Sam Eastland - Archive 17

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 packhorse and, when they came to the nearest village, 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 conjured 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 sleds 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,” retorted 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 anymore.

“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 refueling stops, the plane banked lazily to circle the railway junction of Nikolsk at an altitude of seven hundred feet. Kirov slid back the rear section of the cockpit canopy. With the deliberate and clumsy movements of a child just learning to walk, he climbed out onto the wing, keeping a firm grip on the rim of the canopy.

The pilot’s jaunty explanation of how to bail out of a moving aircraft had done nothing to inspire confidence in Kirov. “I can’t do this!” he shouted into the wind.

“We have been over this a dozen times, Comrade Major. It’s just like I told you. Wait until I tip the plane and then let go.”

“I don’t care what you told me. Don’t you dare tip this plane!”

“Are you ready?”

“Definitely not!”

“Remember to count to five before you pull the rip cord!”

It’s simple, Kirov told himself. You just have to let go. For a moment, he thought he could do it. Then, through watering eyes, he stared past the wing to the tiny junction below him. Around it, for as far as he could see, snow-covered woods fanned out in all directions. At that moment his courage failed him completely. “I’m getting back in!” he shouted.

The words had not even left his mouth when the plane’s right wing dipped sharply and Kirov’s legs swept out from under him. For a second, his fingers maintained their grip on the cockpit rim. Then he tumbled howling into space. All around him were the roar of the plane’s motor and the rushing of the air. Without counting to five, or any other number, Kirov slapped his hand against his chest, gripped the red-painted oblong metal ring and pulled it as hard as he could.

In a thunder of unraveling silk, the chute deployed.

As the canopy came taut, Kirov experienced a jolt which seemed to dislodge every vertebra in his spine.

Seconds later, he emerged into a strange and peaceful silence. Drifting through space, he had no sensation of falling.

By now, the plane was no more than a speck against the eggshell sky, droning like a mosquito as it headed on towards its next refueling stop.

A hundred feet below him, Kirov could see the rail yard of Nikolsk. There was only one building, with a tar-paper roof, a chimney in the middle, and rain barrels beneath each corner gutter. Next to it stood a jumbled heap of firewood almost as big as the building itself.

The main track ran directly past the building. Opposite lay a siding, which curved in a long metal frown across a clearing littered with buckets, spare railroad ties, and stacks of extra rail. At one end sat an old engine, with sides reinforced by layers of riveted steel so that it resembled a giant sleeping tortoise. At the rear and on both sides of the train, gun turrets bulged like frogs’ eyes. Painted on it, in large white letters, was the name ORLIK. At first, the engine appeared to be nothing more than a relic, but then Kirov noticed that there was smoke coming from its stack. As he watched, a man climbed down from the engine and began to make his way across the siding.

Kirov called to the person, who spun around, searching for the source of the noise. Kirov called once more, and only then did the man raise his head, staring in amazement up into the milky sky.

Lulled by his dreamlike descent, Kirov was now startled to see treetops flashing past as the ground seemed to rise up to meet him. His foot touched the roof of the station house. With long, dancelike steps, he bounded over the shingles, finally coming to a halt only an arm’s length from the edge.

Kirov gave a triumphant shout, only to be swept off the roof a second later when his chute billowed past him in the breeze.

He came down hard on the ice-patched ground and lay there in a daze, the wind knocked out of him.