God's Children

by Mabli Roberts

  ‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘Don’t go back to your house. Stay with me.’

  ‘At the nurses’s quarters? But Rose, what if we were to be discovered…?’

  ‘We won’t be. I promise you. It will be all right, Kate, only stay with me tonight.’

  I knew that I should not. I knew if we were found out I should be ruined, and I heard my conscience cry out in protest at my sinful longing, but oh, how I loved her. How I loved her!

  Siberia revealed itself to me as a place of extremes in so many ways, and none more so than in its climate. When I began my journey it was winter, so naturally I anticipated snow and low temperatures. Nothing, however, could have prepared me for the cold I was to experience. When the air is lower than -30degrees, and a knife-sharp wind circulates it about you, you stand before it as if naked and defenceless, and this despite the overwhelming weight of winter clothing.

  Next came spring, which had up until that time signified to me rebirth, hope, blossom, and cheerfulness. Hereafter I can only ever think of it in Siberian terms, and those are simply thaw and rain. The first brings about a terrifying transformation of the ice that had, for the winter, been the surface upon which all must travel. That solid paving now began its melt. We could no longer head across a frozen lake or river without first sending some stalwart member of our company to test its condition. More than once his report caused us to clamber from our heavy conveyances and into lighter ones, to guard against cracking the surface of the lake and taking a deadly plunge into the water below.

  And the rain. The rain!

  And then came summer, and with it the mosquitoes and biting flies that were so many and so set upon their task of tormenting us that we were driven half-mad by the things, and never found any effective method of evading them.

  Yet again the summer heat had driven us to travel by night. Aside from avoiding the testing temperatures, this also allowed us respite from the majority of the flies that so plagued us during the daylight hours. The darkness was not so deep as to make our progress impossible, though we had still to rely upon the superior eyesight of our horses. They picked their way through the tangled forest, following the rough path that the villagers along our route had been employed to clear for us. Without their efforts, our progress would have been woefully slow. As it was the cavalcade moved at a cautious speed.

  After twenty or so miles of our riding that day, by which time parts of my body had fallen to numbness, while others were in persistent pain from the wooden saddle, the uneven movement of the horse over the difficult terrain, the constant wearing of the same clothes, drenched by rain and dried upon my unwashed body, I was weary in the extreme. Even with my senses so addled, I became aware of an unfamiliar smell. The air tasted acrid, almost smoky. Indeed a few more minutes and I could see smoke, and then flames. At first I imagined we had happened upon an encampment, or even a village of some sort, but no, it was the forest itself that was alight. Not the trees, but the ground. At the same moment, my horse’s hooves began to make a curious sound, as if the earth upon which it trod was hollow.

  There were shouts up ahead and we came to a halt, all peering forward into the darkness. What manner of infernal forest had we found? Beyond the lead rider, in all directions as far as the eye could see, flames shot upwards from the soil in myriad colours. There were such blues and violets and even green bursts of fire as I had never in my life thought to see.

  Further shouts came down the line, some in Russian, some in Yakuts, few that made any sense to me. Despite this, it was evident my guides were conferring as to what must be done. After a short exchange it was decided; there was no other way but forward. We were to ride through those very fires! There were more shouts and whips cracked as the poor, frightened horses were made to step between the flames. There were no paths to follow here, so that we each had to find our own way. The brilliance of the tongues of fire, and their vivid colours, jumping and leaping about our very heels, gave the impression we had entered the borders of hell itself. In some places the flames spluttered short and wavering, whilst in others they leapt high and straight one minute before disappearing the next, only to burst forth from the ground again, like subterranean prisoners escaping their confines. So unnerving and out of kilter with my own understanding of the world was the sight that I was almost relieved to see my companions similarly disturbed, lest I thought I was imagining the scene entirely.

  With faltering words, one of the guides who had a little French explained to me that this part of the region has fires combusting beneath its surface in many places. The lower level of earth is burned away, so that we are indeed treading upon hollow ground. Eventually these fires find their way to the surface, emerging in the terrifying spectacle in which we now found ourselves.

  My horse snorted and trembled at every burst of fire, and I had to hold tight to the reins or be thrown. I slipped my feet to the edges of the stirrups so that I might free myself quickly if the need arose. Gritty smoke assailed us, so that we all coughed and choked until we nearly retched. My heart pounded wildly, for it was clear that at any moment a wrong turn could result in calamity. As there was no way to predict where the next flames would erupt one had simply to trust to the horse’s will to live, attempt to calm the animal as much as possible, and trust in God to see us safely delivered to the other side.

  We had all but cleared the burning ground when a commotion from the back of the cavalcade set up cries of alarm and warning. In seconds the cause of the clattering and crashing became clear, as a bolting pack-horse charged towards us. The poor creature had stepped into the fire and the pain had caused it to bolt in terror, its packs banging against its sides or bashing against others as it passed. It was barrelling towards me and I could do nothing but wait for the inevitable. Only the actions of my quick-thinking guide, who urged his own horse in front of me and brought his whip down on the charging animal, turning it in its course, saved me. We all had to hold fast to our mounts, for every one of them wanted nothing more than to gallop off with their panicking stablemate.

  When I awoke this morning the room was filled with a pure white light. My mind was quite clear, so that I knew I was here, in my hospital bed, and yet the light that surrounded me was not of this place. I wondered if the moment of my death had come. The thought brought with it a surge of joy, for at last I should be with Him! I felt my heart pound beneath my breast, but then I reasoned if my heart beat so, surely my body was not yet ready to relinquish my soul? I was at a loss to understand what was happening, and then, from the midst of this brightness, stepped a figure, small and slender. I squinted against the glare, shielding my eyes with my hand, trying to see more clearly. The figure came to stand at the foot of my bed and now I knew beyond doubt who it was!

  ‘Tsarina? Tsarina!’

  ‘Good morning, Katerina.’ Her voice was as soft and sweet as ever it had been.

  ‘You are here!’

  She smiled. How had I ever forgotten the joy of seeing Tsarina Maria Feodorovna smile? I struggled to sit up.

  ‘There now, Katerina, do not disturb yourself.’

  ‘But I must, there is so much still to discuss, Your Majesty, so much still to be done.’

  ‘Later. For now you must rest. Rest and get better, and then we will talk again and you can tell me of your plans. We will take tea together.’

  ‘Just as we did before, all those years ago?’

  ‘Just as we did before.’

  She began to fade then, and I cried out, desperate at the thought of losing her.

  ‘Stay!’ I called to her, but she had gone.

  The door opened and a nurse entered the room, coming to stand exactly on the spot where only a heartbeat before my dearest Maria Feodorovna had stood. She did her best to make sense of what I was saying, I know she did, but I was inconsolable, and she could do nothing to stem the flow of my tears.

  The black bread, which formed the bulk of our supplies, had soaked up the rainwater until it disintegrated, becoming
a grey pap. It was salty from lying against the horses’ sweaty flanks. Blocks of frozen milk were melted in a pan over the fire and the ruined bread thrown in. We ate the resultant gritty porridge with greedy delight, such was our hunger.

  We had not long recovered from the thunderstorm, all of us wet through, and horses and men alike exhausted from plunging in and out of the boggy ground, fighting fear and fatigue, when a new terror befell us. We were sitting beside the camp fires, our clothes steaming, our trembling hands wrapped around our cups of tea, when I noticed unusually excited chatter among the men. With my few words of Russian and halting French from one of the soldiers, I was able to understand that a large bear had been sighted nearby. It seemed it had been spied near the post-station up ahead and was believed to be at large in the neighbourhood. We mounted our horses as quickly as we were able, eager to get out of this dense part of the forest. The men were silent, hoping, I supposed, to creep past the bear without alerting it to our presence. However, they then decided that it was better to scare the bear away, or at least give it the opportunity to remove itself from our path. To this end we proceeded with as much noise and clamour as we could manage. Some of the men took to singing loudly, whilst others preferred to shout, as much to give themselves courage as to frighten the bear, I believe. Later we equipped ourselves with bells on the horses at the front of the cavalcade, and tin boxes half-filled with stone were passed out so that we could rattle and shake them to make as much of a clattering as we could. The resultant sound was so riotous and so discordant that after so many miles of it I began to wonder if I wouldn’t rather face the bears. Even so, I knew this was false bravery, for I began to see every tree stump or fallen branch as a crouching bear, and when my horse shied at some unseen terror my heart would gallop. We saw tracks, and heard tales, but yet again it was our own fear that followed us through the forest far more effectively than the bears themselves.

  Do you remember that particular rumour? The one that circulated about you only days after your return?

  I have no wish to recall the malicious words that were put about by jealous people.

  When they couldn’t sully your reputation one way, they tried another, didn’t they?

  Many people said many things. That doesn’t make any of them true.

  His family feared there might be some truth in them, didn’t they?

  I do not know to what you are referring.

  Don’t be coy. In a way it was flattering, wasn’t it? Were you not just the tiniest bit flattered to be thought of as sufficiently alluring to win the affection of a dashing young attaché to the governor general?

  Monsieur Vilenbakhov? You are talking of Monsieur Vilenbakhov?

  The two of you travelled so many miles together. You became close, do you deny that?

  He was my interpreter. He never behaved towards me other than with the utmost propriety.

  All those hundreds of miles, with him your only means of communication with everyone you met, with your guides, and so on. No one else could understand what passed between you, what you spoke of. It is said you would stay up long into the night, chatting together.

  Said by whom?

  And that you often shared a room, sometimes a bed.

  I slept where there was a place to sleep. We all did. There was no choice but to share a space with my fellow travellers. But I was never alone in a room with Monsieur Vilenbakhov, not once.

  Is there anyone who can vouch for that?

  You might ask Monsieur Vilenbakhov himself.

  Someone a little more objective?

  Why is that the burden of proof of innocence seems to be with the accused, rather than the burden of proof of guilt resting with the accuser? Why should I be forced to prove, over and over, what did or did not happen? How is it that my detractors and traducers are able to hurl slanderous abuse with impunity? I have letters of support, from people in positions of authority, vindicating my position, my journey, my mission… will this never be enough?

  At last we came to a clearing in the trees. This was not some sunlit glade, it was merely a less dense area of forest, where a few pines had been felled and undergrowth beaten back. It was summer. June, I think, and the heat of the day had wearied all of us, so that for a moment we did not speak, but simply sat on our horses and gazed upon the scene in front of us. There was a tiny, ramshackle hut, built of logs and daub of some sort. Its roof was low and moss-covered. No smoke rose from the hole that served as a chimney. The windows were glassless, their shutters hanging limp and loose. There was no door in the doorway. In front of this meagre dwelling the ground was worn to firm, bare mud. One could too easily imagine the mire this would become in the rain, and the height the snow would reach in winter.

  Yuri dismounted but would go no closer to the dwelling.

  ‘Anybody there?’ he called out.

  One of the Yakut guides echoed the question in his own language.

  There was no response. Stiffly, I started to climb out of my saddle. Yuri hurried to help me. Though I came to stand on firm ground I felt as if at sea, my legs weakened by so many hours, so many miles riding. A fierce thirst assailed me but it would have to wait. I began to stride for the hut. My guides cried out in alarm, shouting at me to stop, warning me not to go near. Yuri stood before me.

  ‘Have a care, Nurse Marsden. You should not enter such a place.’

  ‘Yuri, I thank you for your concern, but I have travelled halfway across the world to be here. I have not come this far only to falter on the last few steps.’

  A slight movement caught our attention. Around us, all else became still and silent as we watched, our eyes fixed upon that small, dark doorway. The silence thickened, so that we were breathing it in with the loam-laden forest air. Another movement in the opening to the hut. A shifting of the shadows, a disturbance of the gloom within. And then a part of that gloom – or so it seemed to me – separated itself, came forwards, took shape. The shape of a person, too ill-clothed, too disguised to be identified as man or woman. Their arms were unnaturally short, finishing in rag-covered stumps. They hobbled on gnarled, toeless feet upon which no shoes could comfortably fit. Their gait was pitifully uneven, their movements painfully slow and clumsy. The figure paused, peering up at us. I looked into that man’s eyes – for man I now saw that it was – and he returned my look. I saw pain and fear, yes, clearly this man suffered deeply, but I saw something else in the instant that he realised I would not turn away. I held him in my gaze as I slowly walked towards him, and he saw that I had come for him. And then, in that moment of quiet and stillness, I saw something bright and clear and beautiful. I saw hope. The deliverance of that hope was the reason I had made my journey. It was precisely why God had sent me there.

  Bears were the spectres of the forest. Their presence permeated the very air of the taiga. The threat of them – of their great violence – both lay in wait ahead and shadowed our footsteps. We rounded every corner with the expectation of meeting one, and listened to every snapping twig among the trees as proof of their imminent appearance. Had I known we were to make the entire journey without ever directly encountering one, how different my experience might have been. As it was, they haunted my dreams while I slept and my waking moments while we rode the boggy paths, so that I, like the horses, grew anxious and weary from the anticipation of an attack. How true it is that the fear of a thing can be as debilitating as the thing itself. A fact that was not helped by the tales I had been told of trappers and travellers set upon by these fearsome beasts.

  My mother bore eight children and outlived five of them. I was the youngest, but I enjoyed no privilege from this position. I was not a pretty or endearing child, my features being too bold, my physique too unladylike. In my favour, I had the strength to endure the illnesses to which my siblings succumbed. My lack of femininity might have been a source of disappointment for my mother, who would have rather had me fair and frail I think, but both my height and my somewhat determined nature were what made it
possible for me to journey through the hazards and dangers that I faced on my mission. Still, I am aware, and was always aware, that my mother would have sooner seen me married than roaming the world in answer to my calling. I was not surprised by this, rather frustrated. I could never expect her to share my passion for my work. Nor was I able to convince her of the good sense of what I was doing in respect of our livelihoods. And of course, I could not explain to her how marriage was anathema to me. That was not a subject I dared discuss with her beyond my own determined refusal to consider it. How could I?

  The villagers had at first regarded me warily, and I understood their reasons. I might be the only English woman any of them had seen, and here I was in outlandish clothing, travelling the world alone, tall, pale, broad-shouldered compared to many of them. I came, so they heard, to seek out the very people their society shunned and banished. What manner of stranger was this? And then there was my contact with the lepers, for they quickly understood that I had already found some sufferers, and that I had not only approached them, but touched them. Might I be infected? Might I bring calamity to their village, their homes, their families? They hung back, afraid and disturbed by my presence. By my mission. I could not blame them, for they dealt with the disease in the only way they knew. I did not for one moment believe that it was easy for a son to banish his elderly father, or a husband to take his wife out to the wilderness and abandon her there. These were good people, many of whom had God in their hearts and their lives, and so I knew it must cost them dearly to follow such a desperate course of action. What else could they do, if no one came to show them that there existed an alternative? During my stay in Yakutsk one of the governor’s officials had sought to explain it to me.