Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [52]
For in the years since he had visited him at the Monastery of the Caves, his father’s spiritual guide had passed into utter decrepitude. He seemed to have shrunk. One leg now dragged uselessly behind him as he pulled himself slowly forward with the aid of a stick. And his eyes, which before had been rheumy, now stared helplessly before him, sightless. He was like a small, brown insect, crawling out blindly into the light where someone, no doubt, would step on him.
He glanced towards the family, and Igor respectfully bowed. But Father Luke saw nothing. Ivanushka stared at him. And the euphoria of the miracle suddenly evaporated.
This, he remembered with terror, is what it means to be a monk.
It seemed to Ivanushka, though he could not be sure, that he was in the woods near the village of Russka.
At least, when he remembered the dream afterwards, this was where it had seemed to be.
It was late afternoon. The shadows were lengthening, but there was still a brightness in the sky which told him it was summer. He was riding along a path – he thought it led to the east, though he could not be certain. The trees, mostly oak and birch, seemed to be speaking to each other as he rode past them in the dappled light. His horse was black.
He was searching for something. But he did not know what.
It was not long before he passed a pool on his right. Turning to look at it, he noticed the pale glint on its smooth surface; and at the same time thought he heard a faint cry from the water – was it a moan or a laugh? Realizing that it was the rusalka of the place, he put spurs to his horse and hurried on. The woods grew darker.
It was morning next, and he was still in the wood. His horse, for some reason, had now changed its colour to grey. The path led to a glade, where there was a stand of silver birches; and at the far end of the glade was a crossroads. Standing by the crossroads, he saw, was a small brown figure which somehow looked familiar. He approached slowly.
It was Father Luke. His eyes were quite bright now. It was evident that he could see. Ivanushka bowed to him respectfully. ‘Which way should I travel, Father?’ he asked.
‘There are three ways to choose between,’ the old man said quietly. ‘If you go to the left, you will preserve your body but lose your soul.’
‘And to the right?’
‘You will keep your soul, but lose your body.’
Ivanushka thought. Neither sounded attractive to him.
‘And straight ahead?’
‘Only fools go that way,’ the monk replied.
It was hardly more encouraging, but as he considered, it seemed to him the only choice. ‘They call me Ivanushka the fool,’ he said. ‘So I may as well go there.’
‘As you wish,’ Father Luke answered, and then vanished.
And so Ivanushka rode forward, he knew not whither. It seemed to him that he heard a raucous clanging in the sky; and his horse, for no reason, had turned from a grey into a roan.
This was Ivanushka’s dream, the night before his journey.
It was still morning as the two boats, one laden with goods, the other carrying only a few travellers, glided silently down the huge, pale, moving surface of the river. Above was a washed blue sky; on the right, high, sandy banks above which, here and there, cattle grazed. In the yellow banks nearest to them, Ivanushka could see a mass of little holes around which small birds were darting. Far away, on the left bank, stretched a light green plain dotted with trees.
He was well provided for. The bag of silver grivnas his father had given him was safely attached to his belt. ‘By turning monk, you’ve got your inheritance long before me,’ Sviatopolk had remarked drily as he set off.
And now the great River Dniepr was carrying him southwards towards his destiny.
They had travelled all morning, and Ivanushka was just about to close his eyes for the midday nap when he was startled from his drowsiness by a loud cry from the boat in front. ‘Cumans!’ The passengers strained forward in astonishment, but there was no doubt: the dark Turkish faces in the long boat pushing out from the shore on their right were certainly