Dan Smith - Red Winter

I lowered the binoculars and looked at Kashtan’s foot. ‘Or maybe he can help,’ I said, and knew I had to go on. I would deal with whatever situation presented itself.

If I had to kill them, that’s what I would do.

At the farm, the dog had left the threshold and run across the yard. It didn’t bark and circle its tail as a dog would usually do, but stood still and watched us as the man and the boy returned to the house, disappearing inside and closing the door.

I strained my eyes to see them as we walked, and when we came to the edge of the field, I took off my gloves to free my hands for swift action. I inspected the farm once more with the lenses, then forged on, hoping for the best but prepared for the worst.

The crows alighted in the field behind us as I led Kashtan towards the buildings that nestled by the desolate trees, picking our way along the furrows between the rows of turnips that grew as large as two of my fists, the swollen white roots bulging from the soil.

The dog continued to watch and I could feel Kashtan’s nervousness, but the beast didn’t venture beyond the yard, and I spoke encouraging words into Kashtan’s ear.

We slowed down as we came closer, and the man emerged from the house to stand in the same place as before, at the front of his yard, just behind a fence that I hadn’t seen from further away. He was like a statue, feet apart and holding a weapon in both hands. The dog came to sit close to him, but not right beside him. It was as if they were not together. Neither master and dog nor friends, but separate.

When we arrived at the fence, the dog stood, and although there was no overt display of aggression, it was alert to danger, its ears pricked and its body tensed. Close to, it still looked wolf-like with its long legs and large paws. It had a narrow snout, and the fur was thick round its neck, but it was not as black as it had seemed from a distance. There were flecks of brindle in its coat and the first hint of grey around its muzzle. There was a promise of wildness about the animal and its presence made Kashtan uneasy.

The man shifted the shotgun but didn’t pull it to his shoulder in a show of hostility. Instead he held it at waist height in front of him, the barrel pointing just to one side of us. He was scared and he wanted me to think him dangerous, but at the same time, he didn’t want to provoke a fight.

‘Good evening,’ I said, glancing at the weapon, then studying the man’s eyes instead.

They were hazelnut brown, pale and watery from the cold. Narrowed in suspicion but nervous, as if he wasn’t sure whether to look me in the eye or watch my hands. His features were soft, not the rugged complexion of a farmer who had seen many harvests, but I guessed he was similar in age to me, no more than late thirties. He wore a cap and was bearded like a Cossack, the hair wild about his chin and neck, black as the devil but gunpowder grey around the edges. His coat was knee length, belted at the waist, dirty and flecked with pieces of straw. His boots were in poor shape, repaired and patched and bound to his feet with twine.

‘Is this your place?’ I asked, glancing at the dog.

He nodded once and I wondered how he must see me, a stranger riding out of the steppe, no uniform, no insignia, but armed and leading a horse. I must have looked as wild to him as he did to me. I was dirty from days of living rough, and the last shave I’d had was from a company barber. Now my beard was thickening and growing untidy.

‘Good crop,’ I said, making conversation, settling him. ‘Must have been ready to harvest a few weeks ago.’

‘Your horse?’ He looked at Kashtan.

I nodded.

‘Did you steal her?’

I shrugged. ‘It’s quiet here. It must get lonely.’

He reaffirmed his grip on the shotgun and hefted it as if it were growing heavier. ‘Are you asking if I’m alone or if I’ve seen anyone passing?’

I shrugged again. ‘Both. Who’s the boy?’

‘No one.’ The man shifted his feet and tilted his chin at Kashtan. ‘What happened to her foot?’

‘She threw a shoe and chipped her hoof.’ I glanced across at the barn. ‘You have tools I can use?’

‘You know how?’

‘I know a bit,’ I said. ‘Do you?’

He followed my gaze and lowered the shotgun a little. ‘Maybe.’

I had the impression that he didn’t intend to use the weapon unless he felt I was a threat. His intention was only a protective one. His land. His boy. Perhaps a wife hiding in fear in the warmth of the farmhouse. He was a danger to me if he thought I aimed to harm them, and my instinct was to eliminate that threat right away, but I thought about Marianna and the boys, how they must have felt when Koschei came, and I felt sympathy for this man. He was only doing his duty to those he loved, and I was in a far better position to understand that now. In the past, I had overlooked the humanity of that, seeing only revolutionaries and counter-revolutionaries. I had been so deep in the war, I had closed my eyes to anything else, and it had taken something wicked to prise them open and make me see more clearly.

‘I don’t want any trouble,’ I said, holding out my hands. ‘I only want to fix my horse and be on my way. I’m not here for your animals or anything else you might have in there.’

‘What else would I have in here?’

‘I saw the boy. I know he’s in the house.’

The shotgun barrel rose a touch as the man’s fingers tightened. ‘You stay away from—’

‘I have sons,’ I said. ‘Children of my own. I don’t mean any harm, I swear it.’

The man thought about that, watching my eyes for any sign of deceit. He said nothing for a long while, then breathed in and relaxed a little. ‘You’ve done a good job on that foot,’ he said. ‘Good binding.’

The dog sat now, but its attention was still on us.

‘It’s not enough,’ I said. ‘I have a long way to go.’

‘How far?’

I shook my head and something like a smile appeared on his lips.

‘It’s like a game,’ he said. ‘Answer a question with a question. Don’t give anything away. What happened to the days when one man could pass the time of day with another without the threat of… ?’ He tipped his head at the rifle, hanging muzzle down over my shoulder.

‘I mean you no harm,’ I told him.

‘Nor I you.’

‘And yet here we are,’ I said, ‘at an impasse. You have your weapon, remember.’

‘Impasse. Such a simple word with a complicated meaning.’ He sighed and shook his head as if he despaired at the sorry state in which our world had found itself. ‘Are you a religious man?’

‘What?’

‘The chotki on your wrist.’

My hands were slightly raised, the sleeves of my coat pulled down to reveal the lambswool prayer rope. ‘My wife’s,’ I said.

‘She’s not with you?’

‘No.’

The man nodded as if he knew what I was saying. ‘Let me offer an olive branch.’ He lowered the shotgun a touch further and nodded at Kashtan. ‘I can fix her for you,’ he said. ‘The horse. And there’s some oats in the barn. Not much, but enough. For one rouble she’ll be as good as new and you can be on your way.’

I glanced up at the grey sky and wondered if it might snow tonight. The frost, at least, would be heavy and deep. I wanted to push on, to gain some ground after having lost so much in the forest, but I was exhausted and so was Kashtan. The father and husband in me wanted to move on regardless, but the soldier told me that a night of rest would serve me well. Tomorrow, I would move faster and make up for lost time.

‘What about a hot meal?’ I asked. ‘I’ll pay you three for that and to sleep in the barn tonight.’

He took a deep breath and puffed his cheeks as he blew out. ‘I don’t know…’