The Journeys of Socrates

by Dan Millman

  Zakolyev stared at them. All he said was, “Sergei the Good does it again,” before turning back to his skinning. Sergei butchered the carcasses as well as he could. It was messy work, made worse by his inexperience. In training, he had only helped butcher one rabbit and a deer.

  By early afternoon they had hung strips of meat from vines tied between nearby trees. They stretched the skins on frames made from flexible saplings. The weasel skin wasn’t large enough to cover Sergei’s shoulders, but it was a start. When he handed Zakolyev the squirrel skin and said, “For your other shoe,” the senior took it without comment.

  They cooked strips of rabbit flesh, their first meal in nearly two days. With a full stomach, Sergei brought back more saplings and pine boughs to reinforce his makeshift shelter.

  That night, as Sergei and Zakolyev squatted by their respective fires, neither having spoken more than a few words, Sergei watched the stars appear, sparkling like ice crystals scattered across a velvet sky. White smoke and glowing embers rose up, then disappeared into the night. After a glance toward Zakolyev, staring into the flames of his fire, deep in thought, Sergei slipped into the cover of pine branches. As he drifted into sleep, he wondered: Why had Zakolyev chosen him?

  THE NEXT MORNING Sergei found a squirrel crushed by one of his deadfalls; another trap had snared a raccoon near the stream—the same trap that had caught the weasel. Rather than trying to grab the hissing, growling animal, he fashioned a club from a heavy log and knocked the creature unconscious before taking its life.

  Sergei also found two fish in the fish trap before returning to camp.

  Zakolyev’s traps had caught only one squirrel and a sickly looking skunk—good for its hide but not for meat. When he saw Sergei’s bounty, Zakolyev just stared at him, saying nothing.

  Awkwardly, Sergei set down the two fish, the squirrel, and the raccoon on a flat rock. “I got lucky,” he said. “We can eat well.”

  After the meal, his stomach satisfied, Sergei went out exploring—anything to distance himself from his sullen companion. He spent about two hours making a wide circle around the camp, checking the streams for fish and familiarizing himself with the surroundings. He was returning to camp when he heard the distant tapping sound of a deer’s hooves. He froze, waited, and listened. Silence…a few more hoof sounds…then silence. Sergei was downwind of the sounds, which would make it less likely for the animal to detect his scent. Sergei crouched low and moved in slowly and quietly.

  A few minutes later he spotted a huge buck, barely visible, about twenty meters away, nibbling on fresh shoots of grass. Every few moments its large ears would turn, and it would look up. Sergei stayed absolutely still. The deer moved a few more meters in his direction. That’s when Sergei realized that he was standing on a deer path, between the deer and the stream.

  A crazy idea occurred to him: He’d hunt the buck. There was no time to go back and get Zakolyev. It had to be now, or he’d lose the chance. This one creature would provide them with enough food and clothing to meet all their needs. So, driven by a primitive urge, Sergei slowly shimmied up a tree right next to the deer trail.

  Once he reached a thick branch directly over the trail, Sergei found a stable position and waited. He could no longer see the deer, but he would wait as long as it took, on the chance it would pass under him.

  About fifteen minutes later, there it was—walking and grazing below him. Now or never, he thought. Hardly breathing, his knife in hand, Sergei dropped from the branch and landed on the buck with a thud, one arm wrapped tightly around its neck. As the creature kicked wildly, Sergei reached around and cut its throat—once, then another cut. The panicked buck, bleeding profusely, kicked with renewed frenzy. Sergei realized that if he fell off, the buck would likely gore him with those antlers before it bled out. So, before he was thrown, in a hunter’s act of mercy, he aimed just above the front foreleg and stabbed deeply into the buck’s side, through its ribs and into its heart.

  The creature fell over and lay still.

  As he panted hard, his own heart pounding, Sergei’s elation was mixed with sorrow for the death of this great stag.

  On the way back to camp, he remembered something Alexei had told them: “When in the wilderness, you must become wild.”

  Entering the clearing, blood-soaked and breathless, Sergei told what he had done. A skeptical Zakolyev went back with him to find the proud creature lying dead.

  Sergei watched Zakolyev as his face changed from surprise to a controlled rage. The senior pulled out his knife and began to gut the deer. “Come on!” he ordered Sergei. “Don’t just stand there—make yourself useful!”

  They left most of the internal organs for the scavengers, then made litters and dragged the carcass back to camp. It took them the rest of the day to butcher the animal, stretch the hide, and prepare the strips of meat. It was such a large buck that they now had enough food to last the rest of their stay in the forest. More important, with the other animals, mostly trapped by Sergei, they had enough for fur-lined shoes from the rabbit and deerskin shirts and leggings. Sergei also had a raccoon cap.

  That night, before dusk, Sergei washed the blood off his bare chest and legs. Then he padded through the forest and dismantled his traps. There was no sense killing more animals.

  IT TOOK a good part of their final two days for each of them to fashion a pair of stiff buckskin pants and shirt. They had to let the hide soak for hours in the stream before scraping off the hair and flesh and washing the hide several times more to remove any grease. They couldn’t tan them properly, lacking salt or lime. But they rubbed the hides with the brains of the deer, then with ashes from the fire, as they had been taught.

  Finally, after cutting leather thongs—narrow strips to tie together the leather shirt and pants—they were clothed like real woodsmen. That final day passed quickly. Zakolyev only spoke to Sergei when necessary, every remark curt or insulting. Finally the older cadet stomped out of camp and left Sergei in peace.

  Then, an hour before dusk, Sergei thought he heard the distant cry of an animal. He went back to tending the fire. Then he heard it again. It was Zakolyev, calling his name. Going quickly to investigate, he heard the cry more clearly: “Ivanov!”

  Sergei found Zakolyev at the bottom a steep and slippery embankment over the stream. It was so slick with moss that Sergei almost lost his footing as well. In the fading light he could just see Zakolyev struggling to free his ankle, wedged between two rocks.

  Furious—as if Sergei himself were somehow responsible—Zakolyev snarled, “Don’t just stand there, idiot. Get a branch! Hurry!”

  Sergei had his knife, but it hadn’t occurred to him to bring the military shovel, which also served as a hatchet. “I’ll be right back!” he yelled, and ran as fast as he could in the deepening dusk to retrieve the tool. On his way back from camp he spied a straight and sturdy branch that might be used as a lever. He hacked at the limb until it came free.

  By the time Sergei got back to him, Zakolyev was so furious he could hardly speak. This was the ultimate shame, and Sergei knew it. Not only had he out-trapped Zakolyev, and caught and killed the great buck, but now Sergei the Good was rescuing him—maybe saving his life.

  Sergei knew that if he was able to free Zakolyev, there was no way to predict what might happen next, but it wasn’t likely to be a humble thanks or a handshake. He felt an impulse to leave Zakolyev there. But it passed.

  Once Sergei got the heavy branch under one of the stones, it didn’t take long to move it enough for Zakolyev to pull his ankle free. The ankle was sore but not broken. Sergei knew better than to offer any further help. He silently handed him the sturdy branch for a walking stick and left him alone.

  A dread came over Sergei as he walked back to camp. He knew that in saving Dmitri Zakolyev, he had made an enemy for life.

  WHEN ZAKOLYEV finally returned to camp, Sergei busied himself by adding branches to his lean-to, fearing that a single word, or even a look, might set off Zakolyev.
Sergei needed more branches overhead because the heavy clouds threatened rain, and he hoped to sleep well this final night in the forest.

  As it turned out, he hardly slept at all.

  Sometime in the night, after drifting off, Sergei was startled awake by flashes of lightning in the distance—then the explosive crackle of thunder. His eyes snapped open—a strange sense of foreboding passed through him. Something was wrong. Just then the lightning flashed again, and he saw—or thought he saw—legs and a torso just outside the shelter. He turned his head imperceptibly, nearly frozen with fear. The lightning flashed again to reveal a momentary glimpse of Zakolyev, squatting nearby, staring down. There was a knife in Zakolyev’s hand. Sergei felt he was about to die.

  The light vanished in an instant. Unable to breathe or make even a sound, Sergei stared into the darkness. Another flash of light revealed that the figure was gone.

  Could he have dreamed it? Imagined it? He couldn’t be sure. Sergei lay back, gulping shallow breaths as the downpour continued and the thunderclaps receded in the distance. He lay awake for hours, alert to any sound that stood out against the patter of rain…

  The next time his eyes jerked open it was dawn. He had survived the night. He sat up quickly to see Zakolyev, still asleep under his lean-to.

  As Sergei broke apart his shelter and scattered his fire, Zakolyev rose, took his knife and the shovel, and without a word walked out of the camp.

  Later, making his own way back through the rocky, forested terrain, Sergei thought about what he had experienced over the past seven days. He now knew that he could survive in the wild, like Alexei and others before him.

  He made it back to the meeting place by midday, as Alexei Orlov had instructed. Soon most of the original thirty-two cadets had returned. Some distance away, Sergei spied Zakolyev standing in the middle of a group of half-naked younger boys. Zakolyev saw him too—he pointed toward Sergei and said something to the boys. They laughed.

  Ignoring them, Sergei looked around for Andrei, wondering how he had fared, but his friend had not yet returned. When Sergei turned back to Zakolyev and his admirers, some of the young boys snickered. One of the bolder cadets, probably trying to please his idol, said in a sarcastic tone, “Found your way back, did you?”

  Sergei stared at the young cadet; he could only imagine what Zakolyev must have told them all.

  As the group of boys walked away, one of them called back, “It was lucky Dmitri gave you part of the hide, or you’d be as naked as some of the others!” Then he scurried off to follow his leader.

  Finally Sergei spotted a tired but happy-looking Andrei approaching with his older companion. They had pieced together rough-looking long shirts but no pants, and pieces of leather were strapped to the soles of their feet with thick cords. Sergei surveyed all these half-naked cadets wearing motley skins made of rabbit, raccoon, shrew, skunk, fox, and squirrel, and he smiled with new confidence.

  It had been one of the most intense experiences of Sergei’s youth. He hoped it was the last time he would ever have to spend time alone with Dmitri Zakolyev.

  .8.

  AFTER SURVIVAL WEEK, Sergei returned to the daily routines at the school aware of changes not only in his inner world, but in his body as well. He looked at himself in the mirror and now saw a muscular young man, with hair growing under his arms and elsewhere. He began to think about women more often—about their bodies and their mysteries, all in a confused state of longing.

  He also noticed flaws and hypocrisies in the adults around him: Brodinov preached about the importance of training hard and staying fit while he grew heavier with each passing month, and Kalishnikov would lean over his desk in the classroom and pontificate about telling the truth while he told lies about the Jews.

  Sergei’s life now seemed even more complicated and confused than ever before. He thought again about what it might be like to leave this place, to find a home and people more like him.

  Sergei felt the urge to be free in a world where few freedoms existed—except in the wild. And even nature had its own strict rules and consequences. Questions and dilemmas raged inside him. He had never thought much about the future; now it preoccupied him.

  When the chief instructor allowed it, Sergei made more frequent visits to his uncle’s library. Vladimir Ivanov owned an impressive selection of books, and Sergei read works ranging from religious philosophy and military science to ancient Greek philosophers such as Plato, who described the lives and teachings of Socrates and the other sages and statesmen.

  Sergei soon made a startling discovery: Certain phrases seemed to unlock within him a vast storehouse of insights about subjects he had never before contemplated—questions he had never asked: What is the purpose of living? What constitutes the good life? Are people innately virtuous or selfish? Sometimes he had to shut a book, close his eyes, and hold his head in his hands as his heart raced with excitement—not merely because of the words he read, but because of the doors they opened. It was like discovering foreign lands in his mind.

  Then came Sergei’s fifteenth birthday, summer’s end in 1887. He thought of his mother on that day, as he thought of her on every birthday and other times as well. He slipped the chain of the locket around his neck and under his shirt. He wore it almost daily, taking this risk for the simple pleasure it provided him in a place where few pleasures existed, simple or otherwise. After dark—or before training or the cold-water immersions—he would hide it again within his mattress.

  IN DECEMBER of that year, Chief Instructor Ivanov made a rare appearance during morning exercises in the school compound. In recent months Sergei had seen little of his uncle, a distant and private man who remained behind the scenes. So the chief instructor’s presence spoke of the importance of this announcement. Without preface or explanation, he said, “Step forward if you hear your name called.” He began reading from a list. Sergei heard the names of several senior cadets; then his own name was called, and those of a few of the more hardworking boys his age, including Andrei. Sergei stepped forward with the others. Why are we being singled out? he wondered. Finally his uncle called out the last name on his list—“Cadet Dmitri Zakolyev.”

  His uncle then announced, “You twelve have been selected for special training and duty as elite soldiers and possible future bodyguards to the tsar. You are to be congratulated.” These were the closest thing to encouraging words any of them had heard from the chief instructor.

  Out of the corner of his eyes, Sergei could see proud smiles forming on some of his companions’ faces. He was glad to see Andrei smile as well. But Sergei had nothing to grin about; it only meant that his life had changed once again at the whim of others. And, worst of all, he would see more of Zakolyev.

  After Chief Instructor Ivanov dismissed all but the chosen twelve, he began to pace slowly and speak in measured tones, as if he were imparting secrets for their ears only. “Thus far,” he said, “you have learned what all young soldiers must learn—the fundamentals of wrestling and boxing, horsemanship, water skills, basic weapons, military strategy, and survival in the wild. The other boys will continue to refine these skills. But elite bodyguards need elite training.”

  He paced in silence before continuing. “Long before the birth of Christ our savior, Greek merchants traded with tribes on the shores of the Black Sea. As centuries passed, Sarmations were overrun by Germanic Goths, who fell to Asiatic Huns, later defeated by Turkic Avars. Then, twelve hundred years ago, heirs of the Vikings gave way to eastern Slavic peoples who settled in a land now called Ukraine, home of the Kievan Rus. These various peoples, who spoke a hundred and forty diff e rent languages and dialects, who had risen up through a history of sacrament and sacrifice, of struggle and blood and toil, formed the largest country in the world, known by its peoples as Rodina…Mother Russia.”

  Sergei remembered this speech vividly—not only because his uncle spoke so rarely, but also because he saw the chief instructor pause and wipe away tears that came to his eyes at
the mention of Rodina, this land he so loved. He quickly recovered, however, and said, “Throughout her history, Russia’s people—not only Cossacks and soldiers, but farmers, merchants, and others called to duty—have been forced to repel invaders from the north, south, east, and west. We have fought on sandy plains, frozen rivers, muddy bogs, and thick forests. Our varied enemies forced us to develop a versatile system of combat. As elite soldiers, you will be shown an approach to fighting more natural and more lethal than anything you have studied.”

  The chief instructor then called out, “Alexei Orlov!” The Cossack stepped forward. Chief Instructor Ivanov turned back to the twelve boys. “We need a volunteer,” he said. Anatoly Kamarov, one of the senior cadets and the wrestling champion, stepped forward. Gesturing in a good-natured way, his uncle said, “Please attack Instructor Orlov.” Cadet Kamarov crouched and circled Alexei, who only smiled and stood relaxed, not even bothering to face the cadet squarely. When the cadet thought he saw an opening, he lunged in and threw a front kick.

  Alexei hardly moved, but the cadet was suddenly off balance and falling awkwardly to the ground with a thump. It was as if the cadets were watching a magician rather than a fighter. This performance was repeated several times before his uncle thanked Kamarov for his courage and Alexei for his demonstration. “The tsar has many loyal soldiers,” he continued, “but those who protect him and serve on special missions must be able to overcome even the best soldiers. So at this point your training will intensify to the breaking point, and sometimes beyond. Anyone who wishes to step down may do so with honor. To remain in the regular barracks, step forward. You will have our permission to contribute to the regular ranks of brave men.”

  The chief instructor waited. No one stepped forward. “There is no shame in the regular ranks,” he repeated. “It takes wisdom to know your limits and courage to speak out.” Sergei stood frozen like the others.