For the next few hours, to maintain my cover, I would agonize over piecing together Cyrillic script. However, instead of delving through more modern texts, I hunted new prey: Russian folklore, as seen through the eyes of Blagoveshchensk’s people.
In a world where werewolves didn’t exist in the open, how did Blagoveshchensk have a population who knew the supernatural existed, branded their faces so all would know what they were, and controlled them? I picked several books, took them to a table tucked in a shadowy corner, and armed myself with my translation dictionary. The first two, judging from their table of contents, contained nothing of use.
The third was a gold mine of information about the ved’ma, spirits, and general folklore, ranging from the legends surrounding Baba Yaga to the vucari, which translated roughly to lycanthrope in other parts of the world. Vucari were similar to bodark but not quite the same in Blagoveshchensk folklore, although the book didn’t explain the differences. I wasn’t sure how other parts of Russia viewed werewolves, but something learned was better than nothing.
According to the text, written over fifty years ago by a local, the vucari, unlike the bodark, had incurred the Devil’s wrath, and in an effort to protect the people from the werewolf’s curse, the church had crafted talismans to ward homes against them. The volume claimed that if a vucari could atone and resist the curse for a period of five years, they would rise to become a hound of heaven, a servant favored by God.
Why did Blagoveshchensk have bodark but no vucari? Did they attempt to cultivate the bodark to become vucari? The wawkalak seemed closer to the vucari to me.
Trying to wrap my head around the collision of the supernatural and the church, which I presumed to be Russian Orthodox, gave me a headache. I could deal with the supernatural and superstitious, but religious fanatics of all stripes terrified me. Sense, humanity, and fact meant nothing in the face of fanaticism.
Fanatical mothers and fathers would brand their children with crescent moons if their religion demanded it of them. They would do more than merely burn their children with silver brands.
They might kill them.
I forced myself to return to my reading, my eyes widening when the entry on the vucari delved into cures for those inflicted with lycanthropy. In refreshing honesty, the book acknowledged few who fell to the curse could be restored. It also declared that for a vucari to return to human form and spirit, he or she needed to be humanized.
It began with the gift of a name and ended with love and acceptance.
Love broke many curses in folklore, but I also recognized the truth. When my wolf hunted, there was no room in him for such emotions. Neither one of us had opened that door since our mother’s death, and we agreed. Until we no longer had to run, we couldn’t afford to love anyone.
My wolf sighed, and I felt as much as heard his longing.
I closed the book, returned it to its shelf, and resolved to put the problem of Russian werewolves behind me. I was no wawkalak, bodark, vucari, or sumasshedshiy volk. I wasn’t Fenerec, either.
I defied such easy categorization with my glowing fur and a wolf I didn’t need to control, for he controlled himself. I could go years without shifting. I had gone over a decade without shifting when working within the military.
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.