Dusk in Kalevia: Chapter 1

As the Volga Sedan sped down the highway toward Vainola, Toivo watched the lights of the airport sign fade into the distance, the red Russian characters lingering after the rest had been swallowed by darkness. As the forest rose up on either side of the car, he turned from the window and closed his eyes, happy to be alone with his thoughts.

It had been such a long time since he’d been incarnated for a mission. He’d almost forgotten the closeness of the emotions–a constant barrage of raw feeling that he received every moment he was in contact with human consciousness. Like one of those transistor radios that grabbed waves out of the aether, his mind always buzzed with the static hum of life.

He’d come down in 1959. Nine months, and he still wasn’t fully used to this body. It wasn’t that he hated every moment of life on Earth. He’d occasionally enjoyed the United States, with its white church steeples and high summer skies, ice cream and baseball games. He had ridden his first bicycle there. He’d had his first martini, and gone for a walk around Capitol Hill, flushed and happy in a new gray suit.

In Washington, he’d wandered mostly unnoticed in the offices of the CIA, studying tradecraft and the perilous balance of international relations to prepare him for Kalevia. Toivo had the ability to belong where he wasn’t supposed to be–to effortlessly insinuate himself into situations where he heard secrets not meant for outside ears. His presence felt so natural and comforting, no one ever questioned it. Even the most seasoned of agents accepted him into their midst and instructed him, despite the fact that if questioned afterward, they wouldn’t have been able to explain his identity or function in the agency.

In the beginning it was tolerable, and he did what he could, but he soon grew fatigued. Fear seethed beneath the brash exterior of those intelligence men, and he’d been assaulted daily by visions of brutal violence and atom bomb annihilation. They feared the Reds, they feared the world, they feared themselves–and fear made them cruel. He would sit in front of his television every night, watching the 7 o’clock news with tears streaming down his cheeks, cursing the limited reach of his powers.

He was relieved when he was finally was able to flee to Europe, where he settled into the life and role of Toivo. But body and mind still weighed heavily on him. He yearned to shed them and soar, pure as a beam of light once again, as if duty hadn’t called and left him anchored to the sullen ground.

Sergeant Isokoski brooded in the front seat, emitting an irritated funk. Toivo wondered if it was advisable to try and engage him. He decided to take a chance, and tentatively reached out with the tendrils of his consciousness.

“How long have you been in the service?” Toivo inquired.

“Since the war.”

The war. The scream of the air raid sirens over Vainola, the crying of lost children, the grumble of Russian tanks rolling through on their way to the front. Why was this idiot journalist trying to make small talk? He didn’t want to think about this right now.

“Tough times,” said Toivo, with sympathy.

“I suppose.”

He woke nights remembering the sudden death of a comrade shot by a forest sniper, red blood splashed, steaming upon the snow.

Toivo retreated and sat in silence. He wished he hadn’t said anything, and pondered what he could do for the man. Life seemed oppressive and sad, and Toivo knew he was merely a balm to dull the pain. Regardless, he felt compelled to keep trying. He spent every waking hour trying to stem the tide of human despair, building a dam from shards of broken hearts, in the hope that someday, someday…

A boom gate, lit by a single street lamp, materialized out of the gloom ahead. Sergeant Isokoski hit the brakes in just enough time to coast to a stop in front of the bar, cursing under his breath.

“Oh, Perkele! Get out your papers.”

The checkpoint guard poked his head out from his tiny house, holding a flashlight up beside his face. Isokoski cranked the window down and proffered the documents, doing his best to diminish the frown that was permanently etched into his face.

“Sergeant Aarne Isokoski, State Security. I’ve got a foreign visitor coming from the airport. Requesting permission to enter the urban zone.”

The young guard shone his torch inside the vehicle, letting the beam slide over the leather upholstery and across to Toivo’s guileless face. Without a word, he turned on his heel and disappeared into his yellow-striped shelter. Toivo knew his passport would check out against any list, but waiting was always uncomfortable, especially with the windows open to the winter wind.

After what seemed like an eternity, the guard reappeared with their papers. He gave a single nod.

“You’re free to go.”

The striped boom across the road lifted. They passed on through the dark, into the city of Vainola.

As the road widened into a broad thoroughfare, the trees gave way to blocks of brutalist apartment buildings. The huge concrete structures loomed on either side, hastily constructed from identical blueprints to house the workers who toiled in the factories on the outskirts of the city. All was still, save the sorry row of bare birch trees quaking in the wind on the median, and the occasional black passenger vehicle sliding past in the yellow haze of the street lamps. In some of the windows, warm light shone out through the curtains and implied hints of humanity, but out on the street, not a soul was to be seen.

The eerie silence remained as they crossed the river bridge into the Old Town. Driving past the remnants of the ancient city walls, Toivo caught a glimpse of the old castle with its moat, out of place in the sterile modernity of the People’s Republic. He wondered if perhaps the Kalevians clung to their history more than he’d been told. Then again, maybe those in power had kept the little fortress as a reminder of a darker time, before the enlightenment of Communist doctrine had saved the people from the chains of the past.

They turned down a series of narrow cobblestone streets until they finally rolled to a stop in front of an imposing brick building. It had been made to mimic the pre-war architecture around it, but ultimately failed in its attempt to blend in. There was something too new, too well-planned about this immaculate red brick facade that reeked of Socialist effort. The sign painted above the entrance proclaimed it “New International Hotel.”

“This is where you will stay,” said Isokoski, matter-of-factly.

The sergeant clearly expected no argument. Toivo had been assured that everything would be taken care of, and that meant internment at the one hotel for foreigners in the entire region. Guards kept a baleful eye on all travelers that passed over their threshold, recording their comings and goings. Judging by the lack of illumination in the windows, however, the watchers had an easy job at the moment.

Toivo looked around the hushed city street, dull and foreboding in the near-constant twilight of winter, and was struck by the bleakness of it all. If ever there was a place in need of a blessing, this was it. He leaned against the door of the Volga and stared up at the sky.

Isokoski came trudging around the back of the car with the bags. He thrust the suitcase at Toivo and sank deeper into his muffler, glaring at Toivo as though blaming him for the chill.

Damned winter. Sometimes he felt like he would never be warm again.

“Go inside, they’re expecting you,” he spat. He gestured to the shadows of two armed guards, framed by the light spilling through the glass doors.

Toivo took his bag. Then, to Isokoski’s apparent surprise, he turned and placed a steady hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” Toivo assured him. “Summer isn’t that far away.”

Usually Sergeant Isokoski would have shaken off the touch, galled by the forwardness of this foreign stranger, but he was caught off-guard. The word “summer” reverberated through him like a drum beat, shaking him with nostalgic longing.

Summer. Summer was his wife Mina at the cabin, her chubby arms all freckled in the sunshine. Summer, the whisper of the pines around the one-room they were allotted, the smell of lake mud as they splashed in the shallows with happy abandon. A happy respite where the cold and the past ceased to oppress. They simply lived in the present, unafraid of any burden, loving each other in the long afternoons of midsummer.

God, Mina. He wanted to see her face more than anything right then. Maybe they could have a glass together and resuscitate those days to sustain themselves through the wretched dark and snow.

Sergeant Isokoski gave a curt nod of farewell and scrambled into the front seat with haste. As the black car peeled away from the curb, Toivo drew up his collar to hide his victorious smile.

One by one, a little at a time.

Inside, he watched the elderly concierge of the hotel poke through his papers without even looking up.

“And you mustn’t forget: report to the State Security Building at ten o’clock sharp for your interview.” The concierge slid off his stool, trembling like an aspen. “Don’t worry about getting there; we’ll call for a car.”

Toivo followed the shuffling man down a dim, dun-colored hallway. The man continued to lecture him, as if hoping to fill the silence with the sound of his creaking voice.

“When you go out, remember that you need to have your guide with you at all times. All times! If Sergeant Isokoski is unavailable, then ask Iiro there to go with you.”

He gesticulated vaguely over his shoulder at the guard who loped behind them, Kalashnikov slung casually across his back. His presence gave Toivo the distinct feeling of being followed by a large wolf whose indifference temporarily permitted him to live.

Toivo focused his gaze ahead, and tried not to bring too many of the guard’s thoughts into his own. He was much too tired, and the hungry leer in the man’s eyes spoke all that Toivo cared to hear.

“What time does curfew go into effect?” Toivo asked wearily, recalling the empty streets.

“City curfew starts at nine, but it’s recommended to stay indoors during dark hours as much as possible. Quite difficult around this time of winter, though.” The old man released a chuckle like an old engine trying to start.

“Ah, 403. This is your room.” The concierge’s palsied hands fumbled the key into the lock. He waved Toivo inside. “Good night.”

Finally, mercifully, Toivo was alone. He closed the door and relished solitude for a moment, the only sounds the soft hiss of the steam radiator and the howl of the wind against the window.

It was a drab room. The carpet and patterned wallpaper were new, yet unsightly–a composition in brown–but it was clean and would suit his needs as a place to rest. He knew that at the first opportunity, his keepers would be in here, cataloging his possessions and searching for the marks of suspicious behavior. For for the time being, though, he would be left to his own devices.

He took off his shoes and overcoat and relaxed onto the bed. A sudden thought caused him to spring up in alarm.

He’d forgotten to check for bugs.

Lying back down, he focused his concentration, letting his mind’s eye wander over every bit of the room. It was difficult to pinpoint inanimate objects, but if he concentrated hard enough, he could perceive the faint electrical impressions. There was one microphone hidden in the molding, and another in the base of the lamp. A third–a small transmitter–was cleverly concealed in the ornamentation on the doorframe, broadcasting the room’s conversations to strangers at their radios. Toivo assumed that every room in the hotel was similarly equipped, the dramas and secrets inside laid bare to faceless voyeurs.

He went deeper and let his consciousness creep out through the walls, running like vines through the brick and steel of the building. The tiny life forces of mice darted in and out of his perception, and down on the ground floor, he saw the vague psychic outlines of guards. Electrified cables laced the walls like luminous veins; Toivo let himself be carried along in the current. There was no one else in any of the other rooms. All channels would be tuned in to him.

Charming the physical world took enormous effort. In a human body, Toivo could only manage to toy with the energy of objects–and only because the forces of light and electricity felt natural to him. If he concentrated very hard, sometimes he could get enough of himself past the barrier of his body to ply the flow.

He tried now, focusing on the little microphones in the walls. For an instant he was inside them, a sudden surge that warped their foils and shorted them into oblivion–and then he was out, back inside the body prone upon an ugly bedspread.

Toivo breathed a deep sigh of relief. Now he was truly alone. Suddenly, exhaustion enveloped him like a blanket; he no longer had the strength to keep his eyes open. He drifted off on top of the covers, still dressed in his tailored tweed suit.

 

He was awakened by a tapping at the windowpane.

The cut-out? he thought blearily as he roused himself. A messenger from the others. He slid his feet to the floor.

He opened the blinds to find a gray dove sitting on the windowsill, preening its feathers. It cocked its head and cooed, begging to come in from the night.

He cracked the window. The dove fluttered into the room and perched with dignity upon his outstretched arm.

“Zophiel.”

Toivo started, hearing his true name encoded in the cooing of the dove. What might have sounded like an animal murmur to normal humans came through to him as a double voice, steganography for his ears alone.

“It is I,” he replied softly.

“You are here safe. Good. Message for you,” the bird said, struggling to express the sentiments that had been imprinted upon its dim mind.

“Go ahead.”

“Documents to be left in dead-drop. Will contact you when safe to retrieve.”

The bird paused, looking around distractedly. Toivo had to wave a finger in front of it to force it to focus.

“Forest Clan is expecting you,” it continued. “Contact case officer for further instructions. End of message.”

“I copy,” Toivo replied. “Tell the others I got through safely.” He thought for a minute before adding, “And tell them that this time, we’ll win.”

He blessed the dove, and gently set it back on the windowsill. It looked back at him as though asking if there was anything he wanted to add; he shook his head and waved it out.

“Keep safe, little bird,” he whispered as the dove took flight, its pale wings shining in the faint light of the moon. He watched until it vanished over the top of the next building, then softly shut the window.

**

A black shadow roosted atop the clock tower in Market Square, keeping a keen watch over its domain. The raven had noted the anomaly of the dove’s nocturnal flight; it had grown progressively more interested as it saw a man bring the dove into his window and speak with it. The familiar act alone merited investigation. The raven had missed the conversation, but guessed that tailing the bird might yield further details.

After all, the raven thought, the Boss pays better for that kinda report.

The raven spread its wings and leapt into the air. With a whisper of dusky feathers, it swept down upon the oblivious dove. It wheeled and turned expertly to keep out of sight of its mark, until a sudden movement in an alleyway below caught its eye.

A figure in shabby clothes skulked through the darkness. The raven circled above the alleyway, suddenly interested.

Curiosity getting the better of it, the raven perched on a lamppost to observe the suspicious figure. It could bother with the dove later–this seemed worthy of attention.

Proceed to Chapter 1, page 3–>