Rasputin’s Prodigy
Book 3, The Hidden Amongst Us
by Michael Weinberger
Copyright © 2014 Michael Louis Weinberger
Printed/available for e-book starting date: March, 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the web, without express written permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
Published by Purple Mountain Publishing
International Standard Book Number: 978-0-9837683-5-7
Cover Art and Formatting: Bill Kutcher: www.pbase.com/ibill
Prologue
Pokrovskoye, Siberia. 1905
At first it was only an ominous cloud of snow and mist that rose in the distance and offered any indication to the villagers that something was amiss. Life in such a barren and desolate area was difficult enough without the need to contend with the bands of marauders that would occasionally try to raid the village; however, such danger was a reality that every village in Russia had to contend with from time to time. All work ceased as people watched and listened while the cold haze grew closer and closer until the thunderous sound of the hoof beats sent ominous vibrations through every man, woman and child within the immediate surroundings. Terror gripped the villagers as they realized the white plume in the distance came from riders who charged toward their tiny village of Pokrovskoye from along the Tura River. The frozen Siberian settlement immediately came to life as the men ran for their homes only to emerge moments later brandishing well-worn farming implements, spears and clubs. The women of the village gathered up the children and headed to the largest of the erected shelters, which also happened to be the village church, in order to huddle in protected numbers against whatever violence the riders may bring with them. The villagers did not possess the modern rifles that the horsemen would wield nor could their farming tools hope to match the immensely sharp Shashka swords that were fastened to each of the oncoming rider’s belts; however, what they did possess was a fierceness and toughness that life in the frozen wastelands had developed within each of them. That, they knew, would make them a match for any trained soldier.
Eight riders emerged from the mist followed by an ornately designed coach whose craftsmanship was remarkable. Gently sloping curves of meticulously crafted burled wood that had been sanded and polished to such a fine degree that the structure looked like carved marble. Following the coach was another group of eight riders and the entire escort raced forward with such precision that it almost seemed as though all the horses were tethered together and moving as a single unit.
The escort slowed to a trot as it entered the village and headed directly to the area where the villagers had taken up their positions in front of their church. The rider in the lead slowed his horse to a walk and the rest of the escort followed suit as a very large villager stepped to the front of the defiant townspeople.
White bursts of heated breath plumed from the nostrils of each stallion, soldier and villager as the escort continued to ease forward toward the church. When the lead rider was no less than thirty feet from the mob he raised a hand in command for the escort to come to a halt, looked from the mob to the building they stood in front of, noticed the modest three barbed cross that adorned the rooftop of the building, then returned his gaze to the men standing defiantly before him.
Slowly the lead rider dismounted, dusted the snow off of his formal uniform and heavy winter coat before taking a couple of slow steps toward the villagers.
Speaking in an authoritative voice that boomed through the town, the lead rider said, “My name is Nikolai Galitzin and I am the Commander of the Tsar’s personal guard.”
Worried glances flashed among the men of the village for a fleeting moment, but their countenances quickly returned to stony resolve as their grips tightened around the makeshift weapons they held.
The villager who had stepped in front of the rest spoke in a deep rasp as he addressed the Commander, “Why are you here Commander?”
The Commander regarded the man briefly then responded. “My charges have come to see the Starets that lives in this village.”
“And who would your charges be, exactly?” The large man faced the soldier with such confidence that it almost appeared as if he wished to provoke a confrontation.
“We are here on official business of the Tsar. I would suggest you assist us in…”
The Commander was cut off by the villager, “that didn’t answer my question.”
One of the soldiers still mounted on horseback drew his Shashka. Immediately, the Commander whirled and bellowed an order for the man to sheath his sword. Thoroughly chastened by the Commander’s verbal onslaught, the soldier hesitantly saluted and sheathed his weapon all the while averting his eyes in embarrassment from the mob in front of him.
Turning back to the villager, who had raised a spear and jutted the point less than six inches in front of the Commander’s face, the Commander said in a calm voice, “Forgive my men, they are becoming more and more high strung in these uncertain times. Please my friend, we are only here to see the Starets and have no other interests in your village or your people.”
The stare the lead villager shot back at the Commander was a strange combination of mistrust and anger, but the rest of the mob seemed to relax ever so slightly as soon as the Commander had finished speaking. Then the burly peasant relaxed his arms and let his spear drop from the throat of the Commander.
“Your horses…and men, will be in need of water and food after your long ride, yes?”
Frowning, the Commander studied the man as if waiting for him to say more. Then in a moment of clarity he said, “Ah! Yes, of course they will, and I would imagine you and yours have the goods available for purchase during our brief stay in your village?”
“Indeed.” As their leader spoke all of the defiant faces on the men standing before the escort quickly turned to smiles.
“Am I safe to assume we have a reason to stay in the village? The person we seek is, in fact, here?”
There was a loud creak and snap of locks and latches before the doors of the modest church slowly began to swing open and the luminescence of candlelight within flickered in the darkness of the open doorway. All eyes turned to the church as a tall man, clad entirely in black, slowly strode from the inside of the church until he had moved fully into the light of day. The man was not overly muscled but looked powerful in stature, had long brown hair parted down the middle and wore a full beard that extended several inches past his chin. The black garb he wore comprised the religious vestments of the Russian Orthodoxy; however, the black leather boots he wore were more akin to those of military origin. What was most striking, and most disturbing, about this new arrival was the raptor-like intensity of his very dark eyes. So intense and piercing was his gaze that the Commander only realized that he had taken an involuntary step backward after pulling his own eyes away from the man’s glare.
Standing stiffly at the top of the small flight of steps that led into the church, with his hands clasped behind him, the man examined the escort for a moment before he quietly spoke.
“I believe that I am the one for whom you are looking.” He then turned to the villagers, “tend to their horses and their needs my friends, they are expected.”
The man in black then turned to face the doorway of the church and beckoned to someone who could not be seen from the darkness inside. Almost immediately the women and children of the village beg
an to pour out and descend the steps. The men set their makeshift weapons down and began to disperse toward their homes or shops while some of the children made their way to the riders still astride upon their mounts. A few of the children held small wildflowers, which the riders ignored until their Commander gave them a nod of approval. Then the soldiers dismounted and knelt to accept the flowers from the tiny gift bearers.
The man in black walked up to the Commander and held out his hand gesturing to the church doorway, “Bring your charges inside, I will receive them in my quarters.”
“You still haven’t told me your name. I need to be sure you are the man we seek before I will release my charges to your care.”
A smirk stretched across the face of the man in black, “My name is Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin and you are escorting Tsaritsa Alexandra and Tsarevich Alexei Nikolaevich from St. Petersburg. I know you have been searching for me since I healed the boy several months ago.”
The Commander took a cautious step backward as Rasputin spoke. No one had known or sent word of their journey from St. Petersburg nor had the general public known of the Tsarevich’s injury and illness. The Commander studied Rasputin as the man walked back through the darkness of his church’s doorway, he hadn’t believed what the Tsaritsa had told him about this mystic and prophet; however, now that he had met the man, he was willing to keep an open mind at the very least.
Commander Galitzin strode to the carriage door and bowed his head as he opened it. The Tsaritsa was a large powerful woman, befitting her Germanic background. She moved less with the grace of other royals as with power and self-assurance as she descended the steps of the carriage haughtily, then turned and beckoned the Commander to follow. In her arms she held the Tsarevich, the frail looking child appeared a stark contrast to the usual robustness others toddlers his age were prone to display. He had blue-gray eyes that matched his mother’s and even shared his mother’s copper tinted hair, fair complexion and, unfortunately, his mother’s family’s inherited tendency of hemophilia, a condition that rendered the boy’s blood incapable of proper coagulation. The disorder is what had left the boy weak and listless, not to mention that the smallest cut or bruise could be life threatening due to blood loss or internal bleeding.
When the infant had initially fallen ill, the Tsaritsa had called on the best physicians to treat the baby but the child continued to worsen. Fortunately, a trusted family member had recommended a Starets, called Rasputin, from a tiny town in Siberia. The Starets advice seemed too simplistic at first. All he wanted to do was have the current doctors leave the infant’s bedside so the boy could rest. Rasputin also agreed to pray for the boy’s recovery and, amazingly, the infant did recover. Now, several months since that time, the Tsaritsa had begun to plan her journey to find the spiritual healer, which led her and her escort to his doorstep on this day.
Ascending the steps of the church the Tsaritsa made a cooing sound to calm the toddler, whom had begun to stir slightly in her arms, while the Commander followed close behind and together the two moved into the darkness at the doorway. Initially, the darkness was all encompassing except for the glow of candles in the distance. Then the dark faded away and the majesty of the room they stood in sharply contrasted with the modest appearance church’s exterior. Brilliant paintings and murals covered the walls and ceilings while darkly stained glass windows depicted scenes from the bible in majestic splendor. The main congregation area looked much larger from within than the building did from outside and was completely illuminated by candlelight.
Rasputin stood by the pulpit at the far end of the room and waved for his special visitors to follow. He then led them to a stairway where they descended the stone-carved steps into what could have once been catacombs but was now a large open space complete with hearth. Workbenches were placed every wall and books were stacked ten high on each side of each bench. Glass bottles of every size and color were stacked neatly on shelves next to wooden boxes with numeric labels. A small cot was unmade in one corner and clothes were strewn around the makeshift bed with several of the pieces being female undergarments of various shape and size.
Rasputin kicked several articles of clothing under the cot as he circled the room lighting candles along the way. The Tsaritsa and the Commander of her guard walked cautiously behind the Starets until the final candle was lit and the sight it revealed made the Tsaritsa gasp and the Commander draw his Shashka sword. The flame of the final candle was reflected in a multitude of mirrors that focused their illumination on the far workbench where lay a partially dissected corpse of a man who would otherwise have been in his early twenties. The Tsaritsa mumbled a prayer as she clung tightly to the baby while the commander stepped in front of her and raised drew his Shashka to defend her highness and the heir of the Russian throne.
Rasputin noticed their reaction and sighed, “Ah, poor poor Mishka. Several days ago the young fool sought to venture too far from the village at night and was overcome by the elements.”
Stunned, the Commander could only say, “You didn’t kill him?”
Rasputin whirled to the Commander, “Of course not! I am merely a student attempting to learn what I can so others can benefit from my knowledge.”
Rasputin moved to another workbench and waved for the two to come over, “Bring the child and place him on my table.”
The Tsaritsa found her composure, resisted the urge to question the Starets further about the dead man and began to step forward when the Commander held out his arm to block her way.
“Your highness, I don’t…” he began but was quickly interrupted by the Tsaritsa.
“Stand aside Commander,” she spoke bruskly as she moved around his outstretched arm, “I have already wagered Alexei’s life, your future Tsar, on my belief that this man can help him. There is no point in caution now.”
Reluctantly the Commander dropped his hand, but did not sheathe his sword as the Tsaritsa reached the table.
Rasputin unrolled a large reindeer hide and gestured for the boy to be placed on top of it. The Tsaritsa gently laid the child down, who was now awake and staring in wide-eyed fascination at the room and its contents. Rasputin hovered over the boy, placed his hands over the child and prayed softly for a few seconds. Then he placed the boy’s hands in each of his own, closed his eyes and seemed to concentrate deeply until a frown creased his brow.
Opening his eyes Rasputin asked, “What is the boy eating?”
The Tsaritsa replied, “Mostly porridge and fruits. He also has his wet-nurses from time to time when he won’t take the food provided to him.”
Rasputin let go of the boy’s hands. Stroking his long beard as it extended from his chin, he began to pace the length of the workbench, nodding to himself as if understanding something that he was not yet willing to reveal.
“Have any of the wet-nurses been…injured?”
“Injured?” the Tsaritsa repeated the question, confused and looked to the Commander possibly for enlightenment. The Commander, who was still brandishing his Shashka, merely shrugged his shoulders in apparent confusion as well, “Injured how?”
Rasputin waved a hand dismissively, “In any way at all? Have any been bitten or bruised by the boy or perhaps taken ill unexpectedly.”
“I don’t believe so, but I can’t really say as I am not present when the nurses go about their duties.”
“I see,” Rasputin paced a few more steps when he halted abruptly as if he had just realized a thought that had been eluding him. He then moved quickly to the boy’s side and stared deeply into the boy’s eyes. The boy did not flinch or shy away from the man’s gaze in the least. In fact, despite his age and frailty, the boy stared back at the Starets with an intensity equal to the one he received from Rasputin. Rasputin’s eyes darted as if desperately searching for something, then they froze and all of the blood drained from Rasputin’s face as he stepped back from the table wide-eyed and trembling.
The Tsaritsa and the Commander witnessed the exchange and held t
heir breath as Rasputin tried to calm his own. Unable to stand the silence any longer the Tsaritsa spoke out, “What is it? What have you learned?”
Rasputin was still too shaken to respond; however, he did manage to hold up one hand in an attempt to convey that he still needed a moment to recover. When he did speak, his voice was shrill and weak as if he had just undertaken an intense physical exertion.
“You came to me to aid in the maintenance of your son’s health and this I will do, but the boy will have to stay with me in order for me to properly accomplish this.”
The Tsaritsa was aghast, “That is unacceptable.”
Rasputin nodded and chuckled quietly before speaking again, “Then I cannot help him and it would not surprise me if the child was dead within a year.”
This was all the Commander could take and he erupted toward Rasputin, “How dare you speak to her highness this way! You will do as the Tsaritsa command…”
The Tsaritsa raised a hand quieting the Commander, “If he were to stay in your care, could you help him?”
A look of surprise flashed over Rasputin’s face. Clearly he wasn’t expecting the Tsaritsa to accept his terms.
“I believe I can.”
“Then you will accompany us back to St. Petersburg where his care will be under your control and yours alone,” the words seemed more a regal proclamation as opposed to any kind of request as the Tsaritsa continued, “you shall live under our family roof and share in the privileges as one of the house of Romanov.”
Rasputin looked into the Tsaritsa’s eyes and nodded sadly, but countered, “I do not recommend this course of action. It would be safer for us all if you would allow the boy to stay here with me until he is of an age to assume his father’s throne.”
“As I said before this is unacceptable. Alexei is the Tsarevich and is to follow his father as Tsar. He cannot be kept in seclusion.” Rasputin looked as though he might protest again and the Tsaritsa held up a hand to silence him, “Accept my generous offer to live alongside the House of Romanov and enjoy the benefits as if a royal yourself.”
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