“Thank God that sex is more interesting than boats!”
The professor remains serious. “Mr du Pavey, we can’t assume they won’t report what they’ve seen.”
“The four of them have more urgent business first… And by the morning, they’ll have forgotten what they saw.”
At last, the river is calmer: still fast-flowing but smooth. It’s hurrying us away from Yekaterinburg: away, at last, from those sounds that I heard in the cellars of the Ipatiev House. Sounds I will never forget. I have the worst headache of my life: the random bumps against the woodwork of the boat, I suppose.
But despite all that has happened, the image in my mind is those two couples outside the bar. I’ve never even kissed a man… what on earth would it be like? And I think about those girls, their journey through life cut short, like a brutal joke. Olga, Tatiana, Maria, Anastasia. Royalty with jewels and palaces – but with young women’s hopes, fears and dreams, just like me. All cut off in a frenzy of terror and agony, by callous men, performing methodical butchery with guns and bayonets.
My mind drifts, as if delirious. Two unknown women outside a seedy bar are alive, experiencing being alive, being wanted, if only for one evening. And those four girls at the Ipatiev House are not. Were Olga, Tatiana, Maria or Anastasia ever kissed, did they ever feel the excitement of romance, before their lives were taken away from them?
But through all these random pictures in my bruised brain, I keep coming back to a single image that seems carved in my mind. Something that might have ended in a kiss, but didn’t. A skating waltz under the stars, dancing in the protective arms of a strong, kind man.
24
At the Stone Gates
We’ve been drifting along through the night. After we saw the two couples at the bar, the last buildings of Yekaterinburg quickly gave way to a thick cloak of trees on both sides of the river. At that point we stopped watching, and we rested, enjoying the chance to lie down after our cramped day underneath the boathouse. The hull isn’t comfortable, but it feels like a feather bed after the boathouse.
I hear the professor’s voice. “It’s getting light. I feel sure the Red Guards will know of our escape from the city, and will be looking for this boat. One of us, at least, must watch out for people on the river banks.” The professor’s hand lifts the tarpaulin, and I see his anxious face, silhouetted under its edge: his eyes scan the river and the shore.
Rufus’ voice comes from the bottom of the boat. “There’s nothing but trees out there. Besides, what would we do if we did see anyone on the shore?”
“If we see someone, we will know by their behavior whether our escape has been detected.”
“A good point. But what’s our plan, anyway?”
“This boat was your idea, Mr du Pavey. I could say: what is your plan?”
“Stop bickering, both of you.”
They’re both silenced, and I carry on. “Professor – I think Rufus is simply wondering what we are going to do when this boat goes aground. And Rufus, please – we need to work together.”
“Well what do you think, then, Agnes? What on earth should we do?”
“I agree with the professor, we need to watch the shore. But what happens next – I haven’t a clue.”
Axelson’s voice has calmed. “My suggestion is this. These forests are certain death: they are so huge, we will doubtless starve if we try to track our way through them. So if the boat goes aground at any point, we push it off again into the river.”
“Fair point, but…”
The professor continues; I can tell that his ponderous explanation is annoying Rufus. “This river is flowing east, so it must be part of the Ob-Irtysh basin that drains much of central Asia – Siberia and parts of China and Mongolia. Ultimately, the Ob River flows into the Arctic Ocean.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Now, at some time – and it may be several days – we will come across a town. Siberia is not entirely uninhabited; there are mining towns, and trading posts for timber and fur trappers. Those towns tend to be on the major rivers. Once we reach a town, we should try to get ashore. Then, there are three possibilities.”
The boat rocks gently, the endless trees continue, as the professor explains further.
“We know that the Czechoslovak Legion, and other Tsarist supporters – what the Red Guards are calling the ‘White Army’ – are not far from this area. So it is possible that the first town we arrive at along this river may be occupied by military forces friendly to us. Or, the second possibility, which is quite likely: that a town in these remote areas may have no connection to either side. In that case too, the local people may be willing to help us.”
Rufus looks narrowly at Axelson. “And what’s the third possibility?”
“The third possibility is that the next town along this river is held by the Bolsheviks. If that is so, then I feel sure that they will have had information about us, and will be watching for our boat. I have no idea what we should do if that is the case. We will simply have to deal with the situation that arises.”
Rufus is quiet. The professor has described the situation comprehensively: there is nothing to argue about.
The sun is low in the sky behind us, an orange ball above the trees. The day has been uneventful. At three o’clock, according to the professor’s watch, we saw a solitary fisherman’s camp in a small clearing. He saw our boat, but appeared uninterested. “A good sign” Axelson said. But the wilderness continues: it seems infinite. I’m resigned to another night on this boat. The hull rocks, echoing the growling of hunger in my stomach.
It rocks again, stronger this time. I hear Axelson’s voice.
“Rapids!”
We all look out. But there is nothing to see. The river is wide at this point; over a hundred yards across. The water is like glass, with only tiny gentle ripples here and there. I look at Axelson.
“Really? It looks as smooth as a millpond.”
“I’ve seen this sort of thing before, Miss Agnes, on similar rivers in Canada. These undulations on the surface appear smooth, but they mean that rough water is coming.”
We drift along exactly as before. I peer ahead at the eastern horizon, the endless treetops lit by the low beams of the setting sun far to the west behind us. The ground to our east is rising to a high, hilly plateau. Like everywhere else, the plateau is cloaked in trees, but directly ahead of us there is a darkened slot, as if someone has taken a knife and cut a sharp line through the woods. The boat starts to tremble, pulled by unseen currents; I can sense the speed.
I see a boulder the size of a church, splitting the river in two; we coast round the side of it, swaying and bobbing. The ground on either side of us is rising now: low rocky bluffs give way to sheer cliffs, with towers and spires of rock carved into bizarre shapes. Ahead of us, the river is narrowing, forced through the deep slot of a canyon. Axelson shouts.
“Get the oars out! Not for paddling – for pushing us away from rocks!”
Rufus and I pull the oars out from the bottom of the boat, and push back the tarpaulin. We’re in foaming white water; the boat bounces along on top of the froth. The canyon walls tower above us, rising vertically from the waves; here and there the water swirls into the mouths of caves.
And then, it eases. The bouncing is less, the waves are smaller. Soon, the river is calm, but the trench-like rock walls continue. We float peacefully round a bend, and we see ahead of us huge, sharp edges of rock sloping diagonally down into the water. One enormous ridge, crested with rocky spikes like the spiny back of a dinosaur, seems to block our way entirely. Then we see that a massive natural arch cuts right through the ridge. The river flows smoothly through the arch, the calm water reflecting the scene like a mirror.