The Pale, Chapter 2.4

Yankev

Another weekly chapter of The Pale. If you’d like to read the whole thing all at once, I’ll have it up for purchase…eventually.

If you’d prefer to listen 🎧 instead of read, I’ve recorded every chapter and honestly…it’s pretty good. Click the play button above ⬆️.

For maps and historical background to the Pale of Settlement, click here.

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In the last installment, Sergei’s past begins to catch upTo read it click here:

The Pale, Chapter 2.3

There’s a fair bit of antisemitism in this, but hey, it comes with the territory.

וואָלף מענטשען

VOLFMENSCHEN

Chapter 2.4

Yankev

“Now would be a good time to run, Son of Man.”

“Run?” Yankev laughed, equally bold and terrified. “Now that I’ve found the thing?”

From out of his pocket, he pulled the twig—a new sapling with seven buds—upon which he’d carved the name Shachath, a destroying Angel. The monster snarled as Yankev held the amulet aloft and filled his lungs with breath and power.

“By the Tetragrammaton!” He slammed the stick to the dirt in front of the beast and bellowed. “I destroy you!” Air burst from his lungs, a breeze blew down the street. The holy presence filled Yankev’s soul.

The thing crunched the twig under its foot and laughed, a sick, cruel imitation of humanity.

“Idiot!” Sender’s scream was drowned out by the retort of his other pistol and the thawp of the impotent bullet connecting.

“Fuck is that loud,” Muroshke hissed.

“Warn me before you do that!“ Yankev yelled. Sender grabbed him and yanked him by the arm, sending him stumbling out of his way. “Nu! Sender, when did you get so strong?”

With a bark, the beast swung a heavy claw at Sender, and Yankev could feel the force of it as if it were aimed at him. He wanted to yell for Sender to duck, to jump, to run away, but his brother drew his sword. In a motion smooth as prayer, Sender hacked from the swinging claw three fingers and a gout of black iridescent blood. The creature screamed a noise somewhere between an angry growl and a pained wail and lunged, snapping at Sender with long, wicked teeth, clamping its jaw down on empty air. The beast scrambled to halt its momentum but collapsed into a bloody heap, Sender behind it, pulling his saber from the meat of the monster’s knee.

“Wow,” Muroshke and Yankev said as one.

“Smack the thing good!” Yankev cheered.

“Kick its ass!” Muroshke added.

Sender flicked blood from his blade, raised it for the killing stroke and went flying. The new monster that had kicked him was twice the size of the one he’d injured. Blood and scraps of torn uniform hung to the claws of its still-raised foot. It screamed a strange snarling bark of a scream and dropped the woman’s head it carried in its mouth. The injured monster gobbled it up, and in its jaws the dead women’s red blood turned black.

With a single crunching bite, it ate the thing and crawled to its feet, the wounds on its hand and knee closing. With heavy thuds, three more monsters dropped from the rooftops, all carrying fresh bodies.

“How about now for the running!?” Muroshke asked, but Yankev was already halfway down the street. He’d just begun to turn a corner when Sender’s yell froze him in place. Snapping around, Yankev saw him ready himself for the onslaught of two fresh monsters, and before he could think, Yankev was sprinting back and reaching fumbling hands into his bag.

“By the Holy Name that emerges from the verse, ‘A thousand may fall at your left side, and ten thousand on your right, but it shall not reach you—‘“

The words felt ripped from Yankev’s soul, the spirit forcing its way out of him on his breath. Black letters—three separate triplets from the seventy two letter name of G-d—burst into white light on the shell of a boiled egg, bought this afternoon, clutched in his fist. “I command that you FUCK OFF!”

He slammed the egg at the feet of the largest monster and it burst, white hot and blazing. They were all stunned, and so was he.

The Name had not deserted him!

“Fuck is that bright! Warn me before you do that!” Muroshke moaned in a way a man did when covering his eyes. “Hey!” he added, “Wait for me!” Because Yankev was sprinting and already halfway down the block. Yes, it had been quite the blast, but they were already getting back on their feet.

“What!?” Sender screamed, gaining on Yankev, and Yankev was not so afraid as to not feel just a little shame. Sender was still recovering from the nasty hit he’d taken, and even still, Yankev had to sprint to stay ahead.

Yankev reached back and grabbed the hat that had nearly fallen from his kep and asked, “What what?”

“All of it! What did you just do? What are those things? What!?”

Yankev spared a glance back and gulped. The monsters were running now, gaining. One snapped at the air and Muroshke yelled a terrified but otherwise unhurt “Eee!” Luckily, his ruach cousin was fast.

“What they are,” Yankev panted, “I’m thinking Volfmenschen.”

“Werewolves!?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said, Volfmenschen!”

“This way,” Muroshke hissed, turning right down a side street.

Yankev grabbed Sender and yanked him after Muroshke. “This way.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s complicated, but he’s kin.”

“He?”

The pack of Volfmenschen followed fast but had trouble with the turn, the bigger ones skidding off and nearly losing their footing.

“Left,” Muroshke yelled from a small alley, and Yankev tugged Sender along. The Volfmenschen growled from behind them and tore at the street to catch up. “Left again.”

Yankev looked again over his shoulder and saw the smallest one lose its footing on the turn and slam hard into the side of building. The other four tripped after it, piling into the small one and sending them all crunching through the wall.

“Ha! Shute’m!”

“Why are you laughing?” Sender hissed, his controlled breath ragged at the edges.

“Because,” Yankev cheered, “we—dreck!“ In front of them the wall burst open, the largest Volfmensch blasting through. “Cover your eyes.”

Without changing his pace, Yankev slammed another egg into the street, and the blast staggered the monster back. Sender’s blade passed through its knees and eyes in two whipping strokes as they ran past, back to the main street.

“We need to find higher ground.” Sender’s military tone was so assured Yankev chose to fight his fraternal urge to argue.

“Up ahead,” Muroshke’s gasped.

“Up ahead,” Yankev told Sender, gasping in kind. In front of them was a large stone warehouse with a stairwell on the side leading up. Sender took the stairs in easy twos.

“Hold this,” he commanded, letting go of his sword without looking back. Yankev yelped, bobbled it, stumbled, and caught it. Sender loaded one of his spent pistols as he ran, doing it without looking.

Russian Army flintlock guns: cavalry rifle M.1839, pistol, Cossacks musket M.1832, cavalry carbine M.1833

“Your brother is a regular Samson,” Muroshke wheezed.

“Ya. No wonder the Poles lost.”

“Stop talking to no one,” Sender snapped, holstering the loaded pistol and starting on the second, “and help me figure out how to kill these things.”

“No one?” Muroshke kvetched. “What a way to talk about family!”

The last flight of stairs led to a large, flat roof crammed with hiding Jews—old, sick, or children. They looked relieved to see Sender and confused to see Yankev, then terrified to hear the growls of the monsters below.

“This is not good,” Muroshke moaned.

“Not good at all,” Yankev agreed.

“Focus,” Sender demanded in Russian. “How do you kill these things?”

“You’re the one who knows how to kill,” Yankev countered.

“Kill soldiers. I didn’t think these things existed until now.”

“You didn’t think Volfmenschen existed?” Yankev threw up his hands. “And I’m the fool? What norish nonsense did those Goys put in your head?”

“Norish? Men who turn into wolves that can only be killed with silver? That’s norish!”

“Silver?” Yankev yelled, throwing aggrieved hands higher. “Only silver!? And who is he that he should demand only silver? A prince!?”

“Want we should melt down the synagogue’s candlesticks?” Muroshke added.

Sender threw up annoyed hands to mirror his brother, then drew a pistol and fired.

“We’re out of time.” The ball found its target, one of the two climbing Volfmenschen that had nearly cleared the edge of the roof. As it threw the thing off the wall by the meat of its shoulder Sender drew the next pistol. This shot missed the second Volfmensch, going wide, cracking a wooden wall across the street.

“My house,” a young girl whined.

Sender dropped both guns. “Can you at least load a pistol?” He dropped his holster too, with his powder and bullets at Yankev’s feet and snatched back his sword.

“Can I load a pistol? Why would I be able to load a pistol?” Yankev kvetched.

“Powder goes in first,” Muroshke said.

“Powder goes in first,” Sender said.

“I know when the powder goes in, thank you!” Yankev tried to still his ragged breath and squatted down over one of the guns. Sender yelled a martial yell and then a pained grunt somewhere out of Yankev’s eye-line.

“Hurry, nebbich.” The Yiddish insult sounded strange and strained on Sender’s tongue.

“I am hurrying, you nor!” Yankev tipped the powder bag into the cap, but his hands shook on the way to the barrel, spilling it all over the roof.

“Breath, Yankev,” Muroshke begged.

“You have a lot of opinions for someone with no hands!”

“I help how I can!”

“Well then, come on!” Sender yelled from off to the side. There was a howl and the sound of skin tearing, then the sound of Sender screaming, hurt but defiant. Yankev drew the powder again and muttered the first prayer that came to mind that he should focus.

“Hurry, G-d damn it!” Sender screamed.

“Hey!” Yankev screamed back, annoyance steadying his fingers. “Don’t take His name in vain. That’s Ten Commandments stuff. That’s basic!” Powder went in with no problem. The ball followed easy, and he said a quick thank you to the first name that came to his mind. “Sender, here!” He looked up to see his brother on his knees, bloody and fending off two slavering Volfmenschen. It was taking all his prodigious martial talent to keep from losing his life.

Breath fought its way into Yankev, forced full his lungs for one sharp moment, then burst back out as he fired the pistol at the back of the nearest beast. He’d never shot a gun before. The force of it threw him. The whole of the roof stilled.

“Oy! Disgusting,” complained the same girl through a face full of viscera. The shot Volfmensch gripped the ragged hole in its shoulder, clawed fingers desperate to stop creeping flames burning from the bullet wound. It howled a strange, strained howl before it burst alight and fell to the roof, a dead heap of flesh and fur. Its companion howled in a way that sounded to Yankev like terror, but before it could attack, Sender jumped to his feet and ran the thing through.

“What did you do?” he demanded.

“The name!” Yankev realized. “Drek! Which did I say?” He dove towards Sender’s other spent pistols. “Muroshke, which name did it?”

“Was it Yah Shalom?”

Yankev shook his head while he loaded the powder. “Couldn’t be. Yah Shalom is for peace. Maybe Elohim Shomri?” He loaded the ball.

The stabbed Volfmensch charged, driving Sender away with the sword still in its guts, pushing him towards the roof’s edge.

“No way. That’s a name for protection, and this is certainly offense we’re dealing with.”

The monster’s heavy palm drove Sender face first to the floor, and Yankev’s mind snapped to attention like he’d been doused with a splash of cold water. It wasn’t one of His names but of his angels. Bringing the gun to his lips he said:

“In the name of Azeriel, Angel of death, I command you to die!” He slid the loaded gun to his brother, who dove away from tearing claws, rolled, and snatched it. The Volfmensch with Sender’s sword in its gut pounced, then burst into a ragged heap, burning from the bullet hole in its chest.

Sender blinked the gore from his eyes and dragged himself to his feet, but Yankev’s world spun. When Sender had fired, it had felt as though the shot had come not from the gun but from his own lungs. It was all he could do to take in breath, to stay standing.

“Focus, Yankev,” Sender commanded, loading both pistols like it was nothing. The people on the roof began to scream, watching the next beast crest the rooftop. Sender held out the loaded guns and snapped. “We’re not done.”

The Volfmensch ran for them, jaws open, claws splayed. Yankev forced words out of his chattering lips to bless the first pistol, his tongue racing the monsters feet. The moment he finished Sender fired.

It sailed wide, just above the monster’s head.

“Aim better,” Yankev whined, hands to the roof, fighting for breath.

“You try aiming with these things.” Sender placed the gun at Yankev’s feet and dodged claws that cut towards him. “They’re wildly inaccurate.”

Yankev blessed the next gun with ragged breath, spittle and blood staining the pistol as much as the word and just as he finished Sender yanked it from his hands. The Volfmensch lunged in with its jaw open and swallowed the bullet Sender fired down its throat.

Yankev collapsed, struck by the utter disorientation that came with someone else firing his words. The audience on the roof yelped as the monster’s skull burst—some afraid but most annoyed at the flung and steaming flesh.

The final two Volfmenschen—the biggest two, including the beast who seemed to be the leader—threw themselves over the roof and ran for Sender.

“Load!” Sender snapped before two sets of swinging claws nearly took him. He’d managed to duck away but not well, tripping and kicking the powder bag away from Yankev. The leather pouch skidded across the floor and came to rest next to Sender’s sword in a pile of gore that was once a Volfmensch.

“Oy! Disgusting!” Yankev protested, scrambling after the bag.

“Yankev!” Sender barked, backpedaling.

“Hurry!” Muroshke added.

Yankev reached the powder, but as his hand came down, so did the feet of the largest Volfmensch, sending it across the floor.

“Shit!” Yankev made for the bag, but it was just too far away. He said a brief prayer and drew one of his new nails from his bag, muttering all the names he knew that he could fit in one breath. “Catch!”

Sender jumped away from a stabbing claw and caught his saber midair. As his foot came down, he dropped to his knee and hacked his pursuer through the thigh.

Letters scratched by Yankev’s desperate fingers burst to light along the blade as it tore flesh, sending white fire to climb from the gash, taking meat and muscle with it.

The Volfmensch stood on nude bones for a creaking second before they cracked in a shower of dust, dropping it hard to the roof.

The biggest, the leader, stared Sender down, and even Yankev, who was not in front of it, shuddered. Sender met the thing’s gaze and returned it as a man who’d seen worse. The hairy brute smiled a wicked smile and grabbed its one wounded companion. In a blinding snap of its jaws, it bit out the thing’s throat and swallowed.

“I’ll be seeing you, Alkhimov,” it laughed, its voice surprisingly high and sweet. Slinging its bloody meal over its shoulder, it leapt down into the night.

The world stilled.

Yankev handed Sender his pistols and powder case. Throwing a fraternal arm around his brother’s shoulder, he said, “I think, perhaps, we find ourselves a bottle of wine and a place to catch up.”

“You!” Sender turned, brandishing his slick blade. “You scratched my sword.”

Even now the names of G-d he’d had time to scratch were still glowing in Sender’s hand, though Yankev no longer felt the breath was being sucked from his soul. What was feeding their light, he did not know, and he would like to know, but he had more pressing matters at the moment.

“That’s just like you,” Yankev complained, throwing his fluttering hands to the sky. “Focused on your toys instead of the game.”

Knuckles turned white around a hilt. A snarl came to Sender’s eyes, and a curse came to his lips, but he was silenced by the retort of the cannon. From their vantage point, they both saw torches and the shining reflections of weapons gleaming at the gate of the garrison at the edge of town.

“Where are you going?” Yankev demanded of his brother’s broad back disappearing down the stairs and into the night.