Page 20 of Enemy Within
No. Not that memory. Sasha kicked, struggling, trying to pull himself out of whatever delirium he’d fallen into.
With a rush, like being plucked face-first from deep underwater, reality returned. Gasping, he popped open his eyes and flailed, struggling against something heavy that held down his arms and legs. He kicked, over and over, desperation crawling up the backs of his legs and making his palms itch. Where was he? Had he been captured? Did theSpetsnazhave him?
“Aja biShindi.”
A deep voice spoke, words and sounds that meant nothing to him. Blurry shapes moved nearby, a dark mass coming closer. Blinking fast, Sasha tried to focus, but his eyes kept burning, watering and overflowing.
“I will try again,” the voice said, in Russian this time. “Hello. Welcome back.”
Breathing fast, Sasha stared as the blurry shape took form, becoming an old man. A Siberian, with weathered, tanned skin, wide cheekbones, and narrow, dark eyes. His lips were thin and wrinkled, and thick lines around his mouth carved up his cheeks, disappearing into his hairline. He wore a dirty felt hat, dented on one side, and a long trench coat, the kind that would have been fashionable in Moscow in the 1980s. Buttons were missing, and the waist was tied with a frayed bit of rope.
“Who are you?” Sasha croaked. His voice cracked, and he coughed. “Where am I?”
The old man reached down and brought up a misshapen copper mug. He held it out. “Warm water. You need it.” He held the cup to Sasha’s lips.
He almost didn’t drink. He tried to sniff the cup and the liquid within, but the man’s dirt-crusted hands smelled of loam, pine, and black dirt. And something else. Something coppery that stained his fingers red and iron-brown. Slowly, Sasha opened his cracked lips. Warm water, fresh and clear, quenched his thirst.
“I am Kilaqqi. You are in my home.”
Eyes darting left and right, Sasha finally focused on his surroundings. He was lying on the ground inside a yurt. Long birch poles formed a haphazard pyramid and were lashed together above his head. Canvas and old hides were wrapped on the poles, laid over each other in a hodge-podge assortment. The center was open to the sky, and tart, pungent smoke snaked lazily out of the opening. Heavy, oily smoke hovered just above where he lay, stinging his eyes. Reindeer hides covered him from his shoulders down, a thick pile that was almost smothering. The weight pinned his arms and legs. Across the yurt, blankets lay on the ground. A stave with a hoof rested on one blanket, next to a small drum made of old, stained hide.
“We found you in the snow.” Outside, bells jingled and animals snorted. Voices sounded, calling and talking to each other in the same language he’d first heard Kilaqqi speak.
“You are a Siberian? A tribesman?” He coughed, and Kilaqqi held the cup to his lips again.
“We are reindeer herders,” Kilaqqi said, smiling. “We have lived here for hundreds of years. Before Russia, before the Soviet Union and the Bolsheviks, and everything else.”
Kilaqqi’s words came back to him.We found you in the snow.He tried to sit up, but the weight of the hides and his body’s weakness kept him pinned. “Where did you find me? You should not have brought me back here. It is too dangerous for you—”
“I know about the wolves that chase you.”
“No wolves,” Sasha snapped. “Men. Soldiers.Spetsnaztroops. Hunters.”
“Yes, I know. We have seen their helicopter searching the forest for days now.”
Sasha’s next protest died on his lips. “You know what a helicopter is?”
Kilaqqi grinned. His teeth were old and worn, with gaps between them. “Of course. The children are taken to boarding school by helicopter every autumn and return when the snows melt in summer.” He chuckled. “You do not know much about life in Siberia, do you?”
“They will keep looking for me.”
“They already are. We waved to them yesterday. They flew off.”
“They will be back.”
“Not if these hunters only see Siberian tribesmen. We are easy to ignore, yes?”
Sasha swallowed. He stayed quiet.
“Right now, you must recover your strength. You were dangerously cold when we found you. We got you warm in time to keep your fingers and toes. And other parts.” Kilaqqi chuckled.
“Thank you.”
Kilaqqi stretched, his bones creaking, and went back to sitting beside Sasha’s nest of reindeer hides. A fire smoldered in the center of the yurt, in a fire pit lined with black stones. He stoked it, adding pine needles and twigs, and then sticks and a small log. Last, he tore apart dried leaves and dropped them over the flames. The smoke turned sharp and bitter. A few seconds later, Sasha’s nose twitched.
“It is a healing smoke,” Kilaqqi said, eyeing Sasha’s scrunched-up face. “I left the doorway to the underworld open, hoping that your lost soul would return.”
Sasha stared at Kilaqqi, blinking slowly.
