by Dan Millman
But sometimes, in the quiet moments before sleep, she wondered what it might feel like to live an ordinary life in the company of other women.
At least I have the old bear, she sighed. And I’ll always have Kontin.
.34.
IT WAS SPRING OF 1905. Nine years had passed since Sergei had arrived on Valaam. Nine years of service, contemplation, and training in combat and in life. Sergei was now thirty-two years old. His youthful temperament gave way to a more reflective state of mind, a sobering sense of maturity, humility, and perspective—the first stirrings of the transformation that Serafim had once predicted.
Since his wife’s death, Sergei had spent more than a decade preparing for a single act of retribution. Sometimes it seemed a form of madness; other times it seemed a just and honorable cause. A man kills your family; you show him the gates of hell. It was as simple as that.
He was now a formidable warrior, having surpassed without realizing it Alexei the Cossack and even Razin. A growing energy and power flowed through him—intimations of mastery, of invincibility, tempered only by Serafim’s regular thrashings.
With Sergei’s metamorphosis came a growing sense of restless impatience as he confronted the question he had asked many times before: How long will I let Dmitri Zakolyev walk the earth? His mind stretched south, to the Pale of Settlement, where those men were likely shedding innocent blood.
Sergei decided that the time had come for him to leave. But it would not be easy to say goodbye. He both admired and envied Serafim for the peace he had found—a state of grace that Sergei might never know. But he had glimpsed the possibility that he might someday grasp what the island father had wished to teach him.
He announced his decision at their next meeting. “Serafim, it’s time for me to be on my way.”
Serafim only scratched his beard and said, “Well, that may be so…but I wonder, Socrates, how do you expect to destroy so many men when you can’t even defeat a tired old monk?”
“Are you saying that I have to defeat you before I can leave?”
“You can leave anytime you wish. This is a hermitage, not a prison.”
“I mean leave with your blessings.”
“You’ve had my blessings from the day we met. Even before—”
“I think you understand what I’m saying, Serafim.”
The old monk smiled. “By now, we understand one another. I was merely suggesting that if you can defeat me in a sparring match, that would be a good sign of your readiness.”
They had sparred many times in the past, of course, but this would be different. It would no longer be a child against a giant. Sergei now had not only speed and youth, but the edge of constant training. He even practiced in his mind while he ate, worked, sat—even while he slept. Yes, he was ready.
Sergei nodded, and so did Serafim.
They circled. Sergei took a deep breath and made a direct but deceptive attack, trying a feint. Unresponsive to bluffs, Serafim just stood relaxed while Sergei danced around; then the old monk stepped forward and waved his arm. He almost threw Sergei off balance with this misdirection, but his student wasn’t having any of it—he maintained his focus and balance. Then Sergei managed to grab Serafim’s robe and step in to throw—
The teacher seemed to disappear like a puff of air.
While Sergei kicked and punched and swept and elbowed, Serafim deflected so subtly that Sergei felt no resistance anywhere. Nothing connected. The monk was never where Sergei expected him to be, so he gave up expecting. In that moment he could see and feel everything: Serafim, the sky, the earth. Sergei managed to throw him, but as Serafim fell, he threw Sergei, and they rolled to their feet in perfect unison. Their battle continued, but the conflict had disappeared. There was no Sergei and no Serafim. Just energy moving.
Then, as Sergei stepped forward, before his foot touched the ground, Serafim seemed to vanish from one spot and reappear in another, and his foot hooked the underside of Sergei’s calf. The next thing he knew he was spread-eagled on his back and Serafim knelt above him, ready to deliver the final blow. The match was over.
It was the closest they’d ever come to a real contest. Serafim wasn’t just toying with Sergei; he could no longer afford to. Sergei could finally discern the qualities his teacher possessed and where they were still lacking in himself. Despite the outcome, this represented a major breakthrough: Sergei had absorbed months’ worth of training in those few minutes. They both knew it. But he was not going anywhere, anytime soon. His training would continue.
And it was about to change in a way he never could have anticipated.
AS THEIR NEXT SESSION BEGAN, Serafim announced, simply, “All your past training was only a preparation for what I’m about to show you. This is your rebirth, the one practice that is primarily responsible for whatever modest skills I have attained. You could have begun this practice from the first day we met, but it would have taken twenty years. In preparing you these past years, I’ve given you the shortcut you so devoutly wished. With your present skills, this final practice should take no more than a year to master. We shall see…”
It would be the most radical method of combat training Sergei had ever encountered. And it began with six words: “Prepare yourself,” said Serafim. “I’m about to strike.”
Sergei relaxed into an expansive state of awareness as he had been trained to do. He waited, ready. Then he waited some more. Serafim seemed to be just standing there like a statue…
Sergei took a slow deep breath, and another. Finally, he said, “Well? When are you going to attack?”
“I am attacking,” responded Serafim.
“I don’t understand…”
“Shhhh. Silence please. Words only pull your attention into your lower mind, and you miss what’s going on around you.”
In the silence that followed, Sergei finally saw it: Serafim’s arm and whole body were indeed moving toward him, but so slowly that the old monk appeared to be standing still.
Another minute passed. “Are you joking?” Sergei said. “What’s the point of this?”
“Notice each passing moment,” Serafim said slowly, in a soft voice. “Feel your entire body, from your toes to your head to the tips of your fingers. And match the pace of your response with the pace of my movement.”
Sergei sighed and made the best of it, moving more slowly and deliberately than ever before. It felt both pointless and frustrating. Still, he followed the old master’s movements during the minutes it took for Serafim to complete the hooking punch he had launched several minutes before.
Moving this slowly, Sergei noticed points of subtle tension and willed himself to relax his thighs, his stomach, his shoulders…
When the first movement was complete, Serafim began another, although it was difficult to tell. At this point Sergei broke the silence. “Serafim, I can appreciate the value of practicing in slow motion. But hardly moving at all? I can easily block anything—I could clean the kitchen and return before you hit me.”
“Relax…breathe…observe,” Serafim repeated. “Move as I do…”
So they continued, as slow and silent as the sun’s path across the sky, into the dusk.
TIME STOOD STILL as the practice continued. Many weeks passed before the pace of Serafim’s movement noticeably changed. They still moved as if through thick molasses, but at least the motion was clearly perceptible.
Sergei began to correct imbalances previously unnoticed and to relax profoundly as he moved. Whatever came, his body responded naturally, without effort. Awareness now infused every part of his body.
Sergei began to sense the relationship of every body part, even his internal organs, and the bones and joints and the lines of energy flowing from the earth up through both their arms and legs, which became whiplike extensions of their centers.
Once in a while Serafim would whisper something like, “Move like seaweed…floating…rising…falling…turning.” But mostly they continued in silence, because no words were
necessary. Movement became deep meditation, and at times, as energy welled up into Sergei’s heart, it became a form of prayer.
In the months that followed, Serafim continued to attack in a slow, flowing manner with a punch…a kick…a knee…an elbow…left hand…right…jab…hook…cross…kick…grab. From every possible angle. The sun moved. The shadows changed. And the seasons passed.
By midsummer, after thousands of attacks, each strike took only a minute, and a new sense of flow and rhythm grew. Sergei’s thoughts had long before abandoned him; now it was all a play of energy. Every response happened by itself—mindless movement, effortless response. Sergei could have continued in his sleep, yet this was the opposite of sleep; it was pure awareness, no self, no other as Serafim and Socrates moved as one body, like wind through the seasons.
By autumn, each movement took only fifteen seconds…then ten…then five…yet Sergei hardly noticed. The pace had become immaterial. Whatever force entered was absorbed, redirected; the principles penetrated the marrow of his bones. He had embodied masterful skill, yet “he” was doing none of it.
Winter came; the attacks now whipped in rapidly. Every strike was neutralized effortlessly. Sergei did nothing but remain aware.
In a moment of illumination, Sergei grasped how Serafim moved—with an efficiency and grace that amazed him. More incredibly, he could do the same.
Having ceased all resistance in mind and in body, Sergei had become empty—a hollow conduit of life force. He had long ago learned to trust Serafim; then to trust his body; only now had he come to trust All That Is.
Spring arrived—another cycle of the seasons. Now Serafim attacked like lightning—faster than the eye could see—but it made no difference at all. The movements were a blur of motion, so fast that a year ago Sergei would once not even have perceived them, much less had time to respond. But speed and time no longer mattered.
Then, without warning, Serafim stopped moving.
Sergei nearly fell over. His body was vibrating. He felt a sparkling mist of energy whirling around them.
“We created quite a stir,” said Serafim.
Sergei nodded, smiling, as the spring sun disappeared over the hills to the west.
“What now?” he asked.
“Nothing more,” said Serafim. “Our practice together is complete.”
For a few moments Sergei heard only the wind in the treetops. Not certain he had understood, he asked for a confirmation: “Are you saying that my training is over?”
“Training never ends,” Serafim responded. “It only evolves, depending upon your purpose. You now grasp the essence of movement, of relationship, of life. You’ve also learned something about combat. You accomplished what you came for.
“Tomorrow we can go for a walk and set aside this talk of killing. You may yet consider a higher calling.
“Serafim…you know—”
“Tomorrow,” the old monk interrupted. “Let’s speak of it tomorrow.”
AS SOON AS THEY MET on the following day, Sergei began: “You know that I made a vow, on the grave of my family—”
“A vow you made to yourself, not to God. In truth, Socrates, you have no opponents but yourself. Make peace within, and there will be no one who can overcome you. And no one you will wish to overcome.”
They walked on in silence before Sergei responded. “I once had a teacher who told me that commitment means doing what you set out to do or dying in the attempt.” Sergei turned to face Serafim and addressed him in his spiritual role. “I’m committed, Father Serafim—I have to face them.”
The old monk looked weary. “Will you not stay here among us, as one of us, if only for a few more years?”
“While those men run wild?”
“Men run wild all over the earth, Socrates. Nature runs wild—with hurricanes and earthquakes and plagues and locusts. Even now, innocents die by violence and by starvation, in the tens of thousands all over the Earth. Who put you in charge? Who gave you the wisdom to know who is supposed to live and who should die, and by what means? Who are you to know God’s mind?”
Sergei had no answer, so he asked a question: “To what God do you refer, Father Serafim? The God of mercy and justice who saw fit in his infinite wisdom to take my family? Is this the God you pray to?”
Serafim raised his bushy white brows in a quizzical, appraising look. “So, Socrates, you finally confront what has been weighing on you for so long. I wish I had an answer—some sweet words to heal your heart. But God remains a mystery even to me. There was once a wise man named Hillel, one of the Hebrew fathers, who said, ‘There are three mysteries in this world: air to the birds, water to the fish, and humanity to itself.’
“I have found God to be the greatest mystery of all, yet as intimate as our heartbeat, as close as our next breath…surrounding us, like air, like water…always present. But the mind cannot fathom God, only the heart…That is where you will find the faith—”
“I stopped believing in God years ago.”
“Even nonbelievers are embraced by God. How could it be otherwise?” Serafim looked deeply into his eyes. “Abide in the mystery, Socrates. Trust it. Let go of knowing what should and shouldn’t be, and you will find your faith once again.”
Sergei shook his head. “Your words have always tasted of truth, Father…but somehow I can’t quite grasp their meaning.”
“Once you couldn’t even grasp my robe. And look what has occurred with a little patience—”
“And a lot of practice.”
“Yes. And perhaps it’s time to practice…another way.” He paused then, waiting for the right words. “Your training has already taught you the limits of the mind. The intellect is a great ladder into the sky, but it stops short of the heavens. Only the heart’s wisdom can light the way. Your ancient namesake, Socrates, reminded the youth of Athens that ‘Wisdom begins in wonder…’”
“But beyond these lofty words, Serafim—what am I to do?”
“What is anyone to do? Put one foot in front of the other! You are only a player in a drama greater than anyone but God can conceive…sometimes I’m not so sure that even God can make sense of it!” he said, laughing. “We can only play the role we are given. Do you understand? Those who appear in your life—whether to help or to harm—are all given by God. Meet all of them with a peaceful heart, but with a warrior’s spirit. You will fail many times, but in failing you will learn, and in learning you’ll find your way. In the meantime, surrender to God’s will, to the life you were given, moment by moment.”
“How can I know God’s will, Serafim?”
“Faith does not rely on knowing anything with certainty,” he said. “It requires only the courage to accept that whatever happens, whether it brings pleasure or pain, is for the highest good.”
With those words, they reached the hermitage.
.35.
THE YEARS had not been kind to Dmitri Zakolyev, nor had the nights. Once lean and taut, now gaunt and drawn, his hollow cheeks gave the impression of a walking corpse. His eyes shone, not quite from madness, but from his zeal over a single obsession. It was as if his vision, once grand and expansive, had shrunk to a single point, and that point was Paulina and her training.
Paulina, in the summer of 1906, was still lean and wiry, with growing energy, awareness, and maturity. Her progress had quickened as well, to the continuing awe of those who witnessed her astonishing skill.
Yergovich had trained her well. But Zakolyev no longer trusted the big man; he no longer trusted anyone except his daughter. Even Korolev was suspect; he had seen the way the giant sneered and turned away when his Ataman approached. Not only Korolev, but the others as well. The Ataman heard them whispering behind his back.
His only hope lay with his daughter. She would win back his honor, authority, and respect; she would give him peace. Nearly every day he watched her practice, but as he sat, his mind turned in upon itself; the daily world faded into fragmented sounds and images—words, grunts, screams, an
d blood.
His mind would return with a jerk as he remembered where he was—weary to his very sinews, unable to fend off the living nightmare as the monster cut his mother’s life to bloody ribbons of flesh. And her cries were joined by ghosts of the Jews, coming for him, relentless.
He still led every frenzied raid, demanding one onslaught after another. Yet his mind wandered even then, preoccupied with Paulina, in whose hands he had placed his hopes, his very life—this girl becoming a woman, this woman becoming a warrior. Paulina was his dagger, his savior, his sword. Only her victory could stop the screams.
.36.
OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS, Sergei spent hours in contemplation; he had much to ponder. He and Serafim went for many walks together across the island. Sometimes they shared the silence; other times they spoke. But they no longer discussed anything more to do with combat.
Sergei’s questions were larger ones now. The answers would come not from Serafim but only from within: Should he hold fast to his vow? Was he showing commitment or rigidity? Would he choose war or peace? Could there be a higher way? And finally it came to this: Would Anya be gladdened by the death of those men—or by his own death in the attempt?
Sergei wasn’t certain anymore, and he chastised himself for his lack of resolve. Maybe Zakolyev was right in calling him a weakling and a coward. If Sergei did not confront his enemy, what was the point of all his training these past years? He was like a loaded gun ready to be fired.