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.