The Witches of St. Petersburg by Imogen Edwards-Jones

Author:Imogen Edwards-Jones [Edwards-Jones, Imogen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Head of Zeus

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Over tea, the animated bishop recounted how he came across the Muzhik from Siberia at the Academy of Theology and how this religious pilgrim had spoken to the students and won them over with his knowledge and his incredible humility.

‘It is as if the voice of the Russian soul speaks through him,’ he enthused, rapidly stirring his jam into his tea. ‘I then introduced him to Bishop Hermogen and the Monk Iliodor, who were equally impressed! He has travelled throughout our great land and seen so many things, haven’t you, Grisha?’

Rasputin nodded and stared without blinking at the two sisters.

‘Tell us about where you are from, Grigory Yefimovich,’ said Militza.

‘Grisha,’ he replied, and talked to them of the Siberian steppes, his small village, Pokrovskoye, by the River Tura in Tobolsk, the river where his sister had drowned and his brother had died of pneumonia having fallen into its depths. He spoke of his leaving his village and taking up a pilgrimage that had led him to walk the length of the land, sleeping under the stars, going from monastery to monastery, living on the charity of others. And now his wanderings had brought him here, to St Petersburg, where he was looking for finance to help build a church in his village, back on the Siberian steppes.

The language he used, simple and evocative, in the thick Siberian accent of a true peasant, charmed them with its simplicity and its veracity and held Militza and Stana in thrall. Accustomed to the arch, acerbic, overly intellectualized conversations of the rarefied circles they moved in, his guilessness and his ability to paint broad, vital pictures of where he’d been and what he’d seen was so delightfully refreshing it verged on the hypnotic.

It wasn’t until Grisha had finished speaking that Militza realized her tea was cold.

‘There you are!’ declared Nikolasha, bursting into the room. ‘Gentlemen,’ he acknowledged, bought to a stop by the surprise guests. ‘It’s Luna!’ he said to Stana. ‘She is breathing very heavily. The vet said she has a few months to live but I fear death is upon her.’

‘Oh no!’ Stana leapt out of her seat. ‘Will you excuse me, please?’

‘May I help?’ asked Rasputin, putting down his cup.

‘You?’ Nikolasha did not conceal his disdain. ‘Who are you?’

‘Grigory Yefimovich Rasputin,’ pronounced Bishop Theofan, as if the man’s reputation preceded him.

Nikolasha frowned. What could this peasant dressed in a long black tunic with his wild beard and smoothed-down hair possibly do to help his ailing borzoi?

‘Come,’ said Militza standing up. ‘We’ll all go.’

They left the house for the magnificent stable block and carriage house. Built of red brick, with white pillars and impressive towers at either end, above the double doors stood a large Nikolayevich crest. Once inside, past the rows of some one hundred horses, the party approached a stable where, lying on a bed of straw, was a beautiful cream and white borzoi bitch. Luna was on her side, her long tongue hanging out as she panted, her ribs easy to see through her damp coat, her flanks rising and falling in rapid succession.

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