Sabres in the Snow

Chapter Four

When Anatole awoke the next morning a watery sun had risen in the sky and its weak rays fell across him like spidery fingers. He sat up and yawned, shivering immediately as he felt the sting in the air. Despite the appearance of the sun, it was still just below freezing and he had nothing to wear other than the tunic in which he’d fled the day before.

He got to his feet and walked to the opening of the overhang, the bundle of sharpened sticks held by the thong of rabbit skin. Before him, the land fell away beneath a blanket of white which seemed to glow as the sun reflected off it. Ice crystals sparkled like millions of tiny diamonds and, as Anatole emerged from his hiding place, the snow crunched beneath his boots. He looked around anxiously but there was no sign of movement in any direction, animal or human. Ahead of him lay a range of low hills, masked by trees but Anatole knew that, in that craggy range there were caves and he could hide out indefinitely in one of them if the need arose. He and his father had ridden out this way many times when he was younger and he knew the countryside well.

The thought of his father suddenly seemed to tear the breath from him and he slowed his pace, pushing through the trees with less determination. He swallowed hard and thought, for a second, that he was going to cry again but the feeling passed rapidly and Anatole now found that his grief was tempered by anger and the vision of his father and mother was gradually merging as one with the figure of that black-coated bastard Kleiser.

As he walked, Anatole began to wonder just what he was going to do. If he found shelter, which he hoped too, he couldn’t remain there forever, hidden away like some kind of skulking beast. He had to find other people. His own people. The thought sruck him hard once again. He had no people of his own. His parents, his friends, even his village had been eradicated by the SS. He had nowhere to go. He wondered if he could stay hidden until the war ended. If it ever did…

He allowed the thought to trail off.

There was a road just ahead, beyond it more trees and then the first gentle slopes of the hills. Anatole ducked low in the bushes and listened for any sounds drifting through the still morning air. The tell-tale sounds of clanking equipment, the squeaking of tank tracks. He heard nothing and, cautiously, moved out a few steps, glancing both ways. The road snaked away in either direction, the snow which had covered it deeply scored by lorry wheels. Some heavy vehicles had passed along it and recently too, he guessed. He knelt and inspected the tracks momentarily then got to his feet and sprinted across into the enveloping cover of the trees beyond. Whether the tyre tracks had been made by German or Russian vehicles Anatole didn’t know, all he was concerned about was reaching the relative safety of the hills. He quickened his pace, finding that the woodland was becoming less dense the higher he climbed. Gentle slopes gradually gave way to thick outcrops of jagged rock which protruded from the hillsides like splinters. Anatole clawed his way up over them, searching for somewhere to hide.

He almost missed the cave completely.

The entrance was masked by fallen branches and driven snow and the boy had to haul the dead wood aside in order to gain entry.

As he moved slowly into the gloom of the cave he recoiled slightly from the fetid odour inside, a mixture of damp and something much stronger which grew more powerful the deeper he went. Quite how far back into the hillside the cave went he could only guess but it was becoming difficult for him to see and, twice, he fell over pieces of rock. Rubbing his knees he got to his feet and picked up the bundle of sharpened sticks, feeling the uneven ground with his boot tip as he moved.

The smell was almost overpowering by now and Anatole stopped, trying to figure out what it was. It had a vague familiarity about it but he couldn’t yet place it.

Just ahead of him he heard breathing.

The breath caught in his throat and he backed off a step.

For a moment, Anatole thought his ears were playing tricks on him, perhaps it was just the wind whistling inside the cave.

The breathing came again, low and guttural. And rhythmic. He swallowed hard and squinted into the gloom, trying to discover who his unwelcome companion in darkness was. The breathing continued and the youth tried, with shaking hands, to undo the strip of rabbit fur which bound the six sticks together. He pulled the knot and they clattered noisily to the floor of the cave. Almost moaning aloud, he dropped to his knees to retrieve one, terrified that he had disturbed the occupant of the cave. He found one of the deadly shafts and gripped it with both hands then, as his eyes gradually became accustomed to the gloom, he advanced towards the guttural rasping.

His foot touched something soft and he jumped back.

Lying before him was a bear.

It was large, perhaps as big as a man and it was sleeping, hibernating he guessed. It was the bear he had heard snoring. And the smell was suddenly identifiable. His father had killed a bear once and brought it back to the village. The animal had been skinned, its fat used to make candles, the skin cut up to make hats and gloves. Now Anatole stood over the animal and raised the sharpened stick high above his head. It was his own breath which he heard coming in gasps now.

With all his strength he drove the sharpened stake down.

It pierced the bear’s body just below the left shoulder and the youth recoiled as a huge gout of blood spurted from the wound. He wrenched it free and struck again, this time into the animal’s throat. It awoke in pain and uttered a strangled cry, one huge paw reaching for the stake which pinned its head to the ground, the other swatting at its attacker. Dazed and dying, it tried to rise, the shaft still through its throat and Anatole quickly snatched up another of the lethal spikes. He drove it into the beast’s belly, careful to say clear of the flailing claws. More blood spouted from the wounds, splattering him and he spat disgustedly as some hit him in the mouth. But, with a final despairing grunt, the bear keeled over onto its side and lay still.

Anatole kicked it with his boot tip and it moved slightly. Probably just muscular contractions but he was taking no chances. Retrieving a third stake, he drove it through the creature’s head and leaned on it for what seemed like an eternity. Spattered with blood and panting like a horse, the youth sat down beside the carcass of the bear, wiping some of the sticky crimson liquid from his face. But, he did not sit for long. There was work to be done.

Anatole found that by pulling more branches across the cave entrance and piling some snow around it, the hole was all but obscured from any passers-by. He stood outside his newfound ‘home’ gazing at the makeshift covering of frozen branches. As he made his way back to the cave carrying an armful of wood, he used one branch to cover his footsteps. Then, he pulled away part of the canopy and, after meticulously replacing it, made his way back to the rear of the cave. He had estimated by now that it must go for at least fifty feet into the hillside, the narrow tunnel curving to the right the deeper it went.

He dropped the pile of wood beside the chopped-up remains of the bear. The task of dismembering the large animal had been a long and unpleasant one but Anatole had persevered. He had no choice but to do so and now he wore the reeking skin around his shoulders like a kind of cloak. He ignored any fleas which might be nestling in the thick fur, the warmth was the only thing that mattered to him.

The youth had used every piece of the dead bear that he could. As well as the portions of its body which he intended to eat and the fur which he now wore as a protection against the cold, he had smeared his body with some of the glutinous fat which had been beneath the animal’s skin. If, he reasoned, a layer of fat kept the bear insulated against the cold then it should do the same for him. It should also keep him waterproof. He stank to high heaven but only his nostrils smelt it. What was left of the fat he spread over some twigs nearby then he set about building a fire.

It took him ages to get a flame started, rubbing the two plieces of wood together but, with the aid of the grease, he soon had a small blaze going and he carefully fed in more branches. The interior of the cave lit up and Anatole almost shouted aloud in triumph and relief as he felt the first waves of warmth wash over him. The flames danced wildly before him, the fat crackling. The heat felt so good on his frozen hands and he huddled over the fire so close that it seemed he himself would go up in smoke.

He took a portion of the bear’s hindquarters and skewered it with one of his pointed shafts then he held it over the flames, watching as the meat cooked, a delicious aroma rising from it. The cave filled with grey smoke but the youth ignored it, his eyes on the piece of meat. When he thought it was ready he took it from the flames and devoured it hungrily. Grease and juices ran down his chin but he ignored them, concerned only with eating his kill.

When he had finally finished he sank back, his belly bloated. The fire still burned brightly and Anatole felt as if he himself were glowing inside. He felt pleasantly drowsy, probably the accumulation of all that had happened to him in the past two days. He gazed into the leaping flames and saw in them the blazing ruins of Prokev, the burning bodies of the villagers.

He drifted off to sleep with that image in his mind.

Three days, four days. A week. Anatole couldn’t be sure how long he’d been in the cave. Time seemed to have lost all meaning for him. Without a watch he never knew what part of the day it was. His clock was the rising and setting of the winter sun and the gnawing in his belly which told him it was time to eat. He had devoured every last morsel of the bear. Some of its skin he had wrapped around his legs to further insulate him from the cold. Other strips had been used to secure the double-edged knife to the end of a long shaft of wood, transforming it into a deadly weapon. He also had the sharpened stakes, they were propped against the wall of the cave. Three of them still bearing the dried blood of Anatole’s kill.

He had been outside just twice to gather firewood but now he realised he must venture forth again in order to find food and to replenish his stock of wood. Keeping the fire alight had been his biggest problem ever since he found refuge in the cave. There was a strong draught coming from somewhere and, although it mostly fanned the flames it sometimes threatened to put them out. Anatole looked at the fire, which was little more than a pile of glowing embers and pushed another branch onto it. He hoped the small fire would continue burning until he returned with more wood and, hopefully, some food. He picked up two of the pointed shafts and stuck them into his belt beside the little pouch which contained the bear’s teeth and claws, then he retrieved his most lethal weapon and, after inspecting the razor-sharp edges, headed for the mouth of the cave.

Night had fallen across the land; a thick, impenetrable night unblessed by the presence of the moon. The frost bit hungrily into his uncovered face as he emerged from the relative warmth of the cave but his body remained warm and he moved swiftly and expertly through the woods and bushes, as stealthy and cunning as any predator.

The tracks which he came upon belonged to a deer and Anatole knelt in the snow to examine them, scanning the ground ahead. He got to his feet and scuttled off after the trail slowing his pace when he heard sounds of movement not far ahead. He ducked down behind a tree and watched.

The deer was small, no larger than a dog, but it would do for his needs. However, as he watched, it raised its head from the leaves it had unearthed and sniffed the air nervously.

Anatole cursed beneath his breath. The animal must have caught the scent of the bear. After all, the youth was smeared with bear grease and wearing its skin it was a wonder he had been able to track the deer as far as he had. Moving with infinite slowness, he readied the knife-topped shaft, realising that the deer was not going to remain where it was for long with the thought that it had a bear near it.

His suspicions were well founded. The small animal jerked it shead around once more then spun round.

Anatole leapt to his feet, simultaneously hurling the spear. More by luck than judgement, he hit the deer in the rump but the weapon came free, gouging a large chunk from the stricken animal’s leg. It went down in a heap and Anatole was upon it, finishing the job with one of his sharpened stakes. Smiling to himself, he picked the deer up by its feet and carried it back towards the mouth of the cave, leaving the tiny carcass outside his dwelling while he went off to fetch some wood.

He broke off several large branches from a tree about twenty yards down the slope and carried them back up to the cave.

The deer was gone.

Anatole dropped the wood and spun round, looking first at the patch of blood on the snow where the dead animal had lain and then at the trees which seemed to be crowding in on him. The blood looked black in the darkness and, as he looked, he could see that a trail of it led away from the cave. There were several marks in the snow round about and as he bent to inspect them he realised what they were.

“Wolves,” he muttered to himself.

Snatching up the spear he scuttled off after the scavenging carnivores, determined not to be cheated out of his kill.

There were two of them in the small clearing, both tugging at the body of the deer. One, a great black pack leader had the tiny animal’s head almost completely inside its cavernous mouth while a grey she-wolf was doing her best to wring one of the legs free. Anatole raised the spear and hurled it with deadly accuracy at the she-wolf. The missile sped through the air, puncturing the wolf in the side and it yelped in pain, scratching at the weapon with its hind leg. Anatole advanced into the clearing, pulling one of the pointed stakes from his belt to face the huge black wolf which had dropped the deer and was standing perfectly still, glaring at the youth. The wolf was puzzled by the mixture of smells which greeted its flared nostrils. The familiar smell of bear mingled with the stranger, less-recognisable odour of man.

Anatole circled towards the wounded she-wolf, hoping to retrieve the spear. The animal was on its side now, blood gushing freely from the savage wound in its midsection but it was still alive and still dangerous. The youth reached the stricken animal, his eyes never leaving the black wolf which had now sunk to its haunches as if waiting its turn. It made no move to retreat into the woods and the youth realised that its hunger must be truly great for it to be this bold.

The she-wolf suddenly struggled to her feet and snapped at his leg but Anatole moved aside, driving the sharpened stake forwards into the animal’s eye. It shrieked and fell at his feet, body quivering spasmodically. He took his chance and jerked the spear free of its body.

The black wolf took its chance and launched itself at him. Anatole grunted as it slammed into him, surprised by its weight. Both of them went over, the wolf skidding on the slippery ground, the young Russian swiping at it with the spear. He almost smiled as he saw the double-edged blade slice through the animal’s rump. The wolf growled and spun round, launching itself a second time and, this time, Anatole felt a crushing, vice-like grip on his shoulder as the wolf fastened its huge jaws on his clavicle. He grabbed it by the ears and pulled as hard as he could, the fetid breath of the wolf strong in his face. With a roar he succeeded in tugging it free but, as he scrambled to his feet, it came at him again.

He pulled the second stake from his belt and lashed out at the attacking wolf, catching it in the belly. There was a noise like tearing fabric and the animal’s stomach seemed to split, spilling blood and entrails all over the snow and over Anatole who rolled to one side, grasping for the spear.

The wolf was on all-fours, a puddle of blood spreading out around it. The youth rubbed his shoulder, thankful that his opponent’s powerful jaws had not broken the skin. Then he approached the dying wolf, straddled it and, almost with relish, drove the knife into it at the base of the neck.

He stepped back exhausted and looked at the mangled body of the deer. It was no good to him.

He wondered how wolf would taste.