The Fatherland Files

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On the move again, stealing through the forest, he leaves his shelter and advances through the trees. No one will hear him, no one will see him. There is a heaviness in the air, deep in the thicket he feels the warmth; summer has arrived with a vengeance. Tokala pauses and takes a deep breath. The scent of lime-tree blossom and winter barley fills the air in the fields over by Markowsken, and already he can smell the lake.

As he draws nearer his pace slows. If he shows himself then it is only to strike fear into those around. He doesn’t like it when they enter his forest, doesn’t care for their loud cries, their reckless tramping through the undergrowth. He doesn’t like their contempt for everything he holds dear.

A mirror hangs in his hut and, sometimes, before he ventures out, he rubs black earth into his face until his eyes glow wildly and, when he bares his teeth, he resembles a beast of prey. In the twilight it renders him as good as invisible but, with the sun high, he has chosen to dispense with his disguise. To be all the stealthier, he wears moccasins made of elk leather and in them he prowls quiet as a cat.

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