“Nadya! Nadya! Come in now!”

“Mama! The soldiers are coming!” Shouting from the gate, I stood at the bottom of the hill near the road. I could hear the rumbling of the tanks before they rounded the bend to pass our house. It was so exciting when they drove by on their way to the Volga River. There they would board barges and travel south from Saratov, through Stalingrad, and on to ships waiting in the Caspian.

“Suppertime! Get your brother and set the table before your father comes home!”

She never liked me to watch the soldiers. I liked how they goose-stepped alongside the tanks, their arms swinging to a half salute at their chest in time with the step. Father was a soldier back in Moldavia, a part-time soldier. Most of the army then was part-time, called up only for emergencies.

“Yes! I’m coming!”

Running up the hill I picked up my brother from his little sandbox and carried him up to the house. I suppose she had her reasons regarding the soldiers, but at the time all I saw was the show. And quite a show it was; the impression never left my mind.

We had left the Moldavian prefecture of eastern Romania when I was very young, just as Hitler’s army was rolling in. Migrating northeast into southern Russia with the rest of our kindred band of Gypsies, we settled in Saratov, where the Volga River meets the Penzian mountain range.

There, my father found work in the copper mines, as he had in Moldavia. He also worked on his own as a coppersmith. Since free enterprise was forbidden in this Russia, he traded his services for barter, obtaining needed heating oil, flour, vodka, and oats for the horses.

We had prepared our weekend meal, the one that contained meat. We had kotmis satsivi—roast chicken with walnut sauce, Moldavian potato salad served on lettuce leaves, and a vegetable borsch. My grandmother had very few teeth left and only ate the borsch. She drank quite a bit—tea during the day and vodka in the evening. She was always making me laugh so. She could drink more vodka than my father. The more she drank, the funnier she was. My mother would be upset with her, saying that she drank like a Cossack.

After dinner she would tell stories of the Old Country. She grew up in the village of Romany, in eastern Carpathia. Much to my mother’s dismay, she spoke to the children of ancient Roma rituals handed down to each generation from the time of Roman Emperor Valentinian, when our Moldavian land was called Raxolani of Dacia.

Years later, after my grandmother had passed and I was of age, my grandmother’s younger sister, Great Aunt Larisa, gave me my grandmother’s books, books filled with cultural legends and tales complete with methods of communication to distant ancestors,  fortune-telling, and palmistry, as well as ancient rituals practiced in the mountains of Carpathia for well over a thousand years. They were priceless. Some were written in Rom, our native tongue. It is a language of Indo-European origin— about one thousand years before Christ—and was commonly used in the steppes of southern Russia just north of the Black Sea. I read them all as best I could.

I enjoyed Saratov very much. Near the water the view was wonderful, and one could go into the mountains quite easily. Word spread through the town that I was quite knowledgeable about herbs and roots used for medicinal value. At age twenty-one, I began working as a midwife; later, Great Aunt Larisa and I opened an apothecary in the center of Saratov. Although it was officially owned by the people and most of the profits were placed in a cooperative fund shared by our clan. It was a small enough enterprise that we were allowed to be the primary benefactors.

There I met many others from Saratov and nearby Engels and Volsk. I was most surprised when a busload of gypsies traveled all the way down the mountains from Penza just to shop in our store. My aunt made them some tea and we talked about the customs of our people and how difficult it was to keep them alive, since many of us nomadically travel through so many areas. We all agreed that the few who live a more sedentary lifestyle should practice the Old Ways together and pass them on.

So I began traveling up to Penza once or twice a month, learning old rituals and customs as well as teaching ones that I learned from my grandmother and my aunt. We were deep in the forest because not only were the rituals kept secret and known only by kin but also the authorities need not be aware of our practices, as they would not be well received.

II

To keep some of the profits from the store, the local party leader required that I perform community service at the local military hospital. I did not complain about this; not only because it would be unwise, but I looked forward to seeing more of the soldiers. I still watched the soldiers marching down the road, especially the officers. The younger ones were quite dashing—going to opera and ballet performances in formal dress uniform, medals on their chest, a beautiful girl on their arm.

The hospital is where I saw Dmitri. Brought into the emergency room in the middle of the night, he had been wounded in the leg. There was no war going on at the time; many of the soldiers were on maneuvers in the streets and in the forests practicing for the military demonstrations honoring the funeral of Josef Stalin, who had died just a few short months ago, and for Soldier’s Day, fast approaching on February 23.

Dmitri’s wounds were from an attack by an animal in the forest. He had been bitten several places on the leg and once in the arm. The doctors had stitched most of his wounds, but he had lost a good deal of blood and was resting when I came to assist.

The hospital was only about two-thirds full, as most were veterans from the second war with Germany that were returning for continued treatment. Since many beds were empty and officers were given preferential treatment, Lt. Dmitri Kirov was in a private room.

Entering quietly, I approached the bed to dispense his antibiotics and pain medication. The room was kept warm for early February. The steam from the water-filled radiator hissed. He was on his back reading Pravda. A reading lamp hanging over the bed dimly illuminated most of the room.

“Good evening, comrade,” I said to see if he would put down the newspaper.

He turned down the paper and strained to see me through the light of the reading lamp. “Hello—”

“I’m Nadya. I volunteer three nights a week to help the nurses,” I said as my heels clicked across the hard wood floor toward the bed.

“I have medication for you.”

He grumbled, “It’s only seven o’clock. If I take it now I’ll fall asleep and wake up in the middle of the night. Do you know what it’s like in this place at three in the morning with no one to talk to and stuck in this bed?”

“Oh…well, I suppose you could take it a little later,” I said placing the pills on the nightstand. “It says here you were bitten by an animal?”

“Yes, a wolf,” he replied while placing the newspaper on the nightstand. Turning the lamp to shine on the wall, the light diffused around the room. It was very soft. We could see each other without glare. I sat in the chair beside the bed.

“He took a chunk out of my leg. I tried to push him off and that’s when he bit my arm. I fired my weapon in the air and he ran. He just came out of nowhere. I was leading a small squad through the mountains. It was pretty routine—a training exercise. That’s probably why I didn’t see him until I was right on top of him. We were all pretty lax.”

“The mountains…near Penza?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know it was a he?”

Taken aback, he responded, “I don’t, really. Just an assumption, I guess. No one caught him…or her. The thing ran faster than I could see, like a flash.”

“This was just a few days ago?”

“Yes.”

“It was bright then?”

“What do you mean? It was late...nighttime.”

“Yes, but the Moon…it was full. Wasn’t it?”

He thought a bit. “Yes, actually, it was. Yeah, I remember the sergeant mentioned that. He said it was a good night for training, ‘bright full Moon,’ he said. The light was even reflecting off the snow. Everything looked a whitish blue.”

Turning to me with a slight look of embarrassment, he said, “Now I feel even worse. I should have seen it coming.”

“Not really,” I said. “The wolf is a huntress.” Rising to look at his wound, I continued, “She roams freely in the forest during the winter when things are bleak. Highly skilled, she is rarely taken. She cannot be domesticated, as can a dog. She represents the free spirit of nature in all of us. Held sacred by the moon, she helps bring the light. She howls at the Moon for more light and the days become longer. That’s why in ancient times she was called Lupercus, Wolf Goddess of Winter.”

He just laid back and stared for a moment. “You should be careful. There are those who would take you away for this kind of talk,” he said.

“Oh, I’m just a harmless gypsy woman!” I laughed.

Removing the bandage from his leg, I asked: “So where are you from?”

“Belarus…ouch!”

“Oh, sorry, I was just going to put some more disinfectant on the bite.” I looked more closely at the bite mark, “Oh, it’s not too deep. This might sting a little. Belarus…a White Russian then?” I asked.

“Don’t say that, or it will be me they take away.”

Noticing the puzzled look on my face, he explained, “No one says that anymore. It comes from the days of the tsar. He wore white robes to symbolize his imperial stature, to counter the purple of Rome. During the Revolution his forces were called the White Army. Those supporting the monarchy were said to believe in the White Idea. The Whites fought the Reds. The Reds won.”

“I thought it referred to Belo-Russia, next to Poland…just north of the Ukraine?”

“It still does, but it gets confused quite a bit with the White Army.” He looked closely to see if I was offended. “You are right. In fact, the full title of the Tsar was ‘Emperor of All the Russias—Great, Minor, and White.’ If the wrong person overhears the expression ‘White Russia’ it can be…confusing, and its best to just not use it anymore.”

“That’s too bad,” I said. “There is much fear in this land. It is very beautiful here. I’ve met many vibrant and happy people, but there is fear. The wolf fears no one. She is free.” Drifting off in thought my hand slipped into the wound.

“Ouch!” He exclaimed.

“Oh, my big tough soldier,” I cooed, “There—how’s that?” Gently wiping his upper thigh, the cool disinfectant evaporated off his leg.

“Much better,” he said.

Noticing his left hand, I saw there was no ring. I then teased, “So who will be getting you a present on Soldier’s Day?”

“Mmmm…no one, I guess.”

“No one? And on Woman’s Day two weeks later will you be getting someone something? A card? Flowers? Mmmm…chocolate?

“No.” He looked down and away, his lower lip protruding slightly.

“Aw…I’ll bet you get a nice present on Soldier’s Day,” I said, as I rinsed cool water through the towel into a bowl.

Wiping around the bite, I moved the cloth higher on his leg. Although he appeared to have a good deal of body hair, a patch of hair had grown around the bite. Blond and not too noticeable, as with the rest of his hair, it was growing in rather densely around the bite.

“Have you always had this patch of hair here…on your thigh?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“Let’s look at the other leg.” Pulling the hospital gown off the other leg I saw no patch in the same location.

“That’s odd. Have the doctors asked you about this?”

“No,” he said. “Come to think of it, I don’t remember it being there yesterday”

With a slight bit of guilt, I thought of an opportunity to possibly help this man and at the same time add a little exhilaration to the tedious nature of my “volunteer” work.

“Well, then…we will have to have a look at the rest of you then,” I said in a very authoritative matter-of-fact manner. “Let’s get this gown off of you…hands up!”

He hesitated at first, looking askance at me, perhaps to see if I was serious. I was. Not that I really thought I would find anything out of the ordinary, but I seriously wanted to see him lie in the bed without any cover while I pretended to examine him for medicinal reasons.

Removing his gown, I eased him back down on the bed. Maintaining my professional tone, I asked, “Okay, lieutenant, shall we lower the blanket, too? Or will it get too chilly for you?” Not waiting for an answer, I walked over to the door. “I’ll just close this up and keep out the draft.”

Walking back toward him I saw a thick chest, muscular and forested with golden blond hairs, and a flat, hardened stomach with a golden trail of hair running down to a place beneath the blanket.

Standing over him, I placed my hand on the blanket. “Now, soldier, let’s see where else you have a patch of hair.” I grinned as he made eye contact with me. It was plainly obvious to him now that I was playing a game and clearly taking advantage of the situation. His grin met mine as I slowly lowered the blanket.

“Oh…well! I see that you are indeed a furry one! And well proportioned …lieutenant!” Looking down on this naked fighting man I felt something stir within. He did not seem very bashful at all, evidently quite proud of himself. Placing my hands on his chest I ran them down to feel all of him. I noticed that he also had a patch of hair growing on his arm where he had been bitten.

“You feel so strong,” I said. “Is that from your training?”

“Some. I’ve felt stronger, though, since that night in the forest.” My hands rubbed his thighs near the bite; moving closer to the growing vitality between them, I listened.

“My senses, too. I never told the doctor this, but I can read without my glasses now. Ohhh…mmmm.” He smiled and was now breathing deep as I was stroking him slowly.

“Really, lieutenant? Has anything else heightened since the lupa bit you?” Noting the quickness of his erection, I teased, “Your sense of arousal, perhaps?”

“Yes,” he panted. “And smell. I could smell you as you walked in the door. It’s much stronger now.”

“Really?” I said in mock surprise. “And what do you smell?”

“You.”

Stroking harder, I asked, “Me?”

He arched his back and looked up at me. I had opened my blouse and was leaning over him. Gazing at my breasts he ran short of breath and answered: “Yes, you–a musky smell, pungent and sweet.”

“Well, sir, you do without a doubt have a keen sense of scent, as I am feeling very musky indeed,” I giggled a bit, and then watched as he began to convulse on the table before me. My pace quickened. Arching his back further he groaned. Then to my surprise he growled as thick fluid spewed up and then landed to coat his chest.

“Oh my!” I cooed. “Look at this messy soldier. What to do?” As he tried to catch his breath I wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Perhaps we should just let it dry? What would the nurses say?”

Reaching up he held me from the back of my neck and brought me closer for a kiss. Our mouths open, our tongues searching and entwined, we locked in embrace. Then I raised my head and began to wipe the puddles from his chest. Leaving some droplets mixed in with his forested golden torso, I licked the hairs free of this heavy nectar and suckled the remnants into my mouth. Licking his nipples I bit them each softly, and then rising up, I smiled.

“All clean lieutenant…?”

“Call me Dmitri.”

“Oh? We are on a first-name basis now?” I mocked.

“Aren’t you a sassy one! I’ve got half a mind to get right up and turn you over my knee!” He smirked.

Leaning in to him I pulled his blanket up and whispered, “I’m Nadya. I think now it’s late enough for you to take your medication.”

“Okay,” he said. “Nurse’s orders.”

I gathered my clipboard and shawl and turned to leave, heels clicking again as I walked to the door. Before opening it, I let the clipboard slip from my hands. It clattered on the floor, as I acted shocked that it had fallen. Pulling my skirt up a bit I carefully bent at my waist to retrieve it. Knees straight, fingers touching the floor I lingered in that position for an extended amount of time—long enough for Dmitri to get a good look, a memory to hold in his mind until I returned. A vision of the top of my white stockings, laced and seamed, traveling up to my mid-thigh, then stopping to expose bare, olive-toned skin and the roundness of my behind trimmed in white lace. Very unladylike I was, holding this position for a man to remember me. But I certainly did want him to remember. I knew he would look. Men always do.

III

The next morning I was in the apothecary with Aunt Larisa. It was warm for February and I opened the back windows that overlooked the courtyard. The birds were chirping loudly. It was their mating season. How nature works in such duality, I thought; birds, rabbits, people…all things the same. Larisa was discussing the Lupercalia festival with some kindred customers from the mountains. The clan celebration was scheduled, as always, for February 15, two weeks after the more private Grove of Luperci ritual. This year was my first year participating in the private ritual reserved for members of the Grove. I certainly enjoyed it. It was private, since we practiced shape-shifting and the end of the ritual for those properly initiated and instructed. I had run through the forest that night, free and energized by the Moon. I still felt a tingling sensation as I recalled that evening’s festivities just a short time before—the ritual flogging, the beauty of the words used to invoke Spirit and the nakedness of the participants.

Tradition for the clan celebration called for unwed women to put their names in an urn, the same urn my grandmother brought from the Carpathian Mountains—the same urn kept by our tribal elders and handed down from the time of the Valentinian emperor of Rome. Our names would be drawn by eligible men. We would then be coupled with that man for seven days of intimacy that many times led to close courtship and marriage. This was of course after the ritual of purification called Februare; which then ended with the Festival of the Lupercalia.

This year I wanted to bring Dmitri. If he came with me, I would not be eligible to put my name in the urn, since it would be assumed that we would couple off to ourselves. I’d never tried to bring a man before.

I told Aunt Larisa about him. She was worried because he was a soldier. He may not care for it and tell his superiors, who would undoubtedly arrest us, as most Old World customs had been replaced or banned along with modern customs closely associated with any organized religion. I thought of telling him it was a Soldier’s Day/Woman’s Day celebration, the closest this Russia allows for the Valentinian coupling ritual. It would be a risk, but his bites should ease the integration.

IV

Two days later I was back at the hospital. After completing my usual duties I headed up to his floor. Excited to see him again, I stopped in the ladies’ restroom and pulled my hair out from a bun, brushed it down to the center of my back, repositioned the white hat on my head, applied a small amount of dark red lipstick and unfastened the top two buttons of my blouse. Reaching into my purse I removed a small bottle of musk oil mixed with jasmine extract; my own personal scent that I had mixed at the apothecary. I applied small amounts to my neck and wrists. Then, with a fiendish grin, I raised my white skirt and rubbed a little into my inner thigh…just in case, I thought. Adjusting my brassiere, I smiled—no mercy.

Heading down the hall, I carefully avoided the head nurse, as neither my hair nor my blouse was regulation. Upon entering, I kept my head down and walked in casually. Looking up, I was about to speak and was then quite startled to see that he had changed into a fat, balding senior officer in for a prostate operation!

“Why, hello, dear,” he said, looking up and smiling at me as he lay on his stomach, a pillow tucked under his chin. His rather large backside was propped up by the bed and exposed in the air. “Are you here for my pre-op treatment? I didn’t expect such a pretty one! I will thank the general for this for sure!”

Before I could respond the doctor walked in behind me.

“Hello Nadya,” he said. “I didn’t know you where assigned to Col. Zainsk.”

“No, doctor,” I replied in a panicked voice. “I was here to check on Lt. Kirov. Has he been moved?”

“Oh, how unfortunate for him! He was released yesterday,” said the doctor as he noticed my blouse unbuttoned. Looking up, he grinned. “I never knew you had such beautiful dark hair. It really complements your eyes. And just what is that wonderful fragrance?” He mocked.

Meekly, I replied, “Musk sir, with jasmine.” Looking down in utter embarrassment I desperately hoped for a way out. Then it arrived.

“Sorry I’m late, doctor,” said Nurse Pestovo entering in a hurried fashion, her overcoat still on. “My train was stopped for random inspection—three people forgot their papers! Such incompetence! The sergeant had to radio in for name verification. He had one man removed!” She exclaimed proudly.

I never liked Nurse Pestovo. She was a stickler for rules and regulations, always trying to impress the doctors, bucking for promotion, riding the volunteers.

“Nadya?” Noticing that I was in the room, she asked: “are you assigned to—”

“No she isn’t!” The doctor interrupted. “She was looking for Lt. Kirov.”

“Oh?” She asked.

“I’ll be going now. Off duty soon,” I muttered. Turning toward the colonel I waved and shouted, “Good luck with your operation!”

I scurried out and down the hall. My eyes swelled with tears of disappointment and embarrassment. I heard laughter from the room I had just escaped.

Spotting Nurse Pokrov at the seventh floor desk I stopped. She was always very nice to me. We had taken lunch together often. Recently engaged to a major, she was rarely in a bad mood.

“Hi Valyusha!” I said, trying not to appear upset. “Do you have a cigarette?” I asked.

“You should just go through the nurses training classes. Then you could afford your own cigarettes,” she said sarcastically.

“I know…” I said.

“You know I’m just kidding you, dear! Is something wrong?”

“Umm, no. Just a little fatigued. You know how it goes.”

“Did Nurse Pestovo get on you again? Just say the word! I’ll tell my fiancé and he will ask General Krichev to transfer her!” She said proudly, holding her hand up to view her ring.

“No; thank you, though,” I replied. “Actually…I was wondering if you could check on something for me.”

“Oh? What?”

“Lt. Kirov, you have a record for him, don’t you?”

“Probably; he was released yesterday,” she said as she scanned through the files. “Yes, right here; haven’t processed the exiting paperwork yet, so it’s still here.” Looking at his file photo, she blurted, “Oh, he’s a cute one!”

Looking up at me she took notice that my hair was down and I had more makeup on than usual. “Oh, Nadya,” she said with a bright smile, “Now I get it!” Batting her eyes, she chuckled.

Embarrassed, I replied, “Promise you won’t tell!”

“You know I won’t!” Smirking, she handed me the file.

I quickly wrote down his address. He lived off base, fortunately, in downtown Saratov. A wave of anxiety suddenly washed over me. His apartment was near the red-light district! Again, I rifled through the file. Looking up at Valyusha I could tell she was getting nervous.

“Hurry! If Pestovo or a doctor walks by I’ll get in trouble!”

“Almost done.”

There it was...his medical history. Scanning down the page I felt a bit silly, but why not? The information was right here and please—he lived right by all the bars where those…women…frequented.

Oh good! What a relief. No social diseases.

“He’s clean.” I stated with an air of self-imposed authority.

Valyusha broke out in laughter. “You checked that!” Laughing again, she said, “Oh, you must be serious! Well—” taking the file back, “good luck to you.”

I hurried down the hall, ready to sign out for the night.

“Did you still want that cigarette?” She called out as I left.

I did not answer.

V

The next morning I found it difficult to rise. Wondering what to do, what with the holiday fast approaching—was I to just walk up and knock on his door? My aunt was watching the store this morning. I was not due to arrive until lunchtime, when more people left their offices and strolled down the streets for fresh air, some stopping in to have a look around and others to pick up a specific item.

Reaching over to my nightstand I clutched the paper again. It was a bit wrinkled, as I had quickly shoved it into my purse the previous evening. I had to go to him. He didn’t even know yet what was going to happen. If my aunt knew, she would throw a fit. He would probably be staying home for another day or so. Most patients were not required to report for duty right after being released from the hospital.

“Good morning!” I greeted my aunt earlier than she had come to expect, surprising her a bit.

“Nadya? It’s only ten,” she said while checking the wall clock that hung over the granite bowl and grinder workstation—an area of the shop where I spent a good part of my day mixing and granulating different dried herbs, plants, flowers, stems, and roots.

“Didn’t you work late at the hospital?” She asked, broom in hand, as she swept the floor in front of the counter.

“No. I ended up leaving at my normal time. The patient recovered quickly and was released early,” I responded in the vaguest terms possible.

“Well, I appreciate you coming in, anyway. The High Priestess phoned from Penza,” she continued as she resumed sweeping the floor. “She wanted to know if we had a count of how many from Saratov would be attending the Lupercan festival tomorrow night. I told her you were thinking of bringing a guest.”

I stopped walking to the backroom. Holding my shawl in my arms before hanging it on the hook, I froze.

“What did she say?” I called out.

Aunt Larisa stopped sweeping, looked up, and smiled, “You know Lilichka!” She laughed. “She wanted all the details! ‘How tall is he? What does he look like? Is he handsome?’ Of course I told her that he was; since I doubt you would be so smitten if it were not the case!”

I chuckled lightly as I hung my shawl. Lilichka was always speaking of men that she met. She was widowed over ten years ago. I recalled the night she told me about him. A very proud man, refusing to leave Romania with the others; instead, he remained to join the Underground and fight the Nazi occupation. Two years later he was captured and shot before the Soviets were able to take the area.

Walking over toward the workstation, I was optimistic.

“I told her that he was a soldier,” she added.

No longer optimistic, I had to ask, “And…what did she say?”

With much sobriety, she replied, “Well, she stopped asking questions.” Looking away, she was unsure how to tell me. This could only mean bad news, I thought.

“And…” I was growing impatient.

“And she said that she would trust my judgment.”

Larisa looked at me very intently. She was waiting to see if I was going to react. Also, she was trying to look for clues: Did I show any guilt, was I trying to hide anything, and, if so, what was it? I could also read her thoughts; easily betrayed by the message in her eyes.

“Now, I need you to level with me right now.” She said in a very stern tone. The same tone she used with my mother; who often criticized the Old Ways practiced by my grandmother and great Aunt Larisa.

Unable to keep it from her any longer, I just let it drop, “I think he is becoming a bodark,” I revealed, using the Russian word for werewolf.

Her stare had broken. Looking away, she gasped, trying to dismiss it.

Resuming the sweeping, she asked, “And why do you believe that?”

I explained the bite marks, the hair growing around them, the fully waxed moon, his extraordinarily hard muscle tone, the sharper senses, and his corrected vision.

“This happened at the last full moon?” She asked.

“Yes, near Penza,” I added.

Leaning the broom against the counter, she approached me. Hands cupping the sides of my face, she looked deeply into my eyes and for a moment said nothing. I waited. Then she spoke, “Nadya…what did you do?” Not waiting for an answer she moved her hands to her hips and with a rising anger she scolded, “It was supposed to be his choice!”

I turned my back and started to pack some select herbs for a tea, then began to search for a specific plant that was no longer where I had left it.

“Where’s the moonflower?” I asked with a touch of authority.

“Oh? Planning to finish the job?” She mocked.

I stood with one hand on my hip and a look of dreadful sobriety on my face. Evidently realizing that it was too late to alter my course of action, but not too late to simply make the best of it, she answered, “I moved it to the back. It was getting too much light up here.”

Running to the back I found it sitting next to the incense blocks. I still had not cut them into smaller, more salable pieces. Carefully taking only one of the moonflower plants, I wrapped it in burlap and placed it in my cloth shoulder bag on top of the herb tea ingredients. Grabbing my shawl, I headed back out to leave through the front door.

“Not staying?” She asked, not expecting an answer. Before the door could close behind me, my great Aunt Larisa asked with a slight smile, “Oh Nadya?”

I looked back.

“Is he fair?”

Returning her smile, I answered, “Belarusian,” and then left.

VI

Walking over to that part of town wasn’t as bad as I had expected. Late morning did not draw out too many undesirables. Most of the taverns were not even open yet and most of the patrons were still sleeping it off from the night before.

The old bakeries were open. I could smell the bread and rolls; the old man in the window of one waved at me. I smiled, unable to wave, as I held my shoulder bag close with one had and my shawl closed with the other. He held up a loaf of bread, encouraging me to come in and try some; perhaps even buy, but I continued to walk.

Around the corner now and down the hill, the road was brick and shining. It had rained early this morning. The grey cloud cover prevented the Sun from drying it up. It was a bit cool still. Mid-February was never very warm here, but my thick shawl helped a lot. It was heavy wool, burgundy with tasseled trim. My grandmother made it herself and my mother gave it to me when I started to work nights at the hospital.

Looking at the address again, I was glad when I reached the bottom of the hill. One right turn past the old warehouse and I should find his building. It was brick, old and at the corner. I went in and was horrified to find his name listed on the highest floor in a building that had no elevator. I then removed my shawl, climbed seven floors up, knocked, and waited.

Fortunately, he was not used to opening the door to a sweaty woman with her chest heaving with breath. He appeared a little shocked and taken aback, but so was I. He now had a beard, golden and beautiful, but full and about three inches long. His shirt was off. The definition in the cut of his muscles was impressive, but he looked bigger, and there was much more hair than just two days earlier.

Breaking the silence, I said, “Hi. I heard you were released, so I brought a few medicinal plants that I thought would help.”

“I feel good,” he said. “But come on in! I’m very glad to see you again—just a little surprised, that’s all.”

Closing the door behind me, he took the shawl from my hand, as well as my bag, and put them on the dining table. “I’d offer you something but all I have is the beef I bought yesterday. Usually I eat on the base.”

“Oh, that’s okay. Do you have a teapot? I can make you…us…some.” I opened the bag and showed him the dried herbs that I brought from the apothecary. Not sure what to make of all the plant life in my shoulder bag, he halfheartedly agreed.

Spotting the pot on the stove, I emptied the water into the sink and started some fresh water boiling.

“Have you been lifting weights lately?”

“Not really—I just started again today. I couldn’t believe it. I benched twice what I used to, but I haven’t lifted since before that night in the forest. I’m certainly not complaining, but I can’t understand why I feel so much stronger now.”

Okay. Now let’s see what he has to say about the hair growth, I thought.

“I like the beard! You didn’t have that when I last saw you. Did you?” I asked.

“No.” Stroking his face, he proudly continued. “I shaved the day you saw me. This is just two days!” He walked up behind me as I was steeping the tea into the large thick mug I found in his cabinet. Placing one arm around my waist while his other hand pulled my hair over and off my shoulder, he nuzzled his chin into my neck.

“Do you like it?” He cooed in my ear.

“It tickles!” Giggling, I turned. Holding me around the waist, he pulled me closer.

“I never kissed you hello,” he said, his mouth drifting toward mine.

Oh! I thought, here it comes! Our lips connected and tongues intertwined. It was soft, but more forceful than at the hospital; there was much more confidence in this one. It tickled again.

“I have an idea!” Still holding on to him I continued, “I’ll trim your beard! Do you have a pair of scissors I can use?”

“Yes, so you don’t like it? It’s just that it came in so fast—”

“Oh no, I like it a lot.” I said while brushing his face with one hand. “I’ll just trim it so it’s more kempt. Sit down here and have some tea.”

I wanted to trim it before the tea kicked in. One side effect of slowing the transformation process was drowsiness. Once asleep, he would remain that way for a while.

Grabbing a towel from the bathroom, then scissors off his desk, I returned. “It looks like you were writing a letter?” I asked.

“Yes. My father lives back in Minsk. He’s a factory manager. He doesn’t travel much, so I was just telling him about Saratov.”

“He must be very proud of you,” I said, encouraging him to talk as I snipped away. “Was he in the army, too?”

“Yes, in the early part of the war. He was injured in Poland. He spent the rest of the war working in a munitions factory. Then, afterward, his old commanding officer wrote him and asked if he wanted to run a textile plant.”

“Well, that was nice of him,” I said, tilting his chin up a bit.

“Yeah, he was the same guy who recommended me for officer training school. I might not have been a cadet if it were not for him. My dad saved him from a German grenade blast. Dove on him and pushed him out of the way. That’s how Dad’s leg got hit with shrapnel.”

“Well he was quite a hero then!” Looking proudly at my work, I announced, “There…now it looks more like you grew a beard on purpose instead of just deciding not to shave anymore!”

“Hey! I thought you liked it.”

“Oh, I do.” Kissing him again before I gave him his tea the ingredients of which were charged enough to slow his transformation process a bit, but not stop it.

“Oh, that’s right, you’re the sassy one!”

“I am not.” I said while protruding my lower lip and moving my hips.

“Yes you are!”

Turning around, I teased. Hands on my hips, I pushed my butt out a bit, cotton dress clinging to my form, I replied: “I’m not sassy!”

Reaching around my waist he pulled me onto his lap. Tickling my ribs and pinching my backside, he offered the anticipated retort, “Yes, you are!”

“And this is what you get!” Flipping me over his lap he held me down and began to spank me. It didn’t really hurt; it was mostly just a shock. I had never been spanked, even when I was young and my parents told me that I had misbehaved. He just continued while telling me how sassy I was! It was a very different sensation; not simply physical, it had an emotional impact as well.

I began to feel very vulnerable, at his mercy; I did trust him. If he wished to take advantage or harm me he had already had plenty of opportunity since I had arrived. I could tell that his intention was something other. It did sting a bit, but what I felt most was the sense of vulnerability, defenseless, unable to stop him—along with strong overtones of arousal.

So I played along.

“Ouch!” I shook my legs, feet in the air. He pulled my hair back with one hand and spoke closely to my ear.

“You better stop trying to get away. It will just be worse for you.” I let my legs down and whimpered.

“Now, pull your dress up and out of the way,” he said in a reserved tone. I hesitated. “Right now, I said!”

Allowing me to stand, I reached down and began to raise my dress. Looking at him intently, I stopped. Noticing my hesitation, once again he cleared his throat and raised his eyebrow in expectation. He smiled and waited.

Looking down I slowly raised my dress up and over my stockings. Stopping again, I looked at him. Viewing me in approval, he reached out and touched the exposed flesh above my stocking. Looking up into my eyes he said, “Higher dear…all the way up now.”

I smiled and up it went. He breathed deeply.

“You’re getting musky again, sweetheart.” His hand slid up to the dark patch of hair showing through the whiteness of my panties. Rubbing softly he felt the moisture seeping through the thin lace fabric.

He continued. “Yes, I think you are a sassy one indeed. It’s time you get back over my knee.” He tapped his leg as I noticed once again the strength showing in his biceps and chest, his stomach cut with tones of muscular display, golden hair forested about.

Without hesitation I knelt over his lap. Holding my dress up high, I obeyed.

“Ohhh…Aren’t you being good now! See what a good spanking will do for you?” Not waiting for an answer, he continued. “Now…I remember a sassy girl who pulled a blanket all the way down with out even asking! So, we will just have to do without these!”

Pulling my panties down to my knees, he snickered. I gasped.

He began to rub the cheeks of my bottom, kneading them, commenting on their roundness. Occasionally allowing them to spread open, I felt waves of shame and excitement.

Pulling back on my hair again he said, “Such pretty dark hair. I think you’re ready to finish your spanking now. Don’t you agree?”

Another tug on the hair. “Nadya…”

“Yes,” I panted.

“Yes what?” He asked.

“Yes…sir?”

“Very good.” Petting me, the spanking continued.

“Well…aren’t you all nice and pink now.” He said while rubbing my backside. I think you may have had enough. Did you learn your lesson?”

“Yes! Yes I did!” I exclaimed.

“Well, there is only one way to know for sure.” He parted my legs and without warning, inserted his finger inside me. I yelped, and then shamefully moaned. Grinding my hips into his hand, I pushed harder.

Chuckling a little, he said, “Well, you sure learned something!”

I stood up and removed the rest of my dress, then my brassiere. Allowing my panties to fall to the floor, I untied the rope on his athletic sweat pants and reached inside.

“So what lesson did you learn?” He asked.

Fully erect, he had evidently learned his lesson, too. I straddled him, and then drew him inside.

Enveloping him, I answered: “I learned that it pays to be sassy!”

VII

The next morning I awoke before sunrise. The Moon was still somewhat high and was shining through the skylight. Rising slowly from the bed I walked naked across the room. I felt my way across, being careful to not bump anything and make noise. It was one large room; one of those converted warehouse apartments near the river, cafes, and nightclubs. The perfect place for a handsome, single Russian Army officer living off base; I scowled.

Finding my shoulder bag where I left it on the dining table, I pulled out the moonflower. I brought the entire plant: roots, leaves, stems, and flowers still attached. Walking back over to the bed, he was still asleep. Pulling the blanket down to his knees, I saw him again—like the hospital, on his back, exposed, naked, and waiting.

Placing the moonflower on his torso, the top of the plant in the center of his chest, and the roots near his now sleeping member, I straddled his waist and in a low whisper began the spell:

“O Februus please hear my prayer

Your faithful servant Nadya summons you

O god to Februa

Goddess of the Moon

Please guide me this troubled day

It is I Nadya

Granddaughter to Valentina

Our Lasa of old

Who seeks forgiveness and exception to your natural law

I have found him O Februus

I have found him alas!

Although he is unknowing

He is truly worthy

Golden is he

Lupo he shall be

Let him be mine

Your servant forever I be”

 

I looked up through the skylight and saw the Moon. Shining brightly through the glass, I felt Her warmth. Exhausted, I laid down on his chest, my breasts crushing the moonflower between us. We slept past the dawn.

VIII

“What the…” Feeling the scratchy nature of a plant pressed between us, he rolled us to the side. The mid-morning Sun was shining brightly through the windowed ceiling.

“Morning!” I said before we kissed, trying to distract him from the inevitable conversation regarding the plant that was sandwiched between us.

He picked up the moonflower by its stem, examined it, and then looked over at me.

“It’s a moonflower!” I said. “It has special properties.”

“Okay…what’s it doing in bed with us?” He asked.

“Oh, you know us gypsy girls,” I flirted. “We’re always doing silly things like this. It’s a kind of love charm.” I paused. “You know, where I come from, this is the time of year when lovers choose one another,” I said as I nuzzled up closer and began to kiss and lick his chest.

“Really?” He said, acting as though he knew nothing of what I spoke. “Does that mean we would have to sleep with different plants, or just this one?”

Taking the moonflower from his hand I pouted, “Oh…you won’t understand.” I turned to the other side of the bed, my back facing him.

He began to stroke my hair, and then from behind he moved closer, lying next to me, his body forming to mine, as a spoon. He began to kiss the back of my ear, softly. Reaching around in front of me with one hand, he cupped my right breast, squeezing, his hand firm and large, darkened by the sun, in sharp contrast to the fair olive tone of my torso.

I turned to my back. Looking over to him I said nothing and just waited with my lips parted. He smiled while stroking my hair. Placing his lips upon my own, I felt the wetness of his tongue penetrate my mouth. With one leg stretching over my waist and an arm reaching across he kneaded my breast as we kissed.

“Mmmm…a full body hug,” I said, approvingly.

“So are we choosing each other?” He asked.

“Well, we’re made to think that it’s our choice. We all have free will, but sometimes a higher power guides us into what we believe is our choice. And sometimes we just fall victim to Cupid’s Arrow…or Lupa’s Bite.” I chuckled while reaching down to cup him between the legs. Stroking him, I moved closer for a kiss.

IX

The percolator signaled that our coffee was ready and I scrambled over to pour it into cups. He had no milk, but plenty of sugar. Much to my surprise, he also had a toaster for bread and a fry pan with pre-scrambled eggs in a carton stored in the icebox.

“I’ve never seen this type of eggs before,” I commented.

“They’re from the base. I bring some home once in a while. It’s not always easy to find fresh eggs in the markets, and they keep longer.”

He was reading today’s Pravda, delivered to his door in the morning. Setting the paper down, he took a sip of coffee, and then picked up the crushed moonflower sitting on the table.

“So, what kind of plant is this?”

I put two plates on the table, both with scrambled eggs and toast. “It’s a very sacred plant; harvested only at night when it’s in full bloom. It’s called a moonflower.”

“Sacred?” He asked with skepticism.

“Yes.” Now was the time. There would be no better time, I thought. “Tribal lore has handed down customs and secrets from one generation to the next over several centuries. My people practice them and hold them very close and dear. It’s not only part of our culture; it’s in the very fabric of what we are. We brought them with us from Moldavia when we fled the Nazis; they treated the Roma just like they treated the Jews.

“Some of our practices are indigenous. Others were brought to us under Roman occupation of Romania over 1800 years ago. The Festival of Lupercalia is one such custom; it deals with ritual purification under the waxing moon, honoring the time of the wolf that rules the night but brings more light with the lengthening of the day. It’s also a festival of mating and fertility, celebrated every February. It was later renamed and changed a great deal by the church. We mixed in our own lore and it has been practiced wherever Roma live, just like it was by the Romany of the Carpathian Mountains. In the west it is now known as St. Valentine’s Day.

“How does the wolf become part of romantic holiday?”

“In ancient times, the wolf was a symbol of strength and fertility. The priest would sacrifice a goat, because of its high sex drive, to the goddess Luperca, or the she-wolf said to have raised Romulus and Remus in a cave. Years later, two young men were chosen once a year in mid-February to run naked through the village with floggers, or lustare, made of the sacrificed goat skin to lash the women who would run outside to meet them. It was said that if lashed three times with the sacred skin a woman would have easy childbirth and enjoy increased fertility. After that, they would feast. Then the eligible women would enter their names in a sort of lottery, to see who they would be coupled with for the next year. Today we just pick a Valentine card.”

“That sounds a lot simpler.” He said sarcastically. Holding up the plant again, he asked, “And where does this fit in?”

“The moonflower represents all five of the Natural Elements,” I continued. “The roots are part of the Earth, the stem transports Water, the leaves blow in the Air, the flower combusts and explodes like Fire and the invisible fragrance has power and is likened to Spirit. Also, the flower is white and opens only after sunset, which links it to the Moon, and the leaves are heart-shaped, linking it to Venus, the Goddess of Love.”

I took the moonflower from his hand and began picking the seeds out of some of the buds. Placing them carefully in a small pile, I added, “and the seeds, if consumed properly, possess a mild hallucinogenic quality. They are used in many different rituals conducted by shamans.”

“Well!” He said. “That’s quite a plant! Are you a shaman? What are you going to do with the seeds?”

Looking up at him I smirked and replied, “They’re much better than vodka.” He looked over to the bottle of Stolichnaya on the countertop.

X

After finishing breakfast we showered and then sat on the couch. I informed him that the festival was later that evening and he agreed to come with me. We still had most of the afternoon to play. He had a small bag of tobacco he used to hand roll cigarettes. I asked him to make us one. Before he sealed it, I stopped him and dropped several moonflower seeds inside to mix with the tobacco. Together we smoked on the couch.

We listened to Vladimir Vysotsky of the phonograph. Dmitri liked his music a lot. I enjoyed the bardic nature of his recordings. Most of his music was folksy, something I was used to, although they dealt with war topics of honor and emotional strength to demonstrate one’s character. The tempo was moderate, but they were all mostly happy songs about soldiers.

The moonflower seeds soon took effect and we felt a tingling sensation. We were cuddled into the corner of the couch. He wore his robe and I wore one of his uniform shirts. It was recently worn and unwashed. I liked it like that, as his scent was still apparent. I left the buttons open in the front except for the lower three. It was long enough on me to cover my lower tummy and almost my entire backside.

After finishing the cigarette we started kissing again. Sensations were accentuated due to the moonflower seeds. Each touch was so much more pronounced. Each caress raised goose bumps on my body.

His body was even more muscular than the previous day. His scent was stronger, too, even though we had showered just a short time ago. His beard was noticeably longer, but did not need to be trimmed yet. Soon, I thought, the transition would be complete, or completely reversed. It would depend on how he took to tonight’s ritual.

We still had about an hour before we would have to leave for Penza. The moonflower would soon wear off. I decided to take advantage of it as much as I could. Getting up on his waist, I straddled him. Reaching down, I stroked him to arousal. He unbuttoned and removed his shirt from me and pushed my breasts together, pulling them closer to him. His lips parted and he took them in, one at a time.

Feeding from my nipples like a newborn, he strained with hunger. Caressing my breasts, I felt very inflamed and tender. I positioned myself on him and lowered myself down. He filled me, and I no longer felt a wanton emptiness inside. Up and down I went, until I thought of something so naughty I felt embarrassed to say it aloud.

Leaning forward I put my tongue in his ear. We were breathing heavily, and the pace quickened. Then, between thrusts, I whispered to him, “Dmitri…”

Holding me by the flesh of my thighs he helped me pump up and down.

“Yes, Nadya?” he panted.

As the pace quickened even more, it just came out.

“Spank me again!” I demanded.

He did.

XI

An hour and a half later we were riding in a small, uncovered all wheel drive military vehicle up into the mountains. It wasn’t a very comfortable ride, as it was not designed for luxury—and the soreness of my behind did not help matters, either. I did not mind though. It was better than the train, or a bus. I didn’t know anyone who had a car. Dmitri was allowed to drive this to and from the base. I think he was breaking a rule.

The Sun was setting as we approached a small Roma encampment about twenty miles southwest of Penza. A trail led off the road through the forest. One could follow the horse tracks, footprints, and wagon marks. He drove straight in, until the path got too narrow. On foot from that point it would be only a few minutes. The trees were very high. Light did not shine through to the ground very brightly, so underbrush was rare. We just walked straight through. If not for the numerous tree trunks, we could have driven the whole way.

I could see the beginnings of a bonfire a short distance straight ahead; there were silhouettes of people dancing and walking about, some in long patched dresses, others in thick suede, furs, and leather. Music was playing—tambourines, guitars, drums, and flutes. I could smell goat cooking on a spit.

Dmitri turned to me, “I guess this is the place?” He asked.

“Yes.” Taking him by the hand, I said, “It’s about to start.”

I brought him in as the circle was forming. The participants were wearing robes. Others stood around the outside of the circle. Two robes were left for us on the altar near the fire. I gave the larger one to Dmitri and began to change into the other. He stopped, noticing the lack of privacy.

“We’re late! Come on!” I whispered to him.

He stripped down to his shorts and began to put on the robe. I held his hand to get his attention, he looked over to me and was shocked to see me pull down my panties, remove my bra, and then cover with the robe. I yanked down his shorts and, slapping his butt, said, “Much better! Now put on the robe!”

Joining the circle we stood and were each given a torch by the high priest, dressed in a wolf skin cloak. He smiled at me. Looking over to Dmitri he placed one hand on his shoulder and nodded in the affirmative. We then listened as he and the high priestess spoke. I held Dmitri’s hand as he heard the story of the wolf god Lupercus:

“We gather today at this sacred time to honor Lupercus, god of the winter forest, bringer of light, great hunter of old, protector of Romulus and Remus and the kings of shepherds. It is the time for all to rejoice, as our numbers are growing larger with each passing year. We came to this land few, now we are many, Lupercus serving as a guide in the time ruled by Februus, dating back to the Time of Old; a time when our ways were practiced by all, and in the open.”

The circle rotated Sun wise toward the high priest, each member of the circle lighting their torch and bowing before the altar, then each resumed their former position in the circle and the high priestess then spoke alone:

“O Ancient One, please hear us now. Join us this night and pass on the spirit of the wolf to us all. Ignite the seeds buried deep in the Earth. Excite the Mother Goddess beyond her passion. Enflame the belly of the maiden and bring forth the birth of spring. Renew our strength!”

Each woman handed her torch to the man next to her and dropped her robe. Each man in turn handed both torches to the woman next to him and dropped his robe. Each person then held, once again, one torch, and was naked in the firelight.

We each followed the circle around to the altar where the high priest and priestess stood, each with lustare in hand. Participants were given the lash, three times by each, once across each breast and once across the backside. Upon striking a participant, the high priest or priestess would exclaim, “It is the time of the wolf!”

After the lashing, one was considered purified. He or she would then take their place before the altar, squatting nude on the ground to practice shape shifting. Some were successful and others were not; those that were sat on the ground and growled, licking their paws.

Dmitri and I were last. Other couples had begun to pair off before the altar, making love on the ground. He stepped before the high priestess and she visually examined him. Then she took the chalice filled with wine, charged it with the goatskin lustare by wrapping it around the chalice. Giving me the chalice of red wine, she exclaimed, “Behold the Great Golden Wolf!”

I held the chalice down to his private parts and dipped him inside. Some of the wine spilled out as I pushed it up to cover him completely. He stood with his hands on top of his head as the high priestess awaked him to the lash, then the high priest did the same. I quickly removed the chalice and, while looking directly at him, I watched him begin to transform.

“Behold the Great Golden Wolf!” I said as I drank down the wine, fresh with the essence of the male wolf god. His hair grew longer. The pace of his transformation quickened. He was a natural shape shifter. His muscles bulged and bones made a crackling sound as they moved about. He fell to all fours and his back arched. He howled and grimaced. Hair grew over his entire body, golden blond hair. He was the Chosen One of the forest. I chose him, with the guidance of Februus, on this day of Lupercalia.

The other changed wolves looked on, bowing their heads by laying flat on the ground, chins pressing the soil. He stood on all fours, high on the altar, very proud, as god of the winter forest, bringer of light; golden light from the Golden Wolf.

Then I took to the lash, once on each breast, and turning around, I held my knees, once across the bottom. I then repeated the same for the high priest. Turning to the small crowd of shape shifting wolves, the priest and priestess said, as before, in unison, “Behold the time of the wolf!”

Then I changed again. Changing as I did a short time ago before running through the forest on the night of the last full Moon, the night I first saw Dmitri. There he had been, walking quietly through the woods. Quiet, like a hunter, weapon in hand, he moved through the sticks and branches so brightly illuminated with her light as it reflected off the newly fallen snow. I saw him. I was crouched in the bush. A huntress watching my prey, I saw blond hair. Shining in the moonlight, he moved, and he was alone.

Connected to others only by the squelching noise coming out of a transmitter attached to his belt, he was alone—as a wolf is alone, part of a pack, but hunting unaccompanied. Unable to domesticate, a wolf makes for a poor dog. A wolf must always be free—free to hunt, free to roam, and free to mate. Now is the time, I thought. That’s when I bit him. We were joined. I chose him.

I jumped next to him and nuzzled under his chin. It was warm and throbbing with power. He jumped from the altar and dashed into the brush. I followed.

We ran. On all fours we ran, as wolves through the forest. He led and I followed. We could smell and see it all: the trees, the plants, smoke from the fire, other animals, Nature in its purest form. He ran to the highest hilltop, and I followed. Then we stopped.

His tail wagged as we looked from the top of the mountain into the night sky. We could see the lights from the cities—Saratov to the south, Penza to the north. We could see the light of the fire, and dark patches where trees and boulders broke through the late winter snow. A thick, dark, twisting line separated the landmass. It was the Volga River making its way to the Caspian Sea. It was all aglow by the light of the Moon. In a bluish white, all was illuminated.

He nuzzled to me, rubbing his wet nose onto mine—a kiss of sorts. We would change back after the Moon waned. Then back again when the Moon was full. Respecting the cycle was the most important part. Knowing when to be ready; being in the right place, around the right people. I would teach him. He was enjoying it. I could tell.

Looking up, he saw the Moon shining down, bathing us in warm white and blue light. We started to howl.

“Ouuuwww…!” We cried, over and over, howling at the Moon to bring more light. We howled at the Moon, paying homage to Februa, Goddess of Night, speaking to Her in a way only two wolves can.

I was going to stay with this one. I knew it. I think he did, too. Of course, the rumbling in my belly said a lot, too. I felt a stirring only a mother can know. Soon I would tell him. There is just one thing that concerns me…I don’t know for sure whether they will be babies or puppies! I guess it depends on the time they come…full Moon or not?

Oh well. Babies or puppies, I know one thing for sure. I’ll be the first in the clan to have cute little blond gypsies to take care of. Everyone will be so jealous!

---

Dominic DiMilano is a scholar of politics, history, and ancient mystical arts. He has traveled to 12 different countries to tour and perform academic, literary, and cultural research. Dominic's web site is www.dominicdimilano.com.