The Sculptures of Mist

It was a ravenous night, craving for blood and flesh like a pack of hyenas. Riots were scorching every part of Eastern Russia. Tsar’s soldiers were ravaging through towns and villages, slaughtering the mutinous lords, their families and supporters. The animals within them were unleashed.

I was ten and Vera, my little sister, five. We were hiding inside a storeroom full of apple boxes, their sweet smell all around us. Huddled together between two large wooden boxes, we shivered with terror of the violent soldiers crying outside vehemently.

Minutes ago we had seen my friend Vladimir and his mother die. First bullet had seared through the eleven-year-old’s heart; the second had spurted blood out of his dumbstruck mother’s head. Their bodies still lay lifeless on the street outside. The hounds who had taken their lives were now hunting for us. We could hear their shouts from the nearby houses and an odd round fired followed by a scream.

‘Mother will take out of here, Vera,’ I said in a trembling voice to my sister, holding her head tightly on my chest. In reply, she only continued to quiver.

‘None will escape the Tsar’s men,’ a husky voice startled us.

We jumped in panic. Two feet away from us sat an old man, trembling like us, hiding like us. The late afternoon light coming through a broken window was scanty enough to have hidden him from my eyes so far, but now that I had noticed him, I could see him well. A shrivel head stuck out of his fur coat. Sparse stubble sprouted out of the wrinkles on his face. A fur cap, like the ones we had worn, covered what was surely a bald head. His knees were drawn into his chest.

‘You don’t know my Mother. She will get us out of here,’ I said bravely, more to Vera than to the man.

‘None who follow Lord Emelya will live,’ he mumbled looking into abyss. His voice was rapped by fear. I did not understand the reason he said so, but that name… I used to hear it thousand times a year.

‘Net (no). My mother will take us out of here.’ I said angrily. He was scaring Vera more and more.

But the man paid no attention to me. He continued to mumble in a petrified manner. ‘This village will not see tomorrow’s –’

‘Shut up,’ I screamed fervently, and to some effect this time. Now that the man was shaken out of his trance, he observed us intently, as if to rid his mind of the hunters for a moment.
‘What happened to your father?’ he asked.
‘He is not in Ingrova. Gone to another village leading the troops,’ I answered, my voice now shivering a little less. Oddly, the old man’s company comforted me in a way. His manner wasn’t encouraging, but he was a grown up man after all.
‘What’s his name?’ the old man asked with a sudden glint in his eyes.
‘Lord Emelya,’ I answered hesitantly, fearing how the man might react to it. I now had an idea that it was my father who had brought the Tsar’s men upon the village. But the old man had nothing to do with it. He only observed us with shocked eyes. Perhaps, he did not know what to say. I looked away from his hopeless face.
‘Your mother must be dead by now,’ he said after a while. ‘Da. Yes, she’d be the first one to die. They must have taken her and… She must be dead.’
My heart stopped for a moment. That possibility had not occurred to me so far. Mother had been gone for at least fifteen minutes now. Many a rifle round had been fired during that.
Just then, the door of the storeroom creaked opened. A gentle but swift pair of feet came towards us.
The old man shrank in horror. ‘I thank you, Lord, for all that I was given. With what little time I am left with, I must repent all my sins….,’ he began whispering looking up. I had heard my grandfather say those words before going to sleep every night when he had been sick. It was one’s last prayer.
I hugged Vera tighter.
‘Ivan, Vera,’ mother’s voice came in a loud whisper and we immediately found ourselves in her tight embrace. I was relived greatly. Vera started sobbing as mother clutched her close while standing up. ‘Lord is gracious. You are safe. The soldiers have moved to the other part of village. I’ve made arrangements. We are leaving Ingrova right now. Come,’ she said to me.
‘You all will die,’ the old man spoke abruptly.
The voice startled mother. She looked at the old man alarmed, but calmed down as she noticed he wasn’t dangerous. ‘Come, Ivan,’ she said to me and started walking towards the door, then stopped. She looked at the old man. He was still sitting in the same posture.
‘You can come with us. You’ll be saved,’ she said to him, but he did not respond. ‘Soldiers will be here soon, to rob and burn the storeroom. They’ll show no mercy,’ Mother warned him inching towards the door. Grasping her fur coat, I remained close to her.
The old man only looked back, with terror in his eyes.
‘Come, Ivan.’ Mother did not waste another moment. Leaving the old man to his fate, we dashed out of the door and started climbing down the stairs.
‘Where are we going, Mat’?’ I asked Mother. Vera looked at me from over mother’s shoulder. Her small face was wet with tears and pale with fear. Strands of hair sprang out from under the rim of her fur cap and curled over her forehead and hazel eyes.
‘To the next village, dear.’
We stepped out under the darkening sky on a vacant, narrow street crisscrossing ahead through the closely huddled wooden huts. Snow that had been swept aside a couple hours ago bordered the road thickly. The gunshots and the shouts of the hunters had now moved to another corner of the village. We jogged away from them.
‘Are we going to Zanmotsa?’ I asked Mother as I hurried after her.
‘No dear, Zanmotsa would be no different than this town,’ Mother answered looking ahead. ‘Besides, that road would be crowded with the Tsar’s soldiers.’
‘Then where?’
‘To Nikrova. At your uncle’s place.’
I stopped in my tracks. Mother looked back and stopped to clutch my shoulder; we moved again. ‘We never go to Nikrova unless we are in a large group and travelling during the day.’ I said. The road to Nikrova went through a scary forest. All the horrible stories I had heard about it sprang in front of my eyes.
‘We have no other option,’ said Mother. ‘You’ll have to be brave tonight. And I am sure you’ll be.’
Her words perked me up a bit, but not much.
‘Opizdol ovca (idiot woman)!’ the voice of the old man startled us again. ‘None passes through the land of Mozoko at this hour. You’ll all die.’
We halted looking behind. The old man had been following us silently.
‘Do not despair us, Master,’ said Mother addressing the man respectfully. ‘I will save you if you come.’ Her tone was resolute and encouraging. But the old man’s face did not change.
Ushering me, Mother started walking again. The old man followed us.
‘How do you plan to leave the town? Every border gate must be watched by the enemy,’ he said.
‘I’ve made arrangements,’ was Mother’s only answer in a firm tone.
After trotting through the hushed lanes for about five minutes we came in front of a stone house, which I had been visiting since as long as I could remember. It belonged to farmer Teryosha, my father’s friend, whose daughter, Masha, two years younger to me, was my best friend. The door of the house was slightly ajar; mother pushed it open and we entered.
‘Is Masha coming with us, too?’ I asked stepping inside. The place felt stuffy.
Mother looked at me and put an arm around my shoulder. ‘Do not look around, Ivan, just follow me. Okay? We are going to the backyard to take Uncle Teryosha’s wagon.’ With those instructions delivered in a trembling voice, she closed Vera’s eyes and we crossed one dark room after another. The old man followed.
There was an eerie silence inside the house. Perhaps, Masha and her parents were hiding somewhere. How would they feel if we went on without taking them along? The thought disturbed me. Despite mother’s instruction, I looked around, and screamed when saw Masha’s mother lying dead near a table. Her apron was daubed with blood around her chest. Flies hummed around the blood stains, their sound ringing inside the dull and dark room.
‘It’s all right, Ivan,’ Mother shouted. Holding my arm, she pulled me out of the room hurriedly.
The old man laughed sardonically behind us. He had probably gone mad. ‘The whole family… that’s what they have finished. Mocit! Murdered,’ he shouted. ‘See that, see that. They didn’t spare the little girl. All dead.’
I never had a last look at Masha, but I knew she lay somewhere around, dead like Vladimir. My head spun. The old man’s words pounded inside my head. I would never see Masha again now. Her dead mother’s picture was as if fixed in front of my eyes. I couldn’t take all that. Looking at a hazy glow through the door opening into the backyard, I fainted.

The first thing I noticed after my return to consciousness was a strong headache, the second was a burning wagon in front of me… surely the one we meant to take along. The invaders had set it alight and taken away the horses. My hand was grabbed tightly by the small hands of Vera, with whom I was sitting on the doorstep. The old man, standing a few feet away from me, was looking at the blaze frantically, the fire dancing in his mad eyes. He was murmuring something under his breath, surely something I would not want to listen.
‘It’s not as grave as it looks,’ I heard mother call. She was returning from an old stable near the house. There was hope in her eyes and urgency in her manner. ‘They ignored a cart and a horse in the old stable. Come, help me,’ she called the old man to the stable. ‘We’ll be on our way soon.’
‘Just one horse and a cart, what use will that be?’ the man whimpered, but joined Mother nonetheless.
Vera and I walked towards the old stable. It was almost dark inside, but mother was already ushering out a tall and strong stallion, the black warhorse, whose neck Masha and I had caressed every time after hearing his heroic war stories told by Uncle Teryosha. The horse was called Aza. He was a valiant bearer. However, he was now old and had spent most of his time in the stable since last two years.
‘The horse looks just as old as I am, and I can’t lift a box of apples now,’ said the old man mockingly as he took Aza’s rein from Mother.
‘You’ve probably been a storeroom worker whole your life, Master, but Aza is a warhorse,’ said Mother. ‘I have full faith in him.’
‘I’ll take your word, Damy (lady), for both ways… the death is inevitable.’
Within next minute or so, Mother and the old man had harnessed Aza with the cart. It was an open cart, save only a large wicker sheet bent in the shape of a horseshoe acting as roof.
‘How now do you plan to breach the Gate?’ asked the old man after the cart had been led out in the open.
‘Wait a while,’ said Mother and disappeared inside the house.
When she returned, she had a box of cartridges held in both her hands and a long rifle hung around her shoulder. It wasn’t the first time I had seen her armed like that. Mother was one of the best aim-getters in the village. I had heard that mother’s very liking towards the game had been the reason my father had come to know her.
She placed the box in front of the cart and sat at the driver’s position taking the reins. ‘Mount,’ she said and we all climbed inside the cart through its rear.
‘This will not work,’ said the old man, but he settled himself in the cart nonetheless.
‘Vera will sit between the two men,’ said Mother addressing me as a man, which certainly boosted my morale.
The cart took off. The gate towards Nikrova wasn’t far. In two minutes it appeared before us. The watery road shining in twilight led us straight at it. The main purpose of the white wooden gate was to keep out the wild animals from the forest. There was a small sentry-hut aside the gate, which was probably unoccupied at the moment, or so it appeared because of the stillness around. The invaders had not bothered securing this end of the village, as it led to the forest no sane man would enter during night.
‘Put your heads down,’ said Mother and took aim at the bolt fastening the gate. The scanty light could hardly have helped her, but she probably trusted her judgement. Sitting right behind her with my back to the wicker wall, I lowered my head looking at the Gate.
The sound of the gunfire beat upon my eardrums, but the gate was unmoved. Vera burst out wailing. With a curse she would normally not utter in front of us, Mother grabbed another cartridge from the box and reloaded the gun. But while she did that, two armed soldiers, alerted by the gunfire, trotted out of the hut and took position in front of the gate. They raised their guns and aimed at us.
‘Stremno (dangerous),’ the old man whispered.
But having reloaded the cartridge in time, Mother’s gun sounded first, and one of the soldiers went down. The cart was close to the gate now.
The other soldier, somewhat disturbed by his friend’s fall, missed his target. His shot went right through the wicker sheet behind me. Mother’s gun was ready before the soldier’s to be fired again. I saw her take aim at the man, but then decided against it and shifted it at the gate. Her gun sounded and the gate clattered this time. The bolt broke and the gate opened leaving a small gap.
By the time the soldier’s rifle was reloaded, Aza had neared perilously close to him. At the last moment, he decided against shooting at us and jumped out of the cart’s way, loosing his rifle in the effort. The man rolled off the road and Aza fumed ahead through the gap between the two doors. We were jolted as the cart crashed the gate wide open. We were out of the village.
The man got back to his feet and came trotting on the road looking at us, ‘Go, go, die your own death,’ he shouted.
‘Paka, svoloc (goodbye, rascal),’ shouted the old man laughing. He was thrilled. ‘Obaldennyj (brilliant)!’
I tore my eyes away from him and looked at Mother.
‘Is everyone all right?’ she asked looking behind.
‘Yes, everyone,’ I answered.
Vera was still crying. The gunshots and the crash through the gate had badly scared her. The old man, who so far had been sitting rigidly, was now relaxed. He probably had been saying his prayers again while we were crossing the gate.
‘Did I not say I’ll get you out, Master?’ asked Mother sounding cheered up after the fall of the first hurdle.
‘There were only two men,’ said the old man, ‘but you did get us out, yes.’
‘And I will get you to the next village as well.’
‘I wish I could believe that. The realm of Mozoko appraches.’
‘You believe in that story?’
Oddly, the old man remained silent this time.

Soon, fear was creeping over me again. The tale of Mozoko would terrify every child in Ingrova. It was a legend some people strongly believed in. It went like this: Mozoko was a fiend of frost who would freeze people and feed upon their flesh. Then one day, a wizard defeated him inflicting magical fire upon him. Mozoko became vapour and retreated into the forest of Ingrova. There, from vapour he became mist. And since that day, whenever a traveller dared to go through the mist during night, Mozoko created the sculptures of brutal predators out of the mist, put life in them and set them upon the traveller.
Mother always said the story was just a tale. All the travellers that died in the forest were the victims of wild creatures. However, a lot of other people from Ingrova disagreed with this. But Mozoko or no Mozoko, the forest was deadly, and none disagreed with that.

As the chilly wind passed through the cart, I came out of my reverie. Hair beneath my woollen sleeves had gone all prickly. To shove away the creepy thoughts from my mind, I decided to speak. I asked Mother, ‘How long will it take us?’
But the old man spoke first, ‘To die? Not too long, not too long.’
‘Old Man,’ Mother shouted, ‘If you continue to discourage us, I should leave you here and proceed ahead.’
‘What difference will it make, Damy?’ asked the old man even more sarcastically.
Mother snorted and ripped her attention away from him. ‘Within six more hours, we’ll reach there, Ivan.’
‘I am hungry,’ said Vera in a weak voice. She had spoken for the first time since last one hour.
‘Oh dear, you’ll have to wait until we reach Uncle’s house,’ shouted Mother with the wind, but she was proved wrong instantly. The old man put a hand inside the large pocket of his jacket and fetched out some apples, which I could hardly recognize in the dark. ‘Have these,’ he said handing Vera two of them.
‘What’s that?’ asked mother looking behind.
‘Apples from the storeroom. Spizdit (stolen)! I carry them for my grandchildren every evening,’ said the old man. Trembling, his voice waned to a whisper as he said that.
Vera took the apples and noisily bit a large chunk out of one. The old man handed me a couple as well. Unsure whether Mother had permitted us to eat them, also not feeling hungry at all, I kept them in my hand.
Suddenly, the old man drew his knees close to him and started crying loudly looking up at the sky, letting out a long wail.
That scared Vera and she moved closer to me.
‘They’re all dead,’ the man shouted sobbing loudly. ‘They’re all dead,’ he repeated in a whisper after a while, then continued crying for some more time.
‘Are my children not like your grandchildren, Master?’ asked Mother tenderly.
The old man and observed us through watery eyes for a while. ‘Eat them, child,’ he said to me kindly.
I obliged at once. That probably made him feel better. He looked out of the cart at the dark and looming spruce trees falling behind us.

Some time later, I heard him shriek all of a sudden. ‘There comes the death,’ he said forcing himself into the wagon cramming us.
With a jolt of fear I looked at the road behind us, which looked much clearer now under the moonlight. As I spotted what feared the old man, my heart went cold and limbs lifeless. There was a pack of wolves racing after us. At least five of them, each one of them easily larger than the biggest dogs in Ingrova, and each seeming as ferocious as the invaders we had faced some time ago. Howling and growling they approached, reducing the gap speedily.
Vera began crying loudly and the old man started saying his prayer again. I myself wasn’t much in a different state. The way the wolves ran after at us, the moment wasn’t far when they would be leaping inside the wagon.
‘Calm down, Vera,’ shouted Mother over the wind whistling through the cart. ‘Don’t worry.’ Mother’s voice trembled, but it hadn’t lost its vigour. ‘Father, take the reins,’ she shouted stepping hazardously inside the bounding and sprinting cart. ‘Take the reins I say,’ she shouted.
The old man finally unfroze and looked at her, his eyes a pool of terror. He did as he was told. As soon as he took the reins and occupied the place Mother had vacated, Mother took the rifle in her hands and loaded it with a cartridge. Then she kneeled and fired a round. The sound shook the jungle, birds taking of from the trees and filling the night with loud clamour. One wolf went down, its body skidding ahead to a stop on the turf. Scared, his partners slowed down and stopped. More than their companion’s death, I think it was the sound that had feared them. Standing where they were, they howled at us till we lost them.
‘See, there wasn’t much to worry,’ said Mother putting down the gun. She took Vera into a tight embrace with one hand and pulled me close with the other. She was breathing hard.
‘That was just an ordinary pack then,’ the old man’s words floated through the cart. ‘Not Mozoko’s.’

For the next three hours or so, the old man reined the cart silently. Sitting close to us Mother told us stories of valour and greatness. At first her tales hardly attracted me, but then I listened to them with some attention. However, the persistent fear of being attacked again was there all the time. Every now and then the distant howls of wolves coming from every corner of the jungle would clench away our courage, but Mother would restore it, saying, ‘Did you notice, Vera, no wolf answered the howls from anywhere near us, which means there are no wolves around. We are safe.’
Despite the road falling back and hours flying by, my anxiety was increasing. I was hoping hard that the journey ended without any further trouble.

As we descended down a hill after some time, the forest around us got thicker. Mother said, ‘Just a half an hour now, children.’
But just then something happened that we would not have expected at all. The wagon suddenly slowed down and stopped completely giving us a jolt. I feared that Aza might have burnt all his strength.
‘What’s the matter?’ Mother asked tensed, but the old man didn’t answer. Mother repeated the same question getting onto her knees to look ahead. The old man did not answer this time as well, but from Mother’s face I grasped that she had spotted something really bad.
‘What is it?’ I asked looking ahead over the old man’s shoulder, but I could see nothing dangerous. In fact, I couldn’t see the road ahead of us at all. I wondered why; the moonlight was fair behind us. Then it struck me. The road ahead was shrouded by mist.
‘If you make the horse pause longer, he might not pick up strength again,’ Mother warned the old man.
The vivid images from my father’s stories of Mozoko began dancing in front of my eyes. I paid no attention to the panting and slumping Aza. However, Mother noticed it and jumped down from the cart, then looked around for something.
‘There is a puddle there,’ she said and walked around the wagon up to Aza. She took the horse by his belt and guided him, and the wagon with him, to the little water reservoir aside the road. The horse drank gladly.
‘We are going to Nikrova, and we are going to make it,’ Mother turned to us and spoke in a tone so sharply resolute that even the old man seemed to loose his fear for a moment. ‘This mist, no matter what stories are told about it, cannot stop me from restoring my children to the safety. But I need everyone to be brave.’
I felt myself conquering some of my fear. Some strength returned to my weakened legs. Even Vera, who had become a lump of flesh as soon as Mother had gone out of the wagon, stirred somewhat.
After Aza was done and rested for whatever meagre amount of time, Mother guided him back on the road and got in.
‘Start now, Father,’ said Mother sharply, ‘We’ll be inside a warm house before the next half-hour is over. That is all that remains of this journey.’
The old man set Aza moving and we entered the mist.

That part of the forest as though existed in a different world altogether. The air around us was still and intimidating, and a lot colder. The mist, closing in on us as we moved ahead, disallowed us a view of the surroundings farther than a few feet. The sounds of our cart which moved slowly due to the mist shrouded turns ahead were the only sign of life.
We remained silent for many a minute, throwing nervous glances around.
‘Soon we’ll come to a straight road. We’ll be faster then,’ said Mother, but even she sounded nervous now. Perhaps, there was something in the air that stole courage from everyone.
After a while, the old man broke the silence speaking loudly. ‘O father of frost, the lord of mist, forgive us, we dare not pass your realm, but we have to.’ His voice had an eerie sound to it.
‘Do not say that, Father,’ Mother warned him, but he continued.
‘We mean no offence. We mean simply to pass…’
‘I said, stop saying that.’
‘Ignore us as feeble beings, insignificant…’
‘You will raise the fiend if it is asleep,’ Mother shouted. The words had an instant effect on the old man, but the silence wasn’t restored.
‘So you believe in the legend, then?’ he asked in a deep and grave voice.
‘According to the story you must pass silently. If you are fortunate, you escape. According to the story,’ said Mother. ‘If you believe it, be silent. I want silence because noise seems unnatural in these surroundings. It does not seem correct to do so.’
‘But you believe in the story, don’t you?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Do not say such words here, ovca,’ the old man shouted. ‘Do not offend the Lord of the mist. You will set upon us the wrath of Mozoko.’
‘Oh I won’t,’ Mother shouted back. ‘Nothing will happen even if I-’
But Mother did not finish her sentence. Suddenly, a clamour of birds rose in the forest around us. We went silent as statues, looking around. Our eyes tried in vain to penetrate the thick walls of the mist around and look at what stirred beyond. Instinctively, the old man whipped Aza and the cart picked up speed.
Followed by the din of disquieted birds came a sound of dead leaves churning beneath several feet, or, probably, claws. The old man started whispering his prayer. Mother released her grip on us and picked up the gun, then pulled the box of cartridges closer to her and loaded the weapon. All the while I was just staring into the mist.
And then finally… it began.
Several ferocious wolves, much larger than the previous lot, broke out from the mist and fell behind us on the road. Several red eyes gleamed in the scanty moonlight. Several woolly throats let out terrorising wails. Several claws tore the turf beneath us.
‘Hold your nerves! We’ll get away,’ Mother shouted, and her gun roared. But the sound of it was easily muffled by the ferocious cries of the hunters behind us. One wolf, nonetheless, faltered back into the mist.
But this pack was different. Instead of slowing down, instead of retreating like the previous lot, they took up an even fiercer manner and chased harder. More of them appeared from the mist. The gap closed speedily.
‘That’s it. They are Mozoko’s creatures,’ shouted old man whipping Aza hard. ‘Formed out of the mist.’
Surprisingly, this time, the old man hadn’t lost all his courage, and it was relieving in a way. But the relief was barely palpable under the terror that had now seized me.
‘We have enough bullets to last them all,’ said Mother as she reduced one more wolf from the pack, but only to further close the gap and increase their number. More wolves kept emerging and I began doubting Mother’s calculation. From what I could see, there could not have been more than ten cartridges in the box now, but the wolves, save those still hidden by mist, were easily twenty.
Just then, I noticed Vera had gone unconscious. I pulled her closer to me. Her hands were cold, a lot colder than they had ever been. I shook her and started rubbing her palms. Tears welled up in my eyes. But despite the tears and the terror outside, my hands hadn’t gone weak. I wished I had a weapon too.
Mother’s rifle kept roaring, the wolves kept falling down, but they kept nearing us as well, chasing relentlessly, as though hunting us down was what they were born for. By the time Mother had reduced six of them, the leading wolf passed ahead of the cart, its front feet flapping on the rear as it sprinted, its body soaring.
The rifle brought down another wolf, the one right behind the leader.
‘Vypizdit (kill it)! This one is death,’ the old man cried loudly, as the wolf leading the pack neared perilously close to Aza. The horse increased speed, but just when it seemed that the chaser might fall behind, the wolf showed the limitations of an old horse pulling a cart full of people. It leaped in the air launching its jaw full of knives at Aza’s throat. But the wolf never succeeded.
The barrel of Mother’s gun sounded from right over the old man’s shoulder and cut short the wolf’s flight. Its body came down and got trampled under the wooden wheels of our cart. I saw the twitching wolf go back over the road as though carried by a strong river current from beneath a bridge. Another wolf, who had readied itself to leap inside the cart tripped over its dead comrade’s body and crashed into the ground, giving Mother sufficient time to reload the gun again.
After nine shots there were still about ten to twelve wolves behind us, but they were now lagging behind somewhat. However, worry over Mother’s face was increasing. She lowered the gun as the wolves were not going to get near us for at least another few moments. My attention went to the box of cartridges. I noticed that the box had almost been emptied. I feared to lean closer and count the exact number of cartridges remaining.
That was precisely when the old man did something he hadn’t done the whole evening. He shouted something that encouraged us. ‘The lights of Nikrova,’ he shouted with excitement. ‘Just five more minutes and the forest falls behind.’
I looked ahead. The mist was finally relenting, unveiling the tiny specks glowing a mile away. Our hopes soared. Mother raised the gun again and another wolf went back into the thinning mist. Her gun bellowed twice more and then, finally, went silent.
The distance between us and the chasers, seemed to expand, but only for a few moments. Then, the wolves probably understood why they weren’t falling down anymore. And so they decided to give one final thrust and doubled up their ferocity, reaching for us with all their might.
We looked anxiously at the lights of Nikrova, but now they seemed a minute too far. Tired and almost spent Aza did his best, but that did not seem enough.
‘Why aren’t you shooting them down? We are just minutes away,’ the old man shouted, but when mother did not answer he looked behind. Mother’s still but calm posture and the laid down gun told him the reason. He looked at the wolves and then hopelessly looked ahead at Nikrova.
‘There is another way,’ said Mother, more to herself than us, her voice suddenly positive. She looked at the old man and said, ‘keep moving, Master, I m going to keep my word.’
The wolves were now just a few feet away.
‘Ivan,’ Mother said to me suddenly, in her ever strong and vigorous tone, ‘Look ahead at those lights, and keep looking at them… until we reach there. If you do so, we will be saved.’
‘How?’ I asked edgily.
‘Just do it, dear,’ she said.
It did sound weird but I did as I was told.
She then kissed the unconscious Vera on her cheek and me on my head, her palm caressing my face affectionately. A tear fell on my head. And then… a jolt shook us and the cart lightened.
I heard a body fall out, the wolves stop the chase and then… a painful grunt leave Mother’s throat followed by the victorious snarls of the wolves. My jaw was clenched and throat stuffed with a cry I wasn’t letting out. I forgot Mother’s final instruction and looked back at the road, but by then all was lost in the mist.

***