Thoughtfully, he moved towards the youth.
When Zhydovyn returned that evening and discovered the loss of the furs, he could only shake his head. He liked Ivanushka but it seemed to him that his prospects were poor. And though nothing was said, Ivanushka sensed that he was unlikely to be sent to Russka again.
Only one thing puzzled the Khazar. He could understand the theft of the furs, but how was it that the money Ivanushka had been left was short by two silver grivnas? The young man said he had lost them, but how the devil could he have done that? It was a mystery.
Ivanushka did not mind. He had known after the furs had gone that his own cause was lost. He had felt sorry for the peasant. At least the fellow could pay his taxes now.
And he scarcely thought about the incident again.
1072
Today, it was said, there would be a miracle. The people confidently expected it. And with good reason. For today they were honouring the remains of the two royal martyrs, the sons of the mighty St Vladimir, Boris and Gleb, whom the Slavs already called saints.
It was half a century since they had died; now their remains were being taken to their final resting place, a newly constructed wooden church at the little town of Vyshgorod, just north of Kiev.
Would there be a miracle? Surely there would. But what form would it take?
In the upper circles of the nobility and the church it was known that the Greek Metropolitan, George, had grave doubts about the martyrs’ sanctity. But what could one expect from a Greek? And besides, whether he believed it or not, he had had to perform the ceremony.
They were all there: the three sons of Yaroslav, grandsons of St Vladimir himself – Prince Izyaslav of Kiev and his brothers, the Princes of Chernigov and Pereiaslav; Metropolitan George; Bishops Peter and Michael; Theodosius of the Caves Monastery, and many more – all the greatest dignitaries in the land of Rus.
The procession wound its way up the hill. A light drizzle was falling, nestling softly on the heads of those who made their way slowly up the slippery path. Despite this fine rain, it was warm. It was May 20.
First came monks, shielding their candles. Immediately after them, dressed in plain brown cloaks, came the three sons of Yaroslav. Upon their shoulders, like humble men, they carried the wooden casket containing the remains of their Uncle Boris. After them came deacons, swinging censers, then priests, and behind them Metropolitan George himself and the bishops. Behind them, at a certain distance, followed a company of noble families.
‘They died rather than resist their brother. Now they shine like beacons over the land of Rus.’ ‘Boris, look down upon me, a sinner.’ ‘Lord have mercy.’ These and other pious remarks from the crowd reached the ears of the tall, gloomy-looking boy who walked up the slope beside the handsome family in the company of nobles behind the coffins. ‘Perhaps today we shall see a miracle.’ ‘God be praised.’
A miracle. Perhaps God would send a miracle, but not, Ivanushka felt sure, if he was there.
Nothing good happens when I’m around, he thought despondently, and his shoulders drooped as he trudged upwards.
In the last year, things had become even worse. A few weeks after the embarrassing incident at Russka, he had overheard a brief conversation between his parents.
‘There’s so much good in Ivanushka,’ his mother was pleading. ‘One day he’ll do something and you’ll be proud of him.’
‘No, he won’t,’ Igor’s voice had replied. ‘I’m certain now. I’ve given up.’ He heard his father sigh. ‘I can’t get anyone to take him. And I know why. I can’t trust him myself.’
He heard his mother murmur something then his father replied: ‘Yes, I love all my children. But it’s hard to love a child who always lets you down.’ Indeed, Ivanushka thought miserably, why should anyone love him?
He began asking for things – money from his mother, a horse from his father – to test their reaction and see if they loved him. But soon this too became a habit. He grew lazy, and did as little as possible for fear of failing yet again.
He often loitered in the market at Pereiaslav. It was a busy place; on any day one might see a shipment of oil or wine arrive from Constantinople, or a cargo of iron taken from the swamps near the river and bound for Kiev. There were workshops where they made glass, as fine as any in the land of Rus; there were stalls where merchants sold bronze clasps and jewellery; and there were the foodstalls.
But as he watched, Ivanushka gradually became aware of a secondary activity going on all around him. One stall holder always short-changed his customers; another sold short measure. A gang of boys roamed by the stalls and stole fish from the vendors or coins from their customers with absolute impartiality. He came to watch all these arts, to admire the neatness with which they were practised. And the thought arose in his mind: These people depend upon no one for their living; by taking, they are free – free as the horsemen on the steppe.
Once, he even stole some apples himself, to prove how easy it was. No one detected him.
Yet the emptiness of his life was still a misery to him. He still felt, inside himself, that same vague longing he had had as a child: the desire to find his destiny.
And so it was that at last, three weeks before the ceremony for Boris and Gleb, and having seen all other opportunities evaporate, he had finally told his parents: ‘I want to be a monk.’
After all, it was the only thing that anyone seemed to think that he could be.
And the effect had certainly been remarkable.
‘Are you sure?’ his father had asked him in a tone that suggested Igor was only anxious that he should not change his mind. Even his mother, whatever her private misgivings, did not object.
Indeed, it was as if he had been born again. By that very evening his father had formed a plan. ‘He can go to Mount Athos in Greece. I have friends both here and in Constantinople who can help him. From there,’ Igor smiled with satisfaction, ‘he might yet make a great career.’ And the next day his father took him to one side to assure him: ‘You need have no fear about your journey, Ivan. I shall see you are well provided for. And there will be a gift for the monastery too.’
Even Sviatopolk, no doubt glad to see the last of him, came up and said, in what appeared to be a friendly voice: ‘Well, brother, you’ve probably chosen the right course after all. One day we’ll all be proud of you.’
They were proud of him. And now, in two more days, he was due to leave. Why then, as he walked up the hill behind the two saints, did he look as miserable as ever?
Only once, passing a guelder rose, did he seem for a moment to smile.
Would there be a miracle?
Ivanushka had never seen one. If God sent a miracle, then perhaps his faith would be restored.
I am going to bury myself in a monastery, he thought gloomily. Perhaps, in a few years, they will make me live underground in a cave. I shall certainly die young – all the monks do.
Would it be worth it? If only God would speak to him, reassure him, lighten his spirits. If only He would send a sign.
The procession had stopped. The coffin containing Boris was being carried into the little wooden church. When it had been placed there and prayed over, they would bring up the second coffin, containing Gleb. The drizzle fell. One could hear a muffled chanting within.
And then something happened.
It was as though the gasp from within the little church could be heard by all the waiting crowds outside. The singing, which had been proceeding quietly, suddenly broke off, and then began again with an altogether new force. A murmur went through the crowd. And Ivanushka, glancing at the sky, saw to his surprise that the drizzle had abruptly stopped and the sun was shining through.
What had happened? Long moments passed. The crowd waited tensely.
And then the tall figure of the Metropolitan appeared at the church door. He looked up at the clear sky, then sank to his knees. From where Ivanushka stood, he could see that the Greek was weeping. ‘A miracle has b
een granted,’ the Metropolitan’s voice rang out. ‘Give praise unto the Lord!’ And while the crowd buzzed and people crossed themselves, those near the church door could hear him add: ‘God forgive my unbelief.’
For when they had opened the casket, it had given out the sweet aroma that God grants only to His saints.
A few minutes later, they brought up the remains of Gleb. These were in a stone sarcophagus; and since it was too heavy to carry, they followed the ancient custom of the land of Rus and pulled it on a sled.
And yet again, before Ivanushka’s eyes, God sent a sign. For when the men pulling the sled reached the church door, the sled stuck fast. They pulled, people from the crowd even came to push. But the sarcophagus would not budge.
Then the Metropolitan gave instructions: ‘Let the people cry the Kyrie Eleison.’ And Ivanushka with all the crowd cried out: ‘Lord have mercy.’ And again: ‘Lord have mercy.’ And then the sled was easily moved.
Ivanushka felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. As the sled moved, he found he was trembling. He glanced across and saw that even Sviatopolk was trembling too.
For by these signs, recorded in the Russian chronicles, the people of the land of Rus would ever after know that Boris and Gleb were truly saints.
It was just at this moment that Ivanushka saw Father Luke.
The old monk had been inside the church but had emerged for a moment into the open air. Ivanushka recognized him at once, yet could scarcely believe it was he.
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 Cumans. The travellers had reason to be surprised. It had been thought that the Cumans were resting in their camps at this time, far away on the steppe. And besides, it was almost unheard of for them to attack by water. They usually preferred to wait far to the south, where there were rapids, and attack the caravans as they were carried round them overland.
‘They’ve forced some Slavs to row them out,’ someone muttered, and Ivanushka saw that the oarsmen were indeed some unhappy Slav peasants. As he watched, one of the Cumans took a long, curved bow; an arrow flashed over the water, and one of the men in the cargo boat slumped over the side. ‘Behind you!’ came a shout across the water. And he turned and saw another boat cutting them off upstream.
‘There’s nothing for it. We’ll have to make for the left bank,’ the skipper of the little vessel cried.
Yet it was far away. To Ivanushka at that moment, staring across the soft blue waters, it seemed to be almost on the horizon. Grunting with the effort, the oarsmen pulled, and the boat slipped quickly across the flow.
Turning round, Ivanushka saw that the boat with the cargo was already lost. He wondered if the Cumans would be satisfied with that. Moments later, however, he saw that the other Cuman boat was pulling after them.
‘There’s a little stream that joins the river over there,’ the skipper called out. ‘There’s a fort a few miles up it. We’ll make for that.’ And Ivanushka found himself mumbling a prayer. For he knew the fort in question very well.
It was strange to be back at Russka. Zhydovyn was not there, but half a dozen soldiers made them welcome. The Cumans had given up soon after they had left the Dniepr; but the travellers had decided to wait two days in the fort before tempting fate again.
He had trailed about the fort, visited the village and wandered along the quiet paths in the woods, feeling strangely contented. He had even walked out to the edge of the steppe, and gazed out across the feather grasses to where an ancient kurgan could still be seen.
On the third day, the travellers set off again.
But Ivanushka did not go with them.
He hardly knew why. He told himself that providence had granted him a respite. I can pause here, take stock of life, and prepare myself for my journey, he reasoned. The fact that all his decisions had been taken and that he was already on his journey, he somehow put to the back of his mind. All that third day, he walked about by the river.
On the fourth day, he was overcome wit
h a feeling of lassitude, and he slept.
It was on the next day that he met the peasant Shchek. The fellow was thinner than before, but he greeted Ivanushka warmly. When Ivanushka asked him if he had paid his debts now, he grinned sheepishly.
‘Yes and no,’ he replied. ‘I’m a zakup.’
This was a harsh institution. A man who could not pay his creditors had to work for them, virtually as a slave, until the debt was paid off. Since the debt continued to accrue interest during this period, however, these unfortunates seldom managed to get free again. ‘I got the prince’s steward to take over all my debts,’ he explained, ‘so now I work for the prince.’
‘And when will you get free again?’ Ivanushka asked.
Shchek smiled ruefully. ‘In thirty years,’ he said. ‘And what are you doing, young lord?’ he inquired.
Ivanushka explained that he was going on a great journey to Constantinople and to Greece, to become a monk. Shchek listened carefully, then nodded in understanding.
‘So you’ll never be free either,’ he remarked. ‘Just like me.’
Ivanushka gazed at the peasant. The similarity between them had not occurred to him. But I suppose he’s right, he thought. I’m a prisoner of fate too. And reaching into his pouch, he gave Shchek a silver grivna. Then he passed on. He wondered if he should have given him more. But I need my money, he considered, for my journey.
The day afterwards he left Russka on foot, going towards the River Dniepr.
It was after parting from Ivanushka that Shchek the peasant had wandered out from the village towards the steppe.
Though the little fort had somewhat increased the significance of the hamlet of Russka since ancient times, it was still a tiny and deserted place. To the south, two miles away, lay one of the prince’s estates; to the east, the steppe; and to the north, nothing at all for fifteen miles, where there was another similar hamlet and a fort.
As he walked, Shchek was rather cheerful. Since he had become a zakup, his life had not been easy. The prince’s steward worked him hard. His wife, ashamed of his status, had become sullen. But this unexpected gift from the young noble was a great windfall. A silver grivna was worth about three months’ wages to a peasant like Shchek.