The Frost And The Flame

by Drusilla Campbell

  “A pretty one!” chortled one of the soldiers through his dark beard, his eyes red and bloodshot from the evening’s dissipation.

  “Let’s have a look at her,” cried another, grabbing for the lapel of Katia’s tailored coat.

  But before he could tighten his grasp, she jerked away; and, screaming in a rage that startled the drunken men and made them shrink back, she shoved her way by them. The carriage door was still open. She lifted Mary bodily and almost threw her into the carriage.

  “I have gold!” she cried to the yantchik who had watched the whole scene patiently, concerned only with his fare.

  “Hey!” cried the bearded soldier, “She’s taking our carriage. Stop or…”

  The yantchik had grabbed eagerly at the gold Katia offered; and before the soldiers could gather their wits sufficiently to stop the coach, he laid a whip to the back of the team, and the vehicle hurtled down the boulevard even as Katia was struggling to close the door.

  “Kominski Park,” she told the yantchik and then fell back upon the cushions, gasping for breath. She reached out for Mary and cradled her close, taking comfort from the little girl’s warmth.

  Aunt Nikki was the only hope she had. Katia knew that Oleg’s death would cause great concern in high places, and she had been in St. Petersburg long enough to realize that the Czar had eyes and ears everywhere. If he ordered a search of the city, she would have no hope of escape. Princess Elizabeth would be sure to implicate her in Oleg’s murder; and with Alexei gone for good, there was no one to whom she could turn but Natasha Filippovna. Nevertheless, later that morning when Emil, the Little Father’s servant, came to get her from the anteroom at the priest’s bidding, she had to check the strong impulse she felt to turn and run away. But where would she go? She had no more gold, and she was totally friendless in the great cold city. With a sigh of resignation, as if she expected the authorities to be waiting in the next room, she took Mary’s hand. They followed Emil into the Little Father’s sitting room.

  The first thing she saw was the Little Father himself. She had been expecting a small man and the shock of the priest’s huge bulk only increased her agitation. She held Mary more tightly and tried to mask her fear with a stiff dignity.

  She curtsied. “Beg pardon, Father. I did not wish to disturb your mealtime. But I must speak to my aunt, Natasha Filippovna, immediately on a matter of grave importance.”

  “Your aunt has undergone a deep emotional experience, Mademoiselle. She is exhausted.”

  The Little Father stared at her piercingly; and Katia looked everywhere—at the floor, the table set for three, the primitively carved wood icons in the corner—to avoid meeting his eyes. “I must see her. Please take me to her, Father.”

  “In time, child. In God’s good time.” His voice was gentle as a cat’s purr; but strong and confident as well.

  A suspicious thought entered Katia’s mind. She looked at the priest. “What have you done with her? Is she alright?”

  “Rest assured, my child, I have only given your aunt what she most desired in the world: a quiet mind. She is very ill; I cannot change that. But she no longer hurts from it.”

  Katia could not look away from him now and she no longer wished to. In the Little Father’s presence the fears that had dominated her emotions for the past several hours began to fade. “Please, Father. You must let me see her before it is too late. There is so little time.”

  “I will take you to her shortly. But first…” he gestured toward the table on which Emil had spread a healthy country meal of soup and bread and juicy sausage “…I bid you share my simple fare.”

  Katia had not eaten since—when? She recalled a supper promised by Oleg in what seemed like another lifetime. Suddenly his image was before her, filling her head with the sight of his temple torn and bleeding horribly. She shook her head. She could not eat. She might never eat again. Katia glanced at Mary. The child was looking toward the table laden with aromatic dishes; and though her expression was blank and passive, Katia knew she must be hungry after the night’s exertion.

  “Mary must eat,” she said.

  The Little Father sat at the place set for him; and when Katia made arrangements to seat Mary opposite him, he interrupted her activity, saying, “Give the child to me, Katia.”

  For some reason, she obeyed him without thinking. Somehow, despite a cautionary inner voice, she believed that whatever happened, she and Mary had no reason to fear the Little Father. He lifted Mary onto his lap and gestured Katia to be seated beside him.

  “Did you wonder how I came to know your names?” he asked as he tied his heavy linen napkin around his neck. “Your aunt has spoken of you both often. She feels a strong affection for you.” He turned Mary to face him and took her cheeks between his hands. “And I would have known Mary had I only passed her on the street. Your pain cries out to me, little Marika of the deep, sad silence.”

  Katia did not move. Despite all her initial skepticism, she knew suddenly and certainly that a wonderous power was present in the room; and whatever it was, it flowed as naturally from the Little Father as warmth from the sun or sweetness from a honeycomb. Katia did not know what to expect at that moment, nor did she care. For the time, all her fear and apprehension were gone, replaced by a warm secure sense she had known only once before. In the arms of Alexei Romanov.

  The Little Father spoke to the child conversationally. “Now, Mary, as you can see, I am nothing but an old country priest who’s gotten himself stuck in this smelly cold city and can’t seem to get out. I dream about the country at night. I dream of how the rye smells after rain; and in my dreams I even hear the birdsong. You know what I mean, don’t you, Marika?”

  Mary’s normally stiff little body relaxed visibly. Katia stifled a gasp of surprise as Mary gave her gaze to the priest willingly.

  “That’s right, Marika,” he said. “We two can be friends because we understand each other. We have the same dreams, you and I. You know I will not hurt you. You hurt enough already, don’t you? But everything will be alright now.” His voice was almost a whisper and incredibly gentle as it coaxed. “Give all your pain to God the Father, Mary. Let Him give you peace. The Lord says it is time.”

  Katia felt the tenderness emanating from the man. It made an envelope that enclosed the three of them in peace together. The Little Father stared deep into Mary’s eyes; and then—as if something mirrored there delighted him—he smiled. It was a wide country grin; and, but for the compelling fire in his eyes, he might have been an ordinary farmer bumpkin. His toothy grin held miraculous sorcery for Mary. As Katia watched—incredulous, her heart leaping—Mary returned the Little Father’s smile and held out her arms to embrace him.

  The Little Father turned to Katia then and included her in his irresistible smile. Suddenly, she was laughing and crying and hugging Mary all at the same time. If Mary could be made to smile, then she might also speak one day! Katia felt intense, almost overpowering gratitude toward the Little Father; but when she tried to express her thoughts aloud, the holy man did not want to hear her. His kindly expression said he understood.

  “You must both eat now. God’s will is not to be rushed or accomplished on an empty stomach.”

  Obediently, Katia tried to eat the savoury sausage meat and the crusty bread the Little Father put on her plate; but the food stuck in her throat. Obviously, her nervousness returned; and she stirred restlessly at every creak and groan of the old building. She continually glanced to the right and left behind her as if expecting the Czar’s policemen to pounce at her from the walls of the sitting room.

  “Your nervousness disturbs me, Katia,” said the Little Father when he had been watching her for some time. “Sip a little wine to calm yourself, then tell me what it is that troubles you.”

  “I am not hungry, Father,” she said quietly.

  “And I wonder why. You are troubled…” he persisted gently “…and I wonder how I may help you.”

  Katia shook her head sadly,
pushing her chair back from the table. “I know you are gifted from God with wonderful powers. I doubted you at first; but then I saw the way Mary smiled at you, and I knew that you were not a charlatan like others of the Khlysty priesthood.

  You are a true man of God as Natasha Filippovna told me. But God has turned His back on me and slammed the door of Heaven.”

  The Little Father’s expression seemed to have infinite reserves of compassion; and what an hour before would have been impossible, now, strangely, began to happen. She talked to him as candidly as Natasha Filippovna had a few hours earlier. Across the table, he held her hands; and slowly, with anguish and shame, she told him everything that had happened to her since leaving the convent.

  When she confessed to him that she had murdered Oleg Romanov, she was weeping. “He made me do terrible things, Father. Ungodly, unspeakable things. And I was a kind of slave to him. He would never let me go. I had to kill him, Father. And though I may be damned for saying so, I am glad he’s dead. He would have hurt me one day, and he threatened Mary. I had no hope but to…”

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, she remembered Alexei’s face when he last looked at her. Vividly, she recalled the loathing in his expression. The contempt. And worse, far worse, she remembered why he had looked at her that way. The Hummingbird. All at once, she remembered everything, and her face burned with shame. But she did not halt her confession.

  When she had finished, like a loving father, the priest brought the weeping Katia into his arms and held her close to him. Gradually, her tears subsided; and he felt her relax against him. Beside them, Mary stared without expression. The Little Father smiled at her; and with a sweep of his long burly arm, he gathered her onto his lap with Katia. The two of them clung to one another and to him as he rocked them gently.

  For the Little Father, God was like an infinitely forgiving parent but yet still capable of damning souls like Oleg Romanov. He had not read the complicated philosophies that made light of such a simple faith. He read only the Bible. Apart from it, he chose to be illiterate. He knew all that was necessary by reading the message of his heart. He did not think that God would blame Katia for the murder of scum like Oleg Romanov. But the priest wished that Oleg were still alive so that he might be made to suffer as Katia and Mary had at his hands. Perhaps through such suffering he would learn to ask forgiveness. And if he did? Would God forgive even such a one as Oleg Romanov? The Little Father thought so. He recalled the story of the lost sheep and only wished that he might have had some part in Oleg Romanov’s reformation.

  But the Prince was dead, and such speculation was fruitless. The Little Father crossed himself and uttered a silent prayer for Oleg’s soul which, without his help, he knew to be most certainly damned to the fires of Hell.

  When Katia was thoroughly calm, he took her hand and Mary’s and escorted them to the small shabby room where Nikki was sleeping peacefully. It was near the back stairs and faced out over an untidy kitchen garden.

  “You must not expect your aunt to have the strength for conversation, Katiana. Later, she will talk to you. She will answer your questions, I promise you that. She wants no more of secret bargains than you do. In the meantime, you and Mary must rest and try not to worry. You are safe here.” He shrugged and smiled conspiratorially. “Who would suspect a humble country priest of concealing the ward of Oleg Romanov, eh?”

  In the dark hallway, he embraced Katia and Mary again and made the sign of the cross on their foreheads. “Sweet children,” he said, “an evil man has brought you both through a rain of fire. But the storm is now passed. The days ahead will be fair. Sleep with the angels, my children.”

  It was midmorning by the time the Little Father lay down to rest; but despite the exertions of the Gathering he felt energetic, and chafed at the idleness of bed. He could not dismiss the thought of Oleg’s damned soul from his mind. He was convinced that his invincible powers could have brought about the Prince’s salvation. All at once it occurred to him to doubt Katia’s story. She was a slender girl; and the more he thought of it, the more he doubted that Oleg had actually died from her blow though she certainly believed he had. The thought electrified him. An hour after leaving Katia and Mary, he called Emil to him in his bedroom and directed the man to go to the Romanov palace and uncover what facts he could about the events of the previous night.

  “Be careful and discreet, my friend,” he cautioned Emil. “We are not dealing with ordinary people but the Devil’s own.”

  Shortly after midday, Emil returned bearing the news that Oleg Romanov was alive. The Little Father had been bathing and now wore only a large rough towel wrapped toga style around his waist and over his shoulder. He was boistrously pleased by Emil’s information.

  “My patient old friend, do you remember the night when we were boys in the Urals and the wolves came after us? You were terrified, but I was not for I knew we two would not perish in the wilderness. I knew even then that we would survive to do God’s work in the world. You doubted; and yet—miraculously!—we survived that night thanks to my powers. When you saw those beasts with white fire in their eyes and their fanged gums bleeding foam, when you saw them one by one fall back confronted with the full force of my power, then you put your faith and trust in me. Well, you will not have to wait much longer for your Master to be recognized. Of late, valuable information has come into my possession. Information such as I have sought all these years.” He gestured toward his clothes impatiently. “Help me dress. As you do, tell me all you heard at the Romanov palace.”

  “Little is being said, Father. One man, His Highness’ bodyguard, is dead. The Prince is recovering from a blow to the head. And Myshkin, the head of the Czar’s Secret Police, is at the palace asking many questions. The household is tense.”

  Emil slipped the coarse dun-coloured tunic over his master’s broad shoulders and then knelt to help with the buckles on his boots.

  The Little Father was impatiently eager to know more. “But what is the gossip, Emil? The gossip! What do the servants say?”

  “That Princess Elizabeth is in a pique of jealousy over a young woman. She called Myshkin herself and gave him Mademoiselle Katiana Danova’s name. She has accused her of murdering the bodyguard and making an attempt on Prince Oleg’s life as well.”

  “How came you by this information?” asked the Little Father combing his tangled beard and hair with splayed fingers.

  “Good fortune was with me, Father. A drawingroom footman named Karl (you knew his family in the country days) told me everything he knew. He heard Princess Elizabeth making the accusations and he says that Myshkin’s people have already begun to search the city for Mademoiselle Katiana.” Emil handed the priest his freshly brushed sealskin cap and a peasant’s heavy coat of bear and sheepskin. “The talk below stairs is that the Czar disapproves of Prince Oleg and would be pleased if Myshkin uncovered a scandal that would permanently discredit him.”

  The Little Father listened and nodded with growing satisfaction. He was smiling broadly as he hastened down the outside staircase to the street and hailed a passing yantchik. A carriage ride across the city was a luxury he could ill afford; but he knew the tide of his fortunes had turned, and before long he would take such things as carriage rides for granted. He was not in the least tired, despite his ceaseless activities. Nevertheless, he leaned his head against the red leather seatback and closed his eyes. His mind was aswirl with plans and schemes. He seemed to see his future clearly. He would have to make Prince Oleg understand that an alliance between them would benefit both equally. It would not be easy to convince him but with the help of his powers the Little Father would win his influential patron. Oleg would be reformed and thereby please and satisfy the Czar. Myshkin would depart, and the furor over Katia would be forgotten. After a time he would be able to help her find safety.

  The Little Father thought of the depths of Oleg’s sinful nature. He told himself that somewhere amongst those dark caverns, his soul was hiding, his soul that cried
out for union with the Almighty toward which all things yearn. The vision of it was a sunburst in his mind. He tingled with excitement and rubbed his hands together as he anticipated the glorious day when at long last the corrupt and villainous prince would repent of his evil ways and plead to be forgiven. After such a miracle, all of St. Petersburg would lie at the Little Father’s feet. At last the self-righteous arrogance of the Patriarch and others in the orthodox church would be squelched. Soon the world would recognize the divine mystery of his holy powers.

  He chided himself for being proud, but the Little Father could not dismiss the thought of Oleg Romanov—absolved of guilt, prayerful and repentant—from his mind. Surely God had put him in St. Petersburg specifically to save the Prince’s soul.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  On the day following Katia’s midnight escape with Mary from the Romanov Palace, no one was more anxious to discover her whereabouts than Myshkin, the chief of the Czar’s Third Section, the arm of the secret police concerned with national security.

  It was Myshkin’s task—and he took it as almost a holy trust—to see that no one within the royal government endangered the security of the Czar or his policies. Since the Decembrist Revolt when Prince Trubetskoy and Prince Volkonski had assisted the revolutionaries, Czar Nicholas had been suspicious of anyone who appeared less than committed to maintaining his standards of government and deportment. Czar Nicholas had told Myshkin that any person, regardless of rank, who did not support him wholeheartedly must be ferreted out and deposed from whatever position he or she held. At first, Myshkin had assumed that his Czar would want him to eliminate the troublesome Alexei Romanov; but the Czar was not without contradictions. It was Oleg, the other Romanov prince, who angered the Czar and not his libertarian cousin. Czar Nicholas—missing no opportunity for pedantry—had explained that Alexei Stephanovich was too transparent to be dangerous to the empire. It was sly-eyed Oleg who could not be trusted. “He has a secret,” Nicholas had said, “find out what it is!”