Sister Pelagia and the Red Cockerel

by Boris Akunin

  “Two days along the rivers. But the Gorodets District extends a long way, and Stroganovka is right over by the Ural Mountains. You have to travel through the forest to get there, through a remote wilderness. It’s a difficult journey, and a long one. I’ve been in those parts once, with the bishop. We traveled around to the schismatics’ hermitages, trying to persuade the local monks not to be afraid of the authorities.”

  “I’m going,” Sergei Sergeevich declared, and his eyes glinted fervently. “This really is a case of public importance. Once Dolinin finds himself at the scene of a crime, he has to get right to the bottom of it! He can’t just let it go. I’ll send the minister a telegram: the tour of inspection is being interrupted owing to exceptional circumstances. He’ll only be glad that I happened to be at the right place at the right time.”

  Only herself to blame

  ON THE THIRD day of the journey they disembarked from the barge and stopped for the night in the large Old Believer village of Gorodets, where the women in white shawls spat over their left shoulders when they saw Pelagia in her habit. After that they set off by land, through the Forest.

  It didn’t have a name—just “the Forest,” that was all. At first deciduous, then mixed, then almost entirely coniferous, the Forest extended for a hundred miles as far as the Urals Crest, crept over the mountains, and, on emerging into the wide open space beyond them, swept all the way to the Pacific Ocean across an unimaginably vast expanse of land, its immense mass seamed with dark, broad rivers, many of which also had no name, for how could anyone think up such a great number of names, and who was there to do it?

  At its western extremity, in Zavolzhie, the Forest was still far from mature, but even at its margins it differed from its European counterparts in the same way as an ocean wave differs from a wave on a lake—by virtue of the distinctive leisurely might of its breath, and also an absolute contempt for any human presence.

  On first acquaintance, the road posed as a decent country track, but by the tenth mile it had already abandoned any pretense of carrying regular traffic and shriveled to the dimensions of an ordinary forest path.

  After an hour or two of rattling and shaking along a rutted surface on which black water gleamed dully through an overgrowth of spring grass, it was hard to believe that cities, broad steppes, deserts, open sky, and bright sunlight really existed in the world. Out there, in the realm of freedom, warmth reigned supreme, the meadows were full of yellow dandelions and the buzzing of bees as yet only half awake; but in here, patches of gray snow lay in the hollows, an equal mixture of meltwater and ice pellets frothed in the ravines, and the deciduous trees still stood in their mournful winter nakedness.

  When the birches and aspens were replaced by fir trees, it became even darker and more forbidding. The space closed in, the light faded, and new smells appeared in the air, setting your skin creeping and prickling. There was the scent of wild animal life lurking in the thickets, as well as a certain vague, damp terror. As night approached, the alarming scent became stronger, and the horses crowded close around the camp-fire, whinnying fearfully and flicking their ears.

  Pelagia could not help recalling the Zavolzhian tales about all sorts of evil spirits in the forest: about the bear Babai, who took girls for his brides, about the fox Lizukha, who appeared in the form of a fair maiden and lured young lads and even family men away forever. According to the Zavolzhian legends, the most terrible creature of all was the man-wolf Struk, with eyes of fire and huge teeth of iron: people frightened their children with him so that they wouldn’t wander far into the forest. Struk’s jaws belched fire and smoke and he didn’t run at all, he hopped across the treetops like a lynx, and if he fell and hit the ground, he turned into a dashing young fellow in a gray caftan. God forbid that you should ever meet a mouse-gray man like that in the forest.

  In the town, these ancient legends seemed to be the naïve and endearing creations of the national spirit, or—as people said more and more often nowadays—folklore, but in the Forest, with an owl hooting funereally and a pack of wolves howling in the distance, it was easy to believe in both Babai and Struk.

  And there could be no doubt at all that the Forest was alive, that it was listening to you and watching you, and that this glance was unfriendly, even hostile. Pelagia sensed the oppressive gaze of the forest on her back and the nape of her neck. Sometimes, indeed, she sensed it so keenly that she glanced around and furtively crossed herself. It must be truly terrifying to be all alone in the forest thickets.

  Fortunately, she was not alone in the Forest. The expedition fitted out by Sergei Sergeevich was six in number, not counting the corpse.

  Striding along at the front, tapping vigorously with his staff, was the guide—the district sergeant major; behind him came Dolinin himself, riding on a sturdy light bay relinquished to the important visitor by the district police officer; then the body, packed with straw and lumps of ice, lying in a box on a cart accompanied by two guards. The small caravan was concluded by a wagon covered with tarpaulin, carrying the provisions and the baggage. The Zytyak driver sat on his box, with Pelagia sitting beside him, stoically enduring the jolting over the potholes and the monotonous chanting of her broad-faced neighbor, and the acrid smoke of his birch-bark pipe.

  The holy sister glanced around fearfully, all the while feeling amazed at herself. How had it happened that she, a quiet nun and the headmistress of a convent school, came to find herself in this remote wilderness, among strangers, accompanying the body of a scandalous false prophet? Truly wondrous are Thy ways, O Lord. Or it could perhaps be put differently—the nun had been afflicted by temporary insanity. The energetic investigator from St. Petersburg had turned her head and bewitched her.

  THEY HAD DISEMBARKED from the steamer Sturgeon in Zavolzhsk. Sergei Sergeevich had not detained any of the passengers, not even the Foundlings, since he had a definite suspect—the passenger from cabin 13.

  Pelagia had been astounded that Manuila’s followers expressed no desire to accompany their adored prophet’s body on its final journey, but continued on along their own way, to the Holy Land. Dolinin’s comment concerning this was as follows: “Being a prophet’s a thankless kind of job. Croak, and no one gives a damn for you anymore.”

  “But it seems to me, on the contrary, that this man, whoever he might be, has done his job,” said the holy sister, interceding for Manuila and his mangy flock. “The word has outlived the prophet, as it rightly should. Manuila is gone, but the Foundlings have not been diverted from their path. And, by the way, I don’t know why they call themselves that.”

  “They say that Manuila sought them out among men,” Dolinin explained. “He found them, picked them up out of the stinking filth, swaddled them in white garments, and bestowed the blue stripe on them as a sign that the kingdom of heaven is near at hand. There’s an entire philosophy to it, although, mind you, it’s rather primitive in nature. A few distorted quotations from the Old Testament. They reject Christ and the Gospels, since they wish to be Jews. But let me repeat, this is all extremely vague and indefinite. As far as I am aware, Manuila didn’t concern himself overmuch with ministering to his new ‘Jews.’ Once he turned some simple soul’s head, he moved on, and these poor wretches try to think for themselves what they should do now and how they should live. As far as that goes, you’re probably right. Manuila’s death won’t change very much. Ah, Sister …” The investigator’s face hardened. “That’s the way times are. The fishers of souls have embarked on a great hunt. The longer it continues, the more numerous they will become, the more abundant their harvest will be. Remember what it says in Matthew: And false prophets shall abound, and they shall deceive many’”

  “And from the multiplication of lawlessness, love shall grow cold in many,” said Pelagia, continuing the apostolic citation.

  Dolinin started and gave the nun a strange look, as if he had just heard those words for the first time, or perhaps had never really thought about their meaning before. “Never mi
nd about love,” he said dourly. “The thing is to save the souls from the fishers.”

  “Without love?” Pelagia almost asked, but she didn’t, because the moment was not appropriate for abstract discussions. However, she did take note of one thing: apparently in the sphere of love, all was not well with the judicial reformer’s life. She wondered whether he was married.

  But aloud she asked about something different: “Is it all right for you to let them all go?”

  “Let them sail on. At the very first port of call, several agents of the criminal police will go onboard the Sturgeon—I forwarded instructions by telegraph. I can’t exclude the possibility that Mr. Ostrolyzhensky might yet surface out of some nook or cranny. A steamer’s not a shed, you can’t examine every little corner. And if our explanation is mistaken and Mr. Glass-Eye is not involved …”

  “How can he not be involved?” Pelagia retorted. “Then where has he gone?”

  “Let’s suppose he was killed. And thrown into the water. Perhaps he saw too much. Such cases are not rare … Well, then, if the killer is not Ostrolyzhensky, but someone else, after my departure this individual will relax and let his guard down a bit. The agents have been instructed to pay special attention to anyone who disembarks sooner than he should according to his ticket. And to anything else that is in the slightest degree suspicious. They still have a long journey ahead of them to Tsaritsyn. If the killer’s on the steamer, we have plenty of time to arrest him.”

  Pelagia said nothing, impressed by the investigator’s judicious prudence.

  “And in the meantime I’ll take a ride to Stroganovka and back again,” Sergei Sergeevich continued. “I’ll check this Shelukhin’s identity. And perhaps at the same time there might be some kind of trail to be picked up there.”

  Then suddenly, without the slightest pause or transition, he continued in the same businesslike tone of voice: “Dear Sister, I have a request to put to you. An unusual request, absurd in fact. But somehow I feel that you won’t resent it and, if I am lucky, you might even agree …” He coughed and blurted out, “Will you agree to accompany me?”

  “How do you mean?” the nun asked, confused.

  “I mean, will you join me on the journey to Stroganovka?” Dolinin said, and before the nun could say no, he continued quickly: “Although this Manuila forswore the faith of his fatherland, he was still a baptized soul. It doesn’t seem right to transport the body without a member of the clergy. They’ll give me some sour monk as an escort. It would be incomparably more agreeable with you …” At this point Sergei Sergeevich realized that this final remark sounded too frivolous, and he hastily corrected himself. “And, more importantly, more logical. You told me yourself that you’ve been in this remote neck of the woods before. You can help me find a common language with the local inhabitants.”

  “I haven’t been in Stroganovka. Only in Staritsa, and that’s thirty miles away.”

  “That’s not important; in any case, you’re familiar with the local customs. And the locals will be less afraid of a nun than of a visiting dignitary. And again, I have the impression that you are not entirely indifferent to this pitiful prophet’s fate. At least you can say a prayer for his lost soul along the way. Well, what do you say?”

  Pelagia was already choosing the words for a polite refusal, but the way he looked into her eyes made her falter. The important thing was that she realized the devil of pride was tempting her. The real reason for Sergei Sergeevich’s “absurd request” was absolutely clear: the master detective had appreciated her perspicacity and her keen eye, and he was hoping for help in the investigation.

  As a member of the clergy, Pelagia did not allow herself even to suspect any other possible grounds of a sinful, worldly nature. But in any case the devil of pride proved to be quite sufficient. Weak soul that she was, she could not resist the temptation.

  It’s my own fault, Pelagia told herself, blushing with pleasure. I ought to have kept my peace and not butted in with my deductions. And now it would be rather strange to abandon Sergei Sergeevich in the middle of the investigation.

  “You just tell me you agree,” Dolinin appealed to her in a low voice, noticing her hesitation. “I’ll have a word with His Eminence myself.”

  “No,” sighed Pelagia. “I’d better do it.”

  On the Heavenly Bridegroom

  SHE PREPARED THOROUGHLY for the difficult conversation, trying to structure the discussion after Mitrofanii’s much beloved masculine manner—that is, without any appeal to emotion, but on the basis of pure logic. She made no mention at all of the arguments concerning the benefit to the investigation, but laid the greatest emphasis on the danger that the expedition undertaken by Dolinin represented.

  “If it is confirmed that the sectarian prophet is a native of our diocese, think what a gift that will be for Konstantin Petrovich,” the holy sister said. “They’ll write about it in all the newspapers, and they are certain to mention the province of Zavolzhie. And in the Synod they’ll say: A fine bishop they have in Zavolzhie, hatching an adder like this in his nest. Your position is insecure enough as it is.”

  “I have no attachment to my see,” Mitrofanii said with a frown.

  “I know—but it is not a matter of you, but of us. Who will the Procurator send to replace you? It is sure to be some favorite of his own. One of those ardent inquisitors. And that will be the end of quiet times in Zavolzhsk.” And then she explained at length how important it was that she, one of Mitrofanii’s own people, should be there at the identification beside the important official from St. Petersburg. In the very worst case, to warn the bishop in good time if events were to take a bad turn. But perhaps not only for that, since she and Mr. Dolinin had formed a very friendly relationship and it was quite possible that she would be able to influence the content and the tone of the report that the investigator would send to St. Petersburg.

  His Eminence heard his spiritual daughter out attentively, nodding in acknowledgment of the reasonableness of her arguments. But when he parted his lips, it was to speak of something quite different.

  “Perhaps Pobedin is right, and you ought not to be a nun?” Mitrofanii said thoughtfully. “Just wait a moment, don’t get excited. You and I have reasoned a great deal about the significance of earthly life, and we are both seemingly in agreement that the main duty owed to God by every individual is to find himself and his own path, to live out his own life and not someone else’s. You yourself have said that most of humanity’s woes result from the fact that nine hundred and ninety-nine people out of every thousand simply live until they die, without ever having understood themselves, having filled their entire lives with business that was not their own. I also think that God requires nothing else of us except that each one should seek out his own road and follow it to the end. Take yourself, for instance. It is quite clear to me and you that your mission is to solve human mysteries. But you, Pelagia, spend your time on something quite different. The business of being a nun may indeed be supremely worthy—praying to the Lord for sinners—but does it not mean that you take sin upon yourself? By living a life that is not truly your own, denying your talent, disdaining this God-given gift—a most heinous sin, the most grievous of all crimes that a person can commit against himself and the Lord. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  “I do,” the holy sister replied in a trembling voice. “You mean to say that I have no talent for service as a nun and my place is not in the cloister, but in the world. Where I shall be of the greatest use to people and to the Lord.”

  She lowered her head, so that the bishop would not see the tears that had sprung to her eyes. The conversation was warping out of shape, shifting from the male manner to the female in a presentiment of weeping and emotional entreaty.

  After a moment she continued. “It is very possible, Your Eminence, that this really is so. But surely you have not forgotten”—at this point Pelagia raised her face and looked at Mitrofanii with her brightly gleaming eyes—“that I did
not come to the monastic life out of piety or out of spiritual strength, but from the edge of the abyss? Not even from the edge, but from out of the very abyss itself, into which I was falling inexorably and was already on the point…”

  The nun’s voice broke off, she was unable to complete the sentence. Alas, the logical discussion had been an inglorious failure.

  “I remember,” said the prelate. “You were in a state of grief, of self-destructive despair.”

  “But I was fortunate. The Lord sent me you. And you said: ‘Your only salvation, if you would not destroy your soul for all eternity, is to hold tight to the Heavenly Bridegroom, who will never abandon you, because he is immortal.’

  “I remember that, too.”

  “I listened to you. I took a vow to be faithful. To Him. What am I to do now—break it? Simply because I have a knack for the investigation of earthly secrets?”

  “Jesus will understand and forgive.”

  “Of course He will understand. Only I cannot treat Him like that. I am Christ’s bride, I must serve him.”

  “You can serve Christ in the world no worse than in a convent. Even better, in fact.”

  “You can, but not with all your strength. Because then you have to divide yourself between earthly matters and Eternal Love.” Pelagia wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and finished in a firm voice, without any tearful trembling. “I promised you, and I repeat it again: there will be no more investigations. And my ingenuity will not be needed here anyway. Mr. Dolinin is a born detective, I am no match for him.”

  Mitrofanii looked distrustfully at his redheaded confidante and heaved a heavy sigh, but raised no more objections.

  He let her go.

  The cuckold’s tale

  THE NEWS THAT His Reverence had given Pelagia his blessing for the journey failed to inspire the anticipated enthusiasm in Dolinin. He had merely nodded, as if taking note of the information, and said nothing, and also twitched the corner of his mouth nervously. This gentleman was certainly not without his eccentricities.