And so it was. They discovered the cadavers of the dogs, climbed through the crevice and found themselves on a mountain meadow with only a few trees. No sign of Michail Wulff!
Litschenko pulled out his binoculars and searched the rock ridge. Nothing to see! Michail Wulff was swallowed off the face of the earth. He let the men swarm out and searched together with Jossif Karatajew for suspicious clues. They had learned a lot in Chrapow's school and interpreted the traces of the fight, looked into the cavity of the rotten beech and tried to draw conclusions from the refuge.
"This is certainly not his winter camp," Litschenko murmured. "Surely he has discovered us and left clear traces to distract us from his headquarters and lure us into his traps."
"Do you think he only built two of them?" Karatajew wanted to know.
"No, we probably got lucky. On the way back, we have to be even more careful if we want to get out of here safe."
"I wouldn't be surprised if a huge boulder falls down on us from one of the rocks."
"I feel the same," admitted Litschenko. "But tell me Jossif, where could he have hidden after he killed the dogs?"
"Comrade Lieutenant, I've got an idea. Well, he beat the dogs to a pulp ... Oh, by the way, where's the fourth one? There's only three here. Did the dog chase him?"
"Chase him?" Litschenko repeated just bending over the edge of the rock. "Come here a minute, Jossif. Check this out. Here you'll find the fourth shepherd dog."
The soldier lay down on his stomach and peered anxiously down. "I'm not free from vertigo, Comrade Lieutenant. I always feel like I've swallowed lead plates when I'm standing on a precipice."
Litschenko rubbed his brow thoughtfully. "You say that the dog went after Michail Wulff. Maybe you're right."
Now it dawned on Jossif Karatajew. He withdrew from the edge of the rock and began to examine the nearby trees. Then he discovered the treacherous signs. In the meantime the soldiers had broken off their search and returned.
"Look at this, men!" Karatajew shouted excitedly. "The rubdowns in the bark of this spruce proves that someone has tied a rope here."
He crawled to the edge of the rock on his hands and feet and pointed out the traces of the rope in the grass, as if he had made the discovery of his life. "Here, look here, here he's rappelled off, this scumbag. You can clearly see the traces of his rope. And while we have tormented ourselves up the mountain, fallen into his traps like stupid children, he has made his way through the valley. That's exactly how he's always done it with us, and we've always fallen for it. He has certainly found his winter quarters in another valley, far away and well hidden, without traces where no one can find him. What a cunning dog!"
"Come men, let's go," Lieutenant Litschenko ordered, "There's nothing left for us to do here. The wounded are waiting down the mountain. We still have a long way to go."
The men obeyed mechanically. All anger subsided. They felt depressed and discouraged. Their mission had been a flop. They had learned to fight with weapons against weapons. But compared to the methods of partisans they felt helpless. Carefully, in order not to step into a last trap, they started to go back.
Mischka had followed the words of his pursuers in the cave entrance. He knew Karatajew had narrowly escaped death. Only a few inches further to the left he would have fallen into the abyss with a rock slab. Litschenko's order to retreat had saved the soldier's life.
He breathed a sigh of relief. For the last twenty minutes he had waited in the cave entrance full of tension, always ready to defend himself to the death. They'd already gotten him that far! He was not a man of violence. Yeah, he even hated violence. But this was about freedom and life. He couldn't escape this time. So, he had to fight or give up.
Nikita was right. People who stalk others don't give up until limits are set, and that's what he did today for the first time. He felt sorry for the wounded soldiers. He felt even guilty about it. But there is a right to self-defense for every human being. Anyone who thinks they can force someone into a corner or beat him up must expect desperate actions and incalculable reactions from the other person. The men should have known that.
Mischka laughed dryly. Down in the valley he had laid a clear trail some time ago that led to the south. A week later his pursuers would again be faced with a mystery, because the trail ended in a vast swamp area.
The Wolf
Winter came with icy north storms and persistent snowfalls. The temperature fell below twenty-five degrees Celsius. Mischka was glad that the place was protected from the storms, because he knew that not only sub-zero temperatures, but also wind and humidity would draw heat from the body.
He spent most of his time in his cave to furnish it. A table, chairs and shelves for his supplies were made from birch wood by the glow of a tallow light. Then he began to make a poncho out of deer skins, which he fit with a hood and leather straps to be able to tie the side parts together. From the remains he sewed two-layer mittens and boots, the soles and sides of which he padded with hay, a simple cap that also covered the ears and neck, and leggings, as they had been worn by the North American prairie Indians.
Mischka grinned as he looked at the self-made garments in daylight. They didn't match Moscow fashion, but they were practical and kept him warm. Later he wanted to make himself a vest and a jacket out of deerskin in order to be able to withstand stronger sub-zero temperatures.
Now he needed a change in his activity. Therefore he began to make a hunting bow from a birch trunk. The birch that he selected for this purpose had grown high up in the tree line and had had to withstand the autumn and winter storms for many years. That's why the trunk was thin and tough. After Mischka peeled it and carved it into shape, he stretched it to the bow, which was dried at the campfire. Every day he rubbed it with deer fat so it wouldn't get brittle. Then he cut a longitudinal notch on its outside, into which he inserted deer tendons. They formed a countermove to the tendon on which the arrows were placed. This prevented the bow from wearing out so quickly. It also gave it a higher tractive force. After initial firing attempts, Mischka estimated the penetration force of the arrows at eighty pounds at a distance of fifty paces. This corresponded to the results of a modern hunting bow. After he had finished the handle and the arrow rest, he greased the bow ends once more and sewed them with wet deerskin, which later tightened the ends and was also greased. Mischka was proud of the result of his work. With this hunting bow he would also be able to shoot larger animals.
He needed a lot of time and patience to produce a sufficient number of arrows with barbed bone tips. The leather quiver, on the other hand, he had made within an hour.
The first practice shots at a snow globe, which served as a target, were not particularly encouraging. The arrows rarely hit the target. Archery was an art that required weeks of practice. But he had plenty of time.
Once again the winter withdrew, as if it had changed its mind. A warm wind swept over the mountains from the south and melted the snow. The sun made its way across a bright blue sky and awakened Mischka's spirits. He wanted to use this time to further supplement his winter reserves. So, he made his way to a distant valley where he suspected deer and caribou. For the first time he had the bow and arrow hanging around his shoulders in addition to his slings. Maybe the hunting luck would be good for him in the next few days.
He almost stumbled over the wolf when he stepped on a clearing in the birch forest that ran along the shore of a mountain lake. The animal jumped up and tried to snatch Mischka, but a rusty iron trap ruthlessly clawed into the muscles of his left hind leg. Mischka instinctively pulled his baton to smash the wolf's skull. But an inner voice stopped him. He put the baton back to the arrows in the quiver and took a closer look at the wolf. It was a strong animal with an even grey coat and a white spot on its forehead. The yellow eyes revealed pride and wisdom, and his wild growl showed determination to defend himself to the last breath.
Mischka felt pity as he looked at the swollen and blood-stained hind leg. The wo
lf had been in the trap for at least two days, because the wound had festered. Obviously, he was in a lot of pain, as wild as he behaved. Mischka felt connected to the animal. The wolf was a fellow sufferer. He longed for freedom as much as he did.
That's why Mischka felt urged to help him. He didn't want to admit it, but deep inside he still feels guilty. "Guilt that is not forgiven and not made well again robs us of peace." These words of Tima Bekow still sounded in his ears. At that time he had only laughed at this "religious spinning," but now he felt how right the boy was. If he would release the wolf from his torments and give him freedom, it would be for him like a reparation for the seriously injured soldiers and the killed dogs.
He pulled a flat bowl out of his shoulder bag, filled it with water from the nearby lake and carefully pushed it into the reach of the wolf. At first he snarled back and snatched the young man's hand. But the rusty chain of the iron trap held him back. With bared teeth, the animal stood in front of the bowl. Obviously he was afraid of an unexpected attack by the man as it quenched his thirst.
Mischka turned his back to him, went to the trunk of a fallen birch tree and sat down there so that he could watch the wolf from the corner of his eyes. The animal waited a while, then began to sip the water from the bowl, always in the combat readiness of an experienced warrior. After he had licked up the last drop, the wolf lay down on his front paws and watched the man from half-closed eyes.
To get him used to his voice, Mischka began to speak quietly. He saw the wolf pricking up his ears and listening to the sound of words, as if trying to understand what the stranger wanted to tell him.
"Listen, I'll call you Aljoscha. It reminds me of my friend in Moscow. Aljoscha was always reliable. You could count on him. When you asked him for help, he was there, and he knew when to keep quiet."
Maybe they've already put him in a labor camp. Who knows?
"Aljoscha sounds good. Yes, I will call you Aljoscha. Let's be friends. You don't have to be afraid of me. I'm not going to hurt you. So, stop staring at me so badly."
Mischka looked directly into the wolf's eyes and smiled at him: "I guess your stomach is growling. When you're hungry, you get aggressive. I can understand you. I feel the same way. So, now I'm gonna hunt a lunch for you. Maybe it'll make you friendlier."
With these words he shouldered his bow, reached for the spear and set off. That day, he had little hunting luck. Two pheasants rose so unexpectedly in front of him that he found no time to stretch his bow. He also missed a buck that had come to the lake to drink. Only in the late afternoon, when he already wanted to give up, he could kill a mountain rabbit with the spear.
"I'm a little late," apologized Mischka when he threw his prey at the wolf, "but I'm not as successful a hunter as you are."
The wolf flinched when the rabbit rolled in front of his paws. He still didn't trust that man. But then hunger made him forget his caution. He greedily attacked the prey and devoured it in a few minutes. Then he put his head back on his front paws, licked his mouth and blinked into the evening sun, which bathed the sky and sea surface in orange-red light.
"I like you much better this way, Aljoscha, maybe we can become friends after all. But now it's time for me to set up camp. In a few minutes it will be dark, and I want to make myself a little more comfortable."
With these words Mischka began to set up his bivouac. He stretched his poncho with two sticks and a ribbon to a tent and pushed a thick layer of birch leaves underneath, on which he spread a blanket. He placed his weapons next to the sleeping place, ready to use, while the bag became a pillow. In the meantime it had become dark. Mischka sat down on his blanket and pulled a harmonica out of his jacket pocket. Vera Sergejewitsch had given it to him. Her son used to play it. There had always been melancholy songs that had spoken of lost love and unfulfilled dreams, of the vastness of the taiga and the ancient times.
The wolf jumped up when Mischka played the first notes. A whimper rose from his throat as if he understood the language of music, whose melody sounded monotonous and sad through the darkness. Then he raised his head to the night sky and made a lamenting sound. Deeply touched, Mischka interrupted his playing the harmonica and tried to comfort the wolf: "I can understand you, Aljoscha. You're in pain. You long for freedom and for your friends. I feel like you. That's why I want to help you. Maybe tomorrow you'll trust me so much that I'll be able to free you from the trap without you busting my throat. Well, don't be sad. It depends on you whether you can be free again soon."
The wolf became quiet and listened to the young man's words as if he could understand them. Then he lay down in the grass again. Mischka could see his silhouette despite the darkness. He cleaned the harmonica and put it back in the pocket of his jacket. Then he wrapped himself in the blanket and made himself comfortable in the heap of leaves.
"Good night, Aljoscha, sleep well. Tomorrow I'll take care of your wound."
It was reassuring for him to have the wolf near him, even if they were not yet friends. The loneliness of the last weeks had gnawed at his soul. He hoped that this animal would join him and replace the people whose loss always made him melancholy when he thought of them. He could now understand why people depend on a pet and experience real grief when death, tears their darling from their side.
When Mischka was awakened by the first rays of the sun, he straightened up and looked towards Aljoscha. The wolf lay on his side and didn't move. Mischka jumped up scared. Fear seized him that the animal might have died of blood poisoning during the night, as if it was about a close relative. He forgot all his caution, hurried to the wolf and knelt down beside him.
A great load was taken off his mind. The flanks of the wolf were raised and lowered in rapid alternation. He breathed, if only briefly. Aljoscha lived! His eyes were half open, shone feverishly and stared into the distance without expression. Wound fever had seized him overnight and had robbed the animal of all will to live.
"Don't give up, Aljoscha!" Mischka talked at him. "You'll get back on your feet. I'll make sure of that. "Now I'll free you from the trap, and then I'll nurse your wound."
He had to pull the jaws of the iron trap with all his strength to free the wolf. The rusty teeth had dug deep into the flesh of the hind leg. The wound was inflamed and festering. Mischka triggered the trap with a stick so that it could no longer be dangerous for anyone, and threw it aside. Then he went looking for chamomile. He found a few dried stems near the lake shore, lit a small fire, boiled the chamomile in a pot and let it brew. In the meantime, he dug clay out of the ground, kneaded it thoroughly and heated it in a second vessel to kill pathogens. Then he knelt down beside the wolf.
"You've got high fever. But you'll see: You'll feel better soon."
Mischka bathed the hind leg of the wolf extensively in chamomile tea. The animal lifted its head only once weakly and was then treated without will. Of course, the herb no longer had the same healing power as if it had been collected in spring. But it was better than nothing. After he had cleaned the wound and consumed all the tea, Mischka stroked the prepared clay onto the injured hind leg. The clay would suck toxins out of the wound, protect them against infections and make the swelling subside.
Satisfied with his work Mischka went to the lakeside, washed himself and drank a few sips of water. The care of the wound had taken so much of his time that he had forgotten his own needs. He felt his stomach growl and ate a little dried meat from his stock. Then he sat down beside the wolf like a nurse at the bed of a seriously injured person.
The animal began to breathe more calmly and evenly. Apparently the pain had subsided due to the cooling clay. Finally he closed its eyes completely and sank into a deep sleep.
Mischka rose and went away on tips of his toes. He now had time to go hunting. Aljoscha would sleep for the next few hours. He just wasn't allowed to stay away too long. When the wolf awoke, he wanted to be back in the camp. He then had to provide him with water and food to further deepen the relationship between them. In a good
mood, he grabbed his weapons and set off.
When he returned from the hunt, Mischka immediately saw that the health of the wolf had deteriorated again. The animal lay on its side and stared into a void with glassy eyes. Wound fever had taken all his life force again.
Mischka bent over the wolf and stroked the thick fur. Despite the cool autumn air, the animal's body glowed like an oven. He had to remove the clay poultice and redo the wound!
To protect himself, he loosely tied the wolf's legs with leather straps and also pushed a loop like a muzzle over his snout. Then he carefully removed the loam bandage. The wolf whimpered like a sick child. Mischka could feel his pain.
"Be brave, boy. I'll get you through this," he tried to encourage the animal.
The pus came out of the wound. It had to be disinfected! Mischka lit a fire, boiled chamomile tea again and then heated his knife.
"Now it's going to hurt a little," he said like an experienced doctor to a frightened patient, "but it has to be, or you'll die of blood poisoning."
Without hesitation Mischka quickly pulled the red-hot knife over the wound. The animal howled and collapsed unconscious. After he had burned out the wound and washed it thoroughly with chamomile tea, he crushed charcoal and wrapped it with a shred of leather around the hind leg. He had learned from Aunt Lena that charcoal not only helps with gastrointestinal disorders but also sucks poisons from infected wounds.
For three days the wolf hovered between life and death, and Mischka hardly left his side. But on the morning of the fourth day the bowl of water that he had put there was empty. Aljoscha slept soundly and peacefully. The fever was gone.
Mischka sat next to him and hummed an old folk song. Suddenly Aljoscha opened an eye and blinked at him as if to say, "Come on. My stomach is growling. Bring me my food!" Mischka laughed at him, rose and got a big piece of caribou meat. He had killed the animal two days earlier. The wolf greedily devoured the meal.
The Trace of the Wolf Page 13
