the red scarf

Aruzhan woke to the sudden screech of the train braking somewhere in the endless steppe. The carriage smelled of stale alcohol and kurt. Outside, a true Kazakh blizzard raged — snow spinning wildly, as if the spirits of her ancestors were angry. “Kostanay. Final stop,” croaked the conductor, spitting sunflower seeds onto the floor. On the platform, a man waited, wearing a quilted jacket and an ushanka hat is clearly not a local. He held a sign: “Aruzhan — sulu kyz.” “You’re going to Murat?” he asked, sizing her up from head to toe. “Come on, the bike’s getting cold.” The Ural motorcycle with a sidecar, plastered with stickers reading “Astana — my city” and “Kazakhstan — a great nation”, looked as if it had survived every war of the 20th century. “Hop on, princess,” the driver rasped with a laugh. “Just don’t scream when we speed up.” They raced across the steppe, overtaking flocks of sheep and drunken shepherds in dilapidated Zhigulis. The wind howled as if it would tear the skin off her face. Suddenly, in the darkness, a yurt appeared, covered not with lights, but with animal skulls glowing from within. “Well, meet our guest!” the driver shouted, throwing the door open. Inside, an old man crouched, his face carved with wrinkles deeper than the canyons of Charyn. He smoked a hookah filled with something perhaps cannabis, perhaps steppe herbs. “Ah,” he croaked. “So the daughter of Yernazar lives. Sit down, ant. We need to talk about revenge.” From beneath his cloak, he pulled out… a real executioner’s axe. Old, jagged, battle-worn. “See this axe?” Murat asked. “Your great-grandfather used it to behead the Dzungars. Now it will cut the heads of those who wronged our family.” At that moment, a gust of wind blew through the yurt, and Aruzhan saw… impossibly, her grandmother. But not the kind old woman she remembered — this one had eyes burning like embers, and hands covered with strange tattoos. “My little granddaughter,” she hissed, “you thought I was just making dumplings all these years? No, I was preparing you for this day.” The old woman tore open her blouse, revealing a scar in the shape of a wolf’s head across her chest. “Our family is a family of wolves,” she continued. “And wolves never forgive.” Meanwhile, Murat poured something murky and foul-smelling into bowls. “Drink,” he ordered. “This is wolf blood mixed with arak. Tonight, you become one of us.” Aruzhan drank it all at once. The world flipped. Her skin felt like it was on fire, her bones breaking and knitting together anew. When she opened her eyes, she realized she was… on all fours? No, it had to be a hallucination. But why could she smell blood from miles away? And why did she feel the urge to howl at the moon? “Now you’re ready,” said her grandmother, her voice strange, as if coming from several throats at once. “Go, granddaughter. Let the Karimovs learn what it means to anger a she-wolf.” Aruzhan ran out of the yurt. The steppe met her with the howls of dozens of wolves. The largest one, with fur whiter than snow, approached and licked her hand. Far away, in his luxurious mansion, Daniyar woke in a cold sweat. He thought he heard laughter outside… no, it was the howl of hungry wolves. The next morning, newspapers ran headlines: “Terrible Tragedy in the Karimov Family: Clan Leader Found Dead.” The photos showed… not much of the body left. Investigators shrugged — it couldn’t have been wolves, not in the city center! Meanwhile, on the outskirts of Kostanay, in an abandoned mosque, a girl in a red scarf wiped a bloodied knife. Beside her lay a white wolf, patiently waiting for its leader to finish. “The list is still long,” Aruzhan whispered, kissing the wolf’s muzzle. “But we’ll get it done. Oh yes, we still have time…” Somewhere in the steppe, the wind howled. Or was it a sacrificial lamb singing? Who knows… Kazakhstan holds many secrets, and some are better left unsolved.