The Journeys of Socrates: An Adventure

  “How could it be any other way?” Serafim said. “I would not have wasted my time merely teaching you how to vanquish your enemies. Our time together has far more to do with living than with fighting. And I still pray that you will find a way to let go of your vendetta.”

  Sergei said nothing. There was nothing he could say.

  BY THE MIDDLE of Sergei’s fifth year on Valaam, his training increased in both breadth and depth. Because Serafim always pushed him to the edge of his abilities, he noticed this gradual transformation not only in his combat, but how he moved more gracefully when sweeping the floor, opening a door, or washing the bowls and utensils. His body felt…different, somehow. Without doubt, Sergei’s fighting skills improved, but he had also become as much a part of the skete as young trees were part of the island. The outside world, engaged in its own pressing affairs, neiher knew nor cared that a young man named Sergei Ivanov had finally learned to move like a child.

  Some weeks before, Serafim had reminded him, “A young child responds freshly to each moment, without plans or expectations. This is a good way to fight…a good way to live.” Now Sergei had made another kind of journey, back to innocence. He could no longer recall what his mind or body were like when he had first arrived on Valaam seeking a mysterious master. He could not yet match his teacher’s prowess, but Sergei had gained the ability to see what old Serafim was doing—and it intrigued him as never before.

  He recalled a story Serafim had told about a man who was always tired and who prayed each day for more energy. His prayers were never answered, until one day, in a fit of despair, he cried, “Please, oh, Lord, fill me with energy!” And God answered, “I’m always filling you, but you keep leaking!”

  Sergei was no longer leaking—not as much, anyway—and his energy seemed to build with each passing day as he prepared for the task ahead.

  IN THE COMING WEEKS Serafim pressed, prodded, poked, twisted, and struck sensitive pressure points to cause increasing discomfort. “Notice,” he said, “when I push here, you feel fear; when I press here, you feel sorrow. No two people are exactly alike in this. But whatever emotions arise, let them pass through you as you focus on your goal.”

  The old monk also began to slap Sergei in the face to momentarily stun him, until the time came that he could concentrate and move right through the pain. Afterward, one of the monks noted the “healthy glow” in Sergei’s cheeks as they worked in the kitchen. “Your practice must be invigorating,” the brother said.

  Sergei smiled, thinking: If you only knew…

  One evening soon after, Father Serafim called in four of the brothers to assist with an exercise. As ethical pacifists, the island monks did not approve of such fighting practice, but the brothers deferred to Serafim’s wisdom in this unusual form of service. So they agreed to hold tightly to Sergei’s legs, arms, and head as he lay on his back on the floor. As instructed by Father Serafim, each pulled and twisted rigorously in a different direction, inflicting some pain. Sergei’s task was to stay relaxed. He found this exercise surprisingly difficult—perhaps because it brought back sensations of having been pinned down on that day of horror years before. But by relaxing and using creative movements, he was able to escape each time.

  “As long as you stay relaxed and mobile,” Serafim remarked, “you’ll never again become weighed down by many hands.”

  Sergei recalled the day he had finally told Serafim about the events that first drove him on this quest. As the elderly monk nodded, Sergei had the eerie sense that his words only confirmed what his old teacher had already seen…

  As Sergei’s reverie ended, he heard Serafim continue: “…Rather than immediately trying to break free, maintain physical contact; it enables you to know the location of an opponent. If he grasps you, you actually have him; you can then move your body in such a way as to throw him.”

  The instructions and practice went on and on and on. That winter, Sergei grew agonizingly aware of his every weakness, imbalance, and point of tension. When he told Serafim that he seemed to be getting worse, the monk smiled. “Not worse—you’re making the usual mistakes but to a lesser degree. Life is about refinement, not perfection. And you still have refining to do.”

  The training was not without its humorous moments. The next afternoon, as Serafim was administering more pain training with a leather whip, one of the brothers walked past, shook his head, and muttered, “They would have lined up for this in the Middle Ages.”

  As the brother departed, they both laughed. Then, more seriously, Serafim said, “No healthy person seeks pain, Socrates—nor do I enjoy administering it. But such training, judiciously delivered, conditions you so that pain in battle has less power to shock or discourage or slow you down.”

  After that, each time Sergei felt the sting of the whip’s sharp blow, he thought of Zakolyev.

  IN THE SPRING of 1903 Serafim blindfolded Sergei for a part of each session to enhance his sensitivity and awareness. He led Sergei through the forest, saying, “In case you’re temporarily blinded, you need to continue fighting with whatever senses you have remaining.”

  After some falls and bruises, Sergei began to feel his way around obstacles, developing greater acuity in hearing. Beyond that, he sometimes sensed the energy of objects around him. All the while, Serafim provided pushes from the back, front, or side, and Sergei had to soften instantly and move or roll. If at any time he lost track of his teacher’s whereabouts, Serafim would hit him over the head with a stick. On their return to the skete, Serafim led Sergei into a room where he had to guess how many other monks, if any, were present.

  And at random, Serafim would instruct Sergei to close his eyes and describe his surroundings in as much detail as he could. This encouraged him to pay acute attention to his environment rather than getting lost in thought. “You are learning,” Serafim said, “how to think with your body—how to leave your mind and come to your senses.”

  Serafim tied thin ropes to Sergei’s ankle and elbow and pulled him off balance as he fought imaginary opponents. He also tied one then both of Sergei’s arms behind his back, forcing him to fight with his shoulders, chin, hips, head, feet, knees, or torso. “If you can’t use anything else,” Serafim urged, “use your wits. You may surprise yourself with your abilities, even against great odds.”

  Sergei also learned new ways to escape from holds and twists—headlocks, armlocks, and different chokes—by striking in clever ways to a variety of targets. He then studied ways to defeat one or more opponents while standing or lying on his back or side or stomach and while rising to his feet, so he could fight when disabled, or on difficult terrain, or from awkward postures.

  AS SERGEI’S MIND turned to his mission, and to those he would fight, he told Serafim, “Some of my adversaries are larger and stronger than I. One of them is a giant—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” the monk answered. “Big men can fight well at a distance, but softness, fluidity, and speed can overcome size and strength. A shorter man can work on the inside, at close range. Every body type has its strengths and weaknesses, so work to minimize your weaknesses and focus on your strengths. You can even overcome superior speed by responding instantly to an attack rather than waiting until it is launched.”

  That summer, when Serafim decided that Sergei was “finally ready to learn,” they met in the forest clearing, and Serafim showed him several extremely clever movements for evading and disarming a swordsman. Holding a razor-sharp saber, gliding across the earth, and cutting through the air, Serafim said, “Learning to use a blade helps you defend against it.”

  After Sergei had practiced for weeks with various attacks and strikes in the manner of the samurai of Japan, Serafim asked him to draw a saber from a scabbard as quickly as he could and strike him.

  As Serafim stood relaxed and alert, three meters away, Sergei was about to draw the sword and advance quickly and strike as Serafim had instructed. But as soon as he started to move, Serafim was standing next to him, locking Ser
gei’s sword arm so he could no longer draw—then he demonstrated how he could then disable Sergei in several ways.

  “Never fear the weapon, only the man wielding it. Focus on your opponent while he focuses on his knife or saber or pistol. He invests his power in the weapon but forgets the rest of his body. And the very moment you might want to back away from a weapon, go in without hesitation! Close the distance and disable him before he can use it. Stop the attack before it begins.”

  It took many more weeks of patient practice until Sergei could close the distance between himself and an adversary in a fraction of a second.

  THEN ALL AT ONCE, it seemed, Sergei’s training took a different turn. As they walked back to the skete in the brisk air of late September, Serafim spoke about patience, and the ethics of combat. “You have done well these past years, Socrates, but skill training is only the beginning. The movements of the highest warriors are relaxed and expansive because they fight for a cause larger than themselves. Only by surrendering to God’s will does one find victory in battle and serenity in life.”

  Serafim started pacing again, as he did whenever he was about to emphasize a point. “The true warrior, Socrates, retains his humanity even in battle. In winning a brutal victory, you may still lose your soul. Those who fight the dragon may become the dragon.”

  These words, and the spirit behind them, penetrated not only Sergei’s mind but his heart. He gazed at this peaceful old warrior-monk who for the past seven years had assumed the role of mentor. It seemed ironic that Sergei was never to call him “Father,” because that is what Serafim had become, filling a role that Sergei had missed since childhood.

  That night, after Sergei had said a prayer of love and remembrance for Anya and his son, he gave thanks for Serafim’s generosity of spirit and his simple humanity.

  Sergei had known from the beginning that Serafim had no wish for him to follow this course, yet each day without fail—unless church duties took him elsewhere—this island father gave Sergei a part of his life and experience. He received nothing in return except Sergei’s gratitude. For Serafim, it seemed reward enough to serve the mysterious will of God.

  This truth made Sergei love him all the more.

  .33.

  AFTER HER MORNING SESSION with Yergovich, Paulina raced through the woods toward the river, laughing with delight, barely escaping Konstantin’s grasp. Konstantin might have caught her, but he chose to let her get the better of him. The way her training was progressing, soon he would not be able to catch her even if he tried.

  No longer a boy but a tall youth, Konstantin remained her protector and friend. Not that Paulina needed protection anymore; she could handle herself amazingly well for an eleven-year-old. Besides, none of the older boys would be so foolish as to bully Zakolyev’s favorite. But when she was younger, he had to protect her from herself. Paulina had tried every kind of risky stunt with wild abandon: climbing trees to the high branches, walking a slippery log over a deep culvert. Now she was growing up as wiry and swift as any of the boys, and far more skilled at combat.

  Paulina could already outrun and outfight many of the older boys. Yergovich was training her in the traditional Cossack style of fighting, which depended more on flowing movement, balance, and agility than on brute strength or size. All in the camp agreed that she had a talent for it, although no one dared ask why Ataman Zakolyev insisted that every man teach her everything he knew. Only Korolev declined to involve himself in “children’s games.”

  The Ataman doted on Paulina more than ever these days, but his maudlin sentiment turned to fatherly severity when it came to her combat training. He demanded nothing less than her best effort each and every day—at morning, afternoon, and evening practice sessions. For her part, Paulina never complained. She had both the willingness and energy for it, and took pride in her newfound expertise. In fact, she applied herself with a focus that impressed all who watched her progress.

  KONSTANTIN KEPT TO HIMSELF much of the time, dreaming and reading and drawing images in the dirt or sketching on parchment with charcoal from the fire. He also thought about Paulina. He missed her gentleness and innocence, qualities that he had lost somewhere along the way. Having her with him felt like stepping out of a dirty hut into a fragrant forest. Sometimes he watched from the shadows as Great Yergovich led her through her training.

  Yergovich was a massive figure, taller than any man in camp except for the giant, Korolev. With his girth, he reminded Konstantin of a bear, especially with his thick brown beard and hairy neck and chest. He had a bear’s power—and while he could not move as quickly as some of the younger men, he could anticipate their attacks.

  Years before, he had worked as a bricklayer. Then one day, in a saloon, he had gotten into a tussle with Tomorov. A minute later, Tomorov and the others who had come to his aid were lying on the ground, not seriously hurt except for their pride. When Zakolyev appeared, Yergovich told him, “I can teach these young pups to fight properly.” So he had joined them and proved himself worthy. Now none could defeat him except Korolev, who once nearly broke the old bear’s head. But Korolev got a few bruises in the scuffle, along with a grudging respect for the big man.

  After that, they called him Great Yergovich. He was obedient and trustworthy and didn’t ask questions, which made him a good teacher for Paulina. He valued his position as instructor and enjoyed seeing the girl’s progress. Great Yergovich had no family of his own, only a friendship with Shura, the only woman his age in camp. In a sense, it was Yergovich and Shura who had parented the growing girl.

  Yergovich got on well enough with all the men but Korolev. He didn’t like the way the giant looked at Paulina. Korolev knew enough to leave her alone, but Yergovich didn’t trust this tiger who played tame when it suited him but waited, his tail twitching.

  So the bear and tiger kept an uneasy truce.

  Each day Yergovich led Paulina through a rigorous course of warrior games and exercises—running, swimming, climbing—and fighting skills some of the men had never seen. He had saved his secrets for her. He resolved to train Paulina so well that if the time ever came, and he wasn’t there to protect her, she would at least have a chance against the one-armed man.

  KONSTANTIN, meanwhile, was hungry all the time. He grew out of his shirt and shoes. He had to go barefoot for a while until he found an old pair of boots in a pile of discarded clothing. He felt clumsy, and once in a while his voice cracked. He thought a lot about the older women and about what they did with the men—and might do with him someday. Then he would think of Paulina and feel bad; after all, she was still a girl.

  With all the changes, she remained his one constant—someone who cared about him no matter what. Konstantin now felt a jealous animosity toward Father Dmitri, whom Paulina so admired. She had seen only one side of the Ataman; to her he was a protective, involved father, interested in her progress. The Ataman had never given Paulina a reason to fear him. She did not know the real Dmitri Zakolyev, and Konstantin could not bring himself to tell her.

  At the same time, Konstantin hid his growing attachment to Paulina. He was once a brother to her, but now his feelings had deepened and changed. He knew he should be thankful that the Ataman did not object to their friendship—as long as Konstantin didn’t distract her from training.

  His role in the band, as a servant but never a warrior, had been defined years before, when the Ataman first assigned him to help care for Paulina. So it was no surprise that none of the men encouraged him to learn fighting skills.

  He was, in fact, relieved to stay out of the raids and the killing; he had other interests and talents. From the growing pile of discarded belongings taken from murdered Jews, he found a precious set of brushes and pigments. So while Paulina pursued her training, Konstantin practiced his own craft with charcoal and brush on paper or on any surface he could find. The hours would pass unnoticed as he drew and painted—trees and huts and horses and birds, and sometimes even images from his dreams.

&nb
sp; Only when Konstantin thought about his future did a sorrow settle upon him. He couldn’t imagine living this way for years—waiting in camp with the women and Yergovich for the “real men” to return from patrol. The other youths his age, some of whom now rode with the men, thought Konstantin strange.

  Only Paulina understood him.

  But now he wasn’t so sure about anything. When they found time alone, he felt awkward, no longer able to say what had come so easily before. So he only asked her about her training, and she told him with such enthusiasm that he knew they were still friends.

  Konstantin loved the way Paulina’s bobbed hair, the color of rich earth, bounced as she ran. She was pretty, even in boys’ clothing. He had tried to draw her face once; they both laughed at his first attempt. He could draw her again and again but never capture her beauty. She would have been in danger from some of the men were it not for Father Dmitri’s protection.

  Father Dmitri. The thought of him brought a rush of righteous anger at the great deception, the hypocrisy, the secrets and lies. Paulina still saw only what she wanted to see—and what they let her know: the Ataman’s disciplined life, and the patrols helped in service of a faraway tsar. She never heard about the charred bodies left behind.

  Konstantin knew that he should tell her, but each day of silence made it more difficult to speak the truth. She wouldn’t believe it; he would lose her trust. She might even hate him. And if she confronted Father Dmitri, it could mean catastrophe for them both.

  He would just have to wait until she woke up to the truth on her own.

  POSSESSED OF A GOOD MIND and heart, Paulina assumed the same qualities in those around her. She had witnessed Father Dmitri’s moods and fits of anger, of course, but a child easily overlooks her father’s foibles. Insulated from the world by his orders and preoccupied with the life he had arranged for her, Paulina had little time to consider life’s larger questions. She had accepted that as the Ataman’s child she received special training and responsibilities. She did not envy the other women’s timid, submissive manners as they cleaned, cooked, carried water, and served the men.