Mischka found a few dry, resinous pine branches and threw them down into the crevice. Then he climbed afterwards, ignited one of them to descend deeper into the mountain. The corridor turned sometimes to the right, sometimes to the left, opened up to small caves, in which stalagmites and stalactites grew from ceiling and floor and formed fairytale figures and buildings. Moisture seeped from the walls and formed a small trickle of clear water that ran down the corridor and tasted a little irony.
Soon Mischka heard a slight noise, which became louder with every step. Suddenly the corridor opened to a wide cave with countless stalactite formations. Its beauty took Mischka's breath away. They were white, rusty brown and amber and formed castles, frozen waterfalls, lunar landscapes and frozen figures. A brook flowed through the cave, waved through canals, foamed over cascades and finally disappeared into an opening at the end of the room.
Mischka could hardly tear himself away from the sight, but the length of his torch warned him to go back. He felt like he had hit the jackpot. Someone must have meant well with him. Tima Bekow would certainly have said that this Jesus from Nazareth had led him here. Tima, the pious boy! Mischka had to smile when he thought of the comrade in the penal colony and his missionary zeal.
Anyway, the cave was a direct hit. Nevertheless, it was clear to him that in the next days and weeks hard work awaited him. He could only afford dreams and romantic feelings again in the winter months, in the long and dark nights when time seemed to stand still and all life on the surface of the earth had frozen under ice and snow.
Mischka equipped his cave with a bed of springy fir branches and dry grass, stowed his belongings and removed the treacherous rope ladder from the entrance at the rock face. Later he would have enough time to provide his new home with all the necessary items and furniture that would make the long winter time more pleasant for him.
The next few days he began to build up food supplies for the winter. He dug roots of various wild plants out of the ground: Wild garlic, thistles, burdock, dandelion, dead-nettle, parsnip and chicory. Icelandic moss, various stone lichens, grass and fir cone seeds, acorns, dried mushrooms, wild plants and berries also came into his pantry.
In addition, he also devoted himself to hunting and fishing, with the sling and fishing rod serving him well. He smoked the meat of the animals after dark and dried it during the day in the sunlight. In order not to have to climb into the cave every time, he built, well camouflaged between the beech trunk and the rock block, a simple shelter where he slept on warm nights. His busy life was similar to that of a Siberian hunter of the early days. But he enjoyed it fully and was pleased with every day in freedom. Satisfied, he looked at his growing reserves. He could not organize feasts with them, but they would help him to survive the winter.
In his spare time, he used two oak sticks about seventy centimeters long to practice Filipino stick fighting techniques that he had learned in Sambo training. Mischka enjoyed having the sticks whirl around his head and body. He did not necessarily regard them as weapons for emergencies, but was pleased with the athletic exercise and the play of muscles and forces. Soon he reached the speed of four to five beats per second, which was quite a good performance.
On warm autumn days he swam and dove in the lake at the end of the valley. He often lay motionless in the water for minutes, breathing through the fuel hose of the motorcycle he had clamped behind his right ear and watching the gobies and vendaces. Mischka enjoyed this weightless floating in the water, where he could relax completely and forget all his problems. It reminded him of the flight of the swallow in his dream.
Despite his carefree life he had to worry about the protection of his dwelling. If he were discovered, he would lose all his winter supplies. That would be a disaster! He also had to keep various escape routes open.
The next day, he dragged a mossed stone slab over, which he laid next to the trunk of the hollow beech. It fit exactly into the opening of the cave entrance. In an emergency he would cover this entrance with the stone slab, sprinkle dry leaves over it and rappel over the edge of the rock into the cave. He also erected some traps that would make it difficult for possible persecutors to climb to his hiding place and give him time to escape.
Nikita, the giant with the broad shoulders and mighty upper arms, had advised him at the beginning of the year: "You can't always escape, Mischka! Sometimes you have to stand up and fight. Running away seems too many to be the easier way, but sometimes it is also the harder one. That's often the case in life. Those who run away, throw away their work, abandon their clamoring wife or steal from life by drinking often find themselves in a dead end. I've seen it. Believe me, boy. So, I'll stay and do my time here. One day you won't find a hole through which you can escape. Then you’ll have to fight."
That time had come. The winter had announced itself with the first nights frost. The flocks of birds had already moved south weeks ago, and the leaves of the trees shimmered red, yellow and brown. He would have to stay here if he did not want to starve or freeze to death in the biting north storms. But he didn't consider his cave a dead end. After all, he had left some doors open.
Two weeks later Mischka felt that something had changed. He couldn't put it into words, but his feeling told him something was wrong. The morning sun drew a lavender brush across the sky. A buzzard circled restlessly in the air, and magpies fluttered like chickens in awe over the tops of the trees in the valley.
Mischka was peering over the rock fall. Sweat stood on his forehead, although the morning wind fell cool over the mountain ridges. Then he heard dogs barking in the distance. He tried to calm down. But he couldn't believe it himself that the dogs belonged to a hunting party that had ventured into this deserted area. Instinctively, he felt that they were on to him and wanted to take him down.
He got Wolodja's binoculars and watched the valley. The barking and howling of the dogs became louder. No doubt they had picked up one of his numerous tracks. He had left enough treacherous traces while collecting and storing his winter supplies. Then he saw them emerge between the trees. A light flashed. Mischka saw the reflection of the morning sun in the binoculars of a soldier searching the rocks. He ducked deeper into the grass, but the man suddenly pointed directly at him and seemed to shout something. He had been discovered! It was no use trying to hide now. The time to fight had come, and he was well prepared for it!
Other uniforms appeared between the trees and four shepherd dogs led by a figure Mischka knew only too well. He clearly saw Karatajew's coarse body.
Well, you're still in, too, thought Mischka with his lips pinched. Then Lieutenant Litschenko won't be far either. Must need a promotion if he's still on my trail.
But then Mischka went through it as if he had touched an electric fence. The tracker, the Siberian, would certainly be among the pursuers! Mischka dared to doubt whether he could deceive him. But, as Nikita had said, now he had to stand up. There were ten men, but he still had some aces up his sleeve! Mischka straightened up and waved his arms.
"Here I am! Catch me if you can."
He doubted he could be understood from that distance. But then he saw the flash of a gun barrel. He threw himself on the ground in a flash. A shot whipped through the valley. Mischka heard the ball bounce off a boulder and fly buzzing over his head. At least one of the soldiers was a sniper. His recklessness almost cost him his life!
Mischka looked down again, saw the men turning towards the mountain and crawled back from the edge of the rock on his belly. He stowed all the important objects in the cave, put the Makarov in his belt and laid the two oak sticks ready.
Then he blocked the cave's entrance with the rock slab, threw a handful of leaves on it and scattered a few dry branches around the beech hollow as if unintentionally. Only a cunning tracker could now detect the entrance if he wasn't distracted by an obvious mark, and that's exactly what Mischka had in mind.
He wiped the sweat off his forehead, tied the rope ladder to a spruce with a rappelling knot, da
maging the bark clearly and visibly, and laid the rungs ready at the edge of the rock. It would take them about thirty minutes to reach the passage to the meadow. But for sure, they'd sic the dogs on him first. But he was ready to fight!
◆◆◆
Karatajew's face glowed like a ripe tomato. Sweat beads pulled salty sheets over his face. Litschenko had to smile involuntarily when he looked at the soldier fighting his way up the mountain with the dogs on a leash. But even his own heart hammered like the pistons of a steam locomotive. They were simply not used to these mountain tours.
"Let them go, comrade," he shouted to the handler. "They're faster than we are. By the time we get to the top, Michail Wulff may have made his way over the ridge. He's rested while we're on our last legs."
"You're right," growled Karatajew, heated up the dogs and unplugged their leashes. They roared away as if they were a horde of starving wolves who smelled the blood of a wounded stag.
"Have fun!" Jossif Karatajew shouted after them. "But leave some for us."
The two men stopped breathing and let the eight soldiers pass. They came from a unit stationed in Baikit, men accustomed to the mountains, well-trained and familiar with the area. Two of them had discovered the peeled birch trunks during a manoeuvre and reported this immediately to their commander. The local party secretary immediately sent this message to Kargasok. Without losing any time Litschenko had set off with his dog handler. Now they were close to their goal. The hunt would soon be over.
Suddenly the first soldier fell to the ground, as if an axe had fallen on him. He screamed, tried to sit up and sank back down. Litschenko stormed up the beaten path. The man lay stretched out in a flat heap of leaves. A tremor ran through his body. Blood colored the floor under him red.
Two of his comrades carefully lifted him up and tried to turn him on his back. Thin wooden skewers stuck in the stomach and chest of the fallen man, red from the blood that flowed from the wounds. His eyes were strangely twisted, and his breath was heavy.
Litschenko lost all color from his face. His lips and hands trembled. A dull feeling rose from his stomach, choked in his throat. He had always felt that he was on the winning side.
Michail Wulff had only been a juvenile convict for him, who had tricked them with his boy scouts games. Now he met a man who fought hard for life and freedom and spared no means. But Litschenko had to admit: they had challenged him! They had thrown down the gauntlet and chased him through the taiga! Now they could not be surprised when he began to defend himself and fought back.
"Bandage the wounds of the man and take care of him," he ordered the two soldiers. "The rest come with me. We have to take care of this criminal. But watch out! Surely this is not the only trap! This guy knows all the tricks in the book. Well, let's go!" he ordered in a rough voice.
He called him a criminal. In fact, they had shot him first. Whoever called Michail Wulff that should also see all soldiers of this world as criminals and murderers. Basically, everyone has a right to self-defense.
Litschenko wiped his thoughts aside. He had a mission on whose successful execution his existence depended. Therefore he was not allowed to torture himself with heavy thoughts. He had to motivate the men to do their duty.
Carefully the group climbed further up the slope. A draft of wind carried the wild barking of the dogs down to them. Probably they had Michail Wulff by his throat. The men accelerated their ascent. Anger and hatred inspired their footsteps.
◆◆◆
Mischka heard the dogs coming. He stood four yards from the gap between the two boulders. In his hands he held the two oak battle sticks. He felt sweat running down his armpits and fear hardening his muscles. He exhaled deeply to relax, loosened his arms and tried to concentrate.
The pack appeared between the trees, the leader-dog, a male dog with massive body and muscular neck, ahead of them. Suddenly the dog slowed down and stopped, although his victim stood only a few yards away from them. Instinctively, it felt danger for himself and others. But two of his comrades did not pay attention to the warning and jumped towards Mischka with their teeth bared. Drool splashed out of their mouths.
Mischka laughed mockingly at them, saw how the wooden skewers hidden in the foliage pierced their bodies and how they twitched their legs one last time before they breathed out their lives with a moan.
"Come on, you beasts!" he shouted to the two waiting shepherd dogs who sparkled at him with evil eyes. "Come on, attack me! Or have you lost your courage?"
Mischka felt his fear turn to anger and aggression. One baton lay ready to fight on his right shoulder, the other one pointed provocatively to the dogs running restlessly and yapping in front of the crevice as if they were thinking what to do. Suddenly the lead dog jumped towards Mischka, used the body of his dead comrade as a springboard, and lunged at his victim.
In a flash Mischka turned to the side and struck with his right baton as if he wanted to split an oak block. The baton hit the shepherd dog directly behind the ear. Mischka heard the crackling of the spine, saw the dog roll over the ground and fall over the edge of the rock into the depth.
At the same moment he felt the hot breath of the last dog that had followed his comrade. He turned around, but the attacker was already above him, threw him to the ground and tried to grab his neck.
Mischka dropped the left baton, grabbed the dog's throat, clawed tight and tried to push him back. But the dog shook himself, tried to grab his victim's wrist or neck. With the end of the baton in his right fist Mischka kept hitting the head of the shepherd dog. Blood splashed from a laceration on his forehead, then he hit the animal in the eye. The pain only increased the anger of the attacking dog.
Full of despair Mischka continued to strike the skull of his attacker. Then he hit his nasal bone, heard the ugly sound of the breaking bone sliding into the dog's brain. The yellow eyes broke as if the light inside the dog was turned off.
Mischka pushed the carcass to the side, rose and peered down the path. He still had enough time to hide in the cave. With practiced movements he let the rope ladder over the edge of the rock and climbed down to the ledge. Then he loosened the rappel knot, pulled the rope ladder down to him and crawled through the crevice into the cave.
Breathing heavily, he leaned against the rock wall. His pulse was racing and he felt like he was floating on a cloud. He had won the first fight. Now he had to wait and see whether he could continue to deceive his pursuers or whether they fell into one of his traps. He had to play to hard ball. They made him do it.
◆◆◆
Another soldier cried out. He had stepped on a stone slab that had given way under him. The man rubbed his tibia. He was all right! Litschenko breathed a sigh of relief.
But then he heard them coming. Stones rumbled down the slope. An avalanche of rocks! They were from the size of a fist to two-hundred pounds heavy. The soldier had triggered a mechanism that tore stones piled up by Wulff into the depth. Litschenko saw in the moss the almost transparent string of tied tendons before he threw himself to the ground and ducked behind a rock, his hands wrapped around his head to protect him. He heard the thunder of the stone avalanche, the cries of the men struck by stones, and smelled his own sweat of fear in the dust-laden air.
Even though it had lasted only a few minutes, Litschenko seemed as if an hour had passed until the last stone jumped down the slope, collided against a birch trunk and then peacefully rolled at his feet.
The lieutenant straightened up and wiped the dust off of his clothes like the other men. He made an inventory. Karatajew was bleeding on his head. A stone had grazed him. It wasn't worth discussing. Two of the soldiers had been hit harder. Litschenko stated that the shoulder was broken and the shin was shattered. The others had a lot of bruises. He already wanted to breathe a sigh of relief when he saw a soldier in front of a spruce, who had been carried away by the avalanche of stones. Legs and arms stood unnaturally away from the body.
Litschenko turned his head away and clenched his
fists. What else did they have ahead of them on this manhunt? How many more men had to become cripples? Men who only obeyed orders and tried to do their duty. Why is it all being fought out on the little man's back? Why wasn't Lieutenant Colonel Juri Wdowetschenko lying here with a sweaty face, a shattered collarbone and broken arms and legs? Or the fine major from Moscow to whom he owed this mess? Why did they always stay out of it?
Wordlessly, he wanted Karatajew and three of the soldiers to go on with him, while the others were to take care of the wounded. They saw the pain in Litschenko's eyes, but also the will to fulfill his duty, and shouldered their rifles. They had learnt not to ask questions and to obey blindly, but a thirst for revenge burned in their hearts like hellfire.
"Man, if I get my hands on him! I'll cut the light off his life! Once and for all!" one of the men scolded.
"That's what I thought at first when he drove us through the swamps," Jossif Karatajew replied. "But then I gave it up. Five months I've been running after him, but I bet, by the time we get to the top, he'll be up and away."
The soldier spat on the ground only contemptuously. "Man, he ain't no demigod. The dogs have already processed him into meatloaf."
"Or he the dogs!" Ivan Litschenko interjected and climbed over a fallen tree, not without making sure he wasn't falling into another trap. In the meantime he had learned by now and felt something like respect for the persecuted. Even if he was now apparently trapped, the lieutenant doubted that they would still find the wanted one up there.
The Trace of the Wolf Page 12
