﻿Wanderer Richard Cheesman Published by Richard Cheesman at Smashwords Copyright 2011 Richard Cheesman Contains excerpts from a translation of 'The Poet's Death' by Mikhail Lermontov, 1837. Discover other titles by Richard Cheesman at Smashwords.com Smashwords Edition, License Notes Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support. Night. The evening sky had turned dark, giving the camp-fire an eerie glow on the nearby ground. Grigori shuddered and shuffled forward, trying to warm himself. He turned to his left and reached out for a stick from the pile he had gathered earlier, and threw it on the fire. He adjusted his coat, making sure the the cooling air didn't get in and give him a chill and pulled the fur-lined hood over his head. The ruins of the city of Lermontov were to the west, tall ruins silhouetted against the fading sunlight. Clouds had started to gather as well, causing some parts of the sky to already appear black as coal. The air had finally started to cool, and Grigori looked around to pick up another stick. Soon it would be totally dark, he thought, as he glanced upwards at the darkening sky. A light wind had risen up, playing with the fire, casting flickering light on the ground, and rustling the nearby trees. “You gonna sit here all night, chicken?” Grigori said out loud to himself. He gave a sarcastic laugh. “Of course, I have nowhere to go now that the dark has fallen.” Grigori was used to spending time alone. He'd wandered around this region after the war, having barely escaped Nevinnomyssk before it was bombed to ruin. It was foolish to wander these lands after dark, all sorts of creatures now roamed wild, ready to pounce with ravenous hunger onto unsuspecting travellers. He hated the dark. All it presented was the ideal opportunity to be robbed, attacked or even stumble into a Hunter's trap instead of it's intended prey. I died there, back in Nevinnomyssk, he thought to himself, I'm not Grigori Aleksandrov any more. I'm just roaming the wastelands, trying to find food, stay out of trouble. I don't even know who I really am any more. For all the time he'd roamed these lands, he'd been fortunate trouble had not found him. There had been a few close calls with the gangs that now roamed. The longer he'd been wandering, the less the gangs bothered him, seeing him as a source of information instead. He could barter the information from his travels for food, clothing, even ammunition from time to time. There were very few other wanderers, roaming the ravaged wastelands, doing the same as he was. Today, he'd been looking around Lermontov, a town named after Mikhail Lermontov, a poet. Grigori loved poetry, reading much during his younger years, and even written some in the hope of getting it published. Lermontov's poetry was deeply ingrained for many Russians, and although not possessing a book of his works, he could recite many of the poems that had written. He started to speak softly to himself: “The Poet's dead! - a slave to honour - He fell, by rumour slandered, Lead in his breast and thirsting for revenge, Hanging his proud head!... The Poet's soul could not endure Petty insults disgrace. Against society he rose, Alone, as always...and was slain!” He chuckled to himself. He turned for a stick, and realised that someone was standing there, watching him. Grigori started in shock. He hadn't even heard him come up to the camp-fire. “Don't be afraid.” said the stranger, taking a single step forward closer, so Grigori could see him clearly. “Who... What do you want?” Grigori replied. “Just some time by your fire, if you will allow me." The stranger said, pointing toward the fire. He bent his knees, so the he came to Grigori's level. “My name is Anatoliy." He held out his hand. Grigori turned so he completely faced him. The stranger, Anatoliy, seemed okay. His weapon was slung, the pistol in his holster was snapped. He accepted the man's hand. “My name is Grigori. Some people round here just call me Wanderer." They shook hands. “And others call me Sunrise." Anatoliy chuckled, almost smiling in the light of the flames. He moved in closer, sitting near to Grigori and putting his hands out to the fire. Grigori could see the man clearer now, probably about ten years older than he was, with a creased face that showed the wear of time spend in the wastelands. Dark stubble covered most of his jawline. “What's funny about that?" Grigori asked. Anatoliy didn't look away from the fire. “I guess that's just what my name means. I was given it by my father, I...” He trailed off, still staring at the fire. “I didn't know my mother, but it was her wanted me to have that name, to give joy to other people as she had wanted." They sat for some time in silence, both just staring in to the fire. Suddenly, after what seemed like an eternity, Anatoliy turned, and looked at Grigori. “You were speaking poetry," he said, “was it Lermontov?” “Yes, it was. I'm a bit, sorry – was a fan," Grigori had turned to him, “but ever since the war turned this area into a wasteland, I've not enjoyed it the same way.” “Ah, so you're a poet?" Anatoliy's eyes widened. He almost seemed to come to life. “Was." Grigori corrected. “No. Once a poet, always a poet. Even when people did not have pen or paper, poetry was written, written in peoples' hearts. Even here," His hand swept, indicating the dark landscape before them, “even here, in this dark and horrible place, poetry can still shine. You were reciting 'Death of the Poet', am I correct?” Grigori looked intently at Anatoliy. He wondered if this man was a poet too or if not, how he knew about what Grigori had been reciting. “You know of it?” He asked. “Know of it! Ha!" Anatoliy slapped his knees hard, “I love that poem. The death of Pushkin, and the story of Nikolai Arendt. I like the part that goes: And they removed his wreath, and set upon his head A crown of thorns entwined in laurel: The hidden spines were cruel And pierced his noble brow; Poisoned were his final moments By sly insinuations of mockers ignorant, And thus he died...” Anatoliy trailed off, turning back to the fire. His eyes had darkened once more. “Why that part?" Grigori asked. He'd always like the part that lamented the poet, never really paying attention to the end. It just seemed to reflect his life so well. “Shh." Anatoliy stood and turned to the darkness, his eyes now alert, scanning back and forth looking for signs of danger. Above the rustling of the nearby trees, nothing could be heard, until... there! That howl, far off in the distance, like a wolf but far more disturbing. After the war, rumours had spread of new creatures, strange ones that had come from areas that had suffered nuclear fallout, or near the now disused nuclear reactors. Creatures that defied even the most vile imagination, abominations of nature. Grigori shuddered at the thought that these creatures were even in these parts. He'd always thought it was a post-war myth, a legend passed around by careless mouths. “Huh, it looks like we won't be having a quiet night then." Anatoliy turned back towards the fire, and sat down. “Those... those things will come when it's really dark." He looked up, and sighed. “The one night that the moon could show us everything, yet we have all this cloud to block it out. That's not good, not good at all.” Grigori muttered something that sounded like an agreement. He was too caught with his thoughts, especially having now heard those creatures. They sat for some minutes, neither of them saying anything, just staring into the fire. Grigori stirred first, deciding that if these creatures had caught wind of them, he was going to make sure he was ready. He turned and grabbed his pack, and turning it over, revealed his weapon, a PPSh-41 machine gun. Loosening the straps, he freed the weapon and turned to the fire, placing it on his lap. He sat and stared at it. “That's quite something you have there, Wanderer." Anatoliy said, looking first at the gun, then at him. “How did you chance upon something like that?” “It's mine." Grigori turned to look at him. “My grandfather, he fought in the last war, before this one. He helped repel the Germans from Stalingrad, and after the war, we moved away from all that, to Nevinnomyssk. It helped him recover from that horrible experience. He kept the gun as a souvenir.” Grigori turned back to the weapon. “Then my father then had it, it became an heirloom, I guess. When I was old enough, my father gave it to me, saying that I was carrying a great tradition. He said it was carrying the strength of my grandfather, as he used it in Stalingrad. I hated it.” “What do you mean, hated it?” “I am a poet, that's why you heard me reciting poems. I wrote about life. This... thing was designed to take life from people." Grigori thumped his hand on the gun, and almost went to throw it away. “Now I can't even go anywhere without it. It's like a curse, a curse I have to carry in my pack. Do you know, Anatoliy? I've never even used it. At least not since my father had me try it out." Grigori looked at him. Grigori's father had tried to get him to do some target shooting when he was given the gun. “Never? Not even in this place? I find that difficult to believe.” Anatoliy replied, looking around them both. “This place is a cursed land, full of thieves, vagabonds, criminals who would rather kill than barter and trade. No, I don't believe you have not used it here. What makes you so special around these parts?” Grigori paused before replying. “I'm nothing special. Some people call me Wanderer, and I learn things pretty quickly. I trade information, gather knowledge for people. I just seem to understand what's really happening, like between the lines. Usually I stay in Mineral'nye Vody, and for some extra money I'll look up a club, usually just a place in a basement of some ruined hotel, and recite poetry.” Anatoliy looked interested. “You recite poetry? Very good, very good, I like it that you are a trader of information, a valuable commodity especially around here and in these times. I would like to know..." He was cut off by a howl, sounding much closer than before. Turning, he beckoned Grigori closer. Grigori grabbed his gun and pack, and searched quickly to find one of the ammo drums he had. Getting one, he checked it, and loaded it in, but for now, decided to keep the safety on. Anatoliy had grabbed his pack too, and pulled out a machine gun, a AKS-74u, already loaded with a magazine, and equipped with a laser pointer sight. Anatoliy looked and saw surprise on Grigori's face, and just smiled. “I know what you're thinking, Grigori,” he said, tapping his weapon, “how did a man like me come across a weapon like this?" “Well, not really.” he replied, slowly. “I've seen some fine weapons carried by the gangs out here, but a laser sight. Now that is something exceptional.” “Ah, my little precious. Yes an excellent addition to such a fine gun. Let's keep these nearby, huh? Sounds like we will be having some fun tonight." Anatoliy's calm voice helped to soothe Grigori's nerves. They sat again in silence for some time. The wind had picked up a little now, and it was completely dark. The clouds had covered much of the sky, although small areas of the cloud broke off and they could see the stars beyond. The rustling of the leaves in the nearby trees became ominous, eerie, as if it were masking the approach of whatever it was out there. Anatoliy, suddenly coming to life, turned to Grigori. “Tell me one of your poems, like you read in the club." He asked. “Huh?”, Grigori replied, slightly startled and unsure what to make of this request. “No, I can't. Most of them are usually miserable poems for people who have drunk too much vodka. I don't tend to recite those outside of the clubs.” Anatoliy still looked interested. “Please, for me, just one.” Grigori let out a sigh. He stared at the flickering fire, deep in thought for a moment, then looked up to the darkness beyond. “I have one, it's an old one from when I was a student. I hope you'll like it, it's quite short too." He turned to Anatoliy and started to recite: “All my life is a speck of sand, A moment in the history of time. How long have I got, I do not know, just my existence as undefined. Move on, move on, always forwards, Never looking back. Move on, move on, keep on going, Never giving slack.” Grigori stopped. Anatoliy was still looking intently at him, his eyes full of life. This made Grigori uncomfortable. After what seemed like an infinite silence, Anatoliy finally spoke. “That was pretty good, Wanderer, I liked that, short and to a point. It reminds me a lot of the old communist songs they used to sing, many years ago. Hopefully if we see the dawn tomorrow I would like to hear some more. I feel we're not going to get much sleep tonight. You're not tired, are you Wanderer?” “Not much,” Grigori replied, “all this talking has kept me quite awake. I'd like to know more about you, Anatoliy. Where are you from?” “Please, call me Sunrise. You'll remember that name much better. I'm not really from anywhere, you could say. Just been around, that's all.” Grigori looked puzzled. “Not from anywhere? Surely you must remember where you were born?” “Not really. My... my father said that I had been born outside, they were on their way back from visiting friends in a nearby town. That's why my mother, she had complications. It was winter, very cold. I know that much." Anatoliy looked away, out into the darkness. “So, in answer to your question, I'm not from anywhere, but I know where I was born – here in the wild lands. It's here I'll die one day, I suppose.” “Okay,” Grigori said, apologetically, “I'm sorry. I guess curiosity gets the better of me sometimes. It's what I do.” “Yes, you're right. You get and trade information. If we make it through the night, I have some information for you." Anatoliy stared hard at Grigori, making him feel nervous. “Anyway, Wanderer!” Anatoliy's faced changed in an instant from the fierce stare to a much lighter look. “We need to keep an eye out for these beasts. I reckon they'll be coming from the east of Lermontov, over where the woods are on the outskirts of the city." He pointed off in the general direction. “I say we watch the city itself, and the east area near those hills. You can see the city there, and some people have lit fires in the ruins.” As Anatoliy described his ideas, Grigori looked towards Lermontov. He could see the faint lights of fires, burning on the tops of the larger buildings at the outskirts. These fires would show weary travellers a safe entrance gate, and ward off any unwelcome animals that would come out on these darker nights. It was too far and dangerous to walk the distance in this darkness, their hope was the fire would keep burning and the clouds would not bring rain, or that they would clear from the sky and allow the moonlight to shine. Another howl, much closer now. Anatoliy cocked his weapon, and flicked the safety catch off. Grigori did the same. The howl became a snarling. The change in tone meant that one of these beasts had caught a scent, and had started to trace where it was coming from. They had found them! A sharp crack startled Grigori. Anatoliy laughed as they heard a snarl turn to a tormented yelp, and finally a thud as the unseen creature hit the ground. He had fired first, but he had the advantage of the laser sight. “Got him!” he said, almost ecstatic. “Single shot to the head. The only problem now, the rest know we're here. Keep your eyes peeled, Wanderer.” Grigori looked at Anatoliy, and nodded. He turned and scanned the darkness to the east of the city. He could hear a shuffling, snorting sound. Deciding where the sound was coming from, he pulled the trigger. It had been a long time since he had fired a gun, and it surprised him so much he nearly forgot to release the trigger. Once he had, he heard a final snort, mixed with gurgling, then a thump as the beast fell to the ground. He could not even see it. “Very good, Wanderer! Less bullets next time, perhaps?" Anatoliy remarked, somewhat sarcastically. “Sorry, my fault. I've not used this for a long time." Grigori replied. He looked at his weapon, then looked back out into the dark. It had gone quiet again, save for the rustling of the trees by them. They both stood, waiting for the next round. A snorting, snarling sound erupted from the east, towards the hills. Grigori could hear a thump-thump loudly as the animals, whatever shape they were, ran towards them. Using his ears, he pointed his gun in the direction of the sound and fired. The report of the gun cut through the sound of the animals feet. He kept his finger on the trigger, spraying the nearby darkness with bullets until the drum was spent. At the final click, he let go of his breath. “Well," Anatoliy called over, “you certainly want to make sure they're dead, Wanderer!" He was almost laughing. Grigori just looked out into the dark of the night, and Anatoliy quickly returned to watching too. After a few minutes without any more noises, Anatoliy relaxed. Seeing him ease back, Grigori decided to relax too. They both went and sat by the fire again, with Grigori getting some more sticks from the pile and stoking the fire back to full life again. Sparks drifted into the night sky, as they both followed them they looked up at the dark clouds. “That was some good shooting, my friend.” Anatoliy said, finally looking at Grigori. “Not bad at all. Just a shame to waste all those bullets.” “Th.. thanks, I guess." Grigori replied, looking back at Anatoliy. It seemed to him they had gotten closer, maybe the adrenaline, the fear, had somehow bonded them. They both had to survive. “No problem. I think we've scared them off for a bit, you must have hit four, maybe five of them. I know I got two or three. That might even be all of them, who knows?" Anatoliy shrugged. “Still, we need to get some rest. Why don't you put you head down for an hour? I'll keep watch, then we can swap over.” “Are you sure?” Grigori replied, uncertain. “I mean...” “It's not a problem." He patted his weapon. “Besides, I have my little friend here. We'll keep watch, and it looks like you need some rest. It'll be dawn in a few hours, who knows, maybe these things won't be back to bother us now.” “Okay. If you say so." Grigori turned and reached for his pack, and set it near the fire as a makeshift pillow. He put his gun down at his side, ready. Just in case, he thought. He closed his eyes, and drifted into the unconsciousness of a deep sleep. Morning. “Wake up, Wanderer!” Anatoliy said, loudly. “Come on, rise and shine, sleepyhead!” Grigori stirred. Morning, already? No! He sat up quickly, instantly awake. “Morning? You kept watch the rest of the night?" Grigori looked at Anatoliy, confused. “Sure. It wasn't a problem. You looked so restful, asleep. I let you stay asleep. I was fine, we had no more problems last night." Anatoliy's response seemed so simple, so matter-of-fact, it took a few moments for the response to register with Grigori. “You want some breakfast?” Grigori's mind finally gave up, and he just stared at Anatoliy. “Breakfast?” “Yeah, breakfast. First meal of the day. Used to be cereal before all this war and ruin. Now, it's usually just cooked rat." Anatoliy had set up a some kind of stand and on it were two rats, well-cooked. A simple meal, one that had sustained Grigori in the past. “Yeah.” he said, sitting properly. “Thanks.” Anatoliy lifted the stick that had skewered the rats, and dividing it in two, with a rat on each stick. He offered the one to Grigori, who took it and started to eat. “A good morning." Anatoliy said, between bites. “Even the sky has cleared for us.” Grigori looked up. The sky had cleared, and was now showing the bright blue of the early morning. He looked around, and could now see the ruins of Lermontov in the distance, even the smoke from the entrance fires which was slowly rising in the cold morning air. After finishing their food, the two travellers kicked dirt over the fire, and started to pack up. Grigori still wondered where this man had come from, where he was going. “What are your plans, Sunrise?” “Oh, I don't really know. Maybe head north-east, towards Mineral'nye Vody. That seems like a good direction to go." Anatoliy looked up in the direction he was referring to. “Hey, that's good! I was hoping to go there. I've got someone I need to meet there. You'd like him, a true Russian. I call him Worker.” “Okay. That sounds like a deal. Let's go!" Anatoliy seemed full of energy, like the daylight had recharged him somehow. They grabbed their backpacks and set off, towards the east of Lermontov. They would skirt the city, and head north for a while, and follow the line of the nearby hills to their right. It would bring them near Zheleznovodsk, and there they could join a path that went off east, before heading north again after going over the hills. It took them an hour to get to Zheleznovodsk. They sky had brightened, and it seemed like it was going to be a good day. By mid-morning, they had crossed the hills away from Zheleznovodsk, and could see the former city of Inozemtsevo to their east. They had said little on their journey. The climb away from Zheleznovodsk was steep and tricky in places. The road surface was broken and decayed, and in some places did not even exist any more. They paused at a corner, where they could see the city quite clearly. Anatoliy stared out at the expanse of landscape around the city. He scratched his stubble on his cheek, and looked like he was troubled. “Wanderer...” He started to say. “Wanderer, I'm going to have to change my plans. I need to get to Inozemtsevo instead." Grigori looked at him. Anatoliy seemed distracted, almost unsettled. “Why, Sunrise?” That was all Grigori could ask. “I just need to see someone, that's all." Anatoliy turned to him. He placed a hand on Grigori's shoulder. “You'll be safe from here on. I am sure of that. Most of the wild beasts live in those hills,” he pointed to where they had come from, “and they tend to head down to Lermontov, not north. The hills by Novoterskiy deter them from going north." Anatoliy smiled. Grigori felt somehow reassured by Anatoliy's words, and held out his hand. Anatoliy took it and they shook. “It was good to meet you, Sunrise.” “And it was an honour to meet you, Wanderer. Write a poem about me." Anatoliy relaxed his grip, and laughed. “Let us go now, that we may get to our destinations before dark.” With that, they started to head down the hill, Anatoliy immediately leaving the road to follow a narrow path that seemed to head to Inozemtsevo. Grigori remained on the road and would follow it for another mile before turning north to Mineral'nye Vody. He turned and saw Anatoliy heading through the grassland, and Anatoliy looked back at him, and cupped his hand to his mouth. “Hey Wanderer!" He shouted. “One thing. I almost forgot. When you get to Mineral'nye Vody, look up a man called Uchitel. He's a wise man, believe every word he says.” “Uchitel? What kind of a stupid name is that?" Grigori shouted back. “Uchitel." Anatoliy repeated, louder this time. “It means 'Teacher', or master. He knows good things, maybe he might just help you too." He paused for a moment. “Good-bye, Wanderer!" Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked away. Grigori turned to the road, thought for a moment, and turned back. Anatoliy had gone. Not just gone, like out of sight, but vanished. The path he was on was through open grassland, and there was no way he could have made it to the tree-line in the distance. Grigori stared for what must have been a few minutes. There was nothing he could do about Anatoliy, so he turned and headed for Mineral'nye Vody. Afternoon. Grigori had made it to Mineral'nye Vody shortly after noon. It had been a warm day so far, and the walk had left him feeling quite achy and tired. He'd come to the old M-29 road, and passed through the checkpoint on the bridge crossing it. They knew him here, so it was easy to get through without any difficulty. He decided to look up an old friend in the city. Mineral'nye Vody had survived the initial bombing of the war. Many of the buildings were damaged, but still quite safe and habitable. Several of the more vital businesses in the city had remained, such as the food stores, clothing stores but other ones had been cleared out to house people and refugees. For many shops still running the types of products they sold had changed. Instead of fresh meats, a butcher's would now sell rat, deer, anything the Hunters could catch to bring to them. In the markets, tinned food, once the cheapest food available had become the most expensive as time went on, and there were less to be found. Some people had started farming again, and all manner of vegetables could be bought. The quality was generally poor, but it was fresh food and all the tastier for it. One type of business had not changed. The bars. Vodka was easily made from potatoes, which in turn were easily grown. Certain brands from before the war became very expensive, and other locally made variants were cheap. Rumours had been around that people died after drinking too much home brewed vodka or 'bathtub' as it was called. Even though everyone seemed to know a 'friend of a friend' who this had happened to, no-one had ever seems to have experienced it first-hand. Grigori loved coming back to Mineral'nye Vody. It was one of the few places that still seemed civilised, like life was normal. Sure the buildings weren't up to scratch, but compared to some places, it was beautiful. He headed towards the railway station in the north of the city. Just before he got to it, he turned left into a small alley from the main road, and found a dark green door, with the sign on it saying, 'Workers of the world, unite!'. He went up the steps and knocked on the door. “Who is it?” An man's voice replied, sounding irritated at the disturbance. “A comrade seeking a worker for the good of the glorious revolution." Grigori said. A lock clicked, and the door opened. A man, short, rounded with scruffy white hair and a cigarette hanging precariously in his mouth looked at Grigori. His eyes opened wide and flung his arms out to embrace him. “Grigori!” he exclaimed. “Grigori, my comrade! Welcome back!" Grigori struggled to free himself from the vice-like grip and keep himself away from the cigarette, which was dangerously close to his neck. The man finally let go. “Hello, Worker.” “Come on in, come on.” Worker turned and walked back in. He went off into another room. Grigori stepped in and closed the door. The hallway was small and cramped, with old, peeling wallpaper barely staying on the walls. A door to the rear led to a small bedroom, and a door on the right led to the main living room, which was combined with the kitchen. Grigori removed his backpack and placed it in the corner of the hall, next to a wooden coat stand. He heard music coming from the living room, some old cassette player with a song about marching enthusiastically. Grigori chuckled to himself. “You still think it's all funny?” said Worker, coming from the kitchen area. “I keep telling you, communism is right for Mother Russia." He had a tray laden with some bowls of stew, and a jug of water. The water wasn't exceptionally clear, but the stew looked inviting enough. “Anyway, I'm not going to have a political argument with you, at least not yet. Come, Grigori, sit. Sit and eat. Tell Worker what you've been up to.” They sat at a small dining table, barely big enough for both of them. Grigori tried some of the stew. It was made with deer, a good meat to use. The food always seemed to taste better here in Mineral'nye Vody. Grigori had always figured that the local water and fields were unspoilt by the war, and so had always given good crops and livestock. “Worker, this food...” Grigori paused between mouthfuls. “...is delicious as always.” “Good. I always try to cook the best for my good friends." Worker replied. “Now. Tell me, Grigori, what have you been up to? I haven't seen you for a long time.” Grigori put his spoon down. He looked at Worker. A good friend, they had met in a one of the bars near the railway station, he'd been reciting a few poems, and had decided to recite a few communist propaganda ones for a joke. Worker had been listening. After that, Worker came up and they started talking, becoming good friends since that evening. Even though Grigori hated the ideals of communism and how easily it had been corrupted, and Worker disliked democracy, they had a good friendship built on joking and teasing each other. He sat back. “Well, I've been out to Nevinnomyssk, at least, to the outskirts. That wasn't much fun, not at all. The gangs there are fighting again, some kind of misunderstanding has erupted into a kind of civil war. Seems one of the daughters of one gang had decided to sleep with the leader of another. A stupid move." Grigori sat back, reflecting on his recent journey. “They started arguing after it turned out the girl was pregnant. It got out of hand pretty quickly after that. “So I decided not to hang around. I'd not got much information from there, and didn't have much to give. I went south for a while, meeting various travellers, trading information, urging people to keep clear of Nevinnomyssk for a while, at least. Some of them were grateful, gave me food or a scarf. One gave me some information. She said to me, 'Head to Cherkessk, and seek Rotislav.', and so I did.” “Rotislav?" Worker looked in thought. “Rotislav. That name rings a bell to me, I can't think where from though. Sorry, Grigori, carry on.” “Once I'd finally reached Cherkessk,” Grigori continued, “I was tired, I just wanted to come back. I found this Rotislav that the girl had mentioned. He controls a lot of what happens around that city. He gave me some food for my journey back, and something else. He said, 'Give this to Worker.'.” Worker's eyebrows went up. He looked very interested now. “What was it?” He said, sitting forward in anticipation. Grigori got up and went to his backpack in the hallway. After a moment, he returned with a small package, neatly wrapped in brown paper. Written on the package was 'To my good friend Worker, from a fellow Comrade!' Grigori handed it to him. The package was no larger than a book, but heavier. He removed the paper wrapping, and unfolded the paper tissue within on his lap. Inside was a picture frame, face down. Worker turned it over and gave a small gasp. It was an old photograph of Lenin. “Oh!” He exclaimed, holding the photo up to the light. “This is a truly wonderful gift! Rotislav! Of course! He was one of the old KGB guard like myself. The old dog, Rotislav! I'll have to send him something back in return. This is..." He trailed off, almost in tears. Grigori never understood how some people still clung so tightly to the notion of Russia as a communist state. It gave them some hope, he had always reasoned with himself. It helped people cope with the desperate situation around them each day. “Come!” Worker said, having proudly placed the picture on the centre of his mantelpiece. “This calls for a celebration! I will have to hear the rest of your story at the Bar Yuri!" Worker was already out in the hallway and putting his coat on before Grigori realised what was going on. They had gone round the corner towards the railway station. To the right of the station was a building which had a crudely painted sign that read 'Bar Yuri' and a depiction of a spaceman's helmet. Inside was a small entrance hall, and a set of double doors that led into a larger room. Along the right was a wooden bar, with a collection of empty bottles on display behind it. The value of alcohol was high, so it was kept in a separate room with an armed guard blocking the way. The left of the room had several alcoves with tables and seats that offered some privacy. There were a few men at the bar, just local people drowning their sorrows, and a younger couple making full use of the private darkness in the far corner. Grigori had guessed that this place used to be a restaurant or hotel before it's current use. They had gone up to the bar, and Worker was desperate to get the attention of the barman, waving a few roubles in the air in his direction. The barman came up to them, a tall, balding man in a vest that showed strong arm muscles. This was not a man to mess with, Grigori thought. “What'll it be, gentlemen?" The barman looked at them both in turn. “Vodka!” cried Worker. “Let's have a bottle!” “Sure, no problem. Which one?" The barman stood off to one side to show the empty bottles. Worker studied them for a moment, and then pointed at one in particular. “That one. There!" Worker pointed repeatedly and excitedly. “Moskovskaya? You know, that's not a cheap vodka.” “I don't care. Here!" Worker fished in the pockets of his trousers and placed a pile of crumpled notes on the counter. The barman looked at it, then back at Worker. “Looks like we have a deal then. I'll get your bottle gentlemen." He took some of the money Worker had placed on the bar. “Why don't you take a seat? I'll bring it over to you." With that, he went to the door, and the guard stepped to one side. Worker and Grigori found a table well enough away from everyone else, but also lit well enough to see their surroundings. Bar Yuri was dingy, but one of the more reputable places. Both Grigori and Worker had been here a few times, and enjoyed drinking and stories until early morning. Worker was looking happy. Grigori was pleased that the gift from Rotislav was a good one. He needed that. Communism had risen after the war, in the sense that the survivors needed to pull together as a whole, for the good of everyone. In time, unfortunately, criminal gangs had taken over, and bribery and corruption became more commonplace. Worker had tried hard to rally people to the communist cause, but recent months had seen a sharp decline in attendance at the rallies. Whilst they waited for the vodka, the made small talk. Just how the weather was getting warmer, price of rat, and other such trivial things were discussed. After a short while, the barman came over with the bottle, and three glasses. “I hope you don't mind.” He said as he placed the bottle and glasses on the table, “Could I join you? It's quiet here at the moment, and...” “Of course!” Worker interrupted. “Grigori and I were just catching up. I'm Worker." He held out his hand. “I'm Iosif." They shook hands. “And you are Grigori?” Grigori held out his hand, and nodded. Iosif opened the bottle, and poured a measure into each glass. They each took a glass and held it aloft. “Budem zdorovy." Iosif said, and took a swig of the vodka. Grigori did the same, taking a good gulp of the drink. It was a strong vodka, with a much more pronounced taste than the usual bathtub vodkas he'd had in the past. It warmed his throat and the feeling continued to his stomach. This was a good vodka, he thought as he let out a satisfied breath. Once they had taken a swig, they placed the glasses back on the table. Iosif was the first to speak. “So, what brings you two to my bar, drinking my expensive vodka?” Worker looked over to him. “Just a celebration. My friend here had been away, and met a former comrade of mine in Cherkessk. They sent me a gift, a precious gift I will treasure for a long time.” “And what was this gift?” “A picture, a rare thing these days. A photograph of Lenin himself. It now sits on my mantelpiece and I am so proud!" Worker took a deep swig of vodka. “And you?” Iosif turned to Grigori. “You delivered this?” “Yes.” Grigori replied. “I travel around a bit, trading information.” “Ah,” Iosif said, “a Wanderer. That makes sense. It's quite some distance to travel, all the way from Cherkessk. You must have been gone some time.” “A few weeks. I travel light and quick. Although..." Grigori was about to tell them of Sunrise, but held off. “Although what?" Worker said. “I met someone. It's all a bit strange. I don't know what to make of it myself." Grigori finished his glass. He reached for the bottle to fill it again. Iosif stopped him, and poured the drink for him instead. “Who? Who did you meet, Grigori?" Worker was looking at Grigori intently, and all joy of his recent acquisition had gone. “A man. I'd camped outside Lermontov. Time had run out for me during the day, I was hungry, tired and didn't have the energy to make it to the city itself. I made camp about two miles out as the darkness approached." Grigori paused to take a sip of vodka. “I was sitting by the fire, the clouds were coming in, and decided to speak some poetry to myself, it helps me to keep myself company. I stopped suddenly at one point, and turned round. There was this man there, a few years older than myself, a bit taller, more weathered and worn than I was. He asked if he could stay by the fire. I said it was okay, we introduced each other.” “What was his name?" Iosif interrupted, now looking as intently at Grigori as Worker was. “He said his name was Anatoliy, and that people also called him Sunrise.” “Sunrise!” Iosif nearly jumped out of his seat. “You are indeed a fortunate man, my friend.” Both Grigori and Worker looked at Iosif. “What do you mean, fortunate?" Grigori said, looking puzzled. “Sunrise... I never thought I'd hear that name after the war." Iosif seemed distant, lost in thought. “Tell us! How do you know this name?” Grigori said. “Well. This could be a long tale. I don't want to interrupt you recalling your tale.” “No, please tell us. If you know anything about this man, I'd like to know. We have the whole bottle here to get through yet, and plenty of time to kill.” “Well then, let's have another drink shall we?" Iosif poured another round of vodkas for them all. He looked around the bar, before turning back to Grigori. “There was, before this cursed war, a legend that went around these parts. A myth, whatever you want to call it. Some people said that they had been on the edge of life and death and had met a man, who always called himself Anatoliy. Of course, the meaning of that name is...” “Sunrise." Grigori said, interrupting. “That's it. Rumour has it, that if this man came to you, it was to prevent something terrible happening to you. Here, I'll tell you how I heard of him. “There was a man I met, a long time ago before the war, we'll call him... Ivan. Ivan was a drunk. He had had a lovely home, wife, kids, everything. He worked for a big computer company, I forget which one, maybe it was IBM. Anyway, this guy, Ivan, had a problem. He loved to drink. Used to come to my bar straight after work, get drunk and go home. It became a nightmare really quickly. Turns out he used to beat his wife because of his problems, and then started to do the same to the kids too. “Some of us here found out, and made a decision to try and help Ivan. We kept him in the bar one night, talking to him, trying to get him to open up, let us help him. But he refused everything, every offer. He kept saying he was going to sort it himself. We eventually had to let him go. “It turns out he never went home. He ended up at the railway tracks. He'd managed to steal a bottle of vodka from the bar, and had drunk it all, he wanted to make himself unconscious and sleep on the tracks!” Iosif looked into thin air for a moment, consumed with the memories of the event, before continuing. “So he stumbles on to the tracks, and collapses. As soon as he hits the ground, he sees a pair of boots, then legs, and he realises that there's this man, standing there next to him. The man says he wants to end it himself too. Eventually they get talking and introduce each other. He calls himself Sunrise. “So, Ivan talks to this guy for hour or so. The more this 'Sunrise' talks, the more Ivan wants to live. Wants to try and sort things out. This is the strange part.” Iosif leant forward, and started talking a little quieter. “Ivan goes to stand up, and as he does, he gets stone cold sober. Clear as day. It's like he never touched a drop at all.” “No. I don't believe it!" Worker slapped the table, shaking his head. “Oh, my friend, it's true. He steps off the tracks, but this Sunrise is still sitting there. Ivan starts trying to get him off the tracks, but Sunrise is ignoring him. He turns and sees a train approaching. He's screaming 'Come on! Get off the tracks!' and other things. Sunrise looks like he's talking to himself. At the last moment, Ivan is screaming at him, Sunrise just turns and smiles. Then disappeared. Vanished.” “That's ridiculous!” Worker was shaking his head in utter disbelief. “That's a myth, urban myth. No way did that happen!” Iosif looked at him calmly. “It did happen. Ivan said he saw the guy vanish just before the train would have hit him. That made him realise how close he was to losing his own life. Now, Ivan was reformed, and went back home, sober. He talked to his wife and kids, stopped beating her, and even after some time, got his job back. Lived quite happily after that. Never touched another drop again." Iosif took a swig from his glass.. “So what's that to do with what happened to me?" Grigori asked, puzzled. “Well, the same name, same mysterious circumstances. I'll bet you didn't see him leave?” “I did, actually." Grigori paused. Actually, he hadn't. It all seemed too strange. “Actually, no. I didn't see him leave, he just disappeared.” “Well, tell us about it then!” Iosif said. “Okay." Grigori took a swig. The vodka had started to help him relax, he felt free enough to talk. “He'd appeared by the camp-fire, as I said. After an introduction, we were talking about poetry, when we heard these howls. Howls coming from a creature like nothing I'd heard before. He said we'd be in for a rough night. We talked more, long into the night. Then these beasts that made that awful howling were on us! We had to shoot them to survive, and we did. After that, we headed here, but at the last minute, Anatoliy decided to head to Inozemtsevo. We went our separate ways, I was still on the road towards Zmeyka, and turned back... and he was gone!” “What do you mean, gone?" Worker asked, lifting his glass to take a drink. “Well, that's it. Like Iosif said, just vanished. There's no way he could have gone all the way to the tree line in the time we'd split. I can only say he really did vanish.” “Tell me,” Iosif said, leaning closer still, “what was the last thing he said to you?” Grigori thought for a moment, trying to recall the details. “He said something like he had to see someone, I would be safe from here on, and that it was good to meet. I don't really recall the specifics of what he said." Grigori rubbed his chin, trying to think. “Oh, and one more thing. He said to find someone, someone call Uchitel. Maybe I'll start looking tomorrow.” “But he said you were safe? That's interesting.” “Why?” Grigori put his empty glass down. “Well. Think about Ivan, he was safe when he left the tracks. His life had been rescued, rescued by this stranger. Like you, you had been rescued, those beasts almost certainly would have overrun you and you would not be sitting here drinking. Think about it." Iosif tipped his head back to finish his drink. “Ahhh. That's good stuff. More?" He looked at Grigori and Worker in turn. They both nodded, and he opened the bottle to pour another round. “One thing I don't get,” Worker said after a short pause, “is what were those things that attacked you. Did you find any the next morning?” “No. That's another odd thing. I didn't realise until we were well on the road from Zheleznovodsk, I never saw any of the bodies. We must have shot about six or seven of them that night. We should have seen at least one.” “I don't think they were ever there." Iosif said, completely matter-of-fact. “Huh?" Grigori nearly dropped his drink at Iosif's statement. “Well. Look at it logically. You're a Wanderer, that much is known. You roam the wild lands looking for people and information, trading it. Before the war, that was dangerous work. Espionage, spying, all those things were ways of gaining information from others. Ran a certain risk of death for some." Iosif put his glass down, and placed both hands firmly on the table. “You've been lucky, Wanderer. You've been lucky no-one's taken a pot-shot at you, that some gang member hasn't mugged you for the meagre contents of your pack. That night was nothing about the Sunrise, it was to help you become what you are.” Grigori was very confused by now. He wasn't sure if it was the alcohol coursing through his blood, or just the absurdity of the situation he was in. “Sunrise was there to rescue you from weakness,” Iosif continued, “to help you become a true Wanderer. Sure, we have the Hunters, and the Farmers, and,” nodding at Worker, “people like dear Worker here, trying to hold society together. Wanderers are rare people. “You had to fight the fears you held inside. You had to use the gun you hated so much, to free yourself from the fear of it. Like Ivan, Sunrise used some supernatural miracle or event to help this happen. For Ivan, he was released from the cured grip of alcohol. His life was given back to him. For you, you were released from a deep fear. Your life is back.” Grigori stared down at his glass. His thoughts raced wildly. What if Iosif was right? Was he destined for some higher purpose that he did not yet fully realise? “Well my friends. It looks like the bottle is nearly empty." Iosif lifted the almost-empty bottle, showing the small amount left. Grigori couldn't believe they had drunk that much already. “I'll be back." Iosif, getting up and returning behind the bar. Grigori leant close to Worker. “What is all this about? It's all too strange for me.” “I really don't know, friend.” Worker replied, glancing back at the bar. “All I know is our friend Iosif here seems to know quite a lot about Sunrise. Maybe what he says is true. Maybe it's the vodka talking." Worker gave a laugh. “Maybe. It seems to make some sense, you know? The way Anato...Sunrise turned up, what happened, how he left.” They waited in silence for Iosif to return. The clank of the door behind the bar indicated he was on his way. “Here we are, gentlemen!” Iosif exclaimed, placing a bottle on the table. Worker turned it to read the label. “Stolichnaya! I cannot afford this!" Worker was nearly out of his seat with shock and surprise. “It's on me. I figured you guys are the real, true people at heart. That's a rare thing these days. Let's have another!" Iosif opened the bottle to pour again. After they had drunk, Iosif looked around before speaking to them again. “You know, there is something else.” Iosif started, pulling his chair in closer. “This Sunrise has been around. I reckon a lot longer than people realise. Here, I'll explain. “Have you ever heard of Ernest Shackleton? A famous explorer, a long time ago. His boat got stuck, and they had to abandon it to walk across many mountains and glaciers to safety. He kept his journal, and in it he wrote something most unusual. He wrote 'I know that during that long and racking march of thirty-six hours over the unnamed mountains and glaciers, it seemed to me often that we were four, not three.' I think he met someone like Sunrise. Someone who helped him through a most terrible time. There are many such encounters throughout history, even dating back to the Bible itself.” “Ha! That book of nonsense!" Worker shook his head. “Now I know you are talking rubbish, Iosif.” “I am not!" Iosif said sharply, giving Worker a hard stare. “I can see you don't believe in that book, but there are many who do, and also many who trust it for it's history. I am a man who believes it, and there is something quite strange in it that relates to the events like what happened to Grigori here. “In the book of Daniel, the story goes that Daniel and two of his friends have refused to obey the king's commands, and must be thrown into the fire. They are thrown in, but the man who throws them in dies in the process. So the story then tells how the king sees Daniel and his friends walking around in the fire! He asks the soldiers, 'Surely it was three men you threw in there?' and they reply that there were three. The king then says, 'so why do I see four men walking around?' “Although many would say that the fourth man was Jesus in a pre-incarnate form, it sets the precedent, my friends. Many people since have said in times of great trouble that someone has helped them, or rescued them or done something to save them from something terrible. You,” Iosif pointed at Grigori, “are one such person. You have been saved from something terrible that night.” Iosif stopped. His hand slowly dropped until it came to rest on the table. For some time, none of them spoke. Finally, Grigori broke the silence. “So, what do I do now? If I accept this explanation, where do I go from here?" He looked to Iosif, hoping that a clear answer would come. “Hmm." Iosif stared at his glass for a moment. “I'm sure you're motives are pure, otherwise I think Sunrise may not have been there for you. Seek this 'Uchitel' that he said, listen to him. If he says you are a Wanderer, a trader of information, then that is what you truly are.” “Hmm. Maybe you're right." “You ever hear of Stalker?” “Stalker? No, who is he?” Iosif laughed. “Ha! No, it was an old Russian film, made by Tarkovsky. This man, he was a Stalker, a guide for others to wander in this Zone round an alien landing. He was a lot like you, unsure of who and what he really was. You understand?” “Yes, I think so. So far." Grigori answered, curious where this was going. “What is a Wanderer? Do you ever wonder why people call you that?” “I always thought they were just people who wandered around, just trying to get by.” “Yes, that is true to some degree. But they are special people, gifted in being able to draw information from anywhere, and anything. Even a leaf on the ground can impart a lot of information to a Wanderer. “You, my friend, are a true Wanderer. You have a gift, you just can't see it yet. Maybe you will, soon. Maybe you may never realise your true potential. If you believe me or not, it doesn't matter. It's entirely up to you to follow a gifting or not. You may end up living a life of regret, like Ivan had until he met Sunrise. Did you know that? The reason he used to drink was because he thought he was a failure. He had a successful job, lovely wife, and more besides. He listened to that voice inside that corrupted him and tore him down to the point of ending his life." Iosif took a breath, and looked at Grigori. “You have a choice. Maybe you need to go now, and think it over. If you decide, maybe we'll talk more about this tomorrow." Iosif lifted his glass, then finished it in one gulp. Grigori finished his drink. He'd had enough vodka, the room was almost starting to spin. “Maybe we'll continue this tomorrow, Iosif, like you say. Or," Grigori stood, a little unsteady, “maybe not. I have some thinking to do. Goodbye, Iosif." Worker and Iosif got up too, and they all shook hands. Grigori and Worker turned and headed for the door. Worker went out, but Grigori stopped just before the door, and turned back to Iosif, who was now wiping the table they had just been sat around. “Hey, Iosif!" He called out. “Tell me, what is your other name?” Iosif stopped wiping, turned to look at Grigori and smiled. “I thought you'd never ask me, Wanderer." Iosif gave a slight chuckle. “My other name is Uchitel.” Grigori smiled. It all made sense to him now. “Thank you, Teacher. I'll see you tomorrow." Grigori opened the door and left the bar. Outside, it had started to darken, not that it bothered Grigori now. Worker had already lit a cigarette, and was waiting for him in. Maybe it was still the vodka, maybe it was the realisation that he did have a gift, a knack for getting information to and from people, but he knew it with more certainty than ever before. I am a Wanderer, he thought, a trader of information for the good of everyone. I know who I am now. I am alive again. About the Author: Richard is male, mid-thirties and happily married and owns a lovely pet collie. He enjoys spending time writing, reading and eating home-cooked food. He's rather good at that too. Look out for more short stories coming to Smashwords soon. Alternatively, you can follow him on twitter: http://www.twitter.com/rich_cheese to hear any announcements about new works.