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"Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate"


Chapter 1
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 1

By tfawcus

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.

The blast came at dawn. Smoke curled against the sky. When it cleared, Dmitri discovered he was still breathing. He stretched out his hand to touch Mira. She took it and squeezed it.
 
‘Phew! That one was close,’ she said. ‘Are you okay?’
 
He opened one eye. The first rays of the sun illuminated his sister’s ash-smeared face and hair. Smoke swirled around her head. She looked like the angel of death as she raised herself from the rubble and crouched over him.
 
‘Well? Are you?’
 
He groaned, clutching his stomach melodramatically.
 
‘Bastard! Come on. Let’s get out of here.’
 
He followed her laughter down the rubble-strewn street. Half-crouched as they ran, they were like shadows in a puppet theatre. Twins. Two teenagers whose hearts beat as one. They spoke in glances and whispers, sharing everything — scraps of food, a blanket against the cold, and the grief buried deep in their gut.
 
Without Mira, he was nothing. She wasn’t just his sister; she was the flame that fanned his embers. Quick to joke, quicker to fight, she had once chased off a soldier with a handful of stones and a curse in their mother tongue. He never knew where she learned such bravery, but he understood the rage. They lived as best they could in this place whose buildings had been reduced to debris and dust. What one lacked, the other carried. What one feared, the other defied.
 
At the end of the street, Mira pulled him into a shop doorway and pointed. Smoke from evil-smelling cigarettes lingered in the air. Not thirty metres away, three soldiers stood talking. Their weapons leant haphazardly against the railings, and they had the look of men who had been through hell and come out barely alive. Gaunt faces, hollow eyes, and laughter a touch too loud to conceal their frayed nerves. She had seen that type before. In her experience, they were harmless.
 
Dmitri had scarcely caught his breath when she was off again. Signalling with the flat of her hand for him to stay out of sight, she strode confidently into the street towards them. A burly, red-headed corporal glanced up. He spat and ground his cigarette into the dust, and winked at his companions.
 
‘Here comes a bit of sport.’
 
They waited until she was a dozen paces away.
 
‘Well, well, what have we here? You’re a brazen young hussy if ever there was one.’
 
She held out her hands in supplication. ‘Got any food, mister?’ she whined.
 
‘Whatcha got in exchange then, my pretty?’
 
She looked at him coyly and hitched her dress above the knee.
 
Meanwhile, Dmitri edged out from the doorway, and like a wraith, he skirted round behind them.
 
Mira brushed a strand of hair from her face and pouted.
 
‘Right, you little minx, you’ve asked for it.’ The corporal lunged forward to grab her.
 
She stepped sideways with the grace of a ballet dancer and stuck her foot out. He went sprawling across the pavement and landed in the gutter with an oath. His companions roared with laughter but were brought up short by a click behind them.
 
They spun around to find Dmitri facing them with a gun at his shoulder and his eye lined up with the sight.
 
They froze.
 
Dmitri's hands were steady.
 
‘Don’t move,’ he said.
 
The corporal had already pushed himself up and was brushing gravel from his elbows. His eyes narrowed. ‘You little tyke!’
 
‘Bend down slowly and leave any food you have on the pavement,’ Dmitri said. ‘Now.’
 
The youngest, a lad in his mid-twenties, slowly reached into his satchel and withdrew a dented tin and two cracked biscuits. He laid them on the ground like offerings at a shrine. His companion followed suit.
 
‘That’s right,’ Dmitri said. ‘No sudden movements. Now, back away slowly.’
 
The corporal didn’t move. ‘You’ve got no idea who you’re messing with, you snivelling little bog rat.’
 
Mira stuck her pert nubs out defiantly. ‘Who cares?’
 
She was already at Dmitri’s side and had the corporal’s rifle in her hands. She aimed the barrel just below his belt. ‘So? How about your offering, bigshot?’
 
The corporal sneered. ‘You’ll get what’s coming to you, girly. See if you don’t.’
 
‘Oh, yes? Then let’s see what you’re made of. Drop your pants, soldier.’
 
He took a couple of steps forward. She lowered the rifle a fraction. There was a sharp crack as she fired, and a flurry of dust by his foot.
 
‘I mean it.’
 
He scrabbled for his belt and pushed his trousers down to his ankles. Dmitri scooped up the food offerings and backed away to the railings.
 
Mira edged towards him, her eyes never leaving the corporal. ’You're lucky we're not killers, soldier. C’mon, bro, time to split.’
 
They tossed the three rifles over the railings and took off down the street like a couple of kids on the lam. Mira gave a triumphant whoop as they rounded the corner and ducked down a side alley. They had grown up in the town and knew every twist and turn. They climbed relentlessly until, with chests heaving, they collapsed in the shadow of a bombed-out church.
 
‘You’re a damn fool,’ Dmitri said. ‘They could’ve killed you.’
 
‘They could’ve, but they didn’t. And now we eat.’
 
He grinned, holding up the spoils of war, and she laughed with that tinkling laugh he’d followed through alleyways, airstrikes, and months of deprivation. They gave each other a high five and tucked in ravenously. When they’d finished, they lay back in the grass and looked up at the sky. The day was bleak, with thin, high cloud and a feeling of snow in the air.
 
They drew close to one another for warmth. Weak sunlight filtered through the haze. Kalynorad was spread out below, like a corpse beneath a shroud. Above them, the chancel window had been blown out and was now a black hole in a scorched façade. Fragments of stained glass glittered at their feet. Silence filled the air, but it was not the silence of peace. It was the silence that comes after screaming. It was broken by the creak of a weakened beam. There was a deafening crash as it collapsed, taking with it a clatter of loose masonry.
 
‘Let’s go,’ Mira said. ‘This place is giving me the creeps.’
 
They clambered down the steps towards the church school at the bottom of the hill. The playground had mostly disappeared into a bomb crater, its equipment twisted and charred. A scorched tricycle rested upside-down beside a burnt-out car. Papers lay scattered like ghosts. There were pages from school textbooks and children’s drawings of flowers — and of aeroplanes. The twisted remains of a doll lying by the drinking fountain haunted the debris. Dmitri and Mira hurried past, averting their eyes and hardening their hearts.
 
Survival was all that mattered.
 
They kept a wary eye out for the soldiers as they headed back to the skeletal remains of their home. It still gave them shelter of a sort and the bitter-sweet scent of old memories. Their mother had vanished during the spring offensive, and it was Mira who now held him through the night, smothering his nightmares with her soft hands. That night, they slept fitfully. At least they had food in their stomachs, the first in two days.

***

When morning came, she was the first to get up. ‘Sleep on, brother,’ she whispered. ‘I’m going to get water. I shan’t be long.’
 
Half awake, he heard her bounding down the stairs. He hopped over to the window with one leg in his trousers, leant out, and shouted her name.
 
She turned, smiled, and waved.
 
‘Wait! I’m coming with you.’ He seized his jacket and flew out of the door.
 
Mira stood on the other side of the street, bathed in morning sunlight.
 
Dmitri was about to cross when he heard the telltale whistle of an artillery shell flying overhead. Two streets away, there was a soundless flash followed by a cloud of smoke and a loud boom. The second shell fell shorter. There was an ear-splitting explosion, and debris flew in all directions. The walls of the building behind Mira shuddered, and its windows imploded. For a moment, she was airborne, light as ash — then came the fall with a sound he would hear for the rest of his life, like a sandbag slung on the sidewalk.
 
Dmitri was temporarily stunned by the blast, but when his eyes refocused, he could see her hand reaching out towards him. He launched himself forward, but the ground seemed to pull at his feet as if something unseen had already decided her fate. Before he was halfway, the building collapsed. Its façade crumbled, and the roof caved in.
 
He raced forward with an anguished scream and scrabbled frantically amongst the debris. His hands bled as he tossed rubble aside, but in his frenzy, he was scarcely aware of the lacerations and bruises inflicted by the broken ribs of the building and unyielding blocks of masonry.
 
‘Mira! I'm here, Mira.’ His words were choked with dust and emotion.
 
Others came to his aid with long-handled shovels, digging and shifting what they could before the excavators arrived. Someone pushed past him with a crowbar. Using almost superhuman strength, this newcomer shifted a massive beam, exposing a hollow like a sinkhole. Mira lay motionless at the bottom.
 
Before anyone could stop him, Dmitri scrambled down and slid into the hole alongside her. When the ambulance eventually arrived, the paramedics found him rocking to and fro, cradling her broken body like a child cradling a dream. Her flaxen hair was strewn in unkempt strands across her face and partly concealed the crimson seep of blood. He was like one in a trance. His eyes were unfocused, and no words passed his lips. They gently separated him from his sister, and they wrapped her in a shroud.
 
He was whisked away to the nearest hospital in the ambulance and placed under observation. Days went by. He said nothing and initially needed to be tube-fed. A psychiatrist diagnosed catatonia and treated him first with Valium and then, a few days later, with electroconvulsive therapy. Neither did much good.
 
***

Eventually, he was transferred to a specialised psychiatric facility well away from the war zone, one with the necessary resources for managing his condition. Some of the contract nursing staff there called him ghost-boy, and the name stuck. Even though Dmitri appeared unresponsive, he was aware of his surroundings and could hear and see what was happening around him but, locked in his cage of grief, he could only smile inwardly. Ghost-boy. How close to the truth that was.
 
In the second week of his illness, the dreams began. A familiar figure stood before him, robed in silence and watching him. She spoke no words, but her gaze held a strange recognition — not of what he was, but of what he had been, and might yet become. In that moment, something opened, faint as a crack in stone. Something in his chest stirred like a seed remembering spring. Somewhere beyond sleep, a thread tugged at the centre of him — gentle, but insistent. He did not know what it was. Only that it led inward. By morning, the dream had dissolved, leaving a deep sense of something half-remembered. He strained to bring it back into focus, and the effort caused a transient animation to his face, a slight furrowing of the brow, a flicker of eyelids, but nothing more.
 
These signs of animation might have gone unnoticed but for Elena Prishtina, a volunteer visitor who had been helping out at the facility for more than a year. She took a particular interest in the boy, perhaps because he reminded her of Stanislav, her eighteen-year-old son, killed in an explosion during the same spring offensive that had taken Dmitri’s mother. Her husband had also been among the casualties.
 
To compensate for these grievous losses, she had developed a passionate desire to alleviate the suffering of broken survivors, and she had undertaken specific training to deal with cases such as Dmitri’s. She was one of the few people he allowed to spoon-feed him, and on that particular morning, she was at his side, about to feed him his breakfast. A strong bond had developed between them, for she treated him with gentleness and respect, and had no patience with the nickname circulating. Every time she heard someone use it, she called them out.
 
‘How dare you say that! His name is Dmitri. Ghost-child, indeed!’
 
She would take his hand and whisper, ‘You’re no ghost-child, sweetheart. A dream-child, more like.’ And that is what she continued to call him, each time she came to visit.
 
‘And how is my little dream-child today? You look so much better. We’ll have you up and about in no time.’
 
With endearments such as these, she had him eating, if not out of her hand, at least out of her spoon.
 
She was quick to notice the furrowing of his brow and the slight flicker of his eyelids. The doctors were encouraged by these positive signs, and at a meeting of the board a few days later, when the regular subject of beds arose, the administrator brought it up. Because of the ongoing war in the east, there was a steady influx of patients from the battlefront needing psychiatric care. Pragmatic decisions needed to be taken.
 
‘What about Dmitri Zahir? The one they call the ghost-child,’ he asked.
 
‘You’d better not let Mrs Prishtina hear you calling him that!’ one of the doctors said with a chuckle.
 
‘No, of course not. But now you bring her name up, could I make a suggestion? She has established an extraordinary connection with the boy, and although Dmitri is still catatonic, he is stable. She owns a hunting lodge in the mountains, and in the past, she has had other patients there for convalescent care. Less serious cases, but nonetheless...’
 
‘I’ll ask her. I feel sure she will agree.’ Dmitri’s psychiatrist was a young man, fresh out of training. He cupped his chin between his forefinger and thumb in a pose intended to imply professional wisdom. ‘The placement could be on a trial basis to start with. One can never be sure of the effect new surroundings may have, but she is in easy reach of the clinic if things don’t work out.’
 
Elena was duly approached and, as predicted, she eagerly accepted the challenge.

Author Notes Setting: Kalynorad, a fictitious town near the battlefront in Eastern Ukraine

Image: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Bucha_main_street,_2022-04-06_(0804).jpg is used here under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported license. It is used generically and not intended to suggest a specific setting for this fictional story.

British English is used throughout. (e.g. leant instead of leaned, single inverted commas for speech, etc.)


Chapter 2
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 2

By tfawcus

Dmitri was taken by ambulance to the lodge on the hillside. He lay motionless, strapped beneath a clean blanket. His eyes were closed, and he appeared to be in a coma.
 
Elena accompanied the paramedics on the journey and held his hand in hers. Thus, she was the one who noticed the first signs of his increased level of agitation, a slight flicker that ran along the muscles of his jaw and a sharp, shallow catching of his breath. She placed her hand on his brow.

'There's something wrong,' she said. 'He's very hot, and his breathing is rapid. I saw a muscle spasm too.'

She moved to one side, and the paramedic slipped into the seat beside Dmitri. She checked his temperature, then placed her index and middle fingers on his carotid artery and started counting.

'You're right, the pulse is a little fast, but that's not unusual. Unfamiliar surroundings and movement can have an unsettling effect.' She gave Elena a reassuring smile. 'It'd be best if you kept holding his hand. He knows you, and it will help keep him calm. We can always administer Valium if he goes into seizure, but I doubt that'll be necessary.'

Had they but known it, Dmitri's mind was miles away, in another ambulance with the iron taste of blood in his mouth. The hum of tyres, the background stench of bleach, the more subtle metallic smell of various monitoring devices, and the odour of latex gloves were conspiring to bring back the events of that fateful day.

The rhythm of tyres on cobblestones ignited his memory, and the repetitive motion of light flickering between trees registered on his eyelids, intensified his recollection. The road turned. The tyres moaned. Somewhere in his mind, sirens wailed. Not from this ambulance, but from that other day, and though this new journey bore no lights, no rush, no red haze of trauma, his body could not tell the difference. Beneath his hospital gown, he was bathed in sweat.

Elena felt the tension in his body and was about to mention it when the ambulance hit a pothole. A white-hot flare bloomed on the periphery of Dmitri's closed eyelids, not from outside, but from the caverns of his memory, where the sun glinted on broken glass strewn amongst the rubble. His fingers twitched, as if reaching for something no longer there.

For an instant, his eyes opened. A blind stare of panic. His fractured mind took in Elena and the paramedic. In his confused state, he thought they were his mother and Mira. Disorientation threw him into spasm. His entire body stiffened. His hand squeezed Elena's so strongly that she cried out in pain, and then the mask returned. His body relaxed, and his grip eased. However, Elena noticed something about the way his mouth held itself. It was no longer slack but faintly clenched, like a held word.

When they reached the lodge and were wheeling him down the ramp, she saw that one arm had slipped slightly loose beneath the sheet. It was a small, unremarkable thing, but the fingers moved. Not deliberately, but with a faint, reflexive twitch, as though the body were trying to recall a gesture it had forgotten.

She stepped forward. 'Careful with that elbow,' she said. 'Keep him steady.'

She walked beside them in silence. Looking down on his unmoving face, she thought, He's not lost. Just very far away.

When the gurney rolled across the threshold and into the lodge, she didn't immediately follow. She paused, allowing the serenity of the hillside garden to seep into her body. A faint smell of honeysuckle hung in the air. Gradually, her tension eased, and she went inside.

Meanwhile, the paramedics had wheeled Dmitri into his new room. They went about their business, checking and recording his vital signs and making sure he was comfortable. His bed faced an open window with a view across the garden to a pine forest, and beyond that, to a lake. Although his eyes remained closed, he was aware of his new surroundings; he could hear birdsong breaking the silence, and he could smell the scent of pine needles wafted on the breeze.

When Elena entered the room, the paramedics spoke to her quietly, assuring her that he had settled back into his regular rhythm. He was propped up on pillows, his face passive and unresponsive.
 
She stretched forward and stroked his brow. 'You'll be safe here, dream-child. You are going to get better. I know it.' She touched him lightly on the cheek, and a scent of apple blossom lingered when she left the room.

Alone at last, he felt the stillness sweep over him. He held his breath and opened his eyes slowly. Beyond the garden and the pine trees, two yachts were gliding across the lake towards their evening mooring. Their sails glinted in the light of the setting sun. He narrowed his eyes until they appeared to be two swans, then as the yachts turned, their sails came together like the shimmering wings of an angel. His angel. His eyes moistened, but even though his vision was blurred, he could make out the familiar outline of his sister. He was sure of it. Sleep was a long time coming that night.

Elena looked in on him before she went to bed. She noted the dampness on his cheek and wiped it away with a tissue. As she did so, she smiled at this faint sign of his emotional reawakening, but if he was aware of her presence, he showed no sign of it.

Author Notes Written in British English.


Chapter 3
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 3

By tfawcus

The following day rolled into Dmitri’s consciousness with a clatter. Somewhere down the corridor, he heard Elena’s cheerful voice. A moment later, she appeared at the door, put a tray on the table, and opened the shutters to let in the breeze. 

‘Look at that. Sunshine! And how is my dream-child this morning?’ She wiped her hands on her apron and looked at him with searching kindness.

He blinked. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to sustain her hope.

He could have spoken, could have sat up, taken the spoon from her hand, and begun the slow return to normality. The impulse was there, but he didn't act on it.

Not yet.

Here, in this place of garden bowers and birdsong, silence was no longer a wound. Stillness had become his language. It spared him the burden of names and memories, and in its shelter, he felt less haunted.

Elena pulled the chair close and started to feed him.

‘You can stay quiet as long as you need,’ she said. ‘There’s no rush. Time doesn’t matter up here.’

She took his hand in hers. He didn't pull away. But neither did he respond.

Elena never hurried him. She moved about the lodge with the grace of someone who knew how to leave space for healing, how to be near without intruding. She brought rhythm to the day: tea in the morning, stories at dusk, quiet humming while she swept the hearth. She read aloud from books he barely followed, yet he listened. Not for meaning, but for the cadence of her voice and the tide of language washing over him. He should have thanked her, but he didn’t. Instead, he let the days unfold like spectres in the mist, soft and without edges.

And so the second silence began. This time, it was not imposed by trauma but by choice.

He began to take a more active interest in things around him. The lake was always visible. Always moving. He studied it in the way one studies a painting. He noticed the way morning light slanted across its surface and how the sun lit a corner of the bay before it touched the trees. He found himself noticing the colours that came after rain: steel blue, green-grey, and silvered mauve. The lake changed in response to wind and weather, yet at heart it remained constant, a quiet presence, like Elena’s. And like Elena, it asked nothing of him.

One morning, she entered and set the tray down beside him. A cup of tea, porridge laced with cream and honey, and beside it, a sketchpad and pencil.

She left without comment and walked out, singing the haunting melody of a folksong. It was about a son going to his death. A mother’s grief was sealed into the song. Dmitri sat by the window, listening, but not moving.
 
The last words floated up from the kitchen:
You slept where my own heart lay—
How shall I let you slip away?

Silence settled after the last note, but the words echoed in his mind, stirring a recognition that it was not only his grief that lived here. He stared at the sketchpad and, with no fixed intention, he reached for the pencil and started to draw.

When Elena returned to retrieve the tray, she saw his sketch. He had drawn the headland seen from his window and the way it held the lake in the curve of a bow.

‘Well, look at that,’ she said. ‘You have quite a talent, young man. Next time I’ll bring paints. You can show me the colours you see.’

He didn't reply, but the pencil remained in his hand long after she left.

Two days later, she returned with a box of acrylic paints and a set of brushes. ‘I thought you might like to try your hand with these today,’ she said, placing them beside his plate.

His eyes held a look of gratitude, and he nodded. It was barely more than a tilt of the chin. But it was the first time he had responded to her so directly.

He dipped a brush tentatively into the blue and began to paint. Pale lines arched upward like trees that didn’t belong to this world. Leaves fell like flame onto a path vanishing into white. Elena watched, her breath caught somewhere in her chest.

‘I used to think silence meant peace,’ she said. ‘Now I’m not so sure. Sometimes it just means hiding.’

She wondered if she was helping him. She hesitated, uncertain, but continued anyway.

‘I had a dream last night. About my son. He was standing in the doorway, looking at me. He didn’t say a word. He just stood there.’

Her voice quavered but didn’t break.

‘I lost him in the war. Stanislav. He was eighteen.’ She glanced at Dmitri. ‘Not much older than you,’ she said. ‘That’s why I don’t ask you to speak.’

She reached over and gently turned his palm upwards, revealing the jagged scars that ran along the inside of his arm like lightning burnt into his skin. She rubbed her thumb across one of them slowly.

‘These scars,’ she said, ‘they are not signs of failure but of your struggle. You did your best to save your sister. No one could have done more.’

He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. But he didn’t pull away either.

She placed his hand gently back on his lap, and for the first time, she reached out not as a carer but as something else, something harder to name. She touched his cheek, and she brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.

‘You know,’ she said, ‘when I first met you, you were somewhere else. Somewhere deep and far away. But now you seem to have changed. It’s different. You’re back here, aren’t you? I can feel it.’ She leant forward, her voice quiet but firm. ‘You follow conversations with your eyes. You move differently. You see me, Dmitri. You do.’
 
He looked at her then, truly looked, just for a second, before his gaze drifted away again, like a tide receding from the shore. Although he was not yet able to admit it, he was beginning to realise that his silence was no longer just the emptiness of grief, but the fear of coming to grips with life again.

Elena exhaled and set her mug down firmly, causing a wave of tea to splash onto the table. ‘I don’t know how long you are going to keep pretending,’ she said, ‘but what remains of your life is yours. Not Mira’s. Not mine. Yours.’

This time, when his eyes met hers, the anguish in them was not self-pity. He wanted to reach out to her, say her name, and acknowledge her grief, but the words caught in his throat. What if they undid the quiet that had become his refuge? What if life rushed back in, demanding things he couldn’t give?

However, later that night when he was alone, he whispered her name in the dark; it was scarcely more than a breath, but it marked the beginning of an intention. 

Author Notes The Sharp Quill challenge was to write a piece that explores the unseen forces that bind people, events, or moments together. This might be emotional, psychological, spiritual, or something more abstract. Word limit: 750-1,200 words (Actual Word Count: 1193).

Image: Photo by Patrick Hendry on Unsplash.


Chapter 4
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 4

By tfawcus

'Elena.'

Dmitri said her name aloud, more firmly this time, stretching the middle syllable as if trying to give it more substance. El-ay-na.

He had always thought of her in the same way as a boy might think of his mother, a person placed on this earth to care for him. Now, his viewpoint had altered. He realised she carried a weight of grief as heavy as his.

He closed his eyes. Memories of his mama came flooding back, and in particular, of the day when the news had broken; the day when he'd pledged to be strong. Had it really been three years ago?

He remembered the knock. Three sharp raps. Mama's footsteps, the creak of the door, and the commander's voice:

'Mrs Zahir?'

There had been a short pause before she replied, 'Won't you come in, please?'

She led the way into the parlour and gestured for them to sit down, but they remained standing, and they declined the tea she offered from the samovar. The junior officer shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Their words had been quiet and well-rehearsed:

'We regret to inform you...'

Their stay was brief. It was almost certainly not the only call they had to make that afternoon. He remembered the eerie silence when they left. Mama had not cried; at least, not at first. Her face was expressionless, and without a word, she turned towards the family shelf of icons. She genuflected, crossed herself, and took down the Mother of Sorrows. She held it reverently, gazing at it as if into a mirror. The scene unrolled in his mind like an old movie played at half speed.

He could not comprehend what was happening: it was written in a foreign language. But instinctively, he understood he should give his mother space to assimilate her grief. He held Mira back, but she suddenly wrenched free, her breath catching as if something was tearing her apart. She lurched forward, letting out a sob that cracked his heart.

Startled, Mama looked up. The treasured icon slipped from her fingers as Mira rushed forward and buried her face in her mother's blouse.

He remembered how Mama encircled his sister, scuffing glass shards aside. The shuffling movement had been accompanied by a whirr as the grandfather clock prepared to strike. Three measured, doleful chimes echoed through the void, as if they were signalling the end of time.

He stepped forward, wrapped his arms around them both, and held tight as they wept. In that moment, his childhood ended. It wasn't spoken, but something had changed. He knew he had to be brave, that they needed him to be strong.

Strong, like Elena was strong. She hadn't withdrawn, curling grief into her womb, and praying for its death. Instead, she had carried it to full term, and it had given birth to empathy and compassion.

He inhaled slowly. He would no longer be a victim. He, too, was a survivor, and he was beginning to realise that with survival came responsibility. He got out of bed, drew the curtains back, and threw the window open. It was still dark outside. Stars were reflected in the stillness of the lake, and a faint breeze stirred.

In the distance, a lone wolf set up a howl. It was answered by another, and then another. He shivered. Ancient voices calling from the wilderness. Only the fittest survived. He shut the window, turned on the light, and picked up his sketchbook. During his time at the lodge, drawing had become his main way of sorting out emotions.

Elena's description of Stanislav had been of a young man leaning against a doorway. He drew him with a devil-may-care attitude, full of the promise of adventure. He captured the outline quickly, but shaded slowly, using light strokes and the side of his pencil to soften the shadows. Around the figure, he added faint shapes of smoke and a suggestion of broken ground.

After a while, he relaxed against his pillows and stared at the portrait, sucking the end of his pencil, and then he started on the face. All he had to go on was Elena's, but that was enough. He caught the shape of her eyes, the tilt of her chin, and the arch of her eyebrows, but drew something firmer, more like his own father, in the set of Stanislav's jaw.

By the time he had finished, the sun was over the horizon and flooding into his room, erasing the spectres of the night. Elena's footsteps were in the corridor, and he flipped the pages of the sketchbook to a half-finished picture of the lake. Now was not the time.

She paused as she put down his breakfast tray. 'That's nice,' she said. 'Are you going to work on it again today?'

Much to her surprise, he glanced up and said, 'I might.'

They were the first words he had spoken to her.

'That's good,' she said. Her voice surged with inner joy. 'I don't imagine you'll be needing me to spoon-feed you today, then?'

'No. I'll manage. I've been thinking ...'

'There's no need. Take your time. I'll come back later. We can talk then. Really talk.'

He reached out, and their fingers touched.

As she left the room, she paused. Her hand lingered on the doorknob, and she let go a lightly held breath.

Author Notes 900 words


Chapter 5
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 5

By tfawcus

Dmitri ate his breakfast absent-mindedly. The wolves had awakened a primal instinct in him—the realisation that, if he wanted to survive mentally, he could no longer lie idle.

He glanced out of the window. Elena was crossing the lawn, carrying a trug and a pair of secateurs. The morning light painted her outline in gold, accentuating the easy rhythm of her step. It was a glorious autumn day. Not one to be watched from a window. He decided on impulse to take his sketchbook down to the lake. Truth be told, he needed time to think. He wasn't looking forward to his forthcoming chat with Elena.

One thing was certain in his mind: this breakfast-in-bed nonsense would have to stop. It should be him making breakfast for her, not the other way round. She already had more than enough to do looking after this place. He stacked the crockery on one side of the tray, put his sketchbook and a box of pastels on the other, and made his way down to the kitchen. After rinsing the dishes, he left them to drain, but he was disconcerted to find that even this small effort had taken its toll after his weeks of being bedridden. Luckily, the hatstand in the back porch held a selection of stout walking sticks, and he helped himself to one before setting out. 
 
The path along the edge of the pine forest was overgrown, and the bracken shimmered with gossamer threads, creating an ethereal atmosphere, but it was a longer walk to the lakeside than he'd imagined, and he soon started to perspire. The fronds of bracken swarmed with iridescent flies, and the sweat glistening on his face attracted them. While waving his sketchbook frantically in a vain attempt to shoo them away, he stumbled over roots crossing the uneven ground, and he dropped the box of pastels. It flew open, scattering them all over the path, and he had to crawl around on his hands and knees to retrieve them. He was glad of the walking stick when it came to getting up again.

By the time he reached the lake, he was hot and flustered. But what a sight! He stood in awe at the vast expanse of water. A light breeze rippled its surface and washed over him like a soothing balm. Before long, he found an outcrop at the water's edge and sat down. He gradually composed himself and sank into the silence of the place. Small birds squabbled for seeds in the tall grasses. To his left, a grey heron stood in the shallows. He opened his sketchbook. A thin sheen of pollen drifted on the water like gold dust, and dragonflies hovered over the shallows, but Dmitri was absorbed in capturing the heron’s pose and barely noticed. Time had ceased to have any meaning.
 
*****

Meanwhile, up at the lodge, Elena had finished in the garden. Swathes of lavender hung over the sides of her trug as she struggled back up the steep slope. When she reached the potting shed, she wiped her brow with her sleeve and sat for a few moments in the shade of a walnut tree to get her breath back. The earthy citrus aroma of the ripening nuts reminded her of yet another job that would need to be done soon. She sighed. She hadn’t even touched the orchard, and the plum trees were heavy with fruit. Autumn was merciless. Always more to do, and never enough hours.

She took a ball of raffia from the potting shed and tied the lavender in bunches to dry from the rafters. By the time she'd finished, it was well past midday, and she still had to prepare lunch for the boy. Bread, a few slices of smoked sausage, and a hunk of cheese would have to do. It was far too hot for cooking. As she entered the kitchen, she noticed the breakfast dishes neatly stacked on the draining board. This was a first for Dmitri. Things were looking up. When she went upstairs, she was in for another surprise. The bed was made, and the chair by the window was empty.
 
She set the tray down and called out. 'Dmitri! Where are you? Lunch is ready!'

Her words faded into the silence. She leant out of the window and called again. Still no response. His sketchbook was gone, and so was the packet of pastels she'd recently bought for him. She remembered his half-finished drawing of the lake. Perhaps he'd gone down to the garden to sketch from a different angle. Strange though. She hadn't seen him on her way up from the lavender bed. Surely he couldn't have walked down to the lake in this heat? She told herself not to be ridiculous.

Nonetheless, there was still no sign of him when she called again. She searched the house and garden without success. Where could the boy have gone? She hoped nothing had happened to him. He was weak after his extended period of inactivity and could have had a fall or collapsed from heat exhaustion. Anything could have happened.

A sound like sheets on a clothesline caught by the wind disturbed her thoughts and made her look up. A covey of woodcocks flew from the undergrowth at the edge of the pine forest. It was the snick of their wings that she'd heard. Wondering what could have startled them, she went to investigate. As soon as she reached the path, she saw the broken foliage and flattened grasses. Someone had been this way recently. Her worst fears were confirmed by an orange pastel lying in some dead bracken, and she broke into a run.

***

Dmitri heard the sharp cry of agony as she fell. He was on his feet in seconds and stumbled back up the incline. His sketchbook fell from the rock, and its pages flew open.

'Elena!' he exclaimed breathlessly.

She was sitting up by the side of the path, holding her ankle. Her face was pale, and he could see the pain she was trying to mask.

'Don't move,' he said, crouching beside her. 'Let me help.'

'It's nothing. Just a twist.'

'We need ice, or ...' He thought for a moment. 'Maybe cold water will do the trick.'

He carefully helped her to her feet. With her arm slung over his shoulder, he took the weight off her ankle, and they hobbled slowly down to the lake. The scent of lavender seemed to accentuate her frailty, and it was with the greatest care that he lowered her onto the rocky outcrop where he had recently been sketching the heron.

He moved with quiet precision as he unbuttoned his shirt, swirled it around in the water, wrung it out, and applied it as a cold compress to her swollen ankle. His touch was gentle yet firm. She looked up at him gratefully; this was no longer the passive, withdrawn young man she had grown accustomed to looking after.

'Thank you,' she said. 'That feels much better. You've done this before, haven't you?'
 
'Yes. For Mira.’

The memory flooded back without warning; the steady drone of bombers overhead, the way he’d dragged her into the culvert. She had barely made a sound, but her eyes had been like those of a rabbit nursing a broken limb and cowering under the shadow of a hawk. He remembered slinging her over his shoulder in a fireman's lift and carrying her all the way home, or to what was left of it, for they arrived to find a crater in the front garden and the parlour exposed to the street like a doll's house whose front had been wrenched open. It had been the day their mother disappeared.

Elena saw the flicker of pain in his eyes and reached forward to take his hand. The movement made her wince.

'Lie still.' The words came out more abruptly than he'd intended, but he softened them by adding, 'You're the patient now, and you must do as you're told.'

He looked at her tenderly, noticing the fine lines around her eyes and the tiredness, but behind it, he could also see her resilience. She might have been worn, but not worn down. She was staring at the sketchbook that lay open just beyond his reach, and he followed her gaze.

Her voice, when it came, was filled with emotion.
 
'You drew him.'
 
Her eyes moved over the likeness with quiet awe, her lips parted as if something long held inside her had been released. Dmitri opened his mouth to speak but found no words. A breeze stirred the grasses around them, and somewhere across the lake, a bird called out.

Elena turned her face, blinking away a tear. ‘He was just like that,’ she whispered. ‘Always looking as if the world owed him something.’

Dmitri said nothing. But he moved a little closer and sat beside her, their shoulders just touching.
 

Author Notes British English spelling and writing conventions are used throughout.

Photo by Ronan Hello on Unsplash


Chapter 6
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 6

By tfawcus

It was Dmitri who broke the silence. 'I needed to draw him to understand what you lost. And to thank you.'

He couldn't meet her eyes; he stared instead at a small green frog resting in the grass between them. Swallowing hard and trying to force down the lump in his throat, he continued, 'I think that's what saved me. You didn't hurry me. You waited.'

He gave the frog a gentle nudge with the ferrule of his walking stick, and it reluctantly lolloped forward. Elena wondered how far it would go before coming to rest. Not far, as it turned out. One more lazy lollop into its grassy sanctuary, where its mottled skin provided camouflage.

'It may need another nudge,' she said. 'Something to get it out of its comfort zone.'

He ignored the suggestion. 'I didn't want to get better. Not really. It felt like betraying her.'

'I know. I felt that way, too. Like smiling was a kind of treason.'

He nodded slowly.

'But you have to,' she said. 'Not for them but for yourself.'

Dmitri thought about this for a while. 'Thank you for not giving up on me.'

She looked at him then, not as someone broken, but as someone beginning to mend, someone awake to her, seeing her clearly for the first time. But in this, she also foresaw the aching void that would be left by his inevitable departure.

She reached out and took his hand between hers. 'Stanislav used to say I couldn't let go of anything. He was right. That's why I try not to hold you too tightly.'

They sat, letting silence carry the words they could not say. When she released his hand, the sadness in her eyes was vast. It was not the grief of loss, but of letting go.

'It's time we headed back to the lodge,' she said. 'It's getting late.'


***


The climb back was slow and punishing. She hobbled up the hill, and he walked a few paces behind, ready to catch her if she fell. When they reached the top, they were both exhausted.

'You must get some rest,' she said. 'You've done far too much today. Don't worry about me. I can manage.'

'Let me at least strap that ankle. I feel so guilty. It was my stupidity that caused this.'

'Don't be silly. But next time you go gallivanting off, maybe leave a note?'


***
 

Dmitri suffered the consequences of his folly for several days. He was not only stiff and sore, but listless and moody. He hadn't realised how weak he'd become, nor how long it was going to take to regain his strength. Although he did his best to help Elena around the house, he soon became tired and had to force himself to keep going.

He found it difficult to articulate his feelings in words but was becoming increasingly skilled at expressing himself through his artwork. One morning, he looked out over the garden with his sketchbook open, trying to capture that feeling of listlessness, the aching grief of something fading.
 
The early morning mist had dissipated, leaving a heavy dew on the grass. It washed the last roses with droplets that hung like tears, as if they were in mourning for the transitory nature of the season. However, sunshine soon dried their petals. It was difficult to remain in the doldrums on such a glorious day, even if it was the false hope of an Indian summer.

He was reflecting on this when he was disturbed by voices at the foot of the path; Elena's, brisk and formal, and another that was unfamiliar. It was younger, clearer, and tinkling with laughter. He craned his neck forward to see who it might be, and in doing so, inadvertently let a drop of carmine fall. It splattered like an inkblot on the edge of his painting. He cursed silently and set down his brush.

A few seconds later, they appeared in the courtyard below his window. A tall girl with a rough braid and dust on her boots accompanied Elena. She carried her own suitcase and held herself like someone used to finer things. Her eyes scanned everywhere, drinking in her new surroundings with all the eagerness of youth. Something about the angle of her head suggested she was not only looking but listening. Dmitri's chest tightened. He knew that mannerism well.

As they passed the veranda, her gaze caught his. She didn't look away. She held it just long enough to make him drop his eyes in confusion. A teasing smile flickered across her face as she followed Elena inside.

Alone again, he looked at his spoiled painting, took up his brush, and with the greatest of care, fashioned the blob into another rose. After a while, he sat back and studied the finished composition. He thought that last rose the most beautiful part of it.
 

***
 

Later that day, Elena set up a table near the orchard with a bowl of fruit between two chairs. The girl was reading a paperback with the cover folded back and one leg tucked beneath her. She was utterly absorbed. Dmitri watched from an upstairs window.

After a time, she closed the book and reached into the bowl for an orange. She rolled it around for a while between the palm of her hand and the table to loosen the skin before cutting into it with her fingernails and carefully removing the peel in one long ribbon. Then she got up from her chair and hung the limp spiral from an overhead branch like a Christmas decoration and danced around it as one might dance around a sparkling orb in a ballroom. After that, she sashayed over to the chair, popped a segment of orange into her mouth and curled up with her book again as if nothing had happened.

Dmitri's breath caught in his throat. That was the kind of impromptu, irrational thing that Mira might have done.

Who was this girl, and what was she doing here?
 

***
 

The answer was not long in coming.

A voice from behind him said, 'Ah! So she's caught your interest, has she? You must be getting better.'

There was a teasing note in Elena's voice that masked the sadness she felt. It should have been her. After all, she'd been the one to tend him, to gradually draw him out of himself, to set him on the course to healing. Life wasn't fair, but she'd learned long ago that it never was.

'Who is she?'

'Her name is Leila. She's here to help me with the housework. Looking after the lodge, visiting the clinic, and tending the garden is getting too much for me, especially now, with my injured ankle. She tells me she’s from Syria originally, but that she came here when it was too dangerous to stay.’

‘Has she any family in Ukraine?’

‘I’m not sure. She was evasive when I asked her that question, so I didn’t press the point. It seemed like something she didn’t want to talk about, and it was no business of mine really. Anyway, I said she could stay here for a while if she was willing to earn her keep.’ She gave a wry grin as she looked out of the window. ‘But it looks as if I might not have the best of the bargain. Never mind. If you two get along, then at least I’ll have you off my mind.’

After Elena had gone, Dmitri glanced out of the window again. Leila looked up and waved.
 
How long had she been aware of him watching?

Author Notes Photo by Wyxina Tresse on Unsplash


Chapter 7
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 7

By tfawcus

That evening, there was a knock at Dmitri's door. A cheerful voice called out, 'Are you decent? May I come in?'

Without waiting for an answer, Leila bounced the door open with her hip and entered carrying a tray. 'Supper for your lordship.' She plonked it down on the table by the window. 'You'd better get up if you want it. I'm not your nursemaid.'

'I didn't suppose you were,' he retorted with a scowl. He was nettled by her abrasive entry and didn't say anything else. What cheek, just bursting into my room like that.

Dmitri was still suffering the after-effects of his ill-considered excursion to the lake, and he was reading Dead Souls by Nikolai Gogol, a book that only served to accentuate his depressive mood. He put it face down on the bedside table and went across to join her. Undeterred by his sullenness, she sat watching him as he ate. He studiously avoided her gaze and remained silent, wishing she would leave, but disconcertingly, at a deeper level, hoping she would not.

'What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? Aren't you even going to thank me?'

He mumbled something that could have been a word of thanks or an ancient curse. She shrugged and was about to pick up the empty tray and leave him to stew when she spotted a chess set on the top shelf of the bookcase.

In one final attempt to jolly him along, she asked, 'Do you play chess?' It was worth a shot. After all, Elena had suggested she should try to cheer him up, and she wasn't one to shy away from a challenge.

The question caught Dmitri off balance. He hadn't played since the war took his father away; the dear father who had so patiently taught him the finer points of the game. He looked at Leila, and his eyes glistened with fire. 

Before he gathered his thoughts together enough to reply, she said, 'I'll take that as a "yes". You don't have to say anything, you rude bastard, unless by some fluke you put me in check, but I don't think that's very likely.' She added insult to injury by tousling his hair and adding, 'Come on! Lighten up!'

Almost without pause, she opened the board, placed it on the table between them, and arranged the pieces. 'Black or white?'

A half-smile played around Dmitri's lips. 'Your choice,' he said quietly. I'll show you, you little gypsy...

She turned the board around, so the white pieces were in front of him. 'You can have the advantage. Maybe the game will last a little longer that way.'

He opened with the King's Gambit, expecting an easy win. She treated it with contempt and set up a stinging counteroffensive. Realising he had a game on his hands, he stroked his chin with the forefinger of his right hand and leant forward a few inches. She put her elbows on the table and steepled her fingers, looked around them impishly, and awaited his response. Her eagerness left him feeling disconcerted, and he had to stretch back in his mind to remember his father's lessons. Her moves were swift and incisive, and this unsettled him as he liked to take his time, carefully considering his options.

He wished he had some way of slowing the game without appearing to dither. His father used to fumble in his pocket for his briar pipe and fill it with tobacco from a leather pouch, then tamp it down with a small, blunt-ended tool made of curiously carved whalebone, before lighting it, and with much contemplative sucking, coax the glowing embers into life and blow a lopsided smoke ring. He would then lean forward and make his move, looking for all the world like a saint whose halo had slipped. The whole manoeuvre took several minutes and had the effect of disconcerting even the most level-headed of opponents.

Dmitri could conjure up no such delaying tactic. Not only that, but he was keenly aware of and mightily discomforted by the amused look in Leila's twinkling eyes. Twenty minutes into the game, he made a foolish mistake, leaving his queen exposed. He realised what he'd done too late. His hand had already left the piece.

She didn't gloat. She simply stretched forward and took it. There was no way out of the dilemma. He knocked his king over, conceding defeat, and offered her his hand. She touched it, saying, 'Thanks. We must play again sometime, so you can get your revenge.'

With that, she got up abruptly, swept the pieces back into their box, picked up the supper tray, and left.

He could have kicked himself, throwing his queen away like that. If he'd been playing Mira, she'd have leapt to her feet, cock-a-hoop, and chortled gleefully. She wouldn't have let him forget it for months.

***

The following morning, there was no sign of Elena or Leila. Left to his own devices, Dmitri picked up his sketchbook and started to draw. He drew a chessboard with all the pieces as they had been before his careless slip.

He drew Leila lifting his queen from the board, and on the face of the queen, he drew Mira's delicate features. He depicted Leila as a harpy, green-eyed and raven-haired, with talons instead of hands. Strewn beneath the table at her feet lay the other pieces she had taken, the pawns, a knight and a castle. They lay carelessly in death. Behind the board, where the window onto the lake should have been, he drew ruins, pieces of rubble flying through the air, and shaded in an orange glow like the fires of hell with sulphurous fumes rising from it.
 
When he'd finished, he slammed the sketchbook shut and went outside for some fresh air. He had no idea what to make of this irritating girl, but despite everything, he couldn't help liking her. He wished he hadn't been so damned ungracious. Maybe next time he could make amends.
 
The opportunity came sooner than he expected.
 
***
 

A few days later, he was taking his daily exercise, walking the upper path behind the lodge, past the vegetable beds and towards the orchard. The afternoon sun filtered through the trees, dappling the path with light and shadow. He walked slowly, letting the rhythm of his footfall settle his mind.
 
Although it was only a short walk, it left a dull ache in his legs and a flutter in his chest. He paused at the edge of the orchard, and reaching up, he grasped a branch and attempted some pull-ups. He was barely able to lift his own weight, so he dropped to the ground, and with an exotic flourish, lunged into a series of Tai Chi exercises that Elena had given him. With knees bent and arms outstretched, he flowed with the grace of a ballet dancer from one position to the next, all the time imagining himself to be an ancient Chinese warrior. Swinging around in a grand final gesture, he found himself face-to-face with Leila.
 
She was wearing a coarse linen dress and had a red bandana knotted loosely at the neck. She had been picking plums. Her face glistened in the sunlight, and she stood with the easy grace of a gypsy girl, a wicker basket of dusky blue fruit at her hip. One slender hand curled beneath the basket, balancing its weight as if it were nothing.

Dmitri stared like a stunned mullet and blurted out, 'Oh! It's you.'

'Yes, me again.' Her full, red lips creased into a smile no less alluring than the twinkle in her eye. 'That was great! I think I shall call you Dmitri the Dancer! It has a nice ring to it, don't you think?'

He continued to stare, momentarily at a loss for words. 'Dancing? No, no, those were Tai Chi exercises to get my strength back.' The colour crept up his neck, and his face was on fire.
 
'Really? I'd never have guessed.' She reached into the basket and tossed him a plum. 'A reward from the Sugar Plum Fairy!'
 
She twirled around as if to emphasise her little joke and lost her balance. He rushed forward, putting his arms out to save her as she lurched towards him, scattering plums all over the ground.

'Whoops! I didn't mean to...'

'Don't worry. No harm done.'

Now it was Leila's turn to be embarrassed. She slipped the basket from her shoulder and dropped to her knees, scrambling to retrieve the fallen fruit. Dmitri joined her, and they crawled around like a pair of spaniels sniffing for truffles.

After a while, Leila sat back on her haunches and started to laugh. It was a surprising sound; rich and deep, and as sensuous as melting chocolate, and it stopped Dmitri in his tracks.

'I'm sorry about the other evening,' she said. 'I hope I didn't offend you.'

'Not at all,' he lied. 'I behaved like a complete boor.'

'Elena told me you were down in the dumps. I was just trying to perk you up.'

'What? By wiping me off the board?' Then he added with a grin, 'I've never been so humiliated.'

'Maybe next time you'll take more care of your queen.'
 
An anguished look crossed Dmitri's face. For a moment, Leila’s face blurred. It was Mira he saw, accusing him with her final gesture of despair. He muttered, 'That will never happen again. Never.'

Leila was taken aback by the intensity of his response and wondered what she'd done to offend him this time.

'I'm being a boor again, aren't I?' he said ruefully. 'I even drew a picture of you the other morning. A harpy seizing my queen.'

She stared. 'Excuse me, what was that?'

He looked away, embarrassed. 'Don't ask. I was sorting things out in my head. I was annoyed with myself and had to blame someone.'

To his surprise, she laughed again. 'A harpy, huh? Wings, talons, the whole shebang?'

He nodded.

'Well,' she said, 'I hope you gave me fine feathers.'

They stood for a moment under the low-hanging branches of an old fig tree. Dmitri felt the quiet pressing in, but this time it didn't seem as heavy.

Leila lowered her eyes in mock repentance. 'Sorry if I came on too strong. I was just trying to haul you out of that pit you were in.'

'You are right about the pit,' he said. 'I just didn't like being dragged out.' He considered this, then continued, 'I wasn't exactly the perfect host, was I?'

'You were a pain in the arse,' she said lightly. 'But in fairness, so was I.'

An awkward silence followed, but he was saved from answering by a call from the kitchen.

'Leila! Where are those plums? I haven't got all day, you know.'

'Coming!' She raised her eyebrows at Dmitri. 'Jam making, bottling, preserving. I don't know what she intends to do with it all.'

She strode off, briefly turning to blow him a kiss. Dmitri remained where he stood, watching the sway of her hips until she vanished from sight.
 

Author Notes Photo by Arthur A on Unsplash

British English spelling and grammar

Thank you for reading and reviewing. Honest, constructive criticism welcomed.


Chapter 8
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 8

By tfawcus

Elena stood at the stove, leaning over a cast-iron jam pan, and stirring a bubbling mixture with a wooden spoon. The windows were steamed up, and the air was thick with an overpowering aroma of boiling sugar and ripe fruit.

‘Sorry I took so long,’ Leila said.

Her cheeks were flushed, and her braid slightly loosened, a stray curl clinging to her temple. She hefted the wicker basket onto the kitchen table and let out an exaggerated breath.

‘Phew! That was heavy.’

‘Nonsense, girl. You don’t know what heavy means.’ Elena stood back from the stove and wiped her brow. ‘You can start by rinsing those and cutting them up. Keep some of the stones to one side. I’ll need them for pectin.’ She pointed at the dresser. ‘There’s a muslin bag in the top drawer over there.’

When Elena turned back to the stove, Leila stuck her tongue out. Who does she think she is? Ordering me about like a servant. A cap of white netting covered Elena’s hair, and from behind, Leila thought it made her look like a cauliflower. She giggled.

‘What’s so funny?’ Elena had grown used to Leila’s irreverent humour, and it lightened her mood. ‘Come on, spill the beans.’

‘I bumped into Dmitri on the way back. He was lunging in all directions, like he was trying out for a part in a Kung Fu movie.’

‘That would have been the Tai Chi exercises I gave him. It’s good to hear he’s using them.’

‘He looked so funny. Not at all what I expected. He’s usually so serious and intense, as if something is simmering under the surface.’

Elena turned back to the jam pan and started skimming the white scum off with a slotted spoon. ‘He’s come a long way.’

‘I think he’s carrying a lot of guilt,’ Leila said, more softly now. ‘Like he’s afraid of moving forward, because it means leaving something or someone behind.’
 
‘Yes,’ Elena said quietly. ‘That’s exactly what it means.’
 
‘He’s lucky you’re here for him. He might never have made it otherwise.’ Leila wiped her hands on a tea towel. ‘You’ve been amazing with him. Honestly. I wouldn’t have had the patience.’
 
Elena turned the heat off and joined Leila at the kitchen table. ‘We need to let that cool a bit before putting it in jars.’ She picked up one of the freshly picked plums and halved it with a practised flick of the wrist. ‘He didn’t want to be saved. Not at first. He needed to be given time.’
 
She unhooked a pair of oven gloves and transferred a tray of sterilised jars to the worktop next to the stove, then continued, almost as if she were talking to the jam, ‘He likes you, you know. Even if he pretends not to.’
 
Leila studied her. ‘Are you all right with that?’
 
‘It’s strange being part of someone’s healing and knowing you won’t be there to see them whole.’ Elena gave a tired smile. ‘It was always going to happen. I just didn’t expect it so soon. You’ve seen more of him in two days than I have in two months.’
 
That hadn’t occurred to Leila, and she didn’t know how to respond. They both withdrew into themselves and focused on cutting up the plums.
 
‘Yes, I’m all right with that,’ Elena said at last, ‘but be careful. He’s not ready yet. He’s only just begun to live again.’

Leila's hands stilled. ‘Careful!’ Her voice became much quieter. ‘I’ve spent a lifetime being careful. Watching every word, every step. At some point, you have to stop apologising for being alive.’

 ‘Where did you learn that?’

‘From my mother. She used to say we were like reeds. Bend, but don’t break. I think it came from my grandmother, or maybe from the Qur'an, I never asked.’

‘Oh? Was she religious, then?’

‘No. Just scared, most of the time. We moved a lot. Refugee camps. Hostels. Sometimes we slept with our shoes on in case we had to run.’
 
Elena hesitated before asking, ‘And your father?’
 
Leila’s hands stilled on the dishcloth. ‘I… we've lost touch.’ She turned to rinse the cup, the splash of water in the sink cutting off further questions.
 
Elena remained quiet.

‘But my mother loved stories. Tales about desert lions and ancient queens. She called me her night star.’

‘Leila,’ Elena murmured.

‘Yes. That’s what it means. “Night.” Maybe it suits me. I’ve spent a lifetime in hiding. Being invisible. But not any longer.’

Elena nodded. She returned to the stove and began ladling jam into the jars. ‘Be a dear, will you, and start putting the lids on for me. But be careful. The jars are hot. Oops! There I go again, telling you to be careful.’

The next few minutes were a flurry of activity. Eventually, all the jars were filled and sealed. ‘Now for the labelling,’ Elena said.

Leila carried the tray of jars across to the kitchen table. ‘What on earth are you going to do with all of this? There’s enough here to last a lifetime, even without the next batch.’

‘I shall sell it to raise money for the clinic, and I shall give some away to people who need a little extra sweetness in their lives.’ Elena sighed and added, ‘There’s never quite enough to go round.’

‘You’re such a kind person. Really, I mean it—even if you are a bit bossy at times.’

Elena paused, then said, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be, but sometimes I get tired. There’s so much that needs to be done.’ She passed some labels across to Leila. ‘But I meant it when I said be careful. I know Dmitri better than you do.’

Leila’s brow furrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Caring is dangerous. It makes you hope. And when you lose people you care about, it hurts.’

Leila placed the palms of both hands on the table. ‘I’m not trying to take him away from you.’

‘I know. That’s what makes it harder. You’re not a cruel person. You’re kind. Funny. Alive. It’s not your fault you remind him of someone he lost.’

Leila felt a chill run through her body. ‘Do I?’

‘Oh yes,’ Elena said, returning to the labelling. ‘Uncannily.’

‘Who?’

Elena didn’t answer immediately. The heat in the kitchen was oppressive, and she dabbed her cheek with a corner of her apron. ‘His twin sister. Mira. They were inseparable.’

Leila went still. She was thinking back to the chess game and Dmitri’s drawing. ‘That explains... a lot.’

‘It complicates things for him. And maybe for you, too.’

Leila nodded slowly. ‘So, he’s not really seeing me; he's seeing her. Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Not necessarily, but sometimes Dmitri’s memories get in the way of what’s real. Just take care.’

Leila met her gaze and held it. ‘Are you warning me off?’

Elena shook her head. ‘I’m warning you not to expect too much.’

A long silence stretched between them.

‘Don’t pity me, Leila. Just be kind. To him. To yourself.’

‘I will,’ Leila whispered.

Elena nodded, but her expression was far away. ‘Thank you.’ She felt hollowed out, like a tree that had weathered too many storms.

Leila pressed the last label into place. It curled slightly at the edge from the steam, as if refusing to stick. She smoothed it down with her thumb, unsure whether it would hold, then she glanced up at the woman who was the centre of Dmitri’s world, and she wondered if she was ready to step into the role. Or even if she wanted to.
 

Author Notes British English spelling and grammar.

Thank you for reading and reviewing. I welcome honest, constructive criticism.

Photo by Valerie Sidorova on Unsplash.


Chapter 9
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 9

By tfawcus

As Dmitri gradually gained strength, he took on more jobs around the house and garden, sometimes with Leila, but more often on his own. He continued to paint and draw in his spare time. She, for her part, heeded Elena's advice and carefully maintained an emotional distance.
 
Their interactions were generally banal and playful. She teased him constantly, and he gave as good as he got. These lighthearted moments increased their connection. They navigated disagreements with laughter and grew to appreciate each other's spontaneity and sense of humour. Needless to say, their friendship deepened, but Mira always hovered in the background, holding Dmitri back. The more he connected with Leila, the more sharply her mannerisms and personality reminded him of his dead sister.

The second time they played chess, he won easily. She hadn't ventured into his territory since that first encounter and was uneasy about the intimacy of being alone with him in his room. She masked her discomfort with mischievous banter.

'Let me see that drawing you told me about in the orchard. The one with me as a harpy. I'd like to see what you really think of me.'

'No, you wouldn't.'

She ignored the defensive tone of his answer and pressed the point.

'Yes, I would.'

He felt cornered and wished he'd never mentioned the blasted sketch. It exposed too much of himself, but at the same time, part of him wanted her to see it—and to understand. Anyway, he had come to realise, once she set her mind on something, there was no easy way out. A chill had settled on the room, and there was only one way of dispelling it.

He thumbed through his sketchbook reluctantly.

'There,' he said. 'The infamous harpy, seizing my queen.'

She had only meant it in fun. She had wanted to see the caricature so she could make light of it, but she was unprepared for the raw intensity. It was not his depiction of her as a harpy that made her catch her breath, but the rubble flying through the air and the orange glow of war, the taken pieces strewn haphazardly in the debris, and the face he had painted on the white queen. It was the face that pulled her up short.

'That has to be Mira,' she breathed. 'She's so beautiful.'
 
She knew she had stepped on sacred ground and wasn't sure she was welcome. She could have gone on to say how much he must miss her and how sorry she was for his loss, but there was no need. It was written all over his face. Over her face, too. The moment was beyond words.

'You have such talent, Dmitri.' She sensed that the compliment embarrassed him, so she swiftly followed up, saying, 'What do you intend to do with it?'

The question caught him off guard. 'I haven't really thought about it.' That was a lie. He had thought about it a great deal. 'Maybe, one day, I could become a war artist.'

'Depicting other people's grief, you mean? Not just your own.'

'Yes. Something like that. There is so much horror in this country. So much suffering.'

Leila leant forward to touch his arm, but she thought better of it. Instead, she swept up the pieces and returned them to their box.

'You may have won at chess today, but don't go bragging about it. It was a sheer fluke. Beware the harpy. She will strike back.'

'Oh, yeah?'

***
 
The sketchbook incident led to a temporary uneasiness between Dmitri and Leila, and they both withdrew to safe ground. They were aware that a boundary had been overstepped. However, the familiar rhythm gradually returned, awkward at first, but steadier with each shared task.
 
A few days later, Leila was in the kitchen with Elena. They had been shredding cabbage and carrots to make a batch of sauerkraut to lay down for winter. After adding sugar and salt, Elena packed it into a large earthenware crock.

'Take this down to the cellar, dear, while I make us a nice cup of tea. You'll find weights there to press the mixture while it ferments.'

When she returned, they sat opposite one another with their elbows on the table, steaming mugs of black tea between them.

'Another job done.' Elena glanced out of the window, where Dmitri was picking walnuts from the ground before the squirrels got to them. 'I don't know how I would have managed this autumn without the two of you. You've been such a help.' She took a sip of tea. 'And it's good to see you getting on so well together.'

'But carefully,' Leila said with a laugh. 'I'm beginning to understand what you meant about Dmitri.'

She went on to tell Elena about the second game of chess and the drawing that Dmitri had done. 'It was unbelievable,' she said. 'He has such raw talent. Did you know he intends to be a war artist one day? He told me.'

'Is that so? If he's serious, then I may be able to help him. I have a friend who has a studio in town, and I may be able to persuade her to take him on as a student.'

***

When Elena broached the subject of art lessons with Dmitri, he was delighted, and he promised to work even harder as a way of repaying her.

'Don't be silly,' she said. 'You already do more than enough. You give back in ways you don't even realise. Winter will soon be upon us, and you'll have more time to practice your art. You're going to find Pavla a hard taskmaster.'

She arranged with her friend that Dmitri would have a lesson each Thursday morning at ten o'clock, but only on a trial basis at first. Pavla was a good friend, but she made it clear she didn't suffer fools gladly. If Dmitri was prepared to apply himself, then she would be happy to help him. Talent is useless without hard work. She likened it to owning a car and not knowing how to drive it. However, in Dmitri's case, as things turned out, it was having a bicycle and not being able to control it.

The town was still too far for him to walk, so Elena had rummaged around in an outhouse and uncovered a bicycle that might once have been new, though not in this century. Its tyres were bald, its brakes squealed like a rat caught in a trap, and its bell didn't ring so much as cough. He spent half a morning doing what he could to fix it up: brushing the cobwebs off, oiling the chain, pumping the tyres up, and adjusting the height of the seat. God only knew when it had last been used, and it was to God that he offered up a prayer when he eventually mounted it and lurched off down the garden path.

Choosing to go downhill was his first mistake. The bicycle took off like an unshackled carthorse released into a meadow. He squeezed the brakes, and they squealed in agony without doing anything to arrest his headlong career toward the lawn, where Leila was raking up leaves and piling them into a wheelbarrow. However, at least they provided her with some warning of her impending doom. She looked up in time to see him bearing down on her like a wolf on the fold. She flung herself aside, and he veered into the wheelbarrow, scattering her precious leaves all over the place.

'Now who's the harpy? I thought my last day had come.' Leila picked herself up, brushed a leaf off her sleeve, and said, 'You want to look where you're going with that infernal contraption.'

Dmitri looked up at her, doubled over with unrepentant laughter, and said, 'I was looking, but not much I could do about it. No brakes. Sorry!'

She scooped up an armful of leaves and deposited them on his head.

***

After breakfast on the following Thursday, he wheeled his trusty steed out onto the forecourt. It was now furnished with a new set of brakes. Elena and Leila were there, ready to bid him goodbye and godspeed.

Elena presented him with a folded satchel. 'You'll need this,' she said. 'It used to belong to Stanislav. Perhaps it will do until you've got a better sense of what you like working with.'

Dmitri opened it. Inside were charcoal sticks, a putty eraser, a small tin of graphite pencils, and a brush-pen set with dried ink tablets. He looked up, astonished. 'You didn't have to—'

He gave her an appreciative hug and a peck on the cheek.

Leila, not to be left out, stepped forward and said, 'Me, too.'

He clasped her awkwardly, and she whispered in his ear, 'Good luck, maestro.'

With his heart beating a little faster than usual, he swung one leg over the saddle, wincing slightly at the effort, and gripped the handlebars, then he pushed off, wobbling down the drive like a fledgling foal on ice. Leila, watching from the garden gate, gave a whoop of laughter and cupped her hands to her mouth.

'Take care!'

He raised a hand in mock salute, just managing to stay upright as he rounded the corner and disappeared down the hill.

Author Notes Characters

Dmitri, a teenage boy recovering from catatonia (a state in which someone is awake but does not seem to respond to other people and their environment).
Mira, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena, a volunteer carer looking after Dmitri and aiding his recovery.
Leila, a foreign girl employed by Elena.

Setting: Somewhere in Central Europe.

British English spelling and grammar used throughout.

Thank you for reading and reviewing. I welcome honest, constructive criticism.

Photo by Rahul Pugazhendi on Unsplash.


Chapter 10
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 10

By tfawcus

The road into town was mostly downhill. The wind stung Dmitri's cheeks, and the sharp, autumn air scorched his lungs. He felt like an uncaged bird released into the wild, disorientated and afraid, yet incredibly alive.

By the time he reached the town centre, he was breathless, flushed and a little sore. Paying no regard to the town clerk's prohibition, he chained his bicycle to the iron railings protecting a bronze statue from all but the pigeons.

The town had the weary charm of a place that had survived too many goodbyes, a town whose menfolk had all gone to war. Its shopfronts were faded, the shutters weather-beaten, and the plaster on some buildings had peeled back to reveal old stone beneath. What's more, there were no visible street signs to help him find Madame Miret's studio.

On the other hand, the square surged with activity and wore its weariness well. He paused, letting the sights and sounds wash over him. He hadn't been among this many people in months. However, any unease he might have felt was soon dispelled by the town hall clock playing a joyful carillon to signal the hour. Geraniums overflowed from window boxes, and the scent of fresh coffee drifted from a café on the opposite side of the square. He still had an hour before his lesson. Plenty of time, but it wouldn't do to be late.

Before crossing the cobblestoned street and entering the café, he ran his fingers through his hair and adjusted the set of his coat. A pretty girl in an embroidered apron showed him to a seat and prepared to take his order.

He spread Elena's mud map out on the table. 'Could you tell me how to get to this place?'

She leant over, swamping him with a heady aroma of fresh bread. 'Madame Miret? Of course! She lives at the end of that street. The one with a bookshop on the corner. Everyone knows her. She's a bit of a dragon.' She put her hand to her mouth. 'Oops! I shouldn't have said that. She's probably your long-lost aunt or something.'

He was quick to reassure her, 'No, nothing like that. I am going to take art lessons with her.'

'Ooh! You are brave!' She gave him an admiring glance and stood with her pencil poised above an order pad. 'How about a mug of coffee and some cherry strudel before you face the old witch?'

'That sounds good.'

'It is. My father made it this morning.'

She waved her hand in the general direction of the counter, where a large man with bushy eyebrows was serving another customer. He looked up and jerked his head with a gesture that made it clear this wasn't the time for idle chatter with customers. She pouted, then hurried away to fill the order.

Dmitri dawdled over his coffee, watching the minute hand of the town hall clock creep slowly to the quarter hour, then got up and left. The art studio was less than five minutes away. It was on the ground floor of a narrow building with crooked gutters. A faded sign beside the front door read "Atelier: Pavla Miret" in looping script. Through the open door, he could hear the scrape of an easel being adjusted. He stood for a moment, steadying his nerves. This was his first venture into the world as an artist. He was no longer just a convalescent with a sketchbook.

From inside, a woman's voice called out, 'If you're the one Elena sent, you're ten minutes early. But don't worry, it makes a welcome change. Most of my students turn up late. Come on in and shut the door behind you.'

Dmitri stepped into the cool interior, where filtered light fell across worn wooden floors. A clutter of easels and stools stood at varying heights. Charcoal sketches curled on the walls like faded ghosts, and a pervasive odour of turpentine caught in his throat.

A woman stood near the back of the room with her arms folded. She had a smear of ochre on one sleeve. Her short grey hair was cropped close to the scalp, and she wore a paint-streaked smock over practical trousers and boots. Her eyes were slate-coloured and watchful, but not unkind.

'Dmitri, is it?' she asked.

He bowed awkwardly and nodded.

'I'm Pavla Miret.' She offered her hand without ceremony. Her grip was firm, and she held it for a moment while she studied his face. 'Elena tells me you are an artist. I hope she didn't exaggerate; she's a terrible romantic, that one.'

'She says I have potential,' Dmitri replied carefully.

'That means nothing.' Her eyes fell on Dmitri's satchel. 'Anyway, down to business. Let's see what you've got.'

He opened the satchel and handed her his sketchbook, unsure whether to stand or sit, stay silent or explain. Pavla took it to a nearby stool and sat down, flipping through the pages with quick, practised fingers. She said nothing for a while, and he was left wondering what terrible flaws she had found.

Eventually, she spoke. 'You've got an eye for atmosphere, young man. And for pain. That's uncommon in someone your age.'

For a moment, Mira was back in his arms. 'I've experienced quite a bit of it,' he said quietly.

'I guessed as much. You don't draw like someone who's been cocooned in luxury.' She closed the book and handed it back. 'We'll start with pencil and take it from there. I want to see how you handle movement, weight, and stillness. Later, we'll work in ink. Maybe watercolour. Maybe oils, but that depends.'

'On what?'

'On whether you want your work to complement the decor in drawing rooms or to reveal harsh truths.' She didn't blink as she said it. 'I teach both kinds of students. I don't judge. But they're not the same.'

Dmitri was silent for a moment. Then he said, 'I want to make sure nobody forgets this war and what it's done to our people.'

'Good. That's what I wanted to hear. But we'll still start with a bowl of fruit. No one jumps straight into the abyss.' She gestured to a corner of the studio where a still-life arrangement had been set up beneath a spotlight: apples, a clay jug, a faded linen cloth. 'Go on. Take that easel. Let's see how you handle light.'

Dmitri moved to the easel and stood uncertainly for a moment, then opened his sketchbook to a fresh page and clipped it into place. Pavla brought over a jar of graphite pencils and placed them beside him without comment.

He chose a medium-weight pencil, held it poised below his lip, and frowned.

'Don't overthink it,' Pavla said from behind him. 'Just look. Find the shapes. Forget it's a jug and an apple. It's shadows and contours. Edges. Negative space.'

He started with the jug, sketching its broad belly, the slightly chipped rim, and the shadow cast across the cloth. His lines were tentative at first, like someone feeling for a foothold in unfamiliar terrain. But as he worked, he began to relax. His breathing steadied. His hand found rhythm.

'Better,' Pavla murmured. She stood a little behind him and to the side, with her arms folded. 'Don't try to make it beautiful. Just make it true. Beauty's a side effect.'
 
Dmitri wasn't sure how long he drew; maybe twenty minutes, maybe an hour. Time lost all meaning while he was immersed in his work.
 
She didn't interrupt, but when he finished, she said, 'You've got good control, but you're drawing from the wrist. Let it come from the shoulder, from the whole body. That's where movement lives.'

She picked up a charcoal stick and a sheet of butcher's paper. In three broad, effortless strokes, she rendered the basic shape of the jug, bold and abstract, then handed the stick to him. 'Now your turn. Big paper. Big gestures. Get messy.'

He hesitated, then swapped pencil for charcoal. It was grittier and more volatile. The lines came faster now, looser, rougher. The fruit became smudged orbs, the jug a soft-bellied silhouette.

'Good. See what happens when you stop controlling every detail?'

He stepped back, wiping his hands on his trousers. There were black smears on his forearm and down the side of his thumb. His chest rose and fell with quiet satisfaction.

'That's better than pretty,' Pavla said. 'It's honest.'

Dmitri nodded, unsure how to reply.

'Come again next week,' she added. 'Same time. We'll try figure study. If you're going to draw pain, you need to know the body from the inside out.'

She returned to her own corner of the studio and picked up a palette knife without looking back. The curt dismissal was obvious, though unstated.

Dmitri gathered his things, tucking the charcoal sketch carefully between the pages of his book and stepped outside with a strange lightness in his chest, like a seed stretching for sunlight.

Author Notes Characters

Dmitri, a teenage boy recovering from catatonia (a state in which someone is awake but does not seem to respond to other people and their environment).
Mira, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena, a volunteer carer looking after Dmitri and aiding his recovery.
Leila, a foreign girl employed by Elena.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher.

Setting: Somewhere in Central Europe.

British English spelling and grammar are used throughout.

Thank you for reading and reviewing. I welcome honest, constructive criticism.


Chapter 11
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 11

By tfawcus

The following weeks settled into a quiet rhythm. Each Thursday morning, Dmitri would set out on the bicycle with his sketchbook in Stanislav's satchel, slung across his back.
 
Pavla rarely greeted him with more than a nod, but he had come to understand that in her quiet way, she was attentive to everything. She set out props for each lesson: a battered violin, an old boot, a wooden doll with one arm missing. The early lessons focused on form and tone, and soon progressed to studies of hands and feet copied from mannequins and old anatomy prints. Pavla never gushed and never praised without reason, but when she leaned over his shoulder, Dmitri found himself working harder in the hope of earning a rare compliment.

Gradually, as winter started to cast long shadows on autumn, his strength returned, not just to his legs, but to his hands, to his gaze, and to the way he looked at people and saw what lay beneath their surface. Pavla noticed the change.

One Thursday, as he wiped charcoal dust from his fingers, she said, 'Your lines are growing stronger. There is humanity in them.'

He shrugged. 'I've been paying attention, that's all—and I've been practising.'

She gave him a rare smile. 'Good. Keep watching. Keep drawing.'
 
***

He regularly ducked into the café on the main square on his way home, and on the rare occasions he could afford it, he'd order a bowl of borsch and some cabbage rolls. Sometimes, if his pocket and his stomach could stretch to accommodate it, he'd finish with a slice of cherry strudel. However, he usually had to content himself with a mug of coffee to keep out the cold. The proprietor didn't really mind, for having an artist in the café added a bohemian touch and was good for business. His daughter, who was somewhat in awe of this brave young man who had managed to quell the dragon, had a habit of topping up his mug for free when her father wasn't looking.

On this particular morning, an old soldier was sitting near the window, bent over his coffee with one trouser leg neatly folded beneath a wooden stool. His face was weathered and lean, and a scar ran down the side of his neck like spilt wax. Dmitri sat quietly, opened his book, and began to draw. Grey clouds filtered the sun to a soft, steady glow and made shadows sharp with clean edges. He sketched quickly. Not just the contours of the man's face or the way he held the mug in both hands, but the slouch of defeat in his shoulders and the tight, watchful way he scanned the room.

Dmitri was so absorbed in his work that he scarcely registered when the bell above the door jingled, and Leila stepped in, brushing a curl from her face. She spotted him before he noticed her, and he glanced up in surprise when she made her way across to his table.

'I thought I might find you here,' she said, 'skiving away with your sketchpad when you should be up at the lodge chopping wood.' She sat in the seat across from him with a mischievous smile. 'If you buy me a piece of strudel, I won't tell.'

Her eyes fell on the sketch, and her voice was low. 'Did he ask you to draw him?'

'No.' Dmitri shook his head. 'I didn't think he'd mind.'

She looked again. 'You didn't draw his injury.'

'I didn't need to.'

Leila's fingers traced the edge of the page without touching it. 'It's powerful. You should be doing more of this.'

He smiled faintly. 'What, sketching strangers?'

'Not just that. Capturing something that others can't—or won't—see.' She gestured at the page. 'You draw pain like it's something holy.'

He looked away uncomfortably. 'That's not what pain feels like.'

She was about to answer when a harsh voice cut through the low murmur of the café.

'Oi.'

A man in a trucker's vest stood near the counter, squinting at Leila. Behind him, two younger men smirked over takeaway cups.

'Where you from then, love?' he asked. 'D'you lot come here to take our jobs or just tell us how to live?'

Leila froze. Dmitri's pencil stopped moving.

'Nice headscarf,' one of the others added. 'All tarted up for the harem, are we?'

Leila inhaled deeply. 'Let's go,' she whispered.

But Dmitri stood.

He closed his sketchbook and stepped between the men and the table.

'She's with me,' he said flatly.

The older man scoffed. 'Lucky you. I hear these wogs are a good lay.'

Dmitri drew himself up to his full height, and through clenched teeth, he said, 'That's enough.'

The man took a step forward. Dmitri didn't move.

A voice came from behind the counter. 'All of you—out. Now.' The proprietor towered over the intruders, his beetling brows bearing down on them like thunderclouds. 'I run a café, not a sleazy, third-rate bar.'

The three men hesitated. Then, with a final mutter, they pushed the door open. The last one spat on the doormat as he left.

Dmitri sat down, hands slightly shaking. 'Are you all right?' he asked.

Leila gave a tight smile. 'No.'

She picked up his sketchbook and handed it to him. Her fingers brushed his. 'But thank you.'

The proprietor and his daughter hovered over them with profuse apologies. Dmitri glanced toward the veteran, who stared at the table as if seeing something far away.
 
'Is this what I've been fighting for?' he muttered, the bitterness in his voice more than the room could hold.

They left the café in silence. Neither of them spoke for several paces. Their footsteps fell in sync.

Dmitri shoved his hands into his coat pockets. 'I shouldn't have let that happen.'

Leila's voice was quiet and measured. 'You didn't let it happen. You stopped it.'

He shook his head. 'Too late. The damage was done.'

Leila didn't answer right away. She kept her gaze forward, her face unreadable beneath the folds of her scarf. 'It's not the first time, and it won't be the last.'

They passed a shuttered newsstand, a row of cracked benches and a dog tied to a post. Dmitri glanced at the proud lift of Leila's chin and the stubborn quietness she wore like armour.

'Are you always that calm under fire?' he asked.

She gave a short laugh. 'No. But I've had practice.'

'I'm sorry.'

'I know.'
 
***

They walked towards the outskirts of town, curving past a low wall mottled with moss until they reached the river. An avenue of linden trees lined its bank, gold in the glory of the dying season. They stood in silence on an old stone bridge leading to a meadow on the other side, then, without warning, Leila threw her arms around him and kissed him hungrily, pressing her body tightly to his.
 
He froze. His hands came up between them, not to embrace but to push her gently back.
 
'Mira—'
 
The name escaped before he could stop it.
 
He pulled away, stricken. 'Leila. No. Oh God—what did I just say?' His voice cracked. 'I’m so, so sorry.'
 
She stumbled back a step, staring. Her breath caught in her throat.

'Do I really remind you of her that much?'

Dmitri looked away. A crow beat its wings and vanished into the trees.

'Too much,' he said. 'I'm sorry. Truly, I am. You even sound like her sometimes. The way you laugh. The way you disarm me.'

'I don't mean to.' She stepped closer, her voice lower. 'Is that why you like me? Or why you don't?'

Dmitri blinked. 'What do you mean?'

'You're warm, then cold. Like you want something from me and then punish yourself for wanting it.'

He flushed. 'It's not like that.'

'It's exactly like that.' She folded her arms. 'And I get it, Dmitri. You're grieving. But don't use me to bring her back.'

He stared at the desiccated remains of a forget-me-not growing from the blank stone wall.

'I'm not Mira,' she said, softer now. 'I'm not anyone's ghost.'

'I know.' His voice caught. 'But sometimes I forget.'

They stood in a silence broken only by the swirl of water under the bridge.

Then Leila reached for his hand. Slowly. Deliberately. Her fingers wrapped around his. She didn't say anything, and neither did he. They stood like that for a while. A gust of wind lifted her scarf, sending it trailing behind her like a pennant. She let it flutter, her eyes remaining on his.

'Do you want to walk back to the lodge?' she asked. 'You can leave your bike in town. No one would ever think of pinching that old rust bucket.'

'Yes,' he said. 'If you do.'

'I do.'

They set off down a bridleway on the far side of the river. It lay between hedgerows laced with wild clematis and rosehips. Blackberries clustered purple between dark green leaves, tempting but barbed. The world was burgeoning with promise, and it stirred something between them, something delicate and hungry, like a flame sheltered in cupped hands.

Author Notes Characters

Dmitri, a teenage boy recovering from catatonia (a state in which someone is awake but does not seem to respond to other people and their environment).
Mira, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena, a volunteer carer looking after Dmitri and aiding his recovery.
Leila, a foreign girl employed by Elena.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher.

Setting: Somewhere in Central Europe.

British English spelling and grammar are used throughout.

Thank you for reading and reviewing. I welcome honest, constructive criticism.


Chapter 12
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 12

By tfawcus

'Are you sure this is a shortcut?' Dmitri asked with a shade of doubt in his voice.

'Yes, Elena was talking about it the other day. She said it used to be the main highway between Velinkra and Moreniv. Locals call it the Birch Road.' Leila adopted an air of mock authority. 'She even showed me a book about it. Apparently it dates back to the fourteenth century.'

'Really? But how close does it get to the lodge?'

'Close enough. It runs around the eastern edge of the pine forest. We should be there well before sunset.'

'I hope so. I wouldn't want to be stumbling around here after dark.'

Leila laughed. 'I don't think that's very likely.'

To their right, the upland meadow basked in the warm colours of late autumn. Leila pointed. "Look! A Golden Eagle—just above the trees. Isn't it magnificent?"

Dmitri squinted. "I don't see anything.'

She stepped behind him and stretched her arm over his shoulder to guide his gaze.

'Ah, yes. I see it now.'

They watched, rapt, as the eagle wheeled above a small herd of roe deer grazing near the forest edge.

'Look! They're scattering! One of them's coming this way.'

So engrossed were they in the unfolding drama that they didn't at first register the dull thud of approaching horse hooves. A lone rider emerged at a canter from among the birch trees ahead and was bearing down on them. He was less than a hundred metres away when the panic-stricken hind cleared the hedge directly in front of him, crashed through the undergrowth, and plunged into the river.

The horse reared, wide-eyed and with nostrils flaring. In the next instant, the rider was thrown, landing hard on the path just ahead. Dmitri lunged to catch the reins, but the horse bolted past him. It galloped down the track before coming to a halt two hundred metres on, where it dropped its head and began grazing as if nothing had happened.

Whilst Leila tended to the injured rider, Dmitri walked slowly towards the horse, a handsome bay gelding with steam rising from its sleek mahogany coat. It shied away as he approached, but he spoke in low tones to reassure it, remembering the way he and Mira had calmed strays back home—creatures half-broken by fear or hunger. He plucked a handful of grass from the track's edge and approached slowly, letting the scent do its work. The horse munched, its ears flicking, and Dmitri gently stroked its neck, catching the rein behind its jaw. When he returned, Leila had already fashioned a sling from her scarf and was helping the man sit up.

He thanked them both effusively. 'Next time you're in Velinkra,' he said, 'you must stop by. I'd like to give you something special for your kindness.' He told them he lived near the stone bridge they had recently crossed.

When the man had recovered his equilibrium, Dmitri pointed out a grassy knoll that could serve as a mounting block, and held the gelding steady while Leila helped him remount.

As he disappeared into the distance at a slow trot, Leila said, 'He told me his name is Andriy Kolt. He's an army major on home leave. Such a nice man. How sad he had to injure himself like that.'

Dmitri was less interested in Major Kolt than in the mist slowly rising from the river and drifting across the bridleway.

'We'd better be getting along. This place has an eerie feel about it.'

The incident left them quiet as they walked toward the avenue of birch trees. The boughs arched overhead, forming a ghostly tunnel of white bark and golden leaves. Mists coiled around them like seven veils in a forbidden dance, and the air took on an amber glow, scented with woody sweetness.
 
Leila pulled her coat tighter. 'It’s like walking into a harem,' she muttered.

'And what do you know about harems, if you don’t mind me asking?'

'They’re places where you have to tell stories to avoid death.'

'Like in The Arabian Nights?'

'Not quite, but close. Maybe I’ll tell you about it one day.'
 
He wished there were no secrets between them. He wanted to know her story as well as she knew his. ‘Elena told me you had to flee from Syria because it was too dangerous for you there. But why Ukraine? Do you have some family connection here?’

His question drifted into the trees unanswered. It was obvious he had broached a subject she didn’t want to talk about.

He felt a flicker of guilt. ‘I didn’t mean to pry. I’m sorry.’

'Don’t be.'

The light was already changing. The birches darkened to pewter. The shadows beneath them stretched and tangled, and the leaves murmured overhead in a language neither of them could understand.

Leila slowed. 'Do you get the feeling we're not alone?'

He glanced at her.

'I don't mean people,' she added quickly. 'More like the forest is watching. Like it remembers things.'

He considered. 'Stranger things have happened. But while we're on the subject of stories, have you heard about the Rusalki?'

'About what?'

He smiled slightly. 'Water spirits. Some say they're the souls of drowned girls. Others say they're maidens betrayed by lovers. They haunt rivers and lakes... and birch woods, like this.'

Leila gave him a look. 'You're trying to frighten me, aren't you?'

'No, but I remember a story our grandmother used to tell when Mira and I were small. Maybe it will help to pass the time. Don't worry, it's not scary.'

'All right, then,' Leila said. 'Let's take a trip down memory lane.'

'This sprite was different,' Dmitri said softly. 'She lived by a quiet river near a village like mine. In the evenings, she sang to the birch trees, and the leaves leaned towards her to listen. One day, a boy passed that way. He was lonely. He'd suffered a great loss. She called out to him, and her voice sounded like water rippling over stones. She invited him to come closer.'

'So? What did he do?'

'He stepped into the water and let her take his hand. They say he walks with her still, under the reeds, and that if you pass that way at dusk, you can hear them singing.'

A breeze stirred, carrying the faint sound of rustling leaves. Or something like them.

She looked at him. 'I wonder. Did he love her? Or did he only love what he'd lost?'

'I think he loved her. At least, he'd better have done, because when you upset a Rusalki, she's liable to tickle you to death. But this one didn't want to hurt him,' Dmitri added, 'unlike others of her kind.'

'Oh, really,' Leila said with an evil glint in her eye. She lunged towards him with her fingers stretched out like claws.

He cried out in mock terror and raced towards the lights flickering through the trees. When he reached the lodge gate, he turned, and Leila, with laughter catching in her throat, flew straight into his arms. But before she could start tickling, he pinioned her and kissed her languorously, and without hesitation.

She melted into him, and for a breathless moment, it was as if they were one body and one soul.
 

Author Notes Characters

Dmitri, a teenage boy recovering from catatonia (a state in which someone is awake but does not seem to respond to other people and their environment).
Mira, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena, a volunteer carer looking after Dmitri and aiding his recovery.
Leila, a foreign girl employed by Elena.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher.

Setting: Somewhere in Central Europe.

British English spelling and grammar are used throughout.

Thank you for reading and reviewing. I welcome honest, constructive criticism.

Image by Andrey Shishkin, licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution license.


Chapter 13
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 13

By tfawcus

Could such moments last forever? Perhaps, if it were not for the infernal mosquitoes. As the sky poured the last of its light into a copper cauldron, and night chills swept across the lake, Dmitri and Leila walked arm-in-arm back to the lodge, scarcely aware of the nightjar's call and the swoop and dive of pipistrelles.

Once inside, they regained their senses, and not a moment too soon, for Elena was in the hall, drawing the curtains against the dying day.

'Thank goodness! I was about to send out a search party. Where on earth have you two been?'

They stood like a pair of recalcitrant children, hanging their heads in shame, or was it in an attempt to hide their sheepish grins? Either way, Elena would have had to be blind not to notice the change.

'We walked back, along the Birch Road and were ambushed by a ghostly horseman. We were lucky to escape with our lives,' Leila said.

'Not to mention that vindictive water sprite,' Dmitri added.

'Enough of your nonsense. I was worried sick. Still, all's well that ends well, I suppose.' She pulled the last curtain across and added, 'And what did you do with my bicycle, Dmitri?'

'I left it chained to the railings outside Baba Roza's café. It'll be safe enough until morning. We couldn't both ride back on the old boneshaker, could we?'

'On your head be it if some roughneck pinches the wheels. Then you'll have to run the gauntlet of the Rusalki every week. Never mind. You'll need to toughen up if you're going to be a war artist.'

Leila edged closer and put her arm around Dmitri's waist as she absorbed the implications of that last remark.

'You, too, young lady. Now stop your canoodling and go through to the kitchen. There's a beef and potato stew on the range that needs dishing up.'

The meal took place without much conversation. Elena asked about the ghostly horseman, and on being told that it was Major Kolt, she almost choked on her stew.

'Him? Ghostly? A bit strange perhaps, but his life hasn't been easy. He's a good friend of Pavla's. Did he tell you that?'

'We didn't spend much time on chitchat. He fell off his horse and broke his arm. At least, I think he did. Anyway, I improvised a sling. It was getting late, so he didn't hang around.'

Dmitri and Leila exchanged surreptitious glances throughout the meal, and Elena didn't take long to pick up on it, and she didn't intend to tenir la chandelle, as the saying goes.

'There's a jar of apricots on the top shelf, and cream in the fridge if you want it. Help yourselves. I'll be off now. I've letters to write, and I have to make an early start in the morning.' She might have added, 'I'll leave you two lovebirds to yourselves,' but she didn't.

After she left, Dmitri looked deep into Leila's eyes and took her hands in his. 'Do you think she knows?'

'I don't care if she does.'

'She might, though.'

Leila shrugged and, standing on her chair, reached on tiptoes for the apricot jar. She almost got hold of it, but it slipped from her hand. Dmitri lunged across to catch it, toppling the chair as he did so. One moment, she was poised like an angel on top of a Christmas tree, and the next, she fell with the grace of a dying swan and came crashing down on top of him.

She raised herself on hands and knees, straddling him with the same mix of grace and abandon that had undone him since the beginning.

'Well done! You saved the apricots,' but as she said it, her voice trembled in a way that had nothing to do with the jar of fruit.

She gently lowered herself until he could feel her breath on his collarbone and see the faint pulse at her neck. The jar slid from his hand and rolled across the floor. She stopped inches above his face, poised tantalisingly, as if daring him to make the next move.

He reached behind her neck, pulling her towards him, and for the second time that evening, their lips met. Not hungrily, not urgently, but with a reverence that sent wild tremors through their bodies.

He buried his face in her neck, breathing in her animal essence, but she pulled away from him. 'Not here,' she said softly.

What passed between them upstairs remains, as it should, behind closed doors. Yet the moment belonged to neither of them entirely. It was as if time itself paused to witness their intimate expression of love. Their bodies moved gently, without hurry and without shame, guided by a tenderness that needed no words. Afterwards, while Leila lay in contented disarray, Dmitri traced the soft curve of her shoulder with his lips. Her fingers found his beneath the blanket, and he imagined an eternity of lying like this, with her heart beating against his.

'I don't want this to end. Not ever.'

She didn't answer, but her fingers tightened around his, as if she was anchoring herself to the moment.
 
***
 
Alas, even when infinity lies in the palm of one’s hand, eternity seldom outlasts the hour.

Dmitri woke to the pale light of dawn with a delicious sense of well-being. He slipped out of bed quietly and pulled on his clothes. Leila still slept, with her dark hair fanned across the pillow and one arm resting over the hollow he’d made. Before going downstairs, he kissed the soft space above her temple. She stirred but didn’t wake. Or maybe she did, and only pretended to sleep.

Elena was already in the kitchen with the kettle boiling and porridge on the stove. She stirred slowly, adding a pinch of spice, and said, ‘Sleep well?’

He grunted, took the tea caddy from the window ledge, and made himself a pot of tea. Then he shuffled across to the stove and stuck his head over the porridge pot. ‘Mmm... smells good. What’s in it?’

‘Cinnamon and cranberries. Want some?’

He grunted again, but with a little more enthusiasm this time.

‘Have you seen Leila on your travels? Her bed’s made, and her room’s empty. She must have got up early this morning.’

Receiving no reply, Elena looked up sharply. Dmitri’s face had turned crimson.

She pursed her lips and sighed. ‘Oh, I see.’ She hesitated as if unsure what else to say, then waved the porridge spoon in the direction of the dresser. ‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to put that jar of apricots back on the shelf for me.’
 
She had already turned back to the stove when Leila entered the room, slightly dishevelled and wearing Dmitri’s dressing gown. She walked up behind him, massaged his shoulders, and leant down to kiss his ear.

Elena‘s body stiffened. Without turning to face Leila directly, she said, ‘Porridge is on the stove. Help yourself if you want any.’

The two lovebirds scarcely registered as the back door clicked shut.

***

Once outside, Elena removed her apron, ran her fingers through her hair, and took several deep breaths. She had known it was coming, but hadn’t expected it so soon, nor so openly, but the sound of a car stopping by the front gate prevented her from dwelling on it. A man in a navy-blue jacket emblazoned with the Ukrposhta logo came up the driveway carrying a parcel and whistling cheerfully.

‘Is that for me?’ Elena said. ‘How exciting! It looks as if someone has remembered my birthday.’
 
As she signed for the parcel, she said, ‘If you're going back down to Velinkra, I don’t suppose you could give a young lad a lift, could you? He had to leave his bicycle there yesterday afternoon.’

The postman hesitated, then said, ‘Well, it’s against regulations, but seeing’s it’s your birthday and nobody’s about, I think we can risk it.’ He gave her a broad grin and winked. ‘By the way, there’s this letter too. I brought it up to save you going down to the front gate.’

‘Wait a minute. I’ll go inside and fetch him.’

She opened the back door and called out, ‘Dmitri! If you’re quick, the postman can give you a lift into town to save you walking. And one other thing—Madame Miret rang to say she’d like you to drop by to see her again today.’

‘Hang on a sec! I’ll grab my things.’

A couple of minutes later, he rushed out, clapping his cap on his head and slinging his satchel over his shoulder. He stopped to give Elena a quick peck on the cheek. ‘You’re my saviour,’ he said. ‘Thank you so much.’

Her eyes glistened with tears, although she managed a smile as he vanished down the driveway—a boy in love, barely out of childhood. She glanced down at the letter and frowned. It was addressed to Leila.

Author Notes Footnote: tenir la chandelle is a French expression meaning 'to hold the candle'. It refers to the awkward situation of being alone with a couple, feeling like you shouldn't be there. The expression originates from a time before electricity, when couples would require someone to hold a candle to provide light during romantic moments, often making the candle holder feel like an unwelcome third party. (I hope that throws some light on things!)

Characters

Dmitri, a teenage boy recovering from catatonia (a state in which someone is awake but does not seem to respond to other people and their environment).
Mira, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena, a volunteer carer looking after Dmitri and aiding his recovery.
Leila, a foreign girl employed by Elena.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher.
Andriy Kolt, an army major.

Setting: Somewhere in Central Europe.

British English spelling and grammar are used throughout.

Thank you for reading and reviewing. I welcome honest, constructive criticism.

Image: The Kiss, by Francesco Hayez 1859


Chapter 14
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 14

By tfawcus

When Elena returned, she found Leila up to her elbows in the kitchen sink. The draining board was stacked with breakfast dishes and cutlery, and she was attacking the last of the pots and pans. 
 
Elena waved the package in the air. 'Look! I have a parcel. How exciting! And there's a letter for you. A Turkish stamp on it. Probably from your mother. I hope she's all right.'
 
Leila wiped her hands on her apron and took the envelope. A puzzled look crossed her face. 'That's not Mama's handwriting. I wonder who it's from?' She turned it over. There was a return address on the back with the name Samira Haddad. 'That's strange. It's from my aunt.'
 
She slit it open with a knife from the draining board and hesitated for a moment before unfolding the letter and starting to read.
 
My dear Leila,
I hope this reaches you. The last time I wrote, I wasn't sure if you had moved again. The girl from the UN said she would help, and I pray she kept her word.
Your mother is failing. The doctors here don't say much, but I can see it in her skin, in her breath, and in the way her voice drifts off when she tries to speak. She wakes at night calling for you.
I've done what I can. But I'm only one person, and my hands are not young anymore. We're all tired. The camp is full of ghosts.
She doesn't ask for much, Leila. But she asks for you.
I know you've worked hard to make a life for yourself, but I trust that you still carry us in your heart, and that you will remember your filial duty.
I'm sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, but there may not be much time. She is fading fast.
Your ever-loving aunt,
Samira
 
The colour drained from Leila's cheeks. The letter dropped from her fingers, and it floated to the floor. She stumbled forward and fell into Elena's outstretched arms.
 
'Oh, my poor dear! What is it?' Elena ushered her towards the kitchen table and pulled out a chair. 'Come! Sit down here.'
 
Leila slumped forward on the chair with her head between her hands. Waves of grief convulsed her body.
 
Elena stood behind her, massaging her shoulders. 'There, there. It'll be all right. Take your time, dear. You've had a terrible shock.'
 
Leila lifted her head slowly, her words coming in waves between her sobs. 'It's my mother. She's dying.'
 
Elena reached for the teapot. She pushed a steaming mug across the table. 'Here, sip this slowly. It will help.'
 
After a while, when the first paroxysms subsided, Leila pulled herself together as best she could.
 
'Even if I go, there's no guarantee I'll get there in time. I’ll need permission to visit the refugee camp. There are organisations in Kyiv that might be able to help with the documentation, but I’ll have to go there in person. I don’t know how long it will take.’

She hesitated, going through everything in her mind.

‘They might fast-track it because of Mama’s condition. The Human Rights people have helped in some cases, but it’s all paperwork and waiting. And I can’t afford to wait.’

Elena nodded slowly and bent to pick up the letter. She placed it on the table. ‘And then what?’

‘I’ll need to arrange a flight from Kyiv to Istanbul. After that, someone to meet me. The camp’s in a restricted zone, but my cousin might be able to arrange something if the border guards cooperate.’ She gave a sharp laugh. ‘And here I am, worrying about paperwork while my mother lies dying.’ Her voice caught. ‘I hate this. I hate needing bureaucratic permission to say goodbye.’

‘And what about a visa? You’ll need to apply for one at the Turkish embassy.’

'No, that's not a problem. I’ll just need to show them my passport when I book,' She fished in her bag and placed it on the table. There was a trident embossed in gold on the navy cover.

Elena stared. 'You’re Ukrainian?'

'By my father,' she said, almost defensively. 'He’s from Moreniv. He brought me here when things got bad in Syria, but he was called up almost at once, and we haven’t spoken since.' She closed the passport and slid it back into her bag. 'It’s just a formality. It lets me travel to Türkiye without special permission.'

 ‘That’s a blessing. One less thing to worry about. I didn’t know,’

‘I didn’t tell you. My father and I had ... a difficult relationship.’

Elena touched her arm. ‘You do what you need to. Is there any way I can help... money, perhaps?’
 
Leila's eyes glistened. 'You've already helped more than anyone. I can't possibly ask for that.'
 
Elena gave a small smile. 'Don't be silly. It's the least I can do.'
 
'I shall repay you. Every last kopiyka. I swear it on my mother's gr...' she trailed off. 
 
'Hush, child! You shouldn't say such things. Now go and do your packing. There's a train from Moreniv mid-afternoon that will get you to Lviv, and from there you can catch the night train to Kyiv. You haven't much time if you intend to leave today.'
 
'When will Dmitri be back from town? I can't leave without saying goodbye.'
 
'I don't know, but for some reason, Pavla wanted to see him. I'll ring her and say he needs to hurry home, as there's been an emergency. I imagine he'll be back by lunchtime, so you'll have plenty of time for fond farewells. He may even be able to come with us to the station.'
 
When Leila climbed the stairs, she went first to Dmitri's room. She sat on the edge of his bed with her arms wrapped around her knees. Her eyes burned, but she was determined not to cry. Her mother's voice echoed faintly: You must be strong. Smile, even when it hurts.
 
She didn't want to go. She didn't want to be reminded of the life she'd escaped from, and the thought of going back terrified her. Nothing would be certain once she returned to Türkiye.

She glanced at the sketchbook on Dmitri's table. It lay open, a few pencils scattered nearby. This was not the sketchbook he took to Pavla each week for his art lessons. It was a book of more personal paintings and drawings; the harpy pouncing on his queen, the heron by the lake, and one she hadn't seen before—of her. She hadn't realised she looked so beautiful. God, how she would like to stay one more morning, waking up in Dmitri's arms.
 
For a moment, she weakened, but then she pressed her fingers to her chest as if to trap the memory there. Forgive me, she whispered, though she wasn't sure if it was meant for her mother, or for him.
 
She cast a last, lingering glance on his bed, patted the pillow, and went to her room to pack for the trip.
 
***

By midday, there was still no sign of him. Elena had called her friend as promised, but there was no reply. She left a message, but not with any great hope of it being seen. Pavla wasn't good at that kind of thing.
 
'Never mind,' she said. 'We'd better start lunch without him. I'm sure he won't be too long.'
 
She had been busy making a special meal while Leila was packing: Chicken Kyiv, filled with butter and garden herbs, and plum pie with cream to follow.
 
'You've got a long train ride ahead of you. We can't send you off hungry now, can we? And I've packed a lanch-bak with cold sausage, cheese, pickles, and rye bread for the journey, so you won't starve.'
 
'You're such a darling, Elena. I really don't deserve all this fuss.'
 
'Nonsense, girl. You’ll be glad of it when the time comes.'
 
They ate the meal without saying much. They were too deeply buried in their own thoughts. Leila kept looking up at the kitchen clock. I wonder where he is and what's happened to him.
 
After the meal ended, Elena said, 'We must leave in half an hour if we're to catch the train. You'd better leave him a note, just in case.'
 
Leila sighed. She hadn't expected it to be so difficult. She started writing, slowly, carefully, each stroke of the pen oozing love:
 
Dmitri, my darling
I waited as long as I could. I wanted to see you and to say this to your face, but Elena is taking me to the station soon. We can't risk missing the train.
A letter arrived this morning. My mother is dying in a refugee camp in Türkiye. My aunt says it won't be long. I have no option. I have to go, first to Kyiv to arrange paperwork for the visit, then on to Istanbul if all goes well.
But don't despair. I shall be gone only as long as it takes, and no longer. Then we shall be back in each other's arms again.
I wish I didn't have to do this, but family comes first. It isn't something I can walk away from just because I want something different.
I'm sure you will understand.
All my love, Leila
 
She folded the paper in half, took the locket from around her neck, and placed it on top of the note. It glinted dully in the afternoon light, a silent promise left behind.
 

Author Notes Footnote: The Ukrainian kopiyka is a small denomination coin equivalent to the Russian kopek
Lanch-bak is a misspelling of "lunch bag." The term is used in the context of lunch bags with Ukrainian themes, often decorated with the Ukrainian flag or other patriotic symbols

Characters

Dmitri, a teenage boy recovering from catatonia (a state in which someone is awake but does not seem to respond to other people and their environment).
Mira, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena, a volunteer carer looking after Dmitri and aiding his recovery.
Leila, a foreign girl employed by Elena.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher.
Andriy Kolt, an army major.

Setting: Somewhere in Western Ukraine, in the Carpathian Mountains.

British English spelling and grammar are used throughout.

Thank you for reading and reviewing. I welcome honest, constructive criticism.

Photo by Alireza Zarafshani on Unsplash


Chapter 15
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 15

By tfawcus

The postman dropped Dmitri in front of Baba Roza's café and drove off with a cheerful wave. Dmitri scarcely noticed. All his attention was focused on the railings where he had chained Elena's bike. The bike was no longer there. How foolish he felt, especially after Elena's scathing remarks at dinner the previous evening and his flippant reply.

What a fix he was in! He not only had the embarrassment of his foolishness, but he would have to walk into town for his art lessons in future. An empty Kvass can was lying on the pavement, and he gave it a mighty kick, sending it skewing off his foot straight through the door of the café.

'Oh, no!' he groaned.

Moments later, the proprietor's bear-like hulk appeared. He lumbered through the doorway, the crushed can in his left hand and a rolling pin raised in his right.

Dmitri cowered in the shadow of this formidable adversary. 'I'm sorry, Mr Doroshenko. It was an accident.'

Mr Doroshenko's glowering features relaxed. 'Oh, it's you, is it? The artist boy. What the devil do you think you're doing? You nearly brained me.'

'Really, I'm truly sorry. Someone's stolen my bike, and I was taking my frustrations out on the can.'

Mr Doroshenko grunted. 'It's a good thing you don't play for the Dynamos, lad. You'd better come in and cool off.' He handed Dmitri the crushed can. 'This is yours, I think.'

Dmitri sheepishly followed him into the café. Nadia, who had been watching from the window, giggled like a schoolgirl. There was her hero again; David against Goliath, and if he hadn't actually won, at least he hadn't been flattened by her father.

A couple of locals in the corner looked up. One of them called out, 'Hey, Myko, what are you going to do with the little beggar. Bake him into a pie? Roll him into a strudel?' Their belly laughs reverberated around the room.

Nadia leapt to his defence. 'He's not a little beggar. He's the one who saw off those three hooligans yesterday afternoon. Treat him with a bit more respect.'

They both got up and bowed to the floor. 'Sorry, princess!'

'Take care!' The proprietor knitted his eyebrows together in a most alarming manner. 'No one speaks to Mykola Doroshenko's daughter in that tone of voice.'

Suitably chastened, they shrank back into their seats, taking refuge behind their coffee mugs.

'Nadia's right,' Myko said. 'You behaved honourably yesterday, young Dmitri, standing up against those scoundrels. I'm proud of you, and if you promise not to shy drink cans at my head again, you may call me Mykola, man to man, instead of Mr Doroshenko.'

'Don't be so pompous, Papa. No one around here ever calls you Mykola.'

She nudged Dmitri and whispered, 'You have my permission to call him Myko. He's a very lovable bear most of the time. He won't mind.' She turned to her dear Papa and said, 'Are you going to tell him, or shall I?'

Myko's face broke into a broad grin, exposing two gold teeth that glinted like the heavenly twins. 'Your bike's safe, lad. I cut it free with a pair of bolt cutters yesterday evening and put it in the shed around the back. You can't be too careful these days.'

If Dmitri had not been so much in awe of the great man, he'd have thrown his arms around him and kissed him on both cheeks. Instead, he spluttered out thanks, which Myko brushed aside like flies settling on his strudel.

'Be off with you, and take more care next time. No one can be trusted these days! Nadia, take your gallant knight out to the shed and give him back his Rocinante.'

Rocinante? Dmitri looked puzzled. Nadia lifted her shoulders, spreading her hands theatrically in a gesture that indicated she hadn't got a clue what her father was talking about either.

She grasped Dmitri's hand and dragged him across the room and out through the kitchen. One of the old men in the corner gave a low wolf whistle that withered on his lips when he saw the expression on Myko's face.

She trundled Dmitri's faithful old boneshaker out of her father's toolshed and lingered by the handlebars a moment longer than necessary. Dmitri thanked her rapidly and with stilted formality before leaping astride the bicycle and pedalling away as fast as his legs could carry him.

***

He whistled cheerfully as he bumped along the cobbled street, and by the time he reached Madame Miret's, he was puffed up like a turkeycock. Despite his earlier stupidity, he had gained Myko's respect. Man to man, he'd said... Not only that, but it was clear that Nadia had a crush on him, an ego-booster for any red-blooded young teenager if ever there was one.

Pavla met him at the door with a towel over her shoulder and paint on her hands.

"You've taken your time," she said, but not unkindly. 'Come inside. I want to talk with you.'

He took the steps two at a time and proffered his sketchbook for inspection. Pavla brushed it aside.

'No, not about art today. About my dear friend, Elena. I suppose you know it's her 40th birthday today?'

'Really? I had no idea.'

'That's just like her. I don't suppose she's told anyone. Never mind. We're not going to let her get away with it.'

'No, of course not,' Dmitri said doubtfully. 'What have you got in mind?'

'A party, of course. A surprise party, and that's where you come into it. I want you to invent a pretext for getting her down here into town by six o'clock this evening, and in her finest gown. Everything is arranged. It is to be held in Major Kolt's house, and the mayor will be there to present her with a medal for her work at the clinic. Andriy and I have been friends for a long time. The poor man fell off his horse yesterday, but fortunately, no damage was done. Just a badly bruised arm. My heart missed a beat when I saw it in a sling when he came around to see me earlier this morning.'

'Major Kolt? But Leila and I were there when it happened. His horse shied and threw him.'

'How extraordinary! He told me he had been rescued by a pair of young lovers, but I never imagined he was talking about you.' She took a pace back and studied Dmitri in a way that made him squirm. 'You have hidden depths, it seems.'

Dmitri blushed and quickly changed the subject. 'But I don't see how I can persuade Elena to put on her best clothes and come into town. She'd never even think of it.'

'Ah, but there is a way. A little birdie told me you have your own celebration coming up soon. Your eighteenth birthday. Tell her that the party is for you. That will do it.'

Pavla moved across to the window and looked out. 'You're right, though. She'd never come if she thought it was for herself. There's an old wives' tale about turning forty. Some people believe it is bad luck and that celebrating it is inviting trouble. It's even associated with death. Absolute nonsense, of course, but my dear friend is a superstitious old thing.'

Dmitri frowned. He didn't like the sound of that, even if it was nonsense. Anyway, he couldn't refuse Madame Miret. 'All right, I'll do it. She's a wonderful person, and it's fantastic that the Mayor is going to honour her in this way.'

'Good lad! You and Leila are also invited, of course. I'm sure Andriy will want to thank you personally for your help yesterday, and maybe he can give you some advice about your plans for the future.'

Author Notes Footnote: Kvass is a popular Eastern European drink made from stale rye bread.

Characters

Dmitri, a teenage boy recovering from catatonia (a state in which someone is awake but does not seem to respond to other people and their environment).
Mira, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena, a volunteer carer looking after Dmitri and aiding his recovery.
Leila, a Syrian girl employed by Elena.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher.
Andriy Kolt, an army major.
Mykola Doroshenko (Myko), proprietor of Baba Roza's cafe in Velinkra
Nadia, his daughter

Setting: Velinkra, a fictitious small town in Western Ukraine, in the Carpathian Mountains.

British English spelling and grammar are used throughout.

Thank you for reading and reviewing. I welcome honest, constructive criticism.

Photo by Toby Do on Unsplash


Chapter 16
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 16

By tfawcus

Dmitri returned to the lodge in high spirits, buoyed by the responsibility Madame Miret had given him. Not by the responsibility itself, which was fraught with difficulties, but by the fact that his revered teacher had thought him worthy of discharging it. What other responsibilities would adulthood bring? Few so fraught with danger as his years with Mira, but this was different. Eighteen at last! The world was at his feet! Now he could drive a car—as soon as he could afford one! He could have his say in who ran the country—or would be able to, if it wasn't for the rule of martial law. He could even marry—if he had the courage to ask!

What wild prospects lay ahead! He took his hands from the handlebars, stretched them out like wings to embrace the future, hit a pothole, and was tossed unceremoniously into the ditch. He picked himself up, dusted himself down, and continued the journey with unabated exuberance.

As he swung into the driveway leading up to the lodge, he took his feet off the pedals and freewheeled the last few metres, leapt to the ground, propped his bike against the garden shed, and raced into the kitchen.

His words came in staccato bursts, like popcorn. 'Wonderful news! You'll never guess what. They're throwing a party for my eighteenth birthday. Tonight. At Major Kolt's place. Pavla has it all arranged. You're invited, of course, and Leila, so you'd better start hunting out your glad rags. We must be there by six.' Without waiting for a response, he dashed off in search of Leila.

Elena stood like an oak that had weathered a storm, and she glanced at the still unopened parcel on the dresser as she listened to the fading notes of Dmitri's cries. 'Leila! Leila! Where are you?' Silence slowly descended, and she waited.

He came bursting back in. 'Where is she? I've hunted high and low.'

'She had to go away.'

'Oh, damn and blast! There's so little time. I hope she’s back in time to get spruced up a little. Not that she needs it — but you know what I mean.' He gave Elena a broad wink. 'You know what girls are like. Never think they're pretty enough without half an hour in front of the mirror.'

'Dmitri! Listen to me. You don't understand. Her mother is desperately ill and may not have many more days to live. Leila has gone to Kyiv. She needs to arrange for the necessary permits before her flight to Istanbul.'

Dmitri looked at Elena blankly while the words sank in.

'She left a note. It's there on the kitchen table.'

His eyes followed her gesture. The filigree locket glowed dully, a jaundiced eye in coils of gold. He picked it up, pressed it to his lips, slipped the chain around his neck so the cool metal rested near his heart, and began to read Leila's letter.

Dmitri, my darling... The words swam before his eyes... I waited as long as I could... My mother is dying... gone only as long as it takes... I'm sure you will understand... All my love...

He looked at Elena accusingly. 'Why didn’t you tell me? We—we could have gone together! She shouldn’t have had to—' He broke off. 'What have you done?'

Elena waited for the outburst to finish. She wasn't offended. She understood the anger of grief. 'You weren't here. We waited as long as we could. She wanted so badly to see you before she left. I'm sorry, but she had to catch the last train that would connect with the night train from Lviv, else she'd have lost a whole day. Don't you see? This isn't about you.'

'But you knew I would be at the studio. You could have rung Pavla.'

'I tried, but she didn't answer. I left a message. I did everything I could.'

'Then I must follow her. She can't do this alone. She needs me.' He looked at Elena with desperation in his eyes. He waited. 'Well? Are you going to take me, or do I have to cycle to the station?'
 
‘Sit down, Dmitri, and listen to me. Leila will arrive in Kyiv at seven in the morning. Until then, we have no idea what she is doing or where she is staying. It could take her days to sort out the necessary paperwork. Right now, there’s nothing you can do. When she has news, she’ll contact me. Can’t you see ... rushing off won’t help.’

‘I must go at once. There’s no time to lose.’

Elena reached across the table, but Dmitri drew away sharply. 'At once! Do you hear?'

'Dmitri, you're almost eighteen. Surely you realise what that means. There's a government edict. No man between eighteen and sixty can leave the country. You can't go to Türkiye with her. She has to do this on her own. There's no other way.'

Dmitri clenched his fists, digging his nails into the palms of his hands. His knuckles turned white, and his eyes brimmed with tears. He fought them back angrily.

Elena placed her hands on the table. 'I'm going upstairs now. To get ready for the party. We can't disappoint Pavla after she's gone to so much trouble, now can we?' A draught swirled around the door as she left the room.

He brushed away the tears and, pushing against the table, shoved the chair away from behind him. He stood up, tall and straight, and took a deep breath. He was almost eighteen: the age when a boy becomes a man.

Author Notes Characters

Dmitri, a teenage boy recovering from catatonia (a state in which someone is awake but does not seem to respond to other people and their environment).
Mira, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena, a volunteer carer looking after Dmitri and aiding his recovery.
Leila, a Syrian girl employed by Elena.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher.
Andriy Kolt, an army major.
Mykola Doroshenko (Myko), proprietor of Baba Roza's cafe in Velinkra
Nadia, his daughter

Setting: A hunting lodge in the Carpathian Mountains.

British English spelling and grammar are used throughout.

Thank you for reading and reviewing. I welcome honest, constructive criticism.

Photo by Klugzy Wugzy on Unsplash


Chapter 17
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 17

By tfawcus

Now that he was alone, Dmitri began to think more clearly. He felt deeply ashamed of the way he had spoken to Elena and knew he owed her an apology. Appropriate words were weaving and reweaving themselves in his mind when the kitchen clock whirred. It emitted four brisk dings, as if to let him know that time was not to be wasted. However, as Dmitri's idea of dressing up consisted of clean socks, a fresh t-shirt, and a splash behind the ears—a ten-minute job at most—he decided there was no hurry. He wandered out into the orchard and lowered himself into a deckchair in the shade of a pear tree. He needed time to compose himself and to work out how best to reunite with Leila. She was going to need him by her side. He was sure of it.

Time slipped by unnoticed, and Elena's call from her bedroom window brought him up sharply. 'Dmitri! Where are you? We have to leave in three-quarters of an hour, and you still haven't changed.'

Not wishing to offend her further, he struggled to his feet. 'Coming! I won't be a sec.'

He dashed indoors and took the stairs two at a time. He was met by a stunning figure on the landing. Elena wore an elegant dress of grey-blue silk. A pearl pendant hung from her neck, and she had drawn her hair into a neat bun secured by a marcasite comb.

'Be a dear, would you, and do up my zip. I can't quite reach it.'

As he approached, he became aware of a subtle and intoxicating scent of jasmine and roses. His heart sank. A clean t-shirt and a roll-on deodorant? Not tonight. But what else could he do?

As she always did, Elena came to the rescue. 'I've laid out Stanislav's evening clothes. They're in your room. He was much the same size as you. Go and get yourself cleaned up, and after you've put them on, I'll come and see if there are any small adjustments needed. Hurry now, we haven't much time.'

Ten minutes before they were due to leave, she gave a gentle tap on his door. 'How are you doing? May I come in?'

She entered to find him standing awkwardly in front of the mirror, struggling to put his cufflinks on. She took over with an air that suggested she'd done this many times before.

'I'm sorry I spoke to you like that in the kitchen. It was inexcusable, but I was so worried about Leila that I hardly knew what I was saying.'
 
Elena squeezed his arm. 'I know. We're both worried, but the situation will be much clearer when she arrives in Kyiv. I told her to get in touch as soon as she knows what’s happening, and if there's any delay, to come back here. There's no point in her being alone in a big city and worrying herself to death. So try to put it out of your mind for this evening. Easier said than done, I know...'

Swiftly, and with deft flicks, she fashioned his bow tie into a perfect knot. For a moment, their eyes met in the mirror. She gave a slight smile while brushing imaginary specks from the shoulders of the dinner jacket. The trousers pinched slightly at the crotch, but it was too late to do anything about that.

'You'll just have to draw your stomach in and stick your chest out. Now, let me stand back and take a look at you.' She made him turn around a couple of times. 'My, what a handsome young man.'

He glanced in the mirror again. A striking figure met his gaze, tall, slender, and slightly off-kilter. His lip curled in a half-smile of approval. Nonetheless, he felt as though the clothes had a memory of their own. Stanislav's scent, faint but clinging, still lived in the lining, and the starched collar itched slightly at the back of his neck. He was deeply aware of wearing a dead man's clothes and wondered what Elena was thinking. The war had not only stolen her menfolk, but the way of life that went with them. Tonight, he promised himself, that would all change, even if only for a few hours.

He bowed slightly from the waist and held out his arm in a gentlemanly gesture learnt from the movies. 'Shall we?'

However, the savoir-faire was only skin deep. Under the veneer, his knees shook, and his heart was fluttering like a butterfly caught in a net.

***

The evening light cast long shadows across the road. Elena drove confidently and with her full attention, being well aware of the dangers of dusk.

Dmitri sat stiffly beside her, one hand resting on his knee, the other fiddling with his cufflink. He had only worn cufflinks once before, for a school concert in the days when Mira was still alive. She had insisted he dress up for the occasion. That had been in a borrowed shirt, too. He remembered how she had teased him about it.

He wondered what Leila was doing right now and suddenly felt very much alone. How he wished she were on his arm this evening. He was going to be lost without her.

'You won't have to speak much tonight,' Elena said without turning. 'Just listen. Take it all in. The major is an urbane host who likes to hold the floor. He doesn't suffer fools gladly, so don't try to be smart with him, and don't try to keep up with his drinking. Just answer when you're spoken to. Don't worry. You'll be all right.'

The road narrowed and curved through ancient farmland, hedged with dog rose and hawthorn. Ahead, the major's residence rose like a monument from another century: a sprawling stone house with ivy-clad chimneys and leadlight windows that glinted in the setting sun. Banks of rhododendron lined the driveway, their vibrant autumn colours echoing the distant glory of summer.

Dmitri stared at the house. 'It's a mansion.'

'It's old money. Land. History. Don't let it overawe you.'

His mouth twisted into a mischievous grin. 'Too late. It already has.'

He knocked on the heavy, oak door, wondering what kind of man he might have become if he'd grown up in surroundings such as these.

***

A butler wearing a tailcoat, black waistcoat, and white tie greeted them. Slightly stooped, he had more the air of an old retainer than a servant.

'Good evening, sir. Madam. Follow me, please.'

Elena winked at him. 'I see you are a jack-of-all-trades, Fedir. How handsome you look in your waistcoat and tails.'

Fedir maintained the charade and replied with a deadpan expression, 'It's good of your ladyship to say so.'

Inside, the house was cooler than Dmitri expected. The entrance hall was grand but not ostentatious. Dark oak panels held the muted glow from a gap-toothed chandelier. The slate floor was spread with worn rugs, and everything smelt faintly of wax and age.

As they waited to be announced, Dmitri felt a prickle at the back of his neck. Something about the house unnerved him, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He glanced at Elena, but her gaze was fixed ahead, calm as ever. He took her arm and escorted her through the door.

The drawing room was filled with the golden light of early evening. Pavla stood near a side table already set with decanters and glasses. A flute of sparkling wine in one hand, a cigarette in the other, she wore a velvet jacket the colour of dried pomegranate, with a long silk scarf knotted carelessly at her hip.

'Pavla,' Elena said, kissing her cheek. 'You look scandalous.'

Pavla purred. 'And you, my dear... What am I to say? You look divine!'

She turned to Dmitri, holding out her hand. He stooped forward, uncertain whether to kiss it or not.

'Come now, don't be shy.'

Dmitri had no idea how to handle this dramatic change in Pavla, from austere teacher to Bohemian artist. He straightened up awkwardly, took her hand in his, felt its dry, papery warmth and bobbed down again, pressing his lips to her knuckles with exaggerated care, as though afraid of breaking her.

At that moment, the major swept across the room with open arms.

'Pavla! You've been charming our young guest already, I see.' He laughed, touching her shoulder briefly, then turned to Dmitri with a more formal air. 'How good to see you again, young man. But what have you done with that gorgeous lady of yours?'

Elena interjected gently. 'Leila sends her apologies, Andriy. She was called away unexpectedly. A family crisis.'

'I am sorry.' The flicker of disappointment in his voice quickly vanished beneath his polished smile. 'I was looking forward to meeting her again. A veritable angel. You're a lucky fellow, Dmitri.' Turning his attention back to Elena, he said, 'Never mind. Who needs the bud when we have the rose? Many happy returns, my dear. What is the saying? Life begins at forty?'

He swept two glasses up from the side table, presenting one each to Dmitri and Elena, and helped himself to a third.

'A toast to the young horse whisperer and to the most beautiful lady in the room.' Here, he glanced at Pavla, intentionally adding a touch of ambiguity to the statement. He winked and said, 'I shall leave you two divas to fight it out while I whisk young Dmitri away. Come, lad. Let me introduce you to The Right Worshipful Mayor of Velinkra, otherwise known as Ruslan Borodin, the biggest scoundrel on God's earth.

He clapped his arm around Dmitri's shoulder and guided him across the room.

As soon as they were gone, Elena turned to her friend. 'The cheek of it! Divas, indeed! And fancy him alluding to my birthday like that. Outrageous! I dislike being reminded of my age at the best of times, but forty! He knows the significance of that as well as I do. Is the man trying to insult me?'

'Oh, calm down, dear. You know what he's like—especially after a few drinks. It's better just to ignore it.' However, the exchange had been enough to make Pavla realise what a fool she had been, arranging for the presentation to take place on Elena's birthday. She hoped and prayed the mayor wasn't going to make matters worse by mentioning it in his speech.

'Come and meet the doctor and his wife. They are new to Velinkra. A charming couple.' Pavla hoped the diversion would take Elena's mind off the perceived insult. Having made the introductions, she excused herself on the pretext of powdering her nose.

She slipped out of the drawing room and headed straight for the kitchens. There, as she had suspected, Fedir's tailcoat hung over the back of a chair, and he and the cook were busy sticking candles into a birthday cake.

'Fedir, you old fraud, come here a moment.'

Fedir wiped his hands on a tea towel. 'Yes, your ladyship?'

'And you can cut that out. I was Pavla yesterday, and I'll be Pavla again tomorrow. Now, look. The major and I have made a terrible mistake. Our dear friend, Mrs Prishtina, is going to be mortified if her birthday is publicly acknowledged. Drop the number of candles down to eighteen, scrape off Elena's name and get cook to write Dmitri instead.'

'But I can't do that. The major will be furious. You know how he takes to being disobeyed. It'd be more than my job's worth. He's already the wrong side of half a bottle of champagne.'

'You leave the major to me. Just do as I say.'

'All right. If you say so, but I don't like it. I don't like it at all. On your head be it if this blows up in our faces.'

Meanwhile, back in the drawing room, the major was doing the introductions. 'Ruslan, my dear fellow, I'd like you to meet Dmitri Zahir, the fine young man who saved my horse yesterday. Dmitri, Mayor Borodin.'

The mayor held out his hand. Dmitri clicked his heels together, seized the proffered hand and shook it vigorously. 'Pleased to meet you, Your Worship.'

His Worshipful Mayor retrieved his worshipful hand and said, 'I'm pleased to meet you, too, Mr Zahir, but I think we can dispense with the formalities in present company, can't we? You may call me Ruslan, if I may be permitted to call you Dmitri?' He gave a wan smile while surreptitiously rubbing his fingers together in an attempt to restore circulation.

Dmitri coloured slightly, uncertain what he should say next, but was saved by the gong.

'Ladies and gentlemen. Dinner is served.'

As the party moved forward, Dmitri fell into step behind them, heart still fluttering. He had no idea what awaited him behind the double doors, but he knew one thing for certain: he was out of his depth.

Author Notes Characters

Dmitri Zahir, a teenage boy recovering from catatonia (a state in which someone is awake but does not seem to respond to other people and their environment).
Mira Zahir, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena Prishtina, a volunteer carer looking after Dmitri and aiding his recovery.
Leila, a Syrian girl employed by Elena whom Dmitri has fallen in love with.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher.
Andriy Kolt, an army major.
Fedir, his faithful retainer
Ruslan Borodin, the Mayor of Velinkra

Setting: Major Andriy's ancestral home on the outskirts of Velinkra (a fictional town in the Carpathian Mountains)

British English spelling and grammar are used throughout.


Chapter 18
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 18

By tfawcus

The end of Chapter Seventeen:
 
'Ladies and gentlemen. Dinner is served.'

As the party moved forward, Dmitri fell into step behind them, heart still fluttering. He had no idea what awaited him behind the double doors, but he knew one thing for certain: he was out of his depth.
 
Chapter Eighteen
 
Major Kolt led the way, with the mayoress on his left arm and Elena on his right. They were followed by Pavla and the doctor's wife. The gentlemen came next, and Dmitri took up a position at the rear.

He had a sinking feeling he would be seated next to the formidable Mayor Borodin and the doctor (whose piercing eyes and Van Dyke beard reminded the poor boy of a picture of Lenin he'd once seen). He imagined that he would be forced into excruciating conversation.

However, when they took up position waiting for Major Kolt to seat the guest of honour, he was relieved to find he was flanked by Pavla and the doctor's wife. The latter leaned towards him in a conspiratorial manner and whispered, 'My name is Nadia, by the way,' while at the same time flashing him a smile that could have melted an iceberg.

His eyes stopped roving over the cut-glass wine goblets glinting in the candlelight, and he gave her a look so grateful that one might have thought she had offered him her emerald necklace and all that lay beneath. He glanced anxiously across to the doctor who was, at that moment, sliding Pavla's chair out for her. Taking the cue, he did likewise for the lovely Nadia.

'How kind of you, young man.' She smiled across at Pavla and said, 'So this is the famous Dmitri you spoke so highly of in the drawing room. I've been dying to meet him.'

The arrival of a squeaky trolley broke the hushed conversation that ensued between the three of them. It was propelled by Fedir, who was now wearing the white jacket of a waiter, and it bore a large tureen. The room fell silent, and all eyes were upon him.

Feeling compelled to say something, he ventured, 'Soup, anyone? Chicken broth with dill. 'Tis very good. I had a taste in the kitchen.

Major Kolt beckoned him impatiently. 'That's enough, Fedir. We don't need your life story.'

While Fedir dispensed the soup, the major selected a bottle from the wine fridge, a straw-coloured wine with a black and gold label. 'Ah, here's one you ladies might enjoy. A splendid little local wine from Chateau Chizay. It has a crisp, fruity flavour that owes much to the unique terroir of Transcarpathia.'

Dmitri suppressed a giggle and whispered to Pavla, 'Did he just say "a terror from Transylvania?"'

Pavla held her serviette to her mouth and turned what might have been spluttering laughter into a discreet cough.

The major looked up sharply. 'Come now, Dmitri. Will you do the honours for us, please?'

Dmitri sprang into action, took the bottle, and began pouring into the major's glass. The major tapped him on the shoulder and said, in a stage whisper clearly designed to embarrass him, 'Ladies first, young man.' He accompanied his words with a tilt of the eyebrows and a faint smile.
 
Elena flinched, and though her expression remained pleasant, the corners of her mouth tightened faintly. When Dmitri came up behind her and was about to start pouring, she looked up at him and said, 'Just half a glass for me, dear.'

The soup was served in wide, shallow bowls, steam curling gently above the pale gold surface. Dmitri had expected something heavier, more pungent, but this was light and refreshing, and he found himself relaxing as he tasted it.

The doctor, meanwhile, was recounting to Pavla some incident from the clinic, his hands sketching invisible diagrams in the air. Nadia gave Dmitri a wry smile, the kind people share when they know their spouse has been telling the same story for years.

The second course was river trout, glistening under a drizzle of butter and herbs. Pavla leaned slightly towards Dmitri. 'Fedir caught these this morning.'

Across the table, Fedir, who was stationed near the sideboard, gave a discreet cough. The major shot him a look that might have been stern, though there was an unmistakable twitch at the corner of his mouth.

By the time the roast duck appeared, the conversation had settled into comfortable, overlapping threads. Dmitri found himself speaking more than he had in weeks, Nadia's easy manner drawing him out. Elena, he noticed, was quieter now, her smile a little fixed.

She caught his glance once, and there was something reproachful in it, though whether at him or at herself, he couldn't tell. He remembered, then, that this evening had been built on a deception of his and Pavla's making, and a dull weight settled in his stomach.

Conversation continued to flow freely as the meal progressed, winding between the mayor's hunting exploits and Pavla's recollections of an art exhibition she had once staged in Kyiv. Elena laughed easily, though Dmitri noticed she kept her glass mostly untouched.

A fresh bottle of wine accompanied each course. While his guests exercised some restraint, the major quaffed freely. He also refilled Dmitri's glass on several occasions without asking, loosening his tongue and inspiring him to speak with even more confidence, at times addressing the whole table rather than just his own little coterie.

After the last course had been cleared away, the major tapped the rim of his glass with a fork. 'My friends,' he began, favouring the assembled gathering with an expansive smile, 'Mayor Borodin has a few words he would like to share.' He swept his arm forward in a mock bow. 'The floor is yours, my dear Ruslan...'

The mayor clipped a pair of pince-nez to his nose and withdrew a small sheet of paper from his pocket. He arose, gave a slight cough, and shifted his gaze to Elena.

'My dear Mrs Prishtina, what a privilege it is to have you with us tonight. Your work at the clinic is known to us all, of course. But I want it said here, plainly, in front of witnesses, that your service has been nothing short of outstanding.'

Elena coloured, murmuring her thanks, but Mayor Borodin was not finished. He produced a small box from his jacket and opened it to reveal a gold medallion. 'I would now like to make a presentation on behalf of the town and the clinic to recognise your devotion to duty. And how appropriate that it should coincide with your 40th birthday. Many happy returns!'

The assembled gathering clapped politely, and Elena's smile faltered. She was clearly embarrassed, though she did her best to conceal it. Dmitri glanced anxiously at Pavla when the birthday was mentioned, then, in a moment of bravado, he leapt to his feet.
 
'A toast to Elena! Please be upstanding!' The phrase was one he remembered from somewhere, and he hoped it was appropriate. As he raised his glass, his eyes met those of the major, and he faltered.

'You overstep the mark, Master Zahir. It is up to the host to propose toasts, and the first one is always, "Glory to Ukraine!" He uttered the words while standing rigidly at attention, and he swung his glass to his lips as if it were a sword presenting arms. In doing so, he splashed half of the contents down the front of his dress shirt. The winestain spread slowly across his chest like a mortal wound.

For an instant, there was a stunned silence, then the guests rose with one accord to give the time-honoured response, "Glory to the heroes!"

The loyal toast complete, Ruslan Borodin remained standing. 'My dear Andriy, what a pleasant evening this has been, but I fear Olena and I must be on our way. I have to be up early in the morning.'

Dr Savchenko also rose to his feet. 'And since Ruslan was kind enough to give us a lift here this evening, Nadia and I must also take our leave. It has been delightful. Truly delightful.' He gave a thin-lipped smile and beckoned to Nadia with his eyes.

'Such a pleasure to have had the privilege of welcoming you to Velinkra, Viktor. Perhaps you will be able to return the favour one day by dressing my wounds when I return from the battlefield.' The major clutched at his winestain melodramatically and fixed his eye on Dmitri. 'Even here in my own home, I am not immune from assault.'

As he escorted his guests to the front door, a deathly hush fell on the room. Elena gave Dmitri a weak smile of sympathy, and Pavla whispered, 'Take no heed of him. He is the worse for drink and forgets himself. I have seen it all before. Nonetheless, tread carefully. He can be a dangerous adversary.'

Elena regretted not having taken the opportunity to leave at the same time as the other guests and was framing a farewell in her mind when distracted by the sound of a squeaky trolley approaching from the kitchen.

Fedir scratched his head thoughtfully when he found only three guests remaining. However, he shrugged his shoulders and lifted the birthday cake from the trolley. He stumbled towards Dmitri, nearly tipping the entire confection in his lap, but managed at the last minute to retrieve his balance, and he slid it safely onto the table, knocking Dmitri's glass over in the process.

He then stood back, evidently pleased with the outcome, and said, 'Happy birthday, young sir, and may you live long enough to enjoy many more.'

The major's thunderous demeanour when he re-entered the room cast considerable doubt on that happy outcome. It took him a moment to comprehend the transformation of Elena's birthday cake into one for this young upstart, and he was about to launch into another diatribe when he was arrested by Pavla's warning cough.

He cast a withering look at Fedir, who shrank several inches before retreating.

'So, the young man has come of age, has he? This calls for a celebration.'

He strode across to the sideboard and grasped a decanter, curling his fingers around its neck as if it were a chicken he intended to strangle, and he returned to his seat.

'Well? What have you got to say for yourself?'

Dmitri cleared his throat. 'It's like this, sir...'

'Come on, lad. Spit it out. What are you going to do with yourself now you've reached the age of adultery?'

Fuelled by Dutch courage, Dmitri launched into a more confident reply. 'As you probably know, sir, Pavla has been giving me art lessons. She thinks I have talent and is encouraging me to become a war artist.'

'No, no, lad. I don't mean in seven or eight years' time. I mean now.'

'So do I, sir. At least, as soon as I have helped Leila out of her current difficulties.'

'What kind of nonsense have you been filling the lad's head with? Starting now? Pshaw!'

Pavla's response was quiet yet firm. 'He has a unique talent, Andriy. He captures grief and hardship in his painting in a most extraordinary way.'

'And you think battle-hardened soldiers will take to a mere stripling making a caricature of their misfortunes? You must be mad, woman. There isn't one of them a day under twenty-five.'

'That's another thing, sir. Perhaps you can tell me. Why does the government deny me the right to leave the country when the conscription age is twenty-five?'

The major splashed a generous measure of plum brandy into his wine glass, swilled it around, and drained it in one draught. 'So, you'd like me to tell you that, would you?' He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. 'Soldiers on the battlefront are being slaughtered every day. We're losing an entire generation. And how are we to recover? Eh? I'll tell you. Your country is giving you free licence to fornicate your way across the land for the next seven years.' He saw Elena's horrified look. 'Sorry, ma'am—to sow his wild oats. It's your responsibility to replace the lost generation before you go into battle and give your life for your country.' He slopped more liqueur into his wine glass. 'And you may as well start with the lovely Leila—if you haven't already done so.'

Dmitri sprang to his feet. 'How dare you, sir! You'll pay for that. You see if you don't.' He tore off his dinner jacket, rolled up his sleeves and bore down on the major with his fists raised.

The major grasped the half-empty decanter and lurched to his feet. 'All right, lad. Let's see what you're made of.'

Author Notes Characters

Dmitri Zahir, a teenage boy recovering from catatonia after the death of his twin sister in a bombing.
Mira Zahir, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena Prishtina, a volunteer carer looking after Dmitri and aiding his recovery.
Leila, a Syrian girl employed by Elena whom Dmitri has fallen in love with.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher who has been giving Dmitri lessons.
Andriy Kolt, an army major who Dmitri and Leila rescued when he fell fom his horse
Fedir, his faithful retainer
Ruslan Borodin, the Mayor of Velinkra
Olena, his wife
Dr and Mrs Savchenko (Viktor and Nadia), recent arrivals in Velinkra

Illustration by Art Pixel AI Images


Chapter 19
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 19

By tfawcus

End of Chapter Eighteen
 
Dmitri sprang to his feet. 'How dare you, sir! You'll pay for that. You see if you don't.' He tore off his dinner jacket, rolled up his sleeves and bore down on the major with his fists raised.
 
The major grasped the half-empty decanter and lurched to his feet. 'All right, lad. Let's see what you're made of.'
 
Chapter Nineteen
 
The two men confronted each other, afire with drunken rage. Dmitri advanced on the major with his knees bent and his right forearm extended in what he imagined to be an alert fighting posture, but it only made him look like a giant land crab lumbering forward. The major adopted an easy stance, legs slightly apart, swinging the decanter like a truncheon, waiting for his opponent to close in.

They were barely two yards apart when Elena pushed her chair back so hard it toppled to the floor. She swung to face Dmitri, shielding the major with her body and raised her hand.

'Don't be such a fool! Have you forgotten you are a guest in this man's house? What are you thinking of?'

Dmitri lurched one further step forward, slurring, 'Outta my way, woman!' only to receive a sharp slap across the cheek. He staggered to one side, off-balance.

'Don't you dare speak to me like that, young man. Now you owe us both an apology.' She picked up a tumbler full of water from the table and flung its contents in his face.

He staggered back in shock, shaking his head from side to side in disbelief.

'Go and put your jacket back on. We're leaving.'

Andriy's mocking laughter curdled the air. 'Well, my little milksop, are you going to do what your mama tells you, or will you stand up like a man?'

Dmitri's muscles tensed, but Elena's eyes bored into him. She gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

Another voice joined in; a firm, authoritative voice that cut through the atmosphere like a laser. 'That's enough, Andriy. You've had one too many, and you're making a fool of yourself. Remember who you are: Major Andriy Kolt, Hero of Ukraine. Put that decanter down. Better still, pour me a drink. I could do with it.'

The major drew himself up to his full height. His urbanity returned, and he said, 'Of course, my dear. How rude of me.'

He skirted around the other side of the table with the decanter, poured some plum brandy into a liqueur glass, and presented it to Pavla with a click of the heels and a slight bow from the waist.

Meanwhile, Elena herded Dmitri towards his chair. He picked up his dinner jacket and struggled back into it. Having squared it onto his shoulders, he adjusted his bow tie and ran his fingers through his hair.

Approaching the major, he said, 'Forgive me, sir. I spoke out of turn.'

The major extended his hand. 'It is I who owe you an apology, young man.' He reached for the decanter. 'Let us drink to a fresh start.'

Pavla intercepted his outstretched arm. 'Come now, Andriy. It's time to see your guests to their car. A little fresh air will do us all good.' She escorted him to the front hall, where Fedir, once again clad in his tailcoat and black waistcoat, stood with Elena's coat over his arm. He handed it to her deferentially.

As he straightened up, Elena winked mischievously and said, 'Thank you, my good man,' and as she put the coat on, she added in a whisper, 'You'll take good care of your master, won't you?'

He shuffled back towards the door, with an exaggerated touch of his forelock and a vacuous grin, and said, 'Thank you, your ladyship. Don't you worry. I will.'

While this charade was being played out, Pavla steered the major towards the door. Dmitri rushed forward and opened it, and the three of them made their way out onto the porch. Frost lay on the front lawn, and in the moonlit shadows, the rhododendron leaves were edged with silver.

Major Kolt turned to Dmitri and said, 'Give my kind regards to the lovely Leila, won't you? Such a pity she couldn't have been here to enjoy this romantic moon.'

He held out his hand again, but Dmitri looked into his steel-grey eyes, took in his mocking smile, and kept his arms firmly by his side.

Elena appeared in the doorway. 'Brrr!' she said. 'It's cold out here.'

Pavla took her by the arm. 'Careful, my dear, there's ice on the steps. The roads will be treacherous, too, so take it slowly.' She kissed her friend on both cheeks and whispered, 'I'll see you tomorrow. We have much to talk about.'


***
 

As they drove off, Dmitri looked over his shoulder. Pavla and Major Kolt were standing arm-in-arm on the porch, looking every bit like a married couple farewelling their guests.

'How will Pavla get home? Shouldn't we have offered her a lift?'

'She won't be going home this evening. She'll want to make sure Andriy is all right. She's had plenty of experience in handling him when he gets like that. She won't leave him alone.'

'What got into him? He was so charming at the beginning of the evening, and then all those horrible things he was saying. I don't understand.'

Elena didn't reply at first. She was too busy peering through the semicircle of clear windscreen at the tunnels of yellow light ahead. The only sound was the clockwork monotony of the wipers thrusting frost crystals aside. Dmitri realised what a fool he had made of himself. He should never have risen to the bait. He should never have drunk so much. It wasn't as if Elena hadn't warned him. He sat waiting for her to say, 'I told you so,' but she never did.

After what seemed an age, she said, 'War does strange things to people. He never used to be like that. The poor man has suffered in ways you can't possibly imagine. Allowances must be made.' She leant forward with her gloved hand and cleared a circle in the misted glass. 'Be a dear and adjust the heater fan. I can hardly see where I'm going.'

As if to prove the point, she suddenly slammed the brakes on, throwing them both forward, and the car slewed to a halt. Only metres ahead, a hare was caught in the headlights, its eyes protruding like amber marbles. It paused for an instant with ears erect and nose twitching, then it loped off into the night.

Elena sat rigidly gripping the steering wheel. As her tension eased, she turned to him and said, 'What a fragile thing life is.' Her words froze in the air, falling like shattered glass to the ground.

Dmitri stared straight ahead. He was back in Kalynorad. A wall crumbled in slow motion. Mira lay on the pavement, her arm stretched out towards him, her eyes wide with fear.

Author Notes Characters

Dmitri Zahir, a teenage boy recovering from catatonia after the death of his twin sister in a bombing.
Mira Zahir, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena Prishtina, a volunteer carer looking after Dmitri and aiding his recovery.
Leila, a Syrian girl employed by Elena whom Dmitri has fallen in love with.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher who has been giving Dmitri lessons.
Andriy Kolt, an army major who Dmitri and Leila rescued when he fell fom his horse
Fedir, his faithful retainer
Ruslan Borodin, the Mayor of Velinkra
Olena, his wife
Dr and Mrs Savchenko (Viktor and Nadia), recent arrivals in Velinkra

Setting: On the outskirts of Velinkra, a town in the Carpathian Mountains, in Western Ukraine

Image by ChatGPT


Chapter 20
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 20

By tfawcus

The lodge was unnaturally still when Dmitri awoke. The light through the curtains was watery and cold, as if the day itself were holding its breath. The only sound he could hear was a hobgoblin beating his brain with a hammer.

He gathered up the evening clothes spread across the floor, hung them up, and staggered downstairs, knuckling the sleep from his eyes.

'Any word?' he asked, before he even sat down.

'Nothing.' Elena glanced at the clock. 'Let me see ... she should have arrived in Kyiv two hours ago. We ought to hear from her soon.'

'Do you know where she'll go first, and what she has to do?'

'I imagine she'll head for the Turkish Embassy to find out what's needed for a permit to visit her mother's camp. But that's only a guess.' She poured herself a cup of coffee and slid the pot across to him. 'Why don't you get yourself some breakfast. There's nothing you can do until she rings.'

He didn't answer. In his mind, he could see Leila sitting in a draughty corridor, papers in hand, watching embassy doors open and shut on other people's names, waiting on some faceless official to decide her fate. He should be there ... at her side. The thought tightened in his throat. He splashed some coffee into a mug and drained it in a single draught.

'It's no good. I have to leave now. She needs me.'

'I doubt that very much,' Elena said evenly. 'She's perfectly capable of looking after herself. How do you think she's managed up to now? Apart from anything else, you'll be eighteen in a couple of days, and after that, you won't be able to leave the country at all.'

'That's beside the point.' He knew it probably wasn't, but the idea of sitting here idle felt unbearable. 'I'll have to apply for a humanitarian visa to accompany her. Are you going to give me a lift to Moreniv, or do I have to cycle?'

Elena spoke sharply. 'Slow down, Dmitri. We had more than enough impetuous behaviour from you last night. I'm not taking you anywhere until she calls, and no, you can't borrow my bicycle either.' She gave him a hard look. 'You can walk if you like. Seven kilometres up the Birch Road. Two hours at most. Or you can be sensible and wait.'

Dmitri simmered. This was a side of Elena he had scarcely seen before, but the memory of the glass of water in his face was still fresh in his mind. And here she was again ... treating him like a child. He burned with a fury he hardly understood, equal parts shame and helplessness.

'I'm sorry,' he muttered. 'It's just that ...'

'I know.' Her tone softened. 'Patience isn't easy. But she will be in touch.'

A brisk knock at the back door prevented him from boiling over. Pavla stepped across the threshold, bringing a blast of cold air into the room. Her cheeks glowed from the wind, and her overcoat was damp with snow.

'Brrr! A bit early for this kind of weather. I hope I'm not too early.' She gave Dmitri an amused look, taking in his dishevelled appearance and puffy eyes. 'A bit hungover, are we? That was quite a performance yesterday evening. I was proud of you, though. It's good to see a young man with fire in his belly.' She shook off her coat and hung it over a chair before embracing Elena with a light kiss on each cheek.

Dmitri poured a mug of coffee and slid it across the table, together with the sugar bowl. She stirred two heaped spoonsful into the brew, clasped the mug between her hands, and took a sip.

'Ah, that's better. Brass monkey weather out there, and it's still meant to be autumn. Anyway, what's going on here? You both looked like thunder when I came in.'

'I was telling Elena I have to go to Kyiv to be with Leila. Her mother's dying in a refugee camp in Türkiye. She needs my support.'

'Telling?' Elena shot back. 'Demanding, more like. He was insisting I drop everything and take him straight to the station, though we don't even know where Leila is until she calls.'

Pavla stirred her coffee thoughtfully. 'There's no hurry, Dmitri. I know how these things work. If she's lucky, it'll be a week before she gets a visa. You have plenty of time.'

'He won't listen. Thinks he knows better. Anyway, she doesn't need a visa,' Elena said. 'She has a Ukrainian passport. The real delay will be the permit to visit the camp, and that could take longer.'

Dmitri's head jerked up. 'A Ukrainian passport? What? You told me she was Syrian.'

'She is, on her mother's side. Her father's Ukrainian though. He lives in Moreniv ... or did until he was conscripted.'

Dmitri froze. The words landed like stones. She had never told him. What else had she kept hidden? He turned away from Elena's gaze, his thoughts whirring too fast to pin down.

Seeing him withdraw, Elena turned back to Pavla. 'She doesn't need anyone to look after her. She has a cousin in Istanbul who can meet her at the airport and arrange things at that end, but from what her aunt said, I doubt she'll arrive in time anyway. She'll be able to attend the funeral, of course, but I expect she'll be back here soon after. That's when she'll need support. Not now.' She glanced across at Dmitri. 'He thinks they'll grant him a humanitarian visa. Impossible, of course.'

Pavla set down her mug. 'There may be a way, but it would take so long that she'd probably be back in this country again before permission came through.' She leant forward. 'So, if you're not tearing off to Kyiv this minute, Dmitri, perhaps we can talk about why I battled through the elements to come and see you this morning.'

He was staring down, lost in his private thoughts. She rapped on the table to get his attention.

'Andriy said some harsh words last night. A boy among men, and all that. He's right, of course. You can't enlist, but there are other paths. Casualty clearing stations behind the lines, for instance. And there are avenues, even at your age, to be considered as a war artist. I have contacts in the Ministry of Culture. But I need to know if you want me to put your name forward.'

Dmitri's breath caught. The idea felt at once impossible and oddly real, as if she'd unfurled a map and pointed to a distant city.

'Think about it. You don't have to decide today. But some roads close if you wait too long.'

The clock whirred and struck the half hour. Dmitri stared at the fogged-up window, his hands clasped around his mug. He wished he could see more clearly. 'You said there might be a way to get around the travel ban ...'

'There is an exemption,' Pavla replied. 'For those who lost close family during the war.' Her gaze locked on him. 'A sister, for instance.'

A vision of Mira lying dead in his arms flashed through Dmitri's mind. His words welled up on a tide of emotion. 'And how would I go about getting it?'

'You'd need proof. A death certificate. Official confirmation that the death was directly tied to the war. Sometimes that means digging through regional archives. Sometimes it means standing in front of a clerk who doesn't want to help you. If your family records are in Kalynorad, you may have to go there yourself.'

'And then what?' Elena asked.

'Once the documents are in order, he can apply for travel clearance. But it all takes time, and there's another thing.' Her steel-grey eyes bored into Dmitri. 'When it comes down to it, you'll need to know whether she wants you in Türkiye. That answer might be harder to get than the papers.'

Outside, the snow on the trees was beginning to sag under its own weight, as if the branches had been holding their breath for too long.

Dmitri remained silent.

'What are you thinking?' Pavla asked at last.

'That if I stay, I may lose my chance to be a war artist. And if I go ... I may lose my chance with Leila.' He spoke without turning his eyes from the misted glass.

He thought of Pavla's words—some roads close if you wait too long. He imagined himself in a far-off dugout sketching the faces of soldiers and the battered streets of cities he'd never seen. He imagined Leila, alone in a country he could only picture from maps.

Elena remembered another winter, another boy standing in that same spot, arguing with her husband about falsifying his age so he could join up. He'd gone, and he hadn't come back. Neither of them had. She'd learned then that decisions like these were rarely between good and bad—more often between two kinds of loss. She absent-mindedly twisted her wedding ring. Some choices, she knew, weren't hers to make, but that didn't stop her from wishing she could make them for him.

'If you go to Kalynorad, it won't be easy. Those papers aren't handed over just because you ask. And Pavla's suggestion, although well-meaning, is fraught with danger. You could always stay here, you know, and help out at the clinic.' She knew as she said it that the third option was wishful thinking on her part.

He chose not to respond. Perhaps it was no choice at all, only the stillness of a boy who sensed the narrowing of his fate and didn't know what to do next.
 
And then the telephone rang.
 

Author Notes Author note: The full idiom is 'cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey'.
Not as rude as it sounds though. The phrase is thought to have originated from a time when cannonballs were stored on ships using a brass tray, and the contraction of the brass in freezing temperatures could cause the cannonballs to fall out. (Explanation requested by a reviewer).

Characters

Dmitri Zahir, a teenage boy recovering from catatonia after the death of his twin sister in a bombing.
Mira Zahir, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena Prishtina, a volunteer carer who looked after Dmitri, aiding his recovery.
Leila, a Syrian girl employed by Elena whom Dmitri has fallen in love with.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher who has been giving Dmitri lessons.
Andriy Kolt, an army major on home leave


Chapter 21
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 21

By tfawcus

End of Chapter Twenty
 
'If you go to Kalynorad, it won't be easy. Those papers aren't handed over just because you ask. And Pavla's suggestion, although well-meaning, is fraught with danger. You could always stay here, you know, and help out at the clinic.' She knew as she said it that the third option was wishful thinking on her part.
 
He chose not to respond. Perhaps it was no choice at all, only the stillness of a boy who sensed the narrowing of his fate and didn't know what to do next.
 
And then the telephone rang.
 
Chapter Twenty-One
 
The phone shattered the silence with its cold, impersonal brrring-brrring. They seemed mesmerised, as if it were a cobra upreared to strike. After the third ring, Elena lifted the receiver.

Her voice was taut and attentive. 'Hello? Yes ... Is that you, Leila?' Then it relaxed in relief. 'Thank goodness. Where are you, dear?'

Dmitri was on his feet in an instant, edging closer.

Static crackled on the line. Leila's voice was thin but urgent, 'I'm still in Kyiv. The embassy said I can't apply for a permit from here. I have to be in Tükiye first.' Her words tumbled over one another, and her breath was quick, as if she were speaking while running. 'I have to catch a flight to Istanbul. That means heading south to Chisinau.  I'm on my way to the Avtostantsiya bus station and might just make it in time, if I hurry.'

Dmitri gripped the back of a chair so hard the wood dug into his palm. He opened his mouth, but Elena shook her head, listening intently.

'When I get to Istanbul, my cousin will meet me. I can manage. Please tell Dmitri—'

Her words broke off. A pause. Then a sharp intake of breath, followed by a muffled cry. 'Oh, God... not you?' There were sounds of a scuffle. 'Get away from me, you pig!' Then the line went dead.

Elena held the receiver a moment longer, staring at it as though it might come alive again. Slowly, she set it down.

'She's still in Kyiv. She said she had to be in Tükiye to make her application, but the call was interrupted.' Elena's eyes flicked to Dmitri, then away. 'She was disconnected. It sounded as if she'd been accosted by someone she knew.'

'She needs me.' Dmitri's voice rang with certainty. 'Whoever that was, she's in trouble. I'm going after her.'

'No,' Elena said sharply. 'She has family in Istanbul. She can manage. If you go blundering in, you'll make matters worse.'

'She's not safe.' Dmitri snatched his coat from the peg. 'You don't understand—'

'Oh yes, I do,' Elena snapped. 'You've no money, no ticket, and no permission to leave the country. There's nothing you can do.'

'That's for me to find out.'

'Don't be a fool, Dmitri,' Pavla cut in. 'She has people there. Don't throw your future away chasing shadows.'

But their words only hardened his resolve. He realised neither woman would help him. If he wanted to reach Leila, he would have to betray them.
 
'Let me think about it. I need to be alone for a while.'

Pavla glanced uneasily at Elena after he had left the room. 'Do you think he'll be all right?'

'Yes, but he needs time to work things out. His thoughts are in turmoil at the moment.'

Pavla wasn't so sure. She had noticed the way his eyes dropped as he mumbled his excuses.

***

When he got upstairs, Dmitri paused. The door to Leila's room was ajar. Should he? Shouldn't he? The voices in the kitchen had fallen silent; a moment later, he heard the back door close. He glanced over his shoulder. Why not? He pushed the door open a fraction and peered in, almost as if he expected Leila to be there. But the bed was neatly made, and a book lay on the bedside table. He picked it up without thinking. Daddy’s Little Girl. His brow furrowed. It seemed so unlike her.
As he opened the cover, an envelope slipped out. He stooped and picked it up. The address read:
 
Miss Leila Haddad  
c/o Elena Prishtina  
Birch Road 7  
Velinkra, Moreniv Raion  
Ivano-Frankivsk Oblast  
78034  
Ukraine
 
There was a return address on the back:
 
Samira Haddad
Tent 242 - Haddad
Marwa Refugee Camp, Gaziantep Province  
Türkiye
 
That was all he needed. A specific address in Türkiye to head for. He folded the envelope carefully and put it in his pocket. He stood by the window, looking for the last time across the garden to the mirrored surface of the lake and the grey haze of what lay beyond. Elena and Pavla were walking arm-in-arm towards the front gate and appeared to be deep in conversation. There was no time to lose. He hurried back to his room and packed his rucksack with a change of clothes, his passport, his sketchbook and—after a moment's hesitation—he slung Stanislav's satchel over his shoulder and raced downstairs.
 
Before leaving, he paused in the kitchen. Again, he hesitated. An earthenware jar sat on the shelf, half-hidden behind the flour tin. It held the money Elena kept from her jam and preserves; money intended for the clinic. His heart pounded as he thought of Leila's voice on the line and the fear in her final words. He raided the jar and pocketed its contents. Grabbing a scrap of paper from the dresser, he scrawled:

Forgive me. I'll pay you back.

He wedged the note under the jar and fled before his resolve broke.

***

The last of the snow drifted down in loose, lazy flakes as Dmitri jogged north along the Birch Road, leaving wisps of breath trailing in his wake. The unseasonable storm had abated, and the morning sun was beginning to break through gaps in the cloud. Small avalanches fell from the pine trees, disturbing squirrels and the foraging of small birds.
 
He leapt from side to side, avoiding puddles and drifted snow like a kid playing hopscotch. Several times, he slipped on wet leaves, but his balance was sure, and his heart hammered with exhilaration. For the first time since Kalynorad, he was on his own and answerable to no one.

He reached Moreniv station soon after midday and bought the cheapest ticket to Kyiv with Elena's stolen coins. The next train was due in an hour. When he entered the waiting room, a couple of old men glanced up incuriously from their newspapers. A woman wrapped in a multi-coloured coat stopped her knitting and gathered her things around her like a broody hen adjusting her nest, then she resumed with renewed vigour, pretending to ignore him.

He sat on a hard wooden bench opposite her, with shoulders hunched and hands thrust deep into his pockets, and he closed his eyes. Not long afterwards, a young couple joined them. From their hushed conversation, he gathered they were returning from a honeymoon in the Carpathian mountains. The man was wearing a standard-issue military uniform, and the girl clung to his shoulder like a limpet. Dmitri took out his sketchbook and started to draw.

The soldier shook the girl from his shoulder and glared at him. 'Hey! What are you up to?'

'A souvenir of your holiday. A keepsake for your lovely wife when you return to the front. No charge. A gift for a brave soldier.' He added a few more strokes to his lightning sketch and passed it across.

The soldier looked at it. 'Hey, that's good … isn't it, darling? Do one of my wife, and I'll pay you for it.'

The girl sat up straighter, pushed her hair back, and adopted a pose. Dmitri set to work with brisk efficiency, his pencil skimming across the page in swift, confident lines. He captured the girl’s likeness with practised ease, then his strokes grew more careful and deliberate. Her features emerged—eyes bright with laughter, lips parted—each detail an attempt to preserve a fleeting moment. Yet in rendering her beauty, Dmitri felt a shadow of something deeper, an echo of longing that coloured his perception. The image he created blended reality and imagination, a subtle trace of someone he remembered, someone he had lost.
 
The soldier was delighted. He peeled two five-hundred-hryvnia notes from a bankroll and kissed the precious drawing, clasping it to his heart. His girl purred on his arm.

Dmitri grinned foolishly, pocketed the notes, and mumbled his thanks. The money was real, solid, and a validation of his worth. His first sale.

Yet as the girl nestled back against her soldier, Dmitri felt a hollowness in his chest. He had captured her beauty too easily and too cheaply, trading a piece of himself for two crumpled notes.

He closed his sketchbook. Tomorrow, he told himself, things would be different.

Author Notes Characters

Dmitri Zahir, a teenage boy recovering from catatonia after the death of his twin sister in a bombing.
Mira Zahir, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena Prishtina, a volunteer carer who looked after Dmitri, aiding his recovery.
Leila Haddad, a Syrian girl employed by Elena whom Dmitri has fallen in love with.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher who has been giving Dmitri lessons.


Chapter 22
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 22

By tfawcus

The blare of a two-tone horn heralded the train’s arrival. As it swung around the corner and bore down on Dmitri, he felt like a knight confronted by a dragon. He raised his hand, and instead of swallowing him up in a burst of flame, it slowed and came to rest with a deflated pssst. He climbed aboard, and, after stowing his bag, settled into a seat by the window with Stanislav’s satchel resting on his knee.

The last of the carriage doors clunked shut, a shrill whistle blew, and with a groan and a shudder, the engine jerked forward. The rhythmic clackety-clack of the wheels gained tempo as the train gathered speed, and he was on his way into the unknown with a tangle of emotions. However, any regret he had about leaving Elena and Pavla was outweighed by the anticipation of adventure and the prospect of being reunited with Leila.

He fingered the locket that lay next to his heart and pressed his forehead to the glass, watching fields of sunflower stubble slip by. Tall, once-erect stems fringed the fields, but they were now dry, coarse, and drooping from the weight of depleted flower heads and they stood like wounded survivors. He turned his gaze inward. Across the aisle, an amputee with week-old stubble fingered the stump of his missing arm, his gaze fixed on a point in space. Dmitri opened his sketchbook and started to superimpose the one image on the other. The soldier noticed the way the callow youth kept glancing up at him and scowled.

Feeling uncomfortable and embarrassed, Dmitri put away the sketchbook. To cover his awkwardness, he turned his mind to the cost of getting to Istanbul. He certainly couldn’t afford a flight from Moldova to Türkiye. That was out of the question. Even if he took a bus the whole way, travelling through Moldova, Romania, and Bulgaria, the cost of the journey was going to be more than twice what he had in his pocket. He had three days before his eighteenth birthday, so he needed to earn money fast. Maybe he could set up in the railway station precinct when he reached Lviv and try his luck offering lightning caricatures. If he could get half what the soldier had given him in Moreniv, he’d only need to sell a few.
 
With that in mind, he reopened his sketchpad and drew some to put on display as samples of his work. He knew enough about human nature to add a touch of humour. He sketched Myko Doroshenko with eyebrows bristling, standing in the doorway of Baba Roza's café with his rolling pin raised, and to attract the ladies, he drew Leila in a graceful dancing pose. He was particularly proud of his sketch of Pavla wearing her flamboyant velvet jacket with the silk scarf knotted at her hip, a champagne glass in one hand and an impossibly long cigarette holder in the other. She looked every inch like a model from the 1920s. The soldier watched him with interest and came over to have a look.
 
‘Not bad! Not bad at all. How much do you want for the dancing girl?’

‘A thousand.’

‘You must be joking, lad.’

‘All right. Eight hundred … for a hero of Ukraine.’

The soldier grimaced. ‘I’m no hero. Just a poor bloody baker with one arm missing. Now, let’s have a look at the one you were doing of me when you thought I wasn’t looking.’

Dmitri pulled it out from under the pile and held it up. The soldier looked at it in stunned silence. ‘By Christ, how did you dream that up? It’s just the way it was. You’re a flippin’ genius.’

‘Do you want it?’

‘Not likely. I’ve got more than enough memories of my own without that. But I’ll take the dancing girl.’ He put his wallet on the table and thumbed eight grubby notes from it awkwardly with one hand.

Dmitri again felt a tinge of guilt as he handed over the drawing, but he was over halfway towards getting his bus fare. The thought of rescuing Leila overcame any scruples about trading on her beauty.

The train arrived in Lviv late in the afternoon after wending its way through several kilometres of suburbs. Velinkra and Kalynorad paled into insignificance in comparison to this vast metropolis. The station seemed more like a palace than a railway terminus. Glass tunnels overarched the platforms, bathing them in a soft and golden light, and the main concourse took his breath away with its soaring columns and chandelier. He gazed up in awe, and passengers buffeted him around like a pinball as they scurried for their trains.

Finding himself in front of a newsagency, he bought a reel of sticky tape, a packet of rubber bands, and a new sketchpad. Thus armed, he gravitated to the relative backwater of the station café. He had three hours before his connection to Kyiv, and he hadn’t had a bite to eat since breakfast. A family with several children was vacating a table against the wall, leaving half a bowl of French fries unconsumed. He slid in behind them and surreptitiously snaffled a few. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he scooped a handful into a paper napkin and slipped them into his pocket for later. A sparrow swooped down beside him and cocked its head expectantly. He emptied a few crumbs into the palm of his hand and watched as it sidled towards his fingers.

A waiter loomed up beside him. ‘We’d rather you didn’t feed the scavengers, sir,’ he said, while clearing the table. ‘Now, what can I get you?’

He ordered a glass of tea, and while waiting for it to arrive, stuck his sample pictures on the marble column behind him, together with a notice proclaiming, “Lightning caricatures: 700 UAH each”, and underneath he wrote “SPECIAL OFFER: Two for 1000 UAH”.

While waiting for a flock of eager customers, he sipped his tea and sketched the grand architecture of the main concourse. He was so engrossed in the task that he failed to notice two burly security guards approaching with an Alsatian straining at the leash.

‘Move on, lad. This is station property. Find somewhere else to tout your wares.’ The Alsatian underlined the order with a low growl.

He stuttered an apology, took down the sketches, and fled.

A bewhiskered gentleman sporting an Alpine hat followed him through the impressive entrance arch and onto the street.

‘Hey, lad! Wait a minute. What’s your name?’

Dmitri swung around to face him. ‘Dmitri Zahir. Why do you ask?’

‘I saw what happened in there. Those two bullies. They had no right … Look, I’ll give you a thousand for those pictures you had on display. They’re good. Especially the one of the flapper.’
 
He paused, looking Dmitri up and down appreciatively. ‘And if you want a decent meal instead of those soggy French fries … and a bed for the night … my place is just around the corner.’

Dmitri pocketed the thousand-hryvnia note in exchange for the drawings and offered his apologies. ‘That’s very kind of you, sir, but I’m booked on the overnight train to Kyiv. Perhaps another time.’

The man sighed. ‘Ah, well, c’est la vie. You’re a fine-looking young man. Take my card in case you happen to be passing this way again. Best of luck to you and take care in the big city. It’s a dangerous place these days.’

Dmitri backed away, touching his forelock and muttering, ‘Not half as dangerous as it is here.’
 
***
 
He had booked a third-class ticket in a platskartny vagon, an open-plan sleeping car carrying half a hundred passengers, and ten minutes before departure, he joined a jostle of figures on the ill-lit platform.

An inspector in a peaked cap scanned his boarding pass and ID with a torch. ‘Third carriage,’ the man said briskly, pointing with his penlight towards a cluster of people surrounded by battered suitcases; men and women of all ages, bundled in coats and shawls against the night chill; and children perched on heaps of luggage, swinging their legs. A spirit of camaraderie had already sprung up, and he was welcomed into the group with quick smiles and nods of acknowledgement.

‘First time in platskartny?’ a stout woman with a kerchief asked as she shifted a heavy rucksack on her back.

He nodded. ‘Yes.’

She chuckled. ‘You’ll love it if you don't mind a bit of snoring.’

‘And farting,’ a young man with a guitar case chimed in to the accompaniment of ribald laughter.

Dmitri smiled hesitantly, grateful for the welcome.

When the train horn sounded and the doors clanked open, the whole group surged forward in a kind of orderly scrimmage. People hauled each other’s luggage aboard, a child was boosted up by three different hands at once, and the guitarist grabbed Dmitri’s arm and hauled him aboard.

‘Top bunk?’ asked the kerchiefed woman, pointing at his ticket.

‘Yes.’

‘Then you’ll need this.’ She handed him a folded mattress pad. ‘Spread it out quick before the train lurches. Watch the trick: tuck the end under the board or it slides all night.’

Following her example, Dmitri climbed up to the narrow shelf and spread the pad, trying to imitate the efficiency with which others were making their nests. Across from him, the young man with the guitar was already humming under his breath.

The woman winked at Dmitri and said, ’He’ll be singing us all to sleep before long.’

The guitarist laughed. ‘Better than the sound of the wheels, eh?’

Dmitri settled onto his bunk, the satchel with Stanislav’s art materials resting against his chest. The carriage was alive with chatter and the squeak of mattresses being unrolled. For a moment, he forgot the uncertainty of what lay ahead and relaxed into the security of this strange, temporary family on wheels.

Once everyone had settled and the first bustle of bedding down was over, food began to appear as if by magic. Plastic bags rustled; lids popped off enamel tins; the sharp scent of pickled cucumbers mingled with the sweetness of apples.

‘Here, lad,’ said the kerchiefed woman, pressing a hard-boiled egg into Dmitri’s hand before he could protest. A man offered him some salt-cured pork fat on a slice of rye bread.

Children wandered down the corridor with glasses of steaming tea from the samovar at the end of the carriage. One boy stopped shyly by Dmitri’s bunk.

Dmitri hesitated. He had nothing to give in return. Then, opening up his sketchbook, he said, ‘Would you like me to draw you a picture?’

Eyebrows lifted, and there were murmurs of interest. The boy clambered up beside him to watch as Dmitri’s pencil flew across the page. Within minutes, the child’s face took shape, wide-eyed and solemn. When he tore the page free and handed it over, the boy’s expression lit up with delight, and others leaned closer.

‘Do me next,’ the guitarist said with a grin, swinging his case onto the lower bunk. He was a lanky fellow with bright eyes and an easy manner. ‘But make me look like a rock star, not a third-class passenger.’

Dmitri sketched quickly, exaggerating the sharp jawline and tousled hair, adding a hint of stage lights in the background. The carriage erupted with laughter when he held it up.

‘You could make a living doing that,’ someone said. ‘We’ll all be wanting one before the night’s through.’

The guitarist offered him a packet of sunflower seeds in exchange, and they fell into an easy conversation about music and art.

By the time the lights dimmed, the whole carriage seemed to have relaxed into a rhythm: murmured voices, the rustle of blankets, and the soft clink of glasses as the last of the tea was finished. Dmitri lay back on his narrow bunk, sketchbook tucked safely away, listening.
Two bunks down, a young woman whispered to her neighbour about meeting her husband in Kyiv. Across the aisle, a pair of old men debated politics in low, growling tones until one drifted into snores. A mother crooned softly to her child, the lullaby barely audible above the steady clatter of wheels.

The train rocked and swayed, its heartbeat a ceaseless throb against the rails. Dmitri felt himself slipping between waking and dreaming as time and space dissolved in the rhythm until it no longer seemed outside him but within, vibrating through his chest and his bones. The shadows of the bunks swayed with each lurch of the carriage, a shifting pattern that seemed alive, as if the sleepers around him were drifting in and out of each other's lives.

He let his eyes half-close, and the murmurs around him turned into voices he knew: Elena’s, calm and low; Leila’s, quicksilver and bright; and Mira’s, calling him home. They melted into one, the resemblance so uncanny that he felt both longing and dread. He tried to call out, but his voice dissolved into the wheels’ iron rhythm. In the dream, Mira reached out her hand, but when he grasped it, it was Leila’s hand he held. And then the images faded into the blur of night, the hiss of the rails and the soft rise and fall of the sleepers’ breath. Time uncoiled, meaningless, and he floated in the motion of the train, carried forward as if by fate itself.

Gradually, the darkness gave way to the pale light of dawn spilling through the carriage windows and washing the weary faces around him in grey-blue light. Outside, grime-streaked apartment blocks slipped by, and the rhythm slowed. Around him, his makeshift family of the night was already stirring: blankets rolled, bags heaved down, children roused from slumber.

The guitarist yawned and winked at him. ‘Welcome to the capital, my friend.’

The train slid to a stop. A voice barked an announcement over the loudspeakers. The words were harsh and distorted, but the name Kyiv-Pasazhyrskyi was unmistakable.

Dmitri clutched his satchel to his chest, his heart pounding as the enormity of it struck him. The long night was over. Ahead lay the prospect of a new day and the uncertain road to Istanbul.

Author Notes Characters

Dmitri Zahir, a teenage boy recovering from catatonia after the death of his twin sister in a bombing.
Mira Zahir, his twin sister, killed in a bomb attack.
Elena Prishtina, a volunteer carer who looked after Dmitri, aiding his recovery.
Leila Haddad, a Syrian girl employed by Elena whom Dmitri has fallen in love with.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher who has been giving Dmitri lessons.

Image: Jorge Jescar from Australia, CC BY 2., via Wikimedia Commons


Chapter 23
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 23

By tfawcus

The tide of disembarking passengers swept Dmitri down the platform and into the main concourse. Kyiv was on an altogether grander scale than Lviv, classically symmetrical and austere, and lacking the old-world grace and charm of the smaller provincial station. A crackle of announcements filled the air, and distant rumblings suggested a ceaseless thrum of activity. His ears rang with the din of departures, and he found it hard to focus on the mass of people criss-crossing the floor like ants before a storm. In Lviv, he had felt dazzled, but here he felt dwarfed.

Despite the threat of air raids, the station still operated with a veneer of normality. Signs of the war raging in the east were subtle, mostly manifested in long delays and frequent malfunctions of automated systems. Passengers burdened with luggage queued without complaint, seemingly resigned to the realities of daily life in a country at war. He had no idea where to go and stood feeling helpless as he tried to establish his bearings. After wandering aimlessly for a while, he decided, as a last resort, to ask one of the railway staff where he could buy a bus ticket.

'Where are you trying to get to?'

'Istanbul.'

'Then you need the Central Bus Station. It's about half an hour away.' She gestured to one of the exits. 'The bus stop is over there.'

Inevitably, he had just missed a bus. The sky was overcast, and a misty shroud hung over the city, further dampening his spirits. The situation wasn't improved when he reached the bus station. Half the population of Kyiv appeared to be travelling west to avoid the war. He joined a lengthy queue at the ticket office and soon realised it was going to take several hours to reach the front of it, so glacial was the rate of progress.

Furthermore, he was surrounded by dour, uncommunicative people, quite unlike his overnight companions on the train. The prospect of being stuck on a bus with them for thirty hours filled him with dread.

It was mid-afternoon when he reached the ticket office window. The clerk, weary but polite, asked for his documents. Dmitri presented his passport and ID.

'What about your military registration document? I can't issue a ticket without seeing that.'

'But I'm only seventeen.'

'Yes, but one should have been issued automatically when you turned seventeen. If there was a reason why that didn't happen, you need to apply for it now.' She pushed the identity documents back under the glass shield. 'Until then, I can't help you. Besides, all buses to Istanbul are fully booked for the next three days, and by then, according to your passport, you'll be eighteen, and you'll need special dispensation to travel.

Dmitri clutched the counter and leant forward. 'I have to go to Istanbul. Don't you understand? It's a matter of life and death.'

The clerk lowered her eyes, avoiding the ferocity of his gaze, and in a voice somewhat louder than necessary, called out, 'Next, please.'

The man behind Dmitri pushed past, leaving him standing, helpless, and with tears of frustration misting his eyes. He left the building with no idea what to do next. The rain was now coming down steadily. He hunched his shoulders and, with his head stooped against the wind, set off down the street. Not having any better idea, he headed back towards the central train station. As far as he could see, his only option was to go home to Kalynorad to register for military service, and as Pavla had suggested, to get documentary proof that his sister's death had been a direct result of the war. Only then could he obtain the travel exemption he'd need after his eighteenth birthday.

He had been walking for a little over half an hour when his thoughts were interrupted by a high-pitched wail that rose and fell with alarming persistence. He paused, unsure what it meant, when a young couple with a child in tow rushed past, shouting, 'Quick! Air Raid!' He lost no time in following them as they raced to the nearest metro station.

Dmitri followed the crowd down into the entrails of the city, where people sat in resigned silence on benches or on their own bags, as though they had done this countless times before. He found a place against the wall and lowered himself, hugging his rucksack to his chest. The day outside had been bleak enough with its leafless trees and ashen skies, but here it seemed bleaker still. The strip lighting buzzed overhead, lending the faces around him a washed-out pallor. Somewhere, a child whimpered until hushed by its mother. 

For a while, he sat with his head bent, letting the drone of voices rise and fall around him: half-caught phrases of worry about relatives, rumours of missile strikes, the price of bread. He might have remained invisible, but eventually the man beside him spoke.

'Travelling alone?'

Dmitri looked up. The man was a few years older than him and worn thin by hunger or worry. A soldier's cap sat on his knees, and his hair was cropped close.

'Yes,' Dmitri said quietly.

The man studied him for a moment, then gave a faint, wry smile, as though recognising something of himself. 'No family?'

Dmitri didn't answer, but the words hit home. It was true. He had no family. His father, killed in the war; his sister, blown up before his eyes; his mother disappeared, presumed dead. He thought of Elena, waiting in the lodge, not knowing where he was. But mostly, he thought of Leila, alone in Türkiye. Or was she alone? Who had cut off her phone call to Elena? Someone she knew, and that was for sure, and it had been someone she didn't want to see. Her father, perhaps? He'd have to try again to make contact when he returned to the central station. What a fool he'd been, forgetting to pack his charger.

He saw the soldier staring at him and, ignoring the question about family, he asked, 'Can you tell me? Does this line go to the Kyiv-Pasazhyrskyi station?'

'Yes, there should be a train in about ten minutes. There's a self-service ticket machine up there—if it's working.' He nodded towards the exit. 'Mostly, everything's out of action these days.'

Shortly afterwards, the all-clear sounded, and the crowd began gathering coats and shouldering bags. The soldier passed Dmitri on the way back from the ticket machine. Dmitri gave him a thumbs-up.

Another voice disappearing up the stairs said, 'False alarm again. Looks like some other poor bastards copped it this time.'

***
 
When he arrived, Dmitri had a short walk across Vokzal'na Square to reach the central railway station. It was still raining, and the sky was darkening towards evening. He paused at the main post office. Still guilt-ridden about helping himself to Elena's jam money, he slipped three hundred hryvni into an envelope, scribbled a short note, and handed it over the counter. A weight fell from his shoulders as he headed for the main concourse in search of a public phone.

He tried Leila's number first, though with little hope of a reply, and while he waited with the phone to his ear, he glanced around. The glass roof of the station concourse was blurred with grime, and the neon strips cast a harsh, grey light. Even the pigeons looked dejected.

He had better luck with Elena's number. On hearing the warmth of her voice, he felt the safety of the lodge surge around him.

'Elena—it's me. I'm in Kyiv. I wanted to let you know I'm safe, and that I've posted the jam money back to you.'

The relief in her voice was palpable. 'You dear boy! You shouldn't have bothered. The main thing is that you're safe.'

'Yes, and I've made some money selling drawings. Enough for a ticket to Istanbul, but I have to go to Kalynorad first, like Pavla said.'
 
'But Dmitri, Leila is quite capable of looking after herself. She’ll probably be back within a couple of weeks. Please! Why don’t you give up this wild goose chase and come back to Velinkra?'
 
Dmitri pursed his lips and replaced the receiver in its cradle, tightened the strap of his rucksack and tried to shake off the feeling of homesickness that had swept over him. He had no bed waiting for him, no fire, no warm meal. Only the station, grey and forbidding, and the faint hope that he might be able to find somewhere to sleep for the night. How inviting Velinkra seemed. For a moment, he had considered giving in to the temptation, but no—he was a man now and intended to prove it. He plunged his hands into his jacket pockets and hit something soft and squishy—the last of the Lviv French fries. He dropped them in a nearby rubbish bin and wiped his hand on the back of his trousers. He wasn't that desperate yet.
 
As he mingled with the thinning crowd, a familiar sound halted him. It was the strum of a guitar, tentative at first, then surer, winding its way through the station's echoes. The tune was unmistakable. Elena had sung it at the lodge, almost under her breath, as if the words were solely hers to own. Hearing it now in this place intensified the guilt he felt and brought a lump to his throat. He had difficulty holding back a tear.
 
In the distance, he could see the guitarist from the Lviv train, with his head bent and his fingers coaxing the melody out with a mixture of care and defiance. A few coins lay scattered in the velvet lining of his guitar case. Dmitri stood listening until the last note trembled into silence. Then the man looked up and grinned in recognition. 
 
'You again,' he said. 'I thought you were on your way to Istanbul.'

'Not yet, I'm afraid. The buses are all booked for the next few days,' Dmitri replied and, jerking himself out of the doldrums, he added, 'Do you want a coffee? I think we both may need one.'

They crossed to a kiosk that was still open. The lights threw a fluorescent glow across the tiles. Dmitri paid for two cups, and they sat on a low bench, steam rising between them. They had never bothered to exchange names on the train, and there was an awkward silence.

The guitarist extended his hand. 'I'm Oleh.' He gave a bitter laugh, 'The blessed one. As if.'

Dmitri gave a low bow and responded, 'Dmitri ... dedicated to the goddess of harvest and fertility, though I've got nothing to eat and my girlfriend's in Türkiye.'

Oleh clapped him on the back. 'Never mind. We'll survive.'

They chatted about nothing in particular, the journey, the weather and the state of the country, but Oleh did most of the talking. Dmitri's thoughts were far away. Elena's song still lingered in his mind.

'Come on,' Oleh said at last, slinging his guitar over his shoulder. 'I know a place we can get through the night. It's nothing fancy, but it's dry. And if the sirens go again, it's safer than here.'
 
Dmitri nodded. The night suddenly seemed a little less empty. As they set out together, his thoughts turned inward to the long night ahead and what the future might bring.

Author Notes Note: I have a busy week ahead. Chapter Twenty-Four may be a while in coming.

Characters

Dmitri Zahir, a teenage boy recovering from catatonia after the death of his twin sister in a bombing.
Mira Zahir, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena Prishtina, a volunteer carer who looked after Dmitri, aiding his recovery.
Leila Haddad, a Syrian girl employed by Elena whom Dmitri has fallen in love with.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher who has been giving Dmitri lessons.
Oleh, a guitarist that Dmitri met on the train from Lviv.

Photo by Nadzeya Matskevich on Unsplash


Chapter 24
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 24

By tfawcus

End of Chapter Twenty-Three

'Come on,' Oleh said at last, slinging his guitar over his shoulder. 'I know a place we can get through the night. It's nothing fancy, but it's dry. And if the sirens go again, it's safer than here.'

Dmitri nodded. The night suddenly seemed a little less empty. As they set out together, his thoughts turned inward to the long night ahead and what the future might bring.

Chapter Twenty-Four
 
Oleh set off at a cracking pace, and Dmitri had difficulty in keeping up with his newfound friend. The reason for his haste became apparent when they reached Vokzal'na Square. A sizable queue was already forming under the harsh white glow of floodlights in front of a mobile soup kitchen. Oleh broke into a run, and they raced across the square along with dozens of others desperate for a handout.
 
'There's never enough to go around,' Oleh said. 'First come, first served, but with a bit of luck, we'll sleep tonight with a full belly.'
 
Dmitri stamped his feet and blew on his hands to warm them. 'I hope so. I'm starving.'
 
As the city's homeless converged, one or two scuffles broke out, especially amongst the latecomers. For a while, it looked as though things were going to get nasty, but before any serious disorder occurred, two unmarked cars drew up and a dozen men in paramilitary uniform leapt out. The queue quickly subsided into strict order, an undercurrent of fear fighting the desperation for food.
 
'Take care,' Oleh whispered. 'These are not the police but a civilian militia who work with them. They can be dangerous.'
 
'What do you mean?'
 
'Don't ask. Just collect your food and move away. Eat quickly and stay in a well-lit area.'
 
Dmitri felt a flash of fear, and his instinct was to flee, but the smell of the food wafted through the air. His stomach rumbled, a hollow reminder of how long it had been since he had last eaten. He glanced at Oleh, taking in his gaunt frame and hunted look. How he wished at that moment for Mira's fierce spark and optimism. The very thought of her gave him new resolve and a determination to survive, no matter what.
 
A woman with netted hair and glistening cheeks ladled soup into disposable mugs and handed it out with hunks of bread. When Dmitri's turn came, he whispered his thanks. She glanced up with a brief smile.
 
They ate crouched on the curb, keeping a wary eye out for trouble. As soon as they finished, Oleh led Dmitri down a dimly lit side street. The shopfronts were dark, their windows taped in a haphazard lattice, and they could hear the faint hum of a generator somewhere in the distance.
 
'We still have a few hours before the midnight curfew, but it doesn't do to hang about. Trust me. Kyiv can be a dangerous place after dark, especially around here.'
 
Dmitri had no objection to stepping out. Although the rain had blown through, the clearer skies and a sharp wind from the east made the streets bitterly cold. There was no temptation to dawdle. After about twenty minutes, they came to a low building with boarded-up windows. Oleh rapped three times on the metal door knocker. A panel scraped back, and a pair of incurious eyes surveyed them before the door swung ajar on a safety chain.
 
A brief exchange of words followed, too soft for Dmitri to hear. Then Oleh exclaimed, 'What do you mean, two hundred?' He turned to Dmitri in desperation. 'They've put the price up. I don't have enough.'
 
'Then let me pay. You're a good friend. It's the least I can do.' Dmitri rummaged in a side pocket of his rucksack, where he kept his passport and the few precious notes from the sale of his paintings. 'Here, take what you need.'
 
Oleh grabbed the envelope gratefully. 'I shan't forget this. You will be paid back. I promise.' He counted the notes into an outstretched hand, and the safety chain was slid to one side.
 
'Don't expect much,' Oleh muttered, leading the way down a set of stairs into a vaulted cellar.
 
Rough bunks lined the walls, most already taken by silent figures wrapped in coats or blankets. A lantern burned in the middle of the room, throwing soft shadows against the plastered ceiling.

Dmitri swung his rucksack onto a bare pallet and rubbed his shoulders. 'Ah—that's better.'
 
'Best if you slip your arm through one of the straps while you're asleep. Better safe than sorry. I'll take the bottom bunk to keep you out of harm's way.'
 
Dmitri didn't argue. He was exhausted, and all he wanted was to sleep. However, sleep was slow in coming, as the day's events tumbled through his mind. His efforts to join Leila had been thwarted at every turn. Yet part of him was glad to be returning home to Kalynorad, for it would give him a chance to find Mira's grave and pay his last respects, and perhaps to gain some small sense of closure.
 
Oleh slid his guitar case under his bunk, having first attached a string from its handle to his wrist. 'Try to get some sleep,' he said quietly.
 
Dmitri managed a faint smile. 'You, too.'
 
The cellar door clanged shut above them. For a moment, all was still. Dmitri stared at the lantern flame until it blurred, and his lids grew heavy. Yet even as sleep tugged at him, his resolve grew firmer. Tomorrow, he would find a way east. To Kalynorad first, then Istanbul. He couldn't turn back now.
 
The siren wailed again in the distance. Another air raid. Dmitri closed his eyes, thinking of Leila before sleep finally claimed him.
 
***
 

A few hours later, he woke shivering in the dark, sensing that something was wrong. Light seeped through the broken slats of the doorway, and several of the other occupants were already stirring. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and reached instinctively for his rucksack, pulling it towards him. The side flap was open, and his envelope of banknotes was missing.
 
He sat bolt upright. Oleh's bunk was empty. There was no trace of him or his belongings. Dmitri's breath caught in his throat. He scrambled to his feet, his voice echoing harshly against the walls.

'Oleh?'
 
An old man across the room said, 'You'll be lucky, lad. That lowlife left some time ago. You're not his first victim, and you'll not be the last.'
 
Dmitri pressed his fists against his eyes. How could he have been so blind? The truth sank in slowly. He was alone in the capital, with no money, no guide, and no idea of where he was exactly.
 
He climbed the steps one at a time, weak with disbelief. The door rasped shut behind him, and he stood blinking in the grey new light of day. The city lay hushed, and the pavement glimmered like old pewter. For a moment, he could only stand there. The thought of the stolen money made his throat tighten. He swallowed hard, refusing to let it choke him.
 
Somewhere not too far away, a bell began to toll. Then another, and another. Slow, deliberate, and resonant. The sound carried through the still streets like a summons. He turned towards it and walked without haste, past shuttered shopfronts and war-blinded windows. The city seemed to be holding its breath. The bells rang on, deep and sonorous, and he obeyed them as people had done, without question, for more than a thousand years.
 
St Sophia Cathedral rose before him like a vision, its pale green domes slick with overnight rain, and its golden cupolas glistening in the morning light. The square in front of it was empty, but for the famous Cossack commander, Bohdan Khmelnytsky, and the bared teeth of his prancing steed upreared in defiance against all of Ukraine's invaders, past and present.
 
Dmitri had never seen so fine a figure. He circled the statue, viewing it from every angle and absorbing its essence. With his pad on his arm, he started a series of sketches, attempting to capture the stern set of the warrior's features and the bared teeth of his prancing steed. He worked feverishly, his heart afire with the fury of composition as he covered one sheet after another with details. One day, he promised himself, he would use them to create a work of art worthy of so noble a leader.
 
As he worked, the square gradually filled with people, tourists eager to see the famous cathedral. The sight of this fervent young artist at work roused the curiosity of many, and soon a small crowd gathered around him.
 
A voice came from just behind his shoulder. 'My word, those are good. Don't you think so, Stefan? Look at the way he has captured the wild-eyed fierceness of the horse. Quite remarkable.'
 
Stefan put an arm around the woman's shoulder. 'You're right, dear. So much better than anything in the tourist shops.' He tapped Dmitri on his shoulder. 'Are any of these for sale, young man?'
 
Dmitri jerked upright, clutching the sketchbook to his chest. 'They are nothing,' he mumbled. 'Just details for a larger work I have in mind.'
 
'You shouldn't be so modest. The way you've drawn that warhorse ... such flair. Such vitality.' The woman's voice was full of admiration.
 
Her coat was dark and neat, setting off the fine features of her gaunt face. A pearl brooch was pinned to her lapel, and she carried a crocodile-skin handbag. A quick glance convinced Dmitri that it was probably genuine.
 
'I'm flattered,' he said.
 
'Never mind that. How much do you want for it?' The man's voice was curt and businesslike.
 
Dmitri took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. Fifteen hundred hryvnia, sir.' He considered adding 'and cheap at half the price' but wisely thought the better of it.
 
'I'm afraid I don't have any of those rivnia things. Will you accept euros?' The woman peeled off one of her kidskin gloves and unclipped her handbag. She opened her purse and extracted three ten-euro notes. 'That's about right, isn't it, dear?'
 
Stefan nodded. 'And give him our card. I should like to see the finished painting, that larger work he mentioned. I fancy something of the sort might sit well over the fireplace.'
 
Dmitri added his signature in the bottom right-hand corner of the sketch, rolled it, and secured it with two rubber bands. 'Thank you, ma'am.' Turning to her husband, he said, 'Am I to understand you wish to commission a larger work, sir?'
 
Stefan glanced at his wife for confirmation, and she gave an almost imperceptible nod. 'Oil on canvas, about a metre square. I'll pay up to a thousand euros if it's any good.'
 
'It may take a while, sir, but I'll send you a photograph for your approval when it is finished.'

He watched the couple as they disappeared, arm-in-arm, towards the cathedral. Forty thousand hryvnia. He couldn't believe it. But oil on canvas? That was going to be a challenge. Still, one day, perhaps.
 
He gathered his things together and set off back towards the central railway station. With thirty euros in his pocket and a song in his heart, he was ready to travel east again.

Author Notes Characters

Dmitri Zahir, a teenage boy desperately chasing after the love of his life.
Mira Zahir, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Leila Haddad, a Syrian girl with whom Dmitri has fallen in love.
Oleh, a guitarist that Dmitri met on the train from Lviv.

Image: Detail from a public domain photograph of the Bohdan Khmelnytsky Monument in Kyiv.


Chapter 25
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 25

By tfawcus

Elena heard the click of the phone, felt it like the cocking of a gun against her head. 'Dmitri! Are you still there? Please! Don't hang up! I didn't mean that.'

She knew she was speaking into the void. He had already gone. Why had she been so unfeeling? A wild goose chase, indeed. She should have known what his reaction would be.

She sighed and did what she always did when life overwhelmed her. She buried herself in a task. This time, it was splitting logs, both a release and a penance. The wood was wet, and the axe was blunt, so she had more than enough to vent her self-recrimination on.

Having eased the frustration she felt about her stupidity, she began to consider the positives. At least he had arrived safely in Kyiv, and she now knew where he was heading next, but she had no illusions about the danger of travelling to Kalynorad, so close to the battlefront. She sighed. There was nothing she could do except pray.

It was several days before she summoned the courage to visit Pavla. Her friend would be interested to know Dmitri had sold a few drawings and where he now was. She might even know of ways to re-establish contact with him. Unlike Elena, she'd spent time on the Eastern Front.

Pavla received the news with cautious interest. 'Kalynorad is very close to the front line. It's been under constant bombardment from Russian drones and missiles, and I dread to think what Dmitri will find when he gets there. The whole town might have been reduced to rubble.'

'Don't say that. The poor boy's already been through enough.'

'Well, it's the truth, dear, whether you like it or not. At least if he comes out of it alive, he'll know whether he really wants to be a war artist. The dream and the reality are two very different things.'

Elena wasn't so sure. Could the reality really be any worse than her imagination of how things were? Of how her husband and son had met their death? Of what terrible dangers Dmitri now faced?

'There must be some way of contacting him.'

'Possibly. If he's attempting to dredge up the paperwork to establish his sister's death was war-related, I could try to reach the authorities in Kalynorad—assuming authorities still exist there. But communications are often down. There may not be any way of getting through.'

'Then I suppose we'll just have to wait for him to contact us again.' She didn't tell Pavla about the way Dmitri had hung up in Kyiv. She had no wish to share her feelings of guilt about that.

'There's a possibility Andriy may be able to help,' Pavla said. 'He returns to active duty in a few days.'

'You must be joking. Not after that confrontation at the dinner party. I wouldn't ask anything of that vile man.'

'He's a war hero. Cut him a bit of slack. He likes to tease people, and he's not at his best after a few drinks.'

'Not at his best? You can say that again. He's nothing but a bully and a misogynist.'

'He was only testing the boy's mettle, and I must say he was impressed by the way Dmitri stood up for himself. It's a technique he uses to test the character of soldiers under his command.' Pavla ignored the incredulous look on Elena's face. 'And as for being a misogynist, that's a front he likes to put on. I can vouch for the fact that deep down he has a tender heart.'

Elena knew enough about the relationship between Pavla and the major not to press the point. 'If you say so, dear. But he has a strange way of showing it. Anyway, I suppose there's no harm in approaching him. It sounds as if he might be the best chance we have of getting news of my dream-child.'

Dream-child? Now it was Pavla's turn to look incredulous. However, she refrained from comment, contenting herself with a non-committal, 'I'll see what I can do. No promises though.'


***
 
 
Elena returned home without feeling she had achieved much. If Major Kolt was their best hope, God help poor Dmitri.

The night was already closing in when she got home. It had been a blustery day, and autumn leaves were still swirling in the driveway. A thin, spiteful rain stung her face as she approached the house. In the half-light, she thought at first that someone had dropped a pile of rags by the back door. Then she realised her error.

Leila was curled up on the threshold, sheltering from the wind. Her coat was travel-stained, her hair tangled, and her eyes dark-rimmed and hollow. When she saw Elena, she struggled to her feet. Her lips parted, as if she was going to speak, but no words came. Instead, she fell into Elena's arms and the emotional tension that had sustained her for so long drained away on an ebb tide of relief.

Elena waited until her convulsive sobs slowed before helping her into the kitchen and easing her into a chair. She had learnt long ago that silence was not emptiness, but a space in which things could surface.
 
Giving Leila time to compose herself, Elena draped a dry shawl over her shoulders and busied herself with stoking the fire and heating up a bowl of broth.

'Here, drink this. It'll do you good.'

Leila cupped the bowl in both hands but did not drink. She had the wild look of a vixen gone to ground with the hounds still baying for blood around her den.

Gradually, the warmth of the fire, the timeless tick of the clock, and Elena's calm, undemanding presence eased her fear enough for her to blurt out, 'He's still after me.'

'Who's still after you, dear?'

'My father.'

The word sank like a swamped canoe and swirled, half-submerged in the sea of emotion that lay between them.

There was a long pause before the story came out in fragments.

'He caught up with me in Kyiv, snatched my phone away while I was talking to you, and held me until I yielded to his power.

'It was terrible. I thought he was still in the army. I had no idea. He told me he had been wounded and discharged, no longer fit for service.

'He said he had also learnt of my mother's sickness, and that he, too, was on his way to be by her side in her final hours. That we should travel together. It would be safer.

She gave a bitter laugh. 'He apologised for how he had caught hold of me. Said he knew I would run away from him if I saw him coming. It was the only way.'

'Did you believe him?'

'I wanted to. He talked about making peace and about starting again. I tried to answer. But inside, my heart was still like ice. How could it be otherwise after what had passed between us?'

This remark was followed by a long pause. Elena took Leila's bowl. 'Would you like a refill or something more solid to eat? Poor darling. You must be famished.'

Leila shook her head. There were more important things on her mind than food. 'I don't want Dmitri to hear this—for obvious reasons. Promise me you won't tell him. Where is he, by the way? Out doing errands? Surely not down in Velinkra in weather like this?'

"He's away,' Elena said evasively. 'It's a long story, but let's hear the rest of yours first.'

Leila hesitated. 'This bit's hard. I don't quite know where to begin.'

'You don't need to tell me, if you don't want to. I understand. I don't need to know the past history. It's water under the bridge.'

'Not really. It's something that will never flow away. If I don't release some of the pressure, the dam will eventually burst.'

Elena chuckled. 'That doesn't sound like a pretty sight. Out with it then, if it will help you.'

Her voice dropped to a whisper. 'Times were hard. We were on the edge of starvation. He did the only thing he could think of to save the family, or that's what he said. Maybe it's what he believed. He sold me to a rich man in Ankara. An educated man. A leading sponsor of the Turkish State Opera and Ballet. A man they all called effendi, as if that made him respectable. Someone he thought would treat me well, or as well as could be expected under the circumstances.

'He told me I was to be the man's protégé. That I would attend classes and learn to dance. That one day I would become a famous ballet dancer. It was these lies that hurt the most. I was sixteen. I had stars in my eyes, and I believed him.

'It was too late when I discovered the truth. His interest in the ballet was not that of a patron, but of a voyeur. He kept a small harem of girls like me. Pretty girls, graceful and nubile. He liked us to dance for him. Naked. As long as we complied, there was no trouble. But for those who didn't ...'
 
She shuddered.

'You poor girl. I had no idea.'

'It's not something I like to talk about.' Leila took a deep breath and continued, 'When my mother got to hear of it, she was distraught. She begged for my release. But it was no good. What were we but starving refugees? She had no chance.

'But I don't give up easily. One day, I saw my opportunity. I escaped through a window and fled. My mother held all our passports. For safekeeping, she said. From our father is what she didn't say. Anyway, she managed to get me to the border.

'Of course, my master was beside himself with rage. He is a man of great influence. He sent my father after me, vowing that he would kill him if he didn't bring me back. This I learnt later in letters from my mother.

'Anyway, when my father entered Ukraine, he was caught as a draft dodger and conscripted into the Ukrainian army. I prayed that he would never return. I thought that I was safe at last.'

'Until he turned up in Kyiv and kidnapped you.'

'Not exactly kidnapped. He is a persuasive man. He talked about how sorry he was. How it had been the only way to save the family. That he would make amends. That it would be safer if I didn't make the journey alone. Eventually, I agreed, and we travelled together on the bus to Moldova.

'While we were at the airport waiting for the flight to Istanbul, I told him I needed to go to the restroom to freshen up. When I came out, I could see him hunched up over his phone. I was behind two or three other ladies, and he didn't see me return. I overheard the one word, effendi, and I knew I had been tricked.

'He chased after me when I ran, but I was too quick. I screamed, "Rape!" and people blocked his way as I vanished into the crowd.' She gripped Elena's arm. 'But he won't give up. He can't. His life depends on it. I shall never be free of him. Never!'

'Nonsense, child. You're safe here.'

'No, I'm not. Don't you understand? He knows I've been living in Velinkra.' She glanced out of the window uneasily. 'It's only a matter of time before he catches up.'

Author Notes Dmitri Zahir, a teenage boy trying to reach the love of his life.
Mira Zahir, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena Prishtina, a volunteer carer who looked after Dmitri during his recovery from catatonia.
Leila, a Syrian girl Dmitri fell in love with.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher who gave Dmitri lessons.
Andriy Kolt, an army major.

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash


Chapter 26
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 26

By tfawcus

Elena realised Leila spoke the truth. She would be far from safe at the lodge. Half the town knew the Syrian girl with an open smile and cheeky ways, and if her father knew she was in Velinkra, it wouldn't take him long to track her down. She rang Pavla, as she often did when she had a problem, and Pavla urged them to set off for town immediately under cover of darkness.

'There has already been a stranger asking after her,' she said. 'Bring her on foot, by way of the Birch Road. No one travels that way at night. I'll meet you at the bridge. Meanwhile, I'll work something out. Trust me.'

Even though Elena thought her friend was overdramatising, she did trust her, and she agreed.

She put the phone down, and looked with concern at Leila, wondering how much further she could go. 'You're right, dear. We're an easy target. It's so isolated up here. I hate to say this, for you must be exhausted, but could you manage to walk into Velinkra this evening?'

'Along the Birch Road, you mean? At night?' Her spine tingled. Memories of Dmitri and their first moonlight kiss came flooding back. But why was Elena being so evasive? She paused, not sure how to frame the question.

Elena sensed her hesitation and said, 'Don't worry. There are ways of keeping the Rusalki at bay.'

Leila burst out laughing. 'Rusalki! Surely, you don't believe in all that nonsense, do you?'

Elena gave her a queer, old-fashioned look and disappeared upstairs. She returned with two silver amulets and gave one to Leila. 'Wear this around your neck, my dear. To be safe, we should also carry wormwood.'

'Wormwood! If you think I'm going to carry a bunch of that stinky herb ...'

'All right. That may not be necessary. But wear the amulet. It was my grandmother's and is a potent defence against evil.'

For a moment, Leila wondered if she was still in the twenty-first century. However, to humour the old girl, she slipped it around her neck and tucked it inside her blouse. The cold metal against her breast reminded her of the locket she had left for Dmitri, and she wondered if he was still wearing it. How he would have laughed at this absurdity.

Now that the Rusalki had been taken care of, she posed the question that had been preying on her mind. 'Where has Dmitri disappeared to? Why isn't he here at the lodge?'

Elena neatly side-stepped again. 'We ought to get going. I can tell you on the way. It's a long story.'
 
***
 
 
The light rain had blown through, and with clearer skies, the temperature had fallen sharply. Elena drew her coat around her shoulders and set off at a brisk pace. Being less familiar with the way, Leila had difficulty keeping up. Elena's haste was not only because of the cold. She knew the story had a short fuse, and she wanted to be well on the way to Velinkra before she lit the touchpaper. She didn't want it to blow up in her face.

Before long, they reached the thickest part of the birch wood, the place where Dmitri had told Leila the story of the Rusalka maiden. Here, the moonlight struggled to break through the canopy, and in the deepening shadows, time seemed to slow, and their senses became more acute. The darkness amplified the gurgling sound of water below them on the right, and Leila found herself instinctively clutching at her amulet. She told herself not to be so stupid.

Elena had paused, waiting for her to catch up. She took Leila's hand. 'We should stay close together. It's safer that way.'

Leila let out a low and ghostly moan. 'Afraid of the Rusalki, are we?'

Her tease was echoed by a child's cry, a wail of distress, coming from below. They both froze. Elena crossed herself and started muttering a prayer or perhaps an ancient incantation to ward off the evil spirit. She clutched at Leila's arm. Leila, however, pulled away and peered through a gap in the trees. A thicket of brambles lay between them and the river, and in the silver moonlight, she could see a diminutive figure trying to disentangle itself. It emitted another high-pitched wail. Leila was about to slide down the embankment to free the wretched thing when a huge dark shape came lumbering through the thicket.

'Bear!' she whispered, backing away on legs that had suddenly become as wobbly as those of a newborn colt. 'I don't think she's seen us.'

They edged out of the bear's line of sight and fled, helping each other to stay upright as they stumbled, slipped, and slid like a pair of clowns on ice. After a few hundred metres, they stopped with their chests heaving.
 
'I can't keep this up,' Elena said, catching her breath. The cold night air rasped in her throat, and her eyes stung.
 
Leila peered back into the gloom, but she needn't have worried, for the bear had been too intent on rescuing her cub to pay them any attention.
 
Now they were in the open again, the path was clearer and felt less forbidding. Although the moon was past its full, snow sparkled on the upper slopes, amplifying the light and casting an ethereal glow on the landscape.

'Rusalki, indeed!' Leila said with a laugh. She wasn't about to admit that her fear of these imagined creatures had, for an instant, been more intense than the real fear that followed it. In deference to Elena, she added, 'But I now understand what gives rise to these foolish superstitions.'

Elena changed the subject. With bears behind them and Pavla ahead, she decided it was now safe to launch into the story. 'Dmitri,' she said. 'You were asking what had become of him.'

Instantly, she had Leila's undivided attention.

'That letter you left. As soon as he read it, he set out after you. Pavla and I tried to restrain him, but he would have none of it. He was determined to come chasing after you so he could be at your side when you visited your mother.'

It was too dark for Elena to see Leila's reaction, but the self-recrimination in the girl's voice was unmistakable. 'What have I done? I should never have told him where I was going. Oh, God! Where is he now?'

'The last time I heard from him, he was in Kyiv. That was two days ago. He was on his way to Kalynorad to obtain a permit to travel to Turkïye.'

'Why Kalynorad?'

'It's his home town. On the Eastern Front. He needed documentary proof that Mira's death was war-related. It was the only way he could get a permit to leave the country.'

Elena had assumed Leila would want to go chasing after him, young love being what it was, but Leila's reaction was quite the opposite. 'That's good. It will give him a chance to lay her ghost to rest. He needs that. We must stop him from going to Turkïye, though. If the effendi discovers he is asking after me, it will be tantamount to a death warrant. We must contact him.'

'We can't, unless he gets in touch first.' Elena bit her lip. She knew how unlikely that now was. 'However, Pavla has some harebrained idea that Major Kolt might be able to help. He returns to the front in a few days.'

They were nearing the bridge, and a silhouette in a headscarf stood waiting. 'Here she is. She can tell you all about it. But the important thing right now is to find somewhere for you to hide out for a while.'

Pavla rushed forward. 'You're not a moment too soon. A stranger was asking after Leila in the town earlier this evening. That old fool, Myko, told him she was staying with you up at the lodge.' She threw her arms around Elena and kissed her on both cheeks. 'It's a good thing you came the back way, for we can reach Andriy's house from here without anyone seeing us. The bridle path goes right past his back gate.'

Elena pushed Pavla away. She was horrified. 'What are you playing at? Andriy? Have you lost your mind?'

Pavla responded angrily. 'I rang him as soon as I heard from you. He agreed immediately when I told him who Leila was. He said he owes her a debt of gratitude, and that she can stay in the manor house for as long as she needs while he's away. She'll be safe there. Fedir will look after her, with a bit of help from Mrs Kovalchuk, his cook.'
 
Elena glared at Pavla. 'Over my dead body. She's not staying with him.'

Leila stood back while this exchange was going on, and when she could get a word in edgeways, she said, 'Do I have any say in this? Who is Andriy? You're not talking about that lovely man who fell off his horse, are you?'

'Yes, Major Kolt,' Pavla said.

Leila, who was sick of being discussed as if she wasn't there, said, 'Thank you, Ms Miret. It sounds like a perfect arrangement.'

Although Elena was furious with her friend and full of misgivings, she could think of no other option.
 
***
 
The twin turrets of Volchyn Manor were visible between the trees, and they set off across the bridge towards it, keeping the river to their left. Leila sensed the tension and came between the two women, taking one on each arm.
 
‘This is quite an adventure,’ she said gaily. ‘I’m dying to meet the major again. I shall remind him that he still has my headscarf, the wicked man.’
 
Elena kept her thoughts to herself, and Pavla, seeing an impish streak in Leila that she hadn’t previously been aware of, began to have doubts, too. It was a good thing that Major Kolt was returning to the front in a couple of days. She knew his preferences only too well.

Author Notes Dmitri Zahir, a teenage boy trying to reach the love of his life.
Mira Zahir, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena Prishtina, a volunteer carer who looked after Dmitri during his recovery from catatonia.
Leila, a Syrian girl Dmitri fell in love with.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher who gave Dmitri lessons.
Andriy Kolt, an army major.

Image: Ruzena Maturova as the first Rusalka. This work is in the public domain.


Chapter 27
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 27

By tfawcus

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.

When they reached the manor house, Pavla led the way past Major Kolt's stables and across a cobbled courtyard. Dogs started barking as they approached the back door. An exterior light came on, and the door opened to the extent of its safety chain.

'Who is it?'

The disembodied voice was querulous and held a tinge of irritation.

'It's me, you old fool,' Pavla replied good-naturedly. 'Let us in. The major is expecting us.'

Fedir slid the safety chain off with one hand while restraining two black labradors with the other.

Leila shrank back, but Elena reassured her. 'Don't worry about them, dear. Yarchuk and Mavka. The worst they can do is lick you to death.'

As soon as Fedir released the dogs, they bounded out with their tails wagging and fawned, cringing low on their front legs as they circled the guests. So great was their show of welcome that no one at first noticed the tall and handsome figure of the major looming in the background.

Upon his order, the dogs backed away. 'What are you thinking, Fedir? Kennel the pair of them, then bring us some spiced wine. Oh—and put your jacket on and comb your hair. We have guests.'

Fedir touched his forelock, or the place where it would have been, had his hair not been a fuzzy white bird's nest encircling a bald pate.

'Very good, sir,' he said, raising despairing eyebrows at Pavla.

The major stepped forward, arms outstretched. 'My dear Pavla. How good to see you.' He gave her a theatrical air kiss on either cheek.

'And you, Leila. Saviour of fallen horsemen.' In her case, the kisses touched her cheeks and were held a fraction longer.

Finally, he turned to Elena, who swayed to one side as he advanced and proffered her hand.

'How very formal of you, Mrs Prishtina. I thought we knew each other better than that.'

'I know you well enough, sir.'

He took her hand, shook it warmly and, ignoring the sleight, led them through to his study, an intimate room with a fire blazing in the hearth. There, much to Leila's surprise, he took hold of a poker and thrust it deep into the embers before turning with his back to the blaze and addressing them all.

'Let me see if I have this straight. Pavla tells me you are seeking refuge, Leila. Is that right?'

Leila was looking past the major at the picture hanging above the fireplace. It was of a swirl of wild dancers in diaphanous robes. The question barely registered.

At that moment, Fedir entered carrying a silver tray with four stirrup cups and a silver bowl. He set it down carefully and withdrew in reverse, glancing over his shoulder like a backstroke swimmer as he neared the door. The major withdrew the red-hot poker and plunged it into the bowl, causing a marvellous seething and sizzling, together with a spreading aroma of caramelised sugar.

'Nothing like a cup of mulled wine at this time of the year,' he said. 'Particularly when you've just come in from the cold.'

He poured a liberal measure for Pavla and turned to Leila. 'May I tempt you, my dear?'

'Thank you, sir, I should like to try some.'

He passed her a cup, which she took gingerly, unsure how best to handle it. Its base was a miniature head of antlers.

'Call me Andriy, please. We'll have no formality here. Now, how about you, Elena? Will you partake? A little cup to help thaw you out?'

'Thank you. I believe I will,' she replied frostily.

During the ensuing conversation, they told the major the whole sorry story, sparing no detail.

'Poor girl. What a lot you've been through. Never mind, you'll be safe enough here. All of that, and then an encounter with a bear. Fedir told me he thought he'd seen one. I shall go out and shoot it in the morning.'

Leila looked up in alarm. 'No, please don't do that! Save your bullets for the Russian bears. They are the ones who deserve to die.'

'I see you have a soft heart, my dear, and not just for gentlemen in distress.'

'Perhaps,' Leila replied, 'but not a soft head. Which reminds me, you still have my scarf.'

'I am justly chastised. You shall have it in the morning. But now, we should all go to bed. You must be exhausted, and I have a busy day ahead.'

He put a wrought iron screen in front of the fire and helped Elena to her feet. I have put you and Leila in the east tower. It's a comfortable room with a good view of the mountains. I assume you will want to chaperone this charming young lady until I leave for the war.' He flashed his eyes at Elena in imitation of a ravening wolf and followed up with a sly wink at Leila, who burst into peals of laughter and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.
 
"Good night, Andriy. Sweet dreams.'
 

***
 

If they hadn't been so tired, Elena and Leila might have found sharing a room embarrassing, particularly after Andriy's mockery and Leila's ingenuous way of countering it, but sleep overtook them before recriminations set in. Eight hours later, when the sun peeped over the mountain, the first thing it set eye upon was the casement window in the eastern tower, and being of an impetuous nature, it rushed across the fields, lighting on Leila's face and urging her to get up and get going. Elena was curled in slumber with her face to the wall and didn't respond to the summons.

Leila lifted the coverlet, taking care not to disturb her, and went to the window. In the courtyard below, Andrij was tightening the girth of the bay gelding and about to put his foot in the stirrup. Fedor scarcely had time to open the gate before he was through at a canter and disappearing up the Birch Road.

Leila dressed silently and closed the door behind her before skipping down the circular stairwell, swinging on the handrail and taking the steps two at a time. She fully intended to take advantage of the major's absence to explore the house. However, she ran into Fedir at the foot of the stairs, nearly knocking him off his feet.

'Good morning, ma'am.'

'Good morning, Fedir. What a surprise.'

'Yes, indeed, ma'am,' he said, regaining his balance and scratching the back of his neck. 'Everyone seems to be in a hurry this morning. Would you like some breakfast?'

He led the way to the kitchen, where Cook was up to her armpits in flour and flattening a lump of dough with a rolling pin.

Fedir effected formal introductions.

'Miss Haddad, this is Mrs Kovalchuk, the light of my life.'

Mrs Kovalchuk put down the rolling pin and held out her hand. Leila took it gingerly.

'Take no note of that old fool. My name's Oksana. Ocky, for short. That's what everyone calls me. I'm guessing you must be Miss Leila. Set yourself down, and I'll get you something to eat.'
 

***
 

At about the same time as Leila started tucking into her boiled eggs, Andriy slid from his saddle. He was still a fair distance from the lodge but wanted to walk Marengo for the last few hundred metres to give him a chance to cool down before tethering him to the gatepost. He scratched the horse's neck gently and slipped a carrot out of his pocket.

'I'll be back soon with some water,' he whispered before setting off up the driveway, keeping in the shadow of the trees.

If Leila's father were here, he intended to take him by surprise. He guessed the man would still be around, waiting for Mrs Prishtina to return home with his daughter.

A brief reconnaissance assured Andriy that there had been no attempt at a break-in. If the man was still on the premises, the likelihood was that he'd be hiding out somewhere with a good view of the door. Somewhere like the garden shed.

He crept around the back and listened for signs of movement. There were none.

The major had not been idle overnight. After the ladies retired, he had set to work. Knowing that Leila's father came from Moreniv, he made an educated guess at which regiment he was from. Considering the state of communications at the front, he was lucky to get through to the duty sergeant almost immediately. Haddad was an unusual name for a Ukrainian soldier, and the circumstances of his departure had stuck in the sergeant's mind. He confirmed that a Corporal Haddad had been medically discharged two weeks earlier, having been diagnosed with a severe case of syphilis.

Perhaps it was the discomfort of the disease which caused him to emit a low groan. Or perhaps it was the result of spending the night on bales of pea straw. Either way, when Andriy flung the door open and pointed his pistol at the poor man's stomach, he was taken completely by surprise.

'Corporal Haddad. I am Major Kolt. I have reason to believe you are a deserter, and I am placing you under arrest.'

The man cringed into a corner and fumbled in his shirt pocket. 'You are wrong, sir. Here are my discharge papers. There must be some mistake.'

'Then what are you doing here?'

'I'm waiting to pick up my daughter and take her home to Moreniv. I understand that Mrs Prishtina has been taking care of her in my absence.' He held out the papers. 'Here. Take a look at these.'

Andrij scarcely glanced at the proffered papers. 'I don't believe a word of it. You can show those to the Military Police in Lviv. Meanwhile, you're coming with me.'

The man made a lunge for Andriy's pistol. There was a loud crack, and he spun around in agony, clutching his arm.

'Bad move, soldier. I wouldn't try that again if you value your life.'

Leila's father whimpered like an abused cur. 'Please ... please don't kill me, sir. I'll do anything you say.'

Andriy handed him an empty bucket. 'Take this outside and fill it from the garden tap ... and remember, I'm right behind you.'

After watering Marengo, Andriy remounted. He ordered Leila's father to walk on ahead, and they started down the Birch Road towards Velinkra.

Andriy was pleased with how easily he'd accomplished his mission and was quietly whistling a hunting tune to himself, taking scant notice of the man trudging ahead, still clutching his arm to stem the flow of blood. As they neared the denser part of the birch wood, his prisoner paused, as if contemplating a lunge down the embankment and into the undergrowth below. It might have been worth the risk, for the major could not have followed him on horseback.

However, if those had been his thoughts, they were rudely interrupted, for at that moment, the brown bear came crashing through the trees, doubtless attracted by the smell of fresh blood and the prospect of a tastier breakfast than blackberries. Corporal Haddad screamed in terror and threw himself down the slope, perhaps hoping to make his escape across the river, but instead landing alongside a somewhat startled bear cub.

Marengo reared up on his back legs, shying away from the unfolding drama, and Andriy had difficulty retaining his seat, but when he regained control, he applied gentle pressure with his calves and a tap with his heels to urge the horse forward.

One glance down the embankment was enough to tell him that Leila would have no further trouble from her father. Explaining the unfortunate accident might prove a problem, but it was, after all, she who had urged him to spare the bear and save his bullets for the Eastern Front.

Author Notes Main Characters:

Dmitri Zahir, a teenage boy trying to reach the love of his life.
Mira Zahir, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena Prishtina, a volunteer carer who looked after Dmitri during his recovery from catatonia.
Leila, a Syrian girl Dmitri fell in love with.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher who gave Dmitri lessons.
Andriy Kolt, an army major.

Photo by Cristina Glebova on Unsplash


Chapter 28
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 28

By tfawcus

After breakfast, Leila was again thwarted in her intention to explore the house, for Elena appeared on the scene. She was relieved to see Leila, having feared the worst when she found her bed empty.

It must have shown on her face, because Leila smiled at her sweetly and said, ‘Good morning! Here I am, safe and sound. No one carried me off in the middle of the night.’

Elena did her best to ignore her, but Leila continued, saying, ‘I hope you didn't lie awake all night defending my virtue.'

‘Don't be so silly, child. It's no laughing matter. Major Kolt is a dangerous man.'

Pavla, who had appeared in the doorway, couldn't resist adding to the tease. Elena could be such a worrywart at times. ‘Handsome, too, don't you think?'

However, seeing the look on her friend's face, she quickly added, ‘But you needn't worry. He's taken. Besides, he's gone riding and won't be back before lunchtime. He told me he was going to Moreniv to enquire after Leila's father. So, not quite the monster you imagine.’

Leila glanced from one to the other uneasily. She didn't like the idea of them falling out, particularly as she was the cause of it. 'I'm sorry, Elena. I was only teasing. I know you have my best interests at heart.’

Pavla, too, sought to pacify her friend. ‘Anyway, you needn't worry for much longer. Andriy is setting off this evening for the night train to Kyiv. Transport between there and the front is apparently in chaos, and he wants to ensure he gets back to his unit on time.’

‘So,’ Leila said brightly, ‘what are you two up to this morning?’

Elena, somewhat mollified and feeling a little foolish, said, ‘I had hoped to drop in at the clinic. There are some new arrivals due.’ Then, in an attempt to prove them both wrong, she went on to say, ‘If you’re sure Andriy won’t be back before lunchtime, I think I can risk it.’

Leila tried to keep a straight face, but a fit of giggles bubbled beneath the façade, and Pavla only just managed to save the day by saying, ‘Then I shall come with you, my dear. If the two of us work together, I’m sure we can accomplish whatever needs to be done before Andriy returns.’

Unable to contain herself, Leila said, ‘Have fun, won’t you? And you needn’t worry. If the monster returns early, Fedir can set the dogs on him, and I dare say Ocky is pretty handy with the rolling pin if reinforcements are needed.’ 

‘Take no notice of her, dear,’ Pavla said. ‘She's incorrigible, but she'll be quite safe.’

‘I hope she will,’ Elena replied, and turning to Mrs Kovalchuk, she added, ‘You have my permission to use that rolling pin on her if she misbehaves.’
 
 
***
 
Once the two ladies had left, Ocky reached up for a wicker basket on top of a kitchen cupboard. ‘I’m off to Velinkra for some supplies. I’ll be back before lunch.’

Leila turned to Fedir and said, ‘Would it be all right if I had a bit of a look round? I promise not to touch anything.’

‘You do as you please, missy.’ He hesitated, torn between duty and pleasure. ‘I can show you around if you like.’

He was mightily relieved when she replied, ‘No, thank you. I’d rather just mosey about on my own.’

‘Then, if you’re sure you’ll be all right, I’ll be off for a spot of fishing before the master returns. See if I can tickle a few trout.’

A bizarre picture flashed through Leila’s mind of Fedir lying on his belly, trying to make trout laugh. ‘There’s no need to hurry back. Be sure to return with something tasty for dinner. Some trout with smiles on their faces, perhaps.’  As an afterthought, she called after him, ‘Watch out for bears!’

She stood for a moment, listening to Fedir's departing footsteps and the faint slam of a stable door as he shut the dogs in. The great house subsided into silence, the silence of a mausoleum alone with its ghosts. The stillness unnerved her, and for a moment, she had a compelling urge to follow Fedir out into the sunshine and sit in the shade of the linden trees, listening to the swirl of the river, but no, the old house held a fascination she could not resist.

Somewhere deep within, she heard the heartbeat of a grandfather clock. She gave a little twirl on the flagstones and set off down the passageway, like a child playing at being the mistress of the house.

She paused at the foot of the staircase, gazing up at stuffed heads mounted on the dark, oak panelling, wolves and boars bursting through the walls with mouths agape. Their unblinking amber eyes stared down at her. She shook off the fancy and skirted round them into the drawing room.
 
Heavy brocade curtains kept this room in semi-darkness. She pulled one aside and was startled by the shaft of light that flooded in, revealing a grand piano in the corner. A scattering of old sheet music lay on its lid, an assortment of military marches mainly. A book of Strauss waltzes was propped up on the music rack, open at "The Blue Danube". She plinked a few tentative notes, surprised at how resonant they sounded in the big room, then, with a series of slow pirouettes, she flowed into the dining room, the scene of Dmitri’s debacle.

 Silver candlesticks stood like sentinels, and a huge painting of a cavalry charge hung above the mantel. Horses reared, sabres flashed, and faces were twisted, either in triumph or terror. She studied them intently. One figure caught her eye. It was of a young rider tumbling backwards, his face frozen in anguish. Something in the features recalled Dmitri, and she stepped away in horror.

Her heartbeat quickened. She cursed her father for snatching away her phone in Kyiv, but there were other ways Dmitri could reach her. He had spoken to Elena only two days before. Perhaps even now a message waited on her landline in the lodge. The thought sent her pulse racing. But her father was still at large; the danger had not passed. She clung to Pavla’s assurance that Andriy had ridden to Moreniv to make enquiries. If anyone could track him down, it was the gallant major.

With that thought in mind, she turned into a side corridor, its walls lined with scenes of huntsmen bearing down on their quarry. At the far end, a door led into a library lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves. An acrid aroma of wild chrysanthemums wafted through a casement window, overlaying the scent of leather bindings. Leila shivered and hastened across the room to shut out their sombre symbolism. Display cases of medals and medieval weaponry lent an air of masculinity, and a map of the Carpathians hung above an oak desk littered with correspondence.

This was a private space. She felt like an intruder and passed swiftly through an archway into the room that Andriy had called his study, though in truth it was more like a den, a place for informal relaxation and the pursuit of leisure.

She stood staring at the painting above the fireplace, the graceful abandon of fairy dancers that had so transfixed her the night before. Her headscarf lay on the arm of a chair, and beside it, a more luxurious one of diaphanous silk swirled in shades of violet and rose. She took it on her arm and stroked it lovingly. Was this to be a gift? An apology for not returning hers sooner?

Her eyes were drawn back to the picture, to Oberon and Titania in the shadows, and to Puck, his arms raised akimbo with a look on his face that seemed to whisper, ‘I dare you.’

She unfurled the scarf and let it stream from her fingers like a banner, as she circled before the painting. The fairy dancers seemed to whirl faster, their limbs lithe and ethereal, and she imagined herself drawn among them, free from time and care. She held the scarf aloft and began to move, at first with tentative gestures and then with bolder, sinuous steps, the scarf twisting like flame in her hand.

She twirled, the scarf trailing about her shoulders, then she turned. On the opposite wall, a portrait of Major Kolt looked down on her, resplendent in full military regalia. He wore a sardonic smile that seemed to be directed at her. Deliberately or unconsciously, she turned her private ballet into an act of flirtation. Her dance built in intensity, her body and scarf a living echo of the wild, fairyland dancers. She finished with an extravagant curtsey.

A sound broke the silence. A single clap. Then another. And a third.

Leila spun around.

The major stood framed in the doorway with his riding jacket unbuttoned and flushed from his ride. His eyes lingered on her with that same sardonic amusement borne by his painted likeness. She froze.

Although fully clothed, she felt naked. His eyes held her as firmly as a hand on her wrist.

‘Well, well,’ he said, his voice low and deliberate.

Leila’s breath caught. She clutched the scarf to her breast as though it might shield her, but his gaze made the gesture feel almost coquettish.

‘Forgive me. I thought you were still out riding. You startled me.’

‘Did I? I could hardly look away.’ He came a few paces into the room, circling her as though inspecting a performance from every angle. ‘You have a gift, Leila. Don’t waste it.’

‘I was only—'

‘Only dancing,’ he said, finishing the sentence for her. ‘Yes. And quite beautifully. That scarf suits you better than your own, don’t you think?’ He gestured toward it with a faint smile. ‘Keep it. It is yours now. But only if you promise to dance for me again.’

Her pulse quickened. ‘You mean—?’

‘I should like to see this dance another time. When I can sit properly and enjoy the performance.’ He tilted his head, and his tone was teasing but edged with command.

Leila lowered her eyes. She felt heat rise in her cheeks, a dangerous thrill mingled with something heavier: the shadow of another time, another man, when the dance had been demanded as tribute, not as art.

Yet how different this was. The major was no lugubrious voyeur, no leering effendi in Ankara. He was handsome, virile, and gallant, even in mockery. The applause of such a man was intoxicating.

‘Alas, you will have to postpone your encore until I return. Duty calls. I leave for Kyiv this evening.’ He straightened, his eyes catching hers. ‘But when I return …’

Leila tried to laugh, but the sound faltered. She stood with the scarf trailing from her hand, caught in no-man’s-land between fairyland and the reality confronting her.

Andriy turned on his heel and was gone, the echo of his boots retreating down the corridor. For a long while, Leila stood motionless, as if the air he had left behind still pressed against her skin. Only when the house settled again into silence did she breathe out and let the scarf fall loose in her hands. Her knees quivered as though she had danced half the night away.

Crossing to the painting, she traced the swirl of dancers with her eyes. How light they were, how free, as though no gaze could ever bind them. For a moment, she imagined herself among them, hair flying, scarf lifted like wings. Then the image of the effendi intruded, his heavy-lidded stare, his pleasure at seeing her spin naked in his private chamber. The memory stung her like a lash.

‘No,’ she whispered fiercely, clutching the scarf. ‘It isn’t the same. It isn’t.’

She closed her eyes and saw the major’s smile again, his applause, and his mocking bow. So close to danger, yet so different from Ankara. A soldier and a hero, not a shadowy voyeur. The thought thrilled her and terrified her.

She folded the scarf carefully and laid it back on the chair where she had found it. Yet her fingers lingered on the fabric, reluctant to let go. She told herself not to be such a fool, picked up her own scarf, and wrapped it around her head like a hijab, disappearing into its folds with a mixture of modesty and shame.

The house seemed altered now, every room touched by the memory of his eyes upon her. She hugged her arms around herself as though trying to shut the moment out. What could she have been thinking? She drifted from the study as if sleepwalking, one hand skimming the panelled wall for balance. The hush of the house seemed almost accusatory.

Back in the kitchen, the scent of fresh bread and herbs steadied her. Sunlight slanted through the small windows, catching the copper pans on the wall, turning them briefly to shields of fire. She pressed her palms flat against the table, as if to steady herself. How she yearned for someone who might make her feel safe again. The kitchen stood silent around her.  She poured a glass of water and drank it slowly, the coolness calming her throat. Then she curled into a chair and pulled her knees up, resting her chin on them and waited for the sound of Elena and Pavla’s return. She longed for the safe hum of voices to scatter the shadows and bring her back from the brink.
 
In the meantime, she sat listening to the beating of her heart.
 

Author Notes Main Characters:

Dmitri Zahir, a teenage boy trying to reach the love of his life.
Mira Zahir, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena Prishtina, a volunteer carer who looked after Dmitri during his recovery from catatonia.
Leila Haddad, a Syrian girl Dmitri fell in love with.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher who gave Dmitri lessons.
Andriy Kolt, an army major.

Image: Oberon, Titania and Puck with Fairies Dancing. William Blake. c.1786 (A Public Domain work of art)


Chapter 29
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 29

By tfawcus

Leila’s heartbeat barely had time to subside before Elena came bursting into the kitchen, flushed with excitement.

‘Such good news, dear!’ she said while slipping out of her coat. ‘I was talking to one of the new arrivals, a man only recently returned from the front. The Russians have been driven back three or four kilometres east of Kalynorad. Apparently, they retreated in chaos.’ She sat down beside Leila and put her arm around her shoulder. ‘Don’t you see what that means?’

Leila leant in towards her, and Elena kissed her on the forehead. ‘Yes, that is good news,’ she said. Her response was hesitant, her words lacking any real enthusiasm. The flatness of her voice was in stark contrast to Elena’s excitement.

‘Are you feeling all right, dear? You sound … oh, never mind. It must be the shock.’

Leila straightened up and managed a smile. ‘It's wonderful news! So that means Dmitri will be safe? I can’t tell you how relieved that makes me.’ She swiftly changed the subject lest Elena should suspect her inner turmoil. ‘Where is Pavla? Did she stay in Velinkra?’

‘No, she’s gone in search of Andriy to tell him the good news.’

‘Then she’ll probably find him in the stables. I heard him return a short while ago. I expect he’ll be removing Marengo’s tack and sponging him down.’

‘So, what have you been up to while we’ve been away? Not getting into mischief, I hope?’

Leila was saved from answering by Ocky’s return, laden with market produce. She heaved a heavy wicker basket onto the kitchen table, her cheeks rosy from the cold, and she launched into a stream of town gossip. Her words tumbled over each other as she unpacked the provisions. Elena joined in with her own news, and the two women were soon in animated conversation. Leila made a show of listening.

However, when she heard the firm, unmistakable footsteps of the Major approaching from the hall, she slipped quietly into the garden, unnoticed by the others. She walked towards the river, deep in thought. If Elena was certain Dmitri was on his way to Kalynorad, what was stopping her from following? Kalynorad was a small town. Surely, it wouldn’t be impossible to find him there. Her recent encounter with the Major had unsettled her more than she was prepared to admit, and she longed to escape Elena’s fussing and to intercept Dmitri before he set off to Türkiye. She could only imagine what dangers he would face if the effendi discovered he was asking after her there. She was worried about her mother, too. Had there been any truth in the deception her father had used to lure her back into the effendi’s household?

She was startled back into the present by Fedir tramping up towards her from the riverbank, whistling a cheerful tune. He proudly held up half a dozen brown trout. Their scales glistened brightly, but their limp bodies told a sadder tale.

‘Oh, dear,’ Leila said. ‘They don’t look very happy.’ Her words carried a gentle reproach.

‘What do you expect? Would you be happy if you’d been tricked out of your river and whisked away for someone’s dinner?’

***

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, Elena was quick to ask Andriy if he’d had any luck tracking Leila’s father down. ‘The poor girl is out of her mind with worry. She seemed quite depressed when I came back from town. Now she’s gone off somewhere. Presumably to be alone.’

The Major shook his head. ‘I made enquiries in Moreniv and the surrounding villages. There was no word of him.’

Elena bit her lip. ‘Then it’s still not safe to return to the lodge. We’ll have to stay here until he’s found.’

‘That’s not a problem,’ Andriy said with an easy shrug. ‘You can stay at the manor as long as you need.’

The conversation turned to Dmitri. Pavla and Elena both begged the Major to keep an ear open for news once he returned to his regiment.

‘We fear,’ Pavla added, lowering her voice, ‘that Leila may try to follow if we can’t get in touch with him soon.’

‘I’ll do what I can,’ Andriy said, ‘but I can’t promise anything. Now, if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have things to do. I need to leave within the hour if I’m to catch the night train to Kyiv. Where’s that scoundrel, Fedir? Never around when I want him.’

He almost collided with the old retainer when he threw the kitchen door open. ‘Oh, there you are. Give those fish to Mrs Kovalchuk and come with me.’

***

Leila had drifted off towards the stables. She was reluctant to face anyone until Andriy had gone, but she felt in need of company. Marengo’s head poked out from the stable door as she approached, and he gave a whinny of delight.

When Andriy and Fedir turned the corner, she had her arms around the horse’s neck and was whispering sweet nothings in his ear.

‘Well! Well! What have we here? You’re a lucky horse, Marengo. You don’t know how lucky.’

Leila shied away wide-eyed. ‘Andriy! You caught me by surprise.’

‘Again? I’m glad to see you getting on so well with Marengo. You can ride him while I’m away if you like. He’ll be glad of the exercise. Besides, he’ll remind you of me—except, of course, that he’s a gelding.’

She fought back the colour rising in her cheeks. ‘That’s kind of you, but I don’t know how to ride, and besides, I shan’t be here for much longer. As soon as my father has been tracked down, I’m off to join Dmitri.’

‘I wouldn’t advise that. It’s a dangerous world out there, particularly near the front. I’ve already promised Pavla I’ll look out for him and send word if I discover his whereabouts. As for riding, I can teach you all about that when I return.’

She ignored his last remark and said, ‘Are you suggesting I can’t look after myself?’

‘Not at all, my dear.’ That infuriatingly sardonic smile played around Andriy’s lips. ‘I’m just suggesting you take care. There are some dangerous men in the world.’

Unwilling to let him have the final word, Leila responded by saying, ‘But none as dangerous as you, I suspect.’

He curled his lip and growled. ‘If you say so.’ Then he burst out laughing, and Fedir joined in, making a sound like an asthmatic ox. Not to be outdone, Leila stuck her tongue out and pouted.

The Major stepped forwards, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her fiercely on the lips. ‘Be careful who you tease,’ he said softly. ‘You may live to regret it.’

With that, he cast her aside and strode back towards the house, leaving her feeling violated. Shame and anger surged through her. Yet, as she wiped away the stain of his assault, she was stirred in a way that made her blush.

Fedir coughed discreetly. ‘Don’t mind him, miss. He’s a good man but lonely.’ He sighed, and with a faraway look in his eyes, added, ‘Who isn’t, these days?’

Leila looked at him with a fresh understanding and was tempted to give the poor man a hug. A temptation she wisely resisted.

***

Leila knew nothing about Fedir apart from his irreverent sense of humour and his ability to tickle trout, but she was already growing to like him. However, she might not have approved of those he associated with. Particularly Hrytsko and Klym.

Hrytsko was a poacher with a legendary reputation. Locals seldom spoke of him, but when they did, it was in whispers. In truth, it was Klym they feared the most. He was a lurcher with a good deal of Transylvanian Hound and bullmastiff in his parentage, a dog reputed to have faced up to a wolf. When asked why Hrytsko wasn’t in the army, they would reply, with a laugh, that no one was able to get close enough to conscript him.

***

Two days after the Major’s departure, the two reprobates were out hunting. Small herds of roe deer were commonly seen foraging at dawn and dusk before the onset of winter, and although they were a protected species, there was a ready market for venison in the local towns and villages.

Despite the twilight shadows, Hrytsko moved with the practised ease of a man who knew the land intimately, his eyes scanning the thickets for any sign of movement. Klym padded silently at his side, muscles taut beneath his mottled coat, and with every sense alert for the subtle signs left by passing deer.

The morning air was cold, carrying the scent of damp leaf litter, and the hush of the woods was broken only by the occasional snap of a twig beneath Hrytsko’s boot.

Suddenly, without warning, Klym stopped. His hackles rose, and with one forepaw raised, he pointed towards the meadow below. Along its lower margin, close to the Birch Road, a small herd of deer was grazing. Hrytsko raised his gun and took careful aim. There was a sharp crack, and a small doe fell. The rest scattered in all directions. Klym charged down the slope, and his master slipped and slithered after him.

When Hrytsko reached the bottom, a smell of animal decay assailed his nostrils. He was familiar with the smell of death, and ordinarily he would have taken little notice. However, its sweet, and sickly undertone caused a hot flush to creep up his neck. Klym, too, sensed something out of the ordinary. He gave a low, warning growl and crept forward to investigate.

***

An hour later, and well before Elena and Leila had risen for breakfast, Hrytsko appeared in the manor house yard, staggering under the weight of his burden. His weathered face was puce from exertion for he had carried the young roe deer, slung across his shoulders, for almost a mile. He was utterly exhausted, not simply from the weight of the animal, but from the effort of keeping in the shadow of the bramble hedge along the way. He had taken care to avoid the bridle track, not wanting early risers to catch sight of his illicit prize.

Fedir came out and relieved him of his burden. ‘Come into the kitchen, old friend. Ocky will put the kettle on while I take this down to the cellar. And you’d better shut Klym in the stables with Yarchuk and Mavka. We don’t want to go frightening the ladies.’

Before long, Hrytsko was seated at the kitchen table with a mug of steaming tea warming his mittens. Normally, at this point, he'd be bragging about his latest exploits, but today he seemed preoccupied.

'What's the matter? Getting too old for all of this?’

He didn’t even rise to Fedir’s dig. Instead, he stirred several teaspoonsful of sugar into his tea. ‘There’s a dead body on the Birch Road. A soldier. Or what’s left of him, poor bugger. Klym and me, we found him this morning.’

‘So, what are you going to do? The police will have to be informed,’ Ocky said.

‘Yes, but …’ Hrytsko looked at Fedir for support. ‘I can’t do it. You see that, don’t you?’

‘Did you examine the body? Any idea how long the poor bloke’s been dead, or who he is?’

‘Examine it? You must be joking. I’m not a bleedin' doctor. Besides, he stank bad enough to make your eyes water. No, we came straight here, hoping you might do it. It’d come better from you.’

Fedir scratched his head. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘but it’ll cost you. Half a side of venison, and then some.’

‘Thanks, old mate. I shan’t forget this.’ Hrytsko pushed his chair back and touched his forelock to Ocky. ‘Thanks for the tea, Mrs Kovalchuk. Much obliged.’

Leila arrived in the kitchen as the back door was closing. ‘Who was that, Fedir?’

‘No one, miss. A local tradesman.’

‘Butcher’s boy,’ Ocky added. ‘Delivering a nice piece of meat for the weekend.’

Author Notes Main Characters:

Dmitri Zahir, a teenage boy trying to reach the love of his life.
Mira Zahir, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena Prishtina, a volunteer carer who looked after Dmitri during his recovery from catatonia.
Leila Haddad, a Syrian girl Dmitri fell in love with.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher who gave Dmitri lessons.
Andriy Kolt, an army major.
Fedir, his faithful retainer
Oksana (Ocky) Kovalchuk, his cook
Hrytsko and Klym, a local poacher and his dog

Image in the Public Domain.


Chapter 30
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 30

By tfawcus

In the two days following Major Kolt’s return to the front line, Leila continued her exploration of Volchyn Manor. While wandering through its silent corridors, she had drifted into one of the bedrooms, where she found a Victorian dressing table covered with dust. Its cracked mirror fragmented her reflection in a way that made her feel uneasy, and she looked hurriedly away. A formidable lady with a hooked nose stared down from the wall, challenging her presence. It made her wonder what kind of austere upbringing Andriy must have endured living amongst such ghosts of the past. She felt like an intruder, but she would have been more scared if the old girl’s waspish waist and billowing skirt hadn’t made her look so much like a foundry bell.

Today, she intended to explore the attic, and her imagination of what treasures it might hold was enough to make her hurry her breakfast. Elena was to be out at the clinic all day, Pavla was holding art lessons in her studio, and she knew that Fedir and Ocky wouldn’t be in the least concerned about her activities. More out of politeness than interest, she asked Fedir what he intended to do with his day.

After grumbling about his daily chores, he said, ‘And on top of all that, Ocky wants me to go blackberrying down the Birch Road this morning. As if I haven’t enough to do.’

‘Quit your complaining, you old fraud. The walk will do you good, and you know there’s nothing you like better than a home-cooked cobbler.’

Leila said, ‘Yum! Me, too!’ before sailing out of the kitchen and leaving the pair to their verbal sparring.

As soon as she left, Ocky said, ‘Right. Down to the cellar with you. First job is to skin and gut Hrytsko’s deer.’

Fedir eyed his nemesis, standing with her hands on her hips, her grey hair drawn back into a tight bun, and a no-nonsense edge to her voice. He muttered, ‘I know who I’d like to skin and gut.’

‘What was that?’ Ocky flexed arms strengthened by years of kneading dough into submission.

‘Nothing, Ocky dear. Light of my life and fire of my loins.’

‘Pinching another of the Major’s sayings, eh? You should be so lucky. Now be off with you before I fetch the meataxe.’

Fedir bent forward, tugged at his hair, and blew her a kiss before disappearing down the cellar steps.

It was past nine o’clock when he set out along the Birch Road. He wished it really was for a pleasant morning’s blackberrying. He also wished he had Klym with him.

It took him less than twenty minutes to reach the place of the bear attack. There was no need to slide down the embankment to verify Hrytsko’s story. He could see all he needed from the bridle track. Enough, anyway, to convince the sergeant at Velinkra’s police post that it was he who had discovered the body.
 
***
 
‘You say you found him where?’ the sergeant exclaimed.

‘On the Birch Road. Just past the bend where the birches thin out. Looked like a bear had mauled him, I reckon. One arm ripped off, and dried blood all over the place. Not to mention flies. He must have been there a while. Ponged something awful.’

The sergeant pursed his lips. ‘I’d better take a statement, but you’ll have to wait until I’ve informed the Investigative Department in Morenev and the military commandant’s office. They’ll have to send people out to investigate. Bloody military, they stick their noses into everything now we’re under martial law.'

Fedir sighed. It sounded as if it was going to be a long day.

‘We have to secure the crime scene and check if the man is dead, and if there’s any sign of foul play. You’d better come with us, so we don’t waste time looking for the place.’

‘Check if he’s dead? That’s a laugh. You can smell him from fifty metres, what’s left of him. You won’t need me to show you where he is.’

The sergeant harrumphed and said, ‘Nonetheless, I must follow procedure.’

By mid-morning, he had arranged for a junior constable and a paramedic from the clinic to accompany them. All four clambered into a battered patrol car. The Birch Road wasn’t made for vehicular traffic, and they were thrown from one pothole to the next like nuts in Ocky's blender.

When they got there, battered and bruised, the paramedic bent down and searched the body. He found a wallet in the man’s jacket pocket, and inside it were the discharge papers for Cpl Karim Hadad from the 112th Brigade, stamped and dated a fortnight earlier. While the sergeant and his constable were cordoning the area with crime scene tape, Fedir stood to one side, a kerchief clamped to his nostrils with one hand and rubbing his backside with the other, all the while muttering imprecations about people who followed bloody procedure.

Later that day, the team from Morenev turned up: a criminal investigator, a forensic technician, a pathologist, and a soldier from the commandant’s office. However, by that time, Fedir had been sent on his way with strict instructions not to say anything until the formalities had been completed. Since the body belonged to a soldier, it would fall to the military to inform his next of kin. Fedir heaved a sigh of relief. He didn’t want to be the one to break the news. There was no telling how Miss Leila would take it, and he wasn’t a man properly equipped to deal with tears.
 
 
***
 
Because of the need for an autopsy and for Cpl Haddad’s discharge papers to be checked against the military registry, it was two more days before a death certificate could be issued. However, once the rusty wheels of wartime bureaucracy had finally finished turning, a military jeep pulled up outside Volchyn Manor. Two army officers climbed out, and Fedir opened the door to them.

‘Is Leila Haddad here?’

She appeared in the doorway. ‘I’m Leila,’ she said quietly.

The senior officer held his cap respectfully. ‘Miss Haddad, we’re sorry to bring this news. A man’s body was found two days ago, near the bend on Birch Road. His papers identified him as your father.’

Leila stared at him, unblinking. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, miss. The identification was clear. The remains are being kept at the district morgue for release to the next of kin.’

For a moment, she did not seem to understand. Elena reached for her arm, but Leila drew back.

‘How—how did he die?’

The younger officer hesitated. ‘Most likely a bear attack. There will be a full report.’

They asked her to sign a receipt of notification, then left.

Elena tried to speak, but Leila had already turned and gone inside. She climbed the stairs without looking back and retired to her bedroom in the East Tower, where she lay on her bed and closed her eyes. A kaleidoscope of childhood memories spun through her consciousness; the days in Syria before they had been dispossessed and driven out of the country; the happy days when her parents had still been in love. How distant it all now seemed. Yet, despite the way her father had treated her, he was still her father, and she mourned the death of what might have been. She lay as if in a dream, torn between conflicting emotions, until the evening shadows deepened.

At length, in an effort to still the swirling tide of her emotions, she reached for a book she had taken from Andriy’s library, The Book of the Pearl. It had caught her attention because of its rich illustrations and colour plates, and for a while her mind drifted among shells of iridescent nacre, and she imagined herself floating on sunlit seas. After a while, she tired of it and picked up a magazine, also called The Pearl, which she had taken from the library at the same time without looking closely.

At first, she thought it a companion piece, but as soon as she opened it, her breath faltered. It was a journal of Victorian erotica. The engravings were not of pearls, but of women bound in silks and cords, their faces caught between pain and ecstasy. A cold flush rose through her, and an unbidden thrill. These were Andriy’s books. She could feel the bruise of his last kiss and the darkness behind it. Shuddering, she closed the magazine and turned off the light.

When at last she slept, he came to her in a dream. The same cynical smile, the same mingling of courtesy and command. She woke with her nightdress clinging to her skin and the echo of his breath still on her lips. For a long while, she lay trembling in the dark, torn between loathing and desire.

She slept little after that. Eventually, dawn seeped in through the shutters, thin and colourless. The shame and the dream still clung to her, mingled with a dull ache she dared not name. It was as though her father’s death had unmoored something in her, and the world was stripped of its old boundaries. The silence seemed fraught with hidden meaning.
 
 
***
 
The funeral service was held three days later under a grey sky. Only a handful of people attended. Elena and Pavla stood on either side of Leila, ready to support her in case the ordeal became too much. The priest’s words droned on in a ritual that was foreign to her and held no comfort or meaning, leaving her whole attention focused on the coffin and her knowledge of what lay within. A faint shiver passed through her, and tears wet her cheek, though she could not tell whether they were for her father or for herself. As the priest intoned the final phrase, "ashes to ashes, dust to dust," a handful of soil slipped through her fingers into the grave, and she whispered a few words in Arabic; private words of relief to haunt her father's ghost.
 
 
***
 

Elena and Leila returned to the lodge immediately after the service. They scarcely spoke to one another. Leila was lost in her thoughts, and Elena didn't want to intrude. The air shimmered with a pale, metallic light that reflected their sombre mood. The house had been closed up for over a week and had acquired that lifeless aura that characterises uninhabited buildings. They bustled about as if to reassure the lodge that it was no longer neglected. Leila put the kettle on and was wiping a thin layer of dust from the kitchen table, when she noticed the message indicator light on the telephone flashing in the vain hope that someone would at last relieve it of its responsibility. Her eyes lit up, and with a surge of hope, they both crowded in. The message was five days old.
 
‘Elena, it’s Dmitri.’

His voice was faint and crackling.

‘I’m still in Kyiv, but I’m leaving for Kalynorad with a friend this evening. We haven’t known each other long, but there is an uncanny connection between us. It will be wonderful not to be alone anymore. We’re catching the night train. Don’t worry. We’ll be careful. I’ll write as soon as I can.'

A pause. Then the line clicked dead.

Leila froze.

‘With a friend?’ Her voice was barely audible.

Elena turned toward her. ‘He didn’t say who. It could be anyone.’

‘He didn’t say my name. He didn’t even mention me.’ She looked away, and her eyes held something more than hurt.

‘Leila …'

But the younger woman had her arms folded tightly across her chest. The silence that followed seemed to draw the light out of the room.

When Leila spoke again, her voice had changed. It was steadier and more distant. ‘If he’s going to Kalynorad, I’m going after him.’

Elena set down the teapot. ‘That’s out of the question. You’ve just buried your father. You’re exhausted, and that region’s close to the front line. It’s not safe.’

‘And you think I’m just going to sit here, waiting for news that never comes?’

‘I think Dmitri would want you to stay,’ Elena said, more sharply than she intended. Then, more gently, ‘He’d never forgive himself if you went chasing into danger for his sake.’

Leila’s lips trembled, but she said nothing. For a moment, Elena thought she might yield. But no, she lifted her head, and her expression had changed. It was almost serene.

‘I have to see for myself,’ she said softly. ‘If he’s in danger, I’ll help him. And if he isn’t …’ She smiled faintly but without mirth. ‘Then at least I’ll know.’

She left the kitchen before Elena could answer. When she returned, she was dressed for travel and had a small canvas bag slung over one shoulder. The faintest trace of colour had returned to her cheeks.

‘Leila, please,’ Elena said. ‘Don’t make me lose you, too.'

‘You won’t lose me. You’ve been more to me than anyone since my mother died. But I can’t stay here, wondering.’

She bent to kiss Elena’s cheek, a gesture so light that it barely touched the skin, and she was gone before the older woman could stop her.

The sound of the door closing was soft but final. Elena stood motionless with her hands resting on the back of a chair.
 
 
***
 
Leila walked down the gravel path without looking back. When she reached the gate, she paused. The lake lay below, its glassy surface a placid reminder of all she was leaving behind. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistle sounded.

Author Notes Main Characters:

Dmitri Zahir, a teenage boy trying to reach the love of his life.
Mira Zahir, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena Prishtina, a volunteer carer who looked after Dmitri during his recovery from catatonia.
Leila Haddad, a Syrian girl Dmitri fell in love with.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher who gave Dmitri lessons.
Andriy Kolt, an army major.
Fedir, his faithful retainer
Oksana (Ocky) Kovalchuk, his cook
Hrytsko and Klym, a local poacher and his dog

Image: 1879 The Pearl title page from Wikipedia - Public Domain.


Chapter 31
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 31

By tfawcus

As Dmitri left Sophia Square, he heard the deep, resonant chimes of the cathedral clock strike four. He hadn’t realised it was getting so late. As luck would have it, a tourist had left a map on a park bench, and after studying it, he reckoned it would take him three-quarters of an hour to get back to the railway station if he didn’t dawdle. He had already found out that a midnight train ran to Kalynorad, and that a platskartny ticket would cost him about ten of his precious euros.

The watery sun and the skeletal trees gave the streets a washed-out appearance, like a face that had dried its tears and was now gathering itself together to continue with life, no matter what might lie ahead. Dmitri was glad to be on the move again and in the right direction, though he wondered how much of his home town still stood and what he would find there.
 
As he walked, his thoughts drifted to the offer he had received: a thousand euros for an oil painting of the Cossack horseman. What an opportunity that had been! If only he had the skill to execute such a commission. Yet he remembered Pavla’s first question in her studio: did he want his painting to complement the décor of drawing rooms, or to reveal the harsh truths of war? He had made his choice. Anything else would be a prostitution of his art. Tempting, though. He was learning that a little prostitution was essential if he were to survive. He told himself that the sketches of Bohdan Khmelnytsky’s warhorse were at least on the right subject—and thirty euros were, after all, thirty euros. He still had a few of the sketches left that he might try to tout around the railway station.
 
He entered the main concourse with a light heart and filled with optimism. It was teeming with people anxious to get home after a hard day’s work, and he had to shoulder his way through the crowd to the currency exchange kiosk to convert his euros into hryvnia.  During the transaction, he heard a familiar sound. His jaw tightened. It was that scoundrel again. It had to be. He picked up his money and headed towards the music.

Sure enough, there was Oleh, strumming the chords of a popular folk tune and garnering a few coins for his trouble. Dmitri watched from a distance, unsure of what to do. He didn’t want to make a scene, but he wanted his money back. He edged closer, and as the song came to an end, he threw a couple of kopiykas into Oleh’s guitar case. Oleh looked up, and a grin spread over his face.

‘Dmitri! So good to see you again. I went out to get two pirozhki from the bakery for our breakfast, but when I got back to the cellar, you’d already gone. What have you been up to all day, my friend?’

The bare-faced cheek of it! Dmitri could scarcely believe his ears. ‘You lying bastard,’ he said. ‘Someone saw you take the money out of my wallet. An old man on the bunk opposite. He said I wasn’t your first victim, and I wouldn’t be the last. Now, how’s about you give it back before I call the police?’
 
‘Steady on. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Honestly. If you mean that old fellow with rheumy eyes and three days’ growth of stubble, I’ve no doubt he was your thief. I’ve met his type before. Anyway, how would he know about other victims? I only arrived yesterday. With you. On the Lviv overnight train.’

Dmitri wavered. Oleh had a point, and there was such an aggrieved look in his eye.
‘Yes, but this isn’t your first visit to Kyiv. You know your way around, and you’ve stayed in that place before.’

‘Look, if you don’t trust me, why don’t we go back there and confront him?’

‘Two reasons: he might not be there, and I’m on the midnight train to Kalynorad, or will be when I’ve bought a ticket.’

‘Kalynorad? What a coincidence. I’m going to Kramatorsk when I’ve made enough money. It’s further down the line.’

‘I know that,’ Dmitri said. ‘I’ve been there.’

Oleh scooped up the coins in his guitar case and started counting. ‘I’ve made a killing today. It seems as though I might already have enough.’

He stuffed the money into his pocket. ‘Well I never! Some cheapskate’s thrown a couple of kopiykas in.’ He favoured Dmitri with an ingenuous grin. ‘Come now, friend. Let me buy you a coffee and a pirozhki to make up for the one you missed out on this morning.’

Dmitri hesitated, still wary of Oleh, but the promise of a meat pie and a hot drink was tempting. He was curious to find out why the guitarist was heading for Kramatorsk, even closer to the battlefront than Kalynorad. He began to form the absurd notion that travelling together with this streetwise shyster might be safer than travelling alone. More fun, anyway, providing he kept his hand on his wallet. He still had a nasty feeling that Oleh’s ‘killing’ included the proceeds of the morning theft.

The idea of travelling together took root more firmly as they chatted over their meal. There was much to like about Oleh as he’d already found out on the journey from Lviv, and it wasn’t long before he made his proposition.

‘You’re kidding, of course. Why would you want to travel with a two-bit conman and a thief? That’s what you take me for, isn’t it?’

Dmitri looked him in the eye. ‘Let’s just say a plausible rogue. But better than travelling alone, don’t you think?’

That was the crux of it, and not only for Dmitri. They were two vulnerable kids heading towards the warzone. Fair prey for any unscrupulous vagabonds, and they both knew it.
 

***

After they’d purchased their tickets, there were still several hours before midnight. Oleh was quick to notice a crowd milling about near Platform Two.

‘Looks like there’s a problem over there. A delay, I expect. That’s usually what it’s about. Best kind of audience. Dozens of people at a loose end, waiting for Godot.’

‘Waiting for who?’

‘Never mind. Just a play I once saw. Nonsense, really. A bit like life. Anyway, let's go over there and try our luck. You can stick a couple of your drawings on the railing, and I’ll play a lively tune to help cheer them up.’

Oleh was right. It wasn’t long before they had attracted a small crowd. More coins fell into the guitar case, and two soldiers started to clap in time with the music. Oleh took the hint and struck up a Cossack dance tune. One of the soldiers folded his arms and squatted down on his knees, but when he tried to kick his leg out, he fell over backwards. There were roars of laughter. Then a couple of younger men took the floor. It was obvious they knew what they were doing, and soon they were spinning around like professionals, urged on by the clapping. Oleh played faster and faster, stirring the crowd into a frenzy.

No one was interested in buying Dmitri’s drawings, so he slipped away towards the pay phones to make a call. He felt guilty about the way he had hung up on Elena the day before and wanted to make amends. However, there was no reply. Odd, he thought. At this time of night, she should have been at home. He left a brief message letting her know that he was on his way to Kalynorad and that he’d found a travelling companion. How he wished he could also have contacted Leila. He wondered what was happening to her in Türkiye and whether she was all right. As he hung up the phone, he whispered, 'Don't worry, my love. I’ll soon be with you. I promise.’

A voice behind him said, ‘Not if you’re going to Kalynorad, friend.’

He spun around. A soldier stood hunched against the cold with his collar up and a cigarette dangling from his lips. Dmitri was annoyed about his privacy being invaded, but curiosity outweighed his irritation. ‘What do you mean?’ he snapped abruptly.

The soldier took the cigarette from his mouth and said, ‘There’s been a Russian breakthrough to the east of Kramatorsk and reports of heavy shelling in the Kalynorad area. If you’re planning to travel that way, I’d think again if I were you.’

‘Well, you’re not me.’

He brushed past the soldier and headed back across the concourse.

‘Rude bastard,’ the soldier muttered, spitting a strand of tobacco from between his teeth.

On his way back, Dmitri passed a food kiosk that was still open, and he bought a few boiled eggs and packets of noodles, remembering the communal sharing on the journey from Lviv.

 However, there was little camaraderie on the train heading east. People treated each other with suspicion. They spoke in whispers and glanced around uneasily. As the train bore through the night, the atmosphere grew increasingly tense. Towns and villages were blacked out, so it was difficult to gauge exactly where they were, and frequent unexplained stops added to the uncertainty. Not only that, but distant flashes and rumbles, which under normal circumstances might have been passed off as thunderstorm activity, took on a more sinister meaning.

Oleh strummed a few cautious chords, careful to steer clear of Russian folk songs. For a while, it lifted the mood, until a voice from the dark growled for silence.

Shortly before dawn, there was a blinding flash and the clatter of shrapnel hitting the side of the carriage. The train screeched to a standstill. There was a deathly silence, then the sound of voices outside, shouting.

‘Quick!’ Oleh said. ‘We have to get out of here.’

Dmitri dropped from the top bunk and landed awkwardly, twisting his ankle on a piece of luggage. He winced with pain but had the presence of mind to grab his bag before limping to the door. Oleh helped him down, and Dmitri slung an arm over his shoulder. Together they hobbled away across the steppe, half-running and half-stumbling like boys in a three-legged race.

Ten minutes later, there was another blinding flash, followed by a second blast. This time, it was a direct hit. The two lads were buffeted by a powerful blast of wind that almost knocked them over, and a sharp stench of sulphur engulfed them.

Oleh reeled back, burying his nose in the crook of his arm. ‘Jeez! What a pong.’

It's a good thing we weren’t any closer,’ Dmitri said.

‘You can say that again!’

‘It’s a good thing …’

They both burst into hysterical laughter. The emotional release left Dmitri feeling drained. He was suddenly aware that he was shaking and that his pulse was racing.

Oleh had gone white. He was staring into the distance at the column of smoke as it rose lazily into the sky. A light breeze caught the top, bending it towards them.

‘It looks like a genie released from a bottle,’ he said.

An orange glow flickered at the base of the column, and to begin with, he thought it was the first rays of the sun, but it quickly grew brighter, the smoke thickened, and a faint crackling sound reached their ears.

Author Notes Main Characters in the Chapter:

Dmitri Zahir, a teenage boy trying to reach the love of his life.
Mira Zahir, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena Prishtina, a volunteer carer who looked after Dmitri during his recovery from catatonia.
Leila Haddad, a Syrian girl Dmitri fell in love with.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher who gave Dmitri lessons.
Oleh, a guitarist that Dmitri met on his way to Kyiv


Chapter 32
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 32

By tfawcus

For a while, they stood and watched the smoke billow and darken, bending low over a widening ring of flames. The faint crackle and hiss of dry grasses gradually developed into a low, warning whoosh before building to the terrifying roar of a dragon unleashed.

'Run!' Oleh shouted, tugging Dmitri's arm.

They ran downhill at right angles to the line of the fire, Oleh supporting Dmitri as best he could, hauling him up when he fell. The fire was gaining on them. They could feel its radiant heat on their backs.

'Save yourself,' Dmitri gasped as he stumbled forward. 'I'll be all right.'

Oleh looked about in desperation. The lazy swirl of a river lay fifty metres ahead: two hundred metres behind, the lick and roar of flames.

He dropped his guitar, squatted down, and hoisted Dmitri over his shoulder, gripping his arm and knee as he staggered back to his feet, bowed down by the weight of his friend. Sparks flew about his head like angry fireflies. He drew a breath that scorched his lungs and ran. Almost overcome by the heat and the smoke, he lunged forward into the river with seconds to spare, taking Dmitri with him.

How cold it was. For a moment, they knew only the shock of the water closing over them. They surfaced almost simultaneously. 

'Keep down!' Oleh gasped, dragging Dmitri towards the centre of the stream.

A deep, pulsing sound filled the air. Smoke rolled low over the river, carrying the pungent smell of burning grass, and behind it, tongues of flame reached out like fiends. Sparks hissed and died on the water around them. It was as though the river itself was about to catch fire.

Then, as quickly as it had come, the whoosh of superheated wind died away. The dragon had turned north, prowling along the riverfront seeking an easier crossing. Only the whispered crackle of dying embers remained.

Oleh rolled onto his back and breathed in the charred air as he floated downstream, holding Dmitri between his legs with a firm grip on his collar. He muttered a prayer of thanks to God for saving their miserable hides.

They were brought up with a jolt when he floated backwards into the branches of a fallen tree on the river bend. It hooked them and held them fast.

'We made it! Praise the Lord! Safe at last!' Oleh exclaimed between precious gulps of air.

But Dmitri wasn't so sure. An armoured Land Cruiser with a machine gun mounted on its roof had drawn up, and two soldiers stood on the riverbank with their rifles pointed at the bedraggled survivors. A sandy-haired corporal swung his legs free from the vehicle. He ground his cigarette out in the embers, straightened his uniform jacket, and set his cap at a jaunty angle.

'What have we here, then? Russian deserters? Well, well. Put your hands behind your head and come out slowly.'

Dmitri said, 'Don't be daft, corporal. You'll have to throw us a rope. Can't you see? We're stuck.'

The corporal's eyes narrowed. There was something in the impertinent tone of Dmitri's voice that he recognised. He looked him over carefully.

'I know you. You're that little tyke from Kalynorad. Oh, this is rich! And who's your friend, sunshine?'

'Oleh.'

'Olé!' The corporal performed an exaggerated pirouette and held his hands out to one side as if he were holding a cape. He smirked at his men. 'We'll see how well the dago dances when he comes ashore.'

He barked an order. One of the men stepped forward with a coil of rope and threw it so that it caught in the tree branches. He secured the other end to the Land Cruiser. Oleh pulled it taut and looped it around one of the larger branches. Then he and Dmitri grasped the lifeline and hauled themselves, hand over hand, across the river. While one of the soldiers stepped back, his rifle trained on them, the other reached out, grasped them firmly by the hand and hauled them ashore, where they collapsed in a sodden heap, overcome by exhaustion.

'Get up!' the corporal snapped, still smarting at the memory of how Mira had humiliated him in front of his men. He stepped inside Dmitri's comfort zone, examining him like a collector of curiosities. Dmitri drew his head back, overcome by the stench of stale tobacco and garlic. As he lifted his hand to his nose, the corporal kneed him sharply in the groin. He doubled over in pain, staggering to maintain his balance, and retched.

'Funny world,' the corporal said softly. 'What goes around, comes around.'

He turned to his men. 'What shall we do with these two snivelling rats? Shoot them and throw them back in the river, or take them to headquarters for interrogation?' There was little doubt which option he would have preferred.


***

Back in Velinkra, Elena stood in disbelief as the door swung shut behind Leila. Would everyone she had ever known be taken by this wretched war? First, her husband and her son, now Dmitri and Leila. Was there nothing she could do to prevent this madness?

In a last desperate attempt, she ran out into the driveway, waving her arms and shouting for Leila to stop, but if she heard, she affected not to. Elena picked up her skirts and ran to the front gate. She had been unsure if the girl was headed for the Birch Road bridle track or to the main road between Velinkra and Moreniv, but when she saw her veering off to the right, she knew she still had a chance.

She hopped into the car and gave chase. Drawing up alongside Leila, she unwound the passenger side window and leant across.

'There's no need to leave like this, dear. At least let me give you a lift to the station. There's half an hour before the next bus. No sense in you waiting in the cold.'

Leila looked at her suspiciously. She knew that once Elena had her in the car, she'd try to dissuade her. It was difficult enough already, without that. She kept walking.

Elena edged the car forward. 'Besides, I still owe you wages. You'll need money for the trip.'

This was true enough. Leila had little enough saved, and every hryvnia would help. She climbed in reluctantly.

'You won't change my mind, so don't even try. It's five days since Dmitri phoned. He's in trouble. I know he is. Besides, if he thinks I'm still in Türkiye, I have to stop him.'

'But how will you find him? Ukraine's a big country. He could be anywhere.'

'Nonsense. He was going to Kalynorad. We know that.'

'But five days. He could have been there and left. Surely it makes more sense to wait until he gets in contact again?'

Leila didn't answer. She sat staring straight ahead with a firm set to her jaw.

Elena couldn't make up her mind whether it was concern for Dmitri that was driving her, or jealousy because she thought he had found a travelling companion to displace her. She tested the water.

'It's a good thing he's made a friend in Kyiv. Two men travelling together are safer than one alone.'

Again, Leila refused to engage, though a glance in Elena's direction said more than words.

When they pulled up in front of Moreniv station, Elena opened her purse and pressed some notes into Leila's hand. 'Your back wages, my dear, and thank you. You've been such a help to me.'

Leila pocketed the money without looking at it and leant across the car seat to give Elena a hug. Elena clasped her to her chest and held her tight enough for their two heartbeats to feel like one.

'Take care, won't you? And keep in touch. And remember, whatever happens, you'll always have a home here if you need it. Dmitri, too.'

She blinked away a tear and made as good an attempt at a cheerful smile as was possible with her bottom lip quivering.

Leila strode off towards the station entrance, then turned and waved before disappearing from view.

When she bought her ticket, she discovered that Elena had given her more than twice what she was owed. She ran to the entrance just in time to see Elena's car turn the corner and vanish.
 

***
 

In Kyiv, Leila went straight to the counter for a ticket to Kalynorad. The ticket clerk looked at her as if she had arrived from another planet. 'Where've you been, miss? Haven't you heard? There was a missile attack a few days ago, a direct hit. Blew up a trainload of soldiers going to the front. It was in all the papers. There won't be any service on that line for at least two more weeks.'

An image too horrific to contemplate overcame Leila. Her stomach tightened, and for a moment she couldn't breathe. 'What do you mean? When did this happen?'

'Five or six days ago. The wreckage has to be cleared away. Tracks need repairing or maybe replacing. It all takes time.'

'Think carefully. This is important. Was it five or six days ago?'

The clerk scratched his head. 'Six. I remember now; it was my wife's birthday. If you're interested, I may still have the paper.' He scrabbled around under his desk. 'It was the overnight train, and it happened a few kilometres this side of Kalynorad.'

He came up in triumph, paper in hand. 'Here it is.' But she was already weaving in and out of the crowd, on her way to the bus station.
 

Author Notes Main Characters in this Chapter:

Dmitri Zahir, a teenage boy hellbent on reuniting with Leila, his true love.
Mira Zahir, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena Prishtina, a volunteer carer who looked after Dmitri during his recovery from catatonia.
Leila Haddad, the Syrian girl Dmitri has fallen in love with.
Oleh, a guitarist that Dmitri met on his way to Kyiv

AI-generated image


Chapter 33
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 33

By tfawcus

As Oleh was being frogmarched to the Land Cruiser, he twisted around to face the corporal. 'You can't do this. I'm a Ukrainian citizen. I know my rights.'

The corporal sneered and said, 'Show me your papers then. Or did they float away down the river?' He took a step forward and struck Oleh across the face. 'You have no rights, boy. You're a Russian deserter and a prisoner of war. Probably a spy to boot.'

He turned his attention to Dmitri. 'And you? What have you got to say for yourself?'

'You know I'm not Russian, and I can prove it.' Dmitri pulled his sodden passport from his pocket and handed it to the corporal. 'See. Dmitri Zahir. Citizen of Ukraine.'

The corporal squinted at it with exaggerated care. 'Dmitri Zahir? I can't see anything saying that. All the words have been washed away.'

He pocketed the passport, and the soldier pushed Dmitri's arm further up his back, forcing him forward.

'Wait!' The corporal had caught a glint of gold. 'What have we here?' He wrenched the chain holding Leila's amulet from around Dmitri's neck. 'You won't be needing this where you're going.'

'Give it back! It belongs to my ... sister.'

'Your sister? Oh yes, I remember her. Still in Kalynorad, is she?'

'Yes.'

The corporal leered. 'Then I'll make sure she gets it ... if you know what I mean.' He gave Dmitri a broad wink.
 
***
 
Back at the camp, Lieutenant Hrytsenko leaned against the doorway. His unbuttoned uniform and the coarse stubble on his chin suggested a man who no longer cared much about anything, a suggestion reinforced by the pallor of his skin. There was something broken behind his eyes, as if he had long since stopped considering the mismatch between conscience and duty.

When Dmitri and Oleh were thrown down at his feet, his gaze briefly shifted from the middle distance to Corporal Karpov.
 
'Well?'

'Russian deserters, sir.'

'That's a lie!' Dmitri said. 'We're Ukrainian citizens. The corporal has my passport to prove it.'

Karpov's boot landed squarely on Dmitri's backside, and a searing pain shot up his spine. The lieutenant looked away in distaste.
 
He drew on his cigarette slowly, exhaled, and said, 'You know what to do, corporal.'

Corporal Karpov saluted the departing shadow of his superior and snapped an order. 'Bring the spades and crowbars.'

Oleh was led off to the far side of the compound, close to the barbed wire fence. The earth was hard and unforgiving. A distant echo from Oleh's direction matched each blow from Dmitri's crowbar. By sunset, his pit was shoulder deep. He no longer had the strength to toss soil up out of the hole, and he stopped to wipe the sweat from his brow.

Karpov gestured with his cigarette. 'That'll do,' he said. 'Now pass the spade up to me.'

Dmitri hesitated. The guard pointed his rifle at his head.

'Now.'

After the two men left, Dmitri lay on his back, staring at the violet sky. Every bone in his body ached. The blisters on his hands oozed and stung. Above him, and slightly to the right, Venus grew steadily brighter, and pinprick stars began to dot the sky. His head swam, and the world became a soundless blur as he adopted a foetal position and lapsed into unconsciousness.

Some hours later, he was awoken by angel kisses on his upturned cheek, snowflakes, or the light touches of a fading dream. They landed like feathers and melted like tears. He sat up shivering and drew his coat around his shoulders. A bank of broken cloud covered half the sky, but he could see Orion winking through the tattered remnants as they gradually moved west. With some difficulty, he hauled himself onto his knees and, using the walls of the pit to steady himself, managed to stand upright. His whole body felt numb except for a vague tingling in his extremities. He tried stamping his feet, but a searing pain shot up through his ankle. He had to make do with swinging his arms, clasping and unclasping them around his body in an attempt to restore circulation. Although still too weak to climb out of the hole, he could at least see over the rim and get some sense of his bearings.

Kalynorad lay to the east, and above it on the side of a hill, he could make out the ruins of St. Volodymyr's Church silhouetted against the night sky; St Volodymyr's, where he and Mira had sat in the grass a lifetime ago, devouring the food they had so audaciously stolen from Corporal Karpov and his two men. A waning crescent moon now hung above it like a hollowed-out face.

He ducked back into the shelter of the hole and curled himself against the cold, shielding his nose from the sour smell of fetid earth. If this was the end, so be it. At least he would be buried in the same soil as his sister.
 
***
 
When morning came, Dmitri was still curled and semi-comatose. The sharp crack of a pistol brought him to his senses. He staggered to his feet in time to see a figure straighten up from Oleh's newly dug grave. Shuddering with fear, he collapsed into his hole again and waited with his eyes clenched shut. People's lives are said to flash before their eyes at the point of death. Dmitri had almost a minute to review his pitiful existence; enough time to feel the sharp pain of regret. The crunch of boots grew louder, and the muzzle of a revolver nestled against the back of his neck. For a split second, he drove his mind into the soft curve of Leila's neck and prayed she might by some miracle be carrying the life-spark of his child. There was a click as the firing pin fell.

Rough hands hauled him upright, and a blinding light seared his eyeballs as the first rays of dawn spilled over the horizon. For a moment, he couldn't fathom whether he was in heaven or still on earth.

A mocking voice behind him said, 'No easy ride into eternity for you, lad, but you'll wish you were dead soon enough.'

He was slung between two soldiers and dragged across the compound and up the steps into the interrogation room. Lashed to a chair with savage knots and blindfolded, he waited in silence for what seemed like the passage of an hour. Then a faint aroma of vanilla and sandalwood wafted into the room, the scent of a man who used civility as a weapon.

There were three sets of footsteps: one a soft shoe, the other two clumsy and louder. Chairs scraped back, and the interrogator gave a gentle cough, followed by a pause. A cold weight of dread settled in the pit of Dmitri's stomach. His pulse raced. His ankle throbbed. And he could only imagine what would happen to him next.

The voice, when it came, was smooth yet carried an underlying threat, like a velvet scabbard sheathing steel. 'Dmitri Zahir. An Arabic name. Are you an Arab, Dmitri?'

'No, sir. I am Ukrainian. The corporal has my passport. He took it when he rescued us from the river. Ask him.'

'Ask him? Is that an order, young man? Are you giving me an order?'

'No, sir. That's not what I meant at all. But he does have it.'

'Corporal Karpov, do you have the boy's passport?'

'No, sir.'

'So you're a liar and an Arab. What else, I wonder? A spy perhaps?'

'I'm not any of those things, sir. My father died fighting in the Ukrainian army against the Russians. Why would I want to spy for them?'

'But your friend Oleh Zhukov accuses you. He has already confessed, but he was foolish. He lied to us.' He paused for a fraction of a second before adding, 'We shot him at dawn. Do you want us to shoot you, too?'

Dmitri blurted out, 'This is madness. Oleh was a musician, a guitarist, not a spy. I met him on the train from Lviv.' Perhaps it was his rising panic that charged his words with such anger. He was cornered and knew there was no way out, but he had not quite lost his senses. If Oleh had been shot at dawn, he couldn't have been questioned.

His interrogator ignored the outburst and continued evenly, 'You have heard of Marshal Georgy Zhukov, perhaps? The famous Russian general.'

Dmitri was about to deny it when he heard footsteps behind him and felt cold steel on his neck. 'Yes, I've heard of him, of course. But Zhukov is a common name.'

The steel blade slid behind his ear and, with sudden ferocity, was thrust downwards. Dmitri's blindfold fell away. He blinked, momentarily dazzled, and tried to focus on the man sitting in front of him. The face was in shadow, but the light glinted on the three stars on his shoulder.

'Please, colonel. You have to believe me. Major Andriy Kolt can vouch for me. I knew him in Velinkra.'

'Enough of your lies! Take him away, corporal.'

After Dmitri had left the room, the colonel turned to Lieutenant Hrytsenko and said, 'I know Major Kolt. He is a personal friend of mine. If the boy is telling the truth, then your corporal will be brought to account for wasting my time. In the meantime, have Zhukov brought in. Let's find out what he has to say.

Author Notes Main Characters in this Chapter:

Dmitri Zahir, a teenage boy hellbent on reuniting with Leila, his true love.
Mira Zahir, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Leila Haddad, the Syrian girl Dmitri has fallen in love with.
Oleh Zhukov, a guitarist that Dmitri met on his way to Kyiv
Lieutenant Sergei Hrytsenko, the POW camp commandant
Viktor Karpov, a corporal in the Ukrainian army
The Interrogator, a Ukrainian army colonel

FS AI-generated image


Chapter 34
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 34

By tfawcus

Colonel Vadym Melnyk was irritated, having been drawn from more important business to interrogate these two boys. He was a precise and intelligent man and had already concluded they were not spies, a conclusion he considered should have been obvious to Lieutenant Hrytsenko without having to call on him to confirm it.

Nonetheless, he had a quietly sadistic streak and decided to amuse himself at Oleh's expense, putting him through the grinder for over an hour and making much of the fact that the poor lad had the same surname as the famous Russian general, Marshal Georgy Zhukov. He was genuinely interested in finding out why the boy was heading for Kramatorsk, a town of strategic importance not far from the front line, and he was not entirely convinced by the reasons Oleh gave. There was a sufficient shred of suspicion for him to instruct Hrytsenko to hold the boys for a few more days while his underlings in military counterintelligence investigated their backgrounds more fully.

It didn't take them long to ascertain that Dmitri had been born in Kalynorad, that his father had been killed on active service, and that his sister had died during a Russian artillery bombardment of the town. It was scarcely necessary for Colonel Melnyk to contact his friend, Major Kolt, for further confirmation, but he was a thorough man and did so anyway.

'Andriy, my dear fellow. We must catch up one day soon, if the war can spare you for an evening. I still remember our last get-together in Kyiv. What a night that was!'

Kolt was immediately on his guard. Colonel Melnyk was unlikely to be contacting him for a social chit-chat. 'It's good to hear from you, Vadym, and congratulations on your promotion. I suppose I shall now have to get used to calling you "sir" and saluting you.'

'Of course. What else? I shall enjoy having the upper hand. Look, I won't waste your time. A simple matter. We have a young man by the name of Dmitri Zahir in detention in Kalynorad. Accused of being a Russian spy. Says he knows you.'

'Are you accusing me of consorting with Russian spies? Really, Vadym, whatever next?'

'No need to be so defensive, my friend. You might make me suspicious.'

'I know him all right. A hot-headed youngster if ever there was one. Got drunk at a dinner party of mine and tried to take a swing at me. So, he made it to Kalynorad, did he? I thought he'd have got himself killed before reaching the halfway mark. Anyone with him?'

'Yes, as a matter of fact.'

'That explains it. She's the level-headed one. Probably kept him out of trouble.'

'She? Oh, no. He was with some long-haired git from Kyiv. Heading your way, as it happens. We're checking up on him. I'm holding them for a couple of days while we make further enquiries. I want to verify a few facts about his travelling companion.'

'Excellent! It will do the boy good to be kept on tenterhooks for a while. Might knock a bit of sense into him. He's got some hare-brained idea of becoming a war artist.'

Colonel Melnyk laughed. 'Well, he'll have plenty of material to work with in the prison compound. Good talking with you, Andriy. And remember, you owe me a bottle of champagne.'

'Oh, really? Why's that?'

'To celebrate my promotion, of course.'
 

***
 

After their interrogation, the boys were allowed to mix freely with the other prisoners. These were rumoured to include several of Melnyk's stool pigeons listening out for incriminating conversations. No one knew exactly who or how many there were, but everyone was on their guard. The boys, being recent inmates and relatively unharmed, were treated with particular suspicion and shunned.

They spoke in whispers about their time under interrogation.

'I would have told them anything,' Oleh said. 'It was lucky I had nothing to confess. Nothing at all.' He looked at Dmitri, and his eyes filled with tears. 'I don't think I can stand any more of this. It will drive me insane.'

Dmitri put his arm around his friend's shoulder. 'It's over now. We're innocent, and they will release us. I know they will.'

But Dmitri wasn't as sure as he sounded. He had seen the colonel's eyes as he was being led away. They were merciless. If it suited his purpose to extract a confession, he would extract a confession, and a confession was all he needed to stamp a prisoner's passport to eternity. Yet, what purpose would that serve? They were all on the same side, for God's sake. He prayed for the impossible; that the colonel knew Major Kolt, and that Major Kolt would save him.

The first night was the worst. They were put in a room with three other prisoners. Older men with hollow eyes and gaunt faces. Men who stank of faeces and fear. Men turned in on themselves. Defeated and waiting for death. In this world, there were no miracles, no saviours, and there was no hope. Dmitri stared into the darkness of their souls and shivered. The only hope lay within. He looked across at Oleh and saw the same vacant stare, the same fading spark, the same dying embers of humanity, and he made two decisions. He would not give up, and he would not let his friend give up either.

He was a man now. He had stood in the valley of the shadow of death and survived, and in surviving, he had learnt to fear evil. Not to be subdued by it, but to recognise it and fight against it. He had faced the dawn, and it had blinded him with the knowledge of beauty. In his paintings and drawings, he would depict evil but only in the context of hope. From the charnel house of destruction, there grows a seed, and the seed seeks the sun.

He looked again at the defeated faces of the Russian prisoners, and then at Oleh, whose sunken eyes and pallid skin suggested a deeper wound than gunshot. Where was the hope? Where was the possibility of resurrection? In his heart, he knew the answer. He lay back and fell into a dreamless sleep.
 
 
***
 
Three days dragged by, during which time Oleh gradually became worse. He had developed a racking cough and complained of feverish chills. On the third morning, Dmitri took his own blanket and added it to Oleh's, and after the Russians had left the room, he took theirs, too. He placed his hand on Oleh's brow. It was hot and damp. Clearly, his night under the stars had taken its toll.

Dmitri leaned over him and whispered, 'Lie still, my friend, you're going to be fine. I shan't be long. I'm going to fetch a doctor.'

Finding a doctor? What was he thinking? Nonetheless, he raced outside. The sun sparkled off a fresh sprinkling of snow, and Corporal Karpov was leaning on a verandah rail, smoking a cigarette, and enjoying the view.

'Corporal, my friend is sick. He needs medical attention.'

'Don't we all? What do you think this is? A sanatorium?'

'But you must help me. He has a high fever. Possibly pneumonia. Without an antibiotic, he may die.'

Karpov pulled on his cigarette and blew smoke in Dmitri's face. 'An antibiotic? Here? You must be joking.'

'Surely you have medical facilities in the camp? Is there nothing you can do?'

Karpov shrugged and turned to go back into the administrative office.

'Wait!' Dmitri shouted. 'I demand to see Lieutenant Hrytsenko!'

'Who is that demanding to see me? What's going on, corporal?' Hrytsenko appeared on the verandah with a cup of coffee in his hand. He looked like a man who hadn't slept in a week.

'Nothing, sir. That Russian spy, Zahir. Says his friend is dying. So, what if he is? It'll save a bullet.'

Lieutenant Hrytsenko had a low opinion of life. It had dealt him too many misfortunes. But he had an even lower opinion of Karpov. 'That's not your decision, corporal. Take him to the sickbay. Get him seen by the doctor. Colonel Melnyk hasn't finished with him yet.'

Corporal Karpov gave him the kind of salute that made it clear he was acknowledging the rank, not the man.

After he had left, Hrytsenko beckoned Dmitri. 'Come into the office, lad. I have something to show you.'

If such a thing were possible, Hrytsenko's office was even more of a disaster area than the man himself. His desk was submerged under a scattering of papers, on top of which lay a buff-coloured folder.

'This came yesterday evening. Colonel Melnyk's men have completed their investigations. Of you, anyway. It seems we have made a mistake. You're free to go.'

'Not without Oleh, sir. I cannot desert him.'

'Commendable, but foolish. The investigation of Oleh Zhukov will take longer. He is not a local. It may take several days to get a report from Kramatorsk, for it is near the front line and communications are irregular. Besides, there is no guarantee that the boy is not a spy. How long have you known him?'

As Dmitri was about to answer, a shout came from outside. 'Lieutenant Hrytsenko! Come quickly, sir. There's been an accident!'

'Stay here, boy. I'll be back soon.' Hrytsenko grabbed his cap and swagger stick and made for the door.

As soon as he was alone, Dmitri picked up the file and thumbed through it. The account of his interrogation bore little resemblance to what had in fact happened, and there was no mention of his ordeal preceding it. However, one piece of information had been highlighted in yellow, and it burned into his brain: Civilian Casualties in the Kalynorad Sector. Mira Zahir, aged seventeen, killed in a missile strike on Kalyna Lane; interred in the Municipal Cemetery, Plot 17.

When Hrytsenko returned, Dmitri asked him ingenuously if he had any information about his sister. 'You see, sir, I was travelling back to Kalinorad to obtain evidence that she had died as a result of the war. I need documentary proof to obtain an exemption so I can travel overseas.'

Hrytsenko was immediately suspicious. 'And why would you be wanting to travel overseas?'

'Because my girlfriend is in trouble in Türkiye, and I need to be with her. Please, sir. It matters more than you can imagine.'

'Really?' Hrytsenko burst out laughing. 'First, a stalwart friend. Now a knight in shining armour. What is this? Are you trying for a sainthood?'

Although his tone was mocking, the lieutenant had a secret admiration for Dmitri. Before the war had wrung such ideals out of him, he too had held similar beliefs. 'Yes, lad. I have that information in the folder in front of me. It came from the local military administration. They can probably issue you a certified copy. I'll get Corporal Karpov to take you into town and show you where it is.'

'No! Please, sir. I feel sure I'll be able to find it myself.'

'Nonsense. The exercise will do him good, and he needs to run an errand for me anyway.'

Author Notes Main Characters mentioned in this Chapter:

Dmitri Zahir, a teenage boy hellbent on reuniting with Leila, his true love.
Mira Zahir, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Leila Haddad, the Syrian girl Dmitri has fallen in love with.
Oleh Zhukov, a guitarist that Dmitri met on his way to Kyiv
Colonel Vadym Melnyk, a Ukrainian interrogator
Major Andriy Kolt, an army major who knew Dmitri from Velinkra
Lieutenant Sergei Hrytsenkothe POW Camp Commandant
Corporal Viktor Karpov a prison guard in the Ukrainian army

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