Hour of the Wolf

by Andrius B Tapinas

  Mila was in bed staring at the ceiling, but what she actually saw was a tall youth in a red Air Force uniform.

  The longer Motiejus Kairys counted Suslov’s roubles with the licked fingers of his healthy hand, the more he resembled a grinning Cheshire cat. It was touching to see how greatly appreciated he was.

  To gain entry to the alchemic opium smoking den, which only a few people in Vilnius knew existed, Charles Finley was asked for a special password.

  Still unable to get the ghastly, odd drawing out of his head, Sidabras walked through the door of Sluskai, when he bumped into the sergeant with a freshly received extraordinary distress signal. In the words of the Legion’s men it meant murder.

  Only the leader of the Radiants did not see any sights, hear any sounds or think any thoughts anymore. His unnaturally arched body was slumped on the ground, the blood oozing out of his mouth already caked, the moment of inconceivable horror frozen in his glazed eyes.

  Having announced the beginning of a new day, the church tolls went back to sleep.

  Chapter XXXIII

  Vilnius, Before dawn

  26 04 1905

  Marius Pelikanas, the old University Dominium weather forecaster, struggled up the spiral staircase of the Observatory tower. Something creaked. Pelikanas stopped and pricked up his ears.

  “Damn bones,” he whined in an annoyed voice.

  Every time he got out of bed with the bone-breaking or joint-twisting pain in his limbs, he thought that his daily mounting of the rotten tower was completely pointless, as he could forecast the weather there and then. But the Dominium was after scientifically-proven data, and so every morning Pelikanas would get up at an ungodly hour, don a thick fur lined robe, which was supposed to protect him from the whipping Easterly wind and, rubbing his eyes, bloodshot due to the lack of sleep, clamber up to check the three barometers, compare the figures and thoroughly write everything down. The main part over, he lingered at the top, his eyes gazing over the rooftops, before complimenting the record with something of his own.

  Pelikanas had been working in weather forecasting for fifteen years, even since he had lost his job at the Observatory of University Dominium. The reasons for his dismissal were never made public and so no one knew what exactly happened there. For thirteen whole years Pelikanas had felt that his efforts were not being valued enough. The daily reports, which he painstakingly filled out in barely legible letters, were turning into dust in the drawers of the Dominium clerks, while the University saw him as an odd but benevolent old man, who was at the end of his road and had been entrusted with the duty of ‘squeezing water’. Pelikanas knew that he had made mistakes along the way – at the time when his forecasts were still being appreciated.

  The memory of Prelate Masalskis’ visit always brought a cold sweat to the old man’s brow. Once, on the eve of some significant festival, which was to be celebrated with a procession by the knights, he gave the Prelate a promise of warm and clear weather. But quite unexpectedly the heavens had opened, turning the delicate Venetian silk gowns worn by the Knights of the Cathedral for the occasion into wet rags. The Prelate, foaming at the mouth, had threatened him with eternity in hell, making the distressed poor man pray for absolution, agonising over how he could swap it for a ticket to Purgatory.

  But certain small changes two years ago injected some excitement back into Marius Pelikanas’ life, and the old meteorologist had become slightly more inclined to climb the creaking stairs. Then he knew: there were still people around who appreciated his work. The Truth of Vilnius, alongside a cup of tea, had become his regular morning companion. With his paper spread out, he would go straight to the last page and the section Professor Pelikanas’ Forecast for the Day, taking pride in every word he read. What the elder was slightly baffled by was the fact that information of utmost importance, telling you about the wind, rain and clouds, was printed in miniscule letters at the very bottom of the page. On the other hand, these tiny letters came alongside his name – Pelikanas – and that was something that really mattered.

  Actually Pelikanas didn’t even need to look at the old barometers. Spending a few minutes analysing the direction in which the wind was blowing the clouds was enough for him to tell what weather to expect. If the smoke from the chimneys was coming straight up in the evening – people were in for a beautiful tomorrow; if the smoke went down and draped over the ground – they were to expect snow in winter and rain in summer. While smoke trailing in long sashes was a sign of damp and rainy weather, echoes resounding for long distances and the loud tolls of bells meant that the weather was about to deteriorate. Also, it would be a while before the first drops of rain if you could make out the faraway roofs and if they looked larger than usual.

  With the kettle on, Pelikanas sat down at his desk and readied a yellow sheet of paper. In the batting of an eyelid the paper was filled with the following: “Today will be especially warm and humid, while closer to the evening the sky will become overcast. If matters continue thus, we might end the day with a blustering spring storm. Big and small – we’ll all need our parasols. To protect us from the rays of the sun and the drops of the rain.” He then scanned his scrawl again and smugly giggled.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Even earlier than usual,” the meteorologist mumbled, getting off his chair and glancing over at the massive cuckoo clock on the wall.

  The time was 3:30 a.m. At this time every night, except for Sunday, he was visited by The Truth of Vilnius courier, who came to collect the sheet with Professor Pelikanas’ Forecast for the Day. But when he opened his door today, he saw an unfamiliar young man in a long dark jacket.

  “Erm... how can I help you, dear?” puzzled Pelikanas narrowed his eyes.

  “Are you Marijus Pelikanas, the Dominium’s weather forecaster?” the stranger enquired politely.

  “Yes. And who are you?”

  “I was sent here by Rector Gimbutas. I must inform you that pursuing the Rector’s order, the Dominium is severing all its ties with The Truth of Vilnius – a loudspeaker for lies and fabrication. Your forecast column will also be closed.”

  The expression on the old forecaster’s face suddenly changed as he felt a thump in his chest – as if a worn out spring had finally come loose; he became unsteady on his feet and nearly fell – the stranger managed to get his arm around him just in time.

  “What about my predictions...” Pelikanas breathed out. “No one will need them anymore.”

  “Well, you should stop feeling sorry for yourself.” the young man smiled and led the forecaster to the chair, before grabbing the sheet with predictions off the table. “I’ll take it. It will certainly come in handy to us,” he said, stepping out through the door.

  It was getting close to five in the morning. Workers began to spill out of Steam City’s common-use houses. The yawning groups lumbered over to Green Bridge, where supervisors waited for them with milk churns filled with strong tea. A mug of tea and they all went back to assembling the audience stands for the VIP guests who would be coming here to watch the brave pilot Adam Gaber-Volynskiy’s flight.

  The street cleaners, torches in their hands, came out into the streets long before the first signs of dawn. Some cleaned the evidence of last night’s entertainments in Mirth City; others tried to assist the night guards in waking up bacchanalians who had chosen the cobblestones to be their bed for the night. The boozers were led or carried to small trolleys, which took them to a place next to the Mirth City pond especially arranged for that purpose.

  Hangover Ravine – that’s how it was appropriately known among the local wags. As soon as the city guests sobered up, they rushed to dip their pounding heads in the cloudy waters of the pond. Needless to say, no encouragement was needed. A Legionnaire was posted to Hangover Ravine to watch over the sleeping carousers, making sure one of their own kind or possibly a drifter wouldn’t clear them of all of their belongings. This post, which few considered to be a desirable one, was usually all
ocated by Sidabras’ lieutenants in place of a punishment. “You are getting the Ravine now,” the mercenaries would joke among themselves.

  The night guard eyed two men stumbling from Mirth City in the direction of The Old Town, but then dismissed them with a wave of his hand. At this hour he considered those lying on the ground to be his priority, and those who could still walk were to take care of themselves.

  “See Simutis, Vilnius is a real capital of trade and pleasure,” observed one of the two Pernarava stars, slurring his words, before letting out a loud belch.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” replied his intensely swaying companion. “How far is it to our bed? I am knackered, Mikelis. I shall lie down.”

  “Don’t do that. Just don’t, Simutis,” Mikelis’ friend’s intention caused him to frown. “If they get you, you’ll end up in a place where they pick everyone’s pockets.”

  “I don’t have much left in my pocket anyway,” Simutis whined. “I didn’t think Vilnius would be so dear.”

  The low-spirited fellows from Pernarava dragged themselves along, hoping they would soon reach the common-use houses of New World. Neither of them noticed a jacketless gentleman sitting on the pavement with the head in his hands, rocking from side to side.

  The Lublin born Vojciech Swaczyk was drowning in sorrow. The morning happened to be on the chilly side, and hunched Vojciech was racking his brain, trying to figure out what could have possibly caused him – a brilliant billiard player – to suffer such an excruciating defeat. His best jacket and a ticket for the dirigible back to Warsaw were also gone.

  A trolley rolled by. Swaczyk looked up and watched it retreat.

  The trolley continued on its way towards Hangover Ravine and soon passed a two-storey building. The driver could not believe his eyes – at this ungodly hour every last window was ablaze with light.

  The second floor of this building was occupied by The Truth of Vilnius editorial office. Editor Leib Volynskiy was smugly rubbing his hands, as today was the day when the most scandalous of all its editions was about to greet the day. The screaming headlines leapt from the front page, scrambling over each other for attention: City Brought to Standstill by Strikes! Mad Legate Fired! Flying German Fortress: Confusion and Panic!

  And The Truth kept getting fresh news. The message delivered to him by courier a moment ago brought a leer to his face. He had yet another headline, which he could not possibly put anywhere except the front page: New Victim! Maniac Murderer Strikes Again! There was no doubt: it would be The Truth’s best edition of all time.

  At 5.30 am, Legate of Vilnius Antanas Sidabras was contemplating the corpse lying in the puddle of caked blood, whom he knew to be Jonas Simaska and who he also knew only a few hours ago had been roistering in a bar with his friends. A torn wound, like a second mouth, gaped from the poor creature’s neck. His trousers were unbuttoned and drawn down: it appeared the wretch hadn’t had enough time to answer the call of nature. Sad last moments of life.

  “Compared to the corpse in the cemetery, this wound looks different,” Dr Radzinskis, the medical expert, reported. “It is deeper, wider... and cleaner, if we dare call it that.” He straightened his back and stepped aside, allowing Sidabras to have a look as well.

  “They are beating Lithuanians,” muttered Sidabras with a sneer, casting a glance over his shoulder at a small group of Radiants standing nearby, their faces pale and sobered with fright.

  Antanas Sidabras already knew from his sergeant what had happened here. Fed up with waiting for their leader the Radiants had spilled out of the inn and begun the search. They soon found him slumped in one of the gateways. Fortunately, the inebriated men had quickly got their brains in gear and called the night guard. He immediately reported the incident to the duty Legionnaires, who had cordoned the murder scene off and were now interrogating Simaska’s acolytes in deep concentration.

  News of the murder spread around Mirth City like wildfire and half an hour later The Truth’s vultures were already loitering about. But today, however, they were the last thing on Sidabras’ mind. Being officially suspended by the Burgomaster, he had no right to be present at the murder scene. The duty sergeant was nevertheless very pleased to see his boss here.

  Sidabras looked up from the corpse and fixed his gaze on medical expert Radzinskis.

  “Are you confident this is the handiwork of the same perpetrator?” he asked, touching the edge of the wound with his finger. In his head, he tried to count the time that had passed from the fight at The Ryks’ Inn to the moment when the corpse was discovered by the Radiants.

  “It certainly is,” Radzinskis’ reply was very firm. “The wound maybe somewhat different but the resemblance to the murder in Cholera Cemetery is obvious.” He went quiet and rubbed his forehead with his wrist. “And the cut... Do you remember me speaking about a high quality instrument and a clumsy hand? But here...” Radzinskis’ finger went up in the air and his tongue clucked. “This cut is even and beautiful.”

  “Our murderer is improving?” remarked the Legate, a crooked smile on his face.

  “You could say that,” the expert agreed. “But there is also something odd about it. The wound could not have been inflicted with just one scalpel or knife – it is too deep and wide. See what it looks like? As if someone had drawn across with two scalpels at the same time – at the top and at the bottom, leaving behind a deep like a gaping mouth hole. As if bitten out with teeth. With incredible precision... Legate, are you all right?”

  Sidabras closed his eyes. Suddenly his mind became filled with a strange picture, a collage made up of different faces. Two corpses: Skorokhodov and the Radiant Simaska; the murderer appears as if out of nowhere before disappearing again; the stolen bionic golem drawings; the mysterious disappearance of scientist Pranciskus Baltrus; a face of a monster with exposed teeth daubed on the wall.

  When Antanas Sidabras opened his eyes and cast a glance at his fingers with traces of the poor creature’s blood, he remembered the wet paint on the wall.

  He turned towards the Legionnaires.

  “Give me the light!” he waived to the group and the Legionnaire holding the torch for Radzinskis briskly handed it over.

  His long and treacherous years of service had taught Sidabras to rely on his intuition. He had a good look around, picked up the torch and stepped into the dark and narrow alleyway.

  It was not really a street, just a gap between two buildings, ending at a windowless wall with a pile of foul-smelling rubbish beside it.

  His sixth sense was right again. As the torch light slid down the wall, Sidabras was startled with the sight of another daubing: a face of a beast with bulging eyes and exposed teeth, large drops of blood dripping down from them. Underneath there was writing: I SAW him. Sidabras touched the drawing. The paint was still wet.

  The Legate went over to the pile of rubbish. Next to it there was a slop pit. Nearly every house had one of those, covered with rusty iron grilles. But this grille had been tossed aside, bent and broken in places, while the stench of the city’s sewage poured out of the dark pit unimpeded.

  “The sewers became a refuge for a dauber named Solomon two days ago, while on the run from Legionnaires,” Sidabras recalled. “Solomon – one more face in the mysterious picture.”

  “Vileisis was wrong,” he mumbled under his breath. “Skorokhodov’s drawings were not drawings of a golem. And they were not just a scheme. The murderer is not human but a mechanical beast. It’s a bionic which has been produced and now occasionally ascends from under the Earth.”

  Sidabras trotted back to the crime scene. With the Radiants already released, the Legionnaires, under the command of Radzinskis, were getting ready to transfer Simaska’s body to a steam carriage waiting a little further down the road. As soon as the returning commander came into his view, the sergeant wanted to say something, but the Legate was quicker: he barked a few brief instructions, and the Legionnaires set off immediately to carry them out.

  Chapter XXXIV<
br />
  Vilnius, Dawn

  26 04 1905

  At six in the morning, the black arch of the sky exuded the first traces of light – gradually and with caution. Just like a Vilnius citizen would wade into the chilly waters of the Neris, fretting to freeze his feet off.

  The weather forecaster Marijus Pelikanas had been right – not a sign of cloud in the sky, the day was breaking out beautifully. The old forecaster was now sleeping like a baby in his cosy bed. Having conferred the fruits of his night time work on a total stranger, he did not hear someone banging on the door a short while later. Having received no reply The Truth of Vilnius courier decided that the old man was out, and went back with nothing.

  The Truth’s editor Leib Volynskiy, however, could only dream of his cosy bed. He had just finished choosing the position for the latest news on the second murder and devastated Legionnaires, when the courier brought him a message that there would be no weather forecast today. It meant that instead of Professor Pelikanas’ prediction for the day, the last page would contain a gaping blank space. No one had any time to figure out what had happened, so Volynskiy decided to fill the space with a hastily sketched drawing of Simaska’s body stretched out in the gateway, surrounded by a vast pool of blood. The artist’s attempts to dismiss the suggested quantity of blood as being unrealistic were futile, and Volynskiy left no room for ambiguity: there just cannot be too much blood.

  Volynskiy rushed out to the printers in Steam City with a good feeling that this issue of The Truth would shake the city up, the locals being really hungry for any type of gruesome stuff. Each issue meant a copeck in his pocket – take care of the copecks and the roubles will take care of themselves, as people say... The money promised to him by Golytsin in the sky would also no doubt come in very handy.

  At the printers, Volynskiy took a freshly printed copy of his paper, his nose wrinkled at the smell of the ink. He had to admit though, the artist had done a great job – Sidabras’ distorted face alongside the headline Mad Legate Fired! occupied the better part of the frontpage, while below it was a picture of the menacing Parsifal with the question Do We Need to Prepare for War? Well, and of course, last but not least – poor Simaska in an ample pool of blood. Just like that! Truly satisfied with the result, Volynskiy licked his lips.