by Dan Millman
Razin turned back to face Sergei. “It is always a matter of life and death with you young people.”
Sergei decided to reveal his purpose; there seemed to be no other way to gain Razin’s cooperation. “Some men posing as Cossacks murdered my family. They will kill many more innocent people. I have to stop them. You had promised to teach—”
“I promised nothing!” Razin said, then stormed out of the room.
Sergei was at a loss. Was this old man a charlatan? Was Sergei being used, taken as a fool? Had he spent all this time for nothing?
That very evening, as Sergei sat near the fire stirring the stew, he was suddenly struck in the head with such force that the blow nearly knocked him unconscious. Stunned, thinking a log had fallen from the ceiling, he rolled over.
Razin was standing over him, holding a wooden staff.
The man’s face was blank—no scowl of anger, nothing. He turned calmly, walked over to his chair, leaned the staff against the wall, and sat. Then he took out a book and began to read. Sergei’s hand went to his bleeding scalp, where he felt a large lump rising.
So Razin was crazy. And mean-spirited. Sergei was about to head for the door, but something held him in place. It was already night, after all; he would think more clearly in the morning.
As soon as he drifted off, whack—he awoke in a panic, sitting up, waving his arms at nothing. He glimpsed Razin’s back as the old man returned to his cot.
Rubbing the welt on his shin, Sergei finally fell back to an uneasy sleep, but just before dawn he was awakened in a similar fashion, to a new bruise. Yawning, he went outside for his morning immersion in the stream. The icy water numbed his aching body.
That day, and every day for the next week, each time Sergei was distracted or preoccupied, Razin would strike, quick and silent as the wind. Sergei would have defended himself, but Razin continually caught him unaware. Pain became such a constant that Sergei forgot what it felt like to be free of it.
Each time he was nearly ready to end the abuse, Sergei reminded himself that he was not a prisoner—that any moment he could walk out, mount Dikar, and ride away. That thought kept him in place. One more day, one more hour, one more minute. This might be an initiation for all potential students—a test of sincerity. If he passed this, Sergei felt certain that Razin would teach him something of value.
Day and night the blows rained down—ten, twenty, thirty—until he lost count. Meanwhile, he continued with his duties and slept with eyes half open.
Two nights later, Sergei jerked awake without knowing why. He did not sense Razin near, so he was about to go back to sleep. But just then the idea came to him that he would turn the tables…
It took him nearly twenty minutes to move the five or six meters from his sleeping pad to Razin’s cot, feeling his way through pitch darkness until he reached the cot. Anticipating the surprise he was about to deliver, Sergei lifted the straw pillow he had carried and swung it down—
It struck an empty cot. Where was Razin?
The hairs stood up once again on the back of his neck as Sergei realized that Razin might even now be stalking him in the darkness—not with a stick, but with a sword. He whirled around—
No one was there. Disappointed, he walked back to his mattress, where he found Razin, asleep in his bed.
Sergei didn’t sleep the rest of the night. And in daylight he felt a constant state of nervous alertness and anxiety, expecting a blow any moment, feeling his way around corners, ready to raise a protective hand.
Then it happened, when he least expected it: One evening, just as he was lifting the lid off the pot to stir the stew, his arm abruptly moved the lid above his head, just as Razin’s blow came whipping down. The stick clanged against the iron lid. Surprised, Sergei spun around to find the sword master gazing at him.
A broad smile spread across Razin’s face.
Emboldened, Sergei said, “Does this mean my training can begin?”
“No,” Razin answered. “Your training is finished.”
Not until that moment did Sergei grasp the scope of Razin’s gift. All those attacks…all that time…the sword master had been teaching him to move instinctively. That was the method behind his apparent madness.
His initiation complete, Sergei Ivanov was ready to go.
THE NEXT MORNING, Sergei had saddled Dikar and was about to mount when he sensed someone behind him and spun around to see Razin standing nearby.
Razin grunted in approval. “Good. You haven’t wasted my time.”
“So you think I’m ready to face these men?”
“Of course not! But you may be ready to learn…”
Razin was a man of few words, so Sergei thought he had finished. But as he mounted Dikar, Razin added, “There is a master—far better than I. ”
“With the sword?”
“With everything. Anything. Nothing. I saw him fight a hundred opponents…he was never defeated. He could throw a man without touching him.”
Razin paused again. “He once lived on the island of Valaam…in Lake Ladoga. He may be there still…”
Razin stopped himself, deciding he had said enough. With a nod, he turned and disappeared into the woods.
.26.
AS DIKAR carried him west toward the River Don, Sergei thought about the two long journeys he had made to the south of Russia—after fleeing from the school and now, to hunt down Zakolyev and the others. They were likely raiding in this southern region, in the Jewish Pale of Settlement to the west. Sergei thought again about Razin’s final words. But he had no intention of riding a thousand kilometers north once again to seek a mysterious warrior from years past on an island in Lake Ladoga—another master who would not likely teach him anyway.
But the mention of Lake Ladoga—less than a hundred kilometers from the meadow where his wife and child lay in the cold ground—brought a sharp stab of anguish. No, he would not delay his hunt any longer. He turned his horse west.
That May of 1893, Sergei crossed the Don and headed south toward Ukraine, the Dniepr River basin, and the Jewish territories.
Two days later, the enormity of his task sank in: Sergei traced his finger across a few centimeters of his map. How easily his fingernail traversed hills and seas, flying over prairie, forest, and farmland. But when he gazed out at the terrain before him—rivers to ford, rocky grades, and vast stretches of land—he realized what little chance he had to find his quarry. With nothing to go on but rumors, it was like trying to catch a fly that someone had seen buzzing through a room three days before.
AFTER MONTHS riding zigzag patterns—passing Kharkov, Poltava, Kiev, and across the region—Sergei had made almost no progress. One Jewish shopkeeper had heard talk of Cossack brigands to the west; other locals were certain such men were last seen in the east…or north…or south. One farmer reported hearing from a friend who had heard from another friend about phantoms who rode in the night to kill and burn, then dissolved into mist before the morning light.
Another year passed, an eternity of days in which hope dwindled with the passing hours and died with each sunset, then was born anew but diminished with the dawn. By August of 1894, under a baking sun, as he wiped his brow and sweat stung his eyes, Sergei thought fondly of winter snows. Dikar was thirsty and ornery, pulling at the reins and dropping his head at any sign of water. Summer passed much like the previous spring.
That autumn Sergei turned twenty-two on the open plains, riding from one settlement to the next. He found the ruins of several farms but nothing more. No tracks or traces remained by the time he arrived. Maybe that farmer was right; he might as well have been following ghosts.
In the summer Sergei had slept under the starry sky; now that the autumn winds had come, he and Dikar took shelter when they could in the barn of a farmer.
That December, after marking his map with the burned-out farms he’d found, and putting dots where people had heard rumors of attacks, Sergei hoped a meaningful pattern might emerge, but he found no orde
r at all. Discouraged, he rode on. There was nothing else to do.
As flakes of scattered snow drifted down near Vinnitsa, on the shores of the Southern Bug River southwest of Kiev, a farmer gave Sergei the news that Tsar Aleksandr III had died and the reign of Nicholas II had begun. Meanwhile, the hunt continued.
BY THE END of a long winter, growing doubts pulled Sergei into a deepening depression. He had trained. He had fought skillful Cossacks. Razin had honed his instincts. But Sergei was nowhere closer to finding Zakolyev than the day he had lost their tracks three years before. Had he wasted those years? Would he spend three more years, or six or ten like them?
Even Dikar walked listlessly, like a riderless horse. The pale sun had no power to thaw the rivers or his bones. But Sergei rode on despite fading hopes, under gray skies, through falling snow. In moments, Sergei believed he had already died and now rode through a purgatory of lost souls. That night, thinking of Anya, he put his head in his hands and wept.
But spring did come, and another summer, and the seasons brought warmth if not hope. Then, on an afternoon in October, when the sky was threatening a cold rain and the wind began to gust, Sergei set up camp in the woods outside of a small town. He hobbled Dikar to graze, then set out to stretch his legs by walking into the village where he might find a clue, or scrap of information, or maybe a friendly face.
Just outside the town walls, he encountered four men, roughly dressed—sauntering as if they had been drinking. Sergei kept his gaze forward, but one of the men blocked his way and accosted him. “Why do you come to our village, stranger? Do you need food or vodka or women?”
“You will find the vodka better than the women!” said one of the others, elbowing the first, apparently their leader. All four of them laughed.
Sergei smiled. But when he tried to walk around them, their mood changed abruptly. A second man stepped into his path. Then the leader explained, “You must pay the toll to enter the town on this road.”
To avoid trouble, Sergei shrugged and turned to leave, only to find the others blocking his path. “This way is even more expensive,” said one of them, the largest.
“I don’t wish to trouble you,” Sergei said. “I’m only looking for a band of—”
Their leader interrupted him, mistaking Sergei’s courtesy for weakness or fear. “Maybe you didn’t hear. You must pay us. Now.”
Clearly, these ruffians were set on robbing Sergei and giving him a beating in the bargain. He observed them calmly as they took his measure, a lone, white-haired man.
“I don’t want any trouble,” said Sergei. “Just let me pass and I’ll wish you a good day.”
“Not without your toll,” said the self-appointed leader, pulling a knife from his belt. He moved closer; the others followed. Just as the thug with the knife stepped forward, Sergei kicked the inside of his knee, throwing him off balance; he then grabbed the man’s hair and twisted the knife from his hand. Having disarmed him, Sergei threw him to the ground. The others, surprised, were caught off balance, giving Sergei time to deal with the two closest men. He stunned one with a trinity of blows and held the other off with a kick. Then the fourth ruffian got in a lucky shot from behind—he clipped Sergei on the side of his head—and for a moment everything went dark. On the ground, Sergei felt a kick to his side, then another.
Lying there, covering his head, Sergei saw flashing images from a time past, when he suffered other such blows, outnumbered by Zakolyev’s men. Suddenly enraged, which may have saved his life, Sergei rolled abruptly away from the men and came up facing them. He took down the first man who came in, then disabled the next man with a stomping heel kick to the thigh. The third man threw a sloppy, glancing kick. Sergei grabbed his leg and twisted—he heard a snap and a cry of pain. Then his arm went up instinctively and deflected a punch he didn’t even know was coming. Kicking his heel back and up, he connected with the groin of another man behind him. At that point the last man still standing lost heart—and they all withdrew, limping off, sulking.
Panting, Sergei took stock: His head hurt, and his ears were ringing—he would be sore the next day—but he had no disabling injuries. Shaking it off, he continued into town to make the usual inquiries. Learning no more than he already knew, he returned to the forest to spend another quiet night with Dikar for company, as he had done many nights before.
That evening, from under his lean-to, Sergei gazed into the flames of his crackling fire. He thought of the four swaggering drunks who had nearly beaten him. “Never underestimate an adversary,” he muttered to himself, recalling Alexei’s advice of years before. Then another proverb came to mind: I hear and I forget; I see and I remember; I do and I understand.
Sergei now understood that drunk or not, those men likely had been soldiers in their youth and were hardened by past battles. He had underestimated them—a nearly fatal mistake and a lesson he would not forget.
His own combat experience was limited to boyhood wrestling matches, a few fights, and his struggle with Zakolyev outside the school long ago, then his utter devastation by Zakolyev’s men…
As Sergei’s eyes grew heavy, scenes flashed before him of his training these past months: fighting shadows, and Leonid, and Razin. That’s when the sword master’s words came back to him—about the master of combat on an island in Lake Ladoga…
He fell into a restless slumber and dreamed he was fighting phantoms…five Zakolyevs, ten Korolevs, then more and more and more…
Then they vanished and he found himself lying on his straw bed in Razin’s hut, unable to move, staring up at the swordsman standing over him, about to strike—not with a stick but with a saber. Sergei could only stare, wide-eyed, as Razin cut downward—
Jarred awake by a crack that sounded like a gunshot, still half dreaming, Sergei threw his body to the side to avoid Razin’s anticipated blow just as a large tree branch crashed down, with a crackle and a thud, smashing the lean-to where he had been sleeping seconds before. The ground shook with the impact. Sergei leaped to his feet, confused, half expecting to see Razin there, until dreams and reality sorted themselves out.
He took a deep breath, a new resolve taking shape in his mind. Then he turned toward Dikar, to find that dreams and reality had merged horribly once again. Dikar’s body lying crushed and broken beneath the trunk of the fallen tree. He rushed to the stallion but found no signs of life.
Using his shovel, Sergei dug for half the day in a deep sorrow. When the large area was hollowed out, he rolled his brave and loyal horse into the shallow grave. Finally, he covered him and spoke a few words. “You carried me far, valiant friend, and never complained.”
A sense of loss overwhelmed him. He had lost too much in his life—parents, grandfather, wife, and child—and now this innocent animal, a good and loyal a companion. The sharp pangs of loss reminded Sergei once again of the reason for his journey. Not that he needed any more reminders. After stripping off his sweat-stained clothing, he immersed himself in the icy stream, dressed quickly, and ate the last of his store d food. Then he set out on foot, leaving behind the saddle to mark his horse’s grave. He followed the river Don, north once again.
Razin was right, thought Sergei; I’m not ready to confront Zakolyev or the others. Not until I’ve found the master on Valaam. If he exists at all.
As he hiked over rolling hills and across broad plains, another understanding grew in Sergei’s mind: To bring down Zakolyev and his minions, he could not just train with another master. He would have to become one.
IT TOOK SIX MORE MONTHS to reach St. Petersburg on foot. Sergei drew upon all his survival skills and will, each step of the thousand-kilometer trek. Leaning into frigid winter winds, he was bone tired as he drew near the city. He arrived as unkempt as before, with his beard and long white hair.
Seeing Valeria and Andreas was out of the question; he would not open old wounds. Far better to leave them to whatever peace they had made with their loss. Neither would he rent a room for the night. He would need his
few remaining rubles for passage by boat across Lake Ladoga to the island of Valaam.
Near dusk, on the banks of the Neva, he reached the meadow and his family’s grave. The site was now overgrown, but the small marker remained. Before he slept, Sergei sat by the weathered mound of earth and spoke to Anya. He renewed their marriage vows in spirit and promised again that her death would serve some higher purpose. He also renewed his pledge to save innocent lives by ridding the world of Dmitri Zakolyev and his henchmen. Then he bid Anya good-night as he had while she lived: “You are my heart,” he told her, reaching down and touching the earth where she rested.
His dreams that night were peaceful and sad, filled with love and longing. He felt Anya with him, and her hand stroked his hair, and her kisses cooled his brow as the night winds blew.
So it was that in the spring of 1896 Sergei walked to the docks and boarded the next boat bound for the monastery island.
Part Five
THE
MONASTERY
ISLAND
Softness triumphs over hardness, gentleness over strength. The flexible is superior over the immovable. This is the principle of controlling things by going along with them, of mastery through adaptation.
LAO-TZU
.27.
DURING THE TWELVE HOURS it took for the two-masted ship to sail across windblown waters, Sergei spoke with several pilgrims on their way to the monastery. He learned that Valaam was the largest of many islands in Lake Ladoga but measured only seven kilometers side to side, with a few smaller islands just offshore. Dense forest and steep cliffs guarded the island’s coast, but as the schooner rounded an outcropping, a small bay came into view, followed by the topmost tower of the main monastery—a huge, gleaming white fortress, eight centuries old, with spires of brilliant blue topped with gold. It was as if he were sailing into a bay of dreams.