“But that is not what happened?”
The old man frowned, as if annoyed by the interruption. “No. I came across the den on the afternoon of the third day. I had just seen what was in there when she returned.” He paused. “I had not expected her to. She was a long way away. But then—” He gestured into the dim recesses of the cottage, and now, their eyes used to the dim light, they could just about make out what looked like the shape of a cage, covered with a blanket – “it must have called her back, soul to soul.”
The fair-haired man could not restrain himself any longer. “What you say is impossible,” he burst out. “There is no way on this earth that—”
“And what do you really know of this earth, eh?” The old man rounded on him. “You cannot know anything of the truth of things for you are blinkered like the horse of a carter who does not wish his beast to know he is alive in case he should take it into his head to escape.”
They glared at each other. The other stranger said, quickly, “Dedushka, forgive my friend, he does not mean to—”
“If he is your friend,” snapped the old man, “then you are the fool I did not take you for, for there is no friendship in such as him. But as you are not a fool, I presume you are trying to butter me up. But I do not care for butter and never have.” A malicious glitter had come into his eyes. “You come here with no respect, only lies and soft words. Do you not think I do not know what is in your hearts? Enough. Our business here is done. I have changed my mind, and I …”
He never got the chance to finish what he was going to say, for with a roar of rage, the fair-haired stranger pulled out a gun and shot him dead.
What I have written above is a fiction; a recreation of what might have been, deep in a cottage in a Northern Russian forest, in the darkest days of Stalinism. I do not really know if it happened like that. It is a leap of the imagination. But it is based on truth, a truth so extraordinary that it dwarfs any fiction. For what if fairytales are not fantastical imaginings, but the truth of the world, written down in a metaphorical way to encode knowledge for the wise? What if myths can be made to come true? This is not my imagination’s leap, but that of another: it is the challenge of Anton Antonov, the gauntlet he throws down to our conventional views of human nature and history.
Anton Ilyich Antonov was born in 1899 in Danilov, near Yaroslavl. His mother was of a Karelian family reputed as white witches; his father, who originated from the mid-Volga region, was a minor civil servant with revolutionary ideas. Brought up by his mother on tales of shapeshifters and spells, and with a certain psychic talent himself, he turned against traditional beliefs as a teenager, embracing instead his father’s revolutionary philosophy and developing his own strong interest in the new science of eugenics. After the Bolshevik Revolution, and a stint in the Red Army during the civil war, he completed a degree at Leningrad University and began work as a scientist in a state laboratory.
It was during this period that he first conceived the extraordinary idea that was to flower years later as the Homo Ferens project. At its root, the idea was a rethinking both of what fairytale meant, and also a bold statement of the possibilities of science and the nature of mankind, which to him, as to many in that revolutionary time, seemed boundless. For a few years he kept quiet about it, working on it only in his spare time. He knew he had to proceed very carefully and in utter secrecy at first. His reborn but now scientific interest in fairytales and myth might be misinterpreted as mystical obscurantism and lead him into difficulties with the authorities; but most of all, his ideas could be stolen by other, jealous but less able scientists, like Ilya Ivanov, the creator of the famous “superhuman soldier” experiment under the direct commission of Josef Stalin, feared dictator of the Soviet Union.
In old Russia, tales were told of such creatures as Ivashko Medveko, little Ivan the bear’s son, who, brought up by a bear, acquires superhuman strength and cunning and killed without a thought. Stories were also told of shapeshifters: sorcerers who turned into bears, wolves, birds, hares and all kinds of other animals. Antonov thought that all these fantastical stories contained at their root a kernel of truth – it wasn’t actual shapeshifting that was going on, because that was biologically impossible – but radically transformed behavior, which to Antonov was the true underlying principle of the so-called “soul”. These people at times behaved like animals and actually developed animal characteristics of strength, speed, agility and improved senses; but they also had human intelligence, and together this created a superhuman hybrid which could literally manipulate others and create an illusion of “sorcery”. So, the hybrids did exist, but they were not the product of breeding between animals and people. Rather, they were the result of prolonged and very early identification with the animal world. But in the old days, this was all scattergun, disordered, and far too individualistic to be of use in modern times, when the exigencies of a new kind of State demanded a new way of doing things.
Researching stories of feral children, Antonov became convinced this was the way. If such a child could be found who could be kept within the animal world but in a way directed by humans, then the problems of complete animal identification – the lack of adaptation to the human world – would be eliminated whilst at the same time, no direct human contact would be encouraged or even allowed, to eliminate the possibility of undue influence until a certain age. He envisaged the result not as the obedient dumb brute of Ivanov’s imagination; but like Ivashko the bear’s son. It would be an extraordinary creature which would truly be beyond human and be of immense service to the Soviet state.
Eventually, in late 1934, he managed to get the ear of a man who was close to someone who was close to Stalin; and by dint of this, obtained permission to begin, as well as being given a small group of troops to help him.
When, in the winter of 1935, he heard that a baby boy of about fourteen months old had been found by an old hunter in a bear’s den in a forest not far from the little town of Kirilov in Karelia, he was overjoyed, and went to get the child at once. Baby K, as we will call him, had been a long time in the bear’s care, judging from the physical signs, such as overgrown hair, the ingrained dirt on his body, his calloused hands and knees, and extraordinary speed and agility for a child of his age, as well as a complete absence of speech. He was apparently “scarcely human” and had been kept by the hunter in a cage after he’d discovered it. The child’s origins were a complete mystery. Though there were superstitious rumors in the nearby village that he had the “Devil’s mark” and was most likely the child of a witch, lost or abandoned in the forest, no real clues were discovered as to his antecedents, and no one came forward to claim him. Which suited Antonov’s purposes very well.
The nurturing bear, a massive female, had been killed by the hunter, but Antonov lost no time in introducing the child to another she-bear he’d acquired, who’d recently lost a cub. She took to the child easily, and him to her. Antonov returned to his laboratory, and to the task of raising his Homo Ferens.
But he’d known from the start that one child was not enough for an experiment. Moreover, he could not wait for another feral child to be discovered, for that search could take years, and Stalin’s patience was not famous. Children would have to be found, of the right age and from suitably remote locations, to introduce to the bear. If a child did not survive the contact, another would be quickly found. Orphanages were full of abandoned children who would suit, and thus he’d build up suitable subjects. And so that spring of 1935, he began on the work which could have changed the history of humanity – if Stalin hadn’t once again changed his mind.
That was as far as Irina had got, printed out at least. Helen was disappointed. It was an extraordinarily powerful story, and Irina had told it very well. She’d no idea her mother’s friend could write like that. But then she had said she wanted to write a popular book, a book that would be read by more than just specialists and academics. A book to set the imagination on fire. And it certainly would do, if
it was all like that.
And then she gasped as it struck her. Anton Antonov. And Maxim Antonovich Serebrov. She distinctly remembered Alexey calling him that yesterday. Maxim Antonovich. Irina had said that a Russian always had three names, and that the second name, your patronymic, was based on the Christian name of your father. The “vich” part meant “son of”. And the scientist Antonov’s Christian name was Anton, just as Maxim’s father must have been called Anton. What if – what if it was a family name? The surname wasn’t the same – but Antonov could have been on the female side of Maxim’s family – or the family had changed their name – to avoid the disgrace.
Her mind ran wildly on. Irina had written that Antonov had some “psychic talent” himself. There was no indication yet of his eventual fate, but it was safe to assume that if Stalin had “changed his mind again”, that meant the scientist must have come to a bad end. The policeman’s only in his thirties, she thought, so Antonov could not be his father, not if he’d died in Stalin’s time – but he could be his grandfather – or great-uncle … Bu then – how could that be connected to Alexey’s grandfather, Mikhail Makarov? No way would he have been around at the same time as Antonov. He might not even have been born then. Or at least he could have been no more than a baby. So he couldn’t possibly have been the one to interrogate or arrest Antonov, if that’s what had happened. Wait – wait – wait – what about Mikhail’s father, Pyotr Makarov? Alexey had even said he’d been in Stalin’s secret police. Could it be that?
Her throat fluttered. No. The links were too tenuous. She was spinning a sinister fairytale out of disjointed scraps, just because of the amazing power of Irina’s story. She tried to call Alexey, but the phone immediately went to voicemail. She left a message. She tried Irina’s phone but it was the same. They must be out of range. She could ring Volkovsky and …
Without warning, her throat clenched. The back of her neck prickled. Something was there. Something was watching her. Last night’s terrifying vision of the bear was in her mind as she turned around – and saw, to her utter shock, Alexey, standing in the doorway.
He was swaying as though about to faint. His white T-shirt was stained with what looked horribly like a mixture of blood and dirt, one knee of his jeans was torn. He was pale – pale – so pale – almost as white as the T-shirt had once been – except for a long red mark on one cheek, like a gravel rash. He didn’t speak. But worst of all was the look in his eyes, an expression of such horror and despair that it froze her to the spot.
Her mind was in spasms, trying to understand. An accident – he’d had an accident on the bike – he was hurt, injured. The paralysis left her. She ran toward him, calling his name, reached out a hand to him – but the moment her fingers touched his, she felt a jolt as violent as an electric shock. Her body jerked back involuntarily, and in that instant, he vanished.
Chapter 37
It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t. Sobbing, she pulled open the door and ran out into the garden, calling his name. But he wasn’t there. The garden, empty of anything but birdsong and vegetation, mocked her with its sunny normalcy. She ran into the house, looking in every room, out the front door into the street. There was no sign of him; no sign of his bike, either. But still her mind refused to accept that he wasn’t there. He must be hiding somewhere. Something terrible had happened, so terrible he was hiding like a child. She ran down the road, calling his name, screaming it. Every muscle in her body ached, every nerve jangled with fire, but inside her, at the heart of her, a terror made of ice and shadow was gaining, freezing her heart, her thoughts, her soul.
She turned the corner – and nearly ran headlong into a car coming the other way. The driver stood on the brakes and skidded to a stop; and as he jumped out, she saw it was Volkovsky. He said, “Helen! What on earth—”
“It’s Alexey,” she cried. “He’s hurt – he’s had an accident … he’s in shock – we must go after him –”
Volkovsky looked completely bewildered. “After him? Where? What accident?”
“Please – please – let’s find him – let’s drive and find him.”
He looked at her. “Okay. Get in. But I don’t understand where.”
“The Rostov road,” she said, scrambling into the passenger seat. “Please, Nikolai – quickly, quickly!”
“Okay,” he said, getting back in, and reversing the car back up the road, “but really you have to explain what’s going on.”
She told him about Alexey giving Irina a lift to Rostov, and then about how he’d appeared in the doorway, dirt-stained and bloody, and as she spoke, a feeling grew in her that was also a terrible, uncanny knowledge she’d tried to hide from. Though it had looked so solid, she knew it wasn’t Alexey in flesh and blood she’d seen – but a vision – a double – of her lover, who was even now lying somewhere on the road, in his own blood. Not dead, though. She clung to that. Not dead. They were so closely connected, he and she, so tightly wound together, that, injured, badly in need of her help, he’d used every bit of his energy to reach out to her through space and time, pushing himself into her consciousness, pleading with her to come and help him.
Volkovsky didn’t say, “You must be mistaken.” He didn’t say, “You must have been seeing things.” He didn’t say, “This is crazy.” He simply patted Helen’s shoulder, briefly, and said, “We’ll find him, never fear. But we must be calm.”
He took out his phone and dialed Alexey’s number. No answer. Helen had Irina’s number in her phone, so he tried that next. Still no answer. He clicked off the phone and said, “And you’re sure they were going to Rostov?”
For answer, she showed him the text.
“Right. Then the next thing is to find out if they made it to Rostov. Do you have any idea where the professor was going to pick up these documents? A local authority office? A museum? A library?”
She shook her head, bleakly. “I don’t know.”
“Well, we’ll try them all.”
No one at either the first or the second number he tried knew anything about it. But his call to the Rostov library produced a different result. “They were indeed expecting Professor Bayeva to pick up some photocopied clippings,” he said. “But she hasn’t turned up yet.”
She cried, “Oh my God – oh my God –”
“I’ll call the police, in Rostov and Uglich, and see if there have been any reports of accidents.” He made the calls, and hanging up, said, “There’s been nothing – but I persuaded them to put out a call on their radios and also to truck drivers, and they’re going to start a search up and down the road in case the bike veered off into the ditch somewhere …”
A light rain was falling now but Volkovsky didn’t go fast as they reached the Rostov road, so that they could look properly, see if there were skid marks, signs of wreckage, anything. On and on they went, every sense alert.
Helen said, wildly, “We haven’t seen a single police car yet. Why aren’t they out searching?”
“I’ll check on that.” He pulled over and made the calls. His expression changed as he listened, and he spoke sharply, briefly.
“What is it? What is it?”
“News has only just come in that a truck driver thinks he passed the bike on the Rostov road only a few kilometers out of Uglich. After that, nothing.” He looked at Helen. “It’s only a chance – but the Uglich police are going out straight away to search in that area.”
“Then we’ve got to go back too. We’ve got to help search. We’ve got to …”
But she never finished what she was going to say, because at that moment Volkovsky’s phone rang again. Snatching it up, he said, sharply, “Da?” And then. “Ah. Maxim Antonovich.”
The bitterness of the disappointment was so sharp that it felt like a punch in the stomach. She concentrated on the image of Alexey, trying to reach him. But there was no answer. She prayed then like she’d never prayed before in her life, offering up everything – anything – if only she could find him.
Chapter 38
Maxim had woken at three o’clock that morning sweating from a nightmare he put down to too much red wine the night before. In the nightmare, he’d been sure of being onto something that would crack the case. But then it had slipped away from him again. He’d tried to think what it was, but it was gone. Instead, his ears were full of voices. Voices he knew, voices of the unknown. Voices of the dead, voices from life. A babel of disjointed, discordant, unbearable noise. He woke with a headache, knowing that he’d lost it, the clue, the thing that would crack this case wide open. But it was there, somewhere, if only he could concentrate long enough to find it again.
Volkovsky’s phone call the day before had shaken him, not because he’d believed in Slava’s bona fides, though he’d had no reason to question it one way or the other. What bothered him was that he’d been so sure Repin wasn’t behind this, and yet now it looked like he’d been badly wrong. But that wasn’t the only thing that troubled Maxim. He also disliked the fact it was Helen, once more, who’d found the important piece of evidence against the bodyguard, and that now that important piece of evidence was gone. He’d said as much to Volkovsky.
“In God’s name, Maxim,” the Trinity manager had sighed. “The girl is an innocent, and it was pure chance she happened on that photo.”
“That’s what she told you,” Maxim said, stubbornly. “She had no witnesses apart from Slava, and he’s gone.”
“Yes, and why would he have run if he’d been framed?”
“They might be in it together,” Maxim said. “To make it look like –”
Trinity: The Koldun Code (Book 1) Page 31
