The Wolf Wilder by Katherine Rundell
“How long do you need to cook jackdaw for?” she asked. “A minute?”
“An hour?” said Ilya.
“Five hours?” said Alexei.
“We’ll just have to taste it until it’s ready,” said Ilya.
“I volunteer to do the tasting,” said Alexei.
None of them had ever cooked a jackdaw, but Ilya had read a story in which it had been done on sticks. “Fictional food’s not reliable,” Alexei objected, but Feo agreed with Ilya. They cut half the bird into slices and held them on sticks in the flickering tips of the flames, and the other half, still in a lump, they placed in the burning heart of the fire.
Feo threw a few scraps to the wolves on the sly.
The meat from the hot center of the flames kept catching fire and having to be blown out.
“I think it’s ready,” said Ilya. “It looks cooked. It just doesn’t look much like meat anymore.”
Feo licked a chunk. It was vile on the outside, tasting of charcoal and stray feathers, but inside it only tasted blank. She and Ilya squatted side by side for warmth. Alexei lay on his back on the other side of the fire. Every mouthful took fifty chews. After forty chews Feo’s jaws mutinied against her, and she spat it out into the snow.
“I think,” said Ilya, “we marginally overdid this one.”
The meat from the top of the flames took much longer to cook, and Feo’s arm was aching by the time she thought her slice might be done. She pulled it off the stick with her teeth. It oozed a little blood, but it tasted magnificent, like a bolder kind of pigeon. It kicked energy into Feo’s heart. It was rich and soft and the juice ran down Feo’s chin. She fended Black away before he could lick it off. He was wearing a jackdaw’s feather over one eye.
Alexei kicked snow over the fire, and White peed on it, and they went on. Feo and Ilya walked, not quite hand in hand, but close enough that their arms bumped against each other, their ears still full of the resentful growls of the wolves.
“Keep your cloak wrapped tight, Ilya,” said Alexei. “Don’t let people see your uniform.”
Ilya nodded, laughing awkwardly, and wrapped his cloak so tightly around his shoulders that his neck turned blue.
Feo sniffed the air. “It smells all right,” she said. “I think I like it.”
“It smells of food,” said Ilya. “I definitely like it.”
The village was tiny: just a few rows of houses with thin roads between them and a square in the center. The square had a fire burning in a stone trough, where a few children were warming their hands. The houses were small, but each had thick white smoke coming out of the chimney. The square was swept almost free of snow; it was paved with slabs of stone. Someone, long ago, had painted them sun yellow and red. The red had faded to pink. They shone out, like a sunrise. It was a cheering sight.
“Yana did that,” said Alexei, pointing at the stone. “She’s my cousin. My uncle Grigory smacked her for it.”
There was a huddle of women, their heads wrapped in scarves, laughing over something in the street. The sun shone through their shawls and cast colored shadows onto the snow. There were men leaning on doors, arguing.
And their beards were quite amazing. Feo had met few men, and none of them had had a beard like these. You could have hidden a family of mice in the smallest; the largest, which bristled down to the man’s hip bone, could have sheltered at least two medium-size cats. They had worn hands with chipped nails, and some were missing teeth. They seemed to have intelligent faces, as far as she could see. It was hard to tell under the beards.
Alexei waved at a man with a high-necked blue jacket and muddied trousers. “Uncle Grigory!”
The man approached. “Alexei! It’s good to see you alive. We wondered.” He looked at the two children next to Alexei, who were trying to look brave and unobtrusive at the same time. Ilya pointed a toe and studied it.
“Who are these?”
Strangers made Feo’s tongue slow, so Alexei did the talking and Feo did the staring.
“Uncle Grigory, we need help. Rakov’s coming after us.”
“What have you done now, idiot boy?”
“Barely anything! But we need somewhere to sleep. Just for a single night. You can help, can’t you, Grigory?”
Perhaps because the man was huge, almost twice the height of Feo and three times as wide, his silence felt enormous. Feo stared at him. His face was unreadable, partly because there was so much beard to negotiate, but partly because his eyebrows and nostrils and mouth and forehead—the places humans let emotion leak out—were absolutely still.
When he did speak, it was not encouraging. “These wouldn’t be the child felons? Not the half-grown witches who blinded Rakov?”
“That wasn’t me,” said Ilya. “It was her!”
Feo mouthed, Thanks a lot. She redoubled her efforts to look innocent, but she wasn’t absolutely sure how it was done.
The man grunted. “You, girl? That doesn’t surprise me. You’ve a face that says there’s a knife in your shoe.”
“We just wanted to know,” Feo whispered, “if you could give us some food.”
Grigory turned to Alexei. “Is this another of your schemes?” he said.
Alexei grinned, impervious. “It might be.” He grasped Grigory by the elbow. “Listen! She’s got Rakov on the back foot—he’s frightened of her—and I think she could persuade people to fight.”
“She’ll do nothing of the kind,” said Grigory. He gave her a glare, and Feo ducked to get out of its way. “You see that house?” He gestured to one of the buildings. Its door was swinging drunkenly off its hinges. “That was Alexander’s house: a good man. Rakov took him last week. And my Paul before. Have you forgotten, Alexei? We do nothing to make it worse. Nothing.”
“Come on, Grigory!” said Alexei. The grin wavered, but stayed in place. “Don’t be like that. Feo’s barely met another human before; you’ll put her off grown-ups for life. Look—if people want to listen, that’s their own business.”
The older man’s eyes were neither kind nor patient. “If we are punished for your folly, that is more than your own business.”
But a cluster of men had approached, and one leaned forward out of the group. His hair was gray, but his voice was colorful and rich. “Is this the girl? The one who blinded the general? I say we listen to them,” he said. “No harm in listening. Alexei’s a child, not a wizard. We don’t lose control of our brains by listening.”
Alexei seemed entirely unconcerned by the growing crowd, by the size of the men, by their hostile eyes, by their beards. Feo and Ilya edged behind him. The eyes followed.
“Thank you, Nikolai,” said Alexei. “All I want is for you to listen!”
“I can’t take much more of Alexei talking,” said Grigory. “My ears tire easily these days.”
“But it’s different now! Rakov’s obsessed! He’s not thinking like a general: He’s unhinged—or at least unhinging! This is the time!”
The gray-haired man turned and called to a cluster of men down the street. “Call a meeting,” he said. “Yvgeny! Alix!”
Grigory sighed. “Call a meeting, then. You!” Grigory pointed at Alexei. “You, come. But no strangers: That’s the law. Leave them in the square. And if they do any damage to the village, I hold you responsible.”
Adults started coming out of the wooden houses, wiping their hands on their trousers, putting on caps against the cold. Children followed them, staring hard.
The adults, as they passed Feo, glanced first at her red cloak, then at the ice and dirt around the hem of her skirt. Feo tried to look like filthy clothes were in fashion where she came from. She tried to look taller.
“Come on. Let’s sit down.” Ilya took her by the hand and they retreated to the oak tree in the middle of the square and sat down against it, blowing on their hands for warmth.
The children gathered in a semicircle. They were all beautifully clean, dressed in thick boiled wool. There were about twenty of them, the oldest at leas
“Who are you?” said one.
Feo looked at each face in turn. They were not friendly, but nor were they unkind. Wary, mostly.
“Why are they calling a meeting? Is it about you?”
Feo shrugged. “I think so.”
“What have you done?” A boy of about eight, with a gap where his two front teeth should be, stared at them. “Have you murdered someone?”
“No!”
“Stolen something?” He looked hopefully at her bag.
“No.”
The eldest of the girls stared hard. “Broken the law?”
Feo was about to say, “No!” when she remembered Rakov’s swollen, lividly angry face. She shrugged again.
Ilya said, “We just needed to know some things about Saint Petersburg. She’s just passing through. We’re all just passing through.”
“What all?” said the boy. “There’s two of you.”
Feo glared at Ilya. “He’s not good with grammar.”
Another girl kicked a little snow at them. “So, what do you want?”
“I’m going to find my mother. She was arrested.”
“For murder?” said the gap-toothed boy. The hope was sharp in his voice.
“No!” said Feo. “I mean—sorry, still no. For nothing. She’s done nothing. But—”
“But that doesn’t stop people getting arrested,” said a blond girl. “We know that. Being innocent isn’t any protection.”
Feo nodded. “I’m not absolutely . . . not exactly absolutely innocent. The man who took my mother—I damaged him. A bit.”
The boy’s eyes lit up. “Did you—”
“No. I—what’s your name?”
“Sergei. And that’s my little sister, Clara.” He indicated a five-year-old with a wide smile and a runny nose.
“Then, Sergei, I promise to tell you if ever I murder anyone. But he’s angry. Because, I don’t know, he thinks it’s embarrassing to be hurt by a girl.”
The eldest girl squared her shoulders. She was big, with plump knees and strong arms. “That’s not clever,” she said. “Not clever at all.”
Feo grinned at her, trying not to let the shyness in her chest make her smile go odd. Older children always made her shy. Smiling and shyness together were difficult: It made her nostrils hurt.
Another child—a girl younger than Feo and with wide-set eyes—pushed forward.
“What was his name? The man who took your mother?”
“Rakov. General Mikail Rakov.”
The hush that fell on the children was sudden, and solemn. They glanced at Sergei and at the eldest of the girls. Mouths pursed and fists clenched.
“Oh,” said Sergei. He sounded half proud, but his eyes were miserable. “We know about him. Don’t we, Yana?”
“Yes. He took our brother Paul,” said the eldest girl, “to be in the army. But Paul didn’t want to—he ran away.”
Sergei screwed up his face and, under pretense of itching his eyebrows, dug his fists into his eyes.
“What happened?” said Ilya. His voice was flat. He sounded as if he had already guessed.
“He died, didn’t he?” said Yana. “Rakov shot him.”
“What?” said Feo. “Is that . . . I mean, how is that allowed?”
“I don’t know. He did it, though. They tried to take Alexei, too—that’s our cousin.”
“We’ve met him,” said Feo.
“They tried to take him, but he fought them. He’s fast, you see. And he kicked them in the—well, anyway.”
“In the bits!” said Sergei. “He did!”
Yana nodded. “He went to hide with his sister. She’s ten years older, and she’d bite the head off a wolf to protect him.”
“Why would Rakov shoot your brother, though? What had he done?”
“Nothing!” said Sergei. “He hadn’t even killed anyone.”
Feo glanced at Yana, who nodded over Sergei’s head. “He’s right. Paul did nothing: He was just nice, and big, and a bit slow sometimes. I don’t know. If you make it random, nobody’s safe, are they? So everyone’s afraid. Maybe Rakov likes that.” Yana seemed to come to a decision. She hiked her skirt higher on her waist. “If you’re Rakov’s enemy, you’re my friend. Even if you are just a kid. Do you need food?” said Yana.
“We do, quite badly. Do you have something we could carry easily? Bread, or cheese?” Some of the children were nodding. One or two of them were smiling, or at least staring unblinkingly in a more friendly way.
“What are the adults deciding, then?”
Feo shook her head. “Alexei wants them to fight.”
“Rakov?”
“Yes. But it’s not much to do with me—I’m going to do what I’m going to do.”
“Are you going to fight?” said Yana. “I would.”
“I don’t know,” said Feo. “It wasn’t in the plan. But some of the things Alexei said . . . I’m thinking about it.”
It was then, with truly terrible timing, that the pup decided to pee. Wolf urine has a strong smell, and the day was clear and windless. Everyone, like a chorus, sniffed.
Feo groaned. She reached down her top and fished out the ball of damp fur. He was still peeing.
“Ugh!” she said. “Oh, lapushka. You could have warned me.” Her front was spattered with pee. “Ugh.”
Every child, as though in a carefully choreographed ballet, took two steps backward.
“All right, little one,” said Feo. She squatted down and held him at arm’s length, and when he was finished, she wiped her hands on the snow. The wolf gave a short, sharp howl. It was small and shrill, but unmistakably wolflike.
The children were already staring bug eyed. Now, suddenly, their stares became thick and cold.
“Is that a wolf?”
“Yes,” Feo admitted. “But only a very small amount of one.” The watching eyes were very hard. She covered him with her hair and held him close.
“You’re that wolf girl!” said someone at the back. “We heard about you. There’s money on your head.”
“What?” Feo tried to sound calm, but her eyes flicked left and right, looking for an escape route. “Is there?”
“A lot of money. They said you’re not to be trusted. You’re a witch.”
“Who said that?”
“A soldier came through the village yesterday to tell us to look out for her. For you. We should hand her in!”
Feo felt sick rising in her throat, but she got slowly to her feet. “Do you want to come closer and say that?”
Ilya scrambled up and stepped in front of her. She was astonished to see the anger in his face. “Yes, they’re looking for her! But those soldiers don’t just want her. They want the wolves, too. To kill them. Anyone who hands us in is a murderer.” He took the pup from Feo and held him out.
The pup was growing daily—when he sat in Ilya’s cupped hands, his legs and tail spilled over the sides. He paddled with his paws.
Clara let out a sigh through her nose, and a button of snot flew out and landed on the pup’s face. He ate it. Sergei clapped.
Ilya looked from child to child. “Do you want to be on the side of people who believe he’s not worth anything?”
There was a very elaborate silence.
Then: “He looks hungry,” said Yana. “Does he want some milk? I can get him a cupful.”
Ilya glanced at Feo, who nodded. “Milk,” he said grandly, “would be gratefully received.”
But as he spoke the pup jumped—more like a cat than a wolf—and landed, twisting, in the snow, hissing. As Feo scrabbled to pick him up, she heard screams, and cloaks flicked past her face as the children tore back up the long street to their homes.
“What’s going on?”
“Something over there,” said Ilya, and then, as what they were running from
At the far end of the road were three horses, and on them three men. They stood, fairy-tale tall, sniffing the air.
Feo ducked behind the tree, scooping up the pup, pouring him down her shirt, trying to muffle his protests. Fear had turned her fingers wet and weak: She unsheathed her knife, dropped it. Ilya stood in full view, his eyes wide.
“Hide!” She reached out, seized his leg, dragged him around the back of the tree trunk.
The men were coming closer. As they edged out of the glare of the sun, Feo saw them more clearly. Their jackets were not gray. They were shabby men with brown cloaks. Their shoes leaked toes.
Ilya let out a sigh of relief that ruffled his fringe. “Requisitioners! Feo, they’re not soldiers!”
“What are requisitioners?” Feo stayed firmly behind her tree.
“Servants of soldiers. Rakov sends them through the villages to collect food and animals.”
“Who for?”
“For the army.”
“That’s stealing!” said Feo.
“Well, they don’t call it that.”
“They should! Otherwise it’s lying and stealing. So . . . they’re not looking for us?”
“I don’t see how they could be. They just go from village to village, you know. They’re not very important. There’s hundreds of them, though. People call them Rakov’s locusts. Didn’t they ever come to your house?”
“I suppose they were afraid of us. Wolves have that effect on some people.”
The horses came at a walk into the square.
“Where are the men?” called one of the riders.
The doors of the houses stayed shut. There was a crunch of slamming bolts.
Then, just as Feo was letting out a great sigh of relief, Yana stepped out of the largest house, holding a cup filled to the brim with milk in both hands. She froze as she saw the men.
“Where’s your father, my lovely?” said the rider. He was a broad-shouldered man, with a large mole between his eyebrows.
“At—at the meeting.”
“Get him, then, my sweet, won’t you?” He leered at Yana, showing teeth colored a variety of different browns. “Tell the men we’re working under Rakov’s orders. We’ve got a list, shows what’s owed by each village. In your case that’s a hundred kilos of grain. Twenty kilos of meat. And I wouldn’t say no to a kiss, if you’ve got one going spare.”