“But you are not. You’re not responsible for him falling. You’re not responsible for him having the Hesse disease. You are—”
“But I am the reason Rasputin is not here!”
“To hell with him!”
“He’s the only one who can help.”
“You don’t really believe that! You’re much more powerful than him. You made him!”
“I am not more powerful now that he has Philippe’s icon.”
“Just do the spell! Go to the garden, the park, find somewhere and call up your guide.” Militza looked at her sister. “Now! Go!”
MILITZA FOUND HERSELF IN THE PARK IN HER SILK SHOES, shivering in her satin dress; she’d had no time to find her felt boots or put on her furs, for Stana had pushed her through the French doors with some force. In the crisp, cold dark, she looked around for a rowan tree that might help her spell, but the sky was black and there were no leaves on the trees, let alone any red berries to help guide her.
“Come on,” she said to herself, rubbing her hands together in the freezing damp air. Her whole body was beginning to shake, and her nose was dripping with the cold. “Come on.” She scoured the silhouettes in the darkness, stumbling and tripping in her thin, soft-soled shoes. “Concentrate. You can find it, use your second sight.” The wind blew through the trees; the loose thin powdering of snow swirled and whirled, as the branches began to talk.
“Militza!”
“Militza!”
“Look out!”
“Take care!”
She looked left, right, her breath catching in her throat, fear mounting. It was as if he were there. Rasputin. Stalking her. Tracking her through the trees, like a wolf playing with a deer. She could hear him breathing, panting down her neck. She could hear him pawing the ground. She ran faster, deeper, deeper into the woods.
“Militza!” cried the trees.
“Liar,” rustled the leaves.
“Turncoat!” mumbled the frost as she crunched it underfoot.
“Bitch!” cried the moon.
“Whore!” cried the wind.
She could see his eyes. Those haunting, horrible eyes, pale as glass. Behind her. In front. Her heart was pounding, her hands were shaking, her body was shivering. Still she ran. She ran from what? From whom? From herself? She no longer knew. Branches tore at her clothes; brambles scratched at her ankles. BANG! God help her! She screamed. There he was! She felt his arms, his rough hands, his tight, tight grip. She shut her eyes.
“Militza?” said Nicky, slapping her gently around the face. “What are you doing out here?”
THAT NIGHT, WHILE ALIX SLEPT, THANKS TO A LARGE DOSE OF laudanum administered by the traumatized Dr. Botkin, Militza and Stana prayed.
On discovering her running through the woods, Nicky had immediately removed his thick fur-lined coat, wrapped it over her shoulders, and escorted the disorientated Militza back to the palace, where he’d immediately placed her in the capable hands of his valet, instructing him to draw her a hot bath, feed her warm brandied milk, and give her a change of clothes. Meanwhile he hurried, his face blanched white with worry, to his son’s bedside. There, the vision of a bleeding Alexei, blinded by bruising, attended to by his hysterical, wailing wife, was enough to chill his soul.
“Nicky!” she screeched, throwing herself towards her husband as soon as he walked through the door of the boudoir. “Help him! Get Rasputin!” At which point Alix promptly fainted.
After that, although she was determined to tend to her critically ill son, Dr. Botkin forbade Alix to leave her own chamber.
“You need your strength,” he told her firmly as he placed the drops on her tongue. “Alexei needs you, and you are no use to him if you don’t rest.”
So, fortified by her bath and brandy-soaked milk, Militza joined Stana and sat up with Alexei, tending to him along with the old nurse Gunst, who had been at the boy’s side ever since he was born. The amount of blood pouring from the wound was slowly easing; Botkin had cauterized the edges in an attempt to stem the flow, but the boy’s face was so swollen, his eyelids so red and inflamed, that he was still unable to open his eyes. He barely spoke as he lay there, only emitting the occasional agonized moan. Gunst went back and forth during the night, bringing fresh bandages, water, compresses—anything that the sisters asked for. And all the while Militza and Stana chanted, prayed, whispered, and lit heavily scented herbs—sage to clear the air of bad spirits, rosemary to sterilize—and rubbed henbane on his feet to induce sleep. And as he slept, they called on the Virgin to heal him.
“In the sea, in the ocean, sits the most holy Virgin,” mumbled Militza, her eyes closed as she fingered Alix’s jet rosary.
“We call on her,” whispered Stana. “We call on her now.”
“She holds a golden needle in her hand, she threads a silk thread, she sews up the bloody wound. You wound, do not hurt, you blood, do not flow . . .”
“You wound, do not hurt, you blood, do not flow . . .”
“You wound, do not hurt, you blood, do not flow . . .”
“You wound, do not hurt, you blood, do not flow . . .”
Again and again they repeated it, over and over they chanted, the words slowly slipping and merging together, the room beginning to hum as the meditation reverberated. It was hypnotic and strangely relaxing. Soon the tsarevich began to snore.
COME THE FIRST RAYS OF DAWN, THE WOUND WAS NO LONGER bleeding, but the child was shivering and shaking with a fever.
“This is how it happens every time,” said Dr. Botkin as he stood, slowly shaking his head, in the doorway to Alexei’s room.
“Every time?” asked Stana, rubbing her tired eyes. Both she and Militza had been at the boy’s bedside the entire night. The doctor nodded. “But he will live?” she whispered.
“The worst is over, I think,” he replied. “But the illness can carry on for weeks. No wonder the mother is so exhausted.” He glanced up the corridor towards Alix’s room. “She spends her whole life fearing the worst—and when the worst does happen, it’s agony. And the agony lasts for weeks. It never stops and it will never stop . . .” He sighed. “And the only person she seems to listen to, or who can do anything to help her, is that filthy Siberian peasant.”
Militza walked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her. “Brother Grigory?”
“He’s no man of God,” the doctor snorted. “But she’s sent word to him already, in whatever dark corner he resides. Someone is standing by for a telegram lest he bother to reply! As if that appalling man is going to make any difference!”
“How is he?” came a voice from behind them.
“Your Imperial Majesty!” said Dr. Botkin, with a deep bow. His cheeks flushed a little and his mustache moved nervously. How much had she heard?
“Any better?” she asked, reaching for the door handle. “Nicky keeps telling me he’s fine. But then, Nicky always tells me he’s fine.”
“He’s well, though feverish.” Botkin smoothed his hair.
“Feverish? How we hate fever.” Her voice was weak. She appeared drained of all emotion. She slowly lifted her eyes to look at Militza. They were flat and dull, all joy and life long since extinguished. “Has any news come from Our Friend?”
Chapter 28
May 1908, Pokrovskoye, Tyumen, Siberia
IT WAS EARLY MAY BY THE TIME MILITZA DEPARTED FOR Siberia. Rasputin had sent a telegram that stated that the bleeding would stop at eight in the evening, which it had, and that the fever would go after three days, which it did. The boy was better now, but for how long?
Stana had begged her sister not to go. She repeated over and over that it was an admission of guilt if she stepped on the train. Quite apart from how dangerous such a journey might be for a woman in her position, there were spies and revolutionaries everywhere; even the tsar, she reminded her, with all his soldiers and guards, now traveled in a blacked-out train. And besides, as soon as Rasputin saw her, he’d realize she’d been the one to denounce him as a
member of the Khlysty. Peter was equally anxious. There was something about the way Rasputin had looked at his wife on the night they’d confronted him that made his blood run cold. The man should be left to rot in the Siberian permafrost.
“Darling, don’t go,” he urged over breakfast. Dressed in breeches, a loose-fitting white shirt, and highly polished riding boots, he stood up from the table.
“Where?” asked Marina, looking across the table with her large dark eyes, stirring cherry jam into her hot black tea. “Where’s Mama going?”
“I am going on a trip.” Militza smiled, giving her husband a brittle look.
“A trip?” Roman was straight-backed at the table, his dark hair parted and smoothed flat on his head; his large square chin displayed the odd whisker.
“Where to?” queried little Nadezhda, who at the age of ten always preferred everyone to stay just where they were.
“The east.” Militza smiled.
“To see Rasputin,” added Peter, pacing up and down. “Is that really wise?”
“Are you going to forbid me?” Militza put down her teacup, her eyes narrowed.
“After nearly twenty years of marriage I know that would only encourage you,” replied Peter, leaning on the table. “I know you will do as you wish. But the man is deceitful and disloyal, and you do not have my blessing.”
Militza went anyway. Somehow, she concluded, if she managed to persuade him to return, she would feel less guilty about denouncing him—and just think how terribly grateful the tsarina would be.
So she pulled her fur-lined cape up tightly around her face and spoke to no one. For four days she watched the vast Russia steppes roll out before her, gray and flat, just shedding the cold coat of winter but yet to burst into spring. She spent her time dozing, reading, and dining alone in the restaurant car. She needed to travel as incognito as possible. It was imperative that no one notice her.
After four days, she arrived in the bustling market town Tyumen, whose businesses and commerce were booming due to the Trans-Siberian Railway. She booked herself in the unremarkable Sofia Hotel, where her presence raised an eyebrow. What was a woman doing here on her own, without even a lady’s maid for company? She ordered hot soup in her cold room and remained there until early the following morning.
She’d often thought about where Rasputin might have come from. Where the Four Winds traveled, where Spirit searched, where the unshriven soul had alighted: where they might all have found him. He was always talking of Pokrovskoye, particularly after a few glasses of Madeira, when he’d get poetic and sentimental. He’d describe the beauty of the steppes, the enormity of the endless sky, the freedom of the wide seas of swaying grass; it was where man and God met, melded and lived in perfect harmony, or so he said.
However, descending slowly out of her carriage after nearly two hours of being shaken and bumped on the rough post road from Tyumen, Militza could not believe how desolate the village felt. How could anyone live here? It wasn’t the poverty of the place. She’d seen that before, back home in Montenegro and in Russia. She’d picked her way through the slums in St. Petersburg a few times, a handkerchief clutched to her nose and mouth, when she and Brana had been searching for miracles for the tsarina, and she was not silly enough to think all the world lived in fine houses with gilt ceilings. Even so, she had not been prepared for the endless mud, the squawking, scratching chickens, the grunting filthy little pigs, and the lack of people. It was silent, save for the sound of the livestock, and deserted—a one-road town where the road led precisely nowhere. Unless you were a convict, of course. For Pokrovskoye was on the convict trail, where unfortunate souls would be dragged along, their irons clinking, farther and deeper east to their fate. On either side of the narrow road was a collection of wooden houses. They were mostly the same size, single-storied shacks, with wooden roofs and wooden shutters, but at the far end of the village there was one substantially larger house of two stories, with a balcony, empty flower boxes, large wooden gates, and a tin roof. Militza smiled to herself. She knew immediately where all her money had gone.
Pulling at the hood of her cape, she sidestepped a large puddle and walked on towards this house. She had no need to ask where Rasputin lived, which was fortunate as there was no one to ask. And yet she sensed eyes, many eyes, boring into her back.
She paused at the wooden gates to gather herself, calling to her guide to help her, muttering under her breath, asking for assistance and protection. Standing there, she could hear music, clapping, and the sound of shrill laughing voices. There was clearly some sort of party going on. When she’d planned this, she had imagined him at prayer when she knocked; it would certainly be quiet, nobody else around. Should she leave? She turned to look back at the carriage waiting for her. She could just get back in it and return to Tyumen . . . No, that would be ridiculous, she told herself. She pushed on the gate, which swung open easily. The courtyard was thick with mud, cluttered and unkempt. There were piles of wood, broken cart wheels, and empty sacks strewn all over the place; a plow and a yoke were propped up against each other in the corner of the yard, and next to them was a small blue cart pitched at an angle, half full of fetid rainwater and rotten leaves. As she walked towards the wooden door, long-legged chickens squawked and scattered in her wake. She had one foot on the porch step when the front door burst open and out came a screaming woman dressed in a long white nightdress; her dark hair hung loose around her shoulders, and her eyes were shining ecstatically as she tugged at something with her hands.
“You’re a god!” she yelled as she spun around, her hair flying and flicking everywhere. “A god!”
In the doorway, standing directly behind her, was Rasputin, his red baggy trousers around his knees; in his hand he held a whip, which he cracked sharply across the woman’s backside. She called out.
“More!” she yelled, her back arching in pleasure as she fell to her knees. “More! You god!”
Rasputin cracked the whip one more time across the woman’s back as she shuffled on her knees towards his groin. Militza could not believe what she was witnessing. The woman, who had been tugging at Rasputin’s member while he whipped her, now placed his shaft in her mouth. And while Rasputin stood in the doorway, his eyes half closed, she gorged on his cock like a half-starved peasant who had not seen flesh for months.
“Olga?” said Militza, shocked to realize that she recognized the middle-aged woman. “Wife of Vladimir Lokhtin! What are you doing here?”
Rasputin opened his eyes suddenly at the sound of her voice.
“Mamma!” he said, pushing Olga’s head out of the way as he pulled up his trousers. “You catch me a little busy.”
“You are my GOD and I am your LAMB!” yelled Olga, clinging to his leg as he buckled up his trousers and tried to walk away.
“Olga! My child,” he said, looking down at Olga still crouched on the floor. “You are saved!” He placed his hand on the top of her head in a form of a blessing. “Now go inside with the others and get back into the bath.”
“Bath?” Militza questioned.
“Akilina, Khionia, and Olga were bathing,” he declared. “I have been helping, Mamma.” He smiled.
As he talked, Olga gathered up her nightgown and crawled away from him. Militza slowly shook her head as she remembered first meeting Olga, the beautiful, if dull, wife of an engineer named Vladimir Lokhtin, a few years before. Rasputin followed Militza’s gaze.
“I have been curing her of hysteria,” he said.
“It seems you have been very successful,” replied Militza.
“Would you care for some tea?” he asked, opening the door.
HOW MILITZA MAINTAINED HER COMPOSURE THAT MORNING, she couldn’t quite recall. But the memory of the lunatic woman hanging on to his member and the leery pleasure etched on his face as he thrust himself into her open mouth was something that would haunt her dreams. Why she didn’t turn and leave immediately, she didn’t know. Why she wasn’t horrified or totally revolted, she co
uld not explain. Or more importantly, why she didn’t put a stop to him and his behavior by screaming loudly and calling for witnesses, denouncing him as a member of the Khlysty, again, was something she would ask herself over and over again. But perhaps she was intrigued? Fascinated? What on earth could induce a woman of that class to let herself go like that?
Militza spent the rest of the morning sitting next to a steaming-hot samovar drinking strong, jam-sweetened tea.
Inside, his house was considerably grander than the outside suggested. She looked around, taking in all the luxuries that she had paid for. There were comfortable chairs, a thick carpet on the floor, icons on the walls, as well as mirrors, a chandelier, and other finery. There was a large floor-standing clock and, of course, the Offenbach piano. It was absolutely not the usual home of a man of God.
The three bathers dressed and took their seats by the fire, where they proceeded to conduct themselves as veritable visions of piety and decorum. They inquired after Militza’s journey, asked how inclement the weather was, how things were in St. Petersburg, and all the while, the party was waited on by Rasputin’s wife, the diminutive and sturdy Praskovya, who scurried back and forth with small bowls of conserved fruits, or pickled cucumbers and tomatoes. Rasputin barely acknowledged her presence, let alone thanked her, while he dug into the bowls with his large hands, helping himself to everything, eating ravenously, pausing only to turn for a moment towards Olga.
“Humble yourself,” he said, offering up his filthy fingers, which she proceeded to slowly and sensuously suck clean.
Militza was transfixed. Revolted. Repulsed. Horrified. And yet she was suddenly engulfed by a terrible wave of jealousy. How much would she too like to lick his fingers? Or feel the strength of his shaft? Hear his bellowing orgasm in her ear? How much did she want to straddle that filthy chair once more?
“So, Brother Grisha,” she asked, banishing such thoughts from her head, “when will you be returning to St. Petersburg?”
“When Mamma apologizes,” he replied.
The Witches of St. Petersburg Page 33
