Hour of the Wolf

by Andrius B Tapinas

  Aided by a few flaps of its wings the Dragon Fly pulled up and soared above the heads of the Iron Wolf and Mila, ruffling the girl’s hair. Gathering its last steam, it flew as far as the edges of Cathedral Square, before shattering on the cobble stones with a noisy bang. Still, it managed a few more jerks up and down, then became nothing more than a pile of scrap.

  The monster slowly turned its head back towards the noise.

  A few steps away from it stood Mila.

  The Iron Wolf tilted its head to the side, its good eye glaring at the girl.

  “En garde!” yelled Scaramuccia, jumping up and down by Mila’s side. Looking like a tiny ant next to this enormous beast, he lunged at the monster, waving his little sword about.

  Its eye not leaving the girl even for a second, The Wolf idly waved its front paw. It was enough to send Scaramuccia crashing against the building wall.

  Mila didn’t seem to notice what misfortune had struck her beloved toy. She stared at the Wolf. “That’s what you are like,” she said quietly. “I saw a different you in my dreams. I saw you as the guardian of the city, not the monster they have turned you into.”

  The Wolf made a soft rumbling sound. Then the rumble became slightly bolder before turning into a full-blown howl. The terrifying sound sent shivers down the spines of those who had become witnesses to the scene. As if hypnotised, Sidabras watched the phantasmagorical sight: a howling black iron wolf and a slim, beautiful girl standing opposite one another.

  “It’s still not too late to change everything,” Mila spoke calmly, without any signs of worry. “Can you feel me – the Master’s creation? The Master’s daughter. You and I are very much alike.”

  The Wolf bowed its head very low, causing its iron sagittal crest to rise. A wailing sound issued from its mouth, instantly transforming it from a terrifying monster into an unhappy dog, wailing over its lost owner or possibly mourning him. The red light in its only eye clouded over.

  Mila stretched out her hand.

  “Come,” she spoke softly. “Come.”

  The beast’s body began to convulse, its iron head furiously shaking and swinging from side to side. It was the bionic’s living essence, fighting its mechanical side, trying to escape the trap in its head – smash the stuck record playing over and over again, to stop the command Kill!

  But then the Wolf’s body calmed, it lifted its head, and the eye glinted with a blood-splattered hue. It growled a threat, opened its jaws and leapt at the girl.

  “No!” – coming back to his senses, Sidabras screamed and began limping down the street.

  Faster than the eye could comprehend, Mila stretched her open palms before her. Two entire heads taller than the girl, the metal monster was about to squash her, but suddenly paused as if it had hit an invisible wall with its head. Mila’s outstretched arms began to tremble. The Wolf was also shaking – as if suffering from the effects of Yellow Fever. Pushing the invisible wall with its head, sparks flew as it strained with its paws against the ground.

  “You are not like this, you are no monster!” – screamed Mila, mustering all her strength, her hand pushing into the Wolf’s steel chest like a knife into soft butter.

  A dazzling white light flashed, the monster barked and collapsed over the girl, its entire body weight pressing her down to the ground. The red light in its only eye flickered before slowly fading away.

  The first to rush to Mila’s side was Sidabras, dragging his injured leg. Vagneris, Vielholskiy and several other Legionnaires followed suit. Jonas Basanavicius came hobbling from over the Cathedral. Steam released through the crack in the turbine caused by the crash had burned half of his face and beard, while his arm dangled helplessly his side. But he was totally oblivious to all of this – all his being was focused on the delicate figure of the girl with the body of the iron monster bearing down on her.

  Sidabras struggled to push the Wolf aside. When the stiff monster was finally moved with the help of Legionnaires, it fell backwards against the cobble stones, one of its sides touching the girl.

  “Incredible!” Vagneris gasped.

  Mila was lying on the ground without so much so a scratch, as if all that had fallen on her was a leaf, not a massive hunk of iron. The beast’s claws had slashed her dress here and there, but there was not a single drop of blood to be seen. In the light of a lantern the girl’s face had acquired the quality of a wax model – it was peaceful and clear.

  Lt. Vagneris crouched with his ear against the girl’s chest to listen to her heart, but a second later furrowed his brow from a piercing pain in his temple.

  “What the hell was that?” he blurted out.

  “Give way, give way, I am a doctor!” shouted Basanavicius, squeezing through the crowd. “Move, move, let me closer.”

  Down on his knees beside Mila, he carefully examined her chest, trying to locate a wound, when his fingers felt a sharp object – the cause of Vagneris’ distress. He swiftly unbuttoned the dress to reveal the chest and took a deep breath. The Legionnaires gathered round gasped in unison.

  A copper key protruded from Mila’s chest. It was twisted and bent, and protruded from a wide open wound with the metal edges melted from the heat. Distorted and broken gears were buried deep in the opening, as well as sheared wires leading into a metal, heart-shaped box, positioned where a human heart would normally be. Each of Mila’s mornings had begun with her winding it up with the key. Although the brass box was now covered in soot, it was obvious it had been born in the hands of an outstanding craftsman. It was a masterpiece.

  Sensing someone’s stare behind his back, Basanavicius strained to get up to his feet before looking back.

  At the end of the street there stood a dark silhouette, still as a statue.

  Walking slowly, as if lugging an enormous rock behind him, Nikodemas Pranas Tvardauskis advanced towards the girl lying in a red summer dress on the ground side by side with the iron monster.

  The Legionnaires made way for him. Tvardauskis went down on one knee to take Mila in his arms. When he lifted her up, she felt light as a feather. He stood and caught Basanavicius staring at him. With a barely perceptible nod in reply to his silent question about a long-kept secret, he hunched up and shuffled away with the girl in his arms.

  Dawn was slowly breaking. The church bells had broken off a while ago, and the city became shrouded in the stillness of dawn.

  Like a bolt out of the blue somewhere in the distance – in New World or maybe Paplauja – a cockerel greeted the new morning.

  The Hour of the Wolf had come to an end.

  The morning broke unusually clear and bright. Pilies Street was spotlessly clean – all the debris was gone, as were the traces of blood that had marked the monster’s route from Paplauja to the edges of Cathedral Square.

  “On a day like this, even breathing is fun, isn’t it?” called the rejoicing residents who had escaped the nightmare unscathed, and were now rushing to get a free copy of The Vilnius News. Its front page featured an aerial photo picture of the monster, proudly marching along Didzioji Street, and Basanavicius’ Dragon Fly, dashing through the air – the latter a close-up. Some were puzzled as to how and when the taking of such photo had even been possible, while those slightly more familiar with the process quietly smiled, pointing at St Johns’ Bell Tower.

  The Truth of Vilnius was never published again.

  Citizens who had a face-to-face encounter with the beast behind them, escaping it by nothing but sheer luck, flooded the churches to show their gratitude by lighting candles and feeding the offering boxes with coins and paper roubles. Priests celebrated mass to commemorate the brave saviours of the city, in their sermons referring to St Christopher, St Casimier and other saints who had gathered to save the city of Gediminas in its darkest hour.

  From churches people wandered over to inns and pubs, where new versions of last night’s events emerged or were retold by one person to another. They all went along the same lines more or less, but also had their difference
s, especially the happy ending, as no one was entirely certain who was the brave heart who had put to death the iron monster wreaking havoc on the city. As soon as Tvardauskis and Mila vanished out of sight, Sidabras made his men swear to silence until their deathbed.

  The identity of the saviour was also unknown to the governor of the Alliance Nathan Rothschild. But in his opinion, an official expression of gratitude to the Legion of Vilnius, represented at an urgently convened Town Hall meeting by Lieutenants Michal Vielholskiy and Justas Vagneris, was sufficient. The Legionnaires accepted the message and reported that Legate Sidabras was undergoing treatment for his injuries in Sluskai Palace, though the truth was they had not the faintest idea where their commander had vanished to.

  After parting with the Legionnaires, the Baron threw an openly contemptuous look at Burgomaster Venslauskis-Venskus. The Burgomaster – the target for a search party for a good few hours prior to being eventually dragged out of an Antokolis joy house near dawn, had received the news about the nighttime ordeal in the city by fainting. Later, having been brought to the Town Hall and approached by the Baron himself, he couldn’t stop shaking like a leaf.

  “Isn’t this an abuse of our trust, Burgomaster?” Nathan Rothschild uttered through gritted teeth. “While the city was under imminent threat, you were enjoying yourself in the company of sluts? You have disgraced the revered name of a Councillor, and in return for that...”

  People in one of the Town Hall conference rooms never found out what Baron Rothschild’s intentions were, as everyone was distracted by a confused noise coming from the corridor.

  “Where is that old goat? Where is that lecher?” a plump lady with pouting lips forced her way into the room. Her dyed blonde hair was tousled according to the latest fashion, while her emerald frilly blouse accentuated her more than impressive bosom. A long black skirt, flaring out sharply around the calves, made her look somewhat fish-like. The hostile look in this madam’s eyes moved the Town Hall guards out of her way. “Where is he?”

  “And who are you?” the Baron enquired slightly baffled.

  “Mrs Venskus – the animal’s wife!”

  Mrs Burgomaster positioned herself with her hands firmly on her hips, before casting an ominous glance at her cringing husband.

  “In that case – he is all yours,” the Baron smiled, quietly thinking that no one would surpass the wife in sentencing her own delinquent husband.

  Later the same day the Baron circulated an official Alliance statement with his condolences to the victims’ relatives and his regret regarding “the unfortunate incident which will be investigated with no delay” and assuring that “those responsible will be punished most severely.” The statement also said that “Burgomaster of Vilnius Vytautas Venslauskis-Venskus has accepted full responsibility for the nighttime tragedy and has resigned from his post. The Council shall elect the new head of the city in the nearest future.”

  “It hurts!” wailed Antanas Sidabras, as stinking green ointment was smeared over his wound.

  “You can handle it, you are no longer a child,” replied Margarita Berg, who was putting a bandage over his leg. Mischievous sparks flickered in her eyes as she spoke. “By the time you have your wedding, it will be good as new,” she said, flashing a smile, then hurrying to wash her hands in order to conceal her embarrassment.

  Sidabras leaned back against a soft pillow and closed his eyes. The scenes from the crazy day and night flashed before his eyes. So many secrets remained unrevealed, so many things still undone: he hadn’t paid a ‘friendly’ visit to Markuciai Manor or inspected the tunnels. But these things could wait. Besides: the city was not going to reveal its secrets that easily. The Legate wished to stay within these silent walls for a while. He wished to rest.

  Margarita perched on the edge of the bed. With his eyes still closed, Sidabras carefully took her hand in his.

  “I am so sorry for losing Solomon in the tunnels. I did look for him but...” he muttered. “I promised to bring him back safe and sound but I have no idea where to look for him now. Please forgive me.”

  Margarita squeezed Sidabras’ hand lightly.

  “I don’t think he would have liked it here in the orphanage. This is not for him. I just hope he doesn’t get hurt. You never know, the boy might feel much more comfortable where he is now.”

  There followed a long silence from which they both drew comfort, feeling that they had finally sailed into a peaceful haven.

  Something rustled. It was Sister Liucia putting her ear to the door. When she didn’t hear a sound, she quietly cracked the door open and peeked inside. A moment later she was already walking away along the corridor, leaving the door shut, as she had found it.

  Solomon was standing beside a pile of strange objects. His eye was caught by a smallish box. He picked it up and began to turn the key on the side, summoning the little figure of St Christopher on its lid back to life. With his entire body screeching, the metal legs went up and down in a funny way, and St Christopher waded in the waves of the Neris, rolling under his feet. But he no longer carried Baby Jesus in his hands – all that was left of it was a little stick. This must have been the reason the mechanical toy ended up in a pile of rubbish. But Solomon found it amazing – it was the greatest thing that he had ever seen.

  “An amusing little thing, isn’t it, my dear boy?” a voice chortled nearby. “You should see the treasures that people sometimes chuck out for someone like you and I to enjoy,” the creature chuckled again.

  The Rose of the Troubles got to her feet with a sideways glance at the boiling Russian samovar, then poked her parasol into a pile of goodies in the corner, through which the boy was rummaging, oblivious to everything around him.

  Who knows where they met. Possibly in the Vilnius underground vaults with their ceilings bleeding drops of water and rats scurrying around their feet, or maybe in some deserted cul-de-sac, which had been turned into a tip by its lazy and filthy residents, and which had also become the place to receive Solomon Klein back from the dark underworld, after he had seen the Beast. But what does it matter, after all? They –Rose of the Troubles and wall dauber Solomon – were two lonely souls drifting around the big city who had eventually found each other. Wasn’t that most amazing?

  The samovar whistled, spitting white steam all around the place. Rose began to fuss around the table, swiftly embellishing it with two fine china cups with broken handles and a plate of biscuits. A kind shopkeeper from Sodu Street would occasionally treat Rose to a plateful of those.

  The old woman’s quarters consisted of one single room with two fly-stained windows. The wind would find its way in through numerous gaps in the walls, which Solomon had promised to fill as soon as Rose and he found enough rags. They both sat at the little table. A blissful sigh issuing from his lips, the boy picked up the cup. The lovely smell of mint tea made him close his eyes. He felt good. He felt at home.

  Trailing clouds and steam, the grand Ilya Muromets was heading north. To St Petersburg. Home. No one with a rational mind could justify the quantities of promethelium that this airship was wolfing down, but its Mechanics and Alchemists couldn’t care less. It was The Ilya Muromets! The shot glasses, brim-full with ice cold vodka, chinked.

  “To Russia and to victory!” toasted Vladimir Nikolayevich Lamsdorf, Foreign Minister to the Empire, who had been flown to The Ilya Muromets on board a biplane and had only found out about the latest developments in Vilnius from the wireless.

  “To Russia and to victory!” echoed the Actual State Councillor Alexander Ignatyevich Golytsin.

  The men downed the liquor in one and each took a bite of a pickle, before placing the empty glasses on a silver tray.

  “Your performance was fantastic,” Lamsdorf was generous with praise, chewing on a crunchy pickle. “As was Ilyusha’s. The Kaiser’s pigs will never forget that Russia needs to be treated with respect. Could you please remind me to submit a request to his Imperial Highness for the entire crew to be rewarded with medal
s?”

  Golytsin was thoughtfully gazing out of the port hole. He followed the flailing threads of black smoke still rising from the ravaged Novovileysk.

  “Vladimir Nikolayevich, do you really think we are holding victory in our hands? Is this indeed the time to be adorned with medals?” he asked. “Haven’t we paid too high a price? The city that we destroyed was one of our own. While a victory... it is somewhat odd, I’d say. There were no riots, the city did not perish in flames, and the Alliance has once again reinforced its positions. If not for the iron monster, which has put the fear of the devil into all of Europe, and the liquidation of Kniaz, I would be inclined to call it... a defeat.”

  With a casual pat on the young Councillor’s elbow Lamsdorf broke out in peals of laughter.

  “Dear Alexander Ignatyevich, I must confess to truly liking you,” he said picking up a shot glass, which had already been refilled by the automaton. “Young people capable of critical thinking is what Russia really needs. Enough of arrogant jokers, not able to see beyond their protruding bellies. But just think. Why isn’t this a victory? The Germans have learned a lesson not to fool around with Russia; besides, we might also reap the benefits from the diplomatic scandal which will inevitably ensue as a result of the violent assault on our peaceful city.

  Yes, it is true, we had to bomb Novovileysk, but that city was doomed anyway, so no harm done, so to speak. The revolutionaries, however, will have to rack their brains to find another Kniaz. Vilnius... Well, we were down on our luck there but one can’t have it all. And the positions of the Alliance are not as strong as they might appear to you. Time will show how to treat this tumour which has sprung up on our body. So, my dear Actual State Councillor, keep your chin up. Think of it as a gambit.” Lamsdorf tilted his head backwards to finish off the shot, then wiped his mouth with his jacket sleeve. “By the way, how is the brunette? The one who you have taken under your wing?” he asked.