God's Children

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  God's Children

  Author's Note

  About Honno

  Copyright

  God’s Children

  by

  Mabli Roberts

  Honno Modern Fiction

  This book is dedicated to:

  The teachers who thought I could,

  The friends and family who believed I could,

  The editors and publishers who knew I could,

  And all the people who said I couldn’t.

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to Felicity Aston for her encouragement. Her insight and enthusiasm helped sustain me through the long trek of writing this book.

  Grateful thanks also to the Royal Geographical Society for the image of Kate Marsden in the author’s note.

  To all at Honno, sincere gratitude for your faith in my little book, and for bravely sharing my vision for the way I wanted to tell Kate’s story.

  Thanks, not for the first time, to friends and family who have supported me in my determination to write God’s Children and see it go out into the world. You know who you are!

  And heartfelt thanks to the spirit of Kate Marsden for staying the course with me, and for whom I will always have the utmost admiration.

  You remember the snow was blue. So many years have passed, and yet you can clearly see it, can’t you? The light so sharp, the air so pure, the day so cold, that the surrounding whiteness was transformed to the palest shade of shimmering blue. The colour of a baby’s bonnet, you said, or a fine china tea set, or the eyes of a saint. Instead of blankness and nothingness there were a thousand different thoughts and memories held in that blue-blue ice. The longer you looked, the more revealed themselves.

  From where I sat, beneath the shelter of the opening to my tent, I could see the vast expanse of frozen tundra that stretched away west, north and east into impossibly distant horizons. My mind would struggle to make sense of the scale of what it observed. We live our lives for the most part in close proximity to our surroundings, our vision taking us no further than the middle distance; across a street, or a river, or a field. We see in measurements we can comprehend with ease. To be in such wilderness as I travelled through, to feel the insignificance of one’s own being amid the glory of God’s earth, was at once both terrifying and tremendous.

  And what did God want you to find there, do you suppose? What secrets were to be shown you?

  Secrets are shy things. They are not easily discovered, for their nature is to hide.

  To hide themselves?

  To hide the truth.

  But in such an open place, surely the truth was easier to see.

  You have to wish to see it. Not all do. Is that really what you came to ask me? Is that what you want to know?

  I want to know all there is. I want you to tell me everything.

  Then you should have come sooner. It was all so very long ago.

  Tell me what you are able to recall. You said you remember the snow was blue. The light was sharp, the air pure…

  That is how I remember it today: tomorrow it may come to me differently. I cannot promise you consistency.

  You do want to remember, don’t you?

  My memory is no longer a matter of volition. I have no choice in what moments appear, what experiences I revisit. My past is not a neatly packed trunk through which you may sift for items of interest. It is an unravelled ball of wool, tangled and confused. You will have to coax out the knots. I cannot guarantee order. I cannot even be certain of sense.

  Let’s go back to the tundra. It always seems to spark something, starting with the wilderness. The snow was blue, the light sharp…

  It hurt my eyes, to begin with, until they became accustomed to it. In the coldest months, while I slept, they would freeze shut. I would have to rub the frost from them before I could open them in the mornings. And then I would view the world through the icicles on my lashes. The glare of the day, the brilliance of the sun upon the snow, would cause flashes of light, like the flare off a diamond, or from the crystal chandeliers in the Winter Palace in St Petersburg. Such chandeliers they were! Grander than any I had seen in England, even when I visited our own dear Queen Victoria. St Petersburg was a place of dazzling spectacle at every turn. There was never anywhere to match it. The week before I set out on my expedition the Tsarina held a grand reception, to make people aware of what it was I was trying to do. She invited every wealthy person in Russia, or so she told me, and of course they came. How could they refuse? I am not sufficiently foolish to think for one moment that they came for me, nor that they truly cared about my mission. They came for her. To see her. To be with her. Some of them travelled for days to be there. Many spent money they did not have or could ill-afford, simply for the opportunity to be in her presence for a brief time. That was the effect she had on all who met her. There was such a sweetness to her nature, and a beauty about her person – to sit beside her was to know happiness. To receive her attention – her smile! – was to feel blessed. And there was never a person less vain. It was as if God had endowed her with equal measures of charm and humility, so that, aside from her natural bearing and the requirements of her position, she gave the impression of never setting herself above others. It was a gift. A talent too, perhaps. She shone as brightly as those glittering chandeliers. As brilliantly as the diamonds she wore at her throat. Every bit as prettily as the light that danced off that far distant ice-blue snow.

  ‘Nurse? Nurse!’ I simply cannot make my voice any louder. I cough, clearing my dry throat, and try again. ‘Nurse, are you there? Nurse!’

  Now footsteps, and a white-clad sister strides into the room. She is not the young and gentle one. This one is much older. World weary. Her patience long ago used up.

  ‘What is all this noise about?’ she wants to know.

  ‘My book,’ I tell her, indicating my empty bedside table. The words are clear enough in my head, but I fear they reach her as slurred and jumbled. ‘It is not where it should be. I left it here, in its place…’ I lean over the side of the bed, causing the nurse to bark in alarm.

  ‘Have a care, Miss Marsden!’ She takes hold of me and pulls me back into the bed. ‘Are you determined to have a fall? You will break bones and find yourself in all manner of difficulties.’

  And make more work for you, I think but do not say. ‘My book,’ I repeat, while I still have breath to form the words. ‘Where is my book?’

  With a tut she peers beneath the bed. ‘It is here,’ she says, bringing it forth. She slaps it down on the little table. ‘You must have fallen asleep whilst you were writing in it.’

  Did I? It is possible. I am too tired to argue the point. And it is found. That is all that matters.

  ‘You will make yourself ill if you insist on staring at those pages at all hours of the night,’ she warns me.

  I cannot find the strength to remind her I am already ill. But then, perhaps I am not. I am merely old, and my body is failing as all old things do. And what mind I have I will not waste on her. Many years ago I learned that it does not pay to expend effort and time on those who are not worthy of it.

  When I am weary it is to St Petersburg I find my mind travelling. To the Winter Palace. To the Empress. It is strange, I think, that I should find comfort not in thoughts of home or family or past loves, but in that particular variety of beauty.

  How my mother would have frowned at such a thought.

  ‘What have you to do with beauty?’ she’d have asked me. Plain. She’d describe me as such. She did not believe in the artifice or confusion of tact. ‘You are the way God made you, child. It is not for you to change it. He has his reasons,�
� she told me.

  But, what were they, I wanted to know. Why had God seen fit to make me as I was, when other little girls had dainty noses, small faces, sweet smiles? What possible plan could he have had for me that would have been hindered by a modicum of delicacy in my features? It matters not now, of course: old age is a friend to the unattractive. We are all diminished, those of us who live on to our later years. What we look like is of less importance. Who we are still has a bearing, yes, but it is what we did with our lives that matters at the last. How did we spend the time God granted us on this wide, wide earth? This is not to be confused with how we will be remembered. I care not, any longer, how I am perceived. Had my goal ever been to curry favour, to win approval, I would be a bitter woman now.

  Some believed that was in fact your driving force, your greatest wish.

  They were wrong.

  Some ventured to say it. There she is, hobnobbing with royalty. Empresses and Queens. Palaces and titles. Rubbing shoulders with the high and mighty, the rich and powerful. Letters from Her Majesty, notes from Her Highness. Can turn a girl’s head, all that attention, all that la-di-dah. Isn’t that what they said?

  Some did. I took no notice.

  Perhaps you should have. Your life would have been so different if you had.

  My life was not important. I was not important. I was God’s instrument. The little girl grew up and knew what He wanted her to do. Where I came from, what I looked like, none of that mattered. Out there, in the open expanses of Siberia, or in its dense wild forests, or on its icy rivers, there was no time for vanity. Warmth and practicality were the watchwords when choosing items of clothing. Strength in a woman, an ability to endure and to remain in good humour, these were qualities that counted. My build stood me in good stead, but even so I more than once found myself wishing I had been born a man. How much easier my chosen path might have been. But then, would the Tsarina have taken my mission to her heart in the same way? Was it not as women that we forged our friendship? For friendship it was. No, I would not trade a moment of dearest Maria Feodorovna’s kind attention for anything.

  Might you not be fooling yourself? You were a passing distraction for the Empress, perhaps, nothing more. A curiosity. Another way for her to be seen as Little Mother of Russia, caring even for those wretched outcasts you devoted your life to.

  They needed me.

  She did not.

  She helped me.

  She helped herself at the same time, used you to make herself shine all the brighter. Sent you off across that terrible wilderness in her name. Save her the trouble of leaving her lovely palace.

  You did not know her as I did. She was incapable of sacrificing another for her own gain.

  But you were sacrificed, weren’t you? Out there, with those men, those ruffians, all that way, all that time. Dirty. Sullied. Body and name. Never got it back, did you? Didn’t think about that when you planned your mission, did you?

  I would have gone all the same, even had I known the price. I would have paid it willingly.

  How that martyr’s crown must chafe!

  Hush now. Hush. I was where I needed to be. I was doing what needed to be done.

  We would try to reach a post-station, a village, or a farmer’s cottage for the night, but when this was not possible we pitched our tents in the wilderness. Our camps were simple, and offered the most basic of comforts, for we would spend but a few hours in them. Each day we would move on, forwards once more, and the wind and snow would quickly obliterate our traces. Those camps, which at first appeared to me to scarcely provide human comforts enough to sustain us, I came to regard as the most luxurious accommodation. In truth I preferred them to many of the lodgings we found along the way, for they were free of vermin, and I was not required to share my sleeping space with strangers. There was always a fire in the camp, and always hot food. My guides and horsemen were men of the landscape we crossed. They were at home there. They did their best for me, though I know at times I slowed our progress woefully. Close by, the horses would dig at the snow in search of grazing, their thick skin and dense coats rendering them impervious to the cruel cold that worked its way through my many layers of clothing. At night they would close their eyes and rest standing. They always slept so, without cover or shelter. Indeed they appeared more at ease in the winter months than in the summer, when they were compelled to endure the relentless attentions of horseflies and mosquitoes. Our guides were natural horsemen and understood their animals. An English eye might have seen sternness in their treatment, but it was merely a lack of sentimentality. Despite this characteristic, Yuri, a Cossack and most excellent guide, was never without his huge black dog. The animal was scruffy and missing an eye, but Yuri assured us he would offer exemplary protection. He told many stories around the camp fire of how his companion came to lose its eye. Some involved wolves, others a bear, all painted the ragged creature in a heroic light.

  My legs pained me greatly, even then. Months of travel, including weeks of horseback trek over difficult terrain, being jolted and bruised in a tarantass and on sledges, having one’s limbs scraped and bashed against trees, all had taken their toll on my tender skin and muscles. I suffered contusions and abrasions, particularly on my knees and lower legs, caused by my horse bolting repeatedly into the deep forest, forcing himself where there was scarce room to pass. I was in places rubbed raw or sporting open wounds. My determination not to be dismissed as a weak and foolish woman made me reckless with my own health. Had I seen one of my patients in such a condition, the nurse in me would have chided them for their stubbornness. But a physician often makes a poor recipient of his own treatment. I had pressed on when I should have rested. Ignored the protestations of my own body when I should have heeded them. The results were such deep wounds and damaged tissue as I was unable to effectively remedy, so that my progress thereafter was to the loud and relentless accompaniment of pain.

  At the end of each day I would sit gazing into the empty vista, too fatigued to speak or sometimes even think clearly, warming my hands around a cup of hot tea. I had become accustomed to the Russian way of serving the drink – black, strong, and sweet – during my time in Moscow and St Petersburg, but it tasted curiously different on the trek. I recall experiencing a dizziness and thickness of the head that was both unpleasant and unhelpful.

  Having been a supporter of the temperance movement all my life, I did not recognise the symptoms of mild intoxication. It took a great deal of talking, in my halting Russian and increasingly urgent French, before I could convince them they must stop this practice, as it was against my beliefs and not beneficial for my health. I would sit with my back to the tent, seated on the reindeer skin which I used in a largely unsuccessful attempt to pad my saddle. My coat was also skin, the fur turned innermost, the hood pulled low. It was my habit to wear a woollen scarf tied about my face, so that all that could be seen were my eyes. My one good feature, my mother used to say. Might it have made her happy, then, to see me so covered? I doubt it. I did not cut a pleasing figure. The coat – to which I am certain I owe my life, such was the depth of the cold at nights on the Siberian plains – was so thick and long and heavy that I was unable to bend my knees sufficiently to mount my horse, and at times I had to be lifted into the saddle, or onto the sledge, by my guides, in the most undignified manner. At such times I told myself that dignity was a luxury I was fortunate to have known, and I should not pine for it. How much dignity did the lepers have when their families abandoned them to the forest? How much dignity was there in a disease that rendered a person disfigured and reviled? It was for them I made that journey. Nothing I endured could compare to the lives they suffered. God had blessed me with a strong constitution, a quick mind, and a purpose. I had no business complaining.

  In the spring of 1890, St Petersburg was filled with blossom. The trees along the banks of the Neva were doubled by their reflections in the sun-spangled water of the river. The city looked very fine, and I recall thinking, on the d
ay I arrived, that any country in which such a place existed would not knowingly allow its people to suffer. This was a place of light, and fresh air, and life. Its people were vibrant, welcoming, strong. They could not leave their fellow Russians to the mercy of a disease so terrible as leprosy. Surely here I would find support for my mission. The Tsarina had agreed to see me, that was the first step in a journey of many thousand.

  Her Imperial Majesty Tsarina Maria Feodorovna, Empress of all the Russias. Such a name to live up to! She liked to call me Katerina.

  In this room there is often quiet, but never silence. At night, the unremarkable sounds of the hospital are muted by slumber, by the hour, by the dark, it seems. But they are sounds still. Footsteps outside my door, marking brisk strides along the corridor. Soft moans or muffled snores of neighbouring patients. And whispers. Many whispers. Not all of them audible to anyone other than myself. At times there are gaps between these noises, but each one is merely a hiatus, and as such it contains the chiming anticipation of the next, imminent sound. So there is no silence here, where I lie, waiting for my body to relinquish its grasp on life. Will there be silence when I am with Him? Will there be no need for anything so clumsy as sound? Will He still lay his wishes upon my thoughts as He has done all my long life? I do hope so. I do yearn to be with Him.

  By the time my mother and I arrived in New Zealand my sister’s condition had worsened considerably. We had made the slow journey harried by the urgency of knowing dear Annie might not live to see our arrival. How long it was since we had been together, and what sad circumstances would reunite us. The consumption that had claimed my father had her in its icy grasp and would not now release her until it was into God’s own care.