38

Dull, blurry lights . . . muted moans . . . foul smells of bodies, urine, and sickness. Hot, cold, pain, and heaviness . . .

Then again the blackness.

Not the blissful blackness of peaceful sleep. It was the live blackness, the darkness visible, fire without light, the black flame that consumes not and cannot be quenched.

Again the voices . . . thin, vapory lights . . . groans of suffering . . . words that seemed familiar but had no meaning . . . names . . . sounds close by . . . hands touching him, lifting his head, pouring something down his throat . . .

In the pitiful conditions of a prison ward—with minimal medical supplies, meager rations, cramped, cold, dank conditions, and men huddled together on makeshift cots—Sergei endured the deathlike agony of his fever. Hardly alive enough to pray for death, not dead enough to escape the prolonged and inescapable suffering, he merely existed, scarcely human at all.

The bright uniform of the prestigious Guard Regiment unit that he had once worn with such dignity had long since turned to rags and been replaced by drab gray. The light in his eyes and the noble bearing of his countenance and stature had disappeared. The fire of passion had gone out. The broad, straight shoulders had become slumped and thin. The manly body now lay feverish, shrunken, and wasted. The virile brain of author, thinker, and lover was scorched and void.

Around him were thieves, murderers, and insurrectionists, on their way—like him, if they survived—to the mines and prisons of the east. Attempting to purge the land of troublemakers and treasonous notions, the government of the Alexanders was unwittingly throwing into a cauldron of apprenticeship the anarchistic ideas that would ultimately seal its doom. The prisons and work camps of Siberia were, in fact, training an entire new generation of revolutionaries, and many of the forerunners now awaited their transport in the cells or sick wards of Tiumen.

Already in the east, listening for the first cuckoos of spring to send their calls through the desolate snow-enshrouded forests, convicts throughout Siberia were making ready to join “General Cuckoo’s Army,” the yearly migration west of escapees. Those clever enough to bribe, kill, or con their way out of the mines, over or under the prison walls, or through the gates manned by unscrupulous guards, were lucky if they remained alive long enough to enjoy their freedom. Without provisions, and thousands of kilometers from friendly faces and hospitable climates, most died along the way. Yet every spring thousands more made the attempt.

Those just on their way, however, were watched more closely, and few would swell the Cuckoo’s ranks this spring, especially those ensnared by the rampant epidemic of fever. Men, women, rebels, and robbers alike were struck down and now lay prostrate, thinking of no escape other than sleep . . . or death.

If sleep cannot be had for the fever, thought Sergei as gradual sensations of semi-reality and blurry consciousness began to return to him, perhaps death might be accomplished by taking eternity into one’s own hands.

Sergei’s mind filled with the ecclesiastical broodings of Solomon, the despairing son of David whose great wisdom, like this prince’s own attempted writings, had left him desolate, alone, and full of meaninglessness: For the living know that they shall die; but the dead know not any thing, neither have they anymore a reward, for the memory of them is forgotten. Meaningless! Meaningless . . . Everything is meaningless!

What was life but meaninglessness, a chasing after the wind . . . futility and folly? Yes, there was a time for everything. A time for war, a time to speak, a time to weep, a time to kill. He had done them all. They had brought him here. For him there would be no time for peace, no time to laugh, no time for healing. There was only a time to live . . . and now to die. What could life be, when to recover meant only a doomed existence of backbreaking servitude? Better to end it now. To think of a future commission in the Cuckoo’s army was a futile hope. Why wait? Escape—a complete escape, a glorious escape from this cesspool of stench and cold and vermin infestation—could be had . . . now! All it would take would be a moment or two when the fellow dressed in white had his back turned. . . .

Sergei struggled to lift his aching head two or three centimeters off the filthy mattress and rolled his eyes to the left and right, trying to make some sense of his surroundings.

If only his opportunity would come before the hot spells and shaking and delirium returned. It was suddenly all so clear! His brain was functioning again. How long had he been in this vile place? How could he have forgotten everything? He had even forgotten who he was . . . how long had it been since he had remembered?

But now he did remember! His focus was back. And with it the clearheaded determination of what he must do.

If only he could get to that table on the other side of the room where the man’s instruments lay. There he was sure to find something sharp enough. If only he had the needed strength to plunge it deep into his flesh!

His head fell back, his breath coming in short gasps now. Sitting up had been exhausting. The flashes were coming back . . . he blinked several times, trying to regain the clarity of vision.

The fever was coming upon him again! It had to be now, or who could tell when another opportunity might come! He was only seconds away from the table where he could leave his suffering forever . . . only seconds away from bliss and comfort and rest!

With a mighty gargantuan effort he hoisted himself to a sitting position, sweating from the effort and anticipation. His lungs gasped for air. He glanced around. The room, the ceiling, the lights, the man’s white uniform—all spun in mingled disarray. Frantically he shook his head and blinked again, trying to keep them still.

He lifted his feet over the side of the cot. As the skin of his bare feet touched the dirt floor, he felt as though he were standing on a glacier. But his head was on fire . . . and he could not stop himself from shaking.

There was the man . . . his back still turned . . . or was it his back? He was still dressed in white . . . he was wearing a robe . . . a robe of white . . . now he was coming closer . . . it must be an angel come to welcome him!

Sergei had not stood for weeks. His knees shook, but he would steady them . . . the table was only five meters away . . . five meters to escape . . . to peaceful sleep!

He lurched forward . . . one step, two, three . . . heedless of the buckling of his knees . . . conscious only of flashing, spinning lights and figures and shapes, all now blurring into dreamy confusion and distortion.

Voices . . . shouts . . . that name he no longer recognized as his own . . . Hands grasped at his shoulders . . . unfriendly hands . . . tugging and pulling . . . hands of ice and fire.

He shoved, and with one last summoning of some memory of the energy of his former life, he pushed the intruding angel from him, then stumbled forward, crashing onto the table. Even as his legs gave way beneath him, he felt his hands close upon the instrument of death.

He collapsed onto the floor, breaking the table. Wood, instruments, tools, and a pitcher of water shattered around him in a great din of chaotic clatter.

Unaware of the shouts now filling the room, or of the approach of still more white-robed angels, or of the blood now running freely from the hands clutching the surgically honed steel blade on the wrong end, he groped with fading strength to bring the wicked knife in one fatal blow into his chest.

And still there were calls . . . and shouts . . . and grabbing, pulling, unwelcome hands . . . until the spinning lights slowly dimmed . . . and the voices dissolved. . . .

His head fell against the blood-muddied floor . . . blackness engulfed him . . . and he knew no more.