Page 27 of White Wolf

“They must.”

He remembered Monsieur Philippe’s twinkling look.“Have you ever seen a wolf before, Captain Baskin? This will be educational for you.”

Yes, he imagined it would.

~*~

Sasha went on his first hunt when he was five. When he was big enough and his legs were long enough that he didn’t disappear in snow drifts. He followed along inside his father’s wide footsteps, leaping from bootprint to bootprint, hat slipping down over his eyes. The snow was fresh, loose powder, fat flakes that had come down during the night, and the air was humid with the promise of more. It burned his cheeks and made his nose run, but he felt sweat gathering on his skin beneath his clothes. His ears were toasty beneath the flaps of his hat, as were his fingers inside his mittens. Early morning sunlight fell in bold shafts through the evergreen boughs, dazzling searchlights.

Ahead of him, Papa’s breath steamed overhead like a train engine, curling up into the branches in regular puffs. He stood tall and strong despite the weight of the pack and the rifle.

Sasha was already looking forward to lunch: sausages, sharp yellow cheese, his mother’s soft brown bread. Thermoses of beef broth, keeping warm safely in the pack alongside the ammo and Papa’s knives.

They trekked deep into the forest. Until Sasha’s legs were tired. Until he could no longer turn around and see the outskirts of town. A little thrill of fear went through him – but it was tempered by his father’s presence. The knowledge that Papa would never let anything happen to him.

They finally stopped at the top of a rise, beneath an intricate shelter made of interlacing pine branches. Papa scraped a bowl into the snow and laid out an oiled canvas tarp for them to sit on, checked and re-rechecked the rifle with methodical precision.

“Now we wait,” he said, and they waited.

Sasha was tired from walking, and so it was easy to go still and lean against Papa’s side, listening to the twitter of birds and the softthumpof snow sliding off branches. He fell into a drowsy state of half-awareness, pleasantly buried inside his own thoughts. He wondered how long until lunch. Wondered how long until he was strong enough to handle the kick of the rifle. They’d shot at home, Daddy’s strong chest at his back, his arms supporting the gun for him – but he wanted to hunt for himself. Wanted to feel the weight of the gun and stalk his own prey.

He didn’t know how long they sat there, bodies cooling, the forest unfolding around them like a shy flower that had grown used to their presence, before the stag walked into their line of sight.

He was giant to Sasha’s young eyes, a dead branch caught in his rack that he didn’t seem to notice. He walked slowly, one step at a time, bobbing his head and stretching his neck, testing the air with flared nostrils. Sasha didn’t have to ask if they were downwind of the animal – Papa would never make such an amateur mistake.

Papa dropped his chin to the gun stock, closed one eye; his finger caressed the trigger. Sasha saw his chest expand as he took one last deep breath, and held it.

The stag flung up his head, ears swiveling, and let out an explosive snort through his mouth. It was the only warning they got before the shadows around the trees melted down the slope and revealed themselves as wolves.

“Ah,” Papa said, half-startled, half-pleased.

On the walk back, Papa towed the heavy sled, loaded down with the deer, a wolf carcass slung across his shoulders.

Sasha had to carry the rifle.

They stopped often to rest.

“You never kill the alpha,” Papa said. “You always leave him, so he can guide his pack.” A kernel of wisdom Sasha tucked carefully away for future use.

He still owned the hat they’d made of that wolf pelt; he’d brought it with him on his doomed trip to Stalingrad.

He woke with the taste of winter air in his mouth, the scent of the hunt in his nose. He blinked against sunlight and the dream memories faded into harsh reality. He hadn’t fallen asleep in his own bed under the eaves of the two-story wooden house, but in a train bound for Moscow, the wheels clacking ceaselessly across the rails.

He rubbed the last gritty bits of sleep from his eyes and sat up straighter, taking stock of the situation. He was alone for the moment, but he could hear voices down the aisle. Low murmurs. Laughter.

His stomach growled and he wished he’d eaten his mother’s stew before he left.

He wished he was home.

He wished he’d been brave enough to fight these men rather than let them take him away with them.

But then what?a voice in the back of his mind asked. Ivan would have caved his face in with one punch, and then the others would have killed his parents. At least now, this way, they were safe, no matter what happened to him.

His stomach growled again, more insistent.

Monsieur Philippe had warned him about the men. And the captain had warned him about the old man.

Maybe they’d kill each other and he could slip off.

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