The Soul Stealer

Gregor nodded. “Yes.”

The first flakes fell from the sky as they hurried toward the church. Already, the Siberian sky had darkened.

Annja wondered what the night might hold in store for them all.

9

By the time they reached the church, the air had grown thick with snow. A driving wind lashed snow at them almost sideways. The steps of the church were slippery, but Annja, Bob and Gregor crested them and stood in front of the thick wooden door.

Gregor pounded on it. The thunderous knocking seemed to vanish amid the howling wind and darkening skies.

Annja could see the faint glow of yellow through one of the glass windows facing the front of the church. It grew in size until at last they heard the latch sliding back.

The door opened and a withered, ancient face peered out at them. Gregor spoke loudly, trying to make himself heard over the coming storm.

The old priest squinted and then his eyes seemed to light up as he recognized Gregor. He waved them in and Annja gratefully followed Bob inside.

The air inside the church was still, but warmer than it was outside. Annja caught a vague scent of incense in the air. She closed her eyes and welcomed the air of holiness that surrounded the church. She always made a point to be thankful for her blessings whenever she ventured into any church or holy place, regardless of faith.

Father Jakob led them to a small room beyond the altar. The tiny kitchen had a coal-burning oven that radiated immense heat. Annja slid her coat off and rested it on the back of her chair.

Father Jakob busied himself preparing a pot of coffee while he and Gregor engaged in conversation.

Gregor looked at them. “Father Jakob has asked me if I have been good about going to confession since he last heard my sordid tales of debauchery.”

“What did you tell him?” Annja asked.

Gregor smiled. “I told him I have been a saint and don’t need to confess anything.”

“Wow,” Bob said. “He didn’t believe you, did he?”

Father Jakob whacked Gregor on the back of his head. Then he looked at Bob and Annja. “No. I most certainly do not believe him.”

“You speak English?” Annja said.

Father Jakob eyed her. “Of course. I speak it quite well. I haven’t always lived in Yakutsk, after all. And there is a much bigger world out there.” He set down four mugs and then removed the bubbling pot of coffee from the stove top. He poured them each a cup, replaced the pot on the stove and then sat down with them.

“So, what is it that brings you to this village?” the priest asked.

Bob took a sip of his coffee. “I’m researching dig sites in the area. I’m an archaeologist.”

“And you think there are places around here that would be of interest to you?” Father Jakob shook his head. “I do not know what you hoped to find, but I don’t think there would be much here worth exploring.”

“This whole area is steeped in history. Siberia itself is awash in legends and folklore. But recent history might even be more fascinating. What with Magadan being so close by, relatively speaking,” Bob said.

Father Jakob frowned. “We should not speak of that place. What Magadan was the gateway for, and how many people died as a result of those mines, it is a wound that should not be opened up again.”

“But surely you’d agree that by understanding the past we can avoid the same mistakes in the future?” Annja asked.

Father Jakob looked at her. “You do not strike me as a naive woman. Surely you do not think that just because we look at the past that we learn all the lessons it contains?”

“It’s a hope,” Annja said.

Father Jakob frowned. “And we have so many examples of fools who have shown a complete disregard for history. They are more than happy to repeat the mistakes of the past time and time again. Why should this be any different?”

“There’s no guarantee,” Bob said. “But the history of Magadan and the mines is a story that more people need to know about. Three million deaths should never be covered up or left to fade away in the footnotes of history.”

“Perhaps,” Father Jakob said. “But perhaps my concern does not even matter much right now.”

“What do you mean?” Bob asked.

“Yakutsk has other things to worry about.”

Gregor nodded. “You have heard, then?”

“Certainly,” the priest said.

“We didn’t see you out in the field,” Bob said. “We thought perhaps you had missed the hysteria.”

Father Jakob smiled. “I live in a small village. I see and hear everything.” He took a sip of his coffee and then set the mug down. “I was out there much earlier today. With the coming storm, however, I busied myself with preparations. As such, I was absent while you were there.”

“What do you think of it?” Annja asked.

“There is much the world at large does not know,” the old priest said. “There are still many remote regions. Many legends that do not have an easy way of dismissing them.”

“You believe it?” Annja asked.

“I believe there is something out there. Yes.”

“But the legend of Khosadam?” Annja shook her head. “It just doesn’t seem possible to me.”

“And you’ve never had anything in your life that seemed impossible?” Father Jakob peered closer at her. “I would have thought you would be more accepting of such things, my child.”

Bob perked up. “Why so?”

Annja swallowed. Could the priest see that Annja had her own secrets to keep hidden away?

Father Jakob swallowed more coffee. “Just a thought.”

Bob glanced at Annja, but she turned away. Gregor cleared his throat. “The villagers are quite worried.”

“As they should be,” Father Jakob said. “If the legends are true, then the beast will hunt one of them.”

“Not you?” Annja asked.

“I am a holy man. I tend to think that perhaps my soul is not to the beast’s liking.”

“You sound pretty sure,” Bob said.