He turned around and began to run back to the nearby forest. As he looked over his shoulder, he saw the bear storming down the slope. He accelerated his steps, but his luggage hindered him from walking. So, he tore the backpack off his shoulders and threw it aside. At that moment he slipped on a bale of moss, hit his back, slid down a slope, overturned and lay on his face.
It was too late to save himself in the woods. In a few seconds, the mother bear would have caught up with him and hit him with a stroke of its paw to the ground. That would be the end of him, the end of his escape. Some hunter would perhaps discover his bones years later, ask himself who this unfortunate man might have been and then continue his journey shaking his head. No one would ever know what had become of him, Michail Wulff.
Mischka's brain worked feverishly. Unimaginable, he thought, what you can think of and process in fractions of a second when danger threatens! There was only one chance, one tiny little hope for him: he had to play dead! A corpse would leave the bear uninterested. He had heard that from his uncle.
Mischka closed his eyes and tried to remain motionless and to breathe only slowly and shallowly despite the tension. In the long winter months he had practiced this playing dead more often. He had to think of Indian gurus who could even put themselves into the state of apparent death through concentration. He didn't want to bring it that far. But now he prayed that he would be able to deceive the angry animal. Yes, he prayed, and he himself was amazed.
Mischka heard the bear coming. She shot past him, turned around and attacked him. A paw stroke rushed down on him. Pain darkened his senses. Then he felt her grab his shoulder as if she wanted to turn him around. The claws penetrated through the leather clothing and ripped open the skin. He tried to scream, but he suppressed his feelings with all his might. Only one thought circled in his brain: "God help me!"
The bear stopped. She sniffed at her opponent in amazement. He didn't move.
Mischka felt her hot, rotten breath in his neck. His muscles were cramping involuntarily. If he moved now, she'd grab it and smash his neck!
Suddenly he heard a wild growl. The bear turned away from him and hissed back viciously. A new enemy threatened her and her cubs.
Mischka turned his head almost imperceptibly and looked out of the corner of his eye in the direction from which the growling came. Aljoscha stood only a few yards away from the bear and stared spitefully at her with his yellow eyes. In a favorable moment he advanced, snapped to her side and jumped back before his opponent could catch him with a paw stroke. The bear straightened up to full size and gave a shattering roar. But Aljoscha did not let himself be intimidated by it and snatched to her side again. The bear turned around her own axis at lightning speed, did not catch the wolf this time either, who had retreated a few steps in the meantime. She followed him, but Aljoscha was faster, turned around and lured her further away from his friend.
Mischka breathed a sigh of relief, but didn't dare move. The torn shoulder burned like fire. He bit his teeth together and tried not to think about the pain.
In the meantime Aljoscha dashed up the mountain, as if he wanted to attack the young bear. That finally made the mother bear forget her victim. She followed the wolf, who now stormed past the bear cubs, turned around and growled at the bear family, as if to say: "Scared bunnies! Let yourselves be frightened by a wolf."
Once again, the mother bear straightened up and gave an angry roar, while her young clung to her fur squeaking anxiously. Then she sat down again on her paws, trotted away with the two little ones and didn't pay attention to her opponent anymore.
Mischka rose groaning. Carefully he moved his arms and shoulders, but he hadn't broken anything. Still, he felt like he had been in a brawl. The shoulder wound was only superficial because the leather clothing had protected him. Nevertheless, he had to wash them out as quickly as possible and put on a charcoal bandage. The bear's claws had certainly not been clean.
Aljoscha came down the slope again and snuggled up to his knee. Mischka scratched his head. "Thank you, comrade, thank you for helping me. If it hadn't been for you, the bear would've beat the crap out of me. It's good not to be alone in these parts." He had already forgotten his prayer again, because he did not really believe in God. How could he, having been raised an atheist?
Two weeks later, the wound had healed perfectly. The charcoal bandage had left behind black scars, but had prevented inflammation. Mischka practiced with the spear sling again. In the meantime he reached a distance of over one hundred and fifty yards with it. His marksmanship had also improved. At a distance of about forty yards he could even hit a target the size of a deer with his feathered spear. The impact force was still so great that the weapon would penetrate twelve to fifteen inches into the animal body.
"You see, Aljoscha, a spear is an effective and dangerous long-range weapon," Mischka explained to the wolf watching with interest. "So, our ancestors weren't so stupid."
In the afternoon Mischka had the opportunity to try out his spear thrower on a fallow deer. But he only hurt its hind leg. Aljoscha pursued the animal and tore it to the ground. Mischka watched the wolf as he pulled the spear out of the ground and cleaned it. They had made a tacit agreement that the one who hunted an animal could first take his share and then leave the rest to his partner.
The next weeks Aljoscha became more and more restless from day to day. More and more often he wandered alone through the wilderness and returned late. Mischka sensed what his friend was up to.
Even if he did not like the thought, he had to expect that Aljoscha would leave him in the next few weeks. Nature's lure call was stronger than the attachment to a human being.
Three days later Mischka heard the howling of a pack of wolves late at night. He straightened up and looked over to the hill behind which the moon rose like a huge silver disc. The silhouette of Aljoscha stood out sharply from the night sky. It was like a picture taken by a star photographer.
The wolf listened. Then he raised his snout to the sky and made a lamenting sound. Mischka went through it. The call of the wolf stirred up his feelings and made his soul vibrate.
"Come here, Aljoscha," Mischka shouted gently.
The wolf pricked up his ears.
"Come to me."
The wolf trotted to him, put his snout on his front paws and whimpered quietly. Mischka scratched his head.
"I can understand you, Aljoscha. Your friends are calling you. You have to go and you want to stay."
The wolf beeped like a puppy missing his mother.
"Go ahead, Aljoscha, go ahead. Siberia is your home. I'm not at home here. Our paths must separate one day."
Mischka nodded to the wolf. "Your clan calls you. Don't keep them waiting. Maybe we'll meet again. Go on your way."
Aljoscha stood up hesitantly, barked briefly and trotted away. Once again he turned as if regretting his decision.
"I wish you a good hunt at all times!" Mischka shouted after him. Then he saw Aljoscha disappear between spruces and pine trunks.
A lump rose in his throat. The wolf had been more to him than just a pet. He had lost a friend. There was now a gap in his life, and after the long winter months, loneliness grabbed him again.
Mischka couldn't sleep that night. He sat down on the hill and looked lost in thought at the taiga, at the lakes shining in the moonlight and the black silhouettes of the conifers. In the distance an owl called his "Huuhu," which mixed with the howling of the wolves. The night wind was exceptionally warm, as if it were midsummer. It was one of those moments a person can never forget.
Head over heels
Already at the first dawn Mischka moved on to the northeast. He felt depressed. Never before had he found the weight of the backpack as heavy as it was now. Around noon clouds came up. A sharp wind blew from northwest over the mountains and made him shiver. Soon the first drops fell from the sky. In order not to get soaked to the bone, he withdrew under the low hanging branches of a spruce, spread a leather blanket like a tent
roof over some branches and leaned against the tree trunk. Meanwhile curtains of rain were flying across the sky and made the landscape appear grey and monotonous. The weather matched his mood. He pulled his knees to his chest, crossed his arms and dozed off.
In the evening Mischka ate dried meat. He didn't like it, but it satisfied his hunger. Then he broke branches of a spruce and piled them up into a mattress. Tired, he rolled into his elk leather blanket and fell asleep a few moments later.
◆◆◆
"It's time we turned back."
Mischka was scared to death. He felt tired and battered. His head was foggy. Confused, he looked around. He was still under the spruce.
"You're right, Pjotr. The hunt won't work today. You got any more vodka?"
Mischka heard someone open a bottle and drink from it.
"Aaah, that feels good."
He could not see the men, but judging by their voices, they were not far from his hiding place. He forced himself to remain motionless, but his pulse pounded so loudly in his ears that he thought the two hunters had to hear him.
Branches cracked under the steps of heavy leather boots. Mischka held his breath. Two pairs of legs appeared on the other side of the spruce and moved towards the valley.
"The others are certainly already at breakfast. Let's go home."
Mischka could now see the two from the back: one small and fat, and the other a lean man in working clothes with hunting rifles on their shoulders. Surely they belonged to a forestry brigade that had tried its hunting luck early in the morning. Mischka hoped they wouldn't turn around. Undoubtedly, they would immediately see his rain cover, possibly consider it to be game and fire at him. After all, he didn't exactly look like a human being in his furs under the spruce.
Fortunately the men did not turn around, but walked down the mountain chatting. Mischka breathed a sigh of relief. He had to be near people. That was a risk. Eventually one could discover him by chance, as it had almost happened now. On the other hand, he was safe from his pursuers here, because Chrapow and Litschenko would rather search for him in the deserted wilderness than on the edge of civilization.
He forced himself to wait a while before he crawled out of his hiding place. Like a predator, he smelled in all directions. No one was seen. Hastily he gathered his things together and tied them to the carrying frame of his backpack.
Down in the valley, engines were started, heavy diesel engines. Mischka heard the calls of men's voices. They were rough and used to orders. He crawled to the edge of the slope and looked down into the valley. Before his eyes spread the largest clear cut he had ever seen. All the trees had been cut down to the horizon. It looked like ground had been stripped of its dress. Naked and deprived of her beauty, she lay in the morning sun. The first scars of erosion were already visible on their slopes.
Mischka shook his head. He couldn't understand something like that.
They promised us paradise on earth, he thought, but through such overexploitation we will have only mountains of toxic waste and a desert in which to live our wretched lives.
Bitterness filled his mind as he, hidden among spruces, pursued the destruction of the taiga. Two tractors ate themselves like greedy insects into the thicket of the forest. Their arms, armed with saws, grabbed the trees at their roots, cut them off in a matter of seconds, lifted the trunks up, cut off the branches and sawed them to pieces in a single operation. In less than a minute they destroyed what had grown in fifty to one hundred years. What remained were naked stumps, staring accusingly out of the earth, which had been stirred up by the tractors.
A blow like from a giant fist threw Mischka to the ground, then he heard the whip of the shot. Burning pain pierced his left shoulder. Panic tore him to his feet. Like a wounded elk bull he stormed through the thicket of the forest, his right arm lifted from his face for protection.
Suddenly he found himself on a forest road. Hurriedly he looked to the left and right and decided to use it. He had to increase his lead. Despite the pain in his shoulder, his feet flew over the forest road. The fear gave him the strength to keep running, even if his lungs threatened to burst.
He heard engine noises. Without hesitation he jumped into the bushes on the side of the road. A truck showed up and bumped past. Inside, the driver squatted with a calm face at the wheel, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
Mischka rose and climbed up a slope like a cat. His heart was pounding up to his neck. The shoulder felt numb and his legs threatened to cramp under the strain. Still, he kept climbing. At the top, he moderated his step. He couldn't be totally exhausted if he wanted to escape the hunter.
In a dense stand of spruce he dropped his luggage and tried to calm his breath. He spied out again and again between the branches, whether they followed him. But no one was seen. Finally he took off his deerskin jacket to treat the wound on his shoulder.
The bullet had entered through the backpack, had penetrated the carrying frame and had then penetrated his shoulder. It must have been a small-caliber hunting rifle. Leather and birch wood had consumed the energy of the bullet so that it had not penetrated deep into his body. It had to be in the muscle tissue above the left shoulder blade.
Mischka thought feverishly. He was safe here for now, but not for long. Maybe they'd follow him or inform the KGB. At the latest after he had jumped up and stormed away, the hunter had had to see that he was after a man, an adventurous-looking man dressed in furs.
Certainly his profile had been distributed all over the area, perhaps even with a bounty on his head. In this case, he had to reckon with the shooter following in his footsteps to collect the reward.
Still, he wanted to take care of the gunshot wound here. Once it was infected, wound fever would thwart his further escape. Mischka pulled out his knife and cleaned it. Then he blew the embers in his clay pot and heated the blade. With his left hand over his shoulder he felt for the entrance hole of the ball. Then he took the knife and cut deep into the muscle tissue.
His gaze darkened with pain. He tried to scream, but he kept his mouth shut. With his head bowed and his fists trembling, he leaned against a birch trunk. The coolness of the wood did well.
Mischka straightened up. He tried to breathe more quietly. Finally the hands raised over the shoulders, palpated the bullet and cut it out of the muscle tissue. The blood flowed warmly over his back. Then he heated the knife a second time and burned out the wound.
Again the pain shot through his body, clouded his mind and cramped his muscles. His breath flew. He clasped the trunk of the birch like a drowning man. Slowly the pain subsided.
When he could think clearly again, Mischka pressed a piece of soft leather onto the wound and pulled the deerskin jacket over it. Then he put the backpack on. His back burned like fire when the weight of his luggage pressed on the wound. But he couldn't take that into consideration, because every delay worsened the chances of his escape.
After drinking a sip of water, he continued on his way. He felt the exertion of his escape in his legs. The pain in his shoulder tried again and again to gain control over his consciousness. But he couldn't let it influence him. He had to move on. There was no break for him, no rest to heal the wound, and he hoped that this would not take revenge later.
◆◆◆
The KGB's phones were running hot. A worker of the lumberjack brigade of Strelka Tschunja had shot a man, a stranger, who had roamed the forest dressed in skins. The worker had initially thought it was game, but when the stranger jumped up after the shot and disappeared into the undergrowth, he had become almost hysterical. He's never done anyone any harm before. He is now a murderer. Never again would he be able to sleep peacefully.
But when the local KGB official had repeatedly told him that nobody had yet been found, that he had probably only given the stranger a graze shot, the unfortunate man had slowly calmed down again. Later he even showed patriotic feelings because he had chased an enemy of the state of the soc
ialist republic. It must have been an enemy of the state. There was no doubt about that. A hunter or a licensed prospector wouldn't have stormed off head over heels.
Lieutenant Colonel Wdowetschenko received the news of this incident the very same day. In recent weeks, he himself had informed all KGB offices in Central Siberia in detail about Michail Wulff. He didn't want to rely on Litschenko and Chrapow alone. The two had made too many mistakes. The fact that the lieutenant had only failed so far was nothing out of the ordinary. He was just a born loser. But the hunter's mistakes disappointed him. Wdowetschenko expected more from him. But the man wasn't the youngest anymore. Now he wanted to take matters into his own hands.
One hour after the arrival of the message Juri Wdowetschenko was in a helicopter himself on his way to Strelka Tschunja. The area was only sparsely populated, but not as impassable as the mountains in which Wulff had spent the winter. With any luck, they should be able to track him down there.
One day after his departure, his secretary received the news that Chrapow, Litschenko and Karatajew had already arrived at the camp of the lumberjack brigade. The hunter had picked up the trail in the meantime. Wulff must have been hurt, because Chrapow discovered blood. Conscious of her duty, Wdowetschenko’s secretary put a note on his desk so that he could find it as soon as he returned. She was just a well organized and efficient secretary.
◆◆◆
Mischka knew that he had left clear traces, too clear! A man like Olejnik Chrapow would read them like a cartographer would read his maps. He couldn't do anything about it right now. The forest floor was soft. Every footprint was clearly visible in the moss. He had to come up with something. But the pain in his left shoulder made it hard for him to concentrate.
Meanwhile, the wound was bleeding again. He desperately needed rest if it was to heal without complications. However, here he could neither hide nor camouflage his escape route. The only thing he could do was to try to increase the distance between himself and the pursuers by long day marches, but he felt clearly that his strength was waning.
The Trace of the Wolf Page 16
