The Journeys of Socrates

by Dan Millman

  “Easier said than done,” said Sergei.

  Serafim smiled. “I think you’re starting to understand.”

  IT BEGAN when Serafim picked up a fist-sized stone and, standing three meters away, said, “Hold up your hand and catch this rock!” He threw it with such force that it nearly broke Sergei’s hand. “Remember the pain,” he said. “It’s called resistance. In life, stress happens when you resist. The same is true in combat. No matter what comes your way, if you take a rigid position, you experience pain. Never oppose force with force. Instead, absorb it and use it. Now you can learn how yielding can overcome even a superior force.”

  Serafim started by gently tossing fist-sized stones, underhand, toward Sergei’s chest. “Step out of the way and catch them smoothly,” he said, “matching the speed of the stone with your hand so there is no sound at all…”

  Later, the monk brought out a heavy oak staff and swung at Sergei from the side. First he instructed Sergei to take a rigid stance, like a solid vertical wall, and experience the pain of impact. After that, Serafim instructed Sergei to swing the staff at him, and he demonstrated how, by moving and leaning away from the staff at the last moment—the way Sergei absorbed the stones with his hand—Serafim could absorb the blow, reducing its force by more than half.

  “That’s fine if someone swings a staff,” said Sergei. “But suppose it’s a saber? I can’t just absorb the cut of a blade.”

  Serafim scratched his beard, as if pondering the question. “In that case, I suggest you get out of the way.”

  The next week, and the week after that, Serafim threw more stones, faster and faster. Sergei was to move off the line of force and silently catch the stone, absorbing its force. As time passed, he graduated fro m stones to knives—thrown slowly at first, then faster. Later he learn e d to evade and absorb pushes, punches, and kicks in addition to blows of the staff by moving with a wavelike motion.

  “These games are well and good,” said Sergei in a sudden fit of impatience. “But when will I be ready to learn advanced skills—and work with weapons and learn to fight like animals, like the Chinese monks do?”

  “First of all,” said Serafim, “there are no advanced skills; there is only skillful movement. Imitating tigers or monkeys or dragons has a certain aesthetic appeal, but I suggest you become the most dangerous animal of all—the human animal, who uses both instinct and reason. Your most formidable weapon is between your ears. Those who focus only on strength are defeated by cleverness, unpredictability, flexibility, and deception.”

  IN EARLY AUTUMN, as the cold winds again buffeted the island, Serafim led Sergei to the edge of a sheer granite cliff that plummeted down to waves breaking twenty meters below. “Stand with your back to the water and your heels just at the edge,” he instructed. “There are times you may find yourself having to fight at the edge of a precipice—on a bridge or a cliff such as this. The moment fear arises and you begin to tense up—that’s precisely when you need to soften, breathe, absorb, and evade. If you tighten, you fall.”

  Sergei glanced behind and almost lost his balance. “If I fall—”

  “You will not likely die,” said Serafim, “but it will be…unpleasant.”

  As Serafim gently pushed, Sergei swiveled, giving way. Serafim continued, pushing the right shoulder, then the left; the hips, the torso. Sergei evaded, gave way, maintaining his balance as the pushes grew more forceful.

  He did the same as Serafim poked at him with the tip of a knife.

  Finally Serafim said, “Turn around,” and Sergei faced the crashing waves far below. He could no longer see the pushes; he would have to sense them coming, and instantly give way. A moment of tension, and he would fall over the edge—

  Serafim began slowly, gently, all the while softly reminding Sergei, “Fear is a wonderful servant…but a terrible master…Fear generates tension, so breathe and relax…You don’t have to rid yourself of fear…just train yourself to respond differently.”

  Staring down at the drop below, Sergei had to remind himself why he had dedicated his life to this training as Serafim’s pushes came in with more force, then turned to slow punches. Next came the knife—the sting of the blade, poking, pushing, piercing his skin as he moved like water—

  Suddenly, Serafim punched Sergei’s shoulder blade—it took him by surprise and he fell.

  For a sickening moment, everything seemed to spin…then his instincts took over, and he managed to stay upright by flailing his arms and legs, which closed just before he hit the water with a ka-fump.

  The impact punched up through his legs, hips, spine, and neck. Then silence and icy water. His stomach cramped—he felt like someone had kicked him in the groin.

  Struggling back up toward air and light, he broke the surface with a gasp and heard the crash of waves and the caw of gulls. Looking up, Sergei saw the small figure of Serafim high above, pointing to Sergei’s right. He swam that way and found a small beach—none too soon, for he could no longer feel his arms or legs. As he hiked and climbed back up to Serafim, Sergei considered how much more he still had to learn.

  A WEEK LATER Sergei was just limbering up when Serafim suddenly lunged at him with a knife. It came out of nowhere: One moment Serafim was smiling, relaxed, standing with empty hands. The next moment a blade flew toward Sergei’s throat. Instantly, his hands came up and he leaned away. Not a very sophisticated defense, but at least he had moved without thinking, as Razin had taught him.

  “Everyone responds differently to an attack,” said Serafim. “Some fighters flinch and turn; others lean forward or back. We begin with your own instinctive response. Here, I’ll show you what I mean.” He handed Sergei the knife. “Thrust the blade toward my throat.” Sergei did so halfheartedly. Serafim slapped the knife away with such speed that it stuck into a wooden beam three meters away. Then he slapped Sergei’s face. “A sincere attack!”

  The next time Sergei attacked—sincerely—Serafim leaned back and to the side, bringing his hands up to his throat. “This was my own instinctive reaction the first time I was tested,” he said. “Now, notice how I build upon it.”

  When Sergei attacked again, Serafim moved the same way but followed up with a slight turn of one elbow, and Sergei found his knife hand trapped. Then Serafim swiveled smoothly back, and the knife was torn from his grasp and pointed back in his direction as Serafim held his wrist in a painful lock. “You see? We begin with a natural response, then let each body take the path of least resistance to solve the problem. There are no wrong movements. The only mistake is not moving at all.”

  Nearly every afternoon, unless he was called away, Serafim joined Sergei to observe and instruct—correcting, demonstrating, giving new exercises, and sparring with Sergei, testing his slow and steady progress.

  Serafim revealed clever and deceptive ways to move in at angles to disarm and defeat an assailant armed with a pistol or a saber, and corrected Sergei’s mistakes—not with words, but with pushes, touches, and taps. Working silently in this way, Serafim taught Sergei’s body directly, without abstract concepts.

  When Serafim finally did speak, he reminded Sergei, “In lethal combat, it won’t matter what brilliant ideas your mind understands.”

  Over time Sergei passed through many stages of practice. He trained even when he was fasting or feeling ill or tired. By training through fatigue, he discovered that he could handle himself even in the worst of times. When physical strength and speed were lacking, he could develop relaxation, balance, timing, and leverage.

  Nearly a year had passed since his training had begun. Whenever Sergei was about to quit from exhaustion or frustration, Serafim would say something like, “When running up a hill, it’s all right to give up…as long as your feet keep moving.” Sometimes the only thing that kept his feet moving was his memory of Anya, and his vow to avenge her death.

  Sergei thought often about Zakolyev and his men. Each month’s delay might mean innocent lives lost—but if he attacked before he was ready,
he would lose any chance of success.

  As precious time passed, this dilemma continued to plague him.

  .31.

  WHEN PAULINA was eight or nine years old—no one kept track of birthdays in Zakolyev’s camp—she remained, as much as ever, Konstantin’s friend and admirer. Still, much had changed since she began her training with Old Yergovich. Now that she had her own pursuits, Paulina could no longer spend as much time with Konstantin except when she could slip away during a rest period. Since they had less time together, they valued it all the more.

  Konstantin’s life had changed too—his bright mind was now hungry for challenges, and his curiosity grew. He could understand things the other boys did not. And what he didn’t understand, he could figure out. He sought to learn whatever he could from his elders, and one of the few men who could read, flattered by the boy’s admiration, showed him the Cyrillic alphabet. After that, Konstantin taught himself to read; he found several books thrown in a pile of discarded belongings, taken from people the men called Jews.

  One of these books, written by a man named Abram Chudominsky, told of a voyage across an ocean to a land called America. Word by word, Konstantin made his own journey through the book; then he read it again, and then again. He thought that someday he would like to voyage in a great ship across the sea to such a place. Konstantin wished he could have met the man who wrote this wondrous story.

  To read and to dream undisturbed, Konstantin built a special hiding place—a little cave he had hollowed out of the thick foliage, just across the stream near the top of the waterfall. Later, he revealed his secret place to Paulina, and they met there whenever their duties allowed. Tucked away from the world, they would whisper and laugh, and he would read to her from his favorite book, and show her the alphabet, and teach her how to sound out the words and write the letters.

  THEN, on the eve of 1900, a restlessness and malaise gripped Zakolyev’s camp. Some of the men, whose childhood religious devotion had degraded to childish superstition, were worried about Judgment Day and feared for their souls. While they believed their continuing raids were righteous, the blood and screams spoke otherwise. Only Korolev slept well.

  The Ataman continued to rule with quiet courtesy and random terror. If you pleased him, he could be generous. If you betrayed him, it would not go well for you. For all his moodiness, Zakolyev was not lazy. He held the respect of his men by training harder than most. Yet he maintained his real power not by speed or strength, but by keeping the others off balance. Korolev could be more ruthless, but no one was less predictable than Ataman Dmitri Zakolyev. None of the men, women, or children ever knew what he would do next.

  On one occasion some months back, a drunken Brukovsky had muttered complaints about the Ataman’s strange behavior these past few years and suggested that he himself could lead as well as the Ataman—maybe better—perhaps hoping someone would affirm this. But no one said a word. Konstantin overheard this, along with the few silent men who looked down at their hands, pretending they had heard nothing so it would not taint them. But the Ataman, who had a way of learning every secret, got word of the incident. Some believed that Zakolyev could read men’s thoughts, which left most of his men in a state of constant anxiety.

  Soon after that, Konstantin was allowed to join the men on patrol as serving boy—another privilege given to him by Father Dmitri. So he was present when the Ataman and twelve of his men sat around a large table, eating and drinking their fill, when Zakolyev, in a good humor, observed, “We sit like Christ and his disciples at the Last Supper, only I’m not going to be crucified anytime soon.” Then he looked around, searching each man’s eyes.

  As they raised their glasses and toasted the Ataman’s long life, Zakolyev walked around the table, laying an approving hand on some men’s shoulders. But when he reached Brukovsky, who had just taken a long drink of vodka, Zakolyev reached around and cut the man’s throat so deeply that vodka spilled out with his life’s blood.

  The Ataman surveyed the blanched faces of his men, as he casually threw the body to the floor, sat at his place, and finished Brukovsky’s meal. “We must not waste food,” he advised, always the thoughtful leader.

  Despite a growing concern in camp over the Ataman’s behavior and state of mind, there was no more talk of rebellion. For a long while after that incident, any talk at all was brief, careful, and rarely above a whisper.

  Not even Korolev was safe from the Ataman’s ire. One cold evening in February, Zakolyev found Korolev in the barn, having just returned from hunting. The Ataman looked around the loft and in the stalls to make sure they were alone, then Zakolyev asked his lieutenant, “Do you remember the man Sergei Ivanov, whom we left facedown in the dirt some years ago? You snapped his woman’s neck, if that helps refresh your memory.”

  There had been so many incidents, so many faces that meant nothing to the one-armed giant. Yet he did recall the man Ivanov, and how the Ataman had foolishly ordered Korolev to let him live…

  Korolev was wrenched back from his recollection by the sharp edge in Zakolyev’s voice. “I ask you again, Korolev, do you believe that he was still alive when we left him?”

  “You asked me to leave him,” Korolev answered. “I did so. Yes, I believe he was still alive, but his head was bloody—”

  “I didn’t ask for speculations; I asked what you remember!”

  Zakolyev had grown more anxious. His visions of Sergei Ivanov, both dreaming and awake, had increased of late. Now he deeply re g retted his impulsive decision to let Ivanov live. It was eating at him; his head ached and stomach churned just thinking about it. Korolev had been right: Ivanov’s sorrow would turn to anger, and sooner or later he would come for vengeance. Even now the monster searched for Zakolyev in his dreams.

  .32.

  AT THE TURN of the new century, a sense of peace and celebration reigned at St. Avraam Rostov skete, and the brothers prayed for humanity at this auspicious time. Then the new year dawned like any other day, with a cold sunrise and prayer and service—and for Sergei, more training.

  Spring arrived with migratory birds, the trickle and rush of streams, and a colorful array of blossoms, and the island was born anew. The work that Sergei did in the fields, the laundry, and the kitchen gave him a sense of connection to the community at large and a healthful balance to his combat practice.

  In this manner, and with these routines, four years had passed on the timeless island of Valaam, where change was measured in centuries. Word reached the monastery of a Boxer Rebellion in China; warriors had banished Japanese and Westerners from their land, and Mother Russia had sent soldiers to occupy Manchuria. When this news trickled down to skete Avraam Rostov, it was met with brief nods before attention returned to higher matters.

  Meanwhile, Sergei’s training progressed: Serafim taught him to move his arms, legs, hips, and shoulders independently. “Allow your mind to be concentrated on a single point, yet everywhere at once,” said Serafim. “Relax the body and release the mind. By remaining fluid and open, you can strike one opponent in front of you while your leg is kicking another behind you, even as your body is moving or turning. Your opponents will think they are battling an octopus.”

  Serafim also reminded Sergei that no matter how many men surrounded him, he would never have to fight more than one man in a given moment. “Even if ten or twenty men attack, most of them get in each other’s way. Of the three or four who threaten, you move toward the closer man—don’t wait for him to reach you.”

  That very day Serafim taught him to juggle two stones, then three. “Fighting multiple opponents is very much like the juggler’s art,” he said. “You toss objects into the air one at a time, but in rapid succession. If your attention fails in juggling, you drop a stone; if your concentration fails in battle, you lose a life. So stay relaxed, focused, and always moving as you face one man…and the next…and the next…with an expansive mind and flowing body…with a peaceful heart and warrior spirit.”

  ALTHO
UGH SERGEI had first come to Valaam for combat training, he and Serafim also had other obligations that were a necessary part of the skete’s existence. Serafim was constantly busy, engaged in his spiritual guidance to the monks and his healing work with the sick and injured. But afternoons, for the most part, were dedicated to training.

  As frustrating as these sessions could be, Sergei looked forward to each one because he never knew what was coming next. One day, and for weeks after, Serafim showed him how to throw knives with his right or left hand—overhand, underhand, from standing, lying down—and while running or rolling.

  Then Sergei learned to apply the right force to devastating pressure points that could paralyze an arm or leg—and how to strike two or even three men at once in a spinning, whipping motion, and redirect an opponent’s kick or punch to hit one of his fellow assailants.

  During this phase of training, Serafim caught Sergei staring intently at an intimidating ax he had raised. “Relax your gaze,” he instructed. “Rather than fixating on your opponent’s arms or legs or eyes, stay aware of everything around you. An open gaze expands your awareness and conveys a powerful message to your adversary’s mind that he is only a temporary problem you will soon put out of the way. So look through, beyond the opponent, as if you are hardly concerned with the attack, yet remain completely aware.”

  “Is that possible?” Sergei asked.

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” Serafim assured him.

  As the months passed, Sergei came to realize that his hermitage duties—his hours of service and contemplation—were not merely a distraction, but an integral part of his training. Movement practice and the rest of life interpenetrated one another, blending into a unified existence. Almost without his noticing, the practice of combat shifted to the practice of living.