It turns around and faces me again. It tilts its head and watches. Like it’s listening.
Like Zhuchka.
I nearly laugh. She held her head at exactly that angle when she wanted something. When she wanted me to follow.
But that’s lunacy. This is not Zhuchka—it’s a wolf. I can’t follow a wolf into a forest. The old stories tell me everything I need to know about allowing a wolf to lead me into the forest. Those who have been foolish enough to follow wolves were eaten or doomed to another painful fate. Go away. I have no business with you.
But it doesn’t go anywhere.
So, I take a hesitant step forward. And when I do, the beast turns, and steps ahead. Should I run now? The wolf turns back and, again, watches me.
What do you want? What do you want, my Madame Zhuchka?
The wolf tilts its head.
Warily, I step toward it. The wolf turns and also advances one step.
I can hardly stop myself from fleeing but I’m equally scared to not follow. So, I decide to go against the old stories, to do what this Zhuchka seems to want, praying this creature is more Zhuchka and less wolf. Leaving a safe distance between us, I follow.
The beast leads me through the imposing trees. It finds ways that are clear of the thorniest brush and the spongiest bog. It leads me along ridges, circumventing rocky, uneven ground. When we must cross a stream, the wolf finds a place where it’s shallow and calm. This is its land, and the creature knows it well. It never gets so far ahead that we become separated. When I fall behind, it waits patiently.
As night reveals its face again, I’m exhausted and terrified. We’ve made unbelievable progress—much more than I ever could have made on my own. I’ve put so much trust in this wolf, but I still don’t really know what it wants. As the shadows grew, I began to wonder if I was making the biggest mistake of my life. Was this wolf leading me to its den? What other motive could it have?
My mother’s friend Yelizaveta recounted a story told by a strange man at a party. A few years before, he’d attended a wedding and even though the host had properly assembled the requisite twelve-member wedding party, still some ritual had not been carried out properly, and the entire party was transformed into wolves. “The sources of human vice are idleness and superstition!” my father had cried. “You’re excelling at both.” He left the room. My mother quietly asked Yelizaveta to continue. The transformed wolves ran with the real wolves for seven years and over that time, one by one, they were killed and eaten because the real wolves could tell by their scent that they were really human. One man survived—the man Yelizaveta met. He’d always lie downwind from the pack so they could never smell his humanness. And after the seventh year, he returned to his village. The villagers were terrified and threw rocks and sticks to drive him away. But he persisted. Finally, somebody in his family thought it could be him and that he might have been enchanted. So, they left a heel of bread out for him. He ate it. And every night afterward, they left more bread, and every night he ate it all, until he’d eaten so much bread, his pelt opened like a cloak and fell from his shoulders and he transformed back into a person. All that remained of his years as a wolf was a long tuft of grey hair that grew on his chest and never went away.
Yelizaveta swore the tale was true. At a dinner party, he’d told his story, then boldly unfastened his jacket and his shirt. He showed everyone in the room the tuft of grey hair. Until that moment, Yelizaveta herself had doubted.
I was ten years old, and I didn’t believe her. My mother’s friend tended to embellish, and, besides, I agreed with my father. Her story was impossible. It was exactly the type of superstitious nattering that spread among the peasants, which the Tsar was so anxious to purge from our society. It had only been a couple of years since my illness and that strange blindess that had afflicted me. The visions of that night were still fresh. And my mother listened so earnestly I could tell that in her heart, she believed Yelizaveta.
In this forest, where everything seems possible, I wonder if my mother heard something in Yelizaveta’s story that she’d caught and I’d missed.
When it’s so dark that we can no longer see very well, the wolf stops. It’s dry, and the mosquitoes seem less numerous here. I sit with my back against a tree while the wolf curls next to a nearby log. We stay within sight and watch each other. When sleep overcomes the creature and it settles its head on its paws, I allow my own eyes to close. Just for a minute I tell myself. One minute is all.
When the birds wake me in the morning I’m astonished to find myself alive. The wolf sits by its log and watches me. It’s been waiting for me to wake up.
Good morning. Where are you taking me today?
The wolf’s ears are cocked. Very carefully I walk away and relieve myself without taking my eyes off it. Its ears twitch at the sound of my water hitting the earth.
When I’ve risen, it trots ahead, and, having little choice, I follow.
We stop to drink from streams but otherwise continue for a long time and a short time. Then, just ahead, I see expansive light and wonder if we’re near the sea. I don’t smell salt water, but this amount of bright light is unusual.
When we emerge through the trees, we come upon a huge lake. It’s the biggest lake I’ve seen in the koliuzhi territory. The wolf trots to its edge and wades in. It laps at the water. I walk across the spongy ground until I’m a short distance down the shore. I hear the plop of a frog, but it’s gone before I see it. Water ripples out in rings marking the place where it vanished. I splash cool water on my face and neck and arms. I drizzle some on my head. I hear the krya-krya of a duck; a flock bobs near shore. I’m surprised the wolf pays it no attention—Zhuchka would have been off on a chase—but this creature’s only waiting for me.
You’ve missed your chance for a big breakfast. I wouldn’t have stopped you.
The shore of the lake is too boggy and overgrown to follow, so the wolf leads me back into the trees. Still, I’m sure, from the marshy smell, that the lake’s not far. The path the wolf chooses is flat and only slightly moist, so we cover much distance. The sky remains grey throughout though I sense that it’s lightening and perhaps by tonight, I’ll be able to find Polaris again.
Where is the seashore? Show me the seashore so I can head north. But the wolf only continues through the forest.
Dusk eventually arrives, and the birds frolic, then settle. I’m very tired, and the more tired I feel, the more I can’t cast away my doubt. I’ve been foolish to come this far with a creature all because the tilt of its head reminded me of a dog I once loved. I’ve trusted this beast for two days, but I still I don’t know where the ocean is.
I stop walking.
The wolf pauses and looks over its shoulder.
Why can’t we stop?
It trots ahead a few paces, then turns and tilts its head.
All right.
I follow. It makes no sense to give up now. I’ve trusted this wolf. Maybe it’s trying to take me to shelter for the night.
The mosquitoes come out. Dusk crosses the threshold and becomes night. The sky is not clear. The way ahead is obscured.
Let’s stop. Please. That’s enough.
What I’d give now for a warm fire. I’d dry my feet. Put some boughs next to it and sleep. I’d wake up periodically to stoke it. I’d keep it going all night for the warmth and for the comfort. I can almost smell the smoke.