Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

At that remark, their host exchanged glances with Ivashov and Father Timofey, winked, and suppressed a smile. But Ned had turned aside to dispose of his teacup and failed to notice.

The walk to the cedar grove, which occupied a rise at the edge of the Dorokhin estate, took less than a half hour. Once within the grove, Ned followed a set of fresh footprints to the foot of a massive cedar, where he found Zhanna seated cross-legged on a Buryat prayer rug laid upon the snow. Her eyes were closed but her lips moved as if she were praying. Not wanting to disturb her, he halted twenty feet away and watched.

Zhanna was dressed in a sheepskin coat, heavy wool trousers, thick felt boots, and a white rabbit-fur cap with long earflaps. Ned’s breath caught at the sight of her, for he had seldom beheld a face as serenely lovely. At that moment, Zhanna Dorokhina seemed too beautiful for this earth.

As if sensing his presence, the girl’s eyes opened and looked straight into his.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he stammered. “I’m afraid I overslept. Your note said…”

“I’m so very happy you came,” she interrupted while removing her cap and fur mittens and laying them across her lap. Unlike the night before, her sleek black hair was tied behind her head in a long ponytail and shone in the pale sunlight. “Another hour of sleep might have suited you better, I expect. Thank you for not thinking me a silly schoolgirl.”

At a loss for words, Ned changed the subject.

“Were you dreaming just now?” he asked. “You seemed to be holding a conversation with someone.”

“I was,” she answered without hesitation.

“But nobody else is here.”

“Perhaps not in the usual sense, but my Voices are as real to me as you are. This is where I come to speak with them.”

Ned hesitated. To him, hearing disembodied voices was the definition of insanity. Yet, the girl seemed far from a lunatic. He ventured a polite response.

“Your Voices? Do they, well, have names?” he asked.

“Of course. You might already know them. Are you a Christian?”

“Not a very good one, I’ll confess,” Ned responded, stepping closer. “But I was raised an Anglican and read the Bible quite a bit as a boy.”

“Then perhaps you have heard of Saint Yekaterina of Alexandria? Or Saint Marina[12] of Antioch?” she asked with an expectant look.

“Their names don’t sound very familiar,” Ned answered. “Are they the ones who speak to you?”

“Yes, and the Archangel Michael, sometimes. But he is a newcomer,” she answered with a mischievous smile. “Saint Yekaterina has been with me since I was thirteen. Saint Marina for not as long; she comes and goes as she pleases.”

“What sort of things do they tell you?” Ned asked with genuine curiosity as he seated himself on the snow beside her.

“Oh, at first they told me to be a good girl and go to church,” she answered with a musical laugh.

“And later?”

“They gave me instruction in spiritual matters to help me prepare for the work that lay ahead,” she went on.

“And how can you be sure the voices really belong to saints and not to…”

“…my imagination?” she interrupted with a frown.

“Or impostors who might aim to deceive you.”

“Oh, my Voices could not be from the Deceiver,” the girl answered. “The Bible says one should judge a tree by its fruit, and nothing but good has ever come to me from my Voices. They have taught me so much that sometimes I fairly reel from it!”

“Well, what you say sounds innocent enough,” Ned conceded, not wanting to cast judgment on another person’s religion. “I am hardly fit to question it, since no saint has ever taken a personal interest in the likes of me. As a soldier, I doubt very much whether…”

“Oh, but there you are wrong!” she interrupted again. “Archangel Michael cares a great deal for soldiers. He says that before long I may become one. And that is something that strikes fear deep in my heart. Tell me, captain, have you ever fought in a war? Have you seen death at close hand?”

Ned let out a deep breath before answering.

“I have,” he answered in a flat voice. “In Mexico and the Philippines. And I have the scars to prove it.”

“Were you very afraid?” Zhanna asked eagerly, leaning forward with her elbows propped on her knees.

“Afraid of what?” he asked.

“Of dying. What else?”

“Of course,” Ned answered with a shrug. “I feared that, and being wounded, and the snakes and spiders, and getting lost in the jungle, and a lot more. I was afraid just about all of the time.”

“Then how could you go on fighting? Where did you find the courage? Why didn’t you flee, as many of our boys do?”

“One fights mainly because of the training, I suppose,” he said, idly picking up a handful of snow. “And to not let down one’s comrades. And sometimes conditions become so impossible to bear that death becomes a matter of indifference. When that happens, risking one’s life means very little.”

A look of incomprehension spread across the girl’s pale face.

“But why do you ask? And why me?” Ned probed. “Have you also asked this of Ivashov?”