Lara's Gift (12 page)

“Let me,” I offered, taking the broken lead from his clumsy hands. I rewove the three strands of leather as tightly as I could to create one strong, single lead. Then I bound the strands together with six silver clips that Papa positioned along the lead in equal intervals. I shined the silver with the cuff of my shirt, admiring the decorative clip stamped with the Vorontsov coat of arms: a double-headed Tsarist eagle perched above two gray-white Orlov Trotters. The inscribed motto,
Semper Immota Fides
, captured the Vorontsov family value of steadfast loyalty.

“Easy now,” Papa said.

I lifted the hammer above one of the clips. Ever so gently, I tapped down on each of them with the head of the hammer to lock the braid in place.

When I finished, I handed the lead back to Papa, who inspected it from top to bottom with a careful eye. “It’s impeccable,” he said with more than a hint of pride in his voice.

Papa gestured in a way that reminded me of the old Papa—the one who let me shadow him around the kennel. “I know how much you love the dogs.” For a brief second he paused, as if he reconsidered his thoughts. But the new Papa—the one with a son—spoke instead. “But you’ll be better off with a husband. The midwife tells me she has a nephew.”

Before I could say a word, Papa’s eyes narrowed on
Alexander approaching us from the stalls. Prancing alongside him were Borei, Bistri, Sila, and Zar.

When Zar saw me, he bounded straight ahead of the others. He nudged my hand and licked it. I stroked his silky coat of white fur and scratched behind his tiny, tucked-back ears. The others joined him and wiggled their way next to me, goosing me with their long noses for my attention.

Alexander popped into the tack room. “I need a longer lead.” He searched the walls for one among those hanging. He chose the white one I had just mended to match his long white gloves and the coats of the dogs, as was custom.

Although I tried to hide it, I grinned from ear to ear.

“What’s
he
doing here?” Papa grunted, pointing at Zar.

“I’d like to try something new,” Alexander said.

“Three’s the lucky number,” Papa reminded him.

“How will Zar ever learn to properly kill a wolf, if he never trains with a team?” Alexander asked.

“An inexperienced borzoi is a dead one,” Papa said. “Golden Rule Number Seven.” He crossed his arms and stood rooted to the ground.

“He has experience with the Red Thief,” Alexander shot back.

“And nearly got himself killed,” Papa said.

“Zar held his own, despite no proper training. He’s got a keen instinct I’ve never seen in a borzoi.”

“It’s not the way we do things.” Papa expected everyone to follow the Golden Rules like a row of ducklings tottering faithfully behind their mother.

“I respect your Rules. Still, we need to strive to improve our hunting methods, even if it means breaking the Rules,” Alexander said. “Of course, my father could settle this when he gets here. But it’s your cooperation I’d like to gain.”

Papa threw up his hands, shaking his head. He bent down and stroked Borei. “If anyone outsmarts the Red Thief, it’ll be Borei. If you insist on bringing Zar, so be it, but he stays on the sledge. I don’t want him getting in the way of the hunt.”

Alexander extended his hand to Papa. “That’s a fair compromise,” he said, and before he hurried off with all four dogs tethered to the lead I had just mended, he gave me a warm wink.

Once Alexander was out of earshot, words of warning lined up on my tongue and took aim. But they got lodged in my throat.

You can do it
, I told myself.

Mama’s voice stepped in, too.
Trust, Lara, trust
.

As did Ruslan’s.
Don’t fight it
.

Just as I rallied enough courage to speak up, Count Vorontsov entered the stable in heavy furs that draped to the floor.

“We must hurry and finish preparing for the hunt,” Papa snarled. “Load the sledge.”

“I need to talk to you,” I said to Papa. “It’s important.”

He did an about-face and walked off to greet the Count.

In the manner fitting a good soldier, and against my judgment, and like I’ve done before every hunt since I could remember, I found the medicine box, checked the contents, added more towels, and loaded it on the long, open sledge. In the storage closet I rifled through the blankets and tossed some into the back section of the sledge. Although I rarely packed guns, I did so this time just in case. I feared they would need them.

As Papa lined up glasses of vodka for himself, the Count, and Alexander, I crept to an open corner of the sledge where the hunters stacked the dead wolves to carry back upon their return. I had never defied Papa before, but he left me no choice.

I had to go on the hunt.

To stop whatever bad was coming.

“To Borei’s success,” Papa said with a raised glass.

They clinked glasses, downed the vodka in one gulp, and picked up another glass.

“To the health of the dogs,” Alexander toasted. Again they clinked glasses and downed the vodka like water.

They picked up their last glass of vodka.

“To catching the Red Thief,” the Count toasted.

Just as Papa threw his head back to down the vodka, I tucked myself into a tiny ball in the corner of the sledge and ducked underneath a couple of blankets. I didn’t dare move and prayed Papa wouldn’t find me.

“Where’s Lara? She was supposed to load the sledge,” Papa said. From the jingle of his keys, I could hear him come toward the sledge, and then the medicine box hinge creaked open.

“What’s this?” Anger coursed through Papa’s voice.

My heart hammered. I was certain he would grab me by the cuff of my coat and haul me off the sledge.

“We don’t need so many towels,” Papa grumbled.

I opened my eyes and exhaled.

The
clip-clop
of hooves came closer. “Steady, now,” Boris said to the horses. With the forward and backward lurching of the sledge, the horses snorted, until they finally settled into the leather tackle that crisscrossed their bodies.

Alexander then whistled three quick notes and one by one I felt the team of borzoi spring up onto the back of the sledge. I imagined them leaping as ballerinas do and wondered how a breed of such nobility and elegance ever managed to hunt wolves. Their lean, willowy bodies seemed more suited for the ballroom than in a snowy field chasing wolves.

“Lie down,” Alexander directed the dogs.

The back of the sledge wasn’t spacious. So I felt a few of them circle around, before curling into a comfortable position. It would only be a matter of time before they would sense my presence.

Alexander covered the dogs and the heaviness of the hide’s fringe fell around me, building a wall, like a cozy nest. “We’re ready,” he called up to Papa.

“As am I,” said the Count from his horse, who was chafing at the bit.

Then came the long blow of Papa’s horn—a sound I longed to make—followed by the
zvon
of stable bells to send us off with luck. The horn and bells set off a chorus of dogs—barking and yelping and howling—eager to join us. For they knew where we were headed and that they were being left behind.

“Onward!” Papa shouted.

He cracked his knout and the sledge moved forward through the crunch of packed snow and ice. The cold air cut through the blankets and hides and chilled my bones. As much as I wanted to curl up with the borzoi for extra warmth, I stayed put in my own nest of blankets.

Alexander recited legends of past hunts in a way I imagined he’d share fairy tales with his children at bedtime. His stories about the first borzoi on the estate and the clever tactics they used when hunting wolves kept the dogs quiet, while Papa steered the sledge behind the Count on horseback in pursuit of the wolves.

In the distance, I could hear a chorus of wolves howling, warning each other almost, as if they knew we were coming and why. Pushkin’s poem about a winter journey came to mind.

The next words came to me differently from what I had learned, and they were laced with dread.

We would chase the howls and follow the pack for as long as it took until we were close enough to the wolves. Only then would the command be given to release the team of borzoi.

One of the dogs started to fidget, and then I heard Zar’s playful whimper, his paws digging at my blanket. I fought to keep hold of the blanket that covered me.

“Settle down,” Alexander demanded.

“Is everything all right?” Papa called from up front.

“Something’s gotten into Zar,” Alexander answered.

“We never should have brought him,” Papa shouted. “He’s already a nuisance.”

“It’s too late to change our minds now,” the Count said.

Afraid Alexander might reach and grab for the hides that must have fallen off of Zar, I turtled my knees even tighter into my chest until they jabbed against my chin. Still, the sledge offered only so much room and in Alexander’s effort to cover Zar he tripped over my foot and landed on top of me.

“Oi,”
I whimpered.

When he pulled the hide off of me, I could see the surprised look on his face, and quickly brought my finger up to my lips. “Shhh.”

“Larochka!” The look on Alexander’s face told me not to worry.

“You won’t tell, Sasha?” I whispered.

Alexander shook his head. “Did you bring your hunting knife?”

I nodded and pointed to my pocket.

He leaned in and whispered into my ear, “Good, you might need it.”

I didn’t feel good about what was coming.

I was drowning in worry.

CHAPTER TWELVE
 

The Hunt

Eventually the sledge came to a stop. “Wolves, up ahead, two of them,” the Count called from his horse. “Get the dogs into position.”

“One of them looks like the Red Thief,” Papa added. And then came the blast of the horn to signal to the dogs that wolves had been sighted.

Alexander pantomimed for me to stay down and covered my head with a blanket. I hardly risked Papa’s wrath to stay completely hidden. I poked my head back out from underneath the blanket and prayed Papa would one day forgive me for disobeying.

Lined up at the edge of the sledge stood Bistri, followed by Sila, and then Borei. How I wished it were me holding their lead. Sila was first to see the wolves in the
distance and gave a little yelp. Her feet danced with such excitement, the others danced, too.

“Ou-la-lou! Ta-ra! Ta-ra!”
With those words Alexander slipped the lead and one by one, the dogs plunged into the untouched, powdery snow from the sledge. As they coursed and cut through the snow, with Borei in the lead—running as fast as the north wind—bits of snow sprayed from underneath their feet into the air. If it weren’t for their black noses and the champagne-colored patches along their rumps and backs, I would have lost them from sight against the snow.

Papa clucked his tongue to get the horses moving again to follow the dogs.

Poor Zar. How he cried to be part of the team!

It was how I felt, too, watching him struggle to free himself to join his littermates. Alexander brought him up to the front of the sledge and tied Zar’s lead to a hook in a triple sailor knot. It took all of Alexander’s strength to restrain Zar, he pulled so hard.

Within seconds, the dogs thrust themselves in the midst of the two wolves, trying to separate the Red Thief from its new mate.

Now there were four wolves!

And the pack seemed to be growing—trickling out from the woods with bristled manes, growling, and baring fangs.

Was this normal? I wanted to ask Alexander, for something felt very wrong.

Papa whipped the horses and they picked up speed.

“The dogs need Zar,” Alexander called out.

“Zar will only get in the way,” Papa answered.

“Father, our team is outnumbered,” Alexander persisted.

“Borei can handle it, son,” the Count said.

Papa pulled the horses to a halt. They bucked and reared and neighed in fright, but Papa regained control with a jerk of the reins.

The wolves circled the borzoi. From opposite ends the wolves took turns lunging at them. Waves of snow flew into the air as the borzoi leaped and squirmed to avoid the attacks.

Borei tried to lead a way out for Sila and Bistri. Every time he found an opening, the gap closed.

There was nowhere to turn. The circle had tightened and closed in on them.

Suddenly the Red Thief charged the dogs, followed by a mass of wolfy gray and silver from all angles. Two of the borzoi emerged from the attack, hurdling over the tangle of wolves, as if they had wings that carried them.

The third borzoi lay in the snow. I recognized his piercing cry—
nyet!

Not Borei—not Papa’s favorite dog!

The Red Thief had Borei by the throat, while the other wolves gnawed and attacked at his legs.

Sila and Bistri tried to help Borei. Each time they made an advance to rescue him, they were received with curled lips, snapped at, and pushed back.