I

The sun had already set as they made their way home, a little over a kilometer south along the river. The day in the mine had been grueling for both Kirill Golubev and his elder brother Cheslav: the former had prepared the blast holes for the dynamite with relentless pickaxe blows, while the latter had unloaded crates of explosives from the wagon and stored them safely in a side tunnel, as dry as possible.

Extraction had come to a halt due to enormous slabs of an extraordinarily hard metal, barely scratched by manual tools. For the second time in just a few years, they had been forced to spend a small fortune on dynamite to break through.

They lived in a modest wooden house in Vanavara, on the frozen banks of the Stony Tunguska River. The settlement was a cluster of hastily constructed wooden homes, held together more by nails and ice than by solid craftsmanship. Ironically, the yurts of the Evenks, the local semi-nomadic clan, were far sturdier. Kirill vividly recalled the first time they had welcomed his family, offering help without asking anything in return.

It had been more than twenty years since they had left Ufa, a city in western Russia that felt like a metropolis compared to their current residence. The journey had been harrowing, a memory that still haunted his dreams. Worst of all, it had been all for nothing—at a terrible cost.

Their father had been a blacksmith for Nikolay Girs, the Foreign Minister under Emperor Alexander III. Every two or three months, he would travel to Saint Petersburg to tend to the Girs family’s horses. One October evening in 1885, he returned home and, stepping out of the carriage, found his wife and children waiting for him outside their two-story villa as usual. She greeted him warmly, taking his hands, while the five- and seven-years-old children waited patiently in line to bid him welcome. Yet, his expression was troubled, and after dinner, he shared his grave decision with the family: they had to leave, to go as far as possible into eastern Siberia.

Oh, poor deluded father! He had placed too much weight on Girs’s words. After one too many glasses of wine, the minister had confided that relations with the British Kingdom were deteriorating rapidly, and war seemed imminent over a dispute regarding supremacy over some irrelevant Asian territory. May he be cursed! Twenty-three years had passed since then, and the war had never materialized. But the hardships they had faced were far more tangible.

Winter had just begun and, ironically, the icy conditions made it the best time to travel. During the coldest months, frozen rivers served as roads for sledges. Within two weeks, their father had entrusted their house to an uncle living a few hours away, promising to stay in touch through letters, and they had departed in haste, leaving behind the few certainties they had.

After six excruciating months of heading eastward, they reached the Chuna River, where the father fell ill with tuberculosis. A few weeks later, as his condition worsened, the family settled near Vanavara, a fledgling camp of mostly starožily, early settlers of the late 19th century who had pinned their hopes on Siberia.

Until then, living in that place had been considered a punishment, or worse. Criminals, sectarians, and dissidents sometimes sought exile beyond the Urals. Siberia was a katorga, a penal colony—no sane person would willingly settle there.

Alongside these desperate Russians, who had established the camp only a few years prior, there were indigenous people living there: a nomadic group who lived off hunting and herding reindeer and horses. They respected the settlers and even offered help with several duties. This was the Shanyagir clan, a group of Evenks who lived in leather tents and spoke a dialect nearly incomprehensible to the Russian families.

Despite the language barrier, their mother sought help from the natives for the ailing husband, finding no assistance among the other settlers. The Evenks called for a shaman who lived a half-day’s journey away. Kirill remembered the middle-aged man well: he always carried a kind of enormous leather shield, round and decorated, with strange pouches sewn inside, containing who-knew-what.

He was left alone with the feverish father while, outside the hut, deep chants resonated from the locals’ diaphragms. More than an hour passed. The mother, growing increasingly anxious, clenched her fists so tightly that her nails dug into her palms. Suddenly, she burst into tears.

Inside the hut, two muffled thuds rang out, followed by a much louder third. The shaman’s shield or drum, thought the boy. The mystical figure emerged from the hut, lifted his gaze toward the gathered family, and said nothing. He simply walked away, heading north. The mother continued to sob, now fully aware she was alone. The older brother peeked inside the yurt, then turned with teary eyes to stop his younger sibling from sneaking a glance inside. Relations between the Evenks and the family began on a bitter note, and they did not improve in the years to come.

II

Amid all the misfortunes that had befallen him, meeting Keptuke was one of Kirill’s few joys. At twenty-eight years old, he was already considered too old to marry, but it didn’t bother him. It would never happen anyway: she was a dikiy, a savage, and a union between their two worlds was unthinkable, on either side. Yet, they had been seeing each other for years.

Barely out of his teens, he had been washing the family’s laundry at the river with his mother when he saw a herd of reindeer approach the bank, led by two Evenks—an adult man with a long black beard and a stunning young woman. Her hair was tied back with a delicate beaded headband, but what truly caught his eye were her features—soft and flowing, so unlike the harsh lines of her kin. Most striking of all were her large, dark eyes in which he felt he could drown.

Her father, Tero, must have noticed the boy’s furtive glances at his daughter, but he merely shot him a glare as they walked away. Things took a turn for the worse when Kirill’s mother learned of his infatuation: it was blasphemous, unthinkable. He was expected to find a respectable girl among the growing number of Russian families settling on that icy strip of mud by the river. His older brother had done just that: he and Anna had married after a year of courtship, and their first child was born soon after.

Kirill was thus forced to meet the enchanting young woman in secret, but it was easier than expected. She was curious about the exotic young man and eager to spend time with him, often under the pretext of tending the animals.

Months flew by. Each time her clan departed for several months, he threw himself into work to make time pass quickly. As the years went on, he and his brother became pillars of the mine that had been established north of the village. Cheslav managed the wagons and expeditions, while Kirill became a timberman, responsible for reinforcing the wooden supports holding up the tunnels.

Keptuke grew ever more beautiful, and whenever they stole away to avoid prying eyes, they each sought to learn more about the other’s culture. They loved teaching each other new words, and it was always a delight to exchange stories and legends, aided by gestures and sound effects.

More than anything, though, she adored when Kirill recounted the romantic tale of Romeo and Juliet, which his mother had told him countless times. Years before, they had even gone to the theater to hear Tchaikovsky’s opera based on the story. As a boy, he had been entranced by the famous crescendo of strings, so full of power and passion.

Keptuke struggled to grasp the feud between the two families of the ill-fated Italian lovers, but saw many parallels to their own situation. And dancing with him, her head resting on his chest as he softly sang that harmonious melody, transcended all space, time, and trivial cultural differences.

That evening, after setting up the dynamite in the mine, Kirill parted ways with his brother to slip away to meet the girl—Cheslav tacitly tolerated their clandestine relationship. They were to meet in their usual hideaway, a cave in the woods a few hundred meters upstream. Hidden by dense spruces and firs, they had furnished it like a second home.

As he stepped inside, he saw Keptuke already seated on the padded blanket that served as their bed, stitching a small patch of fur with colorful thread. She looked up and smiled faintly, but he immediately noticed her red eyes. He asked her what was wrong, and she bluntly replied that she was pregnant.

It was like being slapped with the full force of an arm—a revelation so unexpected that it had never even crossed his mind. He was overjoyed at the news, but it also spelled disaster for an endless list of reasons that didn’t need to be spoken aloud. They discussed various possibilities late into the night. The most reasonable seemed to be elopement, but they wisely decided to sleep on it. The belief that a good night’s rest clarifies the mind is universal across cultures.

III

At dawn, the two brothers headed toward the quarry. That late-June morning was breathtaking on the horizon. The days were longer, and so were the work hours, though they joked that underground it was always dark, summer or winter.

The older brother was musing about the strange slabs of metal that had slowed their work. They were peculiar, with their curvature making them seem almost spherical. Were they not so deep underground and their surfaces so irregular, he might have suggested they were man-made.

“Let’s hope the dynamite is enough to open a passage,” he thought aloud, only to realize his younger brother’s mind was elsewhere. He was about to ask what was troubling him, but chose to walk on in silence.

The stillness of the forest was shattered by a gunshot, sending dozens of birds into flight from the surrounding trees. The brothers instinctively threw themselves to the ground. Kirill rolled onto his back and saw Tero standing motionless about fifty meters away, rifle still raised and smoke curling from its barrel. His gaze was sharp, his stance proud. The wind tousled his now-gray beard.

It was rare to see one of his people wielding a firearm; the colonization of their lands had evidently altered their customs. He shouted something in the Evenk language that Kirill understood but chose not to translate for his brother: “I’ve seen her eyes.”

He must have deduced that Keptuke was pregnant or had coerced the information out of her. Unsure of how to react, Kirill nodded nervously. His brother gave him a questioning look, his gaze darting between the rifle and its wielder. Seconds of tense silence passed, then Tero lowered the weapon to reload. Taking advantage of the moment, Kirill turned and whispered to his brother: “Run!”

They scattered, darting into the underbrush until they reached the tallest trees. Kirill shouted to be heard: “Hide in the mine tunnels—He can’t understand our language!”

Minutes later, they arrived at the rock entrance at the base of a low hill. There were no mountains in that part of Siberia, only gentle rolling hills stretching endlessly. Cheslav grabbed an oil lamp from the small shed near the opening, noticing another lamp was missing—someone must already be inside. It was early, and the other workers wouldn’t arrive for at least half an hour. He lit the lamp as quickly as he could and hurried inside, calling his brother’s name.

An echo responded after a few seconds: “The third tunnel on the right.” Cheslav followed the directions, moving swiftly through the familiar labyrinth. In moments, he found his younger brother, hands on his knees, struggling to catch his breath amid the dusty air.

Between coughs, Kirill hastily explained Keptuke’s situation to Cheslav. His elder brother ran a hand through his hair, closing his eyes as though he had just learned the gravest news. But then his expression changed, and a genuine laugh erupted: “So you’re going to be a father too! That’s wonderful!” he exclaimed, pulling his brother into a bear hug. Kirill was stunned by the sudden shift, but returned the embrace, his heart feeling a little lighter.

Their laughter was cut short by a sound that made them turn abruptly. Standing at the tunnel’s entrance was Tero, rifle raised, holding a lamp in his supporting hand. They silently stared each other in the eyes for several moments, then the old man said in uncouth Russian: “You’re wrong. I can understand you,” and fired.

IV

The sun had been up for an hour when Keptuke finally stepped out of the chum, the tent she shared with her family. She was heading toward their reindeer when she was approached by Tooki, her mother, accompanied by a hunched figure wearing a large headdress made of leather, tendons, and bird feathers. It was undoubtedly a shaman, and the only one living near the village was Magankan. He hadn’t been seen in the area for years—something must have happened.

Without ceremony, he placed a hand on her shoulder, closed his eyes, and began to speak: “Young spirit, listen closely. A few days ago, during meditation, I had a vision: Shavaky, the protector goddess of the world, had been summoned here to rectify a human mistake. An incident—unknown to me—had broken an unbreakable celestial bond.”

His words made little sense to her, but he continued: “A calamitous event had unleashed the fury of Agdy, the sacred bird of metal, the messenger of clouds, thunder, and lightning! In my vision, I saw this place, this land bathed by the river, completely annihilated and stripped of all life.”

He opened his eyes and fixed them on hers. “I am here because last night, your mother came to me seeking help for your situation,” he explained, pointing to her abdomen. “As I saw her approaching from the forest, I recognized her face and remembered an important detail: in my vision, shortly before the total chaos unleashed by Agdy, she was there as well.”

Startled, Keptuke instinctively placed a protective hand over her womb. How had she noticed? How long had she known about the pregnancy?

The shaman turned to leave, heading for a nearby tent, while her mother whispered sharply, “My dear, your teary eyes these past few days have said it all. Something troubles you, doesn’t it?” Her gaze turned severe as it shifted to her daughter’s belly.

Keptuke was about to answer when a deafening explosion shook the ground, leaving them frozen and terrified. The sound came from the north—it must have been the mine; the workers must have used explosives. Moments later, they saw several men emerging from the wooden huts by the river, exchanging puzzled glances—they were the miners! So who was it? Her heart leapt to her throat, and she ran toward the column of smoke rising into the sky, followed by her mother.

Five minutes later, they reached the mouth of the mine, now largely blocked by rocks and debris. Several men were already hard at work moving the rubble, shouting to check for anyone trapped inside. Keptuke immediately asked, “Is anyone stuck inside?” Her words in Russian startled the men, who answered that the voices they had heard seemed to belong to the Golubev brothers. Just as she had feared. She dropped to the ground and began digging alongside them, ignoring the curious glances cast her way.

In less than half an hour, an arm poked out of the wall of stones, flailing desperately for air as though after a long dive. They grabbed it immediately, and within minutes, Cheslav was pulled to safety. “My brother is still there!” were his first words as the frantic efforts resumed.

Another twenty minutes passed before Kirill was dragged out by his legs. Dazed, he looked around as his eyes adjusted to the light. His ears were still ringing. A decent crowd had gathered around him: he recognized the miners, Cheslav—thank goodness!—their mother, and Keptuke, crouched by his side, holding his hand. He thought he was dreaming and gave the girl a gentle smile, but a slap on his cheek jolted him fully awake.

“Are you hurt? Anything broken?” his brother asked urgently. Kirill shook his head, sitting up and patting his chest and limbs. He took stock of the scene again and immediately turned toward the rubble. Tero was still in there, trapped somewhere beneath the rocks.

V

When Tero fired the shot, Cheslav shoved his brother aside and pushed him out of the bullet’s path. The shot grazed Cheslav’s arm, leaving a shallow but painful cut that drew a sharp cry from him and caused him to drop the lamp.

The spilled oil ignited, spreading flames across the wooden supports holding up the tunnel. As Tero reloaded, Kirill seized the chance to charge at him and tackle him to the ground.

“Calm down! We can work this out!” he shouted, hoping the man would understand his Russian. There was no time to think of the translation into the Evenk dialect, especially since Tero had surprised him by speaking Russian moments earlier. Kirill had underestimated him.

Pinned beneath him, the man snarled incoherently, his eyes full of rage and terror. “No! The great thunderbird comes! Magankan said so! You’ve angered Agdy!” His words tumbled out, barely making sense to Kirill in the heat of the moment. Magankan? That was shaman who had failed to save his father—what did he have to do with this? And who—or what—the hell was Agdy?

Kirill was trying to make sense of the torrent of words when Cheslav arrived, shaking his shoulder and pointing at the flames behind them. “The dynamite! The fire’s too close!” he shouted, his eyes wide with panic. Two crates of explosives sat in the tunnel where they had been moments before, unsafely close to the spreading fire. Cheslav had stuffed his pocket with sticks of dynamite in an attempt to reduce the blast, but there wasn’t enough time to move them all.

Kirill leaped to his feet and extended a hand to help Tero up. The man had been following the conversation intently and understood what was about to happen, but Cheslav dragged his brother away before Tero could rise fully. They sprinted down the main tunnel as a tremendous explosion lifted them off their feet, throwing them to the ground. Darkness engulfed everything.

Kirill first looked at his brother, who returned his gaze with a furrowed brow. Then he turned to Keptuke, who immediately felt a sinking in her chest. She rushed back to the rubble to resume digging, but a hand grabbed her arm—it was Tooki, who had been watching from the edge of the forest alongside the shaman. She wasn’t blind; she had realized that her husband was trapped beneath the collapse. Her eyes were filled with tears, a mixture of fury and sorrow.

Tooki opened her mouth to speak but fell silent as her gaze shifted to something beside them. Narrowing her eyes, she seemed to focus on something peculiar. Keptuke followed her mother’s stare but saw nothing. Magankan stepped closer, drawn by their expressions. His wide eyes locked onto the rubble, where he picked up a rock just larger than his palm.

The stone seemed coated with moss about half a centimeter thick. Yet it wasn’t ordinary moss—it was translucent, as pale as milk mixed with water. The most astonishing part was that no matter how the rock was turned, the moss always remained on top, as if tethered to the sky.

Terrified, Magankan dropped the stone and watched in horror as the rest of the pile revealed the same pale coating. He pulled a bundle of dried herbs from his drum-shield, crushed them in his hand, and scattered them over the debris with a breath, performing an exorcism against these unwelcome spirits. Then he turned east toward the rising sun and began invoking a blessing—only to freeze once more.

The branches of the surrounding trees were now covered in a strange, unnatural whiteness, and the ground, too, seemed to be slowly sheathing itself in this milky, ethereal substance. Yet the clothing and hair of those present appeared unaffected.

Overwhelmed, Magankan sat at the foot of the hill, a deep sense of foreboding washing over him. He realized this was undoubtedly a bugady, a sacred place. He had always felt a powerful force emanating from the area, which had drawn him to live in solitude nearby. However, he had never located the exact source of energy beneath the mound. The explosion must have triggered this apparition. It was a sign that the temple had been desecrated for far too long by the miners.

He turned to the Evenk women. “This is the work of Shavaky, protector of the world, who created the earth from water using fire! These men have defiled a sacred place. Agdy will be her messenger of destruction and purity!” He began striking his drum with slow, deliberate force, attempting to placate their enraged deity.

Meanwhile, Kirill and Cheslav continued digging frantically for Tero amidst the ruins. They too had noticed the white glow emanating from the rubble, lending a mystical aura to the darkness of the tunnel.

He had to save his beloved’s father. From outside, the shaman’s drumbeat grew louder, reverberating through the cavern so intensely that it seemed to shake their very insides. Kirill pressed his ear to the stone barrier, listening for even the faintest sound. He longed for a breath, a groan, a weak cry—but instead, after nearly a minute of silence, he saw… a white light.

A faint, milky glow that grew in intensity before fading, only to repeat with rhythmic precision, matching the beat of the drum outside. Kirill leaned back to get a better view, realizing that the glow came from beyond the rocks. The light pulsed brighter with each cycle, its rhythm unwavering. It couldn’t be a lamp—it was too pure.

Just as he prepared to resume digging, he finally heard the sound he had been waiting for—a cough, distant but unmistakable, from behind the collapsed wall.

VI

Panic was spreading outside. The entire world was covered in a pale halo that grew thicker with each passing moment, defying all reason. What at first seemed like a thin layer of snow now measured several centimeters thick, taking on a completely unnatural form. It mirrored the shape of the objects beneath, without resting upon them. The branches and leaves of the trees were particularly eerie—they appeared entirely wrong. The whiteness didn’t sit on them but hovered in midair, following their contours. Stranger still, this apparition seemed to rise slowly but steadily toward the sky.

Magankan continued beating his drum with unyielding rhythm, while those around him ran, prayed, and wept, searching for something to cling to in this surreal nightmare. Kirill emerged from the mine and called out to Keptuke: “Your father’s alive! I need your help!”

Both Tooki and Magankan were startled to hear the Russian-speaking man address her in their dialect. They watched her sprint away with her beloved and his brother, vanishing into the mine’s darkness. Only Tooki noticed the stick of dynamite fall from Cheslav’s pocket.

By late afternoon, the residents of the settlement, both Russians and Evenks, were slowly growing accustomed to what they now called white shadows. The shape and mass of every non-living object were levitating into the air, insubstantial. The greatest terror came when they realized that the ground itself, always pristine white, was also rising.

Some climbed trees, fearing to touch the strange surface; others spread furs and carpets over it, hoping to pin it down. Parents even tried to hold their children off the ground, unwilling to let them be “consumed” by it. Eventually, they resigned themselves to the truth: whatever it was, it was neither harmful nor escapable.

By evening, the white shadows of the trees had ascended high into the sky, becoming almost invisible against a vast, translucent white mass that emerged from the depths of the earth. This immense, ghostly wall rose inexorably, leaving a dense mist in its wake—a fog that did not move with the wind and could not be shut out by doors.

The following morning, just before dawn, the three young people were still working tirelessly to rescue Tero. They had taken turns resting, but none had truly slept. They focused entirely on their efforts, ignoring the madness unfolding outside, though hope waned with each stone removed. The white light still pulsed, making it clear it was no ordinary lantern and somehow connected to the shadows outside.

Keptuke returned from fetching milk, water, and dried meat for the others. Her mind raced, trying to piece together the shaman’s words and her mother’s cryptic remarks from the previous day. Could her union with Kirill be the cause of all this? Was this the catastrophic consequence that had so terrified Romeo and Juliet’s families? She looked up at the sky, seeking answers in the stars, but beyond the fog, there were only thick, swirling clouds.

Despite the near-total absence of wind, the clouds were moving swiftly, spinning in a circle like the prelude to a tornado. She quickened her pace toward the mine but froze as Kirill and Cheslav came running toward her, shouting in alarm: “The light! The light!”

She didn’t immediately understand their warning, but took a few more steps before being blinded by an intense brilliance. It was the glow emanating from the rubble, now visible meters beyond the mine’s entrance. The light lingered longer before fading, making it impossible to keep her eyes open, especially as the fog amplified its effects.

What paralyzed her, however, was a sudden, deep sound—a reverberation so powerful to echo through her chest. It was akin to the blast of a war horn blown by an entire army, she thought, and it sent vibrations through her ribcage.

Standing there, stunned by the piercing brilliance, she suddenly lost her balance as the ground shook violently. Through the haze, she saw an enormous white, ethereal creature leap from the hilltop and hover high in the air.

It was undoubtedly divine, one of the figures depicted in grand tales and sacred paintings, yet she could not identify it. The being was impossibly white, its form so pure that it was difficult to discern its edges. Its elongated body resembled a dragon, though it seemed to shift and transform endlessly, as if it embodied multiple forms at once. At one moment, its head resembled a fish; the next, a bear.

After a moment of stillness, the creature extended its immense form as though reaching for the farthest corners of the cosmos. Then it began to spin upon itself. It was a breathtaking sight. Keptuke lacked the concept of geometry but was mesmerized by the shifting shapes: a circle, a serpent biting its own tail, a star with countless points, then an elongated disc, and so on. The cycle repeated, faster and faster, as the creature’s dance filled the air with a growing hum—soft and strangely soothing compared to the earlier horn.

Hypnotized by the vision above her, Keptuke was startled back to reality by Kirill pulling her arm. “Come quickly!” he urged. She wanted to protest, to tell him she was certain there was no danger, but he was already dragging her toward the settlement to the south. They ran, oblivious to Magankan and Tooki standing motionless nearby, their wide eyes fixed on the heavens.

VII

The shaman continued his fervent prayers as Tooki approached the hill. “Stop! Kneel before Shavaky!” he cried, but she either didn’t hear him, or just chose to ignore him. Determined, she headed toward the mine to free her husband once and for all.

Standing before the entrance, she realized the enormity of her task. A deafening rumble shook her from head to toe, while the intense light forced her to shield her eyes with the crook of her arm. Advancing blindly, she kept one hand on the wall, moving a few meters during the rare moments when the glow dimmed.

A sudden burst of light caught her off guard, leaving her temporarily blinded and forcing her to slump against the wall. When her vision returned, she stared at the stone beside her, puzzled: her entire arm appeared to be vibrating, though the rock itself remained perfectly still. Shaking her head, she pressed on.

After about twenty meters, she reached the barrier of rubble where the two brothers had been digging. Kneeling beside the stones, she shouted with all her strength, “Hold on, Tero!” Then, softly, as she caressed the barrier that separated them, she whispered, “Stay strong.”

With steady hands, she placed a stick of dynamite she had picked up earlier into a crevice and struck a flint.

Magankan continued praying, his face turned skyward, struggling to stay upright against the vibrations and blinding light. Vertigo consumed him, and he teetered precariously.

In the chaos, through his blurred vision and the constant ringing in his ears, he thought he saw the white shadows of the surrounding trees descending again. They were still many meters above the ground but seemed to be slowly lowering. By Shavaky’s grace! The goddess was restoring balance to the world!

Kneeling in gratitude, he raised his hands to the heavens, only to see Tooki burst from the mine, shielding her eyes from the pulsing brilliance. He puzzled over her frantic retreat, but realization came too late to stop her reckless act.

The detonation was relatively minor—a plume of dust and small stones shot out of the mine’s entrance, barely enough to knock Tooki off her feet. But the consequences were unspeakable: the soft hum that had filled the air fractured into a piercing screech, climbing rapidly in intensity and stabbing into the ears of everyone within miles.

The creature in the sky, rotating faster and faster upon itself, lost its balance like a spinning top tipping off its axis. For several seconds, a profound silence fell. Had anyone still had healthy hearing, they would have noticed the absence of all sound, save for their own racing heartbeat.

The divine figure twisted and writhed, shifting through grotesque, broken forms—no longer geometric or elegant but disfigured and monstrous. Finally, it shot upward like a winged dragon, then exploded with unimaginable force.

The shockwave—Agdy, as the shaman would have call it—wreaked havoc across the land. Trees were obliterated and flattened for hundreds of kilometers, while the settlement was erased entirely. The blast’s sheer power dissolved animals and anihilated yurts and their occupants, leaving devastation across countless miles.

The sky over Siberia blazed as if it were noon, visible as far as the British Kingdom… that infamous realm! How ironic that it had not sparked any war with Russia, but had inadvertently played a role in an event beyond human comprehension.