*****
A Century Ago:
Port Arthur, Manchuria.
Fedor Mikhailovich Ivanov was a prisoner of war. He was one of the hundreds of Russian soldiers stationed at Port Arthur on the Pacific coast when the Japanese declared war. They had battled with the Japanese for almost a year, first winning the naval war and defending their port, before finally losing. The commander had surrendered the port and most of the men escaped. Fedor was among those who had not escaped, and now he was locked in a cell in the brig with a dozen other Russians. He was into his second week as a prisoner. He had been fed three times. He was surprised he was not dead yet.
Fedor doubted he would ever be free. He had heard that the war was very unpopular back in Russia, and that the Russian navy was losing just as badly elsewhere as they had here. So Fedor was stuck in this cell with the Japanese guard in his grey uniform on the other side of the bars, staring at him all day long. The Japanese had decided to pile the twelve Russians into a single cell, so that it would only require one guard to watch them. They were the only prisoners in this section of the brig, but Fedor was certain that there must be many more men locked up elsewhere in the fort.
The guard didn’t speak any Russian. “You want to go get me some dinner, you son of a whore?” Fedor asked. The other men in the cell laughed, but the guard did not respond. He never responded. These Japanese were so damned quiet all the time.
Down the corridor, a door opened and one of the Japanese called out. The guard nodded, and headed off toward the voice. Fedor heard them talking but could not understand the language. After a quick exchange, the door was closed again. The guard never came back.
Fedor walked to the bars. He pressed his face against them and tried to peer down the corridor to see if the guard was still there. He couldn’t see to the end. It was too dark. Some of the other men got up too. Alexi, one of the youngest of them, stood next to Fedor.
“What new game is this?” Alexi asked.
“We shall soon find out,” said Fedor.
After another minute, the door opened and closed again. Footsteps echoed down the hallway; someone was walking slowly, taking heavy steps to announce that they were approaching. Fedor and his comrades leaned on the bars, trying to see the newcomer. The man who approached them was, surprisingly, a white man. He wore a black suit, not a military uniform. He wore his black hair long, draped over his shoulders. He was pale, with skin like the ivory of piano keys. This man was almost certainly royalty. Perhaps the war was over, and Fedor would be able to go home.
“Is the war over?” Alexi asked, “Are you here to set us free?” The young man stuck his arm through the bars, reaching out for the nobleman. The man came up to the cell bars and clutched Alexi’s hand. Fedor saw that this stranger had small, soft hands. Definitely an aristocrat. He held Alexi’s hand between his, giving them a comforting rub.
“The war is not over,” said the stranger, “but I have come to set you free.” The man’s Russian was good, but not natural. He was a foreigner, perhaps an Englishman. On top of the accent, the man spoke with a wet sound to his voice. Fedor had only heard sounds like that in people who wore wooden teeth. Fedor couldn’t see the man’s teeth, but assumed his assessment was the right one.
“What do you mean?” asked Fedor.
“Your country is losing this war, this territory is now Japanese.” The stranger spoke to Fedor, but continued to hold Alexi’s hand. Fedor still could not place the accent, but then Fedor Mikhailovich was no statesman or world traveller.
“You speak Russian very well,” Fedor said, “for an Englishman.”
“Thank you, but I am no Englishman.” The stranger looked at Fedor harshly, surprised by Fedor’s boldness. The man had grey eyes, and his stare did not waver. Fedor had grown up in the northern plains, and those eyes brought back memories of a timberwolf staring at one of Fedor’s father’s sheep. It made him uncomfortable. He decided to lighten the mood with a joke.
“Well then, you must be Rasputin, the mystic who councils the Tsar? Tell me, did you hypnotize the guards into letting us go?”
“Rasputin has a beard.” The stranger still looked Fedor in the eyes. He had not yet blinked. The stranger forced the corners of his thin, wide mouth to curl up, but his eyes did not smile.
Alexi spoke up. “If you are not here because the war is over and you are not a hypnotist, then who are you? Who can convince the Japanese to just let us go?”
The stranger shifted that piercing gaze to Alexi. “I did not say that I would let you go. I said I would set you free. You will all be meeting God tonight.” Several of the men took steps back away from The bars, as if all of them had simultaneously realized that something terrible was about to happen. Fedor stood his ground. He might have been a prisoner, but he was still a soldier of the Russian Empire. He was no coward.
Alexi jerked his arm, trying to pull away from the stranger. “Please sir, I would like my hand back.”
The stranger smiled, baring his teeth for the first time. Fedor and Alexi were the only ones close enough to see that every single tooth ended in a sharp point. “I am sorry,” said the stranger, “but I’ll be keeping it.”
And with that, the stranger shifted his weight back and gave a mighty jerk on Alexi’s arm. Alexi slammed against the bars, and screamed in agony as the stranger ripped his arm off at the shoulder. Alexi collapsed to the floor of the cell, where Fedor rushed to help him. Alexi stared through the bars in horror, tears staining his cheeks. Fedor looked over as well, in time to see the stranger peel the sleeve off of Alexi’s arm, before raising it over his head, and ringing it like a wet towel. Alexi’s blood poured from the ragged end of the arm, and the stranger opened his mouth to catch it. The blood poured in rough, twisting squirts that coated much of the man’s face in crimson. After ringing out all the blood that would flow, the man tossed the arm aside and turned back to the cell. Face bloody, baring his teeth, staring with those frighteningly precise eyes, the stranger breathed hard through his nose. Fedor realized this man didn’t just look like a timberwolf, he was one.
The stranger reached into the pocket of his expensive wool suit, and what he pulled out made the men around Fedor scream. Alexi passed out when he saw it, which was a blessing. Several of the men started to pray. The item dangled from the stranger’s finger as he stepped up to the cell door, glinting in the light: a small iron key. The wolf was coming in.
Stray Woods Page 4
