He saved me.
In 2014, a Siberian prisoner successfully escaped from prison on a winter night and broke into my courtyard.
I warned him that pilgrims should not kill innocent people indiscriminately, not to mention that I saved him.
But he explained in confusion that he was just an ordinary prisoner and didn't know why he was a pilgrim.
The doorbell rang, and another group of killers visited at night.
He looked at me and suddenly smiled: "You're right. You shouldn't kill innocent people indiscriminately, but these people are different."
Only later did I know that he was hunting for a murder that lasted 20 years.
And I happen to be the first person on the list.
---
In the winter of 2014, the cold current of Siberia seemed to come out from the depths of the core, rushing to the sparse birch forest outside Omsk with the brute force of crushing everything. The air is solidified and rough. Every time you breathe, your throat is like a handful of ice.
Leonid Ivanov didn't know how long he had been running. Time has lost its scale under the cold and severe pain, leaving only the hiss like a wind box-pulling of the lungs, and the dull and desperate "poof" sound of the boots stepping into the knee-deep snow again and again. The thick prison uniform was tattered by the barbed wire, and the frozen blood and sweat stuck to the skin, like a layer of inferior armor. The injury of his right leg - probably bitten by something when he climbed over the last wall - was burning, dragging him to leave a crooked and intermittent trace on the snow.
Can't stop.
This idea is the only flame that is still burning, weak but stubborn. If you stop, you will be frozen corpses, pecked by crows, or easily torn apart by the hounds that chased after them. He swallowed the knife-like cold air and forced himself to lift his lead-filled eyelids.
In front of us, there is a warm yellow light on the dark velvet.
Light. It's not the dazzling and threatening searchlight on the prison watchtower, nor the fleeting light of the car light through the snowfield. It is steady and shines through a window, hazy and hairy. Behind the window, it seems to be the outline of a low wooden house, almost half buried by snow.
The temptation of life beat him more fiercely than any whipping. He deviated from the direction he had fled blindly and crawled towards the light with his hands and feet.
There is no fence in the courtyard, or the snow covers all the boundaries. He almost rolled into the open space barely covered by the eaves, bumped into a pile of chopped firewood, and the firewood was scattered. He curled up, his teeth bumped uncontrollably, gurgling, and his eyes were glued to the translucent window. There are people inside. Warm. Maybe there is still food.
Then, he heard the movement in the room. It was very light, but it was extremely clear in this dead snowy night - someone got up from the stove and walked to the door.
The door opened.
The waterfall of light poured out, instantly stinging his eyes that had adapted to the darkness. He subconsciously raised his hand to cover it. From between his fingers, he saw a figure standing at the door against the light.
She is a young woman, wearing thick dark home clothes and a slender figure. She was coated with a layer of furry gold edges around her body, but her face could not be clearly illuminated. She didn't have a gun or a stick in her hand. She just stood there quietly, looking at the uninvited guests who fell by the pile of firewood and were embarrassed.
Silence covered like ice, only the wind whistled through the top of the birch forest.
Leonid's throat moved and wanted to make a sound, even if it was the slightest begging, but his chapped lips only spit out a wisp of trembling white gas.
The woman opened her mouth first. The voice was not high, and even calm, like snowflaks falling on the frozen soil, but with a strange and unquestionable penetration, it pierced the cold wind and penetrated into his ears.
"Leave my yard, pilgrim."
Leonid was shocked, not because of the drive, but because of the word.
Pilgrim?
He froze completely, and even the trembling of his teeth stopped for a moment. He quickly checked this strange word in his mind and all the meanings it might have. Religious madman? Secret society? Some kind of secret language that he doesn't know? No, it's not right. This word came out of her mouth, permeated the coldness of Siberia, and other, deeper things. A kind of... cold insight.
He must explain. He opened his mouth, and his dry throat barely rubbed out hoarse and broken syllables: "No... Madam... I just... escaped from the 'sable'..." He swallowed a mouthful of spit with a rusty smell, "Prisoner. An ordinary prisoner. I don't know what... pilgrims."
He tried to raise his face, trying to let her see the pure confusion on his face and the weakness that could not be concealed by the cold and pain. The prison uniform is tattered, but the style is definite. The wound on the leg glowed an ominous dark color in the faint light.
The woman didn't move. Her eyes fell on his face and stayed for a moment. His eyes were like a scalpel, peeling off his embarrassed shell and examining the inside. Leonid felt an inexplicable chill, which was worse than the low temperature around.
Then, her eyes seemed to pass over him, cast into the deeper darkness outside the courtyard, and listened sideways. Is there anything else in the wind? Leonid's nerves suddenly tightened, and he also heard - in the distance, so weak that he almost thought it was an illusion, but it did exist: the low roar of the engine, overwhelming the muffled sound of snow. More than one.
Chasing soldiers? So fast?
The woman's eyebrows frowned almost imperceptibly, and then let go. She withdrew her gaze and fell on him again. At that moment, Leonid seemed to see a trace of something extremely faint, like a balance in her eyes, which was so fast that people couldn't catch it.
The sound of the engine approached, and the light column of the car lamp was like the one eye of a beast, splitting the dark woods and swaying towards this side. The snow was illuminated and the air trembled.
The woman suddenly moved. She turned sideways to open the door, and the warm light that poured out suddenly enveloped half of his body.
"Come in." She said. There is no change in the tone, and it is still the same straight and irresistible tone.
Leonid was stunned. One second he was being driven away, but the next second he was allowed to enter this precious shelter? Doubt pierces the spine like an ice cone. Trap? But the headlights had clearly reflected the shaking shadow outside the courtyard. At least three people were jumping out of the car, and the creaking sound of boots stepping on the snow was cruelly approaching. He has no choice.
With all his strength, he climbed to the open door with all his hands and feet. The warm breath came to my face, mixed with old wood, dried herbs and the sweet fragrance of the stove. He fell into the door and almost collapsed on the floor.
The woman closed the door behind him. The heavy wooden door isolates most of the cold wind and light, and everything in the house is clear. A simple living room and kitchen, with simple but neat furnishings, firewood crackling in the huge brick and stone fireplace, which is the only source of light and heat. The wall is made of logs, and there are some blankets with unclear patterns. There is a strange tranquility in the air.
She didn't look at him. She went straight to the window, lifted the corner of the thick curtain, and peeked out.
Leonid struggled to sit up against the wall, panting violently, greedily absorbing the warmth around him. The wound on my leg is burning and painful. He tore off a clean lining of the prison uniform and tried to tighten the top of the wound, and his hands trembled violently.
The footsteps stopped outside the door. The rude sound of slamping on the door made the ash on the door frame fall.
"Open the door! Check!"
It's a man's voice, coarse, with the arrogance of giving orders.
The woman pulled down the curtain and turned around. The light of the fire jumped on her face, and Leonid saw her face clearly for the first time. Very young, maybe in his early twenties, his complexion is pale without the sun for a long time, the bridge of his nose is straight, and his lips are pressed into a pale line. The most eye-cating thing is her eyes, which are very light in color, almost gray and white, like the winter sky in Siberia, empty, but it seems to reflect everything. At this moment, there is no panic in these eyes.
Instead of immediately responding to the shouts outside the door, she walked to a heavy wooden table next to the fireplace. There are several books, a pile of paper full of words, and an old-fashioned kerosene lamp on the table. She stretched out her hand and brushed something on the table with her fingertips - Leonid couldn't see what it was. It seemed to be a small, dark wooden box or a hard-shell notebook.
Her fingertips stayed on it for a moment, extremely short, then moved away and picked up a long knife for cutting bread next to her. The blade is thick, and the blade shines with a dark light under the fire. She held the knife in a very casual way, like picking up a daily tool, but her knackles were slightly white.
The sound of slapping on the door was more urgent, mixed with impatient curses and the muffled sound of boots kicking the door.
The woman held a knife and walked to the door. When she passed by Leonid, she paused slightly, her gray eyes drooped, and she glanced at him.
That glance is very complicated. There is a scrutiny, a warning, and a trace of coldness that Leonid can't understand and almost pity.
Then, she faced the door that was slightly shaken by the impact, with her back straight, like a white birch growing in the frozen soil.
"You're right."
Her voice was still not high, but she strangely overwhelmed the noise outside the door and clearly penetrated Leonid's ears. She didn't look back, as if she was just stating a fact.
"Innocent people should not be killed indiscriminately."
The door bolt was roughly pried from the outside, making a squeaking sound that made my teeth sore.
The woman's gray eyes stared at the trembling door, which reflected the swaying figure outside. Her fingers holding the knife adjusted the angle very slightly.
"But these people," she continued, the ending sound was almost drowned in another heavy knock on the door, but with an iron-like texture, "it's different."
"Bang--!"
The door was slammed open.