• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 1227 0

insane, raving mad, and yet charismatic enough to attract two youthful and foolish cornets as followers. But talking to Kuan Yu had prepared me for such things. When he talked about Hong Xiuquan, it seemed rather immaterial whether he was insane or not, and whether Hong was indeed Jesus’ younger brother. In some situations—and most of those seemed to deal with religion, I had noticed—sanity seemed a meaningless concept, and one had to ask whether such convictions would harm the world or make it better. It was difficult to decide that about either the rotmistr or Hong Xiuquan; although I had no doubt both meant well, and this was more than I could say about almost everyone else.

By the time we had reached Krasnoyarsk, I had developed a feeling that I was still at the university, so many lectures about philosophy and religion I was subjected to. I rather enjoyed the experience, and between the rotmistr and his disciples and Kuan Yu, who was also quite given to theological speculation, my mind swelled with ideas. Kuan Yu too seemed enthralled by the rotmistr’s stories of Odin and the entire choosing of the slain process. Kuan Yu managed to tie it in with his thoughts on Kuan Ti and a variety of goddesses he claimed to honor—deities I was hearing about for the first time. I liked the goddess of the sea best, because she was the one in charge of all waters and oceans, and in my own oblique way, without betraying much of my thoughts to myself, I decided she would be the one looking over Hong Kong and other port cities, and—by extension—after Chiang Tse.

The rotmistr and the cornets in turns argued with and listened to Kuan Yu, and I could sense their minds turning and absorbing new gods, turning them this way and that, fitting them into their view of the world.

“And what about you, poruchik?” the rotmistr asked me when we were about two hours away from Krasnoyarsk. “What do you think of this whole God balderdash?”

I shrugged, my attention riveted to the black tunnel of fir forest we sped through, to the glistening of the diamond dust in the still air—I could tell, with some mysterious sixth sense, that it was very cold outside, colder than Novonikolaevsk, cold enough for birds to freeze in their flight and fall out of the sky like small feathered stones. “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m Orthodox, as I was brought up, and I do wish I had more opportunities to go to mass and to light a candle for my father’s soul.”

The rotmistr grinned from his seat across from mine. “You were brought up one way, and you never questioned it?”

“No,” I said. “Why would I? There was never any reason—I guess I do not find myself trapped in a carriage full of amateur theologians often enough.”

That made him laugh. “So you believe in the clouds and the souls and all that.”

“I suppose.” I looked away from the black-and-white landscape streaming past the window, regretful to be dragged into yet another argument I had no particular desire for. “I do not believe that questioning everything is necessarily a virtue.”

“So you prefer obedience.”

“No, but sometimes it is easier to follow a simple path rather than guessing everything about it. You question so much, it is a miracle you manage to get yourself dressed in the morning.”

“I have a batman for that,” the Rotmistr answered but grinned. “However, I see your point. Only God ought to be more important than getting dressed.”

“To you maybe,” I answered icily. “I take my attire quite seriously, and when I’m not in uniform, I assure you I’m quite a stylish dresser.”

The cornets laughed and the rotmistr smiled into his mustache and dropped the subject. The train whistled and steamed and whined, and pulled into the station an hour later.

We found the garrison in a state of disarray and alarm. It was a small one, protected by a palisade of pointed thick logs aimed at the sky like spears. Behind the palisade, there were a few wooden barracks, a training ground, stables and a kitchen, and officers’ quarters. All of the buildings and the snow-covered training ground, its snowy surface broken by chaotic chains