God's Children

by Mabli Roberts

  First I was condemned for embarking upon such an expedition because I was a woman. Such exploration, such endeavour, was the preserve of men, and they did not care to have a woman trespass upon their territory, however far and forgotten it might be. It was not right for a woman to disport herself in such a way, wearing men’s clothes, carrying a man’s gun, venturing where only brave men should dare to go. It was not womanly. I accepted their approbation without comment, for it was not my purpose to change anyone’s mind on this matter. So, when they said it was not seemly, it was not ladylike, I did not speak up. But, when they said it was not the way God intended women to behave… well! Then I could not stay silent. Who were they to tell me God’s purpose? Who were they to know, better than I, what He wished of me? It was to do God’s work that I made that journey. It was to do His bidding that I suffered to be spurned as a leper myself. I could not have done it without Him. Let them call me what they would, they could not part me from Him. And God knows how the defeated will stop at nothing to turn the tables, for then they called me such names, accused me of such things, flung such slanderous allegations at me, all in an effort to see me brought low. Was it for jealousy? Was it for upsetting the order of things? In the end, after all, I neither know nor care. God knows the truth of it. God knows me. That is enough.

  I have no clear recollection of meeting Jessy Brodie. What does that tell me about how I regarded her, I wonder? Is it that I was careless of her friendship, or is it that my regret at how it ended puts distance between my thoughts and the facts of the matter? I know that when I met her in Wellington her kindness, her usefulness, I will not deny it, seemed God-sent. Why would I refuse her help, then? How ungrateful, how foolish it would have been to turn away such much needed assistance.

  What was the hardest thing for those unfortunates to bear? What do you think caused them the most suffering?

  It is a cruel disease but not, in itself, most of the time in the earlier stages, a particularly painful one. Pain comes from secondary problems arising from problems with the eyes, affliction with sores, and the lack of sensation in the extremities. If a person is unable to feel the tips of his fingers he will, unavoidably, sustain injuries. He is insensible to the blow of a hammer, or the heat of a flame. His fingers become damaged, and healing is often impeded by infection. This was something I knew could be improved upon. I could teach the afflicted, and those caring for them, how best to treat such wounds so that fingers, toes, sometimes hands and feet entirely, might not be lost.

  Such debilitations must indeed be hard to endure.

  They worsened an already life-threatening situation. Imagine attempting to live in the wild taiga far from medical care, or indeed support of any kind, lacking proper nutrition, battling against extreme cold in winter and stifling heat and insects in the summer months. Such an existence would test the fittest of people. A person afflicted with leprosy had already to cope with the discomfort of sores, possibly failing eyesight, a generally weakened state. They were not in the best of conditions to manage the privations visited upon them by their banishment. To lose toes, hands… to become crippled… the task of survival is made impossibly difficult.

  And what of their mental anguish?

  There is no doubt that their minds were greatly affected by their situation.

  By being made outcasts?

  Enforced solitude, often separation from loved ones… such things are hard to bear.

  As is being seen as unfit for society.

  People shun what they fear, and they fear what they do not understand.

  And that is something you know about, is it not? Being shunned. Being rejected, ostracised, dismissed as unacceptable.

  Not everyone felt so.

  Cast out into a social wilderness.

  My situation could hardly be compared…

  Being branded a liar.

  We stood up to our knees in the little river, giggling like schoolgirls. The water was blissfully cold. Our bonnets gave a modicum of shade from the fierce Antipodean sun, but I could already feel it burning through the muslin of my summer dress.

  ‘Oh, Kate, isn’t this glorious?’ Rose laughed, her face bright with the fun of the moment. ‘I wish we could do this every weekend. Can you imagine? We’d escape from the hospital and bring our poor tired feet up here and take off our boots and run into the river and feel like this every week!’

  ‘And what would happen to our patients while we were busy paddling?’ I asked her.

  ‘There are other nurses, you know. Go on, admit it, you love the idea. It would be our secret place. Other people would just spoil it, don’t you think? We’d be just we two, like this.’ She beamed at me.

  I wanted to tell her that I could think of nothing I should like better. That I found her company delightful. That I would be content to simply stand and watch her just as she was at that moment, face aglow, smiling, happy. Just we two. But I was afraid.

  ‘Let’s eat,’ I said. ‘You must be hungry after that long drive.’

  I turned away from her and waded through the fast flowing water and out onto the river bank, and all the while I felt her watching me, felt her eyes upon me as I went.

  At last we pulled up at the post-station. Our driver took time to drain the few remaining drops of vodka from his flask before slipping down from the sledge. The horses were foam-flecked and puffing and needed no tying, being greatly relieved to stand idle.

  Ada and I were manhandled from the sledge in the inelegant manner to which we had quickly become accustomed. The road, if such the rutted path of deep snow could be called, was at its most poached here, where other weary travellers had passed before us. In our unhelpful swaddling, we two struggled the short distance from our conveyance to the ‘hotel’ door, scarce caring what manner of building we were being taken to, so great was our desire to be anywhere other than the torture box in which we had been buffeted and bruised for so many miles.

  It was not until that door creaked opened and we staggered inside that the true nature of our accommodation was revealed to us. It made itself clear first by its stink. I say to all who would venture after us upon this route, when entering any post-station for the first time, be sure to clamp your pocket-handkerchief to your nostrils, for you will not stand it otherwise. Indeed when that first gust of foetid air reached our nostrils we reeled backwards, until we remembered the cold outside, and our gnawing hunger, and we were compelled to go forwards once more.

  The ‘menu’ certainly suited our own tastes, as it was comprised entirely of what we had brought with us; those items that had not been lost off the sledge during its rough journey thus far. We were to feast on black tea – thanking God that the sugar had been spared – tinned fish, and black bread so tough it could only be rendered edible by slow dunking. It was well that we kept in mind how fortunate we were not to be disturbed by any waiters!

  Our bed was the middle of the floor in this salubrious establishment, and consisted of a pile of sheepskins, none of them the cleanest we had seen. Indeed, we did not want for company at all, as the bedding and walls wriggled and jumped with vermin in great numbers. To further expel any possible loneliness, we were to welcome other travellers through the night who pitched up, snow-covered and weary, to share our very bed! The warmth of this place of comfort was welcome at first, but by morning we had both sworn we would never again set foot inside such an airless hole. But we were early in our journey, and ignorant of the way things would be, so that even the very next night we would find ourselves gratefully falling into that grim hovel’s twin.

  And when we did so, my ungrateful heart pained me, for had not God sent me on this journey? Who was I to complain at what conditions I must endure? Guilt, my shadow, near overwhelmed me. I explained to Ada that I must, as a matter of urgency, attend church.

  ‘But Kate, where are we to find one?’ she asked, raising her arm and then letting it drop in a gesture of hopelessness that seemed to take in both our mean accommodation and the dark wi
lderness without.

  I paced, fretting. ‘This is a God-fearing country, however dispersed and poor its people,’ I told her. ‘There will be places of worship. There must be.’

  When I made as if to open the door onto the snowy night Ada gave a cry.

  ‘Kate, for pity’s sake!’

  I heard the exhaustion in her voice and reluctantly acceded to it. ‘Very well,’ I agreed, ‘I shall make do with my humble prayers in this place. For tonight. But from here we shall instruct our guides to seek out church or chapel wherever they may along our route. I am about God’s purpose, Ada. I will not pass by His house; not miss the chance to offer him our thanks at any opportunity, do you see? Do you see that I must?’ I asked.

  I must have shown desperation in my expression then, for she took both my hands in hers.

  ‘I see, Kate,’ she said gently. ‘I see.’

  I recall being in the kitchen of our house in Wellington. We were pickling onions to preserve them, Mama and I. There was a maid, too. I forget her name, but I can still smell those small, sweet onions as they simmered. There came a knock at the door and I sent her to answer it. She came back and handed me a business card.

  ‘A Mr James, Ma’am,’ she told me. ‘Says he’s selling insurance.’

  I read the details on his card as she spoke. ‘What manner of insurance?’ I asked.

  ‘He didn’t specify, Ma’am.’

  My mother tutted loudly. ‘We have neither money for nor need of his services. Send him away.’

  ‘No,’ I said, drying my hands. ‘I shall see him. Show him into the drawing room.’

  I went to take my place at the little table in the window, my mind filled with possibilities. I told myself if God opened a door for us, we would be wrong not to at least peek through it.

  It was in Ekaterinburg that Ada and I met up with Mr Yates and Mr Wardropper, English friends indeed, as well as the agent of the British and Foreign Bible Society. I am much indebted to these fine gentlemen for their help. It was they who suggested that we should go to Irbit for the annual fair. The hope was that a merchant of some renown who travelled from Yakutsk might be there, and might have information regarding the lepers of that region. In addition, it was possible he could know something of the precious plant that I was in search of.

  So it was that we made the arduous journey – one of over a hundred miles – by sledge, again submitting to the tribulations of this mode of travel. The snow was deep and often rutted and drifted, so that our progress was both slow and difficult. At times the driver was forced to halt, climb down, and peer into the next hole to see how deep it was. I anticipated us all ending in a chaotic confusion at any moment. Both we passengers were severely shaken and bruised by the many miles of bumping down holes and up holes and jolting over great frozen mounds of snow that littered the road, leaving us wearied and dazed.

  We found accommodation of the regular kind for these parts. There was a hotel, and in it a room, but no proper bed, save for a naked bedstead, and a few aged sticks of furniture besides, and no fire in the hearth. Ada and I were already prepared to take whatever we were given by way of lodgings, for there was little point in searching for alternatives. When a room was offered it was, more often than not, the only room to be had, and so we resolved to make the best of it. It was, however, hard not to let one’s spirits be affected by the grim nature of the lodgings. Ada’s shoulders sagged as she took off her hat and let it fall to the comfortless bed.

  ‘The Winter Fair is quite the highlight of the social year, by all accounts,’ I told her. ‘We were fortunate to obtain a room at all. We must brush up as best we can, put on our brightest smiles, and join the celebrations.’

  ‘I fear I have not the strength left in me to celebrate anything,’ she said.

  I placed my hands on her shoulders.

  ‘Courage, my dear. We have come such a great distance in our quest. We must not falter now.’

  ‘Do you truly believe these traders will know where the plant is to be found?’

  ‘I am certain of it! What is more, the merchants are sure to have information regarding the whereabouts of more outcasts. Come now, let us seek out food and cheer.’

  We did our best to run a comb through our hair and brush off our garments. In truth it was hard to make anything more than the most minute of improvements in our appearance, but in attempting to do so I felt we marked the step from workaday to festive. In any event, it was better to be moving than to huddle in the chill of our room, for the temperature showed no signs of rising, and the windows were glazed with a coating of ice.

  Outside, the fair was well under way, stallholders, fairgoers, merchants and travellers of all varieties having been up early to claim a good pitch or seek out the most appealing bargains. Ox carts and pony wagons were driven at crawling speed through the melée, laden with rugs and baskets. I even saw camels, looking as out of place as we were in the snow-packed streets! I was astonished at the variety of faces and physiques that went about the town square. There were Russian peasants and businessmen, some accompanied by wives in their brightest headscarves, but for the most part women were absent. There were several shamans sporting scarlet coats adorned with ribbons and bells, each apparently trying to outdo the other, like rare birds of gaudy plumage. Among these familiar Slavic faces were more markedly Asian ones, with skin the colour of mahogany, eyes angled and almond-shaped, and smiles as wide as the Lena. I saw a group of men who stood head and shoulders above the rest, their shoulders swathed in wolf fur, their beards abundant and wild. There were men leading strings of ponies burdened with bundles of silk or sacks of other desirable goods, such as spices and finely-worked leather or woollen blankets. Street vendors had lit braziers upon which they prepared aromatic food, which they ladled into wooden bowls and pressed into the cold hands of hungry customers. All about us were shouts and cries in a dozen languages, with beasts of burden being cajoled and corralled, wares being advertised, deals being struck. Many fairgoers wore distinctive and outlandish clothes, proud to display their origins and their heritage, each marking himself out as to his birthplace, his station, and his business.

  The fair is a vital fixture in for the commerce of the region, for without it the town would not survive. The rest of the year it is a deserted place where nothing occurs to alter the rhythm of life in a small, forgotten part of the country, with little trade or commerce beyond its own boundaries. Merchants travel to the fair from all corners of the Empire, bringing with them all manner of commodities unobtainable on any other day, so that I do not think there is anything to match it in any other place in Russia or beyond. Even Ada, tired and sickening as she was, could not fail to be cheered by such a spectacle and such a riotous clamour upon the senses.

  Music added to the cacophony, provided by drums and horns. Ada and I turned to see the crowd part so that a procession might wind its way through the market square. At its head was a priest, elaborately dressed with towering hat and a proud bearing, swinging a smoking censer as he performed the official opening and blessing of the fair.

  One of our guides found his way to us and spoke briefly with Ada in Russian.

  She smiled at me. ‘He says he has found the merchant you were told about; the one who might know of the herb.’

  We eagerly followed him through the crush. If we had thought to find peace and quiet in a hostelry we were disappointed. The inn to which we were led was filled to the gunwales! There was barely room to squeeze two thickly-dressed women into the low-ceilinged space. At least a fire blazed in a broad hearth, though the price for this was choking smoke, thick enough to feel gritty on our tongues, but which seemed to bother no one but us. The revellers were all furnished with jars of liquor or bowls of mare’s milk, some also clutching pipes. Even through the smoky miasma it seemed to me that no two faces were alike, no two costumes similar.

  We were conducted to a low table, behind which sat a strikingly large man, broad shouldered with a moon face which was weathere
d and tanned no doubt by years traversing the tundrato many such remote places. When he smiled his face creased into a line for each mile he had travelled, his eyes twinkling. He gabbled at his men to make way for his visitors, and space was cleared for us. There were not chairs. Instead we were invited to sit cross-legged on stiffly stuffed cushions. No mean feat in our padded layers of winter clothing!

  ‘Ada, ask him if he speaks Russian.’

  She did so, and he responded with a mighty laugh.

  ‘My travels have furnished me with many languages. English among them.’

  I smiled. ‘How very fortunate for us,’ I replied.

  He regarded me closely as he spoke. ‘When I heard tell of two English ladies travelling alone in winter I was incredulous! How could this be? Who would permit such folly?’

  I opened my mouth to defend our mission, but our guide placed a hand on my arm signalling for me to be patient.

  The silk merchant was enjoying the sound of his own cleverness. ‘I said to myself, Are these women who have lost their minds? Have they, perhaps, been thrown out by their husbands because they made poor wives?’

  He paused so that the listening crowd might laugh long and loud at this and I had to force myself not to retort.

  ‘But,’ he held up a hand, ‘I was told no! These women are unmarried. This led me to believe that they have come to Irbit in search of husbands!’

  This, of course, elicited yet more laughter. I feared that by now my expression was as icy as the Siberian tundra itself, and yet I must not cross this man, for we needed his knowledge. But the merchant had not finished his joke yet and slapped his thigh.