructed the Legionnaires to leave no stone unturned when searching for daubers. It is possible... But on this occasion Sidabras stopped to have a good look at the freshly smeared wall. He found it odd that this time it wasn’t a demand for work or bread, or an appeal to kick the thieves out of the Town Hall. What he saw was a strange drawing of a giant, monstrous face, with exposed teeth and dreadful eyes staring out. It came together with writing: ‘I SAW it’. Sidabras walked up to the wall and traced his finger over it. The paint was still wet.

  The steam carriage pulled up at The Bristol, the temporary home of both adjutants, but only Edward alighted from it there. Charles had offered to see Mila home and Edward had agreed, even more so because tomorrow he had to report to The Star first. It was a good idea to get some sleep.

  The stagec
oach pulled off and rolled down St George’s Avenue. It was nearly midnight but the Avenue was still teeming with people – some were attached to the stalls of the night sellers, others were just loitering about and annoying the hurrying carriage drivers. The closer to Zverynas they drove, the thinner the crowds became. There wasn’t a living soul on the bridge, which meant that the volunteer guards had already gone to the land of slumber.

  The driver stopped the carriage outside Tvardauskis’ house and began to roll a cigarette, waiting for his passengers to get out.

  The moment when Mila was about to get up and leave, Charles took a firm but gentle grip on her elbow. Before the girl even realised what was going on, he pulled her over and placed a firm kiss on her lips. At first Mila fluttered, trying to make him let go of her but the Englishman held her even tighter. Then the girl’s lips parted slightly and she kissed him back. Charles sunk his fingers in Mila’s hair and they both lost themselves in the sweet moment.

  Having reached the end of his tether, the carriage driver loudly cleared his throat. The signal, like a thunderbolt, woke Mila up from a dream, making her abruptly tear herself away from Charles. Her flaming cheeks shone through the dark.

  “Till we meet again,” she whispered.

  “Till we meet again,” said Charles sweetly, giving her a gallant bow.

  The coach door slammed and a moment later the girl slipped into her yard. Finley watched her until the door closed, then reclined in his seat and smugly ran his tongue over his upper teeth. Bending over towards the driver he knocked on the window.

  “The Bristol”, he instructed at first but then changed his mind. “Wait. Go to the Blots first, and then to the hotel.”

  The driver enthusiastically nodded. He was having a really great day. While Finley couldn’t wait to share his good news with the Prague Vitamancers.

  Racing against each other as they did every night, the church bells of Vilnius began to toll midnight. This made the night guards stop in their tracks and check their watches.