by Dan Millman
The old man would evade Sergei, trip him, twist him, turn him, and throw him to the ground with his hands, with his feet, and only with his mind, it seemed. Serafim never actually struck him until near the end of their session, when the old monk administered a light blow that left Sergei stunned and unable to move for several minutes. Had Serafim intended to injure him, Sergei wondered what damage he might have done.
The next day Serafim asked Sergei to join him for a walk through the snow to a small orchard above the farm. As they walked, Serafim began. “I’ve looked into your situation…your quest…” He paused, then: “You know the scripture, ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’”
Sergei nodded.
“What gives you the right to play the avenging angel?”
“I have no right at all,” Sergei answered. “Nor can I know if my wife’s soul will rest easier for it. I only know that mine will…”
“So you believe…”
“So I believe.”
“You can’t undo what these men have done—”
“But I might stop them from destroying more lives.” What Sergei left unsaid was that in fulfilling his vow, and perhaps dying in the process, he might find salvation for his soul and join his wife and child in a better place, if such a place existed.
“Is there no way I can dissuade you from this course of action?” Serafim asked.
Sergei shook his head slowly.
The old monk sighed. “All right, then, I’ll take you into the shadows. I’ll give you what you want…so that one day you may want…what I want to give you.”
“What do you want to give me?” Sergei asked.
“Peace.”
“There’s only one way I’m going to find peace.”
“Through death.”
“Theirs or mine. Maybe both,” Sergei replied. “And I can’t wait much longer. I need to find them soon—three months, six months, a year at the most.”
Serafim’s eyes again fixed on Sergei. “The timing of events is not for us to say.”
“You believe it may take longer?”
He nodded.
“How much longer?”
Serafim paused. Then he said, “In an instant a life may turn around; a heart may open in a moment of grace. But preparing for that moment can take a lifetime…” Serafim began to pace as he continued, “Learning can happen quickly. Unlearning takes longer. If you’re willing to start fresh…well, it may be less than ten years—”
“I don’t have years!”
Serafim’s eyes blazed. “You must be an important man to make such demands on God, and supremely wise to know how long things should take…”
As they left the orchard and turned back toward the skete, a chastened Sergei changed the subject: “How many other students have you taught?”
Serafim sighed. “None have learned from me what you seek.”
“Why are you willing to teach me? Isn’t there some sort of initiation?”
“You’ve already been initiated—by Razin and…by your life.”
“What do you really know of my life?”
“I’ve seen enough.”
Sergei shook his head in wonder, still mystified by the old monk. “So you’re going to teach me, just like that, for nothing in return?”
“It would be a mistake to view my instruction as a personal favor, Socrates. I’m not doing it for you; I only serve God’s will. And I do this because…helping you may yet serve a higher good that neither of us has foreseen.”
.29.
MOST OF ZAKOLYEV’S MEN, and all of the women they had collected along the way, desired a more permanent camp—like the villages from which some of them had come. But their leader’s response remained the same: “It’s harder to hit a moving target.”
So it was a surprise to all when the Ataman called his men around the fire in their temporary campsite near the Romanian border and announced, “Prepare yourselves! Tomorrow we ride north to build a permanent camp. Long ago I found a site deep in the forest north of Kiev. No huts this time—real cabins. And, listen well! I make this prophecy: We will soon have more women and children to form the beginnings of a new Cossack dynasty. Our time has come! From this hidden place we’ll ride forth and strike at the Jews, then vanish. We will leave behind no living witness, except for one child each year, too young to remember, whom we will make one of our own. Over time, our legend will grow. We ride for Church and Tsar!”
This last exclamation, which drew cheers and raised swords, was said for the benefit of any remaining believers. His men needed to feel that they served a higher cause. Zakolyev served his own will, and his will alone.
And so it was that he led his growing community of would-be Cossacks to their camp in the north, hidden deep within a forest. With tools acquired in various ways, the men set about cutting trees and erecting real cabins. The work was good for morale, the women seemed glad enough, the children played, and for a time they did not murder or pillage. It was a time of settling. Even the restless Korolev contented himself with simple labor.
Soon after the men finished building the cabins, the Ataman announced that Paulina’s mother, the woman Elena, should move her belongings to his cabin and live with him in order to watch after the child. Elena did as she was instructed.
Zakolyev’s sudden domestic decision seemed out of character. But for the first time in his life, he felt something like love. Not toward Elena, but toward the child. Elena’s place in his household was utilitarian at best; she did not share his bed but slept on straw matting in Paulina’s room. It would always be called Paulina’s room, and the child would remain, along with the boy Konstantin, the primary object of Zakolyev’s affection.
It is good that fathers tell stories to their children. So one night Father Dmitri told young Paulina a tale of her past. “One day, not so very long ago, there lived a man and his wife, and they were happy and good, so a beautiful little girl was born to them. And I was that man, and you were that little girl.”
“And my mother was Elena,” she said.
He shook his head sadly. “Elena is not your true mother, but you must never reveal this secret.”
This revelation was not really a surprise to Paulina; Elena had never felt like a mother to her. “Is Shura my true mother?”
“You are lucky to have old Shura, but no, she is not your mother.”
“Then who—”
Father Dmitri cut her off. “Do not interrupt your father!” Then, in a softer voice, “You must be silent until I finish, Paulina. Your true mother—my beloved wife—was murdered by a monster…”
Paulina’s eyes opened wide with horror. On the Ataman’s strictest orders, she had remained insulated from any mention of violence or death or even the purpose of the raiding parties. She knew only that her father and his men went out on patrol to serve someone called the Tsar.
“What…what did the monster look like?” she asked, afraid and fascinated by this dark revelation.
“He looks like any other man—about my age, yet with white hair, wizard’s hair. And this wizard has the power to enchant with his voice, telling sweet lies that confuse before he kills. The only way to destroy this monster is quickly, before he can speak and weave his spell.”
Father Dmitri was utterly convincing in his tale, which he told in a trembling voice, as if he actually believed it himself.
Every child has nightmares. From that day on, Paulina’s took the shape of a white-haired monster who looked like a man.
The men were puzzled by the Ataman’s new paternal role, and the women were quietly bemused to find an endearing quality in a man they feared. Some of the women asked Elena whether the Ataman had become a husband as well.
She would not speak of it.
THE NIGHT that Ataman Zakolyev adopted his new domestic role, a period of relative normalcy entered the camp as the men concentrated on building rather than hunting Jews. Oddly enough, it was the dogs that completed this settled atmosphere.
Prior to finding a permanent settlement, Zakolyev had killed the growling canines along with their owners. But now he allowed those dogs whose loyalty could be bought with a few scraps of food. On occasion, Zakolyev was seen scratching an animal behind the ears. They were perfect followers, always ready to lick the Ataman’s hand and show absolute obedience. The smarter children did the same.
Zakolyev let the youngest do as they pleased—running wild like the dogs and amusing themselves. But as soon as they were old enough, the children were given menial duties such as cleaning the outhouses, washing clothes in the river—whatever the adults found distasteful or dull.
Like the children, the dogs earned their keep: No stranger could approach without warning. The dogs also cornered stray horses and herded sheep acquired from recently deceased Jews. So the animals became a part of the camp, hunting with the men and watching with rapt attention as the women prepared the food, hoping an errant hand might drop a slice into their waiting jaws.
So the dogs barked and chased sticks thrown by youngsters, men built hearths in sturdy cabins, and women prepared food and cared for the children, as in any other Cossack camp. But fires were allowed only at night, when the smoke would dissipate in the darkness, or during rain or snow, which would suppress any sign.
Few could ignore the Ataman’s growing preoccupation with security—but no one as yet detected the seeds of a growing obsession, as Zakolyev started seeing Sergei Ivanov lurking in the shadow of a tree, peering out from behind the barn, or staring at Zakolyev from the foot of his bed late at night.
Soon enough, the effects of Zakolyev’s nightmares carried over to the light of day: a twitch of his eye, the jerking turn of his head, a muttered phrase directed at no one. At times he appeared distracted—he would stop whatever he was saying or doing and stare into a world only he could see. Circles appeared under his eyes, and he grew more remote from his men. At the same time, the Ataman came to view himself as a mythic figure, strengthened by his suffering, rising above other men. Fraternizing with a shrinking inner circle, he now gave orders through Korolev, who made sure they were carried out with brutal efficiency.
Meanwhile, life went on in the camp. When the men returned from hunting—animals or Jews—they would sit by the campfires and tell stories of their youth and drink toasts. But they chose their words carefully when their leader was nearby, or even when he wasn’t. Zakolyev declared a death penalty for anyone who undermined his authority or compromised their location.
There was little danger of detection. Their cabins lay hidden deep within an expanse of forest in a small clearing a hundred meters from a flowing stream. And a short distance through the trees, the stream turned to a waterfall, pouring over the cliff and thundering straight down, twenty meters to the rocks and shallows far below. Below the base of the falls, the stream became a torrent of white water, with steep drops and rapids. Because it was not a navigable stream, no small boats would pass, and the camp lay far off any beaten path. They would remain undisturbed.
THE NINE CAMP CHILDREN—four girls and five boys—glad for this permanent home near a real waterfall, played happily in the shallows until one of the boys waded into the stream too close to the edge, slipped, and was washed over to die on the rocks below.
After that, the Ataman forbade Paulina or Konstantin to play near the top of the falls. The boy who died, he declared, had neither intelligence nor luck. He would not be missed, except perhaps by Shura.
Like the other boys his age, Konstantin enjoyed exploring the woods, carrying on make-believe adventures, and riding a horse whenever he was allowed. Spending time with a young girl was not high on his list, even if little Paulina looked up to him. But from the time he had first seen the infant girl years before, he had developed a fondness for her that brought him both delight and mortification.
He still remembered how, when Shura had first asked him to hold the infant while she tended to another, Paulina’s tiny hand reached out as quick as a trained fighter’s to clutch the sleeve of his woolen shirt. Then she cooed so sweetly and looked up at his face. As he gazed into her large eyes, Konstantin saw the world as she saw it—a place of mystery where all people were good and all things were possible.
That luminous moment ended abruptly when one of the older boys walked past and called him “wet nurse.” As soon as he could, Konstantin disengaged himself and rushed away to help the men.
Later, when Paulina had learned to walk and talk a little, she would follow Konstantin, running on her little legs, trying to keep up with him, crying out, “Kontin! Kontin!” because she couldn’t say his full name. From that day on he would become her Kontin. As time passed, he would watch over her protectively.
The Ataman had given Elena strict orders that Paulina was not to play with any of the other girls—only the boys. His daughter was to dress as a boy and would be trained in hand-to-hand combat by Great Yergovich and all his best fighters. In the meantime, if anything happened to her, the responsibility would rest heavily on the shoulders of Elena and Konstantin. Which meant that if she came to harm, nothing would be resting upon their shoulders at all.
Although Father Dmitri clearly favored Paulina, he seemed to care about Konstantin too—but there were times that the Ataman looked at Konstantin so strangely that the boy felt afraid and didn’t know what to think.
Konstantin was glad that Paulina lived in a cabin with people who cared about her, or at least took care of her. Sometimes he wondered who his own parents were, but such thoughts led nowhere, so he let them be. Still, he made it his business to listen closely to the men in case a stray conversation might provide a clue to his past.
At night he would often sit and draw pictures or whittle in the corner of the barn where some of the men drank and talked. A boy with sensitive ears could overhear many things, and Konstantin was as invisible as the dogs who curled up beside him.
When he was younger, he had wanted to go out on patrol with the grown men. But when he heard them speak in hushed tones about all the killing, he wasn’t so sure. The time would come when he’d have to choose whether to become one of them or…or…
His young mind could find no other option. This life was all he knew; the rest was only dreams.
.30.
SOME WEEKS LATER, as Sergei prepared to begin the next session, Serafim threw a punch toward his face. The movement took Sergei completely by surprise, but he evaded, as he had learned in the past. Serafim swung again; Sergei parried.
“Move naturally,” said the monk, taking his shoulders and shaking them, pushing this way and that. “Less like a soldier, more like a child. You’re far too tense. Even as you move, relax…always relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
“There’s relaxed,” Serafim said, “and then there’s relaxed.”
“Even in mortal combat?”
“Especially then,” he said, continuing his attacks. “More men die from fatigue than from lack of skills. Only when you learn to relax under pressure, to relax in motion, can you fight longer and live longer. So practice relaxing in all that you do—in the kitchen, in the laundry. Let movement happen instead of making it happen.” After a pause, Serafim smiled and said, “Be patient, Sergei. Old habits die hard, and tense warriors die young.”
For the next week Sergei repeated the word relax under his breath a hundred times a day, taking a deep breath and releasing any unnecessary tension—especially while doing physical labor or training. “Your training is not just about punching or kicking,” Serafim reminded him. “It’s about everything you do. Remember: Here and now…breathe and relax…in battle and in life.”
Exasperated—feeling more tense than ever—Sergei pleaded, “Please, Serafim, I don’t need you to constantly remind me to relax and breathe. I understand your point!”
“Doing is understanding,” Serafim said.
As they walked the island paths, Serafim had Sergei inhale and exhale in time to his footfalls until he could inhale for twenty counts and exha
le in the same manner. Serafim could do ten counts more—he had lungs like huge bellows.
As another frozen winter passed into the new year, practice only became more frustrating. Serafim chided him at every turn: “You still cling to the familiar, Socrates, to rote techniques you’ve repeated a thousand times. But you can’t preplan for every situation. Reality will surprise you every time.”
During this phase of training, Serafim began to attack him at random, as Razin had done. The elder monk would strike Sergei day and night, at odd times: when Sergei was running errands on rough or slippery ground, by a lake or in the forest, and sometimes even in the hallways of the hermitage. No place was safe—once the old monk even attacked Sergei while he was relieving himself.
Finally, Serafim made his point: “Each situation is unique, Socrates. Your opponent will be unpredictable; so must be your defense. Confrontations get messy, sloppy, slippery, off balance, unorthodox, and unpredictable. Anything can and does happen: Your opponent may have a concealed weapon or companions waiting nearby. He may seem drunk, then suddenly alert. He may turn out to be stronger or faster than you. Don’t assume; don’t predict; don’t guess what your opponent will or will not do next. Just stay aware and respond naturally to whatever arises in the moment.”
“Are you saying I should move without thinking at all?”
“In combat, there’s no time to think. Beforehand, you may plan and strategize, but all plans are tentative and must change on the spur of the moment. Whatever happens, there’s only one certainty: It will not go exactly as you expect. So expect nothing, but be prepared for anything. Relax and trust your body’s wisdom. It will respond on its own.”
“I think I experienced that…with Razin.”
Serafim nodded. “You’ve experienced it, but now you need to master it—even when injured, overwhelmed, or on your worst day. That means throwing away any preconceived notions about your adversary’s personality or emotions. None of that matters. Whether it’s a fist or a stone or saber or charging horse, a force comes in—you move, you breathe—and in any given moment, your body will find its own solutions.”