Page 5 of Wild Wolf

If I’d believed in what the book claimed, I’d earned becoming one of the so-called hounds of heaven twice over.

But, until I moved on, I would listen and learn, but I would avoid the issue of other wolves.

It wouldn’t prevent me from snatching up the single grain of hope I’d found since stepping foot into Russia. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to humanize Bodwin’s wolf, but I would try.

She needed me, and she deserved a name.

A gray, rusted-out car followed me from the library to the butcher. I haggled with the man and bartered to have a look at his truck, which was broken. I pulled my toolbox out of the bed of my truck and fought with the damned thing for almost two hours before locating the culprits, a loose bolt and a dead spark plug. The spark plug I’d identified early, but it hadn’t matched the symptoms of a dangerous rattle. He lucked out; a hobby of scrounging parts meant he had the right plug for his truck. A spark plug install, an oil change, and precautionary check of the rest of the truck later, I had the engine going.

He gave me a discount and extra meat along with two bones for my wolf and a promise of better for my big dog next week along with all the scraps she might enjoy.

For the first time since my arrival, a Russian invited me to call him by his short name, Tyoma. I delighted in sharing the same courtesy with him, and as he knew I’d grown up far from Russia, he taught me my informal name was Seryozha, and he would call me that so I might feel more welcome.

Bemused, I packed my tools, loaded my truck, and headed for home.

The same gray car followed me to the city limits before turning a different direction, and I wondered who would want anything from me. Like the other laborers, I’d let my beard grow, which changed my appearance enough I sometimes didn’t recognize myself in the mirror.

I worried the entire drive home, and when I arrived, I checked my property, but everything seemed to be in order. I released Bodwin’s wolf, chuckling at her antics when she rolled on the lawn and stretched her legs. Life as a lazy cabin wolf suited her. Her coat had grown in thick albeit coarse, far rougher than most dogs. While she sometimes permitted me to scratch behind her ears, she preferred if I didn’t touch her often. When pleased with me, she rubbed her nose against me and sat at my feet.

Most days, she bolted for the woods to hunt, but some days, like today, she stayed close, limiting her range to the yard I’d cleared of trees while I unloaded the truck. I checked my gas generator and its nearby tank, pleased with my fuel levels. In a few weeks, I would top the tank and install the exterior heaters meant to keep the fluid from freezing should it become excessively cold. It powered my chest freezer, the water heater, and refrigerator, the only appliances I needed electricity for. In winter, if it became as cold as the locals claimed, I’d craft a natural ice box to store things and hunt in the words as a wolf should the snow prove too deep for my truck to venture through.

I hoped it did.

Before I finished my work, Bodwin’s wolf headed inside, and she took over the fur rug I left on the floor for her. With no reason to wait, I hauled in the first load of stones for my fireplace and went to work.

My conversational Romansh needed work, but I used it anyway, struggling with my limited vocabulary to speak the language Bodwin’s wolf knew best. I even apologized for not knowing any good Romansh names to give her, forcing me to pick from a different culture or my past.

My mother’s name had been Gabriella, and sometimes, she had spoken fondly of a woman she’d called Petra. For no reason other than my mother’s smile, I made the first decision to chase after a folklore, wondering if there was more to Bodwin’s wolf than a cunning animal used to living with humans.

My eyes told me no, as did my common sense, but her coarse fur told a different story.

No mundane dog I’d ever pet had a coat so coarse.

“Your name is Petra,” I said in Romansh before repeating my words in Russian and English. Bodwin’s wolf stared at me with her wolf-gold eyes, one ear twisted back.

The newly dubbed Petra turned her head and seemed less than thrilled with her new name.

“Flea-bitten titmouse,” I muttered, and since no one but her could see me, I smiled.

With the sawmill closed, I spent the new few days at home to save on gas, built my fireplace, and enjoyed the peace and quiet. When I refused to visit Blagoveshchensk, it visited me. The crunch of tires on gravel warned me I had a visitor, as did Petra’s single bark.

“Stay,” I ordered in Romansh. The wolf turned her ears back at my edict, but she snatched her bone and dragged it to the corner before pinning it between her paws. Her defiance amused me, although her choice to head deeper into the cabin assured me she would do as told. Covered in mortar, I headed to the door, relieved I hadn’t bothered removing the troublesome talisman. Better yet, I’d wrapped the scarab cuff to protect it, which transformed it into an odd, homemade brace of sorts, so unless my guest opted to be rude, my jewelry would remain a secret.

A car marked as belonging to the politsiya parked beside my truck, and Timofey Matveevich Vasiljev stepped out.

As often was the case with the locals, I couldn’t tell if he scowled for a reason.

“Good afternoon, Timofey Matveevich Vasiljev,” I greeted, hoping my formality would appease the uchastkovyi, regretting I wasn’t aware of how I should address him.

“Good afternoon, Sergei Sokolov,” he replied, and if my lack of a patronymic bothered him, he didn’t show it—or he’d believed my story about how my name had been butchered in the United States. “I would have called, but you don’t have a phone.”

“It’s the price of living so far away from civilization. I’m sorry you’ve had to come all this way. How can I help you?”

“I have some questions.”

I took that as my cue to invite the man in and begin the odd dance the locals enjoyed when welcoming someone into their home. “Please come in.” The American in me demanded I add, “Pardon my mess. I was taking advantage of the time off to work on my fireplace.” I held up my mortar-covered hands. “My dog’s inside, and she’s not used to strangers, so give her space. She won’t bother you unless you bother her. She is trained.”

“I’ll be careful. Thank you.” The uchastkovyi paused at my door, the slight widening of his eyes betraying his surprise. At the threshold, he took off his jacket and shoes, which he put in their appropriate places as expected of a guest in someone’s home. From his jacket, he pulled out a small flask of vodka.