The Hunters

Although Dvorkin was still aware of the young woman in the room, she was only a dim presence now — especially in the shadow of an important man like Sidorov. Even when he was being complimentary, it was probably wise to pay strict attention.

‘Would you like a drink?’ Sidorov asked.

Dvorkin shook his head no.

‘Would you mind if I had one?’

‘Of course not, strannik.’ For Dvorkin, it was much more comfortable to call him ‘strannik‘ rather than ‘sir’, or ‘leader’, or ‘Grigori’. One was too formal, the next too venerated, and the last too familiar.

Sidorov rose from his chair and walked over to a rolling cart at the foot of the sofa where the woman lay. Dvorkin was once again hyper-aware of her shapely leg and the swath of soft naked flesh between the top of her stocking and the top of the long skirt’s slit, as his superior poured some amber liquid into a cut-glass snifter.

‘That is why I have brought you here,’ Sidorov said. His icy tone sent a disproportionately large chill through Dvorkin.

‘I don’t understand,’ he replied.

‘Even though your dedication to our cause cannot be faulted, even by your critics, some have said that your understanding of it has left something to be desired.’

‘Critics?’ Dvorkin was taken aback. ‘Who has said this, strannik?’

Sidorov waved that away as well. ‘I am here to heal, not accuse.’ He took a sip of brandy. ‘Just tell me what you feel. Tell me what you know, so I can put your mind at rest.’

‘About what, strannik?’

The man shrugged lightly. ‘Anything. Anything at all that pertains to us.’

Dvorkin leaned back, blinking. ‘Where to start? There is so much.’

Sidorov dismissed that statement. ‘Not really. Start here, in this very room.’ Then he looked slowly at the lounging female and smiled.

‘Ah,’ Dvorkin exclaimed. ‘Our master traveled to the Verkhoturye Monastery at the age of eighteen or so. There he learned of the Khlysty, or “Christ-believers”.’

Sidorov made a look of distaste. ‘I prefer, “They that purge”.’

‘Of course, of course. I was getting to that,’ Dvorkin hastily added. ‘The Khlysty did away with saints, and priests, and books. They — I mean we — practiced divine attainment through the repentance of sin.’

‘And to repent sin …?’

‘We have to experience it.’

‘Go on,’ Sidorov said as he took another sip of his drink.

‘The greater the sin, the greater the repentance.’

‘Yes?’

‘Our master found great power within himself with this practice. He was able to heal the sick and see the future.’

‘And?’

Dvorkin was confused. He was unsure as to what his leader wanted, so he was only able to parrot back the same question. ‘And?’

Sidorov lowered his glass and pointed it at Dvorkin. ‘There, you see? This is what I’m sure your accusers are talking about. You know the story, yes, but you do not appear to understand it. Do you bring insight to it?’

Dvorkin desperately wanted to respond in the affirmative, but Sidorov’s next words were already rolling over him.

‘The more the master sinned and repented, the greater the power he had. He healed the tsar’s son of his bleeding ailment. He brought the tsar’s lady-in-waiting back from the dead. He cried for them, he worked for them, he loved for them, and he lived for them — no matter how great the jealousy, hatred, and misunderstanding that he faced.’

‘I understand his greatness,’ Dvorkin said feebly.

But Sidorov’s words were more than an education. He used his oratory to stir himself to an emotional frenzy. This was how Sidorov had become the leader of the Black Robes, by stoking flames within himself, flames he passed on to others.

‘The priests sought to banish him,’ Sidorov preached, ‘and they were banished themselves for their sins. Their agents tried to kill him with a knife, but they were humbled by his survival. And the tsarina loved him in return, as did all the princesses. Why else was he allowed in their bed-chambers? The ladies of court loved him, and that was truly why he was most hated by men of power. They all wished they were loved as greatly. Yes?’

‘Yes,’ Dvorkin replied.

‘Yes?’

‘Yes!’ Dvorkin exclaimed, catching fire. ‘That’s why Prince Yusupov, the Grand Duke Pavlovich, and Duma representative Purishkevich plotted to kill him.’

Sidorov put the snifter down so hard Dvorkin thought it might break. His leader’s smile was wide but his eyes were cold. ‘Yet they could not kill him, could they?’

‘No, strannik.’

‘What else did they call him?’

‘I–I must think-’

‘What else did they call our master besides strannik?’

Dvorkin’s mind raced. They had called him the mad monk, but he dared not say that.

‘Later in life, Pavel! What did they call him?’

‘Starets!‘ he suddenly remembered. ‘Venerated teacher. Elder monk confessor.’

Sidorov calmed. ‘Yes,’ he breathed. ‘Starets.’ He looked at the ceiling as if searching for a sign or message, then looked upon his associate with pitying intensity. ‘And our master starets sinned so much, and repented so much, that he could heal the sick and see the future, yes?’

‘Yes … Yes, starets …’

Now that a different title had been indicated, he had better use it.

Sidorov stared at him. ‘But there’s more. You know there’s more.’

‘… I do, yes,’ Dvorkin said while he racked his brain for answers. What more does he mean? What other feats in the palace? What other liaisons did he have?

Sidorov was standing over Dvorkin now, looking down at him as if from a great height. ‘Our master could transcend death.’

Dvorkin felt his face flush with humiliation. ‘Of course! How stupid of me! How utterly shameful!’

Much to Dvorkin’s amazement, Sidorov laughed in delight. ‘Good, good,’ he approved. ‘Remember, part of the Khlysty sect is self-flagellation. “I whip myself, I seek Christ” is what they chanted, yes?’

‘Yes, starets,’ Dvorkin said with relief. ‘If you have a whip, I will gladly use it.’

Sidorov smiled at the offer. ‘Oh no, there will be no whips for us. We don’t have time for self-flagellation any more. Our task is too great.’

‘Yes, starets,’ Dvorkin agreed, suitably humbled.

‘Tell me, Pavel, what is our task?’

‘Our task?’ he echoed.

Sidorov furrowed his brow. ‘Surely you remember our master’s story. Surely you remember the task of his followers.’

‘It is … it is to find him.’

‘Yes,’ Sidorov breathed. ‘They slit his stomach open. He did not die. They poisoned him. He did not die. They shot him three times. He did not die. They beat him. He did not die. They drowned him. He did not die. They burned him. He … did … not … die. Our master still lives!’

Sidorov turned from his associate. ‘I have spent my life following his example. I have sinned. I have repented.