| General Fiction posted September 12, 2025 | Chapters: |
...22 23 -24- 25... 
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Of a Hunger, a Hustle, and a Wild-Eyed Horse
A chapter in the book Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 24
by tfawcus
| Background The scene is war-torn Ukraine. Dmitri has just arrived in Kyiv. He is in love with Leila, who has been summoned to Turkiye because her mother is dying. He is desperately trying to rejoin her. |
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.
 Recognized |
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.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. 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.
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