He washed his face and hands, then checked his gear. Yet he did not move on. Should he, or should he not try to find the people of whom Yakov had spoken? He knew no one here, could trust no one. Whenever such a group got together there was always one who was an informer or who would sell out for a privilege or some benefit to himself or herself. Yet he needed shelter, and they would have shelter. Obviously they were surviving the cold, and with them he might have a better chance.
He had lost count of the days since escaping from the prison.
There was no more time. He must find a place in which to last out the winter, and certainly in this vast land, with its miles of forest and tundra, with its bleak mountains and rocky gorges, there had to be a place.
Still he shied from the refugees of whom he had heard. How could they exist free of the law? How support themselves? How remain undiscovered? Was there official connivance? Would he, a much sought man, be welcomed?
A pale sun hung in a gray sky, a faraway sun, dimmed by distance. The forest was dense, the mountains visible only through occasional breaks. He saw deer, and once he saw the track of a large cat.
A tiger? There were many of them south of here in the Ussuri River country and in the mountains along the sea. How far south was he? The growth had changed a little. Again he saw the faint scars on a tree, but he saw no human tracks. This path was rarely used.
His moccasins made no sound on the pine needles that covered the path. Here and there leaves had fallen from other trees, but he avoided them. They rustled when one walked through them, crackled when dry. This was not the forest of Idaho, Oregon, or Washington, but it was a forest, and now he was at home. He had meat and a warm robe he would trim to the size he wished, and he would find a place in which to await the spring with its bright and running waters.
He smelled the smoke first, just the faintest, most intangible of odors, and he paused in mid-stride, moved under the trees, and waited, listening, scenting the wind.
It was a moment before he caught it again, and then he moved away, more slowly now. He was dipping down into a grove of aspen now, aspen most of whose golden leaves had fallen, littering the forest floor on which he walked, paving it with a scattering of leaves like gold coins.
Somewhere before him there was a fire, wood smoke from that fire was what he had smelled. A fire meant people, life, something dangerous to him.
Ghostlike he moved among the trees, stepping over deadfalls, avoiding the path. From time to time he hesitated, waiting for his senses to pick up some scent, some sound. He heard nothing.
It was there quite suddenly, an odd-looking shelter among the trees, smoke coming from a squat chimney, a door open and a woman’s voice, her tone cold, level. It was a tone of dismissal, and he needed no language to understand.
A man appeared in the doorway, a bulky man, big and dressed as roughly as Joe himself. The man was arguing in a threatening tone, but he was backing away. Then a woman appeared in the door, blond hair under a fur hat. In her hand she held a pistol.
She was not frightened. She was coldly angry. The words he did not understand, but their tone was commanding. She gestured with the gun, and the man backed away, muttering. Then he turned and went down the path and away from the shelter. Once he turned to look back; pausing, he spat into the dirt.
Were these the people he sought? Yakov had spoken of a woman who said yes or no, and this one appeared capable of it. He chuckled, amused, and the woman, who had started back inside, must have heard, because she paused suddenly, looking carefully about.
From where she stood she could see her antagonist, if such he might be called, walking away and some distance off. She looked after him, then looked carefully around. She spoke a question, as if to ask if anyone were there.
Suddenly he smelled something else.
Coffee!
He stood up, and her eyes were quick. They found him at once, and she spoke, questioning.
“I would like a cup of coffee.” He spoke quietly, just loud enough.
Surprisingly, her reply was in English. “Then come and get it.”
Her pistol was still in her hand when he stepped from the trees. He crossed the narrow path and went up through the scattered trees to where she stood on the step of the shelter. She was tall; her eyes measured him. “Who are you?”
“My friends call me Joe Mack.”
She was startled but not afraid. She knew at once who he was, who he had to be. And she knew trouble when she saw it. If they came looking for him, they would find them, they would be exposed, ruined, destroyed. All they had built would be lost.
First, the promised coffee, and then to be rid of him. She hoped it would be that simple.
He was tall and very straight. He walked easily, and his eyes swept the room as he entered. He stopped just inside the door where a sawed-off end of a log offered itself as a seat. He unslung his pack, placing it down beside him. “I have meat,” he said.
Her look was a question. “Bear meat,” he said. “If you like it.”
“I have eaten it but once.” She accepted a chunk of the meat and turned toward the stove, getting out some pans. When the meat was on the fire she brought him coffee. He tasted it carefully, then smiled. His teeth were very white. “That’s good! I’ve missed it.”
“Where are you going?”
He glanced at her. “You know who I am?”
“No, only that there is a search, a very serious search. They want you badly.”
He sipped the coffee. “I can’t get out of the country until spring,” he said. “I must find a place to live until then.”
“How did you come here?”
He shrugged. “Partly by chance. But I met a man, a man who said his name was Yakov. He spoke of people who live in the forest.”
“Live? Hide is the correct word. They have not come for us because they do not care. We are nothing, or less than nothing, and sometimes we are valuable.”
He glanced at her quickly. “Valuable? How?”
“Wulff — he is the man in power here — makes something from our trapping. Each year he receives furs, the best of them, and he looks the other way.”
“Are there many of you?”
“Twenty-nine now.” She looked at him with cool, measuring eyes. “Some of us are descendants of old exiles, from the time of the Tsar. Others served out their terms and had nowhere else to go. Some of us simply knew the wrong people. Nobody among us is looked for.”
“I see.” He looked up. “When I have eaten I shall move on. I will not endanger you.”
He sipped his coffee. She stole a quick look at him from under her brows. “I am Natalya,” she said. “Here they simply call me Talya.”
“It is a pretty name.”
She said nothing. He finished the coffee, and she went to the stove to turn the meat again.
“That man who left? He was angry with you.”
She shrugged. “He is a fool, but a dangerous fool. He will ruin us all. He is Peshkov. He was a soldier, a butcher by trade.” She paused. “He says his name is Peshkov. I think he lies. I do not trust him.”
He watched her as she prepared the meat. She was slim and graceful, a truly lovely woman. He was no good at women’s ages, never had been. She was probably in her twenties. She was poised, assured.
“What did Yakov tell you?”
“Nothing, except that you were here, a few of you.”
“Why did he tell you?”
“Winter was coming. He knew I would need a place to live out the winter, but do not worry. I shall not stay.”
She looked at his pack. “What is there?”
“Meat, nearly three hundred pounds of it, and a bear hide.”
“You carried all that?”
“It is nothing. I have carried such packs since I was a boy.” He smiled a little. “If you lived in America you might have heard of the Alaskan Indian who carried a piano over Chilkoot Pass during the gold rush days.”
“We have our pack
ers, too. The Yakuts carry enormous packs.”
She brought a plate of sliced meat to him and refilled his cup. “You can hunt, then? Can you trap?”
“There’s a blue fox skin in there, too. It was not well treated. I hadn’t the time.”
“Will you share what you kill?”
“I am an Indian, a Sioux. The hunters among us always shared. But I shall not worry you. I shall move on, further away, and when spring comes I shall go back to America.”
She lifted a cynical eyebrow. “Is that so easy?”
He shrugged again. “I do not say it will be easy. I say I will do it.”
He ate in silence. The meat had not only been cooked, but seasoned. Nothing he had ever tasted had seemed so good. And with the coffee it was a dream time.
She stood up. “Ssh! Someone is coming!”
Chapter 12
The footsteps drew nearer. Joe Mack continued to eat, taking his time, enjoying every bite. Only one person was coming, probably a man by the sound of the steps, and Joe Mack knew what he could do.
The door stood open. Natalya stepped back, but she said, “It is all right. I know the footstep. It is my father.”
He appeared in the doorway, a slender man who appeared taller than he was. He had a thin, scholar’s face, clean-shaven. He stopped abruptly when he saw Joe Mack.
Natalya spoke to him and he listened; then haltingly, but in English, he said, “You are welcome here. We do not often have visitors.”
Joe Mack smiled. He liked this man. “I should imagine not, but this one will not be with you long. I do not wish to create problems.”
“Talya says you are a hunter.”
“I can hunt,” and then he added, “and trap.”
“It is an advantage. Our only income is from trapping. And our best hunter is gone. We need meat.”
Joe Mack indicated his pack. “It is yours, a fat bear.”
“Ah? I understood your people do not kill bears.” He flushed a little. “I mean the Indian people.”
“Only when there is need. We explain it to the bear.”
“I see.” He turned to his daughter. “We must instruct him in our procedure.” He turned back to Joe Mack. “We are left alone, but in the event a search should be made we have places to hide. So far Wulff does not know there are so many of us. And we make ourselves useful. Every two months a bundle of furs is left behind his dwelling. He wants only the best.”
Joe Mack glanced over at Natalya. “If you wish? I would share the meat with you and your father.”
He looked at her father. “Your home is here?”
The older man smiled. “For the present. One day we hope to return to our own country. We are from Lithuania, a country the Russians absorbed after World War II. You know us?”
“A little. There were Lithuanian miners who lived in the town where I first went to school. Often I visited in the home of one of my friends at school. His father was forever reciting the poetry of Martin Lap.”
“Of course. He was one of our best-known poets.” He shook his head. “Amazing! To hear his name from an American!” He paused. “I was a teacher, you know. A professor in a university, but the Russians only remembered that I was one of those who went to the forest to live as a guerrilla.”
“You fought the Germans?”
“I did, but the Russians only remember that I fought, that I resisted. All such are suspect for fear we might do so again, against the Russians. I fear I am past all that. Now all I wish is peace and to return to my home.”
“Will it be there? Will anything be the same?”
The older man shook his head. “Very little, I am afraid. It would be home, however, our own country. I wish Talya to know it.”
“This,” Joe Mack gestured, “is your home? Your home now?”
“Oh, no!” he smiled. “This is an old stable that was fixed up as a place to sleep for workmen. We use it from time to time when traveling. Nobody lives here.”
He tasted the meat Talya served and then ate with relish. “It is good.” He glanced up again. “You killed a bear? With that?” He indicated the bow.
“Why not? My people knew nothing else until the white man came. We killed even larger beasts with it, although,” he added, “this was a large bear.”
The wind blew down the narrow valley, whining around the eaves and rustling the branches of the evergreens. They told him of their life and of the risks they ran and that despite the various prisons of one kind or another, all Siberia was considered a prison. “Many of those sent here in exile did not wish to leave, even when they could. They stayed on, and many have raised families here.
“Many of us prefer the deep woods. We are not bothered here. As I have said, some know we are here, but not exactly where, and we bother no one. Out of sight, out of mind, as the saying is.”
He got to his feet. “Come! It is time to go. We will share your burdens,”
It was cold in the outer air. Joe Mack shivered and looked along the icy gorge. Then he followed Natalya and her father. His name, he had said, was Stephan Baronas. Leaving the canyon, they took a dim trail up through the trees. It was sheltered from the wind, so though it was cold, there was less wind chill.
The village, when they came to it, was a mere cluster of huts in the deep forest. No effort having been made to establish a clearing, there were just the huts, some of them mere dugouts faced with logs, scarcely to be seen until within a few feet, for trees and brush masked their faces.
“This Wulff you spoke of, is he a district official of some kind? Is he close by?”
“He is miles from here, in Aldan. One of us was caught selling furs. Now if we deliver furs to him he says nothing. It is a trouble to meet his demands.”
The place they stopped at was a dugout faced with logs. It was tight, warm, and almost impossible to see. They had hidden themselves well.
“But how do you live?”
“We hunt and gather. Here and there in the woods we have patches of corn. We grow vegetables and barley, always far from here. It is very difficult, but we manage. Actually,” he added, “we live better than many of the people in the villages.”
“Share meat with the others,” Joe Mack suggested. “In the morning I will hunt again.”
“That is good of you. Will you spend the night with us?”
“The night, but then I must find my own place. I would not intrude,” he added.
The night was very still, yet he slept badly. He had become accustomed to the open air and the sounds of the trees, of animals moving. Here it was too still, too comfortable.
Did they have another way out? He knew better than to ask, but was restless at not knowing. To be caught in such a place … it was a trap. Or could be.
He found that he liked Stephan Baronas. He was a quiet, pleasant man, yet he seemed to have strength of character. As for Talya, she was quietly beautiful.
Both moved well in the forest. They were learning to live with it, he decided, learning to move with the wind, to accept the wilderness and not fight it. And that was the key to survival.
At last he slept, and when dawn came Talya’s moving about awakened him. He sat up quickly. “I was tired,” he said. “I did not realize how tired.”
Coffee was on, and it tasted good. He sipped the coffee and tried not to watch Talya as she moved about. Her father joined them.
“I shall find a place,” Joe Mack said, “but first I will set out a line of traps. Snares and deadfalls,” he added, at their questioning looks. “I trapped to pay my way at school,” he explained. “In the mountains of America there are many wild animals.”
It was pleasant not to have to think about moving on, and for the moment not to worry about being discovered. Baronas talked well, and as he talked his English returned to him. He spoke, he said, Polish, French, and German, as well as Russian. “The language of the Lithuanians is closer to Sanskrit than to any other, and we were an Indo-European people. Most of us were Protestants, Lutherans, or
Calvinists.”
“It would help,” Joe Mack suggested, “if I could speak Russian.”
“We will teach you,” Baronas replied, “if there is time.”
Joe Mack found his own place in a thick stand of birch mingled with aspen. Here and there were clusters of larch and pine. As usual in aspen forests the deadfalls were many, but as he worked his way deeper into the forest, planning to build a shelter from the dead timber, he found a crack in the rock of the cliff that lay behind the aspen. It was scarcely wide enough to edge through, but he had long since learned never to trust first appearances. He had edged back about eight feet when he stopped in midstep. Before him there was an ominous black hole that seemed to extend on into the mountain. Tossing a piece of rock, he heard it bound from side to side and finally end, far below, in a splash. He was starting to edge back when he noticed a shelf of rock going off to his left. It was all of four feet wide and ended in a much wider shelf.
Preparing a torch, he edged back into the crack, and lighting the torch he saw a wide area of bare flat rock under an overhang higher than a man’s head. It was a cave-shelter, opening on that crevasse in which he had heard water, but the cave was partly sheltered by the rock wall and partly by a thick stand of larch. It was a fine hiding place, an excellent shelter, and it needed exploration.
He spent the afternoon setting snares along some small creeks where he saw the tracks of small animals. The weather was cold and the water was icy. He worked along several small streams that flowed toward the river in an area where he saw no tracks or evidence of trapping by others.
No matter how friendly Baronas and his daughter might be, Joe Mack knew there would be opposition from some of the community to his being included, even for a short time. Hence, he must prove his value to the group so they would accept him, no matter how reluctantly. He could live out the winter anywhere in this area, with or without them, but to finally escape he needed to know some Russian and he needed to get some rubles.
Last Of the Breed (1986) Page 9
