The Folveshch

2. The Folveshch

The spring of 1923 soon graced us with its warmer weather, and the snowy grip on the vast woodland between Renkassk and Darakyev began to lessen. It also meant the school term began for Aleksy Malenhov, no matter how much he cried in objection to leaving his papa unattended. I understood why it upset him so, as Renkassk had no schoolhouse to call its own and the nearest was eight kilometres away.

The neighbouring town of Darakyev educated boys between the ages of five and fourteen, six days a week, twenty-four weeks of the year. Until last summer I had crossed the hills with my peers, braved the woodland and attended the school there, but my time in education ended the winter of my fifteenth year. It wouldn't be until years later that I'd cherish the days I used to laugh more easily, and the biggest of my worries would only ever amount to if Ivan Zhilov found out I'd kissed his girlfriend, Marina, but that's another tale. Still, I escorted Aleksy half way to Darakyev every morning at sunrise, since the other boys his age hadn't yet offered him the kindness.

Like any other day, I perched him on my bicycle seat before taking to the pedals. It was an old yellow bike with skinny wheels and rust settling into the frame, but it served its purpose well enough. Aleksy held on to me around the middle and I laboured to the top of Slava's Hill so that the rest of his journey was an easy few kilometres decline.

At the summit I hopped off the bike and kicked down the stand. "You know where you're going?" I asked as I helped him down from the seat. I prayed he didn't notice the strain in my voice. "Here, take your satchel. Do you know where you are?"

"Nyet."

Same answer every morning. I pointed beyond the woodlands to the buildings far in the distance. "Down there and through the trees is Darakyev, where the schoolhouse is, remember?"

He withdrew his hands into his coat sleeves and shook his head. His dirty mop of mousy hair peeped from beneath his cap, swaying in the icy breeze that skitted across the hilltops.

I knelt to his eye-level. "Fine, listen closely to me, Aleksy, because I'm not hanging around up here. Follow the trail down to the trees and you'll find Strangers' Pass. It's a woodland road with a fingerpost, where your papa would take you to help gather firewood before he got ill." Recognition flickered in his bright blue eyes. "Follow it, stay on it, until you reach the brook. The schoolhouse is just beyond the bridge – you can't miss it. Got that?"

"Strangers' Pass," he repeated.

I smiled at him; my mother said that was my charm. "Da. See you later."

"Why's it called Strangers' Pass?"

"Hm. I don't know. Maybe the people in Darakyev named it that."

"Well, I don't want to go down there," he mumbled. "That's where we saw the Folveshch."

I straightened up again and sighed. He told me the same thing every morning. "No you didn't, malysh. Nobody's seen any Folveshch. It's some stupid folk tale somebody told you when you were little, like my grandpapa told me to keep me from running off alone. I thought you were old enough to have worked out it was never real."

"It is real. Papa and I saw it. It was –"

"Stop it."

"It was right down there, Stefan. In Strangers' Pass, and then it followed us up the hill. What if I see it again? What if it talks to me?"

"I said stop it."

"But I'm telling you the truth! It happened, I swear. We were in the woods and I got lost, and –"

"Stop talking about it!" I snapped, grabbing my bike handles. My chest grew tight. "Not even Pyotr knows what happened to your father. You can't keep blaming it on this imaginary Folveshch when we all know it was God's will. How many times do I have to tell you? Stop believing in stories!"

His lack of response was satisfying. At the time this was a small triumph for me, but now I realise he fell silent at this point because he knew better than to waste any more energy trying to convince me of the same thing every day.

Instead, he lifted the leather strap of his satchel over his head and snapped it across his chest, all the while glaring at me with ice in his eyes. He looked so much smaller in his long coat and too-big boots. Even his cap was oversized and it sat lopsided on his head. I nodded towards the town again and said, "Go on, get a move on, or you'll be late for school."

He tied his scarf around his mouth and ears, and grudgingly wished me farewell. Out of sight, I shook my head at him. I'd prayed every morning for Viktor and Aleksy's recovery, but so far my effort seemed in vain. Things wouldn't get any easier for him if he kept reliving that day.

It was the same routine, same instruction, same conversation on loop morning after morning ... after morning. But as my papa said, one day we'd be the men of the community, and nobody, not even the weakest of us, should be left in need.

Including me.

Alone, I let loose the asthmatic cough I'd kept locked up all the way here. I hacked and wheezed into my handkerchief until my face flushed red and my throat burned. The veins in my temples throbbed by the time I had my breathing forced under control again. Back when I was a child, Pyotr had promised I'd grow out of having asthma, but he'd been mistaken – the rattle in my chest had never ceased. I shoved my handkerchief inside my sleeve and took to the pedals again, freewheeling the whole way back to Renkassk.

After seeing Aleksy off, my next stop was his home. Viktor Malenhov had once been the village carpenter – and a talented artisan at that – and never short of work or community spirit. His home was not shabby in the way one would envision neglect, but a working-man's home would always be the last of his projects and Viktor was not the exception. He'd been a quiet man with palms so hard he never noticed the splinters. His sleeves would be rolled up past his elbows even in the winter, and nobody alive had seen him without his blonde beard. He'd had two wives, Rozalina and Faina, but I wasn't sure which, if either, was Aleksy's mother.

The warmer months exposed the jagged path up to the Malenhovs', but still the degree of incline made it a difficult trip on two wheels, and I paused often to catch my breath. A long time ago I would look forward to visiting Viktor's home with Papa and my little brother, Ruslan, but the sight of the cottage nowadays made my blood run cold with dread, knowing what lay in wait for me inside it.

I hopped off my bike and leant it against the log pile beside the porch. Without knowing what I was looking for exactly, I scanned the area before taking another step towards the house. I wasn't frightened – or so I told myself – only hesitant to enter. Aleksy's bootprints caught my attention; he'd circled the house so frequently there was now a permanent trench in the snow. I'd never seen him do it, but this behaviour had become normal for him. I supposed even lonely little boys like Aleksy needed to spend time in the fresh, forest air once in a while, and yet without straying too far from his father. What baffled me most, though, was why he would always deny doing it.

I approached the house and pushed aside the door with the diamond window in. It creaked on its hinges and I took a tentative step over the threshold.

A cold touch slithered down my spine.