The Shepherd
She spoke with quiet calm. “I have never lied to you. But there are things I haven’t told you. I was waiting for the right time.”
“Right now is the right time! What do you want from me? Why are you here? What are you?”
“I’m here for you, Misha, to help you, to take care of you. I’ve spent a lifetime looking for you, and now that I’ve found you, I’ll never leave.”
Her words hit home with a solid impact. These were things she had hinted at several times before, but it never really meant much until now. The girl-creature believed I was someone special to her. She would never leave me alone.
The prospect of her stalking me for the rest of my life was pretty damn freaky.
“I’m not Misha! You’ve got the wrong person! This is all a mistake, I’m not who you think I am.”
“Yes, you are Michael Evans. Even your name betrays the truth. I knew you as Mikhail Ivelitsch.” She was so damn calm and assured, convinced this was the gospel truth.
“No. I am not Misha or Mikhail! I’m Mike, just Mike. You’re wrong!”
“See for yourself.”
She pulled a bit of jewelry from her hoodie pocket. It was a tiny gold chain with a golden locket the size of a nickel. The hinged locket opened like a set of golden butterfly wings. Inside was an ancient sepia-colored tintype photo of a young man with dark hair slicked down. It could have been me in one of those Old Tyme photos at the Grant County Fair where everyone dresses up in Wild West clothes.
All my anger drained away, replaced by horror. I suddenly needed to pee, now.
“You gave this to me in 1917, with a promise that we’d be together forever. In this life or the next, I hold you to your promise Mikhail Ivelitsch.” She’d been holding the locket in her palm, but then she dumped it into my hand.
The moment it touched me I was thrust into a set of visions so vivid it was as if I’d been transported back in time. I actually stood there with these people from another century.
* * * *
Chapter 15
Manhattan, July 1917: Natasha and Mikhail
Weather beaten planks of a huge waterfront pier stretched out of sight. The sounds and smells of a working dock assaulted me. A tumble of happy passengers disembarked down bunting-draped gangplanks from a massive white steamship. Porters loaded crates and wardrobe chests into a waiting row of ancient Model T looking cars. Nadia, wearing a full-length dress, stood among several people, and the way they took orders, they must be the servants. They all squeezed into these antique cars and sputtered off into the ancient sprawl of New York.
In a mind-bewildering swirl, my viewpoint zoomed forward through time and place to a set of lavishly furnished apartments in the heart of New York City. I soon learned of the boss, The Count. Well-groomed, with salt and pepper hair, the Count looked close to fifty. I could see from his face and manner he was one of those old bloodlines, some kind of royalty. He had sharp blue eyes that missed nothing. Everyone bowed to him, calling him ‘Your Grace.’
The place looked like something straight out of a museum. Thick brocade drapes hung with golden tassel borders, and the trim and doors were a rich, glossy chestnut that matched the hardwood floors polished to a bright gleam. Fabulous Persian rugs decorated various rooms throughout. The place was lit by ornate electric lamps of brass with beautifully decorated lamp shades of Arabic mosaic patterns in tan and cream colors. The Count appeared wealthy and well-traveled.
Speeding along, the vision finally settled on a specific point, Count Orlov seated in a heavy oak chair with a guest sitting across from him on a loveseat. His gaze rested squarely on his guest, a portly, bald man with a bushy handlebar mustache and beady little brown eyes.
I listened to this strange conversation, and learned that Mr. Goldstein was a wealthy Manhattan banker with his fingers deep in the Count’s business affairs. He was offering investment advice. Something about stock options. Herman had the Count’s undivided attention. “A few points increase will quickly result in many thousands in profits if the option is exercised with prudence.”
The Count rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and then pierced the old, fat man with an intense look. “And what is the risk of loss? Surely there must be risk if the reward is so high.”
“Quite minimal,” Herman reassured him, “If the stock value drops there is usually time to recover before the option expires. This has become the preferred method of stock investment. All the speculators are using options. I could advance a leveraged position on credit. His grace need only reimburse me upon exercise of the option, from the profits, of course.”
The Count persisted with his concerns. “And if the price remains unfavorable past the expiration of the option, then what?”
“Then we simply allow the option to expire. The risk is the option fees advanced on your behalf. Far cheaper than purchasing a losing stock. This is why I prefer options, you control so much with so little. The fees are affordable. I know of an excellent opportunity on a shipping stock. We can control several hundred thousand shares with a fee of say … ten thousand. This stock would be a competitor of yours, I think. Your Grace holds a shipping warehouse here in Manhattan?”
“Yes, you’re very well informed, Mr. Goldstein, and you have caught my interest. I should like to explore this further.”
“Wonderful. And your property, might I enquire its status? I have an interest in acquiring waterfront properties in this vicinity.”
“I regret to inform you I have no inclination to sell, and the property is currently used as storage. I have yet to launch my shipping business.”
Nadia slipped into the room in her frilly maid uniform as she served tea to the Count and his guest. She brought in various silver serving dishes in stages with the help of another servant, a severe, grey-haired woman. They began to exit unobtrusively while the men continued talking of business. The fat man held a lecherous eye on Nadia, winking as she passed.
The Count caught sight of it and teased him. “I see you are a ladies man, Mr. Goldstein.”
“Oh, yes, indeed. I have been known to entertain the ladies from time to time. Perhaps I will have occasion to entertain this little one.” He addressed Nadia directly. “What is your name, child?”
Nadia blushed and looked down and away averting her eyes from his directness. “Natasha, sir.” She spoke with a thick Slavic accent, her broken English barely understandable.
“How musical your names are in Russia, an enchanting name for an enchanting girl.”
She blushed even further, obviously uncomfortable with his scrutiny and praise. “I am but a servant, sir.” She turned to the Count, eyes downcast in deference. “Your Grace, may I beg your leave to be excused?”
The Count didn’t bother to speak. He waved his hand and she scuttled out of the room quickly. Herman’s eyes followed her dainty figure as she exited.
“You like our little Natasha?” Herman nodded yes and the Count continued, “She is beautiful, but not yet a woman, Mr. Goldstein. I believe the girl is promised to Mikhail, the footman. He is a bit older, but he is determined to wait for her. I am told she has his heart.”
“Ah, what a shame, so young and fresh, unspoiled. I like them young. Reminds me of my own youth, invigorating.”
The Count nodded sagely. “It is not uncommon in Russia to take a wife at the age of fourteen or fifteen, but we see this as a practice among the country folk. Noble marriages are arranged at a slightly riper age of sixteen to eighteen. Unfortunately, Natasha is only fourteen, and though she is my servant, I don’t feel this an appropriate age for such things. As you well know, it’s not advisable to mix the classes. In Russia we would never contemplate marriage with common folk.”
“I understand perfectly,” Herman agreed quickly, but he looked disappointed.
I was ushered to another moment at some point in the future with that nauseating jump-flash. I swayed, disoriented for a few seconds. I stood in the same room with the same people, Count Orlov and Herman Goldstein.
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The Count was distressed about a failed investment, and he railed against Herman. “You expect me to cover the entire ten thousand dollar fee? I thought these stock options were low risk, easily liquidated? Is that not what you promised?”
Goldstein took offense. “Yes, I did say that, but your Grace mustn’t take my words out of context! I specifically told your Grace the fee advanced on your behalf was at risk. I made this very clear!”
“You also spoke of high profits!”
“Of course I did. It is a game of probabilities; I thought your Grace understood.” Herman saw his opportunity and seized the moment, “I could be persuaded to cover this cost with the collateral of a deeded property, assuming it is of sufficient value. The waterfront warehouse property would be suitable to me.”
“Aha! That is what you’ve wanted all along! I told you the last time you enquired that my warehouse is not for sale! Were I to hand over my property, I cannot be certain of the value. Have you seen the property?” The Count watched Herman carefully, realizing he may have said too much in his excitement.
Herman answered casually, “I believe I have passed by on the street, but I did not gain entry if that’s what you mean.”
The Count stared him down in obvious distrust. “The warehouse is in very poor condition. The refurbishments alone would cost over three thousand.”
Herman rubbed his mustache thoughtfully, “I see. Am I to understand my proposition has been taken under consideration? There will always be another waterfront lot available in Manhattan, of that we can be certain!”
The Count did not appear certain of anything coming from Herman, but neither did he seem willing or able to pay that bill for the option fees. “Yes, I am considering it. If I do this, you take the property as is, for full payment of my obligation.”
Herman bristled with righteous indignation, when he sat up his rotund belly jutted forward intimidatingly. “But your Grace just explained the condition of the property is in such a state of disrepair? I couldn’t possibly be expected to manage the refurbishment and cover your expenses. Pardon me your Grace, but you are a wealthy man, surely you can cover a few thousand?”
The Count rubbed his hands over his face, leaned forward with a look of anxiety and spoke low so as not to be overheard. “To confide in you Mr. Goldstein, the war has my country in ruin. The Royal family’s popularity is waning. I fear this may be the last monarchy in Russia. I had so hoped these stock options would prove lucrative. My accounts in New York are limited and my Russian holdings are not in a favorable market for sale. I would incur heavy losses.” The Count leaned even closer to Herman who listened intently to every word. “The smell of smoke is never good for prices. How do you say here in America, a fire sale?”
Herman nodded with a deep frown. “How very unfortunate indeed.”
Nadia entered the room with the gray-haired head mistress, both carrying silver serving dishes. Herman’s eyes were instantly drawn to her, flowing over Nadia’s lithe body appreciatively. Again Count Orlov noticed his guest’s undisguised interest in Nadia.
I could almost see the idea spark in his eyes as he watched Herman’s fascination with Nadia. The servants finished their task and excused themselves. But the Count reached out to take Nadia’s hand. She blushed crimson and gasped in surprise.
“Come here, Natasha.” It was an order, and she followed without question. She stepped right up, her eyes downturned in reverence of her master, “Look up child, let us see you.”
He tilted her head up with his hand on her chin. “She has a delicate beauty. It’s too bad she has the Mongol’s look.” He spoke of her as livestock to be examined for market. The Count pulled her next to him with his arm around her in a fatherly gesture.
“You see her eyes, Mr. Goldstein, and the high cheek bones, notice the slight Asiatic slant?”
Herman watched Nadia intently, the Count had his full undivided attention with this play. “How very intriguing. Now that you mention I do see it.”
“That is the mark of her ancestors. The Mongol hordes who invaded Russia, ruled our lands for a time. Her father is fair, blond-haired, blue-eyed, but her mother is of the Mongol’s blood with darker features. We cannot seem to rid our country of their influence though it was so very long ago. The Mongol legacy lives on in Russia, as you can see. Our beautiful Natasha inherited the best of them both, I think with the fair skin, and that wonderful hair color.” The Count touched Nadia’s reddish brown pony tail possessively.
Herman nodded in agreement, uncertain where this was going, but still entranced with Nadia. She couldn’t stop blushing under their attentions.
“Mr. Goldstein, did you know that both of Natasha’s parents are my servants and that she was born on my estate in St. Petersburg?”
“Very interesting.” Herman nodded, still waiting for the punchline. Then realization blossomed on his fat face and he blurted out, “How fascinating your Grace. If I recall, the custom in Russia is that servants are actually considered the property of the gentry they serve, is that no so your Grace?”
“Yes, Mr. Goldstein that is the law in Russia.”
The two men were speaking of something Nadia didn’t quite comprehend. She glanced towards the Count with a puzzled expression, and then looked to Herman, who couldn’t stop staring at her.
Herman burst with excitement. “How delightful! And do you wish to offer this additional property as collateral in exchange for your obligation?”
“That is precisely what I’m suggesting. Though we are not in Russia, the ways of my country are deeply ingrained in these people. They will honor any arrangements I make on their behalf. I am their master.” The Count spoke with the utmost arrogance and confidence. “You cover my obligations to the stock option fees entirely, and in exchange I will transfer ownership of both properties to you.”
“Your Grace is a very shrewd businessman; I predict you will do well in your endeavors here in America. I am sorely tempted. Your Grace exploits my weakness!”
“I think you will be the one doing the exploiting. Let us not lose sight of the value of my property.” The Count stroked Nadia’s hair softly, paternally. “Precious gems are often considered priceless. Wouldn’t you say so, Mr. Goldstein?”
Herman had that look again, that lecherous look, and he couldn’t keep his eyes off Nadia. I felt physically sick to my stomach as I watched this ruthless human trafficking unfold right in front of me. I’d heard tales of this stuff in old films, but the reality of it was far more heinous than a sterilized movie production.
The Count patted Nadia on the knee. “You can go now. Have Mistress Lorna pack your things. You will be traveling tonight.” She looked glad to make her escape as she darted off without a clue about what was happening.
Herman’s disgusting stare tracked her every move. After Nadia left the room, the Count smiled brightly. “She will be prepared to leave shortly, provided all is agreed in writing.”
I wanted to scream, to hurl the furniture around the room, to do something, anything, to put a stop to this insanity, but I couldn’t move through these visions. I was just an observer, passing judgment, unable to affect anything.
The vision abruptly changed again, adding nausea and disorientation to my emotional mess. The scene shifted to a small room crowded with two beds and a dresser drawer, a servant’s quarters. Nadia wore a heavier dress with sturdy boots and a suitcase packed next to her on the bed, ready to travel. Tears streamed down her cheeks, she had never looked more innocent or girlish.
She was devastated.
I wanted to reach out to her, to hold her, to tell her it was gonna be alright, to offer safety in my arms and home. I was damn near crying myself.
A young man entered the room and came straight to Nadia, closing her tiny frame in his embrace. It was Mikhail, my virtual twin. He instantly made me jealous. I should be the one to hold her, comfort her, save her.
He looked exactly like me in every way, except for the haircut and clothes.
It was me, a century ago, dressed as a Russian servant. Felt like looking at a distorted, funhouse mirror image. Super creepy.
Mikhail spoke rapid-fire Russian to Nadia. I couldn’t understand the words, but I caught the gist of the situation. She had to go, now. She came back at him in heavily accented English. “There must be some way to change his mind!”
Mikhail cursed. “He sold you to a filthy Jew banker!” Nadia burst into new tears and sobbed into Mikhail’s shoulder.
He pulled something out of his pocket and put it in Nadia’s hand. “Take this. It is my promise to you. I will come for you tonight. When the driver returns I will come for you. Be ready for me at midnight.”
Nadia looked at the locket in her hand and asked, “What is this?”
“It is my promise. It was your gift for our engagement. I had planned to give this to you next year …” Mikhail’s words trailed off. There would be no next year. They had no more time.
Nadia cried and begged him in broken English, “If you speak to his Grace, tell him we are being married. Beg him, he will change his mind! He is good man!”
Mikhail shook his head, tears in his eyes, “Nyet! I tried! I told him he could keep all my wages to pay the banker! He said the agreement was done and he would not go back on his word. There is no other way. I will come for you tonight and we will escape to the west, Oregon, Washington. No one will ever find us! We will be together forever Natasha, this is my promise!”
I was torn from this intense scene with another jump-flash. My stomach flopped and my head spun as I arrived at a new setting, a dark room with Nadia curled up in bed, shivering. She was clad in nothing but a white cotton shift. The front of her gown glistened, a wet, reddish-black color barely noticeable in the pale moonlight that streamed through the window. A shadow eclipsed the moon, and Mikhail cupped his hands against the window to better see inside. He spotted Nadia and rapped on the window to get her attention.