The Volk Advent (2 page)

I stood in the center of the room, numb. I glanced at Setinyi where she toddled about the communal pen. Not rock the babies? I would never survive such a heartless prison. How could these tender little ones endure? No, Ms. Melora would have to actually pay whoever took my place. She couldn't afford to do it. I had room to bargain here. If I did every little thing exactly how she liked, perhaps she would relent? Forget to bolt my door, something?

I had to try. The little ones had no tender touch in their lives but mine. Surely, my work held value in Ms. Melora's eyes. But was I valuable enough to offset an orphanage full of babies who knew enough to cry?

I gave Setinyi a quick kiss on the top of her head and rushed to the next room. I would never find out if I didn't get it clean. If I could show her exactly how hard I worked, Ms. Melora might forget about the deadbolt and turn a blind eye to my compassion. I just had to make sure that everything was perfect for her guest.

2

Wolf Bait For Hire

Ms. Melora's guest was some kind of American TV professional. I could understand him perfectly. Apparently, all those years listening to song after chirpy song on the Christmas CDs had its advantages. But the clarity of his words, did not make them any more appealing.

“My show is called
Devoured.
”
Rhys Adaire bared his alarmingly white teeth in a cocky grin and flung his arms wide as though he had actually brought his beloved show into the room and was asking us to remark upon its many pleasing features.

I attempted to smile back, while taking a tiny step away, hoping he wouldn't notice.

“You've never even seen it have you, Faina? May I call you Faina?” He continued before I had a chance to answer. “Anyway, it's called
Devoured: pets that can eat you and the people who love them
.”

“How nice.” I choked out, wondering how such a wealthy country as the U.S.A. had allowed their mental facilities to grow so crowded that this man gained access to the TV industry.

“I've done episodes on lions and tigers and bears.”

“Oh, my.” I whispered. Somehow, the response felt right for the terrible list of carnivores he recited with such relish.

“I've filmed episodes about boa constrictors and monitor lizards, jaguars, and attacking packs of bottle-fed hyenas. But do you know what animal
Devoured
has yet to feature?”

I could feel the color slowly draining from my face and took another discreet step back.

“Wolves!”

Ms. Melora was counting a thick wad of bills.

I met Rhys Adaire's shining gaze, something was very wrong here.

“We're not allowed to own them in The States, full-blood wolves, that is.”

“I wonder why?”

His eyes narrowed and one of his shiny boots tapped the floor. “Bureaucracy, it is pure bureaucratic fluff that keeps American pet owners away from the natural beauty that is the wild wolf.”

I took another step back and bumped into the corner.

“And that is where you come in, Faina.”

Oh, yay!

“I'm scheduled to interview Mr. Volkov and film his beautiful animals during the Christmas Gala. But my show is also educational. The first half of this episode will go over the history of the Eurasian wolf and some of the reasons why animosity arose between them and man. And you know what that means, my girl.”

I couldn't imagine.

He continued with barely a pause. “It means wolf attack reenactments!” He made a grand gesture as though expecting some oohs and aahs to erupt from our mouths. After an awkward silence, he continued. “Anyway, there was one particularly noteworthy wolf attack that my producer wants to feature. A young teen was walking to get bread for the orphanage where she lived and a blizzard blew in. Not only did it take visibility down to nothing, the wolves came with it. They found the poor girl the next morning…” He paused for dramatic flair. “Devoured!”

Rhys Adaire grinned and took my hand. “Of course you will have to cut your hair, my dear. The orphanage had just shaved everyone's head due to an unfortunate outbreak of head lice.” Rhys Adaire dropped my hand quickly. “Which your employer has assured me will not be a problem whatsoever. She was wanting to shave everyone's heads this week anyway, thank goodness. Just for preventative reasons.” Did he blanch and scratch at his hairline a little?

I had never said “no” to Ms. Melora, but this was different. Who was this crazed American to walk in here and demand that I destroy my hair and traipse about in front of a pack of apex predators?

“No.” I whispered. “I will not shave my head and be chased by wolves.”

No one wants to play tag with wolves, even if they do prefer caribou and are largely misunderstood. But strangely, the whole wolf thing was not what made a blush creep up my cheeks and my shoulders straighten with anger.

My hair had not been shaved since the day Liev scorned to play with me. I had worked so hard to keep it long. I would not be shaving it off for some crazy person and his wolf attack reenactment, no matter how authentic and entertaining.

I was eighteen years old, but in half a second Rhys Adaire made me feel as if I were twelve again. Twelve and alone and feeling like the ugliest thing in the world.

Ms. Melora had found lice in one of the cribs and shaved every child in the place bald.

Liev was the son of our local priest and his wife, Darya. He was two years older and my only friend. But that year he turned sulky and uncommunicative whenever he visited the orphanage with his mother.

He'd hauled in the usual bag of little knitted jackets his mom managed to make for the babies and gave me a curt nod when I'd said hello.

We cleaned cribs in silence for the hour of their visit.

I could feel the heat of my blush in my newly exposed ears and kept my gaze on the task at hand. When he left, there was a lumpy bundle on the floor where he'd been working. I ran after them to return it.

Just before I rounded the corner, I heard him arguing with his mom.

“It smells here and the children are strange.” Liev mumbled.

“But what about your little friend, Faina? You worked so hard making your first pair of reindeer skin valenki for her.”

“She needed boots and I was making valenki. But she's just a little kid, Mother. Now look, I'm learning my own trade, almost a man. Let me go with Father to visit the trappers. I'm done with this place, with the crying and the lice and Ms. Melora.”

Well, I was done with the place, too. But that didn't mean I could leave. I slunk back to my bed and opened the lumpy package. A pair of hand-crafted ladies' valenki. The boots were a little big and had a few awkward lumps. But they were gorgeous to my twelve-year-old eyes. The soft, white reindeer fur was decorated with a circlet of beaded felt. I traced the bright colors and intricate patterns with my finger. These must have taken Liev hours, and now he was done. Done with the orphanage and done with me.

I couldn't blame him. I'd looked at my reflection in the warped glass of the window and bit my lip until my tears dried. I would wear the boots. They were warm and well made. But I wouldn't waste another tear on Liev Alkaev. Why should I? He couldn't even bear for one hour, the place that I must spend my entire childhood.

I had endured the orphanage for six more years and had never said “no” to Ms. Malora in all that time. Oh, I had rocked the babies in secret and danced them across the floor under the stern gaze of a Siberian moon. But that was not the same thing. What would she do, now that I had said “no” to Rhys Adaire?

Ms. Melora didn't say a word. Not a single sound passed her thin, white lips. Instead, she spun on her heel and left the room while Rhys Adaire sputtered about monetary compensation and fashionably short styles in California.

Then Ms. Melora was back. A tattered bag swung in her left hand and she seized my arm with her right. She yanked me down the hall, whispering into my ear so soft that the American could not imagine the poison that her quiet words contained. “They dragged you here, a frozen little wretch, fallen from the sky. You couldn't even form the smallest of words you were so stupid. Absolutely useless. But did I throw you in the snow? No, I fed you and taught you to speak right words and put up with your ridiculous delusions. ‘Where is my puppy, Ms. Melora? Isn't there bubble bath, Ms. Melora? It's illegal to hit kids, Ms. Melora.' But did I throw you out in the street?”

“I'm sorry,” I gasped. “I see how annoying that would be.”

She didn't reply. When we reached the door, she flung it open and the incredible Siberian cold took my breath. “No one says ‘no' to me.”

“I didn't. I said no to Rhys Adaire, and the wolves—”

“The man paid me for your time. To say ‘no' to him is to say ‘no' to me.” She paused and looked down at me as I shivered in the doorway. “Unless you have changed your mind about your hair and the wolves?”

Something occurred to me. “Will you let me rock the babies, if I will shave my head and film with the wolves?”

“Of course not.” Her glance was colder than the terrible wind that sucked warmth off my skin and sent a bitter ache through my ears and teeth and bones.

“No,” I whispered.

Ms. Melora set the heels of her hands against my shoulders and shoved. I stumbled down the cold gray steps.

I, Faina Smith, had said “no” to Ms. Melora. As the door slammed behind her, I stood in the glow of my accomplishment. I had defied her. I straightened and squared my shoulders. I was wearing a thin, orphanage issue dress, a tattered sweater, and soft felt slippers. It was 40 degrees below zero and the temperature was dropping fast. A storm was rolling in.

This was a grand triumph, one that I would die for.

Ms. Melora had just given me a death sentence, in front of the American, too. I would freeze in ten minutes, fifteen at the very most. But at least the last thing I had said to her was “no.”

It was late afternoon. The village was deserted. Everyone must be at the first Christmas Eve service down at the small chapel. My face was numb and my fingers ached with cold. The muscles in my legs and arms began to cramp, and I hunched my body, trying to conserve as much heat as possible. Violent shivers shook my frame and the wind made my ears ache deep down, as though the very depths of my mind were turning to ice.

The door opened and a pile of moldy furs hit me in the chest. I tried to grab the bundle, but my hands weren't quite working.

A little boy stood framed in the light of the doorway. “Thank you for dancing with us and playing hide and seek when she was asleep.” He tossed my valenki down the steps and ran.

I didn't blame him. If Ms. Melora caught him…I tried not to think about it as I scrambled into the furs, shuddering and awkward. The fur coat was so long it bunched around my feet. I reached for my valenki and felt my lips crack with a laugh.

Traditionally, if a girl tossed her valenki in the air and followed the direction that they pointed when they landed, she would find her true love. The boots pointed down the tiny village street toward the church. Every single person in town must be at the church. How romantic.

I slipped into the warm softness of the reindeer skin boots. Even with the furs, I could still freeze. The temperature was dropping and vast gray mounds of cloud hurtled down the river on the wind. The storm would be here by nightfall.

As though they sensed my plight, the wolves renewed their howling. It wasn't just howling, the pack keened and wailed into the gathering gloom, low and angry and primal.

I needed to find shelter or die. My options were incredibly limited and none of them contained fairy tale material. Even the charming tradition of a tossed valenki couldn't make my situation any less a nightmare. No, my true love was not destined to appear. And even if he did, I'd prefer a warm cup of soup and a crackling fire.

I hobbled down the street, imagining the dark paints and jagged strokes of the brush that would bring to life the kind of picture book that could tell my tale.

No, my story was not romantic at all.

3

Up From The Snowdrift

The main road through Zamok Drakona was a thin strip of worn pavement, rutted and cracked with cold. The side streets were winding byways of packed dirt. Blowing snow swirled and tumbled down the street, making the ground appear to writhe and twist beneath the biting wind.

The moldy furs tamped the cold down to a dull ache deep in my bones. It was a good thing I had never needed glasses. This was the kind of weather that made metal frames freeze to a person's face and rip off chunks of skin if the glasses were removed too quickly. My face was numb and my body had pulled the blood to my core in an attempt to warm me. I had to find shelter.

I shuffled down the street in the direction my valenki had pointed. My shivering subsided, but my stomach clenched with hunger.

It was tradition to fast on Christmas Eve. The fasting part was easy. Since my prospects for food were nonexistent. I felt a kinship with my fellow believers. They would be in the service at our small chapel, denying their hunger to concentrate on the advent of our Lord. It was also tradition to have a twelve-course vegetarian feast when the first star appeared on the horizon.

That part would be harder for me to participate in.

I had intended to watch for the first star from the orphanage window. I'd hoped to break the fast with a roll and a bowl of borscht from the kitchen.

A sudden gust sent flurries of powder-fine snow into my face. It looked as if my fast would be longer than I'd intended. I ducked my head against the cold and shuffled onward.

Rows of square buildings with brown, peaked roofs and dark windows framed in whitewashed wood lined my way. The warped siding had been painted once. Bright blues and yellows and greens, now they were pale, stripped by the cold and ice. Their peeling paint left the houses looking strained, like a grandmother caring for three milk goats, a new litter of kittens, and triplets with colic.