Siberian Red

finally left, Gramotin walked among the bodies and discovered he was the only survivor.
    As evening fell on that day of the ambush, Gramotin glimpsed the smoke-like shadows of wolves approaching through the forest. Climbing a tall pine tree, he clung to the prickly branches, sap gluing his hands to the bark, while the wolf pack feasted on the dead.
    All night, the sound of powerful jaws crunching cartilage and bone echoed in Gramotin’s skull. When morning came, the wolves were gone, leaving behind an abattoir of human flesh.
    Three days later, Gramotin was picked up by a band of Cossacks patrolling the tracks, by which time he had become so deranged that they had no choice except to tie him up. The Cossacks slung him over a pack horse and when they came to the nearest village, they dumped him in the middle of the street and kept on riding. Rolling in the mud, Gramotin raged and spat until at last the villagers knocked him out with a wooden mallet. It was a week before the villagers dared to untie him and another week before he spoke in any language they, or even he, could understand.
    A thousand times since then, that Czech locomotive had ridden through his dreams. These days, even the sound of a train in the distance summoned from Gramotin’s mind horrors so vivid that he could not tell which ones were real and which ones his crippled brain had conjured into life.
    Standing on these tracks again filled Gramotin with such dread that it took all of his resolve not to turn tail and run back to camp.
    The Ostyaks had been here. Gramotin could see the hoof marks of their animals. But the sledges seemed to have gone off in more than one direction. Those who had headed west, back into Russia, were none of his concern. Pekkala and the Comitati would be heading towards China and they were the ones he was after. Turning to the east, Gramotin set off walking down the tracks.
    *
     
    As the plane made its way towards Siberia, Kirov stared at moonlight glimmering off the wings.
    What if I can’t find Pekkala, he wondered. What if I do find him but it’s too late and those bastards have killed him? What will happen to this country without the Emerald Eye? What will happen to me? Kirov’s fists clenched as he thought of what a poor student he had been. I could never keep up with Pekkala’s logic, he told himself. Things that made perfect sense to him were total mysteries to me. I must have been a constant disappointment. I should never have pestered him so much about those clothes he wears. Please let me find Pekkala, Kirov prayed to the outlawed gods. Please let me bring him home safe.
    This wandering through the labyrinth of his mind was interrupted by the voice of the pilot, exploding through the headset as if the words had been uttered by God. ‘What are you going to do when you reach Vladivostok?’
    ‘I will commandeer a train and make my way to Nikolsk.’
    ‘Nikolsk is west of Vladivostok,’ said the pilot. ‘We will fly right over it on our way there.’
    ‘But the nearest landing field is at Vladivostok,’ replied Kirov. ‘At least, that’s what I was told.’
    ‘That is correct, Comrade Major. Nevertheless, you will lose valuable time.’
    ‘I am aware of that,’ snapped Kirov irritably, ‘but unless you can set this thing down on the train tracks . . .’
    ‘No, that is impossible. The landing gear would break and there are telegraph wires running alongside the tracks.’
    ‘Then we have no choice except to head for Vladivostok!’ Satisfied that they had now reached the end of this pointless conversation, Kirov let his gaze drift to the darkness below. Rivers, reflecting the moon, cut through the black like silver snakes. Far away, almost lost on the horizon, he glimpsed a tiny cluster of lights from some remote village, and they seemed so frail in that vast sea of ink that Kirov felt as if he had trespassed into a place where all that he held sacred counted for nothing any more.
    ‘We might not have to land the plane.’ The pilot’s words rang crackling and metallic through the headset.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Do you see those straps hanging down by your seat?’
    Barely able to move inside the cocoon of the sheepskin-lined flight suit, Kirov leaned forward and squinted into the seat well. ‘Yes, I see them.’
    ‘I must ask you to buckle them on.’
    ‘Why? What are they for?’
    ‘Your parachute,’ replied the pilot, ‘for when you jump out of the plane.’
    Ten hours later, after two