Ghost Walker

"At the beginning of Time the Wolf god appeared to Gog; 'Go forth and spread the People upon the

Land for it is Your Land and from hence forth none shall challenge you for your People rule the Night

and the Day and the Wolf shall always be by your side.'"

From the Sacred Origin Story of the Nenet Peoples

"The Long dark nights of the Siberian Arctic rule the daily routine, but the peoples that have

lived here for millennia know how to use time; they live and survive and to them life is as it was meant

to be."

From a "General History and Development of the People of The North",

Sir Joseph Mandrel, from his Majesty's Archives of the History of The Northern Explorations of 1846

The Parisian wind swept through the streets driving any sane person to seek respite from the

unrelenting cold; Paris, February 1965 and Harry's New York Bar was steps away. I had agreed to

being interviewed by a young reporter for a feature story on survivors of the Russian gulags for the

New York Times. Harry's seemed the right place and I thought the report, a New Yorker, would enjoy

the atmosphere. The last booth at the end was open; there was a brass tag nailed to the wall above the

table; it read simply "Ernest Hemingway". I was mildly impressed that I could sit where he had once

sat drinking and telling tall stories. A good spot for an interview, or anything else for that matter.

Ordering a bottle of Vodka and two glasses, I waited enjoying the warmth and intimacy of the old bar. I

was finishing my second shot when a young man came in looking side to side; I raised my hand and he

immediately made his way back to the booth. I stood offering my hand, we shook . "Mr Slovolenko"?

"Yes, and you are"... "John Kennedy Barrister. New York Times" he replied and presented his card.

"Can I verify you are indeed Mr. Slovolenko"?

I removed my jacket, rolled up my right sleeve and presented him with the now fuzzy blueing tattoo.

The line still clearly read "41400321". Barrister opened his leather case containing a note pad, several

pens and pencils and a small paper upon which was visible the numbers "41400321". He smiled

and relaxing said "Very glad to meet you, sir".

'Please call me Milo. May I pour you a drink"? Pointing to the brass plaque,"it would be disrespectful

to abstain". We drank a toast, the vodka warming and relaxing..

"Are you ready'?

Barrister nodded, poised to put pen to paper; and so I began.

"Let us start at the beginning. My name is Milo Slovolenko. I was born on the outskirts of Moscow

June 20, 1900. My family were not what you might call poor, but also not rich. It might have been

considered "bad form" and presented an element of danger to display wealth in those days". Barrister

nodded, poured another round and returned to his notes.

"Shall I go slower"?

He shook his head "No. Please continue".

Downing another shot I resumed. "As a young man of my class growing up near Moscow I enjoyed a

certain element of safety, a sense of security, a sense of future. I presented at University, was accepted

to the Philosophy Department and applied myself earnestly to my studies. In particular I had an

unbound curiosity about early indigenous peoples, especially those nomadic tribes of the Urals. In the

beginning my choice of study felt overpowering and beyond my comprehension; I had decided to focus

my attention on the Shamanic practices of the Nenet peoples. I soon found myself deep in the mystical

world of Shamanism. During this semester of study I believed that Russia was the center of the world

and would drive the masses forward into not only peace and prosperity, but global enlightenment . It

was a sentiment based on the observable events of the times, a sort of scientific view of the world. Yet,

I could not help feeling the existence of certain unknown elements of what I can only describe as

"Magic" that exerted some force on the Gestalt of existence. That perhaps man was really powerless in

the face of everything, that we existed solely within the mirrors of our minds. I was young and naive

then".

"Excuse me, Mr Slovolenko, could you explain that last, about 'Magic'".

I refilled our glasses, raised mine "Salud'!, Barrister raised his and I went on.

"A year into my studies had passed and I began to see fractures in the Revolution; genuine flaws that

presented certain philosophical problems not to mention the hardships it had created and laid upon the

people. Both my parents, I learned suffered greatly finally giving up out of inescapable desperation

both having fallen victim to the virulent flu sweeping over the continent. I never heard from them

again; I was now completely alone in a world churning in chaos, tumbling through space, out of

control.

I began to write, attend "secret" meeting, trying to learn and catalog all that was crashing over our

world.. I knew I could not possibly be "Red", nor could I be "White" as those two factions murdered

each other in wholesale numbers. To be honest, I did not have the slightest inkling to what direction I

leaned. I suppose if I had to embrace something I would be a 'Human Being' first".

"And the 'Magic""?

"Relax Mr. Barrister, we will soon get to the 'Magic'".

I continued. "In those days one had to guard one's speech. Conversation could easily be overheard,

mis-interpreted and dangerous. You are wondering how I arrived at the Gulag; that journey did not

begin with violent demonstration, no, a simple discussion about the state of the current political

environment, nothing really serious, mind you. Drinks with friends, casual pseudo-intellectual stuff

often heard in bars. Around mid-night several men entered the bar stopping at our table, they said

nothing. We were dragged outside into the alley and severally beaten; I alone survived that incident and

found myself in a freezing boxcar heading into a snowstorm to nowhere. Men around me spoke of

gulag; I was left with a most empty, desperate feeling that I still feel in the pit of the guts, even these

many years later..

"I won't go into the details of gulag life; it is well documented by others. I will only say that after a

very long year I knew that to remain would mean certain death; with rare exception did anyone escape

from that frozen Hell. Yet, I did. I escaped during a particularly wild snow storm while on a wood

gathering detail. I simply slipped away disappearing through the trees and into the white void. Even

today it seems like a dream. Days went by as I struggled North, then I stopped being here and just

disappeared into snow. Do you mind if I stop for a moment"?

Barrister smiled expressing agreement; we paused, both reflective, Barrister intent on his notes,

shuffling pages, reviewing; while I was content to enjoy the warmth of the bar and the Vodka to which

I helped myself; I then refilled Barrister's glass. We sat in silence for a moment, then I began again.

"I do not know how long I had been gone from the camp or much else other then the cold, the freezing

cold. I knew I being hunted, then I must have blacked out. I awoke, I can't say exactly when. I cannot

recall what day it was or the month or even the year. I lost all sense of "time" in that frozen cocoon of

snow. The next thing I remember is the warmth and the dimly lit, candles. In that moment of

awareness was the distinct sensation of floating, then I began to see faces flickering in the dim light; an

old man in leather garb and feathers haloing his long gray hair. There were others, women and young

children giggling and pointing at what must have been a strange sight indeed; my beat and bruised self,

half frozen, half dead. The old man smiled displaying an almost toothless mouth, his face, his eyes

glowing with an intense and welcoming energy that immediately put me at ease. He spoke to me in

broken Russian; 'You are safe now, do not fear' then he left and I was alone again.

He said his name was Ulcha, but I later learned the word means simply "Shaman"; no matter, this was

the way I addressed him. He was an Elder and Shaman of a group of Khante nomads; reindeer herders

and hunters; an offshoot of the Nenets people living as they had since before Time. Over several weeks

and as many camp migrations later we became close friends; always curious, he about my culture and

life, me about his and his people. After several months I felt strong enough to think about leaving the

protectorate of my new friends; and so I did among much hugging, hand shaking and farewells I started

off toward the South, toward the summer sun and perhaps freedom away from Russia, away from the

Gulags, away from all the stinking shit of the Revolution. I wanted to vanish. As I left the camp

women were singing a traditional song for me, the song for the lost. 'may you find peace and the warm

safe places on your journey'. I never saw Ulcha or his peoples again".

"What did you do next"?

Tossing another shot down I poured forth an outline of the next years; Paris, the escape to the

Argentine (to avoid the inevitable disaster of the Nazis) and my eventual return to Post-War Paris; that

was 1946.

"The rest is uninteresting".

"But how did you manage to make such a journey undiscovered'?

I took a long deep breath, tossed another shot down and began; "That night, the last night in the camp

of the Khante people was when Ulcha had seen deep into my soul and saw my fear of being captured.

He called to an old woman who brought me a small wooden bowel of bitter brown drink which I

downed. Ulcha told me he was fixing my journey from one of fear to that of a warrior journey; that

when my spirit dream journey ended I would become a ghost; that I would 'walk without tracks', even

in the fresh powder of snow. That the Wolf would walk beside me and I would be safe. He then tied a

sort of amulet, an thin strand of twisted and knotted reindeer hie, on my left bicep. The warmth of the

fire, the dim light, all closed in upon me and found myself floating again visioning that I was invisible

to all evil; that only the good could see me; and in such a state I would journey only with the good,

with the Wolf Spirit, safe from all evil. The amulet, on my arm was there as a sign to all that here

walked a Man-Ghost and always near him the Spirit Wolf. The next day I had to see for myself. There

had been a heavy snow the night before. Stretching away from the yurt the fresh snow field was

flawlessly clean, virgin. I walked some ten yards or so before I stopped and dared turn to see my tracks;

there were none; the snow showed no sign of any presence, of any passage. I laughed like some

madman, hooting and howling back to the yurt. I left that morning".

A silence filled the booth. Barrister laid his pen down, eyes on mine, "Are you saying that a Shaman

put you into a some sort of "holy state of immunity from evil? Where you leave no tracks, no trace of

your passing by or having ever been there or anywhere? Sounds preposterous, just over the top"!

At that moment Slovolenko rolled up his left sleeve up to his bicep where in the light Barrister saw the

withered brown armband that after many years had long ago become part of Slovolenko. His mouth

slightly agape as Slovolenko rolled his sleeve down, donned his coat and throwing money on the table

shook Barrister's hand and abruptly left. The only thing remaining was a faint smell of something

animal.

The waiter approached, "Check, sir"?

"Yes, please, I believe my friend left enough here to cover the tab".

"Friend sir? No one has been here but you, sir".

Barrister sat in silence for several minutes then poured a large shot from the bottle.

Authors note: This tale is based on a real dream.