Friends of the Forest

With love to Stephen King.

The past never truly disappears. We only think we’ve left it behind — until it resurfaces in the most unexpected places, reviving forgotten memories and turning our lives upside down. The past returns when the forest, whispering merrily with green leaves, brings back the darkest of your nightmares.

***

Thud-thud… thud-thud… thud-thud… thud-thud.
Ilya Mikhailovich Tumansky leaned back in his seat and grimaced. Who had ever decided that the clatter of train wheels was soothing? It wasn’t.
Since boarding the carriage, his mood had been sinking fast. A dull, shapeless anxiety was growing stronger with every mile.
“We think we rule the material world,” he thought, tapping his fingers on his knee. “But it’s the world that rules us.”

His imagination drew the picture: a monstrous train, a giant iron python, swallowing him whole. It held him captive in its softly lit carriage, dragging him forward, body and mind enslaved by its dark rhythm.

Tumansky looked out the window. In the fading light, the forest flashing past was almost black. A narrow band of gray sky above the treetops was darkening fast. The weight of gloom pressed heavier on him. He cursed himself again for agreeing to this trip.

“Idiot. Gutless idiot,” he muttered under his breath. “When will you start standing up for yourself instead of letting people pull your strings? You’re old enough, respected enough. It’s time to do what you want — not what everyone else keeps milking you for.”

The outburst wasn’t aimed at himself, but at Nelly Ruvaeva — editor-in-chief of the publishing house he’d worked with for years.
At fifty-six, Tumansky was a celebrated writer, one of their top names. His science-fiction novels had sold for nearly two decades, and he had every right to set his own terms. But confronting Madame Ruvaeva was something he had never managed to do.

Hard as flint and sly as a snake, Ruvaeva always got what she wanted. She mixed promises, threats, and flattery in whatever blend the moment required. And she always had two magic phrases up her sleeve — the tempting “increased sales” and the menacing “declining popularity.” No writer alive could resist either for long.

If Tumansky planned a seaside vacation but Madame decided he should visit a reader event in some godforsaken steppe town instead, there was never any doubt where he would end up.

And now, at her insistence again, Ilya was on his way to a small Siberian town called Kochyn — the place where he’d been born and hadn’t set foot in forty-four years. There, a ceremony was planned to unveil a commemorative plaque at the elementary school he’d once attended.

Tumansky dreaded the trip with every aching joint in his body. He had buried the Siberian town of his childhood deep in memory — and not without reason. Those early years had been bleak, shadowed by his father’s drinking and the family’s constant struggle to survive.

The drunken fights, his mother’s tears, the constant draft from the window above his bed — all of it was tied to Kochyn in his mind.
When he was eleven, his father drowned in the river. The body, bloated and ghastly, was found a week later. Shortly after that, his mother gave in to her sister’s pleas and finally agreed to move to Moscow.

Life in the capital turned out better than they expected. Her brother-in-law helped her find a job. They were given a room in a dormitory, and later — a small apartment of their own. Gradually, their little family found its footing again.

The sensitive boy did his best to forget the years spent in the Siberian taiga. With no relatives or friends left in Kochyn, every tie to his hometown was cut — once and for all.

In all the decades that followed, Tumansky had never once gone back — and never felt the slightest urge to.
But Madame Ruvaeva, with her usual iron will, arranged an event under the charming title “The Celebrity Returns Home.” It was meant to give Ilya’s already polished public image an extra shine.

A plaque with a touching inscription had been ordered. Students from his old school were learning passages from his novels, and reporters from two local papers and a regional daily were gearing up to cover the grand occasion.

And so poor Tumansky found himself flying to Irkutsk and then taking the endless train that would, by morning, finally bring him to his destination.

“Oh, come on, don’t make such a face,” Ruvaeva said with a bright smile as she saw him off. “Any normal person would be thrilled to visit their hometown. Besides, your Kochyn has changed completely. I’m told it’s now a little piece of Europe in the middle of the taiga — clean streets, new houses, neat parks and squares.”

“What for, I wonder?” Tumansky gave a skeptical smile. In his mind, he still saw the rutted road outside his childhood home, ending at the old bridge from the Civil War days that spanned the muddy Chulym River.

“Looks like the people of Kochyn got lucky with their local authorities,” Nelly shrugged. “Efficient, energetic — and, best of all, not corrupt.”

She checked her watch and started for the door.
“Oh wow, half past three already. I’ve got a meeting in fifteen minutes. Well then — have a good trip, Ilya!”

Tumansky let out a heavy sigh and glanced at the opposite berth. For now, he was alone in the two-person compartment — enhanced comfort class, both lower bunks.

If only I’m lucky and no one joins me, he thought distantly. Otherwise, it’ll be the usual story—a chatty old lady trying to feed you cold chicken, or even worse – a middle-aged man, dead sure that a night on the train exists solely for pouring alcohol into himself and pouring his soul out to random fellow passengers.

Despite Kochyn’s recent progress, the town still had no airport. The only way to reach it was this very train—slow, with endless stops, dragging its passengers toward their destination.

“I don’t do well on trains,” Ilya had pleaded with Ruvaeva in vain. “You know I have cardiomyopathy!”

“I know, I know,” the editor-in-chief snorted. “And also, the gastritis, the arthritis, and the high blood pressure.”

With a dismissive wave of her hand, she brushed aside all his objections.
“My dear, it’s just a short trip—three days at most. The best thing you can do on a night train is go straight to sleep. The time will fly; you won’t even notice.”

Fair enough, Tumansky thought gloomily, deciding to follow his editor’s advice. I’ll lie down, read a little—and maybe drift off.

He pulled a paperback from his briefcase, bought earlier at the station. On the cover, a muscle-bound man with massive fists glared fiercely while shielding a fragile blonde behind one square shoulder.

A masterpiece from the series “Rough-Tough-Madman Returns,” Tumansky smirked. He had chosen the book on purpose. Experience had taught him that this kind of pulp was reliably dull — and guaranteed to put him to sleep.

The compartment door handle turned, and Ilya looked up in alarm. A fellow passenger already?

His imagination instantly supplied the picture: a brisk, heavyset woman in a bright kerchief, a basket tucked under her arm, forcing her massive body into the narrow space and immediately starting to peel hard-boiled eggs onto his trousers.

But he was wrong. It was only the conductor, checking tickets.

When the door closed behind him, Ilya let out a sigh of relief and turned back to his book. Still, the image of the plump woman with her eggs wouldn’t fade — and he suddenly realized he was hungry. In the rush of getting ready for the trip, he’d skipped lunch.

Tumansky snapped the book shut and pressed his lips together in annoyance.

Damn it. Sure, he could eat in the dining car — but what would they serve on a train like this? Yesterday’s cutlet with sticky pasta? Chicken tough as elephant hide? And he had gastritis, for God’s sake.

Food poisoning guaranteed, Ilya thought grimly, weighing the risk of dinner against the prospect of going to bed hungry.

Hunger won. With a sigh, he got to his feet and headed for the dining car, his mood sinking with every step.

The dining car wasn’t crowded. An elderly couple was attacking their dinner with enthusiasm. A plump, balding man in his forties piled food onto the plate of an equally plump boy with freckles scattered across his nose. At the last table, two young men were lazily sipping beer from tall glasses.

Ilya took a seat at a table in the middle of the car and opened the menu.

Pike perch, trout, borscht… His eyes darted quickly down the list, searching for something safe for his fragile stomach.

“What can I get you?” came a bright, youthful voice just above his ear.

Tumansky looked up, surprised. The waitress had an intelligent, almost refined face, an enchanting smile, and a sparkle in eyes framed by lashes so thick it was impossible to tell their color. To complete the picture—an elegant figure and a mass of chestnut hair, carelessly twisted into a knot at the back of her head.

It was the first time in his life the writer had met a dining-car waitress who looked like that.

“I’ll have… something light, maybe. I’ve got gastritis,” Ilya said hesitantly.

“Only chicken on the light menu!” the pretty waitress announced, her smile widening.

“Oh… well, then chicken, I suppose,” he said, resigned.

“Oh, come on,” she giggled, shaking her head in mock reproach. “That’s straight from Station for Two — you know, that old movie. The hero asks for something diet-friendly, and she tells him, ‘We only have chicken.’ Don’t you remember?”

“Ah? Yes… I suppose I do,” Tumansky said with a timid smile.

“And we actually have a full light menu,” the beauty declared proudly, tapping her pink, porcelain-like finger at the bottom of the page.

Then she seemed to remember something and blushed.
“Oh, wait — don’t look there,” she said quickly. “The light menu today isn’t complete. We’re out of steamed fish… and they can’t make the omelet — no more eggs. So…”

Her eyes darted nervously over the list, then she brightened.
“You take noodle soup. Very good. Good for stomach.”

“Is it fresh?” Tumansky asked, out of habit.

In truth, he could have eaten a stew of earthworms if it had been served by this charming waitress.

“Of course,” she said firmly. “Everything here is fresh.”

“All right,” Ilya nodded, spreading the napkin across his knees.

The girl nodded and hurried toward the kitchen. Tumansky watched her go, wondering how such a butterfly had ended up in an anthill.

When she reappeared with a tray of food, he couldn’t hold back his curiosity.
“Excuse me,” he said, “have you been working here long?”

“The first month and the second year,” the beauty replied cryptically. Then she smiled and added, “Actually, I’m a student. I work here during the summer breaks. Last year I spent all three months here, but this time I can only do two — I still have to finish my internship at the factory.”

“And what will you be after you graduate?” Tumansky asked, oddly pleased to learn that this princess wasn’t a real waitress after all.

“Bachelor of Chemistry, specializing in Solid-State and Materials Chemistry,” the fairy replied without missing a beat, her face suddenly serious.

“Wow,” Tumansky said, genuinely impressed, and gave an approving nod.

“Would you like anything else?” she asked, already smiling again — the friendly dining-car waitress once more.

“No, no, thank you,” Ilya said, dipping his spoon into the clear broth.

He couldn’t help thinking he’d been unfair to this region. The Moscow girls he knew at that age dreamed of becoming models or marrying a tycoon — or preferably both — while this young Siberian woman was studying a complex, demanding field and working on the railway in her spare time to pay for her studies or help her parents.

Musing on the clear superiority of provincial youth over the capital’s pampered fashionistas, he absently reached the bottom of his plate. The noodle soup turned out to be quite edible — and almost reconciled him with the world.

If only that damned clatter would stop, Tumansky thought, feeling the train’s vibration run through his whole body.

As if in answer to his unspoken wish, the iron python slowed its crawl and, after a few faint jolts, came to a stop. Ilya felt a wave of relief — the hateful knocking had ceased.

Outside the window, dim lights glowed over the platform of another small station. Tumansky wrapped both hands around his mug of cooling tea and stretched his legs under the table, savoring the brief stillness.

Out of habit, he began studying the people around him, his sharp eye noting any detail that might one day find its way into a book.

The two young men with the beer had been joined by a third, and the clinking of bottles grew louder. The elderly couple had finished their dinner and, with the same energy they’d shown while eating, marched toward the exit.

The plump, balding man and the boy — clearly father and son — were also finishing up. The father carefully straightened a napkin on the boy’s chest, while the child doggedly fished soggy slices of lemon from his teacup.

The sight of that peaceful family scene struck Ilya with a dull ache, stirring memories he’d thought long buried and safely forgotten.

Why was it never like that for me? Why had my father never ridden a train with me, sharing a late dinner? The thought flashed bitterly through his mind — one with no answer.

Little Ilya Semechkin — that was the real name of the celebrated science-fiction author Tumansky — had adored his father: strong, kind, and able to fix just about anything.

Unfortunately, that adoration didn’t last long. By the time the boy turned four, his father — once just a steady drinker — was drinking so heavily he’d become a different man entirely: a drunken stranger who cared for neither his wife nor his son, nor anyone else in the world.

By the time Ilya started school, Mikhail Semechkin’s train of life was already speeding downhill. His sober spells grew shorter and rarer until they vanished completely, and nothing in that ruined drunkard hinted at the cheerful, lively man who had once won Ilya’s mother’s heart.

He spent most of his days away, returning only to start another drunken brawl and trade what little they had left for a bottle.

The boy’s love for his father vanished under the slow corrosion of alcohol, leaving only pity — for the wretched life now destroyed, for his mother who had aged too soon, and for himself, deprived of a father’s care far too early.

Tumansky set his empty cup on the table and let out a heavy sigh.

I can’t even remember the last time I saw him alive, he thought bitterly, sifting through the haze of those distant years. No — wait. I do remember.

A vivid picture rose in his mind: a scorching July afternoon in Kochyn. He was eleven. Lying on the shed roof, he felt the rough tar scrape the small strip of bare skin between his shirt and trousers.

That roof was his and Garik’s favorite place — won in a fair fight against Vovka Murashov, who was five years older. From up there, Ilya could see the whole little yard of their eight-apartment building while staying unseen himself.

Garik was helping his mother at the post office, leaving Ilya to languish on the roof alone. He would have much preferred bouncing a ball against the wall to lying there doing nothing — but the wall stood too close to Murashov’s house, and going there without Garik was risky. Murashov was still nursing dreams of revenge for losing the roof.

Ilya’s bored gaze drifted across the dusty yard, dozing under the blazing sun. Nothing interesting.

The laundry of stern Mrs. Ogarkova from apartment two hung on the clothesline. Her black-and-white tomcat, Barsik — the fiercest brawler among the neighborhood cats — was napping on the porch, sprawled on his side with his front paws stretched out in comfort. His battle-scarred ears and chewed whiskers twitched in rhythm with feline dreams.

A little farther from the porch, in the shade of an old elm, sat old Aksyuta. He too was asleep, slumped in a rickety chair, his scruffy beard pointing skyward.

Prokhor Aksyuta was a mysterious, faintly sinister man. Officially, he worked as a janitor for the local housing authority and, by that right, occupied a government-owned basement apartment. Yet it was rare to see him with a broom or shovel in hand.

Most of the cleaning and snow-shoveling were done by gloomy, deaf-mute Vasil from the next street, while Aksyuta loitered around the flea market or the train station — or vanished altogether for a week or two.

Looking now at the gaunt old man in his oversized quilted jacket, worn against bare skin, his thin neck exposed and defenseless, it was hard to believe that once not only the neighborhood boys but even grown men had feared him.

And the reason wasn’t just that he was a seasoned criminal, his skin marked with the unmistakable tattoos of a man who’d spent years behind bars. There was something in his gaze that made even the boldest troublemakers cross the street to avoid him.

The sun-warmed yard breathed a lazy peace, and Ilya gave in to the drowsiness that seemed to settle over everything. He rested his head on his arms and closed his eyes. The silence was broken only by the faint rattle of a car somewhere in the distance and the muffled murmur of a radio drifting from a second-floor window.

Then, all at once, something in the air changed — imperceptibly, yet unmistakably. A small cloud slid across the sun, and a gust of cold wind blew the curtains outward from open windows. The sparrows dozing in the tall poplar’s branches burst into panicked chatter and scattered, sensing trouble before anyone else.

Ilya felt it too. He opened his eyes and lifted his head, uneasy.

The coolness the wind carried wasn’t a kind one. With it, something cold and inexorable seemed to creep into the yard.

Veteran fighter Barsik instantly identified the source of danger. His eyes flew open, his body tensed, and in one fluid motion he gathered his paws beneath him. The fur along his spine rose like a wave as he snapped his head to the left and hissed — a low, furious warning.

Ilya followed the cat’s gaze — and flinched.

A man appeared on the cracked path leading into the yard — filthy, unshaven, his hair matted and wild. He stood at a strange angle, his bleak gaze sweeping the yard. Something in his posture was wrong, and in the pale, washed-out eyes beneath reddened lids flickered both pain and fear.

Ilya drew in a sharp breath and froze. Standing on the path was Mikhail Semechkin — his father.

The boy instinctively ducked his head, then caught himself. A thick birch branch hid him from view; even if someone looked up at the shed roof, they’d never notice him. His father had no idea he was there.

Realizing this, Ilya relaxed a little and stretched his neck to look at his father — thinner and more beaten than ever. This time the man had been gone almost two weeks, and everything about him showed that those days hadn’t been kind.

Only old Aksyuta seemed indifferent to the newcomer’s arrival. He kept sleeping on his three-legged stool, braced against the wall for balance.

Mikhail’s heavy gaze found Aksyuta. He gave a faint nod and started toward him.

Caught between the two men, Barsik sprang to his feet, let out a defiant meow, and backed cautiously toward the entrance — wary of the kick he’d come to expect from the elder Semechkin.

But today, Mikhail paid no attention to the cat. He kept moving forward, slow and unsteady, leaning slightly to the right. Ilya saw that his father held his left hand pressed to his side and winced now and then in pain.

Someone’s beaten him up again, the boy thought, rubbing the back of his head. The bump from his father’s last drunken swing had only just gone down. When drunk, the elder Semechkin never hesitated to use his fists.

Mikhail took a few more steps and stopped in front of the sleeping Aksyuta. For a moment he stood still, lost in heavy thought — then suddenly raised his left hand high. His face twisted into a mask of rage, and Ilya froze in terror.

He’s going to hit him! flashed through his mind.

The world seemed to stop. The raised hand hung in the air above the unsuspecting man’s head.

Bang! — a metallic crash echoed from the building’s entrance.

“Shoo! Get out of here, you damned animal!” Mrs. Ogarkova’s voice cut through the yard, sharp with fury.

Barsik shot out of the entrance like a black-and-white streak and vanished around the corner of the house. Ilya jumped at the sudden crash. Old Aksyuta blinked his sleep-clouded eyes and swayed forward. The rickety stool beneath him creaked and tilted dangerously.

The raised hand lowered — slowly, almost reluctantly.

“Ah… it’s you,” Aksyuta rasped, rolling his stiff shoulders and giving the newcomer a cold, piercing look. “Been a while…”

Under that hostile gaze, Mikhail seemed to shrink, almost to half his size. He pressed his right hand tighter against his wounded side and muttered in a flat voice,
“Been out in the taiga… hired on as a guide for some hunters… went far with them…”

“Went far and came back,” the old man grumbled, turning away in displeasure.

“Went far…” Ilya’s father repeated stubbornly, fixing the old man with red, watery eyes. Then, lowering his voice, he added,

“Marfa said you must come.”

Aksyuta’s brow furrowed sharply. He glanced around as if to make sure no one else was near.

“Say that again,” he demanded. The last traces of sleep vanished from his face.

“Marfa said you must come,” the elder Semechkin repeated mechanically.

“When?”

“The sooner the better, I guess,” Mikhail said with a shrug.

“Sure,” the old man snapped. “That’s not what I meant. When did you see her?”

Mikhail lifted his eyes to the sky, doing some hazy calculation.
“Three days ago… maybe,” he said at last, uncertain.

“Or more?”

“Could be more,” Ilya’s father admitted meekly.

A calendar with exact dates had no place in his drunken world — and Aksyuta understood that. His frown deepened as he rose to his feet.

“What else did she say?”

“She said you should bring flour and sugar.”

“Flour and sugar?” The old man blinked in confusion.

“Yes,” Mikhail nodded. “A boar tore through her shed and ruined all the supplies. She said if you don’t come soon, she and the kids will have nothing to eat.”

Aksyuta’s face darkened.

“You saw the children too?” he asked, his voice catching.

“Of course I saw them,” Semechkin said with a shrug — then suddenly froze as a thought struck him.

He looked at Aksyuta again, his eyebrows lifting in surprise.
“So she’s…” he muttered, studying the old man’s face. “So she’s your wife, isn’t she? That’s right — she is your wife!”

Forgetting his aching side, he slapped his hands against his thighs.
“The older boy looks just like you! Can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner. Only the eyes — the eyes are hers, green.”

“Listen, you…” Aksyuta’s tone changed suddenly. He glanced around again. “Come on — let’s have a drink.”

“Always ready!” Mikhail broke into a broad, delighted grin.

“So when did you say you got back to town?” the old man asked, taking Semechkin by the elbow and steering him toward the street.

“Today,” Mikhail replied eagerly, brightening at the promise of a drink. “Came straight to you — didn’t waste a minute. Just like your woman told me.”

“Didn’t even stop to chat with the cobbler, Semen?” Aksyuta asked in disbelief, tugging Ilya’s father along.

“No, no!” Semechkin stopped and thumped his fist against his proudly puffed-out chest. “She told me to come straight to you and not breathe a word to anyone about her.”

Mikhail grinned with his gap-toothed smile and gave the old man a teasing wink.

“She’s quite a woman, huh?”

Then his face changed, and he muttered quickly,

“But… she, uh… she scared me.”

He crossed himself awkwardly with a trembling hand and looked at the old man, eyes wide with fear.

“How do you manage her?”

“I manage just fine,” the old man cut him off, quickening his pace.

“Ah… I see,” Mikhail nodded. “She’s there — and you’re here…”

“Yes,” Aksyuta grunted, dragging the slower Semechkin along. “So you didn’t tell anyone about her?”

“No one, I swear on the cross,” the man whispered fervently.

“Good,” the old man said briskly. “And don’t tell anyone. You’ll live longer.”

The threat in those words was clear enough, and Ilya’s father nodded quickly in agreement.

“Me? Never… not a word… not in my life!”

“Uh-huh,” Aksyuta replied evenly.

The men turned the corner, and their voices faded away.

That was the last time Ilya ever saw his father alive.

Old Aksyuta and several witnesses later confirmed that on that day, the elder Semechkin had been drinking heavily with Aksyuta himself, Semen the cobbler, and a couple of other drunks. Later, he went alone to the river to fish. No one saw how he fell into the water — but really, what’s so strange about that? A drunk thinks he’s invincible. He must have slipped on the planks, hit his head, and gone under. A sad but ordinary end.

Ilya Mikhailovich shook his head, pushing the memories away, and let out a faint sigh.

The train groaned, stretching its metal joints, then began to move again. The relentless thud-thud, thud-thud returned, rattling methodically through every cell of the poor writer’s body.

He pushed the cup aside and looked around. While he’d been lost in the past, the plump father and son had finished their tea and left the dining car. Now only Ilya remained — and the trio at the last table, still drinking beer. The number of bottles had grown, and so had their voices.

“…and then she says, ‘These children will grow up to be true friends of the forest!’” — a fragment of conversation reached him.

Tumansky flinched as if struck by an electric current. His eyes burned as he fixed them on the group of young men, straining to catch more — but they’d already moved on, complaining about some faulty power equipment. The last batch, it seemed, had turned out disastrously poor, and some Usmanov was to blame.

“Nonsense!” Ilya Mikhailovich snapped at himself, trying to still the tremor in his fingers as clammy sweat spread across his back. “Just an ordinary conversation — nothing strange about it. Why are you jumping at shadows? So what if someone said ‘friends of the forest’? Perfectly normal phrase. Your nerves, old man, are completely shot.”

He pulled out his wallet and paid for dinner, leaving a generous tip for the pretty waitress — who had somehow disappeared.

“I need to get some sleep!” he ordered himself — and his inner voice immediately replied with a mocking laugh:

“Sleep? You really think you can fall asleep now?”

“Oh, I’ll sleep, all right!” Tumansky retorted hotly to himself, jumping to his feet. “Just need to take a pill for the headache first.”

The pain in his temples and at the back of his head had been nagging for a while but hadn’t yet reached the point where painkillers were unavoidable. Ilya Mikhailovich disliked taking pills, though with his long list of chronic ailments, he rarely had a choice.

I’m just tired. This damned train… those memories… I’ll take a pill and I’ll sleep like a baby, he told himself, heading back to his carriage.

But his plans were not meant to come true.