Russka (16 page)

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 been 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 with 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.

He took the path through the woods and continued along it to the glades where the women picked mushrooms. He pressed on, past the pool where, the villagers said,
rusalki
dwelt. It was a little way past the pool that he came to a crossroads. The right-hand track, he knew, led south to the prince’s estate. The left-hand track led northwards; but since it passed through a place where one of the villagers had been killed by a boar, few people took that route, thinking it unlucky.

On impulse, however, the peasant decided to do so. That Ivanushka brought me luck, he considered. I’ve nothing to fear today.

Some way to the north of Russka, the river made a large curve round a low and densely wooded hill. It was here that the villager
had been killed. Thick undergrowth had formed round the base of the hill, much of it bramble and thorn. It was not an inviting spot, and he would not have paused had he not suddenly seen, a hundred yards ahead of him, a large fox slipping silently into the undergrowth.

I wonder if he has a lair in there, Shchek thought. Fox fur was valuable. As quietly as he could, and suffering a number of scratches, he made his way through the undergrowth and began to climb the hill. And a few minutes later, having almost forgotten the fox, he was grinning with delight and astonishment.

For the hill, so densely covered with oak and pine, and which no one ever visited, was a treasure house. It was crowded with beehives. He could smell the rich, thick smell of honey up in the trees everywhere. As he wandered around, he counted no less than twenty hives up in the branches; until finally he laughed aloud. ‘That Ivanushka has brought me more luck than he knew,’ he cried.

He did not plan to tell anyone about it. For already he could see how to make use of it. I might even be able to get free one day, he mused.

In the year 1075, few men in the land of Rus were considered as lucky as Igor the boyar.

His master, Prince Vsevolod of Pereiaslav, showered gifts upon him. No one was held in more honour in that prince’s
druzhina
.

The greatest nobles, now, had a new status: instead of the old blood-money of forty
grivnas
, their lives had been set at eighty. Even to insult them carried a fine of four times the value of a
smerd
.

Igor had been granted this high status. More than that, so impressed was the Prince of Pereiaslav with his loyal servant, that the previous year, he had given Igor the lordship of extensive lands on the south-east border of the principality, including the little hamlet of Russka.

These outright gifts of land were a new method of rewarding faithful retainers. Cheaper than gifts of money, in a state where land was plentiful, these land grants began the process whereby the term ‘boyar’, which originally meant a retainer or nobleman of the
druzhina
, came to signify ‘landowner’.