Prologue One
Near Zhitomir, Russia
March 31, 1902
Grigory sat before a dying campfire and stared into the dense woods. A cold wind stirred the bare trees and blew ash from the glowing embers against his face. It felt like a spiritual anointing. His spectral visitor was gone, vanished into the black forest. It was her third visit. She had first come to him late in the night of his thirty-third birthday, January 10, 1899. He had been quite drunk with cheap vodka when the ghostly apparition startled him from his stupor. She spoke to him from a strangely lighted face set in a cloud of white vapor. Her face was without feature but for the eyes, bright white sockets with no pupils. He could not remember her exact words, but she spoke of a holy mission that called for his special powers. He sensed that he was to prepare himself. He named her Astra.
She appeared to him a second time at the stroke of midnight on the eve of the New Year, 1900. This time her instructions had been clear. He was to take a pilgrimage to the Holy Land where his divine purpose would be revealed to him. He was to leave at once and travel alone, on foot. He was to take nothing with him and was to rely upon the generosity of those he encountered on his journey. She would guide his every step.
Grigory had done as instructed. Since he was a small boy, he had known of his unique gifts. He could sense things, both good and bad, that were about to happen. He could sense pain, sorrow, guilt, kindness, wickedness, and lust as if the words were stamped across the foreheads of those he gazed upon. As he grew older, his senses grew stronger. They became special powers with which he could alter the world around him. His greatest power was in his eyes. He could mesmerize with his magical eyes. He found that he could bend people to his will by capturing their mind in the depths of his mystical gaze.
A religious elder called it hypnosis, but Grigory knew it was more than mere mind control. His subjects were fully aware and knew exactly what they were doing. They chose their actions, and they remembered them. That was his power, to see what people wanted and to bring them to do what they did not have the inner strength to carry out.
Grigory’s journey to the Holy Land revealed much to him. He struggled at first, before he learned to use his powers. He soon found that the mystique of a wandering Holy Man cast a powerful spell on simple people, especially young women. He learned to affect a countenance of humble suffering, of devout sacrifice to a higher purpose. As he plodded his way to Jerusalem, Astra guided him to the doorsteps of dirt poor peasants and God-fearing simpletons. They gave him everything, all he needed and all he wanted.
When he arrived in the Holy Land, the sacred temples and sites meant little to him. It was the journey that had honed his powers. On his return trip, he felt more powerful with each encounter. Now, back deep in the vastness of Russia, Grigory was fully aware of his powers, and his guardian angel had finally revealed his purpose.
Astra told him to return home to Prokovskoe on the Tura River where he was to use his powers for good. He would become a Staretz, a Holy Man, with the power to heal. He would soon be noticed, and his fame would spread throughout Russia. He was to follow that fame to the highest seat of power. There, his Holy Purpose would be served. He would save Russia from evil.
Astra also told him that he would meet a young woman in the next village. The woman would bear him a child. The child would possess his gifts, but would be in great danger because of his father’s fame. For the safety of the child, he must leave the village the morning after conception and never return. He was never to seek out the child and never to acknowledge his paternity. The preservation of his gifts was essential to fulfill a higher calling.
Grigory sat and waited for the coming dawn. He took off his clothes and knelt before the fire. He leaned toward the flames and let the rising ashes drift over his naked body. He began to chant the parting words of his white angel.
“You are the Staretz Rasputin, and you will save Russia.”
“You are the Staretz Rasputin, and you will save Russia.”
“You are the Staretz Rasputin …”
Prologue Two
Prokovskoe, Russia
June 29, 1914
Xionia Guschina stood in the shadows near the front gate. She had been waiting for two hours. Twelve years had passed since she had looked him in the eye. She doubted he would recognize her. They had only spent one night together, and her appearance had changed drastically.
She had been a beautiful young girl in 1902, when the curious wandering man appeared at their door early one morning. He was dirty and reeked of wood smoke. Long tangles of dark hair hung over his face and his clothes were worn and filthy. But there was something in his eyes that spoke to her. Her father had been taken with him as well. He welcomed the stranger into their home. They fed him and drew him a bath. They washed and mended his clothes. In the evening, she had listened in as he told her father of his journey and his constant battle with Satan over the destiny of his soul. She was mesmerized by what she heard as she sat above the porch in the window of her bedroom, the smoke from the pipe they shared drifting up to her.
After the family had gone to bed, she slipped out the window and went to the barn. She remembered the squeaking ladder as she climbed into the loft where they had made a place for him to sleep. He seemed to know she would be coming. He smiled and stared deep into her soul with those wondrous, pale eyes. Though only fourteen and a virgin, she gave herself to him like a wanton harlot. They thrashed about deep into the night; there seemed no end to his lust for her. They fell asleep in each other’s arms. When she awoke, he was gone.
She had still not seen or heard from him when the child came. Her family had allowed her to remain at home. They were affectionate with the child, but showed no love for their own daughter. The people of Zhitomir treated her like an outcast. Only the family knew who the father was, and they had no hope of ever seeing him again. Many among the town feared some good woman’s husband had fallen prey to the young vixen. She lived in unbearable shame for the next eight years.
One day, in 1910, she picked up a Moscow newspaper from a park bench. There on the front page was a picture of her wanderer. He was shown posing with the tsarina and a host of other women. The picture was blurred, but there was no mistaking the eyes. The caption said he was Grigory Efimovich Rasputin, a spiritual healer who had saved little Tsarevich Alexei from certain death.
Xionia eagerly read all she could find on Rasputin. She learned that he was from Prokovskoe, and though he spent most of his time in the company of the Romanovs, he did return home on occasion. She desperately wanted to confront him, to tell him of their daughter. She knew it would be difficult to get close to him while in the company of the Romanovs. She decided to go to his home village. She left her daughter in the care of her grandparents and went to his hometown to await his return.
Her journey had been long and difficult. She arrived in Prokovskoe with no money. She asked around and learned that he had recently been home to visit his family, but had returned to Moscow. Learning of his family had disheartened her, but still she waited. She could find no work, and after some time she accepted a room in the home of a farmer and his family. The man was kind at first, but he soon began to make advances. She fought him for a while, but he eventually turned brutal, and took what he wanted. When his wife discovered the affair, she threw Xionia into the street.
She found herself a marked woman, far from home, with no prospects. It was easier than she imagined becoming what so many already thought her to be. She soon began earning her way as a prostitute. That had been four years ago. A bout with syphilis left her disfigured. Her face was a grotesque mask of scar tissue, and most of her nose had rotted away. She had not spoken to her family or her daughter since leaving home, and now, she knew she could never go back. Still, she waited.
Outside Rasputin’s home, she stood quietly in the darkness, gently tracing the curves of her face with her fingers. The ridges of scar tissue felt oddly familiar beneath her fingertips. The shallow depression where her nose had been no longer felt strange to her. She was trying to remember what her face felt like before, when she saw a man turn the corner and walk toward her. Even in the dark, she could make out his silhouette. Backlit by a streetlamp, his long, tangled hair shrouded his head. She wondered one last time what she would say to him.
Stepping out from the shadows, she stopped directly in his path. He stopped abruptly, looked at her face and stepped back. There was no recognition in his startled expression. After an awkward moment, he seemed to regain his composure.
“What may I do for you?” he asked, his voice somehow calming.
“Our daughter asks for her father. She is twelve now, and waits for us in Zhitomir.”
Rasputin leaned in to her, searching her mangled face for something familiar.
“Who are you?”
“I’m the mother of your child. You knew me one night in our loft on your way home from your travels.”
He looked puzzled, then bothered.
“I have no child by you, my children sleep soundly in that house,” he said pointing beyond the gate to his home.
“You may not remember, but it was you.”
He took a menacing step toward her and began laughing.
“You are that freak of a whore! I’ve heard them speak of you in the church. I will not be your fool, but if it’s money you want, let me see what I have.”
He reached into his coat and began fumbling through a pocket.
“Here are three rubles,” he said holding out the note and still laughing. “Perhaps it will keep you fed until you find your fool.”
Xionia burned with rage. His laughter drove her mad. She reached into a fold in her dress and pulled out a stiletto. She made a furious lunge at him and buried the knife into his abdomen. He shoved her back and looked at the growing blood spot on his shirt. She lunged again, but he turned and ran. She chased him down the street. He turned the corner and ran toward a group of people standing outside a tavern. He stopped in front of the group and turned to face her. She kept coming, the knife raised above her head. He took a piece of wood from the ground and struck her on the side of the head. She went down hard. Someone from the crowd kicked the knife away.
Near Zhitomir, Russia
March 31, 1902
Grigory sat before a dying campfire and stared into the dense woods. A cold wind stirred the bare trees and blew ash from the glowing embers against his face. It felt like a spiritual anointing. His spectral visitor was gone, vanished into the black forest. It was her third visit. She had first come to him late in the night of his thirty-third birthday, January 10, 1899. He had been quite drunk with cheap vodka when the ghostly apparition startled him from his stupor. She spoke to him from a strangely lighted face set in a cloud of white vapor. Her face was without feature but for the eyes, bright white sockets with no pupils. He could not remember her exact words, but she spoke of a holy mission that called for his special powers. He sensed that he was to prepare himself. He named her Astra.
She appeared to him a second time at the stroke of midnight on the eve of the New Year, 1900. This time her instructions had been clear. He was to take a pilgrimage to the Holy Land where his divine purpose would be revealed to him. He was to leave at once and travel alone, on foot. He was to take nothing with him and was to rely upon the generosity of those he encountered on his journey. She would guide his every step.
Grigory had done as instructed. Since he was a small boy, he had known of his unique gifts. He could sense things, both good and bad, that were about to happen. He could sense pain, sorrow, guilt, kindness, wickedness, and lust as if the words were stamped across the foreheads of those he gazed upon. As he grew older, his senses grew stronger. They became special powers with which he could alter the world around him. His greatest power was in his eyes. He could mesmerize with his magical eyes. He found that he could bend people to his will by capturing their mind in the depths of his mystical gaze.
A religious elder called it hypnosis, but Grigory knew it was more than mere mind control. His subjects were fully aware and knew exactly what they were doing. They chose their actions, and they remembered them. That was his power, to see what people wanted and to bring them to do what they did not have the inner strength to carry out.
Grigory’s journey to the Holy Land revealed much to him. He struggled at first, before he learned to use his powers. He soon found that the mystique of a wandering Holy Man cast a powerful spell on simple people, especially young women. He learned to affect a countenance of humble suffering, of devout sacrifice to a higher purpose. As he plodded his way to Jerusalem, Astra guided him to the doorsteps of dirt poor peasants and God-fearing simpletons. They gave him everything, all he needed and all he wanted.
When he arrived in the Holy Land, the sacred temples and sites meant little to him. It was the journey that had honed his powers. On his return trip, he felt more powerful with each encounter. Now, back deep in the vastness of Russia, Grigory was fully aware of his powers, and his guardian angel had finally revealed his purpose.
Astra told him to return home to Prokovskoe on the Tura River where he was to use his powers for good. He would become a Staretz, a Holy Man, with the power to heal. He would soon be noticed, and his fame would spread throughout Russia. He was to follow that fame to the highest seat of power. There, his Holy Purpose would be served. He would save Russia from evil.
Astra also told him that he would meet a young woman in the next village. The woman would bear him a child. The child would possess his gifts, but would be in great danger because of his father’s fame. For the safety of the child, he must leave the village the morning after conception and never return. He was never to seek out the child and never to acknowledge his paternity. The preservation of his gifts was essential to fulfill a higher calling.
Grigory sat and waited for the coming dawn. He took off his clothes and knelt before the fire. He leaned toward the flames and let the rising ashes drift over his naked body. He began to chant the parting words of his white angel.
“You are the Staretz Rasputin, and you will save Russia.”
“You are the Staretz Rasputin, and you will save Russia.”
“You are the Staretz Rasputin …”
Prologue Two
Prokovskoe, Russia
June 29, 1914
Xionia Guschina stood in the shadows near the front gate. She had been waiting for two hours. Twelve years had passed since she had looked him in the eye. She doubted he would recognize her. They had only spent one night together, and her appearance had changed drastically.
She had been a beautiful young girl in 1902, when the curious wandering man appeared at their door early one morning. He was dirty and reeked of wood smoke. Long tangles of dark hair hung over his face and his clothes were worn and filthy. But there was something in his eyes that spoke to her. Her father had been taken with him as well. He welcomed the stranger into their home. They fed him and drew him a bath. They washed and mended his clothes. In the evening, she had listened in as he told her father of his journey and his constant battle with Satan over the destiny of his soul. She was mesmerized by what she heard as she sat above the porch in the window of her bedroom, the smoke from the pipe they shared drifting up to her.
After the family had gone to bed, she slipped out the window and went to the barn. She remembered the squeaking ladder as she climbed into the loft where they had made a place for him to sleep. He seemed to know she would be coming. He smiled and stared deep into her soul with those wondrous, pale eyes. Though only fourteen and a virgin, she gave herself to him like a wanton harlot. They thrashed about deep into the night; there seemed no end to his lust for her. They fell asleep in each other’s arms. When she awoke, he was gone.
She had still not seen or heard from him when the child came. Her family had allowed her to remain at home. They were affectionate with the child, but showed no love for their own daughter. The people of Zhitomir treated her like an outcast. Only the family knew who the father was, and they had no hope of ever seeing him again. Many among the town feared some good woman’s husband had fallen prey to the young vixen. She lived in unbearable shame for the next eight years.
One day, in 1910, she picked up a Moscow newspaper from a park bench. There on the front page was a picture of her wanderer. He was shown posing with the tsarina and a host of other women. The picture was blurred, but there was no mistaking the eyes. The caption said he was Grigory Efimovich Rasputin, a spiritual healer who had saved little Tsarevich Alexei from certain death.
Xionia eagerly read all she could find on Rasputin. She learned that he was from Prokovskoe, and though he spent most of his time in the company of the Romanovs, he did return home on occasion. She desperately wanted to confront him, to tell him of their daughter. She knew it would be difficult to get close to him while in the company of the Romanovs. She decided to go to his home village. She left her daughter in the care of her grandparents and went to his hometown to await his return.
Her journey had been long and difficult. She arrived in Prokovskoe with no money. She asked around and learned that he had recently been home to visit his family, but had returned to Moscow. Learning of his family had disheartened her, but still she waited. She could find no work, and after some time she accepted a room in the home of a farmer and his family. The man was kind at first, but he soon began to make advances. She fought him for a while, but he eventually turned brutal, and took what he wanted. When his wife discovered the affair, she threw Xionia into the street.
She found herself a marked woman, far from home, with no prospects. It was easier than she imagined becoming what so many already thought her to be. She soon began earning her way as a prostitute. That had been four years ago. A bout with syphilis left her disfigured. Her face was a grotesque mask of scar tissue, and most of her nose had rotted away. She had not spoken to her family or her daughter since leaving home, and now, she knew she could never go back. Still, she waited.
Outside Rasputin’s home, she stood quietly in the darkness, gently tracing the curves of her face with her fingers. The ridges of scar tissue felt oddly familiar beneath her fingertips. The shallow depression where her nose had been no longer felt strange to her. She was trying to remember what her face felt like before, when she saw a man turn the corner and walk toward her. Even in the dark, she could make out his silhouette. Backlit by a streetlamp, his long, tangled hair shrouded his head. She wondered one last time what she would say to him.
Stepping out from the shadows, she stopped directly in his path. He stopped abruptly, looked at her face and stepped back. There was no recognition in his startled expression. After an awkward moment, he seemed to regain his composure.
“What may I do for you?” he asked, his voice somehow calming.
“Our daughter asks for her father. She is twelve now, and waits for us in Zhitomir.”
Rasputin leaned in to her, searching her mangled face for something familiar.
“Who are you?”
“I’m the mother of your child. You knew me one night in our loft on your way home from your travels.”
He looked puzzled, then bothered.
“I have no child by you, my children sleep soundly in that house,” he said pointing beyond the gate to his home.
“You may not remember, but it was you.”
He took a menacing step toward her and began laughing.
“You are that freak of a whore! I’ve heard them speak of you in the church. I will not be your fool, but if it’s money you want, let me see what I have.”
He reached into his coat and began fumbling through a pocket.
“Here are three rubles,” he said holding out the note and still laughing. “Perhaps it will keep you fed until you find your fool.”
Xionia burned with rage. His laughter drove her mad. She reached into a fold in her dress and pulled out a stiletto. She made a furious lunge at him and buried the knife into his abdomen. He shoved her back and looked at the growing blood spot on his shirt. She lunged again, but he turned and ran. She chased him down the street. He turned the corner and ran toward a group of people standing outside a tavern. He stopped in front of the group and turned to face her. She kept coming, the knife raised above her head. He took a piece of wood from the ground and struck her on the side of the head. She went down hard. Someone from the crowd kicked the knife away.
