Chapter 2: The Cossack The town smelled worse than the ship. Dmitri walked through Anadyr's main street, which was less a street and more a muddy path between buildings that looked ready to collapse under their own weight. His trunk dragged against frozen earth, the sound grating enough to make his teeth ache. The whispers had quieted since he'd left the dock. Now they existed as a low hum at the edge of his hearing, like distant conversation through a wall. He couldn't make out words anymore, just the constant reminder that something was speaking in a language his conscious mind couldn't process. He needed to find transport north to Chukotka, then secure passage to Yttygran Island. Simple enough in theory. The Russian Geographical Society's documents had included letters of introduction to local officials who were supposed to assist with logistics. Dmitri pulled the folded papers from his coat pocket, checking the name. Dmitri Volkov, the regional administrator. The administrative building stood at the far end of the street. Two stories, which made it the tallest structure in town. Smoke rose from its chimney in a thin gray line that disappeared into the overcast sky. Inside, the warmth hit him immediately. A wood stove radiated heat in the corner, tended by a young clerk who looked up as Dmitri entered. "I need to see Administrator Volkov." The clerk studied him with the practiced apathy of someone who dealt with travelers regularly. "He's occupied." "I have letters from the Russian Geographical Society." That got a reaction. The clerk stood, gesturing for Dmitri to wait, then disappeared through a door behind his desk. Dmitri set his trunk down, grateful to rest his arms. The journey from ship to shore to this building had taken maybe twenty minutes, but exhaustion had settled into his bones as if he'd walked for hours. His heart continued its irregular rhythm. He'd become accustomed to the pattern over the past twelve days, but awareness of the modification never completely faded. Every beat reminded him that the masked figures had carved away pieces of his original organ and installed something new. The clerk returned, holding the door open. "Administrator Volkov will see you." The office beyond matched the building's exterior—functional but barely. A desk covered in papers, shelves holding ledgers and maps, windows that looked out over the depressing sprawl of Anadyr. Behind the desk sat a man in his fifties, gray beard neatly trimmed, wearing the uniform of a minor bureaucrat stationed at the edge of civilization. "Dmitri Petrov," the administrator said, reading from the letter the clerk must have given him. "The Geographical Society wants documentation of Whale Bone Alley." He looked up, eyes sharp despite the tired lines around them. "You understand the locals won't help you reach the island?" "I was informed there might be resistance." "Resistance." Volkov laughed, though the sound carried no humor. "They call it the place of sealed things. Last year, three hunters went there against advice. Two never returned. The third came back speaking in tongues, died within a week." He set the letter down. "The Society's interest in scientific documentation doesn't change local superstition." Dmitri pulled out a chair without being invited to sit. His legs needed the rest. "Then I'll need to hire guides from outside the indigenous population. Russians who know the routes." "Russians who know the routes also know the stories." Volkov leaned back in his chair. "Money doesn't motivate men to seek their own deaths." The whispers rose suddenly, cutting through their conversation though the administrator showed no sign of hearing them. The language remained incomprehensible, but the tone had changed. Where before it had been neutral observation, now it carried urgency. Dmitri forced himself to focus on Volkov. "The Society expects results. I'm prepared to offer substantial payment for anyone willing to provide transport." "How substantial?" The negotiation proceeded in expected patterns. Volkov wanted percentages, proof of funds, guarantees that the Society would cover costs if Dmitri died in the wilderness. Standard bureaucratic concerns that Dmitri addressed with the documentation he'd brought from St. Petersburg. Throughout the discussion, the whispers continued their incomprehensible warnings. Dmitri found himself watching Volkov's mouth, trying to determine if the words coming from the administrator matched the movement of his lips. They did, as far as he could tell, but the effort of maintaining attention while the spirit-language screamed in his head made his skull ache. "There's one option," Volkov said eventually. "A Cossack officer stationed here. Grigory Volkov—no relation, different family entirely. He's been in Chukotka fifteen years, knows the coastal routes better than anyone. Hunting, mapping, occasional military operations against troublemakers." The administrator paused. "He's also the only Russian I know who isn't afraid of Yttygran Island." "Why isn't he afraid?" "You'd have to ask him." Dmitri waited for elaboration that didn't come. The whispers had shifted again, now speaking in rapid bursts that suggested multiple voices overlapping. He couldn't distinguish individual words, but the collective sound created pressure inside his skull. "Where can I find this Cossack officer?" Volkov provided directions to a building near the eastern edge of town. A boarding house where Grigory Volkov kept quarters when not traveling the wilderness. The administrator made it clear the introduction was the extent of his assistance—whatever arrangements Dmitri made were his own concern. Walking back out into the cold provided relief from the administrative office's heat. Dmitri retrieved his trunk, following Volkov's directions through streets that barely deserved the name. The few people he passed avoided eye contact, hurrying about their business with the determination of those who understood that survival required constant effort. The boarding house looked marginally better maintained than most structures in town. Two stories again, but with fresh paint on the shutters and smoke rising from multiple chimneys. Dmitri knocked on the door, which opened almost immediately. A woman in her forties studied him with suspicion. "Looking for lodging?" "Looking for Grigory Volkov. I was told he keeps quarters here." Her expression shifted to something harder to read. "He's in the common room. Through there." She pointed down a hallway. The common room held four tables, three empty. At the fourth sat a man who matched Dmitri's mental image of a Cossack officer so precisely that it almost seemed like parody. Tall, broad-shouldered, weathered face marked by old scars, thick beard going gray at the edges. He was cleaning a rifle with methodical attention to detail. "Grigory Volkov?" The man looked up, studying Dmitri with eyes that had seen considerably more than bureaucratic paperwork. "You're from St. Petersburg." Not a question. "The accent gives it away even before you open your mouth. Also, you're carrying a trunk suitable for academic equipment, and you look half-dead from a fever you haven't fully recovered from." Dmitri set the trunk down. "Administrator Volkov suggested you might be willing to guide me north." "To where, specifically?" "Yttygran Island. Whale Bone Alley." Grigory set down the rifle, though his hands remained on the table. "The administrator is an optimist. Most Russians refuse to go near that place. The locals certainly won't. What makes you think I'm different?" "He said you've spent fifteen years here and aren't afraid of the island." "I didn't say I wasn't afraid. I said I've been there before." Grigory leaned back in his chair. "Three times, actually. Twice on military business, once out of personal curiosity. The place is exactly what the locals claim—cursed, sealed, wrong in ways that don't have good Russian words to describe." The whispers surged again. This time they didn't just create pressure—they brought images. Dmitri's vision blurred at the edges, reality bleeding away to reveal something beneath. He saw Grigory standing before the Whale Bone Alley. The Cossack's arms were raised toward the sky. His mouth moved, speaking that same alien language the masked figures had used during Dmitri's fever. Behind him, between the massive bone structures, reality tore open like fabric being ripped apart. Something beyond pressed against the opening, trying to push through into the world. Then the vision snapped away. Dmitri grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself. His heart hammered in the wrong rhythm, each beat distinct and irregular. Grigory was watching him with an expression that had shifted from casual interest to intense focus. "You see things," the Cossack said quietly. "The fever wasn't just fever, was it?" Dmitri's throat had gone dry. He tried to speak but managed only a rough sound that barely qualified as language. Grigory stood, moving around the table with surprising speed. He gripped Dmitri's shoulder, supporting him before he could collapse completely. "Sit down before you fall down. I recognize the signs even if most Russians are too blind to notice." The chair scraped against the floor as Grigory guided him into it. Dmitri's vision continued to waver, showing overlapping realities—the common room and something else, a space constructed from bones and shadows where masked figures watched with empty eye sockets. "Breathe slowly," Grigory said. "Don't fight what you're seeing. The more you resist, the harder it tears at your mind." "How do you—" "Know about this? Fifteen years in Chukotka teaches you things they don't cover in St. Petersburg universities." Grigory returned to his seat, studying Dmitri with the attention someone might give a valuable but dangerous object. "The locals have shamans. You've heard of them, probably read academic papers that treat their practices as primitive superstition. Those papers are wrong." The whispers had quieted to their earlier level, no longer screaming warnings but maintaining constant presence. Dmitri forced his breathing to slow, following Grigory's advice. The overlapping visions separated, returning him fully to the common room. "I'm not a shaman," Dmitri said. "Not by training or intention, no. But something chose you anyway. The spirits don't always ask permission." Grigory poured water from a pitcher on the table, sliding the cup toward Dmitri. "Drink. Then tell me what you saw just now." Dmitri drank, buying time to decide how much to reveal. The vision had been clear—Grigory performing some ritual at the Whale Bone Alley, opening a seal that was meant to remain closed. Whether that made him an enemy or something more complicated remained unclear. "I saw you at the bone structures," Dmitri said carefully. "Speaking a language I couldn't understand. Opening something." Grigory's expression didn't change. "What else?" "Something trying to come through from the other side." "And what did you conclude from this vision?" "That you're involved with whatever is sealed at that place. That bringing you there might be exactly what you want." "Smart." Grigory smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You're right to be suspicious. The bone structures do seal something, and I am interested in what lies beneath. But you're making assumptions about my intentions based on incomplete information." "Then provide complete information." "I could. Or I could simply tell you that I'm the only guide available who actually knows how to reach the island and survive the journey. You can trust me or you can stay in Anadyr and fail in your mission for the Geographical Society." The whispers rose again, speaking in that rapid overlapping pattern that suggested urgency. Dmitri couldn't parse individual words, but the collective sound carried clear emotional weight—warning, danger, threat. Yet Grigory was right about the practical situation. No other guides would take him to Yttygran Island. The locals refused based on cultural prohibitions, and other Russians feared the place based on those same local stories. This Cossack officer represented his only realistic option for completing the Society's mission. "Why aren't you afraid of the island?" Dmitri asked. "I didn't say I wasn't afraid. I said I've been there before." Grigory leaned forward. "Fear is appropriate when dealing with powers that can tear reality apart. But fear doesn't have to prevent action. The question is whether you understand what you're walking toward." "I understand the Society wants documentation of an archaeological site." "The Society is sending academics to a place where the boundary between worlds is thin enough to show what lies on the other side. They have no idea what they're actually requesting." Grigory's voice dropped lower. "But you're starting to understand, aren't you? The fever, the visions, the voices speaking languages you never learned but somehow comprehend—these aren't random symptoms. You've been called." The masked figures had used exactly that word during Dmitri's initiatory crisis. *You are called.* Hearing it repeated by this Cossack officer created a connection Dmitri wasn't prepared to accept. "I'm a rational man," he said. "Whatever I experienced aboard the ship can be explained through illness and delirium." "Can it?" Grigory gestured toward Dmitri's chest. "Your heartbeat is wrong. I can hear it from here—irregular rhythm, pattern that doesn't match human physiology. Something changed inside you during that fever. Pretending otherwise won't make it less true." Dmitri wanted to argue, to insist that medical explanations existed for irregular heartbeats and auditory hallucinations. But the conviction wouldn't form. The masked figures had shown him his own heart being carved apart and reassembled. The memory remained vivid, more real than this conversation in some ways. "What do you want from me?" he asked. "The same thing you want from me—assistance reaching Yttygran Island. The difference is I'm being honest about my reasons." Grigory stood again, walking to the window that looked out over Anadyr's miserable streets. "The bone structures seal something that was fought and imprisoned long ago. The Thule people, ancestors of the current indigenous population, performed that sealing. But seals can weaken. Boundaries can thin. And some of us believe that what was imprisoned might be the only force capable of saving the Russian Empire from what's coming." "What's coming?" "Revolution. Chaos. The complete collapse of everything our civilization has built." Grigory turned from the window. "You've been isolated aboard ships and in academic circles, so you might not have noticed. But the empire is rotting from within. Peasant uprisings, intellectual movements that reject traditional authority, spiritual decay that leaves people vulnerable to demonic influences. The old order is dying." Dmitri had heard similar rhetoric before, usually from reactionary newspapers that blamed every social problem on foreign conspiracies or moral weakness. "And you think some ancient entity sealed beneath whale bones is going to restore imperial authority?" "I think powers exist beyond human comprehension, and those powers can be negotiated with. The Thule shamans fought and sealed this entity because it had frozen the world. But what if that freezing was preparation? What if the cosmic force imprisoned there was trying to preserve something worth saving against the corruption that would come later?" The logic was insane. Yet Dmitri couldn't dismiss it entirely, because he'd experienced the impossible directly. The masked figures, the temple of bones, the thing in the darkness that had looked back at him—these weren't metaphors or fever dreams. They were real in ways that violated everything his education had taught him about reality's structure. "You want to break the seal," Dmitri said. "I want to understand what's possible. Breaking the seal might be necessary, or it might not. That's why I need someone who can see beyond normal reality." Grigory returned to the table. "You've been marked by the spirits, initiated without your consent. That gives you abilities most humans lack. You can perceive what's actually happening at the bone structures, can communicate with forces that I can only approach blindly." "I don't know how to communicate with anything." "You will. The shamanic calling always comes with education, though the methods aren't comfortable." Grigory sat down again. "I've studied the local practices for fifteen years. I know the theoretical framework, understand the cosmology, can recognize the signs. But I'm not called—the spirits haven't chosen me for initiation. You, though... you're being transformed into something that can bridge the worlds." The whispers had settled into a low drone that vibrated through Dmitri's skull. He tried to focus past them, to think clearly about the situation. Grigory was offering exactly what Dmitri needed—transport to the island, knowledge about the site, experience with the local environment. But accepting that help meant allying with someone who wanted to break a seal that imprisoned a cosmic horror. Assuming any of this was actually real and not elaborate delusion born from illness. "I need time to consider," Dmitri said. "Time is something we don't have much of. The coastal ice will become impassable in a few weeks. If we don't depart soon, you'll be stuck in Anadyr until spring." Grigory studied him. "But I can give you until tomorrow morning. Think about your options, such as they are. I'll be here." Dmitri stood, his legs steadier than they'd been during the vision. He picked up his trunk, which suddenly seemed much heavier than when he'd carried it through town. "One question," he said at the doorway. "If you need someone with shamanic abilities to help you break the seal, why did you let me see that vision? Why warn me what you're planning?" Grigory smiled, and this time the expression did reach his eyes. "Because you seeing that vision wasn't an accident, and it wasn't something I could prevent. The spirits showed you what they wanted you to see. My letting you see it or not was never relevant." The implication settled into Dmitri's understanding. The vision hadn't been random hallucination or warning from his subconscious. It had been deliberately sent by the same forces that had called him during his fever. The masked figures, the entities that had carved apart his heart and shown him the bone temple—they were guiding him toward something. "Tomorrow morning," Grigory said. "We'll depart at dawn regardless of your decision. You can come with me to the island, or you can stay here and explain to the Geographical Society why their expedition failed before it began." Dmitri left without responding. The boarding house landlady pointed him toward available rooms, which were spare but clean. He paid for three nights though he doubted he'd stay that long. The room contained a bed, a small table, a chair, and a window that looked out over more of Anadyr's depressing landscape. Dmitri set his trunk down, sat on the bed, and tried to organize his thoughts into something resembling rational analysis. Grigory Volkov wanted to break the seal at Whale Bone Alley, believing the imprisoned entity could somehow save the Russian Empire from revolution and spiritual decay. Insane motivation based on premises that violated everything Dmitri understood about reality. Except Dmitri had experienced things that also violated those understandings. The masked figures were real. The shamanic visions were real. His modified heart was real, still beating in its wrong rhythm that Grigory had somehow heard from across the table. The whispers spoke his name. *Dmitri Sergeyevich Petrov.* He turned, searching for the source though he already understood there would be no physical speaker. The room remained empty except for his own presence. *You are called to witness.* The same words from his fever dream, delivered in that language he shouldn't understand but did. The voice came from inside his head and outside it simultaneously, existing in a space that didn't correspond to normal geography. "What am I supposed to witness?" he asked aloud, though speaking to empty air made him question his sanity. *What was sealed. What remains imprisoned. What the Cossack seeks to release.* "And what do you want me to do?" The whispers didn't answer directly. Instead, they shifted into a sound that resembled wind through bone structures, carrying harmonics that made his teeth ache. Images flickered at the edge of his vision—the temple again, the masked figures performing their inexplicable rituals, something vast and dark pressing against the boundaries of reality. Then silence. Dmitri waited for more communication, but the spirits had apparently said what they intended to say. He was being called to witness what was sealed. Whether that meant protecting the seal or helping to break it remained deliberately ambiguous. Sleep came eventually, bringing dreams that mixed memory and vision. Anna's face appeared, then dissolved into bone masks. The streets of St. Petersburg transformed into frozen wastes where temples rose from black ice. The masked figures performed their surgery again, though this time they showed him what they'd placed inside his chest—not just a modified heart, but something else, some additional organ that pulsed with light that came from no natural source. He woke before dawn, his heart hammering in its irregular rhythm. The decision had been made during sleep, though he couldn't identify the exact moment when determination had replaced uncertainty. He would go to Yttygran Island with Grigory Volkov. Not because he trusted the Cossack's motivations, and certainly not because he believed in some cosmic entity that could save the empire from revolution. But because the spirits had called him toward this place, had shown him visions of what waited there, had marked him as someone capable of witnessing what lay sealed beneath those ancient bones. Whatever happened next, staying in Anadyr and abandoning the mission would solve nothing. The shamanic calling didn't care about his preferences or his desperate need for rational explanations. The masked figures had initiated him into something that transcended his control. He packed his trunk with methodical efficiency, making sure his surveying equipment was properly secured. The Geographical Society still expected documentation, even if their understanding of what needed to be documented was catastrophically incomplete. Outside, pre-dawn darkness made Anadyr even more depressing than usual. Dmitri carried his trunk back to the boarding house common room, where Grigory was already waiting with his own equipment loaded into packs that suggested long experience with wilderness travel. "I wondered if you'd come," the Cossack said. "I don't have better options." "Honest answer." Grigory gestured toward the door. "There's a coastal vessel leaving in an hour. Captain owes me favors, so he'll take us north despite the season. From there we'll need dogsleds to reach the island itself. The whole journey should take about a week if weather cooperates." They walked through Anadyr's streets in the gray pre-dawn light. The few people already awake gave them wide berth, as if sensing something wrong about their departure. Or perhaps that was Dmitri's imagination, colored by his awareness of what they were traveling toward. The coastal vessel waited at the dock, smaller than the *Vostok* but better suited to arctic waters. Its captain greeted Grigory with the familiarity of old acquaintances who'd shared difficult experiences. He looked at Dmitri with considerably more suspicion. "He sees things," Grigory explained simply. The captain's expression shifted to something that might have been respect or might have been fear. "Then he'll understand soon enough what we're traveling toward. Get aboard. We're leaving as soon as the tide shifts." Dmitri followed Grigory up the gangplank, carrying his trunk while the whispers in his head rose to a volume that made conversation difficult to process. The spirits were speaking rapidly now, overlapping voices creating harmonies that hurt in ways physical pain couldn't match. The vessel pulled away from the dock as gray dawn light spread across the water. Dmitri stood at the rail, watching Anadyr recede into the distance. Behind him, Grigory checked their supplies with professional thoroughness. The Cossack's expression had changed since their conversation in the common room. Where before he'd shown careful interest mixed with suspicion, now he radiated something closer to excitement. Dmitri watched him organizing equipment and understood with sudden clarity that Grigory had been testing him during their negotiation. Testing to see if Dmitri could actually perceive beyond normal reality. Testing to confirm the shamanic calling was genuine and not some elaborate performance. And Dmitri had provided exactly the confirmation Grigory needed by describing the vision of the Cossack breaking the seal. The whispers screamed warnings he still couldn't fully parse, but their emotional content was unmistakable—danger, threat, betrayal, forces being set in motion that couldn't be stopped once initiated. Grigory looked up from the supplies, met Dmitri's eyes across the deck, and smiled with the satisfaction of someone whose long-prepared plans were finally coming together. "We should reach the island in six days," the Cossack said, loud enough to carry over the sound of wind and waves. "Then you'll see what you were called to witness." Dmitri gripped the rail, his modified heart beating its wrong rhythm, while the coastal vessel carried them north toward Yttygran Island and whatever ancient horror waited beneath the whale bones.