A Hare in the Woods

I crept up to the hut early in the morning, slipping like a shadow past the fishnets—still damp, hanging from wooden stakes. A startled cat arched its back, dropped a half-eaten fish tail, and darted under the house to hide. Look at him, all skittish! As if he’s any better—black as soot himself…

The old planks of the porch groaned under the pointed hooves, and I, catching myself, quickly pulled on the boots strapped to my belt. I’d better check on her, then sweep the path out front with a broom. No sense leaving tracks behind.

A godforsaken coastal village on the edge of the world, with the twisty name of Vertikos—named after the steep cliffs above the waves—had become my refuge.

A leftover from the days when, for some reason, the state needed this remote scrap of land. Time chewed it up and spat it out—leaving a dozen lived-in houses, the darkened frame of a Soviet-era dormitory on the hill, and the salt-worn skeletons of buildings at the village edge.

Then some trendy director filmed his dreary arthouse flick here—something about the fate of the little man—and won a prize from other know-it-alls at some festival. And after that, tourists started pouring in.

They came during the short summer, when the weather got halfway decent and hardy flowers bloomed on the rocky slopes along the shore. Or they came in winter—to toast the New Year with a glass of champagne under the northern lights.

The sights, truth be told, left much to be desired. A sandbar with broken boats rotting in the surf and a cargo ship that once struck the rocks. A giant whale skeleton bleached by salt. And a lighthouse crusted over with generations of barnacles.

In those short but fruitful weeks, the locals did their best to rent out their crumbling huts at outrageous prices—just enough to stretch through until the next season. Because the rest of the year, absolutely nothing happens here.

That’s exactly why, one cold and clammy summer, I happened. Washed up with the tourist tide, and clung to these harsh shores. Now this was the kind of place no one would think to look for me.

If you really don’t want to be found, you might say, why not live in a forest cabin far from everyone? And you’d be right. But it just so happens, being completely alone—it’s unbearable for me. That’s just the way I’m made.

The younger ones, the less picky among us, they live comfortably in big cities—settling close to those slick dandies obsessed with social media and fast money. Con artists, to put it simply. But me… I’m far too old for that. I tried, believe me I did! Swear to all that’s holy—if you’ll allow me. But one day I realized that if I saw another poser with eyeliner and dyed black hair, I’d simply collapse from rage. Though I’ll admit, those ones aren’t the worst.

But when it comes to the other kind—the ones in neat suits, with boring, professionally forgettable faces… Well, dear friends, that’s when it’s time to run. Far and fast.

I’ve seen what they do. They catch you like animals, line you up in cages with numbered plates, feed you out of metal bowls. Day after day, they make you perform tricks like some circus monkey. Write their reports. And sometimes they’ll take you apart altogether—gut you like a fish. No thanks. I’ll pass.

And so it happened—I ended up living with Antonina Ivanovna. A cranky old woman, all alone, who—understandably—took a special liking to me. Seems she could sense her time was drawing near. No soul, man or beast, wishes to meet their final hour alone. Terrible is the hour of reckoning.

For decades, the locals had been coming to the old crone with their complaints and misfortunes. Neighbors bickering—one wants a hex placed on a rival’s patch of land, another asks for a tangle-spell cast on the someone’s fishing nets. Or some young lass shows up wanting to charm her sweetheart, and the day after the wedding, her mother-in-law runs in begging for a reversal—or worse, a curse. There’s plenty of work. No time for boredom.

But then the villagers lie down in their graves without fear—because every nasty little wish of theirs settles not on their conscience, but on hers. Every curse she casts for them—takes a bite out of her soul. Each sin blackens it, pulls it deeper into the dark.

That’s how witches pay for their magic. That’s why the demons love the ones with the biggest hearts—the helpful kind, who can’t say no. There is more they can give away.

So witches fear death. They stretch it out as long as they can—roaming the earth for two hundred years or more, until what’s left of their soul is so rotten, it barely holds together.

My Tonya’s afraid, too. That’s why she was so glad when I turned up on her doorstep—what luck, to get such help when she no longer had the strength for anything. I feel for her, I truly do. Grew fond of her. She’s old, done plenty of harm. But I can see—her soul, for all that, still burns bright. Over a hundred years she’s lived already, and all on her own steam. Never took anyone into service. Demons, you know, will do a witch’s work for her—that gives her strength, sure, but the sins pile up all the faster.

I help her with the little things, purely out of goodwill. I’ll sour the milk straight from the cow, or lay a trip-hex across someone’s doorstep—nothing too heavy on the soul, just enough to buy her a few days more. She never asks me for anything. But accepts it gratefully.

***

"Antonina Ivanovna, my soul,” I called from the doorstep, hanging my quilted jacket on the hook by the door. “Go on, say something nice—I’ve been working all morning just for you!”

And I had! Thought up quite the little masterpiece, couldn’t wait to tell her, make her smile.

The moment Tonya sees me, she lights up like a girl—rosy color creeping back into cheeks wrinkled like crumpled paper. She smiles—still got all her teeth!—and shuffles off toward the stove to put the kettle on.

I sit at the table with the old sticky oilcloth, poking at a dish of jam with an aluminum spoon, while she fusses about, busy as ever.

I’d have set the kettle five times over already, but the old woman insists on doing it all. Says it makes her feel alive. Won’t let me lift a finger. Just tends to me, muttering sweetly,

“My good friend, now tell me, tell me—cheer up your granny!”

So I tell her, full of pride, how I secretly unscrewed four bolts from Nikolai’s stepladder. He’s our village electrician, and last week he had the nerve to speak rudely to my oldie. So I cooked up a little elegant scheme.

In a couple days, strong winds will tear down the wires from the main antenna. They’ll call Nikolai to fix it, and that ladder of his will give way the moment he climbs up. And then—everything’s lined up already—he’ll definitely break a leg.

And the whole village will be left cursing their luck, waiting for a new electrician to come from the district center!

It’s just a trifle, really. A bit of harmless fun. Back in the day, I pulled off stunts that wiped out entire settlements. But still—it’s nice to stretch the muscles now and then, keep sharp. And my old girl loves it.

“That should buy you a whole month’s worth, once it all plays out! Did I do well?” I ask proudly, scooping a thick layer of jam onto a thin slice of bread, sipping my fragrant tea.

Tonya laughs, nearly wheezing from joy—as if I were cracking jokes or putting on a comedy show just for her.

“Oh you, my dear, you really went above and beyond!” her creaky old voice rattles from laughter.

A thin hand, marked with blue veins and liver spots, reaches out and ruffles my hair, tugging at the wild tufts.

“Oh, back in the day I used to chase your lot off, I did…” she murmurs, drifting into a fog of memories. Maybe about the ferocious deeds of her youth, or the family long gone from this godforsaken place.

“I didn’t want anything to do with your kind, not me. I tried to live right, I did—so good folks wouldn’t suffer more than they already had. But now I’m old. Kids, grandkids left me. And here you are. Funny, how things turn out. So then—was I right, all this time?”

I gently catch her bony fingers tangled in my hair, pressing her cool, dry palm to my cheek.

I can still see her as she once was, young—what a woman she was! The earth would melt beneath her, the waves parted in awe—so full of strength and fire. Girls nowadays—starving themselves silly, trying to out-thin each other, like there’s a prize for dropping dead first when the hungry years roll in.

Not my Tonya. She was fierce, like a wild mare. Back in her prime, I’d have served her willingly, for nothing in return, just for that fire in her eyes.

They don’t make women like that anymore…

“You of all people know, my soul,” I said with a smile, “some ties run deeper than blood.”

That’s our little joke. I call her “my soul,” though there’s barely any left in her by now. And she calls me good friend, though there’s never been anything good in me, not since the world began.

That’s why I loved her.

If only she could’ve stayed a bit longer...

***

Turns out I’d celebrated too soon.

My carefully composed plan—perfect down to the last note—never played out.

The day before the storm, black birds of helicopters came riding the wild northern winds.

Not your average tourists. I could tell right away—even from a distance—by their matching red jackets with patches sewn on the sleeves.

They landed right on our wind-beaten shore, never mind that tourist season was already over.

Red ants, they spread through the village, made their nest in the old wooden dormitory, and started doing very unpleasant things.

I never liked that building. Should’ve burned it down back in summer, but held back—for Tonya’s sake. Wouldn’t want her catching heat if the tourists suddenly had nowhere to sleep.

Well. That was a mistake.

Me and the cat sat on the porch all morning, watching them.

From our place on the edge of the village, we could see pretty much everything.

They called themselves scientists. Went sniffing around every yard, pointing strange tools at things and bothering the locals with questions. Said they were researching “Soviet heritage,” looking for artifacts from the old days.

We know exactly what kind of “artifacts” they’re after.

And when they started sticking pins into doorsteps—I knew for sure. This wasn’t the first time their kind had caught wind of me.

But I’m an old fox—more than once I’ve slipped right out from under their noses. I just never thought they’d be able to track me down even in a place this remote.

I packed what little I had, told Tonya not to talk to them, and for the love of everything don’t let them inside. And once they’re gone, I said, check the doorstep and windows—make sure they didn’t leave any gifts behind.

Then I left.

I hid out in the lighthouse.

Lived there for a few weeks back when I first washed up in Vertikos—before Tonya took me in. Never thought I’d end up back there in the windiest, stormiest night of the year.

But it was safer that way—no dog alive could sniff me out in that kind of weather.

So I sat there all night, listening to the waves slam into the walls.

It was scary, sure—but what those bastards came here for... was far scarier.

It was Tonya I feared for.

And I was right to be.

***

Before dawn, I ran to see if my lovely little sabotage had done the trick.

Snuck into the village on quiet paws and watched from a distance.

The wires had snapped, just as planned. But those bastards—damn them—were already fixing them.

Nikolai didn’t break his leg after all.

Worse: he made money off the whole thing, lending his ladder to those nimble-fingered fellas in red.

Well. May the devils take them all.

The month I’d sworn she’d have? Ended up being just a couple of days.

I was itching to get back into the village, to mess something up. Anything.

Always got a few tricks in my sleeve, just in case.

Carefully, giving a wide berth to all the red-jackets, I started toward the little village store. Always a good place to stir up some trouble, unnoticed.

Greeted our shop lady, Lyuba, like usual, and was just about to cross the threshold—when I slammed into something hard. Like a wall.

Lyuba stared at me while I stood there, rubbing my forehead and swearing under my breath.

“What’s with you?” she asked, raising a brow.

“Bee sting,” I muttered, rubbing my forehead.

Then I turned and walked off. She just shrugged.

***

And once I saw them finish fixing the antenna, it was clear they’d hung some tricky charm up there too.

Made my skin crawl just looking at it.

If it weren’t for Tonya, I’d have bolted already.

But I stayed, circling the place, trying to think—what could I do, even from afar?

Still, I’m not just anyone. If it were up to me, I’d have cursed the whole village out of existence for Tonya’s sake.

But she wouldn’t have forgiven me.

And all that extra time I bought her would’ve gone into begging forgiveness—if she let me near her at all.

So I just wandered, bound hand and foot.

Couldn’t help, couldn’t leave.

Paced around like some idiot spirit. Useless.

By midday I saw they’d hung charms over the whole damn village. Fifty meters in, and I was already twisting with pain. My head started buzzing like it was full of wasps.

The red-jackets spotted me too—saw them watching, poking their gadgets in my direction.

I did what I had to—pretended to be drunk. Fell into a bush, crawled behind a log, and snuck off through the alleys and back ways.

Barely got away, sticking to the shadows.

***

Two long, miserable days went by.

All I could do was watch from a distance, while my Tonya waved to me from the window.

Saying goodbye.

She knew what was happening, too.

If only I could have gotten closer. Another week, another month—I would have bartered her more time. But those damned red ants cut off every path to my oldie—no way to reach.

And on the third day… Antonina passed at dawn.

I felt it at once.

Her little lamp burned low, coughed its last breath of smoke—then darkness.

And it felt like someone had run a knife through my chest.

For the first time in maybe a hundred years, I felt like crying.

Good thing those “scientists” didn’t think to fence off the cemetery.

I was able to say goodbye to my old lady.

I wept like a fool. Didn’t even need to fake being drunk this time—grief knocked the sense right out of me.

The villagers came to the funeral with suspicious eagerness—everyone wanted to get a look at Tonya in her coffin.

They only held back from singing over the body because they knew I’d lived with her.

Not a kind word said over her grave.

And she’d helped every one of you mongrels over the years…

But once the funeral was done and the feast began—well, then the whole village came alive. Dancing, drinking, laughing, telling dirty jokes...

They even invited the red-jacketed bastards to the table—and of course they weren’t fools, they drank and danced right along with the rest of them.

Why wouldn't they?

Not like I could go back to the village before.

Now there wasn’t even a reason to try.

What was left for me there?

The last thread tying me to this place had snapped.

It always happens eventually—she wasn’t the first.

But still… I’d grown terribly fond of that old woman over these last two years.

Closer to her than to anyone else in all my life.

I did everything I could.

And still I failed to protect her.

Tonya left me one last gift, though.

She distracted those red-jackets. Gave me a head start.

I stood at the edge of the forest, watching the village celebrate from afar.

Laughter, whistles, the wheeze of an accordion—it all felt like mockery.

And something dark rose up in me.

Such a bitter hatred for everything human...

Dropping to all fours, I turned into a gray hare.

Beast form never felt right—but this time, it was safer. Quieter.

Stood still for a moment, gathering my nerve.

Then slipped into the brush and bolted for the forest.

It’s lonely out there.

Cold. Empty.

But I don’t want to see people right now—not even their shadows.

Sooner or later I’ll find another half-dead village somewhere.

Maybe there I’ll find someone to stick to.

But for now…

“So tell me,” Tonya asked me once, “did I live right, after all?”

Well—turns out, there was more soul in you than in that whole damn village put together.

And now the only one who’ll miss you… is a hare in the woods.