Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

She was only a schoolgirl, after all, barely eighteen, and Ned did not want to show disrespect for her father or Ivashov by making improper advances. Perhaps it was a good thing that Zhanna had stayed away and that he would be leaving soon. If they were alone together again, and he touched her, he might not be able to stop himself.

He needed to shake this infatuation with the girl. It had taken him completely by surprise, catching fire like a spark in dry grass. After all, he had been without female companionship for four months. It was time he found a woman his own age, fraternization rules be damned. Once he was on his way to Omsk, the infatuation with Zhanna would burn out, and they would probably never cross paths again.

Only after he and Ivashov had settled into their private compartment and their train was clattering over the rails toward Irkutsk did Ned venture a comment on Zhanna’s absence all day and relate the odd story of his conversation with her among the cedars.

“Can you imagine a stranger story?” Ned asked.

Ivashov looked up from his newspaper and shrugged.

“I find it just as odd as you do. While I don’t doubt that she hears voices, I have no idea what they mean. Yet there is something special about the girl. And I expect we haven’t seen the last of her, for it’s clear that she won’t rest until she makes her way to Omsk.”

“And why do you say ‘we’, staff captain?”

“Because she made the same approach to me when I spoke with her yesterday before breakfast,” Ivashov answered with a hearty laugh. “And my response was no different from yours.”

* * *

Father Timofey was the last guest to leave the Dorokhins’ estate. Stepan Petrovich had already gone into town on business and Zhanna had not yet returned from church. Timofey was saddling his horse in the stable when he noticed Zhanna standing beside him.

“Back from prayer so soon?” he asked her with a kind smile.

But Zhanna’s face remained expressionless, almost brooding. Her hands were dug deep into the pockets of her heavy sheepskin coat.

“So they refused you?” he asked while he spread a thick saddle blanket across the horse’s back.

“Yes, both of them,” she answered in a monotone.

“Yet you’re certain theirs were the faces you saw in your visions?”

“Without a doubt.”

“Do you suppose they could be persuaded to change their minds?” the priest asked as he lifted the saddle onto the blanket.

“I don’t see how,” she answered dully, shuffling her feet idly in the hay. “You saw for yourself, they return to Omsk without me. How am I to ever get another chance with them?”

“Did you ask that question of your Voices?”

“Of course I did, Father.”

“And what did they say?”

“They said not to worry, that both men will come again. The time was not right, but it was necessary to try.” She stepped forward to hold the horse’s bridle and stroke the beast’s forehead.

“And what if one of these men does take you to Omsk, either now or later? What if you succeed in reaching the Admiral? What then?” the priest asked, giving her a sharp look with his deep blue eyes before letting the cinches and stirrup straps fall across the horse’s flanks.

“My saints say it’s not been decided,” she answered, looking away in frustration.

“Not decided whether you are to remain in Omsk or return here? Or might they send you to some other faraway place? In any case, who would look after you while you are away? How could your father possibly allow such a thing?”

“I don’t know,” the girl replied with downcast eyes.

“Did any of your saints or angels imply that one of these officers might become your guardian or protector beyond Omsk?” Timofey demanded, catching her eye before he turned away again to tighten the cinch. “Perhaps even your husband?”

“Certainly not the latter!” Zhanna bristled. “Yekaterina says I am to keep myself pure. There will be no bridegroom for me but Christ, at least until my mission is complete.”

“And how long is your mission to last?” Timofey asked in conclusion, as he turned to Zhanna with the reins in his hand.

“A year and a little more. It will not likely end at Omsk, and may take me to the front. Yet the longer I delay, the greater the peril when I go…”

The priest offered her a sympathetic nod.

“Patience,” he said, before leading his horse past her and out of the stable.

Chapter 3: Change of Plan

“Wherever the standard of freedom and Independence has been or shall be unfurled, there will be [America’s] heart, her benedictions and her prayers. But she goes not abroad in search of monsters to destroy. She is the well-wisher to the freedom and independence of all. She is the champion and vindicator only of her own.”

—John Quincy Adams