Author's Note: This chapter has taken far longer to write than it should have, and I apologize for the delay. Katbybee (beta-reader extraordinaire!) has been awesome, helping keep me from giving up altogether when I was about to dump the whole thing because I kept getting mired in the details. Her suggestions pointed me in the right direction and got me moving again. Thank you, Kat!
In this chapter, I relate Sergeant Arkady Dushko's backstory. I had not planned on developing that story as much as I have done here, but when a character gets talking, I take dictation. I have done a great deal of research on Russia's Old Believers for this chapter, and halfway through I realized that some of what I wrote in Chapter 11 just didn't work. In addition, as Arkady's story unfolded, there were inconsistencies with what was already written. Because of the inaccuracies, I decided that rather than adjust what I have written here, I would simply go back and edit the paragraph about his village. For your convenience, here are the edited lines from Chapter 11:
"The villagers were an insular bunch, a town of Old Believers who had almost completely cut themselves off from the outside world. Arkady was one of only a few of his generation who had ventured beyond the boundaries of that world. His mother had some knowledge of herbal medicine — she might be able to help the injured man. And if not, surely his father would not refuse to help get him to a physician. They were few and far between in this part of the world, but there were some who had gained the trust of the Old Believers."
In spite of my research, I want to stress that I have not had the privilege of visiting any community of Old Believers, and any inaccuracies are my own.
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Glossary (Russian - English)
Rubashka - a traditional high-collared tunic with an embroidered design
Poya - a long woven belt that is worn tied around the waist
Malchik - boy
Menya zovut - My name is
Pradyed - Great Grandfather
Myesto! - Stay!
Slava Bogu! - Praise God!
Bludnyy syn vernulsya! - The Prodigal Son has returned!
Priyti! - Come!
Nash Arkady zhivyot! - Our Arkady lives!
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About an hour later, they were just about ready to go. Danny, Alex, and Dushko had managed to turn the truck upright and found that aside from a loose fender, which Dushko simply ripped off, and a damaged frame, it was still in working order. They didn't even have to hotwire it, since Ryong had left the keys in the ignition.
They buried Ryong and Semyenov in hastily dug graves, covering them with stones to keep wild animals out, then piled into the vehicle and set off, heading back towards the road where the sergeant had first found the injured veterinarian.
The road narrowed and grew rougher the further Dushko drove. The night was moonless, so Danny couldn't get a good view of the landscape, but he'd seen enough during the day to know they were traveling through a vast and thick forest. He couldn't imagine a village existing in the midst of this. Though he saw little of the surroundings, Danny's view when he gazed upward was unparallelled. A liberal dusting of stars sparkled against the deep indigo of the night sky. He could even see the hazy glowing band of the Milky Way.
"Tell me what it looks like."
"Huh?" Steve's request caught Danny by surprise. He turned to face his friend, who was stretched out next to him on one of the blankets from the hut, wearing Joe's coat. Joe had insisted on giving it to him, claiming he liked the bracing cold.
"The sky," Steve clarified. "It's just a big blur to me, but I figure it's got to be one heck of a display if it's a clear night."
"Yeah, it's amazing. Like... diamonds against black velvet."
"Wish I could see it." Steve spoke quietly, his wistful tone a stark contrast to his typical bravado.
Danny put a hand on his friend's forearm. "Hey… where's that positive outlook you're always pushing on me? We'll go home, you'll get the treatment you need, and you'll be good as new. And when you're up for it, we'll go hiking somewhere away from the city. I'll bet we can find a place with a view even better than this one."
Steve was quiet for a moment, then chuckled. "I must be in worse shape than I realized if you're volunteering to go hiking."
Danny shrugged. "Might as well. You'll make me go anyway."
"True."
They kept silence for a moment, then Danny changed the flow of the conversation. "You'd better brace yourself, by the way."
"Yeah? What for?"
"Well, Grace never would believe you were dead. She gave me the silent treatment over it. I knew you weren't... and I couldn't tell her... and it just about killed me. She is going to be thrilled to see her Uncle Steve again. And Charlie..." Danny shook his head and gave a soft laugh. "Well, Charlie is going to be over the moon."
A long silence fell and Danny thought Steve had fallen asleep. But just as he was turning to check, Steve finally spoke again. "I'm sorry you all went through that. Thanks for not giving up on me."
"Hey, you would do the same for me. Of course... I wouldn't go out and get myself in that kind of trouble in the first place because I'm not a crazed Super SEAL who has to do everything the hard way." Danny's derisive words were laced with a touch of humor, and he hoped Steve would take them in the spirit intended.
He was not disappointed. Steve rolled on his side and puffed out his chest. "You wouldn't, huh? What about —" His voice faded to nothing as he rolled back on his stomach. "Damn… it was on the tip of my tongue," he breathed out in frustration.
"Still some holes?" Danny asked, keeping his voice low. He didn't worry about Frank or Chin overhearing — they were both snoring already — and Ji couldn't understand. Of course, Joe was probably listening in, even if he seemed distracted by Lyudmila. Danny wasn't about to make it easy for him.
Steve just nodded.
Danny felt his heart sinking to his stomach. "Like… a lot? A few? How bad is it?"
"How the hell am I supposed to know that, Danno?" Steve hissed. In spite of the anger lacing his tone, his words slurred slightly, and they were punctuated by a cavernous yawn.
Danny knew his friend was still exhausted and decided it wasn't a good idea to push any harder. Lyudmila had warned them that Steve might tire easily, and he'd probably been going on adrenaline for a while now. "Give it time," he said, trying to convince himself as much as Steve. "It'll come back."
No response. Danny looked over to see Steve with his head pillowed on his arms, eyes closed, breathing evenly. Sound asleep. "Get some rest, Super SEAL," he said, his lips twitching upward in a rueful smile. Might as well follow his example, he thought. Confident that Joe was keeping watch, he lay back, closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep as well.
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Arkady gripped the steering wheel and stared intently at the road ahead. He tuned out Alex and Kono as they talked next to him, thankful they did not try to draw him into their conversation. He had never actually driven this road; before today, he hadn't walked it in almost fifteen years. He didn't feel the need just now to let his new acquaintances know this fact, nor was he ready to let them know of the fear that had settled like a rock in his gut. Would his parents welcome him? Were they even still living? What if he returned home only to find his village deserted? As far as Arkady's family knew, he had died the night he disappeared after an argument with his father. He swallowed hard and removed one hand from the wheel to finger the cross he wore under his uniform. He'd long ago traded his rubashka and his intricately woven poya for a soldier's uniform, but for years he had clung to that cross as the only remnant of the life he had left behind.
As a youth, he had been restless, longing to see something of the world beyond his isolated village. The Old Believers were an insular people, and after the Revolution of 1917, many had withdrawn to escape persecution and keep their old ways, hiding their small communities in vast swathes of wilderness where life never seemed to change.
But Arkady had craved change. According to family legends, his great-great-grandfather had gone to sea in his youth, returning home with many stories of the world beyond his family's farm. Passed down from one generation to the next, those stories had thrilled Arkady. He wanted to see new places, meet new people. He wanted to make his own life, instead of others deciding for him what he would do, how he would dress, whom he would marry. While he appreciated the history of his people and the suffering they had endured, he failed to see why he should be hemmed in and controlled because of it. And so, judging himself a man grown, he had walked out that night shortly after his sixteenth birthday.
A faint smile graced his lips as he remembered his first sight of the "big" city — Mogocha. In later years he would see Moscow and understand that Mogocha was actually quite small, but to a lad whose life experience was limited to a village of no more than 50 people, this city of thousands had been both intriguing and terrifying.
Naive in the ways of the world, he still knew that to take what did not belong to him was a grave sin. God's wrath had come swiftly, in the form of the baker's hand grasping him in its iron grip by the high collar of his rubashka. With the other hand, the man slapped Arkady hard across the face as a torrent of angry words poured from his mouth. When the police arrived, the officer had been firm, but not cruel. He demanded Arkady's identity papers — documentation the lad did not possess — and contact information for his parents, and he promised the baker he would take care of the matter.
Sitting in the police station, Arkady faced a dilemma. He was ready for his adventure to end, but he was not ready to apologize to his father or bow to his will, and not completely certain his father would allow him to return anyway. And in any case, he could not betray the community's existence, possibly bringing new troubles upon them.
For some reason, the lieutenant who questioned him had taken kindly to the stubborn young man who sat for hours in his office and never uttered a word. When the time came to have Arkady escorted to a jail cell, the boy thought maybe he spied genuine compassion in Police Lieutenant Mikhail Dmitrevich Dushko's eyes.
Like Jonah in the belly of the fish, he spent three days in that cell. Each afternoon as he ate his meager dinner, Lieutenant Dushko would sit and talk with him through the bars. "Malchik, you must answer my questions. At least tell me your name. I do not believe you are a bad boy... just a hungry one. But you chose to steal from the wrong man. Sasha Andreievich would let his own mother starve if she could not pay for a loaf. He demands the strictest punishment. I believe I can convince my captain to let me take you home as long as you promise never to steal again. But first, we must know who you are and where you live. I cannot release you except into the custody of your parents."
On the last day, Arkady crumbled his stale chunk of bread into the bowl of red borscht, carefully considering the lieutenant's words. Finally, he decided that he could at least tell his name, though he would keep his vow of silence about the village. "Menya zovut Arkady." They were the first words he had spoken since his arrest, and he could swear they brought a fleeting shadow to the lieutenant's eyes.
"Arkady?" Dushko raised an eyebrow. "Only Arkady? Nothing more... no patronymic? No family name?"
With a slow shake of his head, Arkady dared to meet the lieutenant's eyes. "Only Arkady. I am... alone."
Early the next morning, the lieutenant bustled his young charge out of the police station and into his old Zhiguli sedan. Arkady had never been inside a car before. Indeed, he had never seen one before his trek to Mogocha. Awe and a somewhat renewed thirst for adventure kept him in his seat. Well, that, and he didn't know how to open the door. When the lieutenant had turned on the vehicle and set it in motion, the youth had stiffened and braced himself against the glove box. The lieutenant laughed. "Relax, Malchik. I think you'll like this."
About ten hours later, the lieutenant delivered him to the door of a military school. Before they got out, the man sat silent for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was distant and full of pain. "My son's name was also Arkady. If he had lived, he would be about your age." He sighed. "It will be hard, but school is better than jail or the streets, yes? Your tuition is paid. I will check on you as often as I can."
And so Arkady's new life began. The boy who had wanted to claim control of his life found it strictly regimented instead. Registered under the name Dushko, he gradually accepted that name as his own. He wrote a weekly letter to the lieutenant, informing him of his progress. When his benefactor was killed in a fire a year later, Arkady thought he would be forced out of school, but he discovered that the man had arranged to pay his tuition, along with room and board and a small allowance, through graduation.
Life was not easy, but it never had been. The other boys found Arkady's ways quaint, his speech old-fashioned, and they teased him mercilessly. When he was tempted to feel sorry for himself, he clung to snatches of instruction he remembered from childhood: "You must learn to find contentment wherever you are, my son," his father had once told him. Arkady had ignored this advice when he ran away from home, but now he repeated it to himself daily. He threw himself into his studies, quickly proving that he could surpass the rest of his cohort in academics and physical training.
With no background and no money to speak of, though, high marks were not enough to make him officer material. At 18, after graduating at the top of his form, he enlisted at the rank of private while his classmates went on to military academies and officer training. Though trained as a sniper, he had never yet seen combat. While his superiors praised his skills on the practice range, they thought him too docile, more a scholar than a soldier, and better suited to a desk job than the battlefield. Over time, he earned promotion to sergeant. When he was pulled away from his desk in order to assist Colonel Ryong, subsequently realizing that pursuit of Steve McGarrett was taking him closer and closer to his childhood home, he wondered if God was giving him a second chance to go home. He'd thought many times about going back, but always found excuses to stay away.
Well, God, he thought now as the damaged truck bumped its way along the rutted road. Mama always told me that if I strayed from the path you set before me, someday you would place me back on it in spite of myself. I suppose she was right. He squinted and leaned forward, peering through the night as he slowed the truck to a crawl, his eyes searching carefully for the large stone that marked the beginning of the path to the village. His great-great-grandfather had set it in place long before Arkady's birth, a marker that only other Old Believers would recognize. At last he saw it, unchanged by the passage of time. He could only hope that his childhood home would be the same.
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When Dushko pulled to the side of the road and stopped, Danny awoke with a start and looked around. No sign of human habitation at all — just thick, dark woods surrounding them. "What the hell?" Had the truck broken down? His body tensing, he touched his gun, readying himself for whatever might happen.
Steve sat up, wincing with the movement. Danny reached to help, but he pushed the offered hand away. "I'm OK, Danno. Listen, I know you don't trust the sergeant, but I do. Give him a chance."
Danny frowned. "We're in the middle of nowhere, Steve. This can't be good."
A door slammed, and a minute later Dushko limped around the truck to face his passengers. "From here we walk. The village is not far, but the road will not take us there." He lowered the tailgate.
"I still say this is crazy," Danny muttered as he jumped to the ground after Lyudmila, then turned to help Steve.
"Think positive, Danny." Steve thumped him on the shoulder as he slid down. Any trace of wistfulness or uncertainty had altogether vanished from his tone.
Normally, Danny would have responded with a cutting remark, but he swallowed it. Instead, he scrutinized his friend carefully, looking for evidence of pain and trying to gauge how much of this mood swing was an act. Aneurysm face… bet he's got a headache. And he's shivering, even with Joe's coat on. Could just be cold — but could be running a fever. I hope to God he's right about Dushko, because if he isn't, we're screwed.
Chin and Kono fell into line behind their guide, followed by Joe and Lyudmila. Next came Alex and Frank. Steve walked behind them, one hand on Pak Hun Ji's shoulder for guidance. Danny felt a pang of jealousy, but he reminded himself that the two men had been traveling this way for a while now. Why mess with what worked? Danny brought up the rear.
As far as he could tell, there was no discernible path. The sergeant picked his way through the trees, stopping occasionally to cast his light around before moving on. The deeper they walked into the woods, the more Danny's gut tightened with anxiety. When he saw Steve stumble and almost fall, his last shred of patience crumbled. "I thought you said it wouldn't take long, Sergeant," he barked. "Look, we're tired and hungry and some of us are injured. We need to end this."
Dushko stopped, his shoulder muscles visibly tightening. "Come here please, Book 'Em Danno. Stand with me a moment."
Ignoring the use of the nickname, Danny shouldered past the others toward the front of the line. Steve grabbed his arm briefly as he passed. "Danno, take it easy."
Danny paused for just a second, then pulled away and moved to Dushko's side. "What?"
"Shine your light down there. Tell me what you see."
He did as Dushko asked. The beam of light settled on a crumbling pile of stones. "A bunch of rocks," he snapped, then took a deep breath and forced himself to temper his tone. "Is this supposed to mean something?"
Dushko's smooth, unruffled answer only served to infuriate him more. "Not to you, perhaps, but to me, it is a sign that we are headed in the right direction. When we reach those stones, we will look for another pile. The stones mark the path to a hidden village... my childhood home. My people have lived in hiding here since 1918. I have not walked this path in many years, and though I remember these woods quite well, I am no longer certain of the distances. But I assure you, it is not much further."
Danny crossed his arms, accidentally-on-purpose shining the Maglite in Dushko's eyes for a brief second. He smirked as Dushko winced and blinked. "How many years are you talking about? Are you sure your family is still there?"
Dushko hesitated just a beat, but it was enough for Danny to know he wasn't convinced of his answer. "Fourteen. And I am reasonably certain. Listen, Detective — this is the best I can offer you. The alternative is, we walk to Ulaanbaatar, eating only what we can hunt. You are free to do this if you wish, but now that I am this close to my home, I intend to see my parents, if they are willing."
He attempted to move forward, but Chin intercepted him. "Wait. Why wouldn't they be willing?"
Dushko sighed as he looked around and then turned back to them. "When I was sixteen, I abandoned my family after an argument with my father. He wished to arrange a marriage for me." He shrugged. "I did not agree. We fought. I left. I never returned."
He started to move forward again, but Danny grabbed his arm. "We're not done," he barked. "What makes you think they'll help us?"
Dushko stiffened and his tone grew hard. "My parents are good people, Detective. I may have run away, but I never doubted that. In fact, within a few days, I wanted to go home, but by that point, I could not. For their protection, I gave up everything, even my name." He sighed. "I hope they will welcome me, but I cannot be sure. But you — you come to them as strangers in need. Christian charity requires them to give you aid. If necessary, I will leave you with them and hope that someday our paths cross again."
"No." Steve and Ji had moved up next to Danny. Steve looked like hell, but his voice did not waver. "We're sticking together. If they won't accept you, we'll find another way."
Danny threw his hands up. "Steve, I don't know why you trust this guy! I mean... it's a touching story and all, but I've got twenty bucks that says he's leading us into a trap."
"Twenty bucks, huh? High stakes there, Danno. Show a little commitment... make it at least fifty."
"Knock it off, Steve." Danny wasn't in the mood for any more taunting. "Someone has to exercise a little caution since you won't. I'm not letting a total stranger lead me into the woods to be devoured by wolves just because a Neanderthal animal says I should!"
"Who says I'm not exercising caution? I'm a good judge of character, Danny, and I trust him. Besides, I don't know that we have any other choice. Do you really want to walk to Ulaanbaatar?"
"Steve's right, Danny. We have to trust him." Joe looked around at the rest of the group. "Any other objections?"
When no one responded, Steve smirked. "All right, then. You're on, Danny. Fifty bucks." Steve nodded to Dushko. "Lead on, Sergeant. I'll take you out to dinner with my winnings when this is all over."
"Don't count your chickens before they hatch," Danny muttered under his breath, but he knew when he was defeated. "Fine. But when he leads us into a firing squad, don't blame me."
Dushko's eyes flashed. "I have done nothing but help since I met you, Detective. I have taken considerable risks in order to do so. If you would stop insulting me long enough to listen, perhaps you would understand that we are on the same side. My goal is to see you and your friends — including the Commander — returned safely home."
Without another word, he continued, the others falling in line behind him once again. Danny hustled to keep up. He wasn't about to get caught in these woods alone, and someone had to look out for the danger magnet.
About ten minutes later, the trees gave way to a small graveyard. Beyond that, Danny spotted a log house surrounded by more trees. Candles glowed in the front window. A hint of woodsmoke and something baking wafted on the air and filled Danny's nostrils. He was no longer convinced that they were walking into a trap, and whatever was cooking sure did smell good.
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Arkady stopped as they reached the edge of the graveyard. "Wait here. It is best I speak to them first. Then I will introduce you."
As he stepped forward, he inhaled deeply, mustering all his courage. His instructors were wrong about him. He was not too docile for combat — he simply needed to believe in the fight. He had survived the bullies in school; he had excelled in brutal military training; he had not blinked when dealing with Ryong; and even with a bullet hole through his leg, he had kept going. Surely he could approach his mother and father. All they could do was reject him, right? Send the prodigal away. He had survived all these years in the outside world, and he could continue to survive there. But he craved the security of home.
A three-barred wooden cross marking his great-grandfather's grave stood at the edge of the cemetery. Arkady remembered himself as a boy of twelve, standing forlorn beside this grave after they had bid Georgiy Levovich farewell. He had been very close to the gentle man whose stories had always inspired him, awakening in him a thirst for adventure. That loss had marked the beginning of his discontent with life in the woods.
"I have returned, Pradyed," he whispered. "Please pray for me." He crossed himself and then turned and strode toward his father's house.
Before he could reach the door, an old man with a long white beard stepped out from behind the stand of trees, a flickering lantern in one hand. In the other arm, he carried a few logs. At his heels, a large wolf-dog stood on alert, hackles raised, staring at Arkady. As his eyes met Arkady's the old man froze, dropping the firewood. "Myesto," he said, his tone steady and quiet, but commanding. Arkady wasn't sure if his father was talking to the dog or to him, but he obeyed, staying rooted in place.
"Papa?" The word came out in a strangled whisper, and to Arkady, time seemed to freeze as he and his father stared at one another.
The old man trembled, and he squinted his eyes as he scrutinized his son. "It is my Arkady's voice... his face... but can it be true that my son lives?"
"Yes, Papa." He swiped his sleeve across his face, wiping away tears. "I am alive. I have come home." He took a step forward, waiting, trying to gauge his father's expression. The dog growled, but his father barked a command and the animal lay down next to him. Arkady could see, though, that the creature's muscles remained taut, on guard.
After a brief silence, his father dropped the logs as he raised both arms and stepped toward him, calling out with a loud shout. "Slava Bogu! Bludnyy syn vernulsya! Mama! Priyti! Nash Arkady zhivyot!"
An elderly woman clad in an ankle length homespun dress and apron, her hair covered with a kerchief, flew out of the house, down the front steps, and into Arkady's arms. Weeping, Arkady embraced his mother, then stretched out one long arm to pull his father into the hug as well. "Mama... Papa... I've missed you so. Can you ever forgive me?"
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Danny didn't need to understand Russian to recognize the parents' joy at seeing their son alive and well. It made him feel good as he described the scene to his friend.
Steve elbowed him. "Now wasn't that worth a little walk through the woods?"
Danny snickered. "You can wipe that smirk off your face, Steve." But then he fell silent for a moment and just watched. "Yeah," he finally admitted. "It is kind of beautiful."
Soon Dushko gestured toward the small group waiting near the tree line, and Danny figured he was explaining their situation. After a few minutes, Arkady's tearful mother bustled back inside and his father knelt to gather up his firewood. Arkady turned and beckoned them forward. "Come! My parents will make you all welcome!"