Authors: Kenneth Cran
Smoothing his whispy, white hair with the palm of his hand, he took the deepest breath of his life and began hiking down the hill. The forest surrounding the valley was dense, more so than Nick remembered. He reckoned it was the fact that the birch trees actually had leaves this time, unlike the last time he saw them, which was during the early stages of winter. As he reached the valley floor, his eyes stayed transfixed on the cluster of pine trees grouped in an area where no other trees stood. Backpacking through Siberia these past weeks may have produced sore muscles and joints, but if there was one thing that age had not yet taken from him, it was his ability to paint vivid pictures from his long-term memory. He recalled that 44 years ago, Talia had planted pine sapplings all around her cabin. Now, they were 100 feet tall, creating what looked like an impenetrable, circular wall. Somewhere within was a place that Nick thought he would never get to revisit.
The 44 years suddenly became a blur, like scenery on a highway. Nick felt 25 again. Gone were the memories of his late wife Doris, their son Nicholas Jr., his grandaughters Emmie and Katie. Gone were the 35 years he spent with the National Park Service. Gone were the events of the cold war: the Korean War, the Cuban Missile Crisis, Vietanam, and the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. The only thing that remained were the images of a woman whose face he refused to forget.
Circumnavigating the wall of conifers, he reached what he remembered to be the front of the cabin and found a gap between the trees. Within the gap were the hints of log walls and a door. As Nick peered through, he inhaled involuntarily, for he had forgotten to breath. His last memory of this place was that of crooked walls on the verge of collapse. It was now clear that those walls had been repaired. His instincts had served him well, for he knew that if Talia had survived, she would have returned to the one place she called home: her cabin. And it was Nick’s assumption that she would have thought it would be the one place he could find her again, even if it was 44 years later.
Treading up to the door, he raised a hand to knock, but stopped. A sudden fear washed over him. The whole thing was unreal, and he had to step back. What were his expectations? Did he even have any, or was he still living in the past? His memory of that one month in the winter of 1948 was as vivid as ever, but was that enough? The whole thing had been elevated into the realm of a fantasy. It ceased to exist in its own right, becoming instead the dream of a man who was in the twilight of his life. Was he trying to relive the past, or was this an unfinished chapter that needed writing? Was he prepared for what lay beyond this door?
What it came down to was commitment. Forty-four years ago, he had told Talia that he loved her and that he never wanted to be without her. His destiny changed, though, the minute he had hopped the train to escape an animal he could no longer comprehend. Walking across the border that night in exchange for three Soviet agents sealed his fate. Although he tried to get back into the Soviet Union, he was unsuccessful, for he was identified as a known spy. Then, Washington reorganized the Office of Special Services into the CIA, just as the Soviets had created the KGB from the old MGB. Nick Somerset was dismissed from the newly formed CIA with a pension and ordered under threat of imprisonment not to attempt to enter the U.S.S.R. again. Reluctantly, he complied, but Nick never allowed himself to think that the story was over.
Now it
was
over, for he stood before a cabin that harbored the object of ancient dreams. Raising his hand again, he took a long breath and rapped on the door with 69 year-old knuckles.
It was already ajar.
Cautious, he pressed his hand against it and pushed it open.
Peering in, Nick was struck by how bright it was. But then he saw the holes in the crumbling roof and knew that his long trip had been for naught. A few ravens took flight and escaped into the streaming daylight, cawing and stirring up a carpet of pine needles with their beating wings.
Nick was reluctant to enter. It was obvious that the cabin was in a state of decay, and that no one had lived there for some time. The floor was thick with pine needles and wood detritus, the walls and corners heavy with cobwebs, wasp nests and mold.
As if entering a holy shrine, Nick went inside and was struck by how much he had remembered. More, he was startled by how different everything was. The shelves were still there, but there were now more of them and piled high with books. The carpet of blankets was still there, too, obscured by pine needles and debris. Nevertheless, they were different than he remembered them. Different colors. Different patterns. It was the same with the wall and ceiling blankets. They looked different as well, and upon further inspection, Nick saw blankets that couldn’t have been there in 1948. A flag with a yellow smiley face. A quilt made from day-glow scraps of fabric. There was even a silk-screened blanket that said “The Beatles,” tattered and black with mold.
Someone had lived there beyond the time he knew, for repairs had been made, blankets replaced and new shelves installed. As he studied the inside further, he noticed for the first time that the bed was made.
He also saw that someone was still in it.
Melancholy overcame him as Nick made his way across the soft blanket floor to the side of the bed. He had led a good life, and his very existence mattered to those who knew him. Had he died on the train or at any time during his race across Siberia all those years ago, many people’s lives would be different. Whether it stemmed from his experiences fighting in the Second World War, spying for the OSS, or running from siberius, Nick Somerset’s philosophy was to make his life matter in a positive way. No, he had no reason to feel guilty over the outcome of events in 1948.
As he stared down at the covers, his heart eased its beat to a more regular rate. Someone
was
in the bed, and it looked as if the person had been dead for many years. A long shock of gray hair flowed across the pillow, and although the head was turned toward the wall, Nick could tell it was a woman. The outline of her skull was visible through her hair, and the bedspread concealed the rest of her body.
“
Hello Talia,” Nick said. A tear slid down his 69 year old cheek and he sniffled and wiped his eyes. In an instant, 44 years caught up with him, and he broke down. Falling to his knees, Nick Somerset cried as ghosts from the past unleashed their final, haunting assault on him.
48
By late afternoon, the summer sun still hung high over the horizon. The breeze had died down and the smell of pine and buttercups sweetened the air. Nick exited the cabin and, glancing one last time at the bed and its occupant, shut the door.
Gazing out over the valley, he noticed two objects jutting up from the tall grass a few yards away. As he approached them, he was soon able to make out what they were.
Headstones.
Nick stood before both of them, staring in stunned surprise at their implication. They were roughly-hewn from limestone and engraved with information that told Nick a story he had never before imagined:
Vladamir Golgof
Born 1920
Died 1984
And then, the most surprising bit of information on the headstone:
Beloved Husband and Father.
Nick stood in front of the second headstone and read:
Nadia Markovich-Golgof
Born 1952
Died 1961
Pneumonia
In the 44 years that had passed since Nick had last seen her, he had never imagined Talia with anyone else. Certainly, he never imagined her marrying or having a child. But before him was the proof that she had done just that. She had escaped from the tree all those years ago, returned to her cabin and rebuilt it. Somewhere along the line she had met a man, perhaps a railroad worker or even another scientist, married him and bore him a daughter. A daughter who died far too young. Talia herself must have lived to be at least 66, Nick thought, for she was likely the person who had buried the man he was assuming was her husband. According to his headstone, Pieter Golgof had passed away in 1984, which was 36 years from the time Nick last saw her. Judging from the condition of the cabin, Talia must have died soon afterward, for it would have taken eight years of neglect for the roof to collapse. And Nick believed that it was neglect, and nothing more.
Regardless, Talia had indeed had a family of her own. And, it seemed, she kept up with her studies and observations of siberius. Why else would she have stayed in Siberia?
Eight years ago,
thought Nick.
Eight years ago, I could have seen you again. I could have met your husband. I could have hugged you and told you how happy I was that you had survived. And I could have told you how I never forgot you.
. He wished that Mikhail Gorbachev had come into power sooner. That way, the Soviet Union would have collapsed sooner, which meant that he would have been able to see Talia Markovich alive again.
Nick’s journey had answered one question, but he had others. The most important one being, what happened to Smilodon siberius? Nick gazed north. Somewhere above the Arctic Circle were thousands of miles of unexplored territory. The best protection for any animal species is isolation from human interference, Nick believed. And in this part of the world, there was absolutely nothing for humans to exploit. Siberius was safe, thought Nick. Man, in turn, was also safe. Nick kept his promise. He told no one of Talia’s secret.
A sudden wave of uphoria overcame him, and he smiled. Talia had lived a normal life. At least, as normal a life as a person could live while studying prehistoric cats in the taiga. He hadn’t realized how much guilt he had carried on his shoulders all these years. Talia had lived. Talia had a family. She hadn’t quit.
He looked back at the ruin of the cabin. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he whispered.
Nick Somerset began the long hike back to civilization.
EPILOGUE
CENTRAL SIBERIAN PLATEAU, THE PRESENT
Windshield wipers pushed against the pounding sleet and ice as 43-year old Alex Bannister drove the Snowcat A-20 across the rolling terrain. Reindeer moss and mud shot up from the spinning treads, their knobby steel plates digging into slushy muck created by the worst summer storm in Siberia’s recorded history. Though the cab was heated, Bannister nevertheless wore his Arctic parka, wool cap and mittens. Outside, it was 25 degrees. Bannister was told when he had accepted the surveying job with United Petroleum and Ostrova Oil that July temperatures would hover around 50 degrees.
Lying bastards
, he thought. It didn’t matter that he stood to make $15,000 for only two months surveying work. He had held out for the job in the Gulf of Mexico for months, but it had been postponed because of lawsuits brought on by various environmental organizations. They as well as an increasingly vocal American population were against any further oil and natural gas exploration in the Gulf. Global warming needed to be addressed, or so the environmental movement was saying. Greenhouse gasses from burning fossil fuels, the kinds of fuels Alex Bannister made his living trying to find, were heating things up on planet Earth.
He wished a few of them could sample the “warming up” of the Siberian Arctic. It was only half as warm as it was supposed to be.
“
Global warming my ass.”
Bannister was unusual in his philosophy about global warming. He had no doubt that it was real. He also didn’t understand what the big deal was. As far as he was concerned, the more the ice melted, the better off everyone would be. The dinosaurs didn’t have to deal with much polar ice in there time. There was no Arctic ice 65 million years ago. And back then, Antarctica froze only during the winter. Otherwise, it was lush and green, with towering trees and ferns. The less ice, Bannister believe, the better. Sure, if the planet continued to warm up, some areas would be flooded, but the loss of land would be offset by the newly de-iced regions of Siberia, northern Europe and Canada, say nothing of the thousands of square miles of land beneath the Antarctica ice.