Volkov's Doubt

The air tasted different. Not just the crisp iodine of pine needles or the damp earth after a spring shower, but something sharper, like ozone before a storm, or the metallic tang of fear. It hummed in my tusks, a low thrum that vibrated through my bristly hide. The forest was restless, and I, the wild boar, felt it in my very bones. The familiar scent of man, usually a distant tremor on the wind, was closer now, more agitated. Their voices, once a low murmur, now carried a frantic urgency, like birds disturbed from their roosts. They spoke of change, of taking back what was theirs, of a word that echoed in my own grunts and snorts: *Laisvė*. Freedom.

I remembered the heavy tread of their boots, the clatter of their metal beasts that roared through the trees, scarring the earth. The men in their stiff green uniforms, their faces hard and unyielding. They were the shadows that had stretched long and cold over our forests, over their villages, over their very lives. But now, those shadows seemed to be shrinking, fraying at the edges like old cloth. The roaring beasts were fewer, their thunder fading into the distance.

One day, the tension snapped. I was rooting for grubs near the edge of a clearing, the scent of disturbed soil a familiar comfort, when the air cracked with a different sound. Shouts. Angry, defiant shouts. And then, the sharp bark of commands, alien and harsh. I froze, belly low to the ground, my sensitive snout twitching. Through the dense undergrowth, I saw them. The men in green, their rifles held at the ready, their faces grim. And before them, a sea of Lithuanians, their faces a riot of defiance and fear. They held banners, splashes of yellow, green, and red against the grey uniforms. They were shouting, their voices a wave crashing against the soldiers’ wall of silence.