"Snowed in"~ for the LIFECYCLE challenge

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Challenge: LIFECYCLE

Prompt: knowledge

Author: mrua7

Title: Snowed in

Word count: approx. 1100

It was bone-chillingly cold even for the Russian, Illya Kuryakin, who waited for his extraction. His mission had been a success, but his return was now hindered by a sudden snowstorm that now took on blizzard proportions; trapping him in an old hunting cabin in the remote northwest United States.

He had a fireplace and firewood that helped to ward off the cold as the winds blew through every crack and crevice of the cabin. It was sturdily built and had no doubt seen better days; at least the roof was in excellent condition to withstand the weight of the snow.

Most likely used by hunters in the warmer months, its upkeep was minimal. The floor was covered with dirt and dried leaves, cobwebs clung to the rafters. Still it was dry, and more than enough protection from the raging storm.

He’d found a moth-eaten woolen blanket and there were some stores of canned goods, mostly baked beans.

Opening them with his large hunting knife was easy enough, and warming them, still in the can over the fire worked well. There were no utensils so the blade of his knife served to scoop out the beans for him to eat.  He had his canteen, but once that water ran out, he’d have to melt some snow.

All in all he’d been in worse places and in worse conditions.

Finally bored; Illya was tired of looking out the window, watching the snowfall. He wasn’t in the mood to sleep and started to daydream, thinking about when he was a child, trapped in a snowstorm such as this.

During the war, he hid in his secret place, a room in an damaged warehouse, not visible to anyone. He’d covered the entrance to look like it had been bombed out, and hanging heavy drapes across it, inside to protect himself from the cold of the brutal Soviet winter, and there he remained alone.

Though he was only eight years old, he’d been taught how to survive by his father, and that knowledge served him well. He’d scavenged potatoes, turnips. stale breads and flour from abandoned larders; vodka was easy to find if you knew where to look.

As the winter raged, he learned to catch rats, making a stew of sorts with the vegetables, dumplings from the flour, and adding vodka for some zest.  When the rats were gone, the wild dogs that hunted him finally became his prey, and their meat kept him alive.

He’d filled up his hiding place with blankets, bedding, food, sundries and books he’d looted throughout his forays amongst the ruins of Kyiv, all while avoiding the occupying Nazis.

There he spent hour after with his books, teaching himself, retaining nearly everything he read and practicing his mathematics.

Much what he learned from them had helped him throughout his life.*

Kuryakin got up from the floor of the hunting cabin, throwing another log on the fire. What he wouldn’t give for a book to read right now?

He wandered over to one corner where a pile of newspapers lay to use for kindling, thinking he could read some of them and though outdated, they were better than nothing. He lifted a small stack of them.

To his surprise beneath lay several books. One, a hardcover entitled ‘Dawn’ by a man named Wiesel. He recognized the author’s name as one who crusaded for the victims of the Nazi genocide.
The other, an equally strange juxtaposition, was a colorfully illustrated children’s book.

He looked at the back of the hardcover sleeve where it described the story by Wiesel.

“Elisha is a young Jewish man, a Holocaust survivor, and an Israeli freedom fighter in British-controlled Palestine; John Dawson is the captured English officer he will murder at dawn in retribution for the British execution of a fellow freedom fighter. The night-long wait for morning and death provides Dawn; caught between the manifold horrors of the past and the troubling dilemmas of the present, Elisha wrestles with guilt, ghosts, and ultimately God as he waits for the appointed hour and his act of assassination. Dawn is an eloquent meditation on the compromises, justifications, and sacrifices that human beings make when they murder other human beings.”

How such a book came to be in this cabin was beyond him, as it hardly seemed the reading material of a local hunter. It was perhaps too close to his memories of the war years, as he too had survived the dangers of a concentration camp, and he had been indoctrinated like Elisha, but into the world of espionage. The Russian was in the business of death, though for a good cause.

Illya knew he wrestled with his own demons, his guilt and ghosts as well as the character Elisha, whose name was a variant of Elijah. His own name Illya was the Russian form of Elijah, and he'd been named for a family friend who once saved his father Nicholaí's life. * That made him ponder as there were so many similarities to his life that lay within this book, and he handn't even begun to read it.

He opened the cover and spoke the first sentence aloud, canting his head to one side.

“No, you do not need to revisit such things,” Illya told himself as he closed the book. It was hitting too close to home, and bringing back memories he shouldn’t revisit, not here.

He picked up the other book, though a much smaller one and read the title, “Fire Cat”, by a woman named Esther Averill.

"The story of a young cat named Pickles who has big paws and wishes to do big things with them. When he's adopted by the local firehouse, Pickles works hard to be a good fire cat. He learns to jump on a fire truck. He learns to help put out a fire, and he even helps out in a rescue!  Pickles gets his wish and finds something big to do with his paws."

The hard as nails U.N.C.L.E. agent, former member of Soviet Military intelligence and spy extraordinaire, a man who could blow up buildings like they were nothing...smiled.

Illya wished he’d had a few books such as this while in his confinement in Kyiv so long ago.  He leaned a lot from the textbooks and novels he had there, but a book meant for someone young would have at least helped him hold onto a piece of his childhood, something that had been taken from him so long ago.

Still he was glad he had it now and chuckled to himself as he read the first page while studyiing the colorful illustrations.

His communicator suddenly chirped, interrupting his reading.

“Kuryakin here.”

“Hello there, how’s it going partner mine? Just checking in to see how you’re doing twiddling your thumbs.”

“Actually I am fine. I have fire, food, water, a blanket and I found some books discarded in a pile of kindling so I am quite content and occupied reading at the moment.”

“You’re kidding? Only you could find a book to read in the middle of nowhere during a blizzard.  Don’t tell me, it's a book on science, right?”

“Why Napoleon how ever did you know that?” Illya grinned.

“Oh just an educated guess, since I know you well enough. So the meteorologists are saying the storm is subsiding. We may be able to get a chopper in to rescue you by this afternoon. Keep warm and happy reading partner mine. Solo out.”

“Happy reading indeed. Kuryakin out.”

* ref. to “Beginnings”- My epic Illya backstory. His childhood in Kiev during the war as well as his post war life in a Moscow orphanage and lots more.

Comments

[jantojones.livejournal.com]

~ The story of a young cat named Pickles who has big paws and wishes to do big things with them ~

Just like the young agent with the big hands?

Your story is beautifully bitter/sweet. I can just picture hard and icy Illya Kuryakin enjoying a book intended for children.

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Hmmm that works very nicely...and I didn't even think of that. Knowledge does in all shapes and forms to our Russian (and us too) doesn't it?

Thanks for the great observation, and for commenting!