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[color=0b0b0b][sub][b]S I B E R I A    •    T H E    R U S S I A N    E A S T    •    J A N U A R Y[/b][/sub]


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[color=gray]Like long, lost karakul sheep, the Cossacks wandered all too ceaselessly through the dry, cold, harsh weather of the Siberian terrain.  Winter was rustic and rude, yet in themselves, they still found deep fondness in respecting such a creation as their dirty, felt boots, soiled by tough, untrodden roads, padded their merciless journey of footprints into a distinct trail of white shadows, dipping almost unnoticeable into the thick, hard snow, which stretched for ages and ages against the Holy Russian Empire’s Eastern Territory — spread with mountains and valleys in mystery and majesty like a fortress and her army praying respectful tribute to the traditional rituals of the Eastern Landscape.

The East's bold face of the wilderness, uncharted yet ominously controlled, held whimsical tales of terror and triumphant victory, could be heard whispering through detailed winds, aridly bashed and haunted all at once, laid its muscular body forward in taunt and stoic, uncouth warmth.  Brash winter misery unfolded for an eternal memory and taught the fantasmic history of her folk stories as something only vaguely understood by daring wanderers who humbly marched to the sound of the muted, unspoken hymns, which rung like leaves that shook on the wrinkled trees, grown and twisted in penitential jubilation, sacrificed in prominent silence underneath their modestly pompous foliage attire.  However, in the wake of a dying year, a deep shadow cast along the tops of this land with a copious, gray cloak, curtaining tremendous lengths across the arid sky and spreading [i]anteri[/i] draped arms towards the horizon, yet despite the dreary darkness, so brilliantly the large daytime star had managed to shine during the day as he permitted a small slivers of his face to reflect on the land.  His vain reflections skipped the tiniest of dances to the commands of their owner, while his dominance over the land, still verily solemn in the parting of times, offered the faintest breath of hope, clouded from the lips of the nomadic like taciturn smoke, dispersed to invisible ash as would the fog when the Triodion should, once more. 

Twofold warfare wove the stories of these travelers.  Outside perfumes clung to their strong bodies, unbound by the permissible freedom of a predated procession.  Veils of memories and longing tribulation, communed through generations and generations, pulled timeless noetic strings through the hearts of the Cossacks.  These silk threads were too tough and inexhaustible to be sliced or broken by the sharp metal edge of a [i]Shashka.[/i]  The universal truths of glory and splendor were far too great to dismantle and abandon in this highly noble life, despite the rigorous sin stained in blood with scars of demons upon their very crosses, often elaborated as monstrous shadows cast in various directions, solely dependent on the morning star's mood.

In the name of Holy Mother Russia, their piety pierced through their rib cages like needles, stitching ribbons of honor through their bones and veins, and relentlessly tied into a braid that rested in guard upon one shoulder.  It was believed, the Triune Godhead would bestow such tender mercies, sweeter than the honey sap that dripped in comfort along the Paschal Season, at the knowledge of their victories.   His hand would plunge into the dark, heated, murky depths of the Dead, and as a spider dwindling on his thread, He would pull each one of them from the unbearable fire — for  courageous battles had been won, tainting of spirits and souls in order to keep the Holy Empire under His command.  The sacrifice, which caused much grievances of tormenting guilt and self-taught anguish would not go unnoticed.  After all, a lowly Cossack was worth more than a Russian noble.  This lesson was forged into the young ones’ minds before they learned any horsemanship, but for as a criminal, still being sculpted by the brute knowledge, Annushka Yuryevna Golitsyna had trouble swallowing this supposed truth.

Annushka had escaped the pompous moral of finely lit candles adorned in expensive icon corners, set up so meticulously by the servants of her father’s household.  Her mother had placed a small but expensive token of opinion on this matter, draped with pearls, off-white like an evening wedding gown.  Other faces, painted in colored egg yoke, recollected themselves across the various rooms in the place Anni used to call home.  The ornate fixtures, twirled into beautiful mantle pieces and furnitures so delicate yet sturdy that the young woman often pondered in disdain over how the youth of Natalya, a servant of her father’s house, had grown in comparison to the coarse bitterness that dwelt in her own eyes.  The midnight crows, so lofty and crafty in their shadowy steamed nature, had plucked the virginity from her amber eyes and left brown dirt, uninhabitable with nothing but death decored with thorns and rotten fruits caught in the sharp, terrible weeds, not even a desperate man would bother plucking for himself.  

It was very well this way, Annu often told herself.  The luscious scents of gold and fireplace burning could easily be replaced with blood and campfire.  With open terms, the Cossack had taken her in, twice, now – a rescue each instance, and she never stopped being thankful to the Hetmen.  On all fours with knees bent beneath her and her forehead pressed into the ashy dirt of the ground, she gave them her life and gratitude. How could she not?  They were like bears, they protected their kind; burly and upright and with courageous hearts pumping barrel chests of conquest into the healthy color of their skin; nothing scared them.  For this reason, Annu felt relief in Dmitry Krepchenko’s deep wisdom.  His bellowing voice carried years of hard earned experience no man without true honor could ever master.  His wisdom was well-built and long like the stark brown roots, which motioned through the deafening, lucid shield that had frozen fragments of ice against the Siberian earth. His word meant well as low and deep and trembling with truth as they were.  His seriousness could slide caution as he held tightly the handles of responsibility.  He was not all terror, though, despite the steepness that molded his face and drew serious precision into the center of his eyes and was dramatized by the ascetic contemplation of years afoot.  Merry dashes peaked through his wild nature.  It was most noticeable during evening feasts of alcohol and folklore, curved upwards and under his gray mustache.

Annu learned hastily that medicine for the soul came in two forms for the Cossacks:  Communion and Vodka.  Communion, as some sort of mystical symbol to heal the soul, and Vodka, to lift their spirits, worn in pain from the constant carrying of heavy, eternally sickened souls who carried more weight than their hoofed comrades.  Her stomach was weakest when she had first arrived.  It may have been a fever of guilt and abrupt lust, sickened in her spirit like a sour fruit she could not stop consuming, but the truth was her gut had never been exposed to such a ritual.  As well, the sourness rarely left her bosom; it had cradled securely in the only place she had ever been able to find warmth and slowly wrapped its shackles around her soul.  She often felt cold like the winter; dry with lips that occasionally split from torment and constant hissing airs – the gossip around the Cossacks were far more knowledgeable than the city dwellers at times, and even with mouths that cracked with cold, their discussions rarely ended except during meditative moments that were encompassed by the dark world with only a slight campfire to remind them that they were not yet dead even if the day was.

A grunt and then a carrying command settled amongst the Zeporozhian, heeding the large, colorful flock with movements in the sky.   A shift of time from day-to-night was painting itself across the horizon, so subtle as the gray hues who dimmed their wealth and retreated back inside their heavenly homes to escape the pitch black wet ink crawling dusky trinkets of gloom to part the hours.  A clothed hand, bulky with fabric against thin fingers, pressed cotton to wool and shifted Annu’s [i]papakha[/i].  Motioning softly over her hair, the black wool began blending into the night, just as her [i]valenki[/i] had blended with the snow.  She was only a woman, not yet in her late twenties, but she managed to blend into the clan much easier than she had amongst the schismatic Old Believers — even without a man to claim her.  She  had stretched her muscles to exhaustion, and if her feet were sore from the day’s journey, there was no use in admitting such a pain.  Physical limitations were no discouragement to Annushka.  It was the mental ones, unable to overcome the past with forgiveness with which she had the most trouble.  The year’s death had only brought more sadness, hidden underneath her many layers of clothing. 

At one point, these layers — so bundled with care, unveiled in the darkness of mirth and unlawfulness, brought her much joy, but now, the memories merely bequeathed shamefulness that she never wished to disrobe, again.  Frailty of heart in the bitter decay of snow like despair was hard hidden, locked in a bird cage awaiting the Phoenix to consume the worm with victorious fires come Spring.  Her soul had ridden many lengths; now traveling by foot with the reins of her horse clenched in want under her closed knuckles. Dark eyes scanned the blank sky.  The heavenly hosts were hiding this evening.  They had out sung themselves this year during the Nativity, and having outdone themselves in boastful sin were hiding in shame behind the scornful clouds.  

Empathy for the heavenly hosts' pride had captivated Annushka for sometime.  If by chance she had done the same, she had full faith, larger than a mustard seed, that they would shine once again.  Even her storms of doubt measured nothing against her knowledge of the seasons.  They marched onward with Time like a never ending Service.  No one could so as much control how these things went about Time except for Him, alone.  And so, their punishment for being so proud was to hide until winter had breathed her last breath.  Hopeful thoughts, breathed like incense from her trembling lips at night that God, too, would let her shine, again.

With the same hand that had adjusted her [i]papakha[/i], Annu pet the ebony chin of her Karabakh horse.  The long lashes of her devoated companion bashfully dropped in response, closing her eyes in regards to her master’s touch. A snort bristled from her nostrils, toughness exuding like that of her rider’s; a commonality that reminded them of each other on the outside. After a brief moment, perhaps when the wind finally stopped gossiping about the Great Queen’s orders, Annushka let her mittened hand fall to her side once more.  The pinkness of her lips pinched in firmness as orders began in another such litany. 

As patterns began reweaving themselves, it was made clear that it would be another silent night, albeit not so holy with the stars in hiding.  The tranquility pushed her desire for the muscular arms of her deceased husband to wrap around her once more.  The blonde growth of his hair and trimmed mustache and beard tickling her skin, and yet the very thought reminded her of their childish affair — only made sinless by the Old Calendarists, who had renounced the Church and all her ways.  And so, Annushka would sometimes weep quietly in pleading prayer that God would forgive him for his carnal sins, the addiction that had enraptured them both like moths to a flame. No, no, more akin to two terrible insects struggling against each other in a sinister spider’s web, and with each movement towards each other, more entangled and shackled in sin they became.  Many times, to ease her woes that felt much like heavy, invisible tears dripping down the hollow of her chest from her heart, she would remind herself how wicked he could be.  A murderer, an adulterer, an abuser, a fake.  No – he could never have been an adulterer if they were never truly married, and his hands were never hard enough to leave prominent mark like his lips had.  It was also true that he had not murdered out of plot. It was an accident! Perhaps, perhaps then if he hadn't been so handsome and tall and strong, she would not have dared disown her family for him (or maybe it was the other way around).

It was all vanity, and on occasion, Annu found herself praying to her husband to intercede for her as if it were not for her wicked womanhood, he might still be well and quick today, living in Moscow with his brother still alive.  He had been so terribly sorry for the murder. His grievances often showed after a long day’s travel like a secret only they both could really understand.  She owed him so much.  Why, just look at the Cossacks!  Their children were better and more knowledgeable than the children of the Imperial cities. Such enterprise boasted with merriment and cheer from the brace, brute Cossacks.  Even with the dirty consciences, their strong spirits refused to settle in their weaknesses.  They were a triumphant kind, and in this, Annushka held hope close to the bitter decay nestled in her bosom in hopes that her childish fantasies of freedom would come true this time.  If not, she feared for the rest of her life she would wander like some dog without a collar, rapid in craze for the quenching of her thirst.  Her mind had settled that this was on the only way even if the campfire, so simply lit in the outer terrains was so meekly decided in comparison to the embellished candles burning in her parents’ icon corner.  No, no, again, no, she had her gold cross, resting underneath her garments, protected like the most sensitive parts of herself.  

She could feel the metal’s touch.  It was warm and heated and matted to her chest.  Sometimes, it was the only thing that truly kept her warm – it reminded her vividly of the candles at the Cathedral in Moscow.  The long, thin, sculpted wax, pressed securely into the sand and shining brightly in the darkness of the Church and incense.  The radiance would tear through the gray layers of reality as angels rushed back-and-forth to save the prayers arising to the dome. There was a time when she had swatted the flame, yes – this time, just like a moth.  Her skin had been hurt by the small fire in her over-zealous curiosity for knowledge. And, here, she mused, the symbolic gesture of her fate: to cause herself inadvertent pain as she struggled to find the truth.  Her gold cross never burned her, though, but it did shine through the gray veils with angels protecting her heart’s innermost desire along the way.

They had traveled along way today, gathered in the body of a forest to keep the violently cold, night winds from whipping death into their bones. Annushka’s eyes tonsured over her peers — prompt together like an army.  As her mind registered and acknowledged each face swiftly, their names prayed through her mind in the circle of a [i]chotki.[/i]  Her eyes had landed on Dmitry as if he were the tassel of the prayer rope.  She was far from pious, but a thought that her mother had brought her to Church enough for her to think like such and convinced her of this analogy.  Dmitry was the leader; the soul who knotted them together.  Anni even believed Dmitry, in his old age, had become fringed like the tassel of a [i]chotki.[/i]  There were other thoughts, less pious and more silly.  However, she tucked them inside her pocket for the time being.

Despite the struggle of the day’s journey, the shadows cast on them weren’t covered in weary travels.  Some winters were worse than others, she knew.  However, she only understood the Zeporozhian so vaguely.  Cossacks were Cossacks, but to say they were all the same would be comparing St. Petersburg and Moscow as nothing different than merely the names! Enough with herself, selfish as she may act at times, her mind was less preoccupied with her clans differences.  It could be troublesome to ponder at times, even frustrating – although, she was too stubborn to get so discouraged.  She had a night to prepare, and by the lively looks of everyone, drinks would be pouring forth over rims, and even if her hollowed stare said otherwise, she was content with this nighty affair that was to be held in the near future, shown through the tug of her navy coat, puffed in material around her willowy body.

[i]Bryznut,[/i] her horse padded her hooves lightly, and the sounds of other's horses could be heard making soft noises.  The trees chimed with the creatures as a cold wind lisped through the forest.  Tonight would be nice, as long as everyone stayed warm and did not rely solely on alcohol to sooth their blood.  Death was such a thought that began haunting her more and more.  It was changing her personality.  If it were age or circumstances, Annushka would have felt restful.  However, she feared it was in fact that she had not the courage of a true Cossack, [color=white]"Не бойтесь ничего,"[/color] she whispered inaudibly, [color=white]"Господи, помилуй,"[/color] her body turned, leading [i]Bryznut[/i] with her.  The large horse flexed her muscles softly and padded her large hooves gently into the white terrain a loyalty to her master who guided her onward to a resting place, alas, [color=white]"Le Seigneur a pitié,"[/color] she whispered a bit louder.  Life was such a Litany, greater than the Grand Litany of the Divine Liturgy (or was it?).  Such rituals, traditions, habits, and patterns came and came and came, and even if Anni was saying it in vain, she knew there was some truth behind it just like the knots on her black, wool [i]chotki[/i] — [i]Lord, have mercy.[/i][/color]