“Like the flying buttress of a great cathedral.” Professor Axelson, his worries forgotten for a moment, is admiring the strange rock formation.
The boat drifts quietly under the arch. The last rays of the setting sun feel warm on our backs, and illuminate a small beach on the shoreline in front of us. We bob gently towards the sand, running aground almost imperceptibly. For the moment, our journey is over. I have no idea what lies ahead.
We were too exhausted to push the boat back into the river current last night, and decided to rest. Using the tarpaulin as a blanket, we slept on the little beach, its fine pale sand reminding me of the distant sea.
I wake suddenly: it’s a cold dawn, and I feel faint with hunger. I look out from the tarpaulin, and see the professor standing on the beach.
“I have seen two things of interest, Miss Agnes.”
I go over to him. He is pointing down onto the sand; the object in front of us is the last thing in the whole world that I expected to see. It’s a small leaflet, and I’ve seen copies of it before. It shows the Tsar and King George of England standing bravely together, facing a German soldier and a bomb-wielding Communist.
“How odd, Professor! Those leaflets are Tsarist propaganda. Do you remember, there was a stack of them in Mr Bukin’s office? They were produced by the Anglo-Russian Bureau. Rufus was involved in writing them. Did he bring that leaflet with us in the boat?”
“No, Miss Agnes. There are other, identical copies of the leaflet around. I have spotted two more, up there.” He points, and I see small white dots on the wooded slope above us. But the professor continues.
“The other thing I have seen is of far more practical importance.”
He looks up: I follow his gaze. Across the empty, pale blue sky is a trail of sooty smoke.
“It is too big and too dark, Miss Agnes, to be woodsmoke from a village. That smoke is from some kind of factory. I think our journey on the river is at an end.”
I nod at him silently; he carries on.
“For good or ill, we are near a town, situated on the plateau above this canyon. It is probably a mining or industrial centre. We should go up this slope – and see what our luck has in store for us.”
We wake Rufus, and, as fast as our starved bodies will permit, we start the laborious ascent through the sloping woods. It’s steep, and we all stop for breath every few feet. Midges and flies buzz around us.
The leaflets are an odd accompaniment to our climb; I’ve seen three more scattered around under the trees. Rufus laughs heartily when he sees them. “This design was one of my ideas! It’s rather good, don’t you think?”
I nod politely as Rufus carries on. “I was told, Agnes, that these leaflets were to be widely distributed across Russia. Well, this shows that they were.”
It’s mid-morning by the time we reach the top of the slope. I’m on the very last reserves of my strength, and the professor is not much better. We are still among the dense woodland, but at last the ground is flat. Ahead of us, we see something new. A tall wire fence marks the edge of the forest, and we look through it. Beyond it is a wide clearing; a flat, grassy field. In the distance is a dark line of conifers, but the open field must be half a mile across. There is no-one at all about.
The fence is ten feet tall, and topped with curls of barbed wire. We’re too exhausted to even think of trying to climb it. So we follow it, all the while looking out across the field for signs of life. We have no idea whether this place is in the possession of friends, enemies, or no-one.
At one point a tree has fallen: it lies across the fence, which is flattened to the ground. Wordlessly, we step over the wire. There is nothing to discuss, no decisions to be made. We know we have to find food soon, or faint from hunger. But then Rufus speaks.
“What’s that?”
We look, hoping to see a building of some kind. But he’s pointing only a few feet away, at a small, blackened pile alongside the fence. We go over to it.
The remains of a bonfire are surrounded by more leaflets. All are the same as the ones we’ve seen; many are half-burnt. The fire itself is long cold; a stack of charred papers. Axelson nods gravely.
“This is bad news. Someone is trying to destroy all these leaflets: the copies we saw in the woods must have been part of the bonfire, but they were carried up from the flames by drafts of air. Someone has been burning large quantities of White Army propaganda. So, it seems likely that this place belongs to the Bolsheviks.”
Rufus adds “But – if the Bolsheviks are burning Tsarist papers – it shows that White forces were here? – perhaps not long ago.”
“You have a point there, Mr du Pavey; well done. I think this fire was made yesterday. Friendly troops may be close by. But if there is a battle line, we are on the wrong side of it.”
“So if we got back in the boat, and travelled a bit further along the river?…”
The professor looks at Rufus’s heavy physique. “Miss Agnes and I are finished. We have no strength left: we must have food.” He adds pointedly “We have not got the reserves of fat that you have.”
We decide to rest for an hour. There’s nothing else we can do. I lie flat on the ground: I feel I’ve not an ounce of strength left. But after a short while, Rufus gets up and says he is going for a walk. In a few minutes he reappears.
“I’ve seen something. Come with me.”
We follow him along the edge of the field, keeping to the line of the fence. After a minute, we see a collection of sheds in the far corner of the field. There is still no-one at all about. We’re too tired and hungry for caution; we walk straight to the nearest shed. It’s fronted with wide windows looking out over the field. Rufus is carrying a grin of satisfaction under his mustache. The professor stares around us.
“What is this place?”
Rufus’s blue eyes twinkle, like a glimpse of his old charm.
“I must admit, Prof, I have an advantage over you and Agnes. When we first got to the fence and looked across the field, I recognised this set up. I’ve seen this kind of place often, but neither of you will have. It’s an airfield.”
The professor’s face beams in a heartfelt smile. “Well done, Mr du Pavey!”
Rufus continues. “What’s more, it appears to be deserted. But whoever was here may have left food behind. I suggest we try the office first.” We go over to the glass-fronted shed; the door isn’t locked. Inside there’s nothing much to see, just a desk and some chairs. A door leads into another room; we go through. This room is a kitchen, with a pantry. We fling the pantry door open and see bread, butter and some cured meats. We fall on them, gobbling greedily.
Rufus continues exploring, opening doors and going into other rooms. He calls to us. “There’s a plan of the airfield here. Its name is Kamensk Stone Gates. I guess the ‘Stone Gates’ refers to the canyon we came through yesterday.”
Axelson adds “And Kamensk must be the nearby town.” But Rufus interrupts.
“There’s another pantry here – with several loaves in it! Enough food for many days.”
Axelson, however, is peering out of the window. He points towards a roughly-hewn wooden post. A tattered red blanket is nailed to the top of it, and it flaps in the breeze, covering and uncovering the crudely-drawn outlines of a hammer and a sickle.
“That must be an emblem the Bolsheviks have adopted. The hammer, I suppose, represents industrial workers; the sickle, the peasants. The Red Guards are definitely in control of this place – but the makeshift flag shows, perhaps, that they have only just taken it over. And luckily for us, they are not here now.”