— Real. — She chuckled. I heard it even through crackle of connection. — You are real, Gromov. Few like that now.
— You are also real, Vera Sergeyevna. Not every mother will do what you did for daughter. And not every person will risk life for stranger girl.
— Alina isn’t stranger. She became like daughter to me. In these year and half… — Voice trembled. — Okay, let’s not be sad. Get out — will come to you in forest. Teach picking mushrooms?
— Will teach. Will wait.
— Wait.
Mikhey died three weeks after those events. Went quietly. In sleep. Heart stopped. Old. Worn out. As if knew it was time. Did last deed — called journalist, passed info — and left. Fifteen people came to funeral. Hunters, fishermen, locals. Those who knew old poacher, bought furs from him, drank moonshine with him long winter evenings. I was there too. Stood at grave, watched simple wooden coffin lowered into frozen earth.
— Goodbye, Lukich, — I said quietly. — Thank you. For everything.
He didn’t answer. But seemed to me, somewhere up there, old fox chuckled. In his way. With one corner of mouth.
And I stayed. Stayed in forest, in Mikhey’s hut. With small puppy and big emptiness inside. At night dreamed of Uglyum. Alive, cheerful, with stick in teeth. Like then, in first years, when just started teaching him. He ran to me across clearing. Tail like propeller. Eyes happy. And I stood and couldn’t move. Woke up with wet face. Didn’t feel ashamed.
One evening — already end of November, first snow fell — sat on porch and watched sunset. Verny slept at feet, curled in ball. Small still, silly, but already Faithful. Already mine.
Thought about what happened this month. About Kurganov who will rot in prison. About Vera who will soon be free. About Alina starting new life. About Mikhey who left but managed to do main thing.
And about myself. About who I was and who became. Twenty-two years ago put on shoulder straps because believed in law. Believed could make world better, fairer, cleaner. Worked, tried, caught criminals, jailed murderers. And then realized law lies. That law is just words on paper used by strong against weak. That true justice not in codes and decrees, but in hearts of people.
And left. Ran away, you could say. Hid in forest, like bear in den. 11 years lived hermit, convincing self it was wisdom. That have right to peace.
And then life put me before choice again. And I chose. Not law. Conscience.
Know what realized this month? Law written by people. And people make mistakes. People lie. People sell out. Conscience never lies. Can remain silent for years, decades. Can hide, lurk, sleep. But when moment of choice comes, wakes up. And tells you quietly but firmly what is right and what isn’t.
Kurganov had everything. Power, money, connections, people. He thought he was master, could do anything, and nothing would happen to him. And I had only conscience. And carbine. And faithful dog.
And I won. Not because stronger. Not because smarter. But because conscience stronger than any power. Stronger than any money. Stronger than any law. Conscience is only law that cannot be bought, cannot be deceived, cannot be rewritten. And while there are people living by this law, world won’t perish.
Verny stirred at feet, woke up, raised head, looked at me from bottom up. Eyes smart, devoted, like Uglyum once.
— What, little one, — I said, — cold? Let’s go inside.
He jumped up, wagged tail, ran to door, looked back.
— Coming?
— Coming, coming.
I stood up. Lower back ached. Old age. What can you do? But legs held. And heart beat. Means alive. Means will live some more.
Epilogue.
This was year ago. Since then much changed. Kurganov sentenced, life, as expected. His clients, most part, also found and jailed. Case received such resonance that even in capital stirred. Conducted inspections in all colonies, removed several wardens, jailed someone.
Vera released on parole in spring. Came to me, as promised. Lived week, helped with household, learned to set snares for hares. Then left to South, to daughter. “Want to babysit grandkids,” said at parting. “Enough adventures for me”.
Alina works in editorial office, writes articles. Recently sent letter. Paper one, old fashioned. Writes getting married. To good man. Programmer. Invites to wedding. Maybe will go, maybe not. We’ll see.
And I live. Rise with dawn, patrol territory, watch animals. Verny runs nearby, grew up already. Almost like Uglyum was. Just as smart, just as devoted. Only barks sometimes. And that one didn’t.
Evenings sit on porch, watch sunset, think about different things. About past, about future. About people met, and those lost.
Sometimes seems hear Uglyum scratching at door. Go out. Nobody. Only wind noise in pines. And stars twinkle over forest. But I know. He is there. Somewhere there, behind these stars, waiting for me. When my hour comes, he will meet.
Meanwhile live. And try live so not ashamed. Before him. Before self. Before that conscience — only law I serve.
My name is Nikolai Petrovich Gromov. I am 57 years old. I live in forest, on distant cordon. And I am happy.
That, actually, is whole story.
