The Journeys of Socrates

by Dan Millman

  Another pilgrim spoke of tranquil inner lakes hidden in the primeval forest, bluffs, and glades. In addition to the main monastery, the center of community life, he said, smaller, secluded hermitages called sketes were scattered about the island. These were inhabited by monks seeking deeper seclusion. Even more isolated were the tiny hermitage huts and caves, and even some holes in the ground where hermit monks worked and prayed in complete solitude. The pilgrim added, “It is said that no one lives there but the monk and God, until only God remains.”

  One returning brother told him that the monastery had been destroyed numerous times in the past, since the pacifist monks refused to fight, even when Swedes annexed the island before Peter the Great finally reclaimed it. Strange, thought Sergei, looking for a warrior in a community of nonviolent monks. He expected that this kind of man might stand out in such a place. In any case, if this master lived on the island, Sergei would find him.

  If he wanted to be found.

  SERGEI MADE A TEMPORARY CAMP that spring in an isolated section of the forest covered with lichen, ferns, and growing blossoms. In the days that followed, he crisscrossed the island, walking past the small farm that supplied the island with milk and vegetables, past isolated sketes and tiny hermitage huts scattered about the woods.

  As the weeks passed, Sergei carefully watched the black-garbed monks. He also tried to catch a glimpse of the hermits, in case one of them was the man he sought.

  Since Razin had seen this warrior many years before, he would be middle-aged now, in his forties or fifties, possibly older. Whether monk or recluse, if this master still lived among them, he might reveal himself to Sergei simply by the way he moved.

  As the weeks passed, Sergei started recognizing familiar faces among the various brothers, and several of the elder fathers, as they went about their duties. One such man stood out in his memory: Sergei was in the main monastery building when he noticed one of the black-robed elders, a man with a snowy beard and long white hair, ministering to a bedridden monk in the infirmary, giving the monk his last rites. A few minutes later, on his way back down the hallway, Sergei saw the same old monk, his eyes closed in concentration as he laid his hands upon the chest and forehead of another patient. At one point—seconds or minutes might have passed—he looked up and gazed directly at Sergei, who stood transfixed…

  The spell was broken as a younger monk brushed by to enter the room. He glanced back to see Sergei’s expression and smiled. “The father’s name is Serafim. He is a starets.”

  Sergei later learned that the term starets referred to elder fathers of extraordinary character and wisdom. He made a note to speak with this Father Serafim, who might be old enough to recall the warrior he sought.

  Meanwhile, he continued to question other monks. He could not openly state that he was seeking a master of combat on an island of pacifists, so he phrased his question this way: “I once heard about a man who lived here. He was a skilled soldier before he found peace. Have you heard of any such man?” His inquiries attracted puzzled looks. No one seemed to know anything, and he found no signs of any such warrior.

  As summer slipped into autumn, and frigid breezes began gusting off the lake, new doubts arose as to whether this master existed at all—at least on Valaam.

  Even as Sergei watched the brothers, they had been observing him, the young pilgrim with white hair, who wandered the island asking questions. Soon after, a monk who introduced himself as Brother Yvgeny brought the following message: “The elders know of your presence here but not your spiritual purpose. Since you seem to follow some inner calling, you may stay for a time if you are willing to serve. Are you so willing?”

  “Yes, I am,” Sergei answered.

  Satisfied, Brother Yvgeny continued, “Since you cannot live outdoors through the winter, you are to live and work at the skete St. Avraam Rostov. This hermitage is located five kilometers to the south. It is separated from the main island by a narrow channel—”

  “I’m familiar with the location,” said Sergei.

  “Good,” the monk replied. Then he added one last thing: “You will be allowed to stay there for seven days only. When the elder returns, you may ask his permission to remain and serve the brothers in hermitage. Otherwise, you will need to leave the island soon. In another few weeks, high winds and blocks of ice make the lake impassable until the spring.”

  Sergei had only one question: “The father whose permission I need…what is his name?”

  “Father Serafim,” replied the monk, and with a nod, he departed.

  Sergei gathered his belongings, removed all traces of his camp, and found his way to the rocky shore, where he descended stone steps and was taken by cutter across the channel. He arrived in the late afternoon, when all the monks had retired to their cells for several hours of prayer. During this time Sergei walked quietly through the skete—the small kitchen, dark hallways, and common room now empty. A good place and time, he thought, to practice.

  On the fifth morning after his arrival at St. Avraam Rostov skete, as Sergei swept and cleaned, he asked one of the brothers when he could speak with Father Serafim.

  “He should return in a few more days,” the monk replied before departing for other duties. Sergei continued with his afternoon tasks until the brothers retired and it was time for training.

  In the waning light, as Sergei headed toward the common room, he passed Father Serafim’s empty cell. Curious, he stopped and peered through the open doorway into the darkened room. He found no furniture except for a small table and a chair. And in the corner, where a bed would normally be, stood an open coffin.

  With a shiver, he continued down the hallway.

  Except for distant thunder, marking an approaching storm, the silence was so profound at Rostov skete that Sergei’s breathing seemed unnaturally loud, and the dim lighting lent a dreamlike quality to the winter evening.

  As Sergei moved through a warm-up routine, practicing kicks and strikes in the air, a lone figure appeared in the dimly lit doorway holding a candle. This sudden apparition startled him, until Sergei recognized the face of Father Serafim. Sergei started to speak but found that he had no voice.

  The old monk’s stillness, and the way he stood watching, reminded Sergei of a snow leopard before it springs on its prey. Then a flash of lightning filled the room with stark, garish light, turning the monk’s face into a death’s head—a skull with a scraggly mane of white hair, whose empty sockets stared at nothing.

  In the grip of a primal fear, Sergei stared at this apparition in the darkness—until Father Serafim raised the candle higher and Sergei saw only an elderly monk, his serene face illuminated by the flickering flame.

  The next instant the doorway was empty. It wasn’t that the father had turned and walked away or even backed into the shadows. He was standing there, then he wasn’t. Sergei heard no footsteps receding down the hallway.

  I must have closed my eyes, or looked away for a moment, he told himself. Only he couldn’t remember doing so.

  Two hours later, in the candlelit room, Sergei served a meal to the six brothers in residence. He expected to see Father Serafim, but his place remained empty.

  As soon as the meal ended, Sergei said to Brother Yvgeny, in whispered tones, “I saw Father Serafim this afternoon. Why was he not—”

  “You say you saw him?” said the brother.

  “Yes, he was in the doorway.”

  Shaking his head, Brother Yvgeny said, “You must have seen someone else. Father Serafim is not due back until tomorrow.”

  WHEN THE ELDER RETURNED on the following day, as expected, he summoned Sergei to his tiny cell and beckoned him to sit on the only chair. A soft glow seemed to surround the old monk. His mane of long white hair and full beard made him appear somehow larger, more imposing. Sergei, overcome with a sense of awe and reverence, had never before met a man of such spiritual presence.

  “I am Father Serafim,” the elder said softly, then smiled. “But then, I believe w
e’ve already met…at the infirmary, wasn’t it?”

  Sergei cleared his throat and, with difficulty, found his voice. “Yes—yes it was. I’m pleased to meet you again, Father. And I’d like to ask your permission to stay in this hermitage through the winter.”

  The father closed his eyes, took a slow, deep breath, and remained that way for nearly a minute. He finally opened his eyes and said, “It is unusual for a layman to stay in a skete, but…I’ve looked into it. You may remain through the winter—possibly longer…”

  Seeing Sergei’s eyes steal a glance toward the coffin, the father smiled and said, “The box serves as my bed, but also a reminder to make use of the time God has given me. And one morning, when I do not rise, it will save the others some trouble.”

  It just didn’t seem like the right time for Sergei to ask Father Serafim if he had met any great fighters.

  .28.

  THUS BEGAN Sergei Ivanov’s official residence at the Avraam Rostov skete, living with celibate, ascetic monks in hermitage, eating their plant-based diet, observing silence during meals, and searching for the man who wasn’t there. There never seemed to be an opportunity to speak again with Father Serafim. He was often away doing his healing work at the monastery, tending to the needs of the brothers in residence, or praying in solitude. With silence at meals, and Sergei’s duties before and after, he rarely crossed paths with the father at an opportune time.

  Meanwhile, on occasional errands to the main cloister, Sergei continued his search for the elusive—or nonexistent—warrior.

  About six weeks after their first brief meeting, he encountered Father Serafim gazing out the window at a snow-covered landscape. Sergei approached quietly, so as not to disturb him, and for a moment shared the winter scene, seeing it through the old monk’s eyes…the emerald green pines…shrubs with tiny red bulbs dusted by snow…

  By the time Sergei came to his senses, the monk was walking away. “Father! Father Serafim!” he called, startled by the volume of his own voice.

  The elder monk turned. “Yes, Sergei?”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you—but now I’m not sure how. You’ve been here a long time, I take it?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, during that time, some years ago…did you happen to know, or see…someone—a monk or pilgrim—who was a skilled fighter? Some kind of master?”

  Sergei suddenly felt dull and silly as this old starets looked at him, a blank expression on his face.

  “A fighter, you say? A soldier?” said the father. “I…have nothing to do with such people.” Excusing himself, he departed.

  Sergei could think of no one else to ask and nothing more to do. Nonetheless, all that winter he worked diligently, serving wherever he could, and he joined the brothers in their customary two meals a day—porridge, bread, mash and vegetables, sometimes with fish, and herbs. They drank kvass, a beverage made from bread, and tea on holy days. It was a simple, ascetic life of work and contemplation and training.

  During one of these times of reflection, Sergei realized with a shock of regret that he had never taken time to write to his uncle Vladimir—an oversight all the more serious as he recalled how Zakolyev had destroyed his farewell letter. To this day, his uncle might still believe that Sergei was dead.

  So he composed his thoughts and set quill to paper:

  Dear Chief Instructor Ivanov,

  I write this long-overdue letter to express my apologies for leaving the school without your consent—and my regret for not having written to you sooner. I did what I had to do, and I offer no excuses. I thank you for the kindness and care you showed me during my early years. It is not forgotten. You are not forgotten.

  I have enclosed a map I took from your library. I return it now, somewhat the worse for wear. It has served me well, and I thank you for this “loan.” As to the knife, shovel, compass, and other supplies, I will one day return them or pay for them.

  I am now twenty-three years old. During the course of my long journeys through Russia, the skills I learned at the Nevskiy Military School enabled me to survive arduous conditions in the wild. Despite the manner of my departure, I want you to know that both your care and your training may yet serve some higher good.

  I respected you and your position as chief instructor, but I have always thought of you first as my uncle and family. You were the closest man I had to a father. You will forever remain in my memory and in my prayers.

  Your nephew,

  Sergei Sergeievich

  As he sealed the letter with candle wax, he saw his uncle’s stern face in his mind. Sergei no longer felt the awe of his youth but rather a deep affection for this good man, Vladimir Borisovich Ivanov.

  That letter completed a small part of his past; a far greater portion remained unfinished.

  THROUGH THE SHORT BITTER DAYS, Sergei followed the same routine: work, reflect, train, eat, and sleep. It was like being back at the Nevskiy Military School—as if he had gone nowhere, done nothing. Each day his frustration grew.

  More than three months had passed since Sergei had begun his residence. He thought back to his time at the school, among soldiers, when he had wished for a sense of peace. Now, in this place of peace, he sought a warrior.

  Meanwhile, he continued training on his own, going through the motions without any sense of progress or change. Winter outside, winter inside. Sergei faced the truth that he might soon be leaving, having wasted another year of his life.

  Then, all at once, Sergei’s fortunes changed.

  Who can say how such things happen? Perhaps it was a matter of timing or luck—or a master’s change of heart. But on the last day of March 1897, as Sergei was completing the movements of his routine, ending in a stance with his arms in a guarded, ready position, he noticed Father Serafim watching him.

  The old monk’s arms were crossed over his broad chest. He was shaking his head as if to say that all of Sergei’s skills added up to nothing. “Whatever are you doing?” asked the puzzled father.

  “I’m training…preparing myself,” Sergei answered.

  “In a real battle,” said Father Serafim, “there are no warm-ups, no rehearsed techniques, no rules.” He shook his head again. “I don’t believe that such movements will prepare you to face the men you hunt.”

  For a few moments, Sergei’s mind whirled with competing questions: How did the father know about the men? Could this man be—?

  “Yes,” said Father Serafim, answering his unspoken questions. “I am the one you seek, and I know why you’re here. But you do not.”

  “What?”

  “You still believe that you were sent by Razin, but you were sent by God. And when you leave, you will not be the same man who arrived.”

  He spoke with an authority that seemed to stretch back into eternity. And those words marked the beginning of a different way of training and living than any Sergei had ever encountered.

  WITHOUT ANY FURTHER WORDS, Serafim took up the role of teacher as if it were both natural and inevitable. He began appearing in the common room each afternoon to observe practice. One day soon after, Sergei stopped to ask him a question: “Father Serafim—”

  The elder man held up his hand to silence Sergei. “Do not call me ‘Father’ again, except in the presence of other monks. ‘Serafim’ is enough.”

  Before Sergei could ask why, Serafim explained, “Training you to vanquish other men has nothing to do with my calling as a monk. I’ve taken vows of nonviolence, and I will die before killing another human being. I have seen and done enough killing.” He would say no more about it. Instead, he set his gaze upon Sergei, who suddenly felt naked, then transparent. And Serafim said, “I see that you also have another name. So when we are alone I will call you…Socrates.”

  When Sergei finally managed to speak, he stammered, “H-how did you know…?”

  “I…looked into it,” said Serafim.

  “If you…look into such things—and if you knew I was here—then why did you make m
e wait before revealing yourself?”

  Serafim paused. “I needed to observe, to assess your heart and your character. So I waited until the time was right.”

  Sergei now saw the old monk in an entirely new light. It was like gazing down at the rippled waves of Lake Ladoga: Sergei could not see beneath the surface, but he sensed great depths.

  DESPITE SERAFIM’S UNUSUAL PRESENCE and intuitive abilities, it was difficult for Sergei to imagine him as a great fighter. In the past, perhaps—when he was young and strong. But now, thought Sergei, despite the force of his words, Serafim looked more like someone’s elderly grandfather than a master of combat.

  Serafim must have sensed Sergei’s doubts. At the next training session he said, “Attack me any way you wish. But make your attack sincere. Do your best to strike me.” Serafim’s tone carried the clear message that he would not tolerate a halfhearted effort. So Sergei gave it his best.

  Sergei couldn’t even get near the old monk. Not only that, he didn’t know what the man was doing; he only knew that he couldn’t seem to connect with, or even find, the elderly father.

  Whenever Sergei tried to kick or punch or sweep or trap or grab or throw, he found himself on the ground, again and again, without any clue as to how he got there. And Serafim held him down with one hand, one knuckle, one finger. Sergei was physically unable to rise. Once, he found himself falling, only to realize that Serafim had not even touched him.

  Razin had been right. Sergei had found the master. And it was one of the most frustrating encounters of his life. When the old monk challenged Sergei to push him off balance, he tried many times without success. He recalled the time he’d tried to push over Alexei the Cossack—it was like trying to push over a mountain. But with Serafim, it was like trying to push over a feather and not being able to do it.