night, the east wind blowing from the Altai Mountains
was so strong that it made it difficult for Ksenia to enter the
apartment building near the Tomsk University campus, on Ulitsa
Mikhaylovskaya.
Her brutalist-style building, constructed during
the Soviet era, contrasted sharply with the more classical red-brick
buildings with wrought-iron balconies, decorative window moldings,
and carved wooden doors—places she always longed to move into
someday, if ever given the chance.
The premonitory buran blew harshly from
the east, sweeping through with an icy force that announced
abrupt changes in the weather. This cold wind had long been
associated with hardship and danger for those who
felt its bite.
When she finally stepped into her small apartment on the eighth
floor, she barely managed to hold the door as it slammed violently
shut behind her. Ksenia immediately felt the comforting
warmth of the central heating.
She took off her fur-trimmed anorak, hung her leather gloves and
colorful scarf on the coat rack in the small entryway, which also
served as a passage connecting the living room, the compact kitchen,
the bedroom, and the tiny bathroom.
Two large windows, one in the bedroom and one in the living room,
looked out onto a park where the conifer trees were being
battered by the wind, unable to regain their upright
posture. The yellowish glow of the streetlamps scattered light and
shadow across their violent movements, while drops of water
and remnants of snow were flung from their branches.
She boiled some water and prepared a chamomile tea. Looking at the
smiling face of her mother in a framed photograph, Ksenia felt a wave
of comfort. If her mother were still alive, she would be proud of her
daughter’s achievements—but perhaps, from beyond, she was already
sharing in them.
She recalled what she had spoken about during the radio program on
shamanic traditions, where winds were considered
messengers of the spirits. Her mother, a descendant
of Siberian shamans, had taught her that the winds—especially
those blowing from the Altai Mountains—could be sent as
signs from the spirits of nature.
And, following that belief, she perceived this one as the Siberian
nomads and hunters once had: a warning to change course,
abandon a temporary camp, or move swiftly to avoid danger.
A sudden gust knocked over her mother’s photo, leaving it face
down on the cabinet among the other frames, none of which had been
touched. She glanced at the clock—barely half past midnight.
— Too much of a coincidence —she whispered, trying to calm
herself.
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She set the photo upright again, turned off the light, and headed
to bed. The wind returned, softer this time—but just strong
enough to lay the picture face down once more.
— All right, Mom —she murmured—, I won’t argue. If you
want to stay like that, I’ll let you rest.
Lying in bed, with only her bedside lamp still glowing, Ksenia
felt that same air stir around her again. Perhaps it’s a sign,
she thought. Maybe, as her mother used to say, it had come during a
moment of indecision or confusion—and should be read as a
message of guidance and clarity.
She opened her book, The Soul of the Taiga, and randomly
landed on page 67:
“The snow blanketed the ground for long stretches, from
late November to early April, forming a thick layer that lingered
through most of winter. But Yüd, the crown prince, could not wait
for the coming of spring. Mounted on his horse, the young warrior
rode out in search of his promised bride…”
Fatigue soon drew her into a deep sleep, and her dream continued
the story—following Chinggis Yüd, the great heir
destined to rule the lands west of the Altai Mountains. He galloped
on his white horse, his long kher tunic woven from horsehair
and adorned with gold and silver threads forming geometric
patterns that symbolized his power.
A band of warriors rode behind him, sworn to protect him on his
long journey to a neighboring tribe. The wind howled stronger, and
leaving his escort behind, the young Yüd pressed on
recklessly, chasing his dream without fear of the dangers lurking at
every step.
— Too young… too inexperienced —Ksenia murmured within her
dream.
Yüd rode with his gaze fixed on the sky, where his falcon
soared high above, guiding his path in an almost mystical way.
The bird, with its sharp reflexes and piercing eyes, represented both
the connection to wild nature and the need
to keep a clear vision amid confusion.
Then suddenly, the wind ceased. The falcon vanished. And Yüd
found himself alone in the steppe, at the mercy of an
implacable enemy—fog so dense he could barely see, and the lurking
threat of bandits or wild beasts.
The alarm rescued her from the void and the loneliness where she
had been lost. She awoke uneasy; her intuition told her she was in
danger, leaving a bitter taste of foreboding in her
mouth.
She rose from bed. Outside, the streetlamps still glowed, but
daylight had begun to filter between the buildings, brightened by the
abundant snow covering the streets and gardens.
She stepped into the hallway, descended the stairs, and walked
through the snow toward the university. It was late February, that
in-between season when winter begins to yield to spring—and she
felt the need for change.
The morning sky was a deep, vivid blue. She
remembered the falcon’s flight from her dream, its sharp gaze from
above. As she walked, it was as if her thoughts stretched
upward toward the open sky where the bird still soared.
Her heart beat fast—partly from the cold, partly from the sense
that everything happening to her carried a greater purpose.
— Professor Ksenia —said Nadezhda Vladimirovna, the vedel
in charge of the entrance to the prestigious Institute of Archaeology
and Social Sciences—, there’s someone waiting for you in the
Academic Collaboration Hall, in the north courtyard. They insist on
seeing you.
Ksenia frowned. She checked her planner, pulling it from her bag
in case she’d forgotten an appointment—but there was nothing.
— They were very insistent —added Nadezhda—. Said it was
something very important.
— At least —Ksenia asked—, did
they tell you their name?