A Negotiable Instrument

Chapter Twelve - Wednesday

The wind whipped at his face and the cold clawed at his skin, tearing through to his vital organs in a frenzy of torment. He drove on in blind panic. He didn't know what was hunting him. He didn't know where he was fleeing. But he knew that he couldn't look back. To one side, on a precipitous outcrop of jagged rock that pierced the icy flanks of the mountain that loomed over him, he could see a small group of women, each clad in a long flowing white robe. The women sang as they circled in a rhythmic gyration around a huddled, strangely translucent figure. She was barely twenty, not beautiful, yet he couldn't take his eyes from her. He knew her, but had yet to meet her. He knew she would be his salvation. He could hear the song the women sang, the words torn from the depths of his unconscious mind.

There was no beginning,

And there will be no end,

There is neither time to be counted,

Nor alteration of day and night.

The women sang faster, the words interrupted by ecstatic shouts of joy and exuberant, careless leaps.

Oh, then the ship passes on,

Rows straight towards home,

The white flag is fluttering,

It has many colours.

As he drew nearer he saw the women were all one, and Helmi was their template. He tried to call to her, but fear had taken his voice. He fought with every fibre of his being to arrest his flight, but the dogs were in full cry. They howled in frantic exaltation at the wolf's sunshine, their distorted shadows flung against the rock face. As the women sang he was carried on towards his unspoken fate, an impotent witness.

Feverish and red,

Twinkling like a golden star,

Shining on the warship,

It is seen over the lands.

Still his sled careered on, rocked by the sastrugi, snow veiling his destiny. There was nowhere to hide, nobody to help, just the vast uncharted expanse of a frozen continent, nature intimidating in its sheer scale, terra incognita. His mind began to slip away.

Gently, Helmi eased the traces from his rigid fingers, and the sled began to slow. He felt her warmth begin to suffuse his body, prising loose the icy grip of his panic. He wept with gratitude as Helmi cradled him in her arms, rocking him like a baby while he gazed up into her loving eyes.

'Why are you here, Helmi?'

'It is time for you to choose, Vasya.'

'What must I choose?'

'You must choose to be with them, or you must choose to be against them. There is no other way.'

'How will I choose?'

'You must look into your soul, Vasya. Only then can you choose.'

'Must I?'

'Yes, my little one. You know that you must. They will not wait.'

It was no longer Helmi who held him to her breast, but the young woman who had been at the centre of the dance. She smiled down at him and her smile gave him the strength he needed. He looked inwards to the core of his self and his mind was devoured by terror.

Tursunov was wrenched awake. He was shivering and damp, bathed in cold sweat. He pulled the clammy blanket away from his face and stared up at the ceiling, waiting for his pounding heart to slow. He couldn't remember when, he was no longer sure it had ever been otherwise, but at some point sleep had become an intensely lonely experience.