God's Children

by Mabli Roberts

  ‘I think that now I see what fine women they are I am tempted to make room in my life for two more wives of my own. Where is that good for nothing priest? If he is not yet drunk and fallen on his backside in the snow, let him be fetched so that he might perform the ceremony without delay. My bed will be warm this night!’

  Laughter in the inn reached rabid levels. I bided my time. At last the clamour subsided and the merchant raised his eyebrows, curious now to hear my response. I kept my tone polite yet firm.

  ‘It is as well the Esteemed Merchant is not a native speaker of English. If I were to hear my own tongue more eloquently employed I might be moved to agree to the match. As it is, I find I am able to refuse his kind offer.’

  There was a moment of charged silence. The merchant frowned deeply, narrowing his eyes at me, and then exploded into laughter, slapping his thigh again. The assembled company joined in.

  I went on.

  ‘Having escaped the onerous duties of becoming husband to two mad English women, perhaps the Esteemed Merchant might feel inclined to answer one or two questions?’ When he nodded I continued. ‘On your far-ranging travels have you come across any lepers?’

  ‘Of course. The disease plays no heed to borders. The wretches may be found everywhere. Why would two English women, mad or not, wish to know such a thing?’

  ‘It is my purpose, my mission, and my dearest hope, to find those outcast and suffering from this blight.’

  ‘Are you shaman?’ he wished to know.

  ‘I am a nurse and a foot soldier for the Lord.’ Seeing his blank face I elaborated. ‘I follow where God leads me, sir. I do his work.’

  The chatter quietened somewhat, the merchant’s expression grew more serious.

  ‘Then I shall say a prayer for you,’ he promised. ‘What do you wish to know of these lepers?’

  ‘It would aid me greatly if you could show me, on a map, where I might find them. I wish to take them God’s word.’

  ‘They may not wish to hear it. Suffering can bring a man closer to God or drive him fast in the other direction.’

  ‘I wish also to tell them of the hospital I intend building in Yakutsk. There will be a place for all of them. Clean, warm, safe, with medical care. A community. A life.

  The merchant stroked his chin. ‘This they will wish to hear. Mad women must have many riches, to bring such a costly gift.’

  ‘This particular mad woman has the support of the Tsarina herself.’

  As others in the crowd translated this there was a murmur of astonishment around us. I took the photograph of dear Maria Feodorovna from my pocket and handed it to the silk merchant, who was noticeably impressed.

  ‘With God and the Empress on your side surely your mission cannot fail.’

  ‘I am fortunate, though I lack one thing more. A cure. Tell me, have you heard of the special herb that grows in this region? I am told it has the power to heal the leper.’

  ‘I have heard of it, but I have never seen it,’ he said with a shrug.

  He dismissed it as such a trifle! He could not have known how heavily I took his words, and how my heart laboured beneath that disappointment. Mercifully, he had more to say on the matter.

  ‘But I know of a shaman, a way off in the taiga. Maybe he can help you with this.’

  I leapt to my feet.

  ‘Oh, can you take me to him?’

  The merchant resumed laughing.

  ‘Be still! Be still. You will have your shaman. And your wretches. Bring me your maps in the morning. Now…’

  He clambered heavily to his feet, the table scraping back as he pushed at it.

  ‘…now is not the time for such business. The fair has just begun, and we must celebrate that we have all lived long enough to come to Irbit to see it and trade with our friends and brothers. Now, we dance!’

  A cheer went up. Cushions and benches and tables were swept away and space appeared where before there was none. Fiddlers and drummers emerged from the crowd and struck up a tune of frantic tempo. Within moments everyone who could find an inch of room was dancing, wildly and without apparent method or design. Ada and I staggered backwards, seeking a corner from which to observe the merrymaking, but the silk merchant had other plans for us. He took my hand, without so much as a bow, and pulled me to the centre of the dance floor. I was aware of one of his companions steering Ada in just such a fashion. Before either of us could protest – though how we would have made ourselves heard I cannot imagine – we were whirled and spun and polka’d around the room, so that soon the laughing onlookers became no more than a blur of colours as we sped by.

  There were occasions, during our time in Wellington, when money became such a concern that it rendered thoughts of all else insignificant. Mother fretted and railed and blamed my refusal to find a wealthy husband. As much as I sought to reassure her, I knew I would have to take drastic steps if we were not to become destitute. Had we been living in poverty, surrounded by others in similar circumstances, and had I been alone, I might have let us fall low and seen it as God’s will. But we were in what passed for society, Mother wished to maintain the little status we had acquired, and she had already suffered so much loss. I cannot expect those who have known only the comfort of a secure income to understand that we who are less fortunate must sometimes choose between what is right and what is necessary, but such is the way of things. Such were the choices I faced.

  I suppose it was a beautiful place. Or rather, there was beauty to be found in it. I am not, as some are, a lover of nature for nature’s sake. A wilderness is an empty, hostile place. The taiga did not seem lovely to me at all. The mighty River Lena would tolerate boats upon her broad back, but would swallow up any unwary sailors who had the misfortune to fall from their vessels. The biting flies and insects without number that inhabit Siberia see all other life forms simply as food. The summer sun is too hot to enjoy, and the winter cold too severe to survive for more than a few hours at a time. Such untamed, uncivilised places make up the greater part of the world, and for the most part humans have no business being in them. And as it is God’s greatest work, those he fashioned in his own image, who command my attention and interest, I am not given to lyrical thoughts about the vastness of the tundra, or the savage splendour of a bear. That does not mean, however, that I cannot appreciate the intricate beauty of a snowflake through which the low November sun glints. Or the perfection of a songbird’s voice drifting down from the towering pines.

  Perhaps it is something lacking in me that prevents me from finding loveliness in a place where man is not welcome. I would rather think it that I am a civilised being, and this civilisation – education, society, faith, the modern way of living, and so on – have elevated my tastes to a point beyond the naturalistic. I see prettiness in an icicle because it puts me in mind of the chandeliers at the Winter Palace. I find beauty in the blue of a harebell because it helps me recall the blue of Rose’s eyes. I need a reference in the world in which I am best suited to thrive in order to appreciate the beauty of a world other than that. I believe God will forgive me this limitation in my ability to see the beauty in all His work. He has made me as I am, after all.

  We were prevented from returning to the silk merchant with our maps the next day, however, as Ada fell ill. She took a chill, and then a fever set in. For three days I kept to her side in the desolate lodgings we were obliged to put up with, doing my best to keep her comfortable and to nurse her, all the while impatient to hear more of the shaman who had knowledge of the precious herb. As the days and then hours passed, even as Ada began to recover, it became clear to me that she would not be strong enough to continue with me on the trek. I chided myself for ever having agreed to take her as my translator and companion. She was so frail, so young, so untested. The privations, the cold, the poor meals, all had sapped her strength and left her vulnerable and susceptible to illness. As soon as she was sufficiently recovered, I would send her home. As I formed this thought she woke from her first fever-
free sleep for many hours.

  As she stirred she moaned lightly. I picked up the face cloth, dipping it into the chipped enamel bowl which I had begged from the owner of the guest house, and wrung out the warm water and alcohol I had prepared to keep her cool. Slowly, methodically, I mopped her face with it.

  ‘Hush now, Ada.’

  Her eyes fluttered open.

  ‘Oh, Kate,’ she said, her voice hoarse. She looked up at me and I saw that she knew that for her the mission was at an end. ‘I am so very sorry,’ she said.

  ‘You must not reproach yourself for becoming unwell, my dear. If anyone is at fault it is I for bringing you so far…’

  ‘I have become a burden.’

  ‘Nonsense, you will soon be well again.’

  ‘But I am holding you up, delaying everything, the shaman, the flower…’

  ‘Have waited for me many long years. They can wait a little longer.’

  This appeared to satisfy her. She closed her eyes again. I left her sleeping and went to make arrangements for her journey back to Moscow.

  We lay on the picnic rug beneath the chestnut tree, the hems of our summer dresses still wet from paddling in the river, our feet and legs bare. Rose had her eyes closed, but I could tell she was not asleep. It was blissful to lie drowsy and quiet, with no need for words. We had feasted upon a lunch of cold chicken, tomatoes and fresh bread, all washed down with elderflower cordial. The decision to take a little nap had been an easy one, but now I could not sleep. Not with Rose so close. I sat up. Rose had taken her hat off some time earlier and her skin was tinged pink from the sun. A bee buzzed around the hamper for a moment and then flew on. From somewhere across the field came the sound of the kakapo, its booming call reminding me of the bitterns of my English childhood trips to Norfolk.

  ‘You like to watch me, don’t you?’ she asked suddenly without opening her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I began, not knowing what to say next.

  ‘Don’t be.’ She opened her eyes then and sat up, grinning. ‘I watch you too, sometimes when we are working together. Of course, you are always too busy to notice, busy being Sister Marsden. But I watch you. I like to.’

  I did not know how to reply. I felt horribly flustered. She could have teased me about my consternation, but she did not. Instead she said, ‘It is different, being watched when you know you are being watched. It’s a special thing. Don’t you think?’

  ‘I have no idea, I’m sure I’ve never…’

  ‘I’ll show you. Lie back.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go on, lie back and shut your eyes.’

  I did as she asked. It was the most unnerving experience, to lie there knowing that I was being looked at, being scrutinised, being seen, in a way that I had never before considered. Then, to my astonishment, I felt a light touch upon my ankle. Rose’s fingers against my flesh!

  ‘Oh!’ I said, opening my eyes and making to sit up.

  ‘Shh.’ Rose put her hand on my shoulder and gently pushed me back. ‘Lie still. Close your eyes. Keep them closed.’

  Once again I complied with her wishes. My heart was racing. My breath sounded horribly loud. Rose placed her fingertips on my ankle again and softly traced my shin bone up to my knee and then back down to my ankle. There was nothing ticklish about her touch, and yet it set my nerves tingling. Wordlessly, she continued to stroke my leg, up and down, up and down, her fingers light and soft and cool. The sensation was exquisite. I knew I should stop her. I should say something, or open my eyes. But then the spell would be broken. She reached over and touched my other leg in the same way, sometimes using the pads of her fingers, sometimes using her neat little nails. My whole body began to awaken, began to respond to her touch in a way I would not have believed it capable of. With a gasp I sat up, backing away against the trunk of the tree. I was breathless.

  ‘Rose…’

  ‘Come on,’ she said, springing to her feet. ‘Time for another paddle. Bet I find a fish before you do.’ And with that she ran back into the water. ‘Come on!’ she called over her shoulder, and I followed, all awkwardness forgotten.

  The gentleman who stood before me was not young, but still retained the vigour of a man of determination and good sense. He was pleasant-looking enough, though we were all disguised by our outdoor clothing so much of the time that one became adept at recognising people by their eyes and their gait, rather than their faces.

  He spoke good French, for which he had been singled out by the governor of Tomsk as a suitable translator for me, now that poor Ada had been forced to return home. My own command of the French language was not impressive, but it was sufficient for us to be able to converse, and so I was not to be left to manage only with my few words of Russian. I was immensely grateful for him.

  ‘I am at your service, madame,’ he assured me in French. ‘With the governor’s compliments.’

  He made himself sound like some manner of gift, which indeed I suppose he was.

  ‘I am delighted to meet you, Monsieur Vilenbakhov. It is good of the governor to spare you.’ I offered him my gloved hand, which he shook in a manner that was more English than it was Russian.

  He smiled at me then, and I realised this small action was designed to put me at my ease; to make me feel he understood a little of my Britishness. Such kindnesses were to be his habit, and I thanked God for putting this good and caring person in my path. Along the testing route ahead his was a comforting and reassuring presence. The other men treated him with a slightly cautious respect. He was, after all, an official person, one of the governor’s attachés. This deference had the effect of quietening them a little, and though they had never treated me with anything but the utmost courtesy, I felt a general improvement in my circumstances beyond that of my translator’s skills as a linguist.

  One evening we stopped at a ‘hotel’ between two of the larger towns. This building resembled more a forest cabin, though we were in a village which boasted both church and school. Our accommodation consisted of one large room, into which we all, guides, drivers, soldiers, officials and curious English woman alike, filed wearily in search of supper and sleep. It had been a long and gruelling day. The snow lay so thick and deep in parts that we spent more of our time getting in and then out of drifts than ever we did travelling forwards. I had lost count of the occasions where I was required to scramble out of the sledge and stand helplessly at the roadside whilst all others pulled and pushed at the horses, harness, and conveyance. As I watched the cold would seep through my many layers until its icy fingers touched my skin. Monsieur Vilenbakhov worked with the other men, despite being a man not accustomed to such labours, and it was well that he did, for it took every bit of strength they had to free the sledge.

  There was a fireplace set in the far wall of the cabin, and upon this a kettle was set to boil and a pot hung over the flames. We had black bread in our reduced store, and this was crumbled into the pot, whereupon blocks of frozen milk were added to the mix, stirred, melted, brought to boil, and coaxed into producing a grey porridge. On this particular occasion, I recall there being tinned fish to add to the feast. We were fiercely hungry, the food was hot, and washed down with piping, sweetened, black tea it tasted far finer than it looked, and much better than it might sound here.

  I had taken off my reindeer coat so that I was better able to move. The smoky room was warm, and would quickly become unpleasantly hot, with so many people crammed into it. Monsieur Vilenbakhov sat beside me, his bowl of supper hugged close. He set his tea at his feet. We ate in companionable silence for some time before he spoke.

  ‘This is a wonderful thing that you do, Madame Marsden. To travel so very far, to endure such hardships, such privations…’ here he gestured expansively with his spoon.

  ‘I disagree,’ I told him, indicating my gruel, ‘this is quite the finest food I have ever tasted.’

  He smiled sheepishly. ‘Of course you are right. All things are relative.’

  ‘And we are far
more fortunate than the people I have been sent here to help.’

  ‘That is what you truly believe? That God has sent you here?’

  ‘Are you not a man of faith, Monsieur Vilenbakhov?’

  He looked a little uneasy at the question. ‘But of course, and yet… Forgive me, madame, I cannot help thinking that God might have chosen differently had He known the nature of the landscape He was asking you to cross.’

  ‘Surely you cannot think Him ignorant of a single footstep of His own creation?’

  ‘In which case I must think Him cruel. To send a woman…’

  ‘Ah, we come to it. It is my sex that offends you, not my frailty specifically.’

  ‘Madame, I did not mean—!’

  I held up a hand. ‘You are not the first to question my suitability for such a journey, monsieur, I doubt you will be the last. However, I am fortunate in trusting God’s judgement. If He deems me suitable, then suitable I must be.’

  He regarded me keenly. ‘Truly, it must be a great comfort, to travel through life with such…certainty.’

  ‘I could not progress one mile without it.’

  ‘Madame Marsden I envy you.’