by Dan Millman
“The journey will be arduous,” he added, “but you’ve made arduous journeys before.”
“You haven’t told me where I’m going,” said Sergei.
“Yes—of course. Look here.” Serafim reached into his robe and took out a map. “I’ve marked the route: You’ll be riding to a point north of the Hindu Kush, in the region of the Pamirs, which some call the rooftop of the world. That high place, at the crossroads of India and Tibet, China and Persia, is where I send you in my stead—to the Fergana Valley, and a city called Margelan.”
Serafim handed him a letter. “It is a brief introduction. Go to serve them…and to listen and learn. Consider this my parting gift.
“The timing seems too perfect for me to doubt the rightness of this opportunity,” he continued. “This possibility fell into place only when you decided, of your own free will, to let go of your quest for retribution.
“Your decision to take a higher path justifies all that I’ve taught you over the years. In making that choice, Socrates—by not repeating my sad history—you’ve given me a gift whose value I cannot fully express.”
SERAFIM HAD ANOTHER GIFT AS WELL—a sturdy mare, one of the few stabled on Valaam. With the approval of the island fathers, Serafim had also provided supplies and a hundred rubles, in case of need. “The mare is yours to keep,” he said, “as long as she will carry you.”
Sergei named her Paestka, which means “journey.”
Father Serafim stood watching as Sergei cinched up a saddle that one of the brothers found. The old monk’s eyes shone, and his skin was translucent, as if he were made not of flesh but of light.
Before Sergei mounted, he turned to say good-bye, but Father Serafim raised his hand to silence him. “For us, Socrates, there are no good-byes.”
With a final look between them, Sergei Ivanov rode to the dock, boarded a ship, and vanished from the world of men.
Part Six
A
RISING
STORM
Talents are better nurtured in solitude, but character is best formed in the stormy billows of the world.
JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE
.39.
TWO YEARS PASSED. And on a perfect spring day in 1908 Sergei Ivanov reappeard, riding west to St. Petersburg. Although his name remained the same, the man himself had changed in ways both subtle and deep. This peaceful warrior breathed deeper, sat taller, and laughed easier. His eyes shone with an inner light. Beyond these outward signs, casual observers might think that little had happened to him in the town of Margelan. They would be vastly mistaken.
He knew their names now, and their hearts: Kanzaki…Chen…Chia…Yeshovitz…ben Musawir…Pria Singh…Naraj…Maria…and George, who had called them together.
After a difficult journey east, Sergei had served as their assistant and, later, a sort of apprentice. He listened and watched as they discussed diff e rent forms of meditation on images and inner sounds: chanting…breathing and concentration methods to amplify intern a l energy…inner work to open intuitive sight…hypnosis and working with the lower and higher mind…the three selves…from kirtan to kaballah, and the deeper truth within both the conventional and transcendental realms.
Those in the fellowship also practiced movements from various martial traditions, such as the slow-motion T’aiji, but such practice was aimed at efficient movement for vitality and health—for rebuilding, not destroying.
One day Yeshovitz and Naraj were debating a point, and Sergei found himself stepping into the fray. “I believe Yeshovitz has the more realistic view,” Sergei said. Immediately, they asked him to leave for the day—for his audacity, he thought—but when he returned, they had decided to use him as an experimental subject: Sergei would practice each of the disciplines they agreed upon and report what he had experienced. So he came to understand and experience the results of these practices.
After some months had passed, he no longer recognized himself. His face had changed—lines of worry were replaced by a smooth, youthful glow. The old scar on his arm had nearly disappeared. His body felt like that of a child. Only his white hair remained to remind him of the past. But the past, and time itself, had become little more than a useful convention, an illusory idea—his attention now rested in the present moment, with his head in the clouds and feet on the ground.
There, in the city of Margelan at the roof of the world, Sergei had faced an initiation—a gauntlet of nine tests that gained him entrance into the fellowship as one of their own.
Then the time came to part. Each member of this fellowship carried new understandings and hope for humanity. They left with a certainty that for anyone truly interested, the so-called mystical states could become a normal part of human experience.
Sergei carried this realization lightly as he and Paestka entered St. Petersburg and considered his most immediate intentions: He would pay a visit to Father Serafim to share the gifts and blessings he’d received and to convey his gratitude. After that, he would find work, save money, and make his long-overdue journey across the sea.
But first he would visit Anya’s grave.
Standing there, in the stillness of the meadow he had left so long ago, he gazed upon flowers now growing upon the mound of earth. A breeze caressed his face as he stood in silent communion with the love of his life.
Then a new impulse arose: He would visit with Valeria and Andreas. Sixteen years had passed since he had last seen them. If he had made peace with the past, they might have done the same.
In the early evening Sergei found a stable for Paestka and a much-needed grooming and feeding and rest. As he had years before, he visited a barber, had a long bath, and, completely open to whatever might follow, again appeared at Valeria’s door.
He had certainly not expected a crying Valeria to throw her arms around him, speaking so quickly he could barely understand.
“Sergei! Sergei! My prayers have been answered. We never thought we would see you again! After your letter came—it must have been two or three years ago—I sent Andreas to Valaam, to find you, but you had gone. Oh, Sergei, I grieved so for Anya, but then I grieved for you too, and for how we parted. You’ve no idea how much I wanted to take back the words I had spoken. Oh, but you’ve come back to us! Can you forgive me, Sergei? How you must have suffered!”
Valeria began to cry again. Sergei reached around her aging shoulders and comforted her, and old wounds were healed.
Then, abruptly, Valeria’s eyes opened wide. “Oh! Andreas doesn’t know you’re here. He will be so surprised! And Katya too—I didn’t tell you—he is married, Sergei, and I have a grandchild, little Avrom, with another on the way.”
Valeria was out of breath, but it didn’t slow her down. “They will be home soon. I must make dinner, something special. Oh, Sergei, forgive me—I haven’t let you say a word. You must tell me everything. Soon, when we are all together. And I have much to tell you too!” she called back as she rushed into the kitchen.
When Andreas arrived with his family, and he spied Sergei, he gave a joyous roar and a brotherly embrace. He too had changed over the years. Sergei guessed that Katya, a serene-looking, black-haired woman, now rounded with their second child, had much to do with this transformation. They made introductions, then Katya took Avrom away to change his diapers while Grandma made dinner and the men talked of many things.
Andreas began by telling Sergei of his own travels to Persia and his successful rug importing business. “And it wouldn’t have been possible without your…well, we can discuss that later.”
DURING DINNER, Andreas told Sergei, “Since you have been away, you may not know—the pogroms have continued under Tsar Nikolai—and on my travels I’ve seen terrible poverty and misery. It’s been a golden age for those who have gold, Sergei, but the poor grow bitter, and there is growing talk of revolution. I fear for those who live comfortably here in St. Petersburg.”
“All the more reason for you to consider emigrating with me to America.”
Valeria took Sergei’s hand and said, “In this I have not changed. I’m too set in my ways to leave the soil where I was born, and where my husband and daughter are buried.”
A silence filled the room after that. It seemed the right time to ask, “May I take you to your daughter’s grave?”
“Yes, I would like that,” Valeria said with a sigh. “After all these years.”
As soon as the dishes were cleared, Valeria sat down and said, “Now, Sergei, you must tell us about your life—all that has happened since our sad parting.”
How does one convey the years, the life and depth and passion, into a few words told after a dinner meal? Sergei was doing his best to summarize his vow of retribution, and all the years of searching and preparation, ending on the island of Valaam, when Valeria interrupted—
“Oh! Sergei, with all this excitement…seeing you again—there is a letter for you from Valaam. We received it six months ago, and I saved it. Just a moment!”
Valeria rushed into her room then returned, handing him an envelope. He opened it and read:
Sergei Sergeievich:
I pray this letter finds you at the address you left with Father Serafim. He would have wanted you to know that he passed from this world last December. He was at peace with God. If I may say, I believe that he remembered you with a certain fond regard.
Brother Yvgeny, skete St. Avraam Rostov
Sergei would not be going to Valaam after all.
In the space of a deep breath, he said a silent good-bye to his spiritual father, friend, and mentor. Blessings be upon you, Serafim, he thought. I am one of the many souls you saved.
Sergei would take more time later to reflect on his time with his old master, now residing with the other angels. When he looked up he said only, “A good friend has passed away.”
AND WHAT ARE YOUR PLANS? ” asked Andreas.
“Stay with us,” Valeria interjected. “We can make room—”
Sergei smiled. “Perhaps for a little while, Mother—until I leave for America. I’ll need to find employment, to earn my passage—”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Andreas with a broad smile. “Excuse me for just a moment…”
When he returned, Andreas placed three jewels on the table in front of Sergei, saying, “These will cover your passage and more—not that we’re in a hurry to see you leave…”
Sergei looked down at the sparkling gems. “Andreas—these must be worth a great deal—I can’t take your jewels.”
Andreas laughed, Katya looked delighted, and Valeria was completely beside herself. Leaning forward, she said, “Sergei, these gems don’t belong to Andreas; they belong to you.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“It was the clock,” she said, as if those words revealed everything. Sergei’s puzzled expression only made her smile more; then it faded as she explained, “Years ago, on that terrible day…after I sent you away…the clock fell from the mantel and shattered. I was so distraught that I saw nothing. ”
Andreas took over: “When I returned home and saw the smashed clock, I thought there might have been a robbery. I rushed through the apartment, found Mother in her room, learned what had happened…
“Only later did I return to the sitting room to clean up. That’s when I found them: Mixed with the clock fragments, an assortment of gemstones were scattered on the floor. I placed them in a cup and set them in the cupboard. In the back of my mind I knew that they were valuable, but neither of us could think about much of anything just then.”
Sergei was starting to grasp it. “So my grandfather had hidden gems…inside the clock?”
Andreas nodded. “Twenty-four of them.”
No one spoke as Sergei absorbed this revelation. His thoughts traveled back to the time he first found the clock and read his grandfather’s note. It had said, Always remember that the real treasure is within. Sergei smiled as he imagined how Grandpa Heschel must have enjoyed writing those words, pleased by their double meaning.
He heard Andreas say, “The gems are your inheritance, Sergei. And you can’t imagine our pleasure passing them on to you.”
Andreas looked at his mother, and at Katya, then said awkwardly, “I must tell you, Sergei, we kept them safe for five years, but when we heard nothing—we didn’t even know if you were alive—we sold two of the smaller gems…to help me get started in my business, and to help with expenses. Now we have money enough, and I can repay—”
Sergei raised his hand to silence Andreas. “Please, say no more of it.”
Andreas started to shake his head when Valeria interrupted. “Sergei, my son is too proud to ask. But if you could consider a gift of two more, for the growing family—”
“Of course,” Sergei said.
Valeria brought out a small velvet bag she had made, and she poured the gems onto the table between them. The afternoon sun glinted off their facets, causing some to sparkle a translucent green, others a deep rich red, and the clear gems diffracted rainbows.
Knowing that Andreas would take only the two smaller gemstones, Sergei selected two stones of generous size and slid them across the table to Andreas—then two more. “For your family.”
And it was done.
Valeria put the remaining eighteen jewels back into the velvet pouch and set them before Sergei, who asked, “Do you have any idea of their value?”
“We sold the two stones to Yablanovich, a jeweler and trusted friend of your grandfather,” Andreas answered. “He gave us sixteen hundred rubles for one gem and two thousand for the other—and those were the smallest in your collection. The rest he appraised. I can still recall it clearly.
“When I asked him the value of the stones, Yablanovich took an eyepiece out of his shirt pocket, examined the stones one by one—he turned them, weighed each—and then he said, ‘I cannot tell you their value—that is for each person to decide—but I can tell you something of their worth in the marketplace. So let me put it this way. Today, you can purchase an excellent meal in a fine eating establishment for twenty-five kopeks. This stone,’ he said, pointing to the smallest ruby, ‘would buy you three such meals a day for many years. And this one,’ he told me, touching an emerald, ‘will purchase far more. As for the gems of alexandrite—they are more valuable than diamonds, and if you live modestly, they will meet your needs here or in America for the rest of your life.’
“You are a wealthy man, Sergei,” Andreas concluded.
WHEN VALERIA AND KATYA had taken the dishes to the kitchen, Andreas drew Sergei aside and said in a more serious tone, “This may not be a good time, Sergei, but…could you tell me exactly what happened…that day in the meadow? I’ve wanted to ask you all these years…if it’s not too painful…”
“It will always be painful,” Sergei replied. “But you should hear it all.” So he told Andreas how his sister had died and what Zakolyev had done afterward. Seeing Andreas’s face turn ashen, Sergei regretted saying so much.
“Thank you for telling me,” Andreas said, staring down at the floor. “I would have always wondered…” He looked up and added, “Mother will also want to know, and now I can tell her the truth but…I’ll spare the details.”
Sergei nodded.
Then Katya returned and the couple retired, leaving the rest of the evening to Valeria. She and Sergei spoke long into the night, bridging the years that had separated them.
.40.
THE NEXT AFTERNOON Sergei took Valeria and Andreas to visit the meadow and grave site. They sat quietly together with their own thoughts and prayers. Clouds passed slowly on the spring wind and their emotions changed like the sky.
To Sergei, Anya felt so close that he could see her behind his closed eyelids. He saw her as she was then and would always be, forever young. He heard her voice and the sound of her laughter. He sensed her touch and knew that while he lived, she would always be with him, until they met at last in a place beyond this life.
On their return to the city the three
of them spoke little, but Valeria reached out and took Sergei’s hand—then murmured something so softly he nearly missed hearing it. “Those poor babies…”
“What?” he said. “What did you say, Mother?”
She answered in a sad, wistful voice, “Oh, I was just thinking about the babies who died with their mother before they ever had a chance to be born…how they now rest in the meadow—”
“Babies?” Sergei interrupted. “I don’t understand.”
“I—I thought you knew, Sergei. Oh—I’m so sorry, you didn’t—”
“Valeria, tell me.”
“Anya had confided in me, but…she didn’t want to disappoint you if the midwife was wrong. The woman seemed certain that Anya was carrying twins. I know that she was planning to tell you…I thought she already had.”
Sergei stared blankly. Babies. Two lives inside Anya. Sergei’s mind raced back in time, stitching together words and images: Valeria remarking about the size of Anya’s swollen abdomen. Anya joking, “With so many kicks, I must have a dance troupe inside.” Then the horrific image, the gaping wound, the bloody tangle of intestines and…
Sergei had seen the death of one child; then he had been knocked unconscious. He had found only one…If there had been a second child, he would have seen it—
And so would have Dmitri Zakolyev.
In an instant Sergei knew the wonderful, terrible truth: Another child, a twin boy, might still be alive. After all these years…in Zakolyev’s sight, within his reach. He could not be certain, but there was a chance—a good chance—that they had a second child, a son who still lived.
These revelations unfolded in a few heartbeats. Valeria would have assumed that both infants died with their mother. It was all he would ever let her know, unless he found his child and brought him home.