WoolfRenaissance

In a far-off land, trapped in an old-growth forest hiding scattered smoking stone chimneys and thatched roofs sunken in snow, a spectral apparition with dark eyes and an unnaturally pale complexion, wearing nothing but a diaphanous overgown, trudged barefoot through the deep snowdrifts, following a trail of footprints leading to the railway. When her eyes found her lost child in the distance, her lifeless lips parted in a fierce whisper, “Tanya…”

High in the dawning sky thick, leaden clouds shed their fleeces. A low, piercing wind swept snow flurries along the solitary railway that meandered through pine woods and black locust groves thick with rime spreading across rocky hills and secluded valleys studded with frozen lakes, as a pathway to civilisation across the wintry kingdom.

Up on the snow-buried platform of the rural train station, a young country woman shivered with cold, cloaked in soft snow, waiting alone for the late train from Kostomuksha. Gusts of wind beflaked and lashed her from behind, biting through her coat, incessantly tugging at her heavy woollen skirts.

The distant train horns and angry pounding of pistons startled a conspiracy of ravens, which took wing at once, clustering above the sullen, ice-choked Kokolanyoky River.

Beneath the thick white blanket, the metal snakes began to hum.

The country girl hugged herself, her hands aching inside hand-knit mittens. “It is the train,” she whispered to herself, hoping it was the train.

The ground quaked, and a black nuclear-powered locomotive encrusted with hoarfrost approached the barren station, ploughing through unbroken, flawless drifts, sending roiling plumes of powder snow flooding across the platform. Tatyana Ilyinichna turned and lost her balance, and the cold wave buried her, as she sank into the freezing sea of white flakes.

The wagons rumbled and shrieked as they slowed, billows of steam rolling from under their skirts crusted with mud-streaked ice and freshly torn snow, until the submerged, indistinguishable wheels ground to a halt.

A deafening silence fell, and through it she could make out the wind again, howling and sweeping loose snow across the platform. The young woman fought her way up from the cold, wet snowdrift, her hands and fingers stiff and raw with pain inside the mittens.

Apprehensive, almost terrified, she edged toward the metal door looming high above her, her body trembling with cold and rising dread. The drifting vapours venting from the train touched her face with a damp chill that felt colder than the wind.

Tatyana glanced at the black wagon and its dark, funereal windows, and a sudden reluctance seized her heart. As she hastily brushed thick clumps of snow from her coat and the shawl wrapped over her head, a metallic clang made her flinch.

A well-groomed middle-aged man in a spotless ash-grey suit leaned into the wind pushing the door wide open. His gaze settled on the country girl with a hint of curiosity before he held out his arm towards her.

“Davaite,” he muttered in Russian, “Come,” as the rising steam drifted between them.

Still hesitating, Tatyana Ilyinichna grasped his wrist with one hand, and seized the handle inside the door with the other, pulling herself up whilst balancing her makeshift bag against her midriff. Her boot slipped on the uneven crust of trampled ice set into the grated steps concealed beneath loose snow, but the guard’s grip kept her from falling back onto the platform. For a fleeting moment an old village superstition sparked in her mind: if you are hurt whilst setting out, turn back home. The pain in her knee throbbed where it had struck the steel ledge, but the railway worker’s steady hold and quiet encouragement overcame her instinctive urge to pull away. Carried by his momentum, she stepped up and into the vestibule.

The warm, clean smell filled her senses. She had no memory of ever stepping onto the train before, although she had listened to its whistle early every morning since childhood, and had glimpsed its thin, black, serpent-like shape slipping through the trees from afar more than once with her friend Irishka, when the two of them would cross the black locust wood together against her grandparents’ wishes. It was in that part of the forest that the train struck Irishka, not long after her grandparents had sought to separate them.

“Kylmä on tänäp,” the guard muttered in Vepsian. (“It is cold today.”)

The words pulled her gently from her drifting thoughts, from the quiet, almost cautious way she had been taking in the carriage. The young countrywoman looked at him, meeting a pair of impassive eyes that gave nothing back.

“Pajatadko vepsän kelet?” he asked. (“Do you speak Veps?”) There was a trace of warmth in his voice, but not in his gaze—pale grey and distant, lingering on her with a quiet scrutiny, as though weighed against the vivid green of her eyes.

“Vähän,” she murmured. (“A little.”)

He studied her, then tried again somewhat more carefully, “Kust’ sin oled? Khiytolast?” (“Where are you from? Khiytola?”)

Tatyana nodded. “Ka.” (“Yes.”)

He hesitated, unsure, as though searching her for a sign that would set his mind at ease. “Sin nägud nuor... Üksin matkustad? Kuinka vanh oled?” (“You look young... Are you travelling alone? How old are you?”)

“Minä olen viisitoist,” she murmured—quietly, rather. (“I’m fifteen.”)

The middle-aged man frowned, smoothing his blond beard, streaked with grey, between thumb and forefinger. “Kudamb nimi?” (“What is your name?”)

“Tatyana Ilyinichna Yudina,” the girl replied.

The guard looked at her with a measuring curiosity that made her slightly uneasy. “En anna sinule lippua,” he declared, as though settling the matter for himself as much as for her. (“I won’t cut you a ticket.”) “Hüväd matkad. Mene istu lämpimäh paikka.” (“Have a good journey. Go find yourself a warm seat inside.”) He then hurried to add, switching to Russian, as if to be sure she would fully understand, “Bud’ ostorozhna v bol’shom gorode… Ty kazhesh’sya khorosho vospitannoy.” (“Be careful in the big city… You seem like a well-brought-up young woman.”)

“Tänan,” Tatyana replied in Vepsian. (“Thank you.”) Her answer came a touch more firmly than she intended.

The man stepped down from the train and scrutinised the platform, first to his left, then to his right, before he blew his heavy brass whistle. The shrill blast cut through the whispering wind.

He climbed back onto the carriage and pulled at the cold steel handle, but the ice-bound hinges held the door fast, stubbornly forcing it ajar. He muttered a curse at the cold and the wind, then yanked harder, his brass whistle knocking dully against the frosted glass.

He crossed himself, as though to ward off the ill omen, then bent to peer through the square window as the train jolted and began to move with a slow drag. He felt diminished—almost bowed—whilst the great iron body bore him safely on through the untamed forces beyond the glass.

(To Be Continued)