Dark of Winter

 

As Lyosha Volkov woke up from uneasy dreams, one a harrowing nightmare of an alien nature, he found himself transformed into a monster. With his paws, he removed the comforter from his body and stood up with hind legs from his bed. He stretched his furry form, hearing and feeling his adamant bones crack comfortably in certain places. He yawned, and from his gaping maw a miniature roar sounded, echoing across his room. He moved to the window of his quarters, to gaze outside at his little town somewhere in Siberia, winter holding his home fast with the predawn snow.

His paws were in fact more of hands, having long, spindly digits, and with retracted claws he scratched his itchy head. A few of those sharp digits touched his horns, which were slightly curved at a simple angle. Finished with his task, his talons sheathed in place within his fingers, he opened the door to his room and stepped out into the hallway.

He was dastardly famished. A good, excessive banquet would do him good. He could now smell with an acute olfactory the strong aroma of breakfast. No doubt that was his sister, Katya Rada, doing the cooking. He could imagine his father, Kazimir Ivanovitch Volkov, reading the newspaper about, say, the Industrial Revolution continually evolving in London, and his mother, Polina Katarina Volkov, preparing the family table. As his huge feet led him downstairs to the main hall, he could not stop wondering if something was wrong. Every step he made sent tremors through the house. Something peculiar, a thought, irritated his mind, like that one little flea on his head that he just couldn’t remove. But no matter. He was dastardly famished. A good, excessive banquet would do him good.

Finally, he reached the ground floor, seeing that his imaginations held true of his family activities. The room was spacious enough only for several people. Lyosha’s parents and sister wore only simple clothes, neither from rags or riches, but in-between. Lyosha noticed now that he had no clothes on, and a piece of him felt considerably embarrassed by this detection. Yet the scent of food removed all shame away. He was very hungry. He walked slowly to his family, remembering how they came to be here.

The Volkovs were not a rich family, but neither a poor one thanks to Lyosha. He recalled now the circumstances and the risks of making a new home here. Siberia was said to be the end of the world, the edge of civilization, and this was true. Criminals and madmen go there to die, and they say their screams can be heard through snowstorms, or when the frost winds blow through hollow caves. Rumours speak of beasts made of shadows and with the strength of ten bears, and witches whose minions were the trees and the stones. The Volkovs, however, were not so superstitious and unafraid of these ghost tales, and had no choice but to reside in Siberia. They came to this land to flee from Russian revolts back in Moscow. They could not go further west to other nations since rebellions were flaring there too. The only option left was to head east, into the frozen wilds. There was a remote town that the family knew of and had a few friends to keep safe. All they had to do next was to stay clear from the prisons and the wilderness lumbering in the cold.

Still, hard times were before the Volkovs, since they needed to earn their stay in the little town by showing their worth. It was Lyosha who saved the whole family. He was strong and fit, for he had trained himself as a sportsman (but never to be a famous one); he was able to handle an axe and bring lumber to the community. He was intelligent and intuitive, for he had studied as an accountant back in Moscow; he knew how the money flow of their little town worked, how to keep the bill flowing and how the bank could operate with greater efficiency. But most importantly, he was humble and dedicated and obedient. He placed his family above all others, especially himself.

Beholding them now, contented with whatever meager scraps life had given them in this harsh world, Lyosha had no regrets to his actions.

Looking at them more closely, though, he contemplated vaguely their appearances in contrast to his own. They seemed shorter and skinnier than him, with full sets of clothes on. The only visible area of their body that had hair was on their heads. They had less meat and muscle in them, possibly more fragile bones too. Their faces too were peculiar, for they were flat and dull as a plate, whilst his was lengthily and angular and harsh. The only near similarity between them and him now were the hands—palms, wide and flat, fingers, long and malleable. Hands made for things like carpentry, to build, to create (although he had no idea whether his family members had claws hidden within those digits).

Memories waltzed like surreal ballet dancers in his troubled mind, telling him that he had resembled much like them, much like everyone else. But that was ridiculous. This, this had always been Lyosha Volkov, hadn’t it?

No matter. He was very hungry. Raising his big hand as a greeting, he gave a cheery snarl at his family and said:

“Good morning. Is it time to dine, my family?”

To his pointy ears, it came out as a guttural growl, but they were words nonetheless to him.

His mother, father, and sister turned to him with a strange look.

Oddity vanished, to be replaced by trepidation.

They froze in their places like children in a blizzard, like sheep noticing a wolf.

Then there was terror on their postures, and panic controlled their movements. Lyosha’s sister, Katya, broke off her culinary duties and screamed hysterically, clutching a knife as a threat to him. His mother, Polina, likewise responded in kind, fleeing like a rodent from Lyosha. His father, Kazimir Ivanovitch, threw his newspaper at his son and ran to where he kept the rifle, often used to scare away wild dogs or hunt elk. He retrieved the musket and positioned its nozzle straight at Lyosha’s snout.

Primeval senses warned the monster Lyosha the outcome seconds before it would occur, and thus did he take the stairs up to sanctum before the bullet could penetrate his skin. In his flight, he wondered briefly the miraculous cause for his family’s feral attacks on him. What was wrong? He wondered so.

Lyosha ran to his bedroom, his territory, where he believed to be secure. Locking the door, barring it with furniture, he now looked at himself in the mirror.

What was wrong? He looked fine, perfectly fine. Sure, his grey, snow-coloured fur was a wild mess—that he needed to fix. Perhaps his jaws and elongated mouth, similar to that of a wolf, was a tad bit dirty—just a rinse from a clean water source would suffice. Maybe it was his horns? They did look somewhat askew…

The door of his room heaved and thundered.

“COME ON OUT, MONSTER!”

His father’s voice, enraged, demanding, yet laced with the immortal flavour of fear.

“FATHER!” he heard his sister, Katya, plead. “That is Lyosha’s room! Oh, Lyosha, brother Lyosha, are you there? Please, has the monster got you in its claws?”

Monster? Lyosha pondered. He yearned to shout that to his beloved sister that he was here indeed, and that no monster, whatever strange beast she referred to, was non-existent.

“He’s dead!” roared Kazimir the father. “We must kill the beast before it gets us next!”

“Yes, my husband,” affirmed Lyosha’s mother, Polina. “Whatever hell this beast came from, there it whence came must return!”

Now the door wavered and cracked as more force was applied. There was a mightier sound, as loud as thunder, and Lyosha noticed a little hole on the door face. His father was cursing as he reloaded his weapon.

“Mother, father, sister!” Lyosha desperately cried. “I beg you, stop what you are doing! It is me, Lyosha!”

“Father, wait!” Katya persisted to beg behind the makeshift barrage. “Do you now hear his voice?”

“It is the monster, my child,” argued Kazimir. “Do you not here the snarls and the growls of that bastardly beast?”

“Yet he speaks words! I heard the voice of Lyosha there too!”

“It is the monster, my daughter,” comforted Polina. “It has stolen Lyosha’s voice, and uses it to cozen us so!”

What was wrong? Lyosha did wonder. What was wrong?

His feeble barricade fell, and from the carnage his father appeared, rifle ready. Lyosha knelt and wept like a dog, whimpering with incoherent dictions to his father for mercy and reason. He saw the hatred and madness in Kazimir’s eyes. Lyosha shielded his face with his hands, and through the hairs of his fingers he saw his father squeezing the trigger.

“FATHER, WAIT!”

Katya stepped by her father’s side, pausing in horror in seeing Lyosha. She shook from her daze and turned to her father, pointing at Lyosha.

“Do you not see him, father?”

“Leave this room, daughter. Away now.”

“This is Lyosha, father!”

“He is gone. This monster has killed him, and it will kill us next of I don’t murder this beast first!”

The trigger was pressed.

The hammer of the rifle activated the gunpowder.

But Katya had pushed the gun away from its target, letting the summoned bullet hit the wall.

Kazimir stared furiously at his daughter. Back at the shattered threshold, Polina peeked meekly at the phenomenon. Lyosha continued to kneel at their judgement, his instincts urging him to fight then fly, while his rational thoughts kept him still and steady to await their verdict.

“Look at him, father,” his sister whispered kindly. “Into his eyes. It is Lyosha.”

Kazimir did obey, and Lyosha allowed his father to behold him.

The father, however, shook his head, denying. “No,” he muttered. “This is not Lyosha.”

“But it is!” insisted Katya. She turned back to the doorway. “Mother! Come now, mother! It is Lyosha!”

At first, there was hesitation. After much urging, Polina Katarina walked into the room of her son and gazed down at Lyosha, inspecting him with worry and curiosity.

“It is Lyosha,” Katya insisted greatly.

Lyosha dropped his arms, to face them and show them truth.

His father shook his head still in disbelief. Yet he did not raise the rifle once more. Instead, he turned around and left the room. Lyosha’s mother appeared ready to faint, and before she could fall Katya guided her out of the room, leaving Lyosha behind. Katya glanced one last time behind her, considering her brother and his altered state, then was gone.

What was wrong? All signs of evidence pointed directly at Lyosha, that he was to blame for his family’s spontaneous antics. Yet what was wrong? He seemed perfectly fine. Was it because of his current aspect this day? That seemed to be the only proof of their discomfort, as they constantly argued about. Yet why were they so troubled now? This, this has always been Lyosha, hasn’t it? He had accepted his being long ago, when he came here—why couldn’t they? Either it was Lyosha’s faulty doing, or his entire family had undergone some mental metamorphosis that may danger him in future encounters.

He rose from his peasant position, thinking to return to his family and hopefully recapitulate to them that it was indeed Lyosha, and that this was who he was. He stayed where he stood, however, for deep down within his intrinsic nature, he knew that any reasoning in his part would be folly. Memories again waltzed upon his problematic thoughts, showing him visions of himself, but instead of the monster, he was just like everyone else, a man. All desires of food were dismissed; hunger was replaced by Lyosha’s intent on solving the mystery. Was it absolutely his fault? Was he to blame?

Those pointy ears atop his head, beside his horns, perked up. His keen hearing caught the faint whispers of conversation below. He slowed his breathing, decreased the flow of his blood and beating pulse, then focused entirely on the discussions. He heard their words as clear as day:

“Mother, father, you must understand. It is Lyosha up there. I know it. He is my brother.”

“That, that thing, whatever the devil it is, is not Lyosha. It cannot be.”

“Your father is right, my child. Did you not see it? It looks nothing like us, nothing like Lyosha. It is a monster.”

“Yes, mother, father, it does resemble much like a monster. I saw that. But that monster is Lyosha. You saw the way he looked at us, pleading like a pup. We must take care of him, and discover the purpose of his sudden transformation so that we may bring him back to being a regular person.”

“We would waste our time and resources to take care of that…that thing?”

“That thing is Lyosha, father, and Lyosha is the sole reason why we are here now. Without his strength to cut down trees and bring the logs here, we would not be here. Without his wit, we would not have had the money to continue living in luxury. All that we are was because of him. Surely, we must do something?”

From upstairs, alone and withdrawn in his quarters, Lyosha heard only a long silence.

Such a moment of postulation was shattered, for Lyosha soon heard a ferocious and frantic banging on the door of the house. Someone, one of the neighbours possibly, called to the Volkov family to let him or her enter, but also shouted to them about the gunfire and if the Volkovs were well.

Those sharp ears easily heard his father Kazimir mutter a curse.

Lyosha tentatively walked to the doorway of his room, then remained by the threshold, clutching with unsheathed claws the framework for support. His stomach rumbled angrily for a meal, but Lyosha paid the hindrance no heed. With honed ears, he eavesdropped on this new topic.

The door opened with a squeak, his ears could hear.

“Why, greetings, Vladimir!” Lyosha’s father, Kazimir, happily introduced. Although the tone was heart-felt and held candour, Lyosha could still detect that eternal tremor of worry in Kazimir’s voice. Lyosha wondered if Katya and Polina were there too, perhaps hiding or struggling to remain adamant and regal in this unexpected visit.

“What brings you here?” Kazimir continued, trying to be calm.

“We heard gunfire,” Vladimir, one of the neighbours, answered. Lyosha could hear also other voices, several or more, giving off comments in the background. Vladimir resumed his explanations: “We assumed there to be something amiss.”

“Amiss? Why, nothing is amiss, my friends!” Kazimir pacified. “It was but a rat, a vermin, that I shot. Huge and horrid it was.”

“I see.” There was doubt and suspicion in that tone. “Is there nothing else the matter, my friend?”

“No, no. All is well.”

“Well, if that be the case, then I best be off. You take care of yourself, Kazimir.”

“You too, Vladimir.”

“Ah, lady Polina and young Katya, good-bye to you too.”

“Thank you,” the two women replied.

The other visitors also gave their farewells.

Lyosha thought that the neighbours were gone. But he did not hear the door close. He decided to walk further, to the stairway down, and as he neared the steps he heard Vladimir’s voice again.

“Say, where might that young lad of yours be?”

“Young lad?” Kazimir seemed to say.

“Yes. Uh, what was his name again? Your son?”

“My…son…?”

“He’s sick,” Lyosha heard Katrya, his sister, interject. “Lyosha. He’s sick. He’s very tired and resting in bed.”

“Hmm, all right,” Vladimir spoke. “Well, I must go now. Again, thank you and good-bye.”

The Volkovs responded in kind.

Then the door closed.

By that time, Lyosha was in the median of the stairwell, his lower extremities visible. He bent his body to see the rest of the room, seeing his father shaking his head and covering it shamefully with his hand. His mother held steadfast her tears and terror. His sister seemed the only one pausing in contemplation on how to approach this triflingly new experience.

Eventually, the taciturn household noticed Lyosha who now was at the bottom of the stairs.

Their reactions were the same as ever—that of confusion, doubt, and despair.

Kazimir, Polina, and Katya gathered together and formulated an impromptu plan. First, they would either persuade of force “Lyosha” back into his room, then leave him there until they can decide on another better scheme.

Before they could achieve this, Lyosha the monster spoke in accordance to his discordant stomach.

“Forgive me, my family, but may I at least have something to eat?”

They appeared very scared now, perhaps because the only word they heard from that canine-speech was “eat.” Yet they understood what he truly meant, and advised him cautiously and kindly to first go back to the room, they shall retrieve the meal soon, just wait there and stay submissive and at ease.

Lyosha complied. He returned, and sat down on his bed. Usually, since it was an antique furniture, it would groan loudly whenever he began to sleep on it. But remarkably, the bed did not complain to his weight. He felt surprisingly light and nimble like a cat, even for such a big creature. He felt like he could be heavy whenever he felt like it, as heavy as a bear. He busied himself in removing that one little tick on his fur, which often somersaults and sojourns to other forested regions of his body.

Only Katya, dear sister Katya, dared to give him his meal. He was glad to see her again, but sad to see her look at him with dread. She timidly brought the tray of food—a simple but loaded meal of elk and goat meat, which, by its volume, would sate Lyosha’s hunger perfectly—and placed it by the broken doorway, never letting her wide eyes avert from Lyosha. As soon as she dropped the tray, she retreated away from him, not quickly, but hastily enough for Lyosha to notice the worry in her.

Lyosha instantly attacked his breakfast. By the platter, there were a fork and a spoon; he abandoned the utensils entirely. With hands and mouth, he dug in, only stopping to drink water from the tiny marble cup, which he either licked on the spot or cupped it with his hands. His mouth was like fire, for he ate almost everything, even the bones which his strong molars grinded to meal. After satiety was complete, he rested his back to the wall and burped out his satisfaction.

And he began to wonder.

He wondered about the events of this day. Such treatments from his family irritated him more than that one super-flee mucking about in his fur coat. As his claws searched vainly to exterminate the tiny trickster, his rational being contemplated as to why these violent circumstances had befallen on him now. What had he done wrong to earn these beatings? All that he had ever done was take care of his family. All he had ever committed were tasks imposed by his parents and sister akin. What was wrong?

He could not find any answer, just as he could not find the little tick somewhere in his fur, taunting him incessantly.

As the grey sky thinned considerably for the hazy sun to mark the hour as noon, Lyosha remained still in his quarters, alienated and afraid. His belly rumbled once more; he wondered if his family had forgotten him entirely. Often, he heard their conversations speak about him, and what to do with him. Sometimes, the neighbours came back to inquire about Lyosha’s health, but mainly if he was able to do his duties for the town; his family would comment that he was still in sanctum and required further time to heal. After all of this, silence, or perhaps Lyosha just could not hear their words anymore due to them talking with even softer whispers. He was hungry again; he wondered if they would come to him once more.

When desperate hope seemed ready to fail, Lyosha saw Katya by the threshold, holding yet another tray in her hands. She followed the same procedures—placing lunch slowly on the ground, retaking the previous tray with little leftovers left, never leaving her eyes off of Lyosha, then finally standing up to leave again.

“Katya,” Lyosha spoke at last.

She paused, frozen in astonishment or in angst. She reverted to face him.

“Sister, dear sister,” Lyosha resumed. “Why do you fear me?”

She frowned, as if she could not conceive the words uttered between those fangs.

“My sister, Katya. Please—why do you fear me?”

Understanding reached her, and she said through shaking teeth: “Because you have become a monster.”

“Monster?” He was confounded. “What do you mean, my sister?”

“Look at you!” she screamed, no longer capable of holding her distress. She rushed to a shelf with a few pictures, picked one, and showed it to Lyosha, brave by inner turmoil to near him and show him the black and white photograph.

“This.” She held the picture to his lupine face, “this is Lyosha Volkov. This is supposed to be you.”

He stared at the photograph, at first vacant to the image, then frowning with bushy eyebrows at the man before him. It was a man, a man who had a strict and unhappy face. His lips were tight, and his eyes were empty of all emotions. This man was like a machine, such as the ones Lyosha had noticed in the newspapers being produced in London. As Lyosha considered this person, he noticed his own reflection mirrored on the glass surface, synchronising almost perfectly with that of the man in the picture. Lyosha saw himself—the man, Lyosha Volkov. He knew that that person in the photo was him indeed, for his recollections and reasoning verified for him as thus. But the greater piece of him, that fundamental, perpetual part of Lyosha that made him who he was, reminded him that this, this thing he was now, was who he was also. Lyosha began to see the dilemma of the situation, for he did not know who he truly was now.

He reached for the picture to feel its texture, but Katya scurried backward, noticing how Lyosha’s black claws were revealed. He sheathed the weapons back, then rose slowly, to his absolute, massive, monstrous height, and stared down at his sister.

“This,” he said in conviction, pointing at his mighty, transformed form, “this is me, my dear sister. I know that man you hold is also me, Lyosha Volkov, but…but I feel as if this is me also. I cannot explain it easily. I feel as if there are two people within me: that man you desire to see again, and the person, the ‘monster’, as you say, that you see now. But I am one thing, this I am aware, and that thing is this.” He pointed to himself again.

Lyosha wondered if she understood, for she started to turn around and flee from him.

He thought she would never return to him.

Yet she did, at dinner, return, when darkness replaced the day. No stars shone, for winter had summoned a forbidding blizzard upon the little town somewhere in Siberia. Lyosha was still in his bedroom, resting in the afternoon, then awakened in the dusk as his ears warned him of approaching footsteps.

She wore different clothes, but her posture was nonetheless the same. She dropped the platter of dinner on the floor and took back the old tray. But this time, she did not stare long at Lyosha, and in those fleeting glances there was no terror or disdain. Lyosha saw Katya beholding him with curiosity and, possibly, acceptance. As she stood to depart, she confronted her brother, saying: “I hope you like it. I made it myself. Good-bye, Lyosha.” Then she departed.

Lyosha went to his meal, and this time dinned with more civility. He still neglected the usage of fork and spoon, but his mouth and hands handled dinner with a more controlled decorum. For once, after his sudden alteration since morning, he felt truly at peace. Because now, he felt as if his family was beginning to treat him more as a man than a monster. Maybe it was only his sister that bothered to meet him, but he had faith that his parents would come to their senses eventually and aid him in his condition. He felt at peace. And not even the tyrannical flee (somehow, by sheer luck and wit, was still there, and would still be there for a long time) could not commit any atrocities that would otherwise hinder Lyosha’s harmonic status.

The next day held the same schedule of events: only in breakfast, lunch, and dinner did Katya appear, and it was only she who appeared to him. The family realized quickly that the new Lyosha was more gluttonous and ever-so-hungry than ever, as Katya was the only one to find out, and therefore gave him slightly bigger meals, about half of what the aggregate Volkov family would normally consume. He devoured, as always, almost everything, even the bones. Although his aspect was carnivorous, he was in fact an omnivore, as Katya discovered when he consumed the vegetables too.

In the end, of course, Katya was forever there for Lyosha. She was the one, after all, who gave him his food. She was the one, anyway, who had the nerve to talk and look at him. He heard her try to persuade their parents to at least see him once. Even when the neighbours came by, inquiring of Lyosha’s health, it would be Katya to explain and improvise a sound explanation for Lyosha’s mysterious circumstances. It seemed ironic, truly. When Lyosha was but a man, as everyone seemed to say, he would be the one to take care of his sister since he was the eldest, not vice-versa. He was there for her, to explain to her the conditions of puberty, to help her in her chores, to assist her in the sciences. He was her teacher until they finally had a teacher in that small community someplace in Siberia. He was always there for her. Now, it was Katya’s turn to be there for him. Perhaps she was doing a terrible job, but who could blame her? She had doubts, obviously, whether what she was doing was right. Even Lyosha assumed at one point that he was not Lyosha, but indeed, as everyone would say, a monster.

The day continued its reign, until night took the role of divine ruler.

There were hardly any changes with the succession of day to night. Lyosha gazed out at the window of his room, his dinner done and him ready to slumber. Looking out into the cold winter night, the black clouds parted for a moment, to reveal the stars. Lyosha was drawn greatly by this sight, seeing those brilliant clusters of diamonds upon the dark tapestry. Yet there was one portion he could never stop looking at—not a star, but a seemingly black region of the sky no different from the rest. He seemed to stare beyond that darkness, at something hidden within, naked to his mind’s eye. He just stared at that one spot, feeling suddenly, sadly, alone, yearning now to race across the ice fields as he hunted down his prey, his brethren joining the wild hunt by his side, their primitive weapons and natural claws prepared for the kill…

He dreamed that night, dreamed of frozen plains and snow forests colder and harsher than Siberia, and he thought such monstrous dreams foolish and naïve. That was not him, he believed. He was no hunter-killer. He was but a simple lumberjack and a part-time accountant, working at an isolated town in the edge of the world. He was just a man helping his family out.

But such dreams gave him comfort. They gave him purpose; they made him feel, for once in his long life here, no longer truly alone.

The next morning, Lyosha’s mother, Polina, was the first of his parents to finally confront him. His sister Katya was there to possibly become mediator and negotiator for either party. They brought before him breakfast, which they gave unto him. Instead of leaving as they usually would after they placed the food on the spot, they stayed, watching Lyosha.

He rose from his bed, afresh and feeling renewed. He walked tentatively and cautiously to the food, showing his family members that he posed no threat. Finally, he reached his target and ate with leisure. This time, he used the utensils to stab and grab the foodstuff, and he used them efficiently well, for his hands were formed to hold and clutch and manoeuver such items, regardless of having claws as well.  He pondered vaguely through bites and gulps the purpose of those claws within his fingers, aside for them being as weapons. He had no clues whatsoever, and continued on his breakfast.

All the while, he considered the two women observing him, and they in turn considered him. When he was finished, he stood up, wishing to make a decent first contact with his mother.

He considered smiling at her, yet such an act might bring hostility than hospitality. He showed his friendliness anyway, splitting his mouth in a wide grin and showing his teeth which glistened in the morning light. He thought that his smile would bring some measure of comfort.

As soon as he revealed his fangs, Polina fainted immediately, and Katya caught the comatose bundle whilst maintaining her own vicissitude. Lyosha started to walk forward, hands outstretched with talons exposed, desiring only to carry his fragile mother to sanctity.

“NO!” Katya screamed, terrified at seeing the monster coming towards them with those fine nails aimed. “AWAY WITH YOU, MONSTER!”

Lyosha stopped at that voice, so shaken by a phobia he could not comprehend.

“Katya?!” he heard his father shout from downstairs. “KATYA!? POLINA!? Are you hurt!? I’m coming up!”

Katya began to drag her mother away from Lyosha. A second later, Kazimir was there, his rifle at hand. He saw his wife, pale and still; he theorized the situation quickly, made a conclusion, and forthwith strode past the two women and aimed his rifle at Lyosha again.

Instincts saved Lyosha again. His arms were strong and long, and he swiped the rifle aside. His talons were as edged as swords, and as he lashed out the gun away those claws managed to graze Kazimir’s left cheek. The father fell, his face bleeding, his moans ghastly and pathetic.

Rage, pure, swelling, burning fury possessed Lyosha’s very essence, rendering him a beast no longer of burden, but of chaos under control. He had done so much for his family; he was the sole reason why they were here, alive, in Siberia, and this, this was how they repay their thanks to him? His fierce eyes glared down at his father, the man who tried to kill him. He saw his mother, who had fainted at the sight of her own son. He looked to his sister, beloved Katya, who stared back at him with the look of utter hatred. He had sacrificed so much for them, and this was how they thank him?

His claws still hungry for flesh, Lyosha strode to where his father Kazimir lay, his mind set for murder.

“LYOSHA, NO! PLEASE!”

He stopped now. He turned to his sister, tears in her eyes, cradling her mother’s head.

“Please,” she begged again. “Please, no. Just go, Lyosha. Just go. Away with you, Lyosha.”

He frowned, as if he could not conceive the words uttered between those teeth.

Understanding reached him, and he nodded to his little sister. He replaced his talons back into his fingers, and began to leave, to head downstairs and abandon the house, unaware of where to go next.

He never turned to the direction of the stairway, however, for soon Kazimir with revived wrath retrieved the fallen rifle and concentrated it at Lyosha. The monster managed to leap to the side, back into his room, before the bullet struck home. Lyosha got up, noticing his father trying to reload the weapon. He would not let his father get another chance to target, but nor would Lyosha harm his family again. And so, with limited options and a foolish decision, Lyosha jumped out the window.

Cold it was, the world, that common touch as he burst forth within a storm of glass. Time slowed, or was frozen, the flow of seconds abated enough for Lyosha to distinguish the snowy ground to the grey sky. He landed on all fours, the shattered fragments of a window raining down on his fur. He shrugged the remnants off and started to flee just as a bundle of snow next to him exploded. In his flight, he turned to see the rifle smoking deadly incense, and his father reloading the gun for another round. His father was an adept marksman; Lyosha once saw him gun down a flying fowl miles away. So Lyosha zigzagged his way away from doom, hoping the rifle would miss its mark. His haste to leave was delayed by this manoeuver, but the percentage of his survival would have been decreased if he hadn’t made himself so damn hard to hit.

Lyosha kept on running, and in his escape he encountered his neighbours, awakened either by the dawn or by gunshots. Whenever he ran past them, children, adults, elders, people that resembled nothing like him, terror and surprise accompanied them, shunning him aside like the trash or beast he was. Their ear-splitting screams shook the cold air like banshees having nightmares. They fled like he did, away from him, returning at once to their doors. Yet Lyosha had no doors to return to. The men of the town, strong and fit they were, came out with weapons drawn, some having farming tools, most with rifles similar to that of Kazimir’s. They too took pot shots out of him, constantly failing to kill or wound. Even Lyosha’s father was among the mob, edging them on for murder. Lyosha ran across the snow-covered streets, through alleys; sometimes he took to the rooftops, jumping from home to home. He saw the townspeople scampering from him, back to their homes. He had no home to go back to.

Turning, running, facing the entirety of the community that has become the adversary to his life, there was only one path to turn to.

Into the frozen wilds.

Farther, deeper, to the final frontier, to the edge of the world.

There did Lyosha the monster depart to, vanishing within the vast forest regions of Siberia. Civilization and its hunters were behind him, harassing, chasing him until he died, and ahead were the trifles and treasure troves of the unknown. He ran either on twos of fours, continuously evading the sailing bullets and hunters by slipping through the trees. Yet he heard the baying of hounds, nearing his position. Although it was snowing, the precipitation was but a miniscule bombardment, not enough to cover his tracks. He ran on, though, for he had no better things to do than survive. It was either fight or flight in survival, and Lyosha chose the latter.

Directly ahead, a dozen meters away, there swirled a chaotic barrier of snow and wind. Lyosha, with his grey-white fur, could probably camouflage himself amidst the storm, thus losing his pursuers. He chose the storm, and entered it, the wind a howling hatred and the ground like white quicksand threatening to slow him down. This was not a powerful hurricane, for his tracks remained as they were only for a few minutes, enough time for the hounds and the hunters to continue on the trail. Bullets whizzed past him, closing with dreadful proximity ever nearer to their target. The hunting dogs gave chase, as Lyosha could see their shadows darting between patches of white behind him. This was not a good storm to escape to, not the kind of shrouded safety that Lyosha desperately needed. Fortunately, the region of forest land he was in was riddled with rocks and boulders, the geography a challenge since the land slanted or declined here and there in intervals; with the storm, Lyosha used these worldly elements to his advantage, dodging between huge stones, evading danger by making random twists and turns. His trails became sinuous and perplexing, and thanks to the continuous fall of snow the footprints became just another random jut of foundation. In intervals of his little game, Lyosha was amazed at his luck and skill in escaping his hunters. He was never great at hunting; he was not one for these kinds of games, only the academic and safe ones. Yet now, out there in the storm, he had a knack to it, the traits and abilities of a master hunter and escapist awakening to the action.

He assumed that his plan was working, that he would be free.

But the hounds barked in victory, finding the scent again. The townspeople cheered and shouted in alarm, since they had discovered a fresher trail. They hunted him down, never stopping, never tiring, their minds set for murder.

Lyosha was trapped. He was near a huge tree, a massive pine, and all around him he heard his attackers drawing near. Lyosha could not see them in this part of the snowstorm—so boisterous and barbarian the gale and the snow was—, but they were there. They still could not discern his exact location, but they were close, he and they knew. No escape anymore. Death was nigh. Lyosha went on his knees, sobbing softly, his tears dripping and drying as it reached the cold ground. How had it come to this? Why…?

Anamneses crept into his fragile mind; flashes of his life flew by. He was a good man, an honest man. He had done only good; he had done so much for his family and town. How had it come to this…?

Something broke within him, something that was so profoundly submerged within persona, now unleashed. Lyosha rose from his pathetic position and stood at his absolute, massive, monstrous height. He looked to his hands, seeing his claws were open and ready for action. He would not, however, come to harm these people, regardless of their pursuits to harm him. Instead, he looked to his claws, noticed how they curved like hooks, not to slice or skewer things, but to cling onto them. Maybe they were for catching prey, or holding on to mobile objects, or…

Or to climb.

Beside him was a tree, a big, tall pine whose full height was obscured by clouds, and he walked towards it.

A minute later, a group of a dozen grown men with rifles and dogs were next to that tree, seeing that there were no visible tracks to follow due to the now stronger snowstorm. Their dogs sniffed the air, but because of the gale their prey was impossible to locate with smell.

The hunters grumbled. One of them theorized that the monster had retraced its previous steps; perhaps it was even watching them now. Another argued that it must have gone deeper into the woods; maybe it found a cave or a den or something. Then the last one, Kazimir, suggested returning to the town for more supplies and better gear, and wade out this damn storm until they were prepared for another hunt. The hunting party nodded in assent.

They left, bringing their weapons and animals with them. A minute or two passed until Lyosha decided to come down the tree. He was slow and cautious in coming down, unlike going up. Before, when he started to climb the tree, the vigour of the moment and the intensity of his actions stimulated his courage and adrenaline so greatly that he permitted his slim and firm arms and legs do the work, the claws digging deep into the bark but not too deep to leave an obvious mark. Now, though, that stamina of power was all but spent, and it took him about a minute to return to the snowy ground.

The storm was still strong, but Lyosha moved deeper into it anyway. He ran the opposite direction of the village, farther apart from home. He dragged his way across the snow, amidst thicket and tempest. His stomach rumbled slightly, for all the enterprises had nearly burned up his food reservoir. There was only the whiteness of empty space.

Finally, something dark and solid appeared, and Lyosha ran on fours or twos into a cave. He did not enter deeper into it, only staying at the mouth of it, his back to the peripheral entranceway.

He ceased to contemplate his sorry station after all the events of this day had been processed into memory. He gave up pitying himself, and instead focused on the present, hopefully even the prospect of a future by planning on his next course. Obviously, going back was suicide. The cold wilderness of Siberia seemed the only hospitable land in this insane world of man. The cave he was in seemed a perfect refuge for him now; he’ll have to scout the inner quarters later if it had a subterranean system, or any hostile predators. His only priority now was to find food and water. He was dastardly famished, again. The little tick now living in his buttocks wasn’t helping much in his dilemma. He wondered vaguely how that annoying rascal had even survived this venture, let alone the cold.

He looked to the bleak and hollow world outside, the frozen mandalas flying, the wind rushing about like silver stallions. Finally pausing to consider this experience, Lyosha realized now how much he mysteriously enjoyed this, that feeling of the extremes, that bitter bite of the cruel wilds of Siberia.

The cold. He loved the cold. He did not know why.

When he first arrived in Siberia, after fleeing from the revolutions against the tsars, he hated the cold. Whenever he went out of town to cut down wood, he would hurriedly struggle to bring the logs back quickly in fear of becoming a snow statue. Every time he went out, even in the streets, he would return home minutes later. This was one of the reasons why he was so introverted, besides the fact that he did not like talking to others that much except only if it concerned work. He preferred the hearth warmth of home rather than the cold harshness of the outside.

But as he sat there huddled in the cave, looking out into the storm and feeling the snow as he stretched out his hand to catch them, he loved it, the cold. It…comforted him, more than anything in the world now. It was the only thing that bothered to let him experience its full potential, never demanding of him anything. Perhaps it was because his fur that kept him warm and tolerable to the extreme, but that couldn’t be it. Although his pelt was as thick and comfortable as a wolf’s, that could not be the only reason. No, no it had to be a mental advantage too, somehow. Because Lyosha loved the cold, it respected him back, allowing him life for him to live under its tutelage. Whatever the case, Lyosha had no fear of hypothermia.

The precipitation died down, enough for Lyosha to scan a wide area of the terrain. Since he and the cave were at an elevated position, he could even see the horizon. Noon was nearing; the sun was more visible now than ever as it moved to its zenith. His stomach still ached, but Lyosha felt that he could deal with hunger momentarily. He decided first to search the cave for anything remotely useful.

He walked ten feet into the cave when he heard it. To his sensitive ears, it sounded like an earthquake, but rumbling at consistent intervals. His vision could not match the accuracy of his ears, so he had a hard time navigating in the dark. The only light was from behind it, and it was not great. He walked five feet ahead when those puny rays of light showed him something truly terrifying.

The black mass heaved one moment, then deflated, then expanded again. This continued in harmonic succession as Lyosha watched in fearful silence. He heard it breathing like thunder. In the weak sunlight, something glistened beside it, similar to that of Lyosha’s own natural weapons. Lyosha began to turn around and back away from it, slowly, carefully, tip-toe away.

Crack.

He looked down to see a piece of bone, broken underfoot. Accompanying the little bone were skeletons, either brittle or raw, some human or others animal. The sound of breakage was tiny—it could barely awaken a bird. But the cave structure grabbed that little crack and increased it a hundredfold.

He turned behind him, and saw eyes darker than the darkness of the deep cave, colder than the coldness of a long winter’s night.

He ran immediately, either on fours or twos. He left the cave and embraced the welcome of the woods. He swerved from trees and jutting rocks. When he felt secure, he paused, taking in air. He turned around him, thinking it gone.

It was there alright, a gargantuan black tank of muscle and murder. Its muscles rippled beneath the dark fur as it gave chase. Its mouth drooled saliva, revealing also blood-stained and unbelievably huge teeth that would make Lyosha’s canine fangs seem like baby teeth. It roared, and the thunder from its great jaws shook the earth and the sky.

Lyosha could tell it was not female, not because he saw no evidence of femininity between its legs, but because its bearing was not like a woman. Females of this particular species, let alone any species, do have a certain look in general that differs from males. Lyosha in his time in Siberia had noticed these differences every time his father took him out in hunts with the other men. There was another reason, though, like he had battled monsters weaker or greater than this one and understood, after years of hardship, the dissimilarities between males and females. Yet the thought was a tiny one, and it was forgotten as the beast drew nearer to Lyosha.

This bear that hunted Lyosha now was definitely no female, for its face was grisly and grim from battles old, its side scarred and bristled by the marks of war. Its face held more scars, with eyes of pure savagery, to brand this beast as a true monster. Of course, Lyosha felt somewhat sexist to think that a veteran such as this should not be considered a womanly bear, but Lyosha had bigger problems to deal with than discuss political rights.

Lyosha could not escape the bear on foot, seeing how ridiculously efficient the beast closed the space between them. So, just like he had done with the hunters, he found a decently towering tree and climbed. His hands were built for climbing too, not because of the talons, but just by its build and property, similar to that of a simian or a regular person.

He felt safe. The bear prowled below him, growling its frustrations. All Lyosha had to do now was wait his way to victory. Hopefully, the beast would lose interest and revenge on him soon, since Lyosha discovered how starved he was now. Possibly the bear had to eat too, and Lyosha would be just a meager meal to chase after; hopefully the bear would realize this and leave—

The entire tree shook, nearly throwing Lyosha off. He glanced down to see the beast using its humungous arms and imposing bulk to attack the tree with sheer brutality. Lyosha understood its goal, and concluded that it would succeed. The tree Lyosha clung to was basically dead, its roots weak and brittle. Lyosha heard those wooden anchors crack and break apart, and soon, with one final force originated by the bear, the whole tree came crashing down.

The snow-covered field was death, and the bear its convenient agent. Every living part and particle of Lyosha desired to survive. And so with one desperate act, when the tree at a diagonal angle was nearest to an adjacent tree, Lyosha jumped to the next tree.

This new sanctuary was a dozen feet away. He should have failed, considering the distance. Yet his legs were strong and fit, and when he pushed down on the dead tree to gain some measure of force, the mighty momentum of his spring sent him soaring straight and true to his destination. He clung to the other tree, safe.

The bear noticed the fallen tree lacking its target. It glanced at the treeline, finally locating its prey. It charged with a roar that shook Lyosha with trepidation, ramming shoulder-first into the base. The tree, however, held firm, as did Lyosha. The snow that had originally adhered to the spindly pine leaves spilled down in torrents on the bear. Lyosha hoped that the beast had drowned underneath all that snow.

Unfortunately, the beast shook itself from its prison and backed away. It was about to rush at the tree with Lyosha on it again when it paused, analysing the new situation. This new tree that Lyosha was attached to was more alive than the previous one; no doubt its roots were bigger and stronger. The bear walked forward, daring not to use brute force, and it wrapped its big and wide arms around the tree and shook it carefully. Tiny avalanches fell down on it, until all the snow was gone. The bear then tested the tree’s integrity, charging or merely disturbing it to detect any signs of weakness. Lyosha knew then that the bear would not surrender its killer intentions. It was dedicated and intuitive, patient and persistent; no doubt it would find other conventional means to obtain Lyosha, either to wait for him to starve up there or bring every tree down. Lyosha knew that the bear was not after him because he was food, but was a trespasser to the bear’s domain, just as annoying as the tick in Lyosha’s fur.

Lyosha had to take action again. He could wait no longer for the bear to seal his fate. Just like before, he jumped to a nearby tree, then another. The bear noticed its prey was on the move, and it went after him, its strides fast and its movements malleable. Lyosha was in a good place, for tree after tree stood sentient beside each other with very little space between. He propelled from pine to plum trees, travelling across spruce and fir trees. Below him, trailing with sufficient agility, the bear followed.

Lyosha needed to lose his hunter, and so far, springing from plant to plant was not doing much. He was losing trees in his flight; he couldn’t run forever. So similar to the ploy he had done with the human hunters, he navigated across the forest with a most confusing pattern, disappearing and reappearing between the natural skyscrapers. The bear often discovered its prey, then lost him, then found Lyosha again. Yet the beast’s mind was at a loss, seeing at how Lyosha was playing a flummoxing game of hide-and-seek. The whole forest, those tiny hectares of snow-capped regions, was Lyosha’s kingdom now.

What was even better for him was that another snowstorm was coming. From the far north did it come to his aid, a wave of fresh frost and ice permeating the entire forest. With the grey obscurity, and Lyosha’s ingenious plays, the bear could no longer find its prey.

Lyosha, high above the world, had no idea whether the bear was gone.  He too could not see his formidable hunter. It must be gone, surely, his logic argued, for this storm would force it back into its lair, to rest and plan anew. Lyosha too had to return to the ground, for the powerful winds were nearly ripping him apart from the tree tops. He decided to come down, where the gale was weak and acceptable.

As he felt the cold earth, something primeval and instinctive warned him of his mistake. He looked around him, seeing only the paleness of the land.

But within the soft howls of the storm, the breaking branches and the whistling rock crevices, he heard something else, deep and guttural as thunder.

Lyosha could not evade it in time, yet he moved quickly enough to live. The bear struck with his fierce claws, managing to graze Lyosha’s left flank. Pain and panic threatened to tear him into the bear’s meal. Lyosha concentrated and ran, embracing the fathomless depth of the storm. His hunter followed, but by then the storm was too strong and thick for vision to be deemed useful. Lyosha was running in a straight line when instincts advised him again to flee in zigzags, to confuse any pursuers. This did he follow, changing courses at random intervals, moving between trees and stones. Although the blood dripping from his left flank was a dangerous trail to leave behind, he used this as an asset, forming a strange and peculiar pattern of red essence that would otherwise confound any adept predator. Lyosha covered the wound with his hand. The damage was not serious now, but it would be lethal if he didn’t find a good place to heal in a few hours. He required some salve or herb or something at least to mend the lesion. Ice would do just fine, but the snow around him seemed too dirty to use; a clean pool or lake would be perfect; a good fire would help in stopping infections. All this crossed his mind, and he wondered how he came to know these survival techniques. Whatever mystery it was that eased him now, such information was worthless since he could not find the resources to save him from blood loss and possible contamination.

He still had no worries about freezing to death. The cold was still his friend, and the only hazard to him now was the wound and the bear, the latter somehow could not be seen anymore. That remaining, waning, fragment of conscience and life forced Lyosha Volkov the monster to continue running, live, survive.

Finally, he fell down, deep into the snow. The storm was dying down now, as was Lyosha. Delirium and doom nearly drove him temporarily mad, for Lyosha saw with losing sight a silhouette astride a mighty steed—Death, the reaper of corpses upon its pale horse, his soul screamed to run. But he would not run. Let it be his family or townspeople or a bear or Death itself. Let the world be his eternal nemesis. He would no more; nor would he beg to any rule. Only the cold, that sweet feeling of the cold, gave him comfort, and that was the only thing Lyosha embraced to his fullest potential.

The figure of Death reached for him, with old, gnarled hands; it donned him in warm furs, wrapped a rope around his foot and arms attached to the horse; it dragged him across the snow into a little house, into Death’s door…

 

 

As Lyosha Volkov woke up from uneasy dreams, one a harrowing nightmare of an alien nature, he found himself resting in a bed, still alive. Unlike his old room, this one was almost bare of other furniture and antiquities, and was duller, but simple. Around him was a blanket; this did he remove, and he rose. His hands moved to his left flank, where the bear had scarred him—it was healed.  A faint bruise and crimson mark was left in its place, along with what appeared to be a juicy, herbal remedy. Lyosha began to walk out of the room, into the main hall, feeling queasy yet aware enough to not fall.

He was in some sort of hut. There was only one floor, and four rooms: the dining room, the bathroom, and two other bedrooms, one of which Lyosha had exited from. He was now in the main dining room, in which a table was readied with a plate for only one person. Food was laid, enticing and fresh. Before he could reach towards it, the door to the outside opened.

The elderly woman froze in her place, seeing that Lyosha reaching his long, hairy arms to her meal. In her hands was a hunting rifle. Her hands were also stained in raw blood. Lyosha slowly brought his arms away from the food, his feet prepared to move should events get violent.

She was very familiar to Lyosha. Very familiar. But with all that had occurred, and the circumstances happening now, Lyosha could not focus in recollections.

The two continued their tense stare-off.

The old lady, strangely, grunted in annoyance, placed her weapon by the door and planted her hands by her hips, looking disappointed.

“That’s mine.” She pointed with a bloody finger at the food on the table. Then she pointed back the way she came, into the open. “You go out and eat the elk I got for you. I figure you’d like it raw.”

She moved to the table, sat down, grabbed her fork and spoon and the food, then dined.

Lyosha hadn’t moved an inch.

The old woman groaned again, motioning with her fork outside. “Go on, whatever the hell you are. I didn’t save your life so you could starve in my house. Now get out there and eat.”

Lyosha started to walk out the door. He paused, turning back to her.

“Uh…” He realized that it has been a long time since he last talked to someone, something he usually never cared about, and his voice barely could muster words. “Thank, uh, thank you. I’m sorry for nearly eating your, um…”

“Breakfast?”

Breakfast?  How long had he been out?

Strangely, he realized, she was the first person that understood Lyosha completely.

“Yes,” he responded, thinking to ask questions later after his own breakfast was done. “Thank you.”

She waved her spoon in gratitude. “Just make sure the elk doesn’t spoil, or is eaten by bears or wolves.”

Lyosha went outside, seeing that he was still deep in the wilderness of Siberia, perhaps at the farthest edge of the frontier. On the front lawn were indeed the remnants of an elk, butchered and cut into digestible pieces.

He was dastardly famished. So he rushed at the meat and consumed.

Many minutes later, the old woman came out to see only Lyosha standing outside, a huge red splatter on the snow next to him. No bones, no fats, no meat. Nothing left at all but him. Lyosha turned to her, trying to smile but only making a friendly snarl.

“I recognize you,” Lyosha said to the old woman. She drew nearer to him. “I know this house of yours. You, uh, you are…?”

“Let me guess,” the old hag chuckled. “Baba Yaga?”

Lyosha nodded.

The elderly lady laughed, not like a witch’s cackle, but a good-hearted, humble-spirited laugh of an old woman who’s seen many funny things but can still be surprised by life.

When Lyosha first came to that little town somewhere in Siberia, he encountered legends of a senile madwoman rumoured to be the true Baba Yaga, the witch of the wilds. Lyosha was young by then, just a superstitious teenager making a living, and such tales haunted him. Stories speak of an evil hag in the frozen wilds, catching children, eating them cooked or alive. They tell tales of her living in a hut that walks on chicken legs; she rides on a huge mortar with the pestle as her steering wheel. Her screeching laughter was the wind in a lonely winter storm. Her words were poison for the kind-hearted souls.

He had seen her once, when he picked logs from lumbering and one of the older men spoke to him.

“You see that old lady over there, picking berries from that bush?” the lumberjack had said. “That’s Baba Yaga, the witch of the wilds. Over there, you see that house? That’s her home. Stay away from her, dear child. Old you are, but young enough to be fooled by her charms. She is evil.”

Lyosha had seen her from afar, and her house farther. He had believed and feared.

Seeing her closely now though, just a healthy, jolly old woman, and her house having no chicken legs or skulls of any kind except for animals, he thought himself more mythological and terrifying than her.

“You’re…” he began again. “You’re not afraid of me?”

“When I first found you, yes,” the old woman admitted. “You were a strange thing, bigger a bit than a man, with wolf’s hide and claws, horns of an ox. But I saw you looking at me, with those bright, smart eyes. You weren’t a savage, and I am a merciful person, so I took you here, to heal. Healed you have, and you talk to me with words like anyone else. I still don’t know what the devil you are, but I know at least you’re harmless and, well, good. What about you? You don’t seem to be afraid of me, Baba Yaga.” She laughed at the name.

“Well, seeing you now, you don’t seem like her.”

“Looks can still deceive, dear child.”

He frowned at the sentence. “So you are…?”

“Well, no. Of course not. You are more of a mystery than me, however.”

Lyosha began to thank her for saving his life.

She responded with humble gratitude.

They turned to the woods as something rustled the winter plants.

Coming out of the forest was a stallion, regal and shining white in the morning light, the same horse Lyosha had noticed and who had dragged him here. The old woman said that the horse had been her friend for a long time, and was the reason why he was alive since she was too feeble and old to drag something like Lyosha.

The steed did not fear Lyosha since it drew near to him. Yet it moved instead to the old woman.

“Thank you again for saving me,” Lyosha said again. “May I inquire of your real name?”

“I thought you called me Baba Yaga.”

“That is a myth. That cannot be who you really are.”

“Then let me be that myth to you, as you are a myth to me.”

“Yet my name is Lyosha Volkov.”

“Lyosha…‘One Who Helps People,’…Volkov…‘Wolf.’ Yes, very fitting names to mark you by. But is that really you? The Wolf Who Helps People?”

“I don’t really know. They are just names.”

“It is a mystery then, as I am a mystery to you. So call me Baba Yaga, the witch of the wilds, as I will call you Lyosha Volkov, the Wolf Who Helps People.”

“As you wish. But may I ask why did you save me, exactly?”

“Like I said,” Baba Yaga began as she petted the stallion. “I am a merciful person. You weren’t a monster; well, not the kind of monster that I wouldn’t help along. You have a good heart, I can see.”

“I do not think that is true.”

“Maybe. Maybe.” She continued to stroke the horse with care.

“How can I ever repay you?” Lyosha asked suddenly. He owed this woman his life.

“I don’t need much.”

“I’ll do anything.”

“Just so you could please me?” Her remark was sarcastic and cruel.

He paused. “Isn’t that good enough?”

She looked at him, as if looking at his soul.

“Alright, the Wolf Who Helps People. Go and hunt some meat for me. You look like a strong and powerful beast. Go and hunt.”

“I…I do not know how.”

“Then let me teach you then, Lyosha Volkov.”

She brought out her gun, mounted her horse, and rode out into the wild. Lyosha followed her, as fast and certain as her mount.

They came to a lake, half frozen in ice, where a herd of deer drank from the cold waters.

“Kill me one of them,” commanded Baba Yaga.

“But I am no killer.”

“Then you and I can starve to death for lunch. You asked me if you can somehow repay what I have done for you. This is it, Lyosha. This is how I survived in this land, at the edge of the world. You must take life for the life I have saved in you. Do this for both our sakes.”

Lyosha nodded grimly.

“Here.” Baba Yaga’s steed had a huge strap for spears and throwing stones. The rider bestowed this unto Lyosha. “Learn to use these spears and stones for whatever you want. Hell, use those claws of yours or your teeth and horns. Just bring us something for lunch.”

Lyosha extracted these materials, slung the whole sack over his broad shoulders, and went out to hunt.

He was behind the herd, hidden in bushes. He took a single spear from the stack, feeling the weight and sturdiness. It was more of a slender stake than spear—just a long, stout stick with a sharpened end. By some means, he felt like he knew how to wield a spear, like he had thrown one more expertly constructed at a racing beast from miles away, seeing the mighty spear fly directly to his target. He tried to summon this invisible character, and with the spear in hand he rose, aimed, and hurled.

It missed. It hit the lake, breaking some parts of the ice. The herd ran away. Lyosha ran after them, searching for the weak link. He assumed he found it, a little faun, and went after it. He nearly had it in his claws. But these deer knew the terrain better than him, and escaped, letting him eat their snow dust.

Baba Yaga found him by the lake, recovering the wet spear.

“Better luck next time,” she commented.

“I do not know how to hunt. My parents, the townspeople, not even my sister taught me anything about that. I just followed my father into the woods, but he never let me know to hunt.”

“So you’re from there? That little town that calls me by what I am to you now?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t look like you came from there, unless hell had opened up in that place.”

“It was hell or some other devil that did this to me. I was never like this…”

“Please, don’t. Do not bombard me with your drama. Save that for another time. For now, hunt. Lunch time is nearing. The day wears thin.”

“I do not know how to hunt.”

“I saw you hold your spear, as if you had thrown a weapon like that a hundred times. You never took your sights off your target, like a true hunter. Even when you missed and the herd ran, you chased them instantly, and you found the weak link. My guess is—you’re out of practice.”

“Practice? I…I’ve never done this before.”

“Are you certain?”

There they were, the experiences, shrouded deep within the enigma of his mind. He had held his spear, a fine crafted weapon he had made himself, and threw it at a thing that was fiercer and bigger than a bear, splitting its skull in half. He had set traps for monsters whose roar was thunder and whose speed was lightning, monsters that could flatten whole forests and kill with just a glance to it. He had chased down creatures that were either slower or faster than elks, pinning them down with his claws and snapping their necks with his jaws, a quick and clean kill…

Lyosha Volkov shook from reverie. He looked to the old hag.

“Can you teach me?” Lyosha whispered, and doubtfully said: “Again?”

“I’ll try.”

After he knew again how to throw a spear and kill an animal, Baba Yaga and Lyosha ate their lunch back at home territory. The monster ate his share outside, the old woman dined in her home. The horse had run off, in search for his own food.

They killed again, this time a fully-grown buck. Baba Yaga was indeed correct: Lyosha knew how to hunt and kill. Those kinds of traits were just…forgotten, innate, waiting to reactivate by either action or word. Lyosha had thrown his spear at the buck, desiring the projectile to miss and to merely scare the animal. The big thing was agitated, and it ran to where Lyosha knew it would go. Then the trap was sprung; a wooden jaw erupted from the snow and bit at one of the buck’s legs, trapping it. Lyosha ended its torment with a precise slice across the neck, using his own claws.

Then he knelt, closing the animal’s eyes, and in a sacred daze he seemed to mutter a prayer, not in Russian, but in a tongue he could not name but knew by heart. Placing one hand to his fallen prey’s head and another to its heart, he thanked the beast for the game, its sacrifice of food, and prayed its meat would restore its victor’s power for another round, while its soul raced across the great darkness high, to hear what the stars sing for those upon the black oceans.

Lyosha and Baba Yaga finished dinner. The elderly woman had prepared a little patch of dirt, placing furs and twigs as a type of big nest for Lyosha. He rested there, beside Baba Yaga’s hut, looking out into the aether above. There was no cloud coverage, the moon was new and dark; the night brightened with millions upon millions of stars. Far to the north, the flaming iridescence of the aurora scorched the Siberian lands with brilliance and grace.

Lyosha could not sleep yet. Things of late kept him awake. He looked to the stars, and stared instead to a tiny cluster of them, into a patch of pure darkness, thinking he saw another tiny speck that he longed to see again, for one last time…

Someone approached him. He turned to see the old woman, cane in hand, walking to him. She sat beside him, staring out into the sky with him.

“Why do you stare, into that one spot of sky?” Baba Yaga inquired, noticing how intently Lyosha gazed at that one speck of darkness.

“I do not know. But whenever I see it, I feel…alone. Truly alone. It’s not like when I was at home, alienating myself intentionally, desiring to be sequestered and only revealed when I must help my family in their work. It’s not like after, after this, after my metamorphosis, when I roamed around this forest land alone. I knew I was not truly alone. But here now, gazing towards that darkness, I feel truly alone, like I do not belong here.”

“You speak as if you regret who you were, before you became what you are now.”

“Not really, no. I just wish that I could go back to what I was.”

Baba Yaga turned to him. “After what you’ve done this day and yesterday, the things you’ve learned about your new self, the people who hounded you, this land you’ve come to call a new home, you really want to return?”

“Things wait for me there.”

“Like what?”

“My sister, Katya. She is a good person. She needs me.”

“But does she, and everyone back there, need you now?”

“They are my kin,” he insisted.

“Yet they do not seem like your kind,” she remarked. “Do they need you now, as much as you need them?”

Lyosha failed to reply.

“What about you, Baba Yaga?” Lyosha spoke. “What brought you here?”

“Not much. Not much to say, really. I was kind of like you when I was young. I worked quietly and discreetly for the tsars back in Moscow. I remained invisible to their eyes, but I did as commanded willingly. But I had a wild side. You could say that I could be anything I wanted to be. Whenever work was done, I met with friends, had parties, made love and all that. I had a good time. Eventually, though, I left them all, and not because I became a cranky and grouchy old woman. I just didn’t like the company I was in. I like it here. My friends are the trees and the stones, the animals of the earth and the skies. Now there’s someone like you, to make things more interesting.” She chuckled a wonderful chuckle.

Lyosha laughed with her. Before his transformation, he never was one for small talk since anyone to talk to were either too stupid or too smart for his preferences. He only had philosophical and worthy discussions with his sister.

Now, with Baba Yaga beneath the starlit sky, they talked and talked for what seemed to be hours, first about Lyosha’s journey to her doors, than some strange and otherworldly tales of Baba Yaga.

He scratched his side, trying vainly to eradicate the flea that, by divine intervention or dogmatic luck, was still there.

“You’ve been scratching yourself to death ever since you got here,” Baba Yaga said.

“This tick’s been with me since the beginning.”

“Well, then let it be there until the end. You might as well let it be. You know, most of us Russians, maybe even everyone else, when faced with dilemmas, we just respond to them either speaking our dramatic problems to other people, therefore passing those problems to those people. Me? Well, I just live out here minding my own business and just adapting to life. Sure, I help in change, but not to the point of making some fanatical revolutions. But you do whatever you want, Lyosha. That’s something that you of all people should realize by now.”

They talked some more, until their circadian clocks reminded them for the need of rest.

Lyosha finally slept. He had no dreams, and as the morning rose he stretched his lithe form to ascertain some wakefulness and flexibility.

The second day of his stay began with another hunt. They decided to catch a simple meal, just a few birds and all. After obtaining their quarries and eating them, Baba Yaga and Lyosha conversed more about hunting methods and which berries should and should not be eaten. The flea (which Lyosha barely felt after all this time and, even if he did feel it, it often gave him some degree of clarity) was still there for him, every step of the way.

Eventually, Lyosha arrived at the far edge of the bear’s territory. Baba Yaga warned him never to enter those lands, for there ruled a mighty bear whose body was shadows and whose strength was stronger than most regular bears of the region. Lyosha knew of what she spoke, and whenever he went on for more game in the afternoon he kept a watching eye on the bear’s turf.

He had asked Baba Yaga if she had ever encountered or bothered to kill the bear. She answered that since it never went after her, she wouldn’t go after it. But she also replied that should the bear ever decide to trespass and invade her land, she probably stood no choice to defeating it. Lyosha had debated to her that because of her wit and experience, she could win. She only smiled warmly at him, thanking him for his encouragement and certainty. She still warned him never to return to that land, and he whole-heartedly agreed.

Night arrived once more with stars. Lyosha and Baba Yaga sat at the front perch of the hut, gazing into the depth above. The horse was with them, snoozing.

Then Baba Yaga asked Lyosha: “Will you go back? To those people?”

“I have to. Things wait for me there.”

“You don’t have to and you know that.”

“So I can stay here?”

She looked at him sadly, shaking her head. “This is not the place for you. It’s not that I don’t like you at all. This is just not the place for you, and you too know that.”

She spoke true, for Lyosha felt, even in here, alone again.

“But will you go back to them?” she asked again.

“There’s nowhere else.”

“A whole land waits for you here, with its trifles and treasure troves. You think being alone is a terrible thing, that you depend on the company of others to survive and live. But being with people all the time is just as bad as being totally alone. Have I not taught you this?”

“Yes, I know. Yet I must go back, not for my sake, but for my sister’s. Katya, beloved Katya.”

“You speak highly of her. Who is she to you, besides your sister?”

“She showed me kindness, even in my altered state. She was there for me, even before all of this. She may be the only chance I have of being accepted back, instead of living my life here.”

“You think you can go back, because of her?”

“I do. I have to believe that.”

“And if you are wrong?”

Lyosha had no answer for her.

“Rest now, Lyosha Volkov, the Wolf Who Helps People.” Baba Yaga stood up and patted him. “Decide when you must leave here. I suggest the day after tomorrow, but it’s your choice now. Your fate is in your hands in this land.”

Baba Yaga closed her door behind him. Lyosha returned to his resting place, and dreamed a little, something about him hunting with his brethren across the frozen fields after their prey, protecting them at times from monsters that could move mountains…

…then there was another one, where strange creatures from the skies took him into a place of pure light, across the black oceans whose stars sing to those between realms…

…then he had a nightmare, so real and surreal, where a great black storm appeared before him, whose thunder was the roar of a mighty behemoth, whose lightning bolts were the claws of a ferocious beast; it ran, not to him, but to a witch in a mortar using a pestle as a steering rod, threatening to bring her down…

He woke up amidst another snowstorm. The cold was there, greater and deadlier, but still it caused him no distress. He rose from his nest and walked to the hut. The wind bellowed and the snow fell drastically. He was on the front door, noticing that it was already open. He entered inside, calling out Baba Yaga, checking if she was doing well in this new siege. He walked to the rooms—empty. She was not home. Her hunting gear was missing too.

Lyosha went outside, beholding the storm. He called her name again. The words were stolen by storm. He rushed out, searching for tell-tale signatures of her whereabouts.

Some mysterious thought led him to one specific direction. He walked to that spot, in a clearing. Visibility was average, so Lyosha could pretty much see clearly ahead of him. He came at last to a kind of hollow.

A titanic, dark form was there. The snow around it was painted in a deep, gruesome red.

Lyosha drew nearer.

Then he froze, not from the cold of the world, but from the terrible cold dread elemental within him and intrinsic to all living things. His legs shook and his eyes swelled in tears, not just in fear, but in great, overwhelming loss. He never felt this before, and it threatened to destroy him more than anything that has ever harmed him previously.

Blood and gore and other oozing liquids dripped from the monster’s maw. Below its paw was a rifle, broken, shattered, a pathetic heap. Next to this were clothes, like those of an elderly woman, torn asunder. Another carcass was there, more distinctive and bigger—an equine corpse.

The bear spat at what it was eating, as if it detested the flavour, spitting the scarlet glob at a huge, membranous, bulging mass of other revolting substances below it. It growled coldly at Lyosha, and it seemed to grin at him.

In humiliation, cowardice, with the primordial instincts of survival alongside Baba Yaga’s last teachings of how running away was perfectly fine, Lyosha ran.

The bear went after him. Lyosha had no plan in mind but to escape. He yearned to kill the beast for what it had done, to him and his only companions in this wild land, but he could not discover the means to accomplish his vengeance.

Then he noted how familiar the landscape appeared, with certain landmarks and tree species of the area. He knew where he was, and now he had a plan.

He slowed slightly in his pace, wanting to ensure the bear would find and follow him. He swerved to the right, past some boulders and half-dead trees. The bear roared its war cry behind him. Lyosha ran, straight into where he hoped would be his destination. Suddenly, from out of the pale veil, two massive trees materialized, separated by only a few feet of space. Lyosha ran to the space between these towers, then sprung with strong legs ahead, delicate enough to not touch the snowy earth upon that space. He ran on and stopped, reverting back, his eyes scanning in search for the bear.

Out of the snowstorm charged the beast, running towards Lyosha. It neared the spot of the two trees, fangs barred and eyes burning with inner fury. It barrelled head-on, towards the space between the tree duos, which was wide enough to fit the bear through. At last, it reached the spot, its right paw touching the snow between these dual trees.

It halted, its right paw caught by a makeshift trap jaw as the bear bellowed more in annoyance than excruciation. With its left paw, it struggled to rip the wooden teeth apart, careful in handling its own trapped hand.

Meanwhile, Lyosha grabbed a nearby spear, in the instances when he had trapped a critter on that same spot and had no spears in hand. He placed all his burning hatred into the stake, and hurled the weapon with his might and a dauntless roar. It sliced the cold air, a vessel of his vengeance and agony, tasked to split the very skull of its enemy.

Unfortunately, the bear had thrashed and struggled so much that the spear merely hit its side, not the head. The bear cried in pain now, but it still fought against its restraints. Lyosha grabbed a second spear, the last, and charged at the bear, shouting his own war cry. He jumped into the air, positioned the spear down, and with gravity rammed himself and the weapon into the bear’s side.

Lyosha clung into the beast with his talons, hell-bent on shredding the bear to ribbons or at least break its neck. Yet misfortune doomed him again, for the bear had freed its bloodied and bruised right paw, and with its good left claw swatted Lyosha aside. He flew into the snow, tumbling a moment, the inertia ending, him at last rising up. He was not cut, nor his bones broken, yet he was in pain.

The bear recovered. Even with two spears embedded on its back, a nearly broken and useless right paw, it was still hungry for blood, Lyosha’s blood. Lyosha knew then that he could not defeat the beast now. Those spears could not penetrate deep into its hard hide. His traps were minute hindrances to its awesome personage. His own claws were but little kitchen knives compared to the swords on the bear’s hands.

He ran away, knowing he had lost the battle but won his own life. Even if, by some miracle, he could kill the bear and satisfy his vengeance, what then? Lyosha would still have to contend with the cold, harsh wilderness of Siberia, to live in forsaken exile at the edge of the world.

A whole land waits for you here, a memory seemed to say, spoken from the witch of the wilds, with its trifles and treasure troves. You speak as if you regret what you were, before you became what you are. This is not the place for you, Lyosha. You must go out there, into the wilds. Your fate is in your own hands in this land.

Perhaps Baba Yaga was right. Siberia was the only place for him, a land where his fate would be in his hands. He knew things that could make him king of this region. He had experience and instincts that would last him a long, contented, simple living in the frozen wilds. If prisoners of war and crime saw Siberia as a cold hell, Lyosha knew it to be a sanctuary for those seeking game and freedom from civilization. He could stay.

But Lyosha had to try. Things waited for him out there, back in the small town of his former home. Katya, dear sister Katya, only she could save him and redeem his soul to the people of the modern world. Lyosha felt like she needed him, as much as he needed her. He had to at least try.

So as he managed to escape the bear again, racing across the forests and the fields of Siberia, he headed to the west, the sun now high into the sky. He paused in his quest to hunt for food and search for shelter when hale replaced snow. Often, his mission of redemption was delayed due to sightings of other predators, most of them the bear with spears on his back and a shattered right paw. Lyosha was amazed at how stubbornly committed the bear was to hunting him down. Survival was not the interest of the bear, rather to see that its mortal nemesis die before it did.

Lyosha moved on, following the falling sun as twilight lit the land. He was nearing his homestead, for the country became more familiar as he headed due west. Excitement and anxiety kept him fully awake as the night closed in. Another blizzard barred his path, blocking the stars and his path back home. His entire world became dark. The cold was still his ally, and he had no fear of the frost winds blowing from all sides. The only living thing keeping him company now was the tiny trickster somewhere on his head, specifically nibbling Lyosha’s ear. Smell and sight were obsolete; his only tools of navigation were touch, hearing, and blind faith.

He stumbled in his journey, thinking to first find a decent cave or hollow and wade out the night’s terror. But then, from out of the darkness, he saw something flickering orange and yellow in the blizzard. Nearing this faint but obvious light, the only light in his bleak world, Lyosha heard a voice, calling his name.

He saw at last the bearer of the lamp, cloaked in heavy garments to withstand the cold. He saw her, hopeful and fearful, noticing how she seemed quite different than before as she called his name. He could see her, but she could not see him. He stood many meters away, hidden in shadows, wondering if he should present himself as thus. The survivor within warned him of dangers, that his peasant attempts to seek pity and accession was wrong. But Lyosha had to try. He wanted to go home. There was nowhere else to go.

He emerged from the woods, revealing himself to Katya’s lamplight. She faced him finally, frozen in her place.

“Lyosha,” she said, her face pale even with the scarf around it.

“Katya, my sister Katya. You have called to me?”

“Yes. Yes, my brother. Please, I need you to come back to me. I need you.”

“Of course.”

“Could you come closer?”

“I can.”

He walked forward, and the hunter in him screamed to him to run.

“I missed you, my sister,” Lyosha confessed, ignoring the creature within him. “I am sorry for what I did to father. I hope I can redeem myself, and return to you all. Please, find forgiveness in me.”

She stared at him. As he drew closer, he saw her eyes filled with tears.

“I forgive you, brother,” she whispered. “I hope you could forgive me.”

A tiny part of his left leg exploded, the bullet hole smoking fresh as Lyosha fell. Another bullet flew, missed, then the next one hit Lyosha in the arm when he tried to get up. Men with savage weapons and baying hounds surrounded him, raising their guns in triumph. They threw nets around him, the kind of nets for catching schools of fish or one big creature, pinning him down to the snow. They would have shot him there and then if not for his father, Kazimir, who shouted that he wanted the monster alive to kill it himself once they return to their homes in victory.

As the hunters patted each other’s’ backs, some drinking vodka flasks and most sharing their exploits, Katya walked to the trapped monster and knelt, sobbing.

“I had to, my brother,” Katya spoke, and Lyosha listened to her every word. “I had to. I knew it was you, I never doubted that. But you have changed, not just in appearance. The brother I knew would never do all these things. The brother I wanted would not be something like, like what you are now. When I first saw you as this, I still saw you, Lyosha, my beloved brother. But when you came out of the woods, I did not see my brother Lyosha. I saw something else. I saw this.” And she motioned to everything that made Lyosha the monster. “It was me who suggested this, this trap. It was me who suggested that you die now. I am sorry, but now, seeing you now, you are not my brother.”

She stood up and walked away.

The men began preparations of departure with their prize.

Kazimir knelt next to Lyosha, just before they all would leave. He placed his hunting knife coldly to Lyosha’s furry throat. In the lamplight, the ghostly scar from Lyosha on Kazimir’s cheek made him look mad.

“You did this to me, monster.” Kazimir pointed to the wolf marks on his face. “Now, I will repay all the things you did to me soon.”

“What of my mother, Polina?” Lyosha whispered sarcastically, and Kazimir understood his words. “What of my sister? The townspeople? Will they too repay to me all the things that I have done for them? For you all?”

Kazimir struck Lyosha’s head with the butt of his knife. Lyosha barely felt the attack. He looked defiantly at the man before him, with eyes colder than the coldness of a long winter’s night, darker than the darkness of a deep cave. Kazimir, at last, felt truly afraid, and backed away, barking to his comrades to carry the beast back home.

He did not retaliate. He saved his strength, for when he returned to the town, for all to see him, he would show them what he was now, to them and to himself.

They began to leave.

Then they heard the screams.

Then they heard the roar.

Katya screamed as a massive black form emerged from the woods, with two spears stuck on its back, a limp and dull right paw, roaring a mighty war cry that shook bones to their cores. The hunters concentrated fire on the bear, their bullets dealing no good damage to it. The bear charged at the party, and at close-quarters he murdered two men in melee combat. The rest fanned out, to confuse the bear and search for any weak points on it. Their reload speed was slow and meticulous, the moment of conflict too fast and too chaotic for rifles to have any effect. The bear began to kill a few of them, man by man, until many of the survivors ran away or hid. The beast grew bored of them, and decided to chase the weak link of the group. It turned about until it found the young woman, then lumbered menacingly towards her. She screamed on.

By this time Lyosha was fighting the net for freedom. He cut a few ropes with his talons and teeth, occasionally using one of the hunting knives from the fallen. Many heart-pounding attempts later, he got out, and was about to run back into the frozen wilds.

Then he heard the screams.

Then he heard the roar.

The bear snarled at the young woman, covered in heavy garments to withstand the cold. The man clothes would be a great bother to it when he feasted, but no matter. It was dastardly famished and hell-bent on murder. The young woman was cornered into a tree—nowhere to go. The bear raised its claws and brought it down.

Katya stopped screaming, for something white and grey came out of the snowstorm and tackled the black beast. She watched in stunned silence, the lamplight illuminating a sanguine battle between two monsters. The one that resembled a big wolf with horns danced around the great, powerful bear, thinking only to distract it while the other humans retreated in the blizzard. The horned wolf then grabbed at a rifle; he could not fire the gun due to his fingers being too big for the trigger loop. Instead, he hurled the gun like he would a spear, hitting the bear’s head. It only fazed the bear, but it was dazed by the blow enough for the horned wolf to slice at it with his claws. The bear stood up, bipedal, in its almighty height, swinging its imposing arms to swat its nemesis aside. The horned wolf dodged and side-stepped, rolled between flying arms and stabbing the behemoth with precise swipes of his talons.

Yet still, the bear would not go down. It was losing blood indeed, but deep-seated hatred kept it alive to complete its revenge. The bear roared, until at last to finally hit the horned, sailing him away into the snow. The bear charged on all fours at the horned wolf.

The horned wolf grabbed a nearby lamp just as the bear was on top of him, smashing the fire into its face. The bear backed away, its snout and mouth seared by flames. It stood up again, the fires gone, making thunder from its carnivorous maw.

Then Lyosha the horned wolf moved at it with such speed the bear had little time to register the movement. He had grabbed another rifle, and with the butt of the weapon he rammed it straight at the only possible weak point of the bear, let alone any male.

The bear instinctively clutched at its manhood, the pain too great to even think of it as pain. Just as it was recovering, Lyosha sprung to the bear’s back, ripped one of the spears out, and drove the stake into the bear’s skull.

The bear went down, but it was still alive. It flung its arms at the horned wolf, but Lyosha eluded the claws. He retrieved the other spear, and with all his power he penetrated the thick head of the bear, until the spear tip tasted at last the brain matter of the beast, until it went beyond to touch the snow beneath.

The horned wolf walked to another lamp, took it, and with its flames and oils set the entire bear aflame. He acquired more lamps, dumping the fires into the carcass. The black body caught fire, slowly, delicately, not certain that the pyre would be born. Yet with the soft wind blowing and the cold night not so cold anymore, the inferno licked high into the night sky. Lyosha’s own eyes reflected the flames as he watched his adversary burn.

Then, like with the buck, in a sacred daze, he muttered another prayer, not in Russian, but in a tongue he could not name but knew by heart. This was for the bear, his rival of the wilds, and he gave gratitude to the beast for its commitment in battle, for its wit and will in combat. He forgave the bear for its sins, the evil deeds done to win the game; he prayed that when he too faced another foe he would remember the ones he had defeated before, and remember that he too would join them in the hunt across the great darkness high, to hear what the stars sing to those upon the black oceans…

He was done, and he looked to the young woman Katya. She stared at him, saying nothing, doing nothing but just looking. He only felt one thing about her, and he showed this thing to her. Not anger, not jealousy, not suffering.

Disappointment.

He began to walk away.

He began to run when the men of the village became hunters once more.

He was miles away from his pursuers, back into the Siberian frontier, when he realized how badly wounded he was. Bullet holes and bear marks allowed his blood to spill out. From his damaged belly, what seemed to be his organs began to escape too. With his hands and dizzy mind, he struggled to hold them all in, just a little longer…almost…there…

He found the hut at last, empty, dark. He entered its doors. In his weak state, he thought to mend the lacerations with herbs and such. But as he entered the house, he knew he would not make it. He dropped down on the wooden floor. He felt the cold, and it gave him comfort.

Yet he did not die. Not yet. With one last will, he got up, went outside, and simply dropped on the snowy lawn of Baba Yaga’s home. He shimmied around, until his back was to the earth, and he faced the sky. By providence, there were no clouds, and he could see the entirety of the stars.

On his grey-white pelt that matched the snow he was blooding on, he felt the flea rummaging through his foliage, upon his belly. In his addled state near extinction, he saw a red glowing spot on his belly, where the tick was. But no matter. He looked to the stars.

He gazed at that one little speck of darkness, and he felt truly alone. He hoped to see that dot again, up close in its sublime magnitude and magnificence, for one last time…

He closed his eyes.

But in his last moments of wakefulness, he saw a thing of pure light, blinding him with such brilliance. He raised his hands towards the light, and something from it grabbed him back, pulling, dragging his broken body across metallic ground. He heard something close behind him, but everything was still so bright. He saw strange things as he was carried, things difficult to describe and only born from genius imaginations.

He saw a silhouette, of an old woman, and he thought he was in heaven.

He began to sleep.

 

 

As the monster woke up without any dreams harrowing his sleep, he found himself thoroughly restrained. Yet he was subdued by neither shackle nor medicine. Rather, he just felt like he could not move. He was on a bed, the kind of bed that arched at a certain degree that made his legs horizontal and the rest of his body diagonally inclined, like those in hospitals. He tried to move his arms, failed. His legs, failed. Next he attempted to heave himself forward or at least jerk—nothing. Only his head and neck were permitted mobility. With this, he scanned the area around him, and it was most peculiar.

Illumination came from above, showing only the monster on the bed. All around him was pitch black. Yet the darkness was not the oddity that posed him discomfort, but instead was the strange contraption beside him. He had never seen the likes of this construct, built of foreign metals and glowing glass. Not even the most intelligent and monumental genius in London could have concocted such a machine. He panicked a little at how transparent tendrils connected his body to this gizmo, extracting what he assumed to be his blood. Observing it closely, though, he realized it was actually giving him blood, noticing see-through packets with red liquid inside.

Where was he? Was this heaven? It was a very odd paradise to exist forever in. The monster still could not move his body, even if there were no visible restraints to stop him from getting out. He swerved his head, then he called out to those in the darkness, demanding for attention and answers.

Then a figure approached him, withered and bent, until she was revealed in light.

“Baba Yaga?” The monster was flummoxed.

“Rest, Lyosha Volkov, the Wolf Who Helps People,” the old crone said. “Rest now. Let the machine continue its blood-transfusion on you. The drugs and sedatives should be enough to help your cells regenerate the lacerations quickly enough. You’ve lost much blood, so I suggest you let us do our work on you. In a matter of minutes, we shall talk, and I will explain as best as I could how you really came to be here.”

The monster complied. When one of the tubes secreted a sufficient percentage of a calming solution, he felt at peace, and not even when the machine beside him protruded metal arms with saws and scissors and other tools for hands did the monster feel fear. The machine operated on him, repairing damage and assessing other fatalities.

When his organs were replaced in their proper positions, his blood volume and glucose levels moderated at an average, the monster Lyosha remained fully healed on the bed. He still could not move, and had no clue as to how and why. Finally, Baba Yaga returned to him, smiling in greeting.

“How are you feeling?” she inquired of him.

He said nothing.

“You can speak, Lyosha. The nanobots in your nervous system only paralyzed the body parts neck down. You can talk to me.”

“I don’t even know who you really are. Are you truly Baba Yaga? A witch?”

“I can be. I can’t be, either. I can be more or less a witch.”

“What are you then?”

“Behold.”

And Lyosha watched as the old crone changed. She was a he, then an it, then something else entirely. She was a young woman with brown skin and little clothing, a hulking brute covered totally in his own virile hairs, a swarm of buzzing flies. She was an item, a person, a monster uglier than him, and she vanished and appeared again. She was a ray of light and the metallic ground she stood on. She became air and solid then liquid, and something in-between them. She was an entity of myth and legends, a being unknown or famous. She had undergone God knows how many metamorphoses until she became the old woman, Baba Yaga.

“I am many things, Lyosha,” Baba Yaga, whatever, whoever, she/he/it was. “But that, in a way, is my curse, as it is the curse of all my kin. We can be whatever we want, but in the end we are forced to change, to live immortal lives adapting to the alternating schemes of time. We can never stay as one thing for long, to live one single life and die satisfying deaths, unlike you. You see me as a powerful thing that can just change so easily. Yet that is the illusion of us changelings—in truth, we cannot change who we truly are.”

Lyosha could imagine what his family had thought of him, seeing him as a strangely terrifying monster. He understood now their fear. He too wanted to run away from this thing. He couldn’t move.

“Please, Lyosha,” Baba Yaga warned him. “Just stop and listen to me. You can ask any question you want, but afterwards, you have to listen to what I must tell you.”

“You…you did this to me?” Lyosha grunted.

“In a way, yes. But it really is not what you think.”

“Where did you come from?”

“From the skies, just as you did. Beyond this little world, across what your own kind call ‘the black oceans.’ The stars and the spaces between them.”

“What did you do to me?”

“What you volunteered for.”

“You’re not making sense!”

“Then snap your maw shut and listen to me.”

She said this very calmly, as if she could wait for the anger in him to burn down for millennia.

“Alright,” Lyosha said. “What did you do?”

“Before I speak of you, I must speak of my own kind, how this all began. Let me show you what we truly look like.”

She transformed again, into something so terrifyingly beautiful. Lyosha had never beheld such grace and revulsion in one epitomic catalyst. He was in awe and in disgust, appeased and appalled. He could not describe the being before him, since words failed to explain the entity now. It was so terrifying beautiful. It spoke to him in a million voices, and although some of the terminologies and dictions presented were unknown or alien to him, he understood the idea and the story.

“If you were to be on Earth, to see the star Sirius, there, somewhere there in that little region of aether, is my home. A thousand years after the Origins, my home was but another weak planet swerving and dancing dangerously in a hazardous cluster of stars, the gravities of the celestial bodies alongside other mobile worlds hurtling our home across a virgin galaxy. Because the proximity between suns was constantly changing, so did the temperature, the atmosphere, the succession of day and night. Things altered so spontaneously that life shouldn’t be able to live in such hardship.

“Yet there was life, and life was so bloody hard. We were forced to change every second, every decade, never knowing when something would suddenly happen. We scoured the shifting landscapes for whatever scraps of food matter we could salvage. We hid from predators, we ran from meteorites. Hibernating in long or short winters, estivating in excruciating summers, we survived not by natural selection, but by unnatural mutation, changing our bodies instantly to suit the environment. It was not living, but just surviving. We did what we must just to survive.

“Then, at last, the young universe began to mature, and our world found itself in a stable position in a functional solar system. The world moderated its temperature, the cycle of day and night regulated. We rested at last as the world revolved around a sentient star, as our home rotated at a normal axis. We still retained our unnatural mutation, and used this to improve ourselves and control our world. We developed civilization, science, religions, philosophies. We multiplied, but because of our attributes, conceiving an offspring takes a hundred years to occur. Then we built mighty ships that could fly beyond the sky, and hurled ourselves into the stars, to visit new worlds. Our journeys would take millions of years to reach even a single hospitable planet, but we had endless patience, and we’ve lived longer enough to wait.

“Eventually, we found Earth, just after the Roman Empire fell. Some of us studied the warring communities of Dark Age Europe. The rest infiltrated the rising power of Genghis Khan. I was part of this group, concentrated on the Western cultures, and have been here since we first found this world. Our goal was to understand humanity better, see its progress, its philosophical, spiritual, biological, and social differences between us and them. We learned of your beliefs, of men like the Buddha and Jesus Christ, and many others. We studied your emotions, your reasoning and logic, your ideas and spiritual status. We began to understand you better. But still, there was much to study, and we were eager to learn.

“By this time, we heard reports of other expeditions discovering other sentient species, even making alliances with them. Most were still primitive, while a few were far more sophisticated than mankind on Earth. Still, we were the more dominant species so far, because of our abilities and our technology. In a manner of speaking, we began to forge a powerful empire across the galaxy, even going beyond this one and to neighbouring galaxies across the universe. Some of us were corrupted, and made themselves into gods. Others enforced the laws of this ‘empire,’ promoting peace and stability in the regime. In truth, we never had what you would call an empire. We had no singular and absolute hegemon. We had no council of joined leaders either. Each one of us were our own leaders, our own servants. We shared and we hid secrets. We worked together and we worked individually. This was all over the galaxy.

“But here, on Earth, our group were unconcerned or irrelevant to these events. Our mission was to merely observe man, and that we did. In our little team, we developed our own independent government nearly separate from others of our kin. Our only kings were our own moral codes and conducts. This we did, and we continued to experience human history, trying our best not to interfere. We were with the Vikings and the Saxons and the Danes as Britain was sacked, and the English language born. We were there when Columbus found America, when Copernicus discredited the theologies of the Church and when other geniuses produced their works. We were with the indigenous tribes of Africa, Southeast Asia, Polynesia, South America, learning of their gods and traditions. We were there.

“Finally, we decided on a course of action. After the Renaissance, our time of inaction was over, and we began to make a few experiments on mankind, to see whether they could persevere against odds like we did, or be doomed to die. We wanted to know whether you were capable of achieving great things for yourselves and for others. Capable of retaining your humanity but still improving and evolving upon it, just like we did. Capable, even, of going beyond what makes you human, but still keeping that humanity.

“This, Lyosha Volkov, is where you come in.”

“I do not understand. How am I a part of this?”

The creature that was Baba Yaga, and more or less than the witch, appeared to ponder.

“You see, Lyosha, when we first studied Earth and its species, we discovered fossils of ancient and long-extinct creatures of a bygone world, creatures which perhaps one day man itself will discover in time. With these skeletal remains, we learned of your monsters too, either real or unreal, either true or truth-bended. Thunderbirds of America. Yetis and huge simians of jungles or tundra. The Loch Ness of Scotland. Sea snakes and krakens of the deep. Giant birds that ate horses. Even before man, there were the great saurian rulers. All of these, dead or gone. Forgotten, or hidden. Most died of plagues, or a changing environment they could not cope, or even a meteorite. Yet many, we theorized and have proven throughout history, were killed. Many of whom, killed by man.”

“I do not understand.”

“Man is afraid. That is a fact, and what we learned throughout our time here is that man is most afraid for itself. Humans fear what they cannot control or cannot fathom. Humans fear what they perceive to be an obvious or subtle threat, because man is so strangely paranoid. I’m not saying everyone is like this, but the masses live in the basis of fear and panic. Man is afraid, and when it is afraid it does the one thing it only understands to do—kill the threat. Man’s ancestors hunted down the monsters even to the edge of the world, because they were afraid of them. Humans misconstrued the very quintessence of the things they eradicate. They want to be in control, and so many of them want to control. And for the things they cannot command, like the monsters, they destroy them. Treat them like trash, or a threat. Often, they were right to kill the monsters, for there are beasts like the bear you killed that had to die. Yet there are others like you, Lyosha Volkov, that do not have to die. Fear drove them to this point. Paranoia enslaved them all.

“But that was a long time ago, we thought. As the era became the 1800s, what is now, we thought that mankind had learned to control their fear, find logic and reason to all things. We thought, after the teachings of their holy martyrs Jesus Christ and Siddhartha, that they had created an inner philosophy of trust and truth. We thought they learned to be better than what they were.

“Yet we were uncertain. We had to know. So we tested them. Around the world of the 1800s, we placed in specific areas a few creatures much like you, Lyosha, but different in a way. We took the lives of people who would not be missed if gone, like Lyosha Volkov, and set down creatures that would have made a true change in life. We did not order you to do anything. We let nature make the fates of our subjects and those of mankind to decide on the outcome. We thought that man would take care of you. For a moment, there were a few, like Katya, that would have brought out a new age of enlightenment and progress.”

The things that were Baba Yaga shook its many heads.

“We were wrong, I guess. We see this now, in you, and in many others that we rescued around the globe. I am sorry for what you had to experience, Lyosha. I’m sorry if it was all for naught.”

“You made me into this,” the horned wolf growled, “all so you could make us, both me and mankind, into your little experiments?”

“You still don’t understand, do you?”

“You picked me, from out of many humans on Earth, because I, Lyosha Volkov, was just another useless, gullible, unloved stick in a bundle? You changed me into this, this thing, this beast, that is the opposite of who I am, and your only concern was whether I would fail in your little experiment? What kind of beings are you, to temper with a life? How could—“

A powerful slap ceased the monster’s tantrum. He looked, stunned, at the creature who was now in the form of Baba Yaga.

“Oh, will you shut up and listen?” that one voice demanded. “Enough of your petty drama and listen to me. Got it?”

Lyosha nodded.

Baba Yaga huffed out her annoyance. She motioned with her hands at everything about him. “This,” she said, “all of this. You. You’re not Lyosha Volkov.”

The monster frowned. “What?”

“We never changed you into anything. There was no metamorphosis, as you would think. This is what you were and have been since you were born.”

“I…”

She raised her hands to silence him.

“Let me explain.

“In our department on Earth, we lacked the technology to alter any living being into another subjected creature, just as we could do so ourselves at will. Our kind back home have already built a machination of such sorts, and are bringing a shipment of metamorphosis gear to us as we speak. But such cargo would arrive four hundred years by now. We needed to begin our tests now before mankind changes in ways in which our tests would prove inessential. So, our group here unanimously voted for making our own monsters.

“Before you begin to protest, let me say that you are right to ponder why we changelings couldn’t have just been the monsters ourselves instead of manufacturing them. Yes, we could have just shifted our shapes to become the nightmares of man. But the problem is, our targets were numerous and varied, and we lacked manpower to both achieve the objectives and observe the results. Thus, he had to rely on outer aid for this mission. Not only that, should we be the ones to participate in the role of monster, the encounter between man and monster would not be so authentic, since there were the possible dilemmas of us changelings to inadvertently succeed. Now, that may sound positive in your perspective, but our goal is not to build a union between man and changelings. We, ourselves, do not want our species to make first contact on humanity. We wanted others, true, absolutely real-life monsters, to interact with man, not just for the benefit of humanity, but for those of other species. We wanted these experiences to be natural and without our hindrances. Thus, we decided to just make our own menagerie of monsters.

“Moving on. Now, although we do have the resources and the gadgets to replicate fully-functional monstrosity, the growth of such a creature would require years, let alone decades, of maturity and care until it was an adult. Even then, there are the problems of nurture and nature, since genetic-engineering of a new species was still young and questionable in our department. By this time, mankind would have changed in ways we could not possibly predict. We had to get some specimens pronto.

“And so we turned to other worlds, where there were already beasts and beauties that had evolved beyond our very imaginations, perfect for our experiment. To you, to take these creatures from their homes and bring them here would seem impossible, considering the vast distance between and the relative flow of time on either world. Yet, like I said, we too were evolving, and we had built faster and powerful ships to bring these batches on due schedule.

“Now, in a nearby planet two light-years away, a group of my kind began to create a sort of intelligent life form on that world, since their biological sciences were far more advanced than ours here. Although the planet was habitable and had species dwelling in it, this team decided anyway to try to make life of their own. In their mighty labs they genetically modified and bio-engineered an organism that was physically dexterous and astute as hell. They gave this new creature a mate, for it to procreate. So this team of creators sent this new being unto their world. The team observed their creation as it multiplied and, throughout the generations, developed different cultures and primitive technologies.

“These creatures were you, my friend. Before any of this had happened, you were among these creatures, within a tribe of scattered tribes. You were called Feru-daran, which in your language meant ‘Braveheart,’ for, as I learned, you had committed heroic deeds that made you brave of heart. My team here sent a message to the group there that we needed a creature such as yourself, for a test on humanity. They never picked you out of random, or because of who you were to your tribe. They did not force you to come to Earth. When the changelings of your world came down from the skies to speak to your people of a plan to help them beyond your world, you volunteered. You were the bravest among them to leave your home behind, to go to an alien world with people that would kill you if they wanted to. I heard a recording of your departing speech to your people, saying that you would do them proud to help us and aid the faithless and the lost people in space, so that man on Earth could also hear what the stars sing to those upon the black oceans.

“We prepared you when you arrived. We found a place that suited you, located someone you would replace, and set the game rolling. We took your own memories, and placed the memories and thinking pattern of the real Lyosha Volkov in you. Then, well, you know what happened next. Your old memories, apparently, remained intact, and helped you to survive the wilds when the person that is Lyosha could not. In the little town, Lyosha Volkov was but a slave, and you, Feru-daran, out there, were king. To be honest, I never expected any of this to occur. I am sorry, for what we had to do.”

The monster was silent. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

He seemed so at ease.

“I guess they were right,” he said calmly. “Those people. The townspeople and my…Lyosha’s family. I am not Lyosha Volkov.”

His words held no malice or regret, but were just a funny observation.

Baba Yaga started to turn around, to walk back into the darkness.

“We saved your old self in a DNA-based capsule,” she spoke before she left. “Your old memories should be returning soon. Of those of the real Lyosha Volkov, they could be there if you wish for them to be there still. Do not worry if the lives of two beings are to mingle in confusion in your mind. The nanobots and the substances in your system should take care of that, separating fiction with fact. We’ll take care of you. But in the end, you have to learn to take care of yourself. Your fate is in your hands.”

The monster was alone with the nanobots in his veins, and the memories of two men, himself and the other self, arranging in proper order without chaos included.

He was allowed at last to wander about. He saw that he was in a cozy box, with decorations and calming detail to bring him some degree of comfort. He had met things that changed, but in the end, remained what they truly were, like Baba Yaga. From echoes reverberating from the walls, he heard other sounds, like those of monsters or just simple beings. He learned that other creatures were on board, returning too to their own homes as heroes or as failures. On one of the walls was a window, and the horned wolf gazed out and saw stars.

The elderly woman returned. Feru-daran waited for her as he sat on the floor and looked at the stars. She sat beside him.

They looked at the darkness and the stars.

“We are returning you to your world,” the old woman announced. “Do you still remember it? Your home?”

“Home…”

She looked at him, concerned.

He smiled, chuckling. “Yes, Baba Yaga. I remember my home. Not the one on Earth, not Lyosha Volkov’s home. My home. In my den with my people, readying our gear to hunt across the frozen plains. I remember. But still, it is still…missing…”

“You’ll get it all back, I promise. But what of Lyosha’s memories. Do you wish–?”

“No, no. I think I’ll keep them. There’s nothing much to it, anyway.”

She nodded, all-knowing.

“We removed all the nanobots from your system,” she resumed. “All except one, which will be there to monitor your condition and inform us of any peculiar and fatal circumstances. Don’t worry about this little machine, my friend. It has been with you since the start. I’m sure you’ve gotten used to it.”

Somewhere on his fur, he felt the tiny trickster muck about, but, sensing it with more focus, realized how cold and metallic its touch was.

“I have questions,” Feru-daran said.

“Then ask.”

“The bear, was it part of your test? To show man that a monster like me could save them from something like that?”

“No. It was just an unexpected variable, a natural enemy. What you did, after you left the town, was something completely unforeseeable.”

“But you could have killed it.”

“I could, yes. Easily. But the bear was not mine to vanquish.”

“You let yourself and your horse die.”

“Well, indeed. I did ‘die.’ Fortunately, though, it never ate me. Nothing ever really could for long, considering how bad me and my species taste. You could say that my kind is just a huge colony of individually intelligent and conscious cells, capable of changing colour, shape, and functions, with a terrible flavour.”

“What of your horse?”

“Don’t worry. It was another thing like me, another team member on the job.”

“And was your job to help me? I thought you wanted my interaction and that of humankind’s to be uninterrupted by your people?”

Baba Yaga shuffled around, very uncomfortable, trying her best to adapt.

“I was never supposed to bring you back to life,” she began. “When you were injured in the woods, I was supposed to bring you back to this ship, since the experiment failed. But seeing you there…all that I said about myself to you was no lie, Feru-daran. I was merciful. I brought you back from the brink so that you could have another chance to show man who you truly were, at least see something good inside you. I trained you in the forest, for the day when you would eventually encounter or return to mankind. I had hoped that all my efforts would be worth something. But it only brought you more pain, and I am sorry.”

“Do not be. Like you said, you could not have seen this coming.”

“Well, doesn’t seem to matter. I, along with my horse friend, will be punished for breaking our own rules. But you need not be worried by such torments. I’ve survived hardships before. I’m used to them all.”

The horned wolf and the witch stared out the window, watching the stars pass them by.

“But why Lyosha Volkov?” inquired the wolf. “Why replace a regular man with a monster? Could you not have just placed me there?”

“We tried that, long ago. Just putting the beasts on the spot. They died instantly. Man saw only what they feared to see. So we decided that maybe our creatures should be imbued with some human characteristics, to show humanity some spark of itself for even a single, important moment of mercy and understanding. That’s why we transplanted Lyosha Volkov’s memories unto you, so that you could be human enough to make the humans consider for council. But from our reports now, all our subjects, including you, have failed. Man has failed again.”

“But why Lyosha Volkov?” the horned wolf insisted. “Why him?”

She seemed to say nothing, as if she could not cope to this kind of experience.

“Why?” he asked again.

“We could have chosen a different monster,” Baba Yaga answered, “like, say, a vermin of sorts, because in truth the real Lyosha Volkov was a vermin, as you came to know. But we wanted to see something else entirely. We wanted to see what would happen if someone who has been in shadows for so long, living like a sheep, obeying every single order without a thought for his life, decided finally to be free. We wanted to know what would occur if a people like the Volkovs, let alone that town, suddenly had—not a monster—but suddenly had someone who wanted to live his own life the way he wanted to live it, something like what your own kind strives to achieve. This was not a test just for mankind. It was for you too. They failed you in the end, but you did the one thing they never could, and maybe, one day, they could be something like you, and even more. That is our hope, and the purpose of these experiments, these ordeals.”

“You’ve made many mistakes,” the horned wolf observed.

“Yes, in a manner of speaking. I pray only that we learn from them, to improve but still retain what we are.”

“Or to change.”

“I suppose change is good.”

They talked for a while.

Feru-daran was granted permission to roam around the vessel as it sailed across the black oceans. He met with other monsters, greater or weaker than him. There were lizards with three-heads and eagles the size of elephants. There were talking cats and bog beasts. Some flew and slithered and crawled or walked. Most were hideous or beautiful. There were those that were totally animal, but many exceptional creatures that had his kind of intellect, just enough to socialize and make bonds.

He recounted his story in Siberia to them, when he first found himself transformed into a monster, to when he killed a black bear and set its corpse ablaze (this caused a little discomfort to a bear-like berserker). Then he listened to their own adventures and trials, in sites like a Native American Indian camp, a Scottish lake, a Tibetan monastery, an African mine, in London, in Tokyo, in Manila, in New York City; living in a basement, residing in sewers or a church, hiding in a hollow or a forest, in lands Feru-daran did not know. They had been chased by fanatics, by hunters, by men who were afraid. They had nearly died. Feru-daran learned that there had been deaths on Earth, either those of the monster or those of man.

He followed a routine, often changing it, from his room to the rest of the ship, to look at the stars and hearing their songs to him, meeting with creatures, changelings, he thought were Baba Yaga. It felt like years, that he had stayed on that ship.

Then one day, Baba Yaga came to him in her witch guise.

“It is time,” she simply said.

He followed her, saying good-bye to the other monsters and the crew of the vessel.

He and she/he/it entered a room, with straps and seats by the wall. Baba Yaga told him to secure himself in his seat; he complied.

Then the pod shook violently, and there was the sound of rushing air, and burning and breaking; the horned wolf thought the entire room would explode. Baba Yaga remained ever calm.

Then the world settled, and the circular hatch opened. Feru-daran was the first to feel that comforting sensation, probably the only thing that gave him comfort in his mishaps in Siberia. He felt it, languished beneath its sweet touch.

The cold.

They stepped out of the ovular pod and into the snowy forest, colder and harsher than the one back on Earth. Baba Yaga gestured to him to follow her, but he felt that he did not require her as a guide. He knew the path all too well.

They stopped, for ahead of them was a village, whose high walls were guarded by fierce and noble warriors, lupine in feature, horns on their heads, knives on their fingertips.

“Nothing much has changed here,” the old crone started. “The relativity speed of both Earth and here are almost perfectly parallel, so you will find the same people nearly unchanged even in the span of one year.”

“I will know that myself once I see them again.”

“I’m sure you will find out soon.”

They stood there for a long time, not one daring to move as the cold grew ever sentient.

“Are you sure you’re doing well?” Baba Yaga asked again, ever since they landed. “With the memories? The experience?’

“I’ve survived before. I will survive here.”

“You know this world holds more dangers than that on Earth.”

“This world holds great dangers, while Earth is a greater danger to me.”

“But tell me. Would you go back?”

It seemed like a stupid question for a god-like being, but Baba Yaga asked again with more seriousness.

“Would you go back, if you knew now that things, good things, wait for you back on Earth? Would you leave now, to help those people see the truth?”

Feru-daran pondered for a long time, even as his sun began to fade in the east.

“Nothing left to go back to,” he said. “But I pray that they do change for the better, but retain that which makes them human.”

“A new age is dawning for them,” Baba Yaga decreed. “They will build towers that touch the skies, ride on metal animals that, like my vessel, will take them to the skies. They will wage terrible wars with terrible weapons, kill each other for good or for worse. From their complex minds shall be born machinations and creations that mirror their very being, like gods making people. Perhaps one day, if they’re lucky or better, they may sail upon the black oceans and hear what the stars have to sing to them too. But for now, we’ll see. There will be change or no change at all.”

“I suppose you will find out which. But tell me, what became of the real Lyosha?”

“He’s back in his home, with his family. We erased all the events of your and our doing from their minds. Everything is back to normal there.”

“You should have left him in the wilds. He’s better off there.”

“He’s nothing like you, Feru-daran. He’d be dead.”

“He isn’t alive either, where he is now. He helps people, yes. That is good. But they are the wrong people.”

“Maybe. Maybe. Lyosha Volkov will be a forgotten man, and you will be remembered as a nightmare.”

“Sounds good enough for me.”

There was silence.

“Well…” the changeling began. “Good-bye, Braveheart.”

“Good travels to you, whatever you are.”

She chackled, much like a witch, but a good-hearted, humble-spirited witch who’s seen many charming things but can still be amused by life.

Then she turned around and left him to his fate.

He arrived at the gates, and the horned wolves gave him entrance. His old comrades and hunting bodies, wife and children, the chieftain and all his warriors, welcomed him in a hero’s embrace. They brought him gifts and drinks and good meats and vegetables. Their holy shaman had given a prayer of thanks to the souls and the stars on the black oceans for returning Feru-daran from harm in the Otherworld.

Around a great pyre, he told them his story, explaining certain aspects like “rifle” or “bear” or the kinds of trees and the types of man dwellings since his tribe would not comprehend such alien creations. He informed them of the person he had portrayed, Lyosha Volkov, who he was and the deeds he had done to earn his name. Many of the tribe mispronounced the name, but it was of no importance. He mimicked his challenges, leaping and jumping as if he were on the trees, running and dancing as if he were being shot by hunters. The pups laughed and giggled, the women awed, the men nodded in admiration. He told them of Baba Yaga, the witch of the wilds. He recounted the young woman Katya’s betrayal, and how he killed his rival, the bear, sending its ashes into the black oceans high. He left out the parts afterwards, on the aetherian galleon and the specifics of his “metamorphosis”, instead concluding the tale that there is still hope for man, that one day they may change their ways and improve upon it, but ultimately being human still. Such a lesson he placed unto his kin in kind.

At last he rested, his wife in his arms and his children by his side, watching the stars.

He still had the memories of a doomed man, the little mechanical flea on his fur, and the dreams and the harrowing nightmares, but a year later he was accustomed to them, for he knew he was not that person.

He continued on the wilds hunts across the frozen plains and the snow forests, tracking and trapping prey for meal and sport, defeating beasts and monsters for survival. He protected his tribe from rival tribes, raising his spear and brandishing his claws for war. He even faced a powerful kingdom in the far south, in a desert land ruled by birds, where there he had more exploits and experiences for the making of epics.

Yet, during all this, in a way, he retained some measure of persona about the Volkov man, but only the pieces that made him truly human. Feru-daran brought this new person as he fought his enemies and aided his people. Because of this, his tribe gave him a new name, earned for his new acts and his new being.

They called him Feru-daran Laioshar Wolkov.

Braveheart, the Wolf Who Helps People.