by Dan Millman
“Sergei?…Sergei?” Valeria’s voice snapped him back.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just thinking…of Anya. And I was surprised to hear about the two babies. It’s hard news, even now…to know what might have been.”
“Yes,” she said with a sigh. “What might have been…”
SOMETIMES we make choices, and sometimes they are made for us. Once or twice in a lifetime, we grasp how all that happened before has led us to this moment. Sergei now felt an urgent new sense of purpose: If his son lived, he would find him. To do so, he had to find Zakolyev.
But what would he tell Valeria?
In truth, Sergei was no longer driven by hatred or a personal mission to use violence to stop the evils in the world. As Serafim had reminded him, Sergei had neither the responsibility nor the authority to play God’s assassin. But he would need a credible reason for his abrupt departure—one that did not generate in Valeria any hopes that might later be crushed. So he would tell her the truth—that he was leaving to search for Zakolyev and his men. His official motive—stopping evil men from doing more harm—was one that Valeria would support despite her concerns for his safety.
When Sergei told Valeria about his change of plans, she started to protest, but then only nodded sadly, and said, “Please be careful, Sergei, my son.” She realized that he might not return for months or even years—and while neither of them spoke of it, they both understood that they might never meet again.
AS PAESTKA CARRIED SERGEI south across the rolling hills and plains, he took stock of the situation, drawing upon his past searches. It was not likely that one man on horseback could find a band of marauders that struck quickly, left no witnesses, then returned to hiding somewhere in the vast expanse of Ukraine. He could only trust that his senses, refined by life in the wild, years of contemplation, and his intuitive powers might now show him the way. He would ride south to pick up a trail of rumors, smoke, and tears.
When he found them, he would use stealth and strategy, observing from a distance to discern their numbers and routines. He would seek out his son, if he was to be found, and wait for the right moment to speak with him alone. Such a plan wouldn’t be easy, but it was far better than riding boldly into camp and starting a bloodbath that might endanger his child.
Beyond that, Sergei would just have to see what unfolded. Only a fool underestimated his adversaries. And as Serafim would have said, “All plans are tentative.”
.41.
THAT SPRING OF 1908, fifteen-year-old Paulina disobeyed her father’s wishes for the first time: She told her trusted Konstantin the long-held secret. She hoped that sharing her burden with him might somehow lift the darkness that had recently descended upon her.
As she passed Konstantin on the way to morning practice, Paulina slipped him a note she had printed in letters he had taught her: “Meet me in our special place. Before afternoon training.”
Konstantin looked up from the note, enlivened by the prospect of a few minutes alone with her. He tried to imagine a future with Paulina, but it had never quite taken shape in his mind. How could it? He had nothing to offer her—no possessions except for the clothes on his back, remnants discarded by others in the camp, plunder once worn by murdered men.
During the break between training sessions, as soon as Father Dmitri had left to talk with some men, Paulina ran into the forest and across the footbridge over the stream that tumbled down the falls. There in their small cave hollowed out of the thicket, where they once hid as children, Konstantin was waiting for her.
In the few minutes before they would be missed, Paulina told Konstantin to lean close. His heart quickened as she placed her hand upon his shoulder and whispered in his ear: “Years ago, my father told me a secret I was never to reveal: Elena is not my mother…”
She waited while he absorbed this revelation, unaware that he already knew this. Then she added, “My real mother was killed by a monster with white hair, and…and ever since that day, I’ve had nightmares about a white-haired wizard who can paralyze with his voice, coming to kill me. I struggle to kill it before it can speak, but it always utters one word. I can never remember the word, but in the d ream I die.”
Her voice trembled as she whispered these words. It was not likely that anyone would overhear them, but Paulina leaned close because she enjoyed the nearness; she needed it.
“Surely it is only a story the Ataman told you,” he responded.
Paulina shook her head. “Father Dmitri has told me that the monster is real. He is a man named Sergei Ivanov.”
She moved back and watched Konstantin closely, searching for a reaction—a sign to justify the secret shared, the risk taken: surprise, curiosity, even disbelief—anything.
He only furrowed his brow.
“What is it, Kontin?”
Distracted by the memory taking shape, he said, “It’s just that…I’m troubled to learn about your mother’s death…and how it happened…”
He wasn’t telling her something. Of this, Paulina was certain. She started to speak, to question him, when suddenly she jumped to her feet in alarm. “Oh! The time—I have to go!” Paulina scrambled quickly out of the thicket. Yergovich would be waiting, and angry. He would not report her tardiness, but if her father had returned…
With that panicked thought, Paulina raced back across the footbridge over the stream and back to the camp.
KONSTANTIN WAS STILL THINKING about the name, Sergei Ivanov. He had overheard it before, in a conversation long ago. He recalled the name for good reason: That man might be his father.
Konstantin had always assumed he was one of the orphans whose parents had been killed—until he’d heard Shura muttering to one of the men about Sergei Ivanov. Konstantin had listened carefully and caught a few words: “one infant killed…a boy…the other taken.” Konstantin had the sense that they were talking about him, since he’d left Shura and Tomorov only moments before and then sneaked back to eavesdrop through a crack in the log wall.
This new revelation left him with no choice. He had to stop Paulina from hurting this Sergei Ivanov. But how could he tell her? If she spoke of it to Father Dmitri, the consequences were unpredictable and dangerous. Besides, he was not certain that Ivanov was his father. Everything could fall apart over a few words he might have misunderstood.
Speaking out, even to Paulina, could mean his own death. Yet how could he remain silent?
THAT NIGHT, as Paulina was just drifting to sleep, Father Dmitri entered her room, sat on her bed, and gazed at her for a long time before he woke her. “Paulina, you’ve been a good and obedient daughter…you have made me proud. You don’t live like the ordinary girls, because you are not ordinary. You have special gifts and a rare destiny. Like your father.”
He paused to let these words, as kind as any he had spoken, make their impression, then he reached behind his neck and removed something Paulina had never noticed before. He handed her a silver locket on a chain. She took it, not knowing what to do. “It is a gift,” he said, “to celebrate the day you were born to me.”
A single tear slipped down Paulina’s cheek. She turned away and wiped her eyes as Father Dmitri spoke again. “Open it,” he said, pointing to a small clasp.
Inside the locket Paulina found a tiny, faded photograph of two faces—a man with a dark beard and a pale woman. As she gazed at the photograph, her father spoke again. “They are my mother and father—your grandparents.” Then he added, “Do you remember what I told you about the wizard who murdered your mother? The man Sergei Ivanov?”
She nodded.
“He also killed your grandparents—these faces you see in the locket. It all happened on the same day.” He drew a long breath, and Paulina saw that even now he was grieving their loss. She reached out to touch her father’s hand. “Oh, Father…”
He pulled his hand away and spoke rapidly. “We all lived happily in a small Cossack settlement. I had to go away on various duties, so I left you with your mother and gran
dparents in the safety of the camp. You were only an infant.
“I returned early from my business and found you with Shura, who told me that your mother and grandparents had left you and gone for a ride to a meadow by a lake. I decided to join them. Just as I rode into the meadow, I was surrounded by armed men who bound me…”
Trembling with rage, he continued, “As I struggled to free myself, Sergei Ivanov raped and killed your mother, then turned on your grandparents and he cut them down. I’ve waited until now to tell you the whole story, but you had to know, because of…a duty I’m going to ask of you.
“Long ago, I vowed to find and kill this monster who took your mother, who took them all…” Paulina had never seen Father Dmitri cry, and the effect was devastating. “I have men of my own,” he managed to continue, “hard men like Korolev. But it’s not for them to avenge the death of my wife and parents. That duty has fallen on me, as a matter of blood and honor.”
He looked into her eyes and added, “I grow older…and I won’t live forever…so I pass this torch, this honor, to you.” He studied her expression before explaining: “Sergei Ivanov knows my face…”
Zakolyev paused to let Paulina grasp his meaning—that as a young woman and a stranger to this man, she would have a decided advantage, a tactical edge. My child, my future, he thought, will hunt down the monster who has haunted me all these years…
Then he added, “If I had a son, it would be his mission; instead I have a gifted daughter. Now you know why you’ve been training all these years; why I have such faith in you; and why I gave you this locket: so you’ll never forget who killed your mother and your grandparents.”
“I won’t forget,” said Paulina, her eyes cold and hard—like those of her father, Dmitri Zakolyev.
THE NEXT MORNING Paulina rose early for practice. On the way to meet Old Yergovich at the barn, she saw Shura leaving her cabin to fetch water. Realizing that Shura must know the truth about her mother’s and grandparents’ death, she called out to the older woman.
Shura set down her buckets and approached, always glad to see Paulina. But when Shura’s smile abruptly faded, Paulina turned to glance behind her and saw Father Dmitri standing by the cabin, watching both of them. He gestured to Paulina that she should get to training. When Paulina turned back to Shura, the woman had already picked up the buckets and hurried away without glancing back.
That day Paulina had one of her best practices, defeating multiple attackers. In years past the men had held back, treating her like a novelty; now they sparred as roughly with her as they did with each other. She got some bruises and sprains, but they healed quickly enough.
The men outmatched her in reach and strength, but even Great Yergovich—who could squat under a small horse and lift the kicking animal off the ground—could not get his hands on her. Paulina was more supple and far quicker than any of them. She seemed to be able to see into their bodies, sense their point of weakness, then throw them off balance again and again. What surprised them the most was her power. Paulina could kick like a horse. The force that came from her didn’t seem possible in a woman her size. It was as if she were drawing her power from the Earth itself.
Her hands, feet, and elbows found the pressure points that, when struck, would render the strongest man unable to move. If a fighter tried to grab her or throw a punch, she would punch a nerve in his arm. If a man kicked at her with his right leg, he would find the left one swept out from under him.
Paulina had no real desire to kill anyone—not even the white-haired monster who had haunted her dreams. She wasn’t at all certain she could bring herself to break his neck, crush his windpipe, or stab a knife through his heart. Yet this mission meant everything to her father, so she did her best to prepare herself.
When she had asked why Father Dmitri didn’t just use a rifle or pistol, he’d said, “A rifle can miss or misfire; so can a pistol. The hands or a knife are the surest of weapons at close range…and the most satisfying.”
Satisfying. A strange word, she thought. And sometimes a strange man, she realized. But he was, after all, the leader of a Cossack band, and an expert in such things. Still, elements of doubt began to seep into her mind. Paulina’s life had become a complex puzzle…and she was just beginning to notice the missing pieces.
Finally Zakolyev knew that none of the men could defeat her—except perhaps for Korolev, who still refused to “spar with a child.” It was just as well: Korolev, if provoked, might go for the kill. Zakolyev had enough of a challenge keeping the blue-eyed giant away from his daughter for purposes other than combat. So, despite this affront to his authority, Ataman Zakolyev ignored Korolev’s avoidance of sparring duty. He did this for Paulina. He did everything for Paulina.
ATAMAN DMITRI ZAKOLYEV AWOKE in another sweat-drenched night terror. The cries faded only when his eyes snapped open. A wisp of memory appeared, then was gone. He rubbed his forehead, trying in vain to erase the ghostly afterimage, dreams of the dead…the voice of an old schoolmate…the face of a girl he deflowered…everyone whispering, walking away…a child receding…a day in the meadow…confusing flashes…all because of Sergei Ivanov, the monster who killed his wife.
He moaned aloud, then looked around to be sure no one had heard. “Dreams, only dreams,” he muttered, rising, pacing.
Soon Sergei Ivanov would die at Paulina’s hands. It had to be soon.
STANDING ALONE in the darkness, remembering her father’s words, Paulina touched her locket. She sighed as she looked up into the night sky, wishing her father had never told her of her mother’s death or her mission. Her innocence had faded; along with it, her belief in a world of love and kindness. Now Konstantin seemed to be growing distant, and this mission…this mission that clouded her future…
After that, her rare smiles masked a growing melancholy and a terrible resolve—because she had accepted the torch he had passed, and made her father’s mission her own. Aware of his suffering in the night as he muttered and moaned in his sleep, Paulina now suffered confusing dreams of her own—a mysterious, changing landscape of forest and meadow…the sad face of a woman who might have been herself, only older…The dream-woman’s mouth moved, but Paulina didn’t understand her words. Sometimes she saw the white-haired man, but his back was always toward her, so she never saw his face.
She awoke to a world no less confusing. Now that her body had started to fill out, the men looked at her differently—particularly Korolev, who made her skin crawl. She tolerated his presence by pretending he was only a ghost. As long as her father maintained his authority, she would be safe—and her fighting skills gave her less to fear from any man.
A few days later, as Paulina was about to enter the cabin, she heard Oxana speaking in hushed tones to Elena. Paulina stopped to hear her say, “Yes, the Ataman has grown ‘concerned’ and ‘anxious’…and another of our men, Leontev, was killed in the last raid…Will these purgings never end?” Oxana quickly added, “I tell you this only out of love and concern for Ataman Zakolyev.”
“Of course,” said Elena.
When Paulina entered, the women changed the subject abruptly and Oxana hurriedly left. The camp had changed, Paulina noticed—people skulking about, speaking in whispers, wearing false faces. Elena was especially careful. Then Paulina wondered: Have they changed, or am I only just waking up?
Once, when Paulina was younger, she had asked what the men did out on patrol. She was told only: “Patrols for the tsar.”
She wanted to ask Shura more about this, but she never seemed to get the chance. Shura would nod respectfully when they passed each other, but rarely spoke more than a few words. So Paulina was surprised when, on the day after the men had returned to camp, the old woman stopped and looked like she wanted to say something.
“What is it?” Paulina asked.
Shura just stood there, looking at her.
“Shura?”
The older woman looked slowly right and left. Then she said, “I was there…soon after you
r birth. I nursed you.”
A little embarrassed to think of such things, Paulina retorted, “Yes, you’ve told me—”
Shura glanced around then said, “Paulina…you do care about me, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course, but I don’t understand—”
Again Shura interrupted her. “You wouldn’t want to get me into trouble, would you? If I told you something, could you keep it secret?”
“Even from Father Dmitri?”
“Especially from…him,” Shura answered, shuffling anxiously. Then she seemed to make a decision. “Things are not as they seem. The mark on your neck—”
Paulina touched her neck to feel the raised birthmark. “My birthmark? Like my father—?”
“Yes—no!” said Shura. “Not like his. It was a stick from the fire—I can still hear the screams…”
“What are you saying?” Paulina cried, louder than she had intended. But when she saw the frightened look on Shura’s face, now pale, Paulina’s voice softened. “Shura, I don’t understand…”
Shura only babbled on: “So tiny…when they brought you. Such a precious child…you are not like him. He has killed so many…”
Then Shura saw one of the men approaching and scurried off, leaving a shaken Paulina to sort out what the old woman had told her.
.42.
BY SUMMER 1909, Sergei had searched for more than a year without finding any solid clues to Zakolyev’s whereabouts. He had found the charred remains of isolated cabins and several farmhouses that might have been Zakolyev’s handiwork, and he had marked each location on a map, but they revealed no pattern he could discern.
One night Sergei dreamed that Paestka and he were a tiny speck, no bigger than a gnat eternally wandering across a huge map of Ukraine, looking for another dot that always moved away from them. He awoke in frustration. He was beginning to think that Zakolyev might have moved his camp to Siberia or to the north.
