‘Sovereign!
We, the workers and inhabitants of various social strata of the city of Saint Petersburg, our wives, children and helpless old parents, have come to you, Sovereign, to seek justice and protection. We are impoverished; our employers oppress us, overburden us with work, insult us, consider us inhuman, and treat us as slaves who must suffer a bitter fate in silence…’
It was Friday. The fifth day of the strike. Surely some would say that it had began sooner, but only since the previous Sunday could they claim success. The Assembly of Russian Factory and Plant Workers was filled to the brim with all manner of men. Most were simple workers, some were university students, a few were political agitators, and one was a priest. At the front and center of the group were the labor leaders from the Putilov Iron Works and several other manufacturing plants that first supported the strike. They stood around the lightening rod that had given them the courage to strike in the first place. Dressed in his red robes of his office, the Orthodox priest stood out among the dark clothed workers and smartly suited university fellows. Yet for all of his vestiges, he was an unassuming man with strong faith in both God and Czar who cared deeply for the health and safety of the workers he inspired. Long wavy hair and a full but well-groomed beard offset his strong features. He had a hawkish nose, high cheekbones, and slightly Mongolian shaped dark eyes. Every fiber of his being reflected his convictions. His strong voice comforted them as it filled the room, “…. Here we seek out last salvation. Do not refuse to come to the aid of your people.” Father Geogri Gapon paused from his reading to judge their reactions. He had copies of this petition. Enough for each of the leaders to sign up every person they represented. They stepped forward to sign as the Assembly leaders began to lay copies out on the table to Gapon’s side. “Take your signed copy with you to gather signatures. Once one is full, return and get another. All of the printers have pledged their presses for our use. Remember, on Sunday we will march to the Winter Palace and present the petition to the Czar himself.” They had twenty-four hours. The men filed up to the table, signing and rolling the paper up to prevent damage. They all agreed that Sunday was a good day to march. Plans had been set up for gathering points. Many of their children were already hard at work making banners and signs for it. The presentation of their hopes to the Czar would be historic. And if Gapon’s faith were true the Czar would make everything right…
In the shantytown built in the shadow of the Putilov Iron Works, which was all but deserted as the workers and their families picketed the plant or prepared for the coming march under the guidance of either the Factory and Mills’ Society or Gapon’s Assembly, the quiescent silence was interrupted by a grating artificial noise as a blue, somewhat freshly painted, box with a flashing light materialized under a frozen overhang of sooty canvas. Had the workers been there, the appearance of the box might have caused uproar but in all likelihood had the residents not been striking they would have been away on their eleven-hour workshift anyhow. Sandwiched between rubbish, recycled sheets of metal siding, reused mud bricks, frozen sod and the occasional board, the eight-paneled box was all together out of place in this arctic but muddy alley. Surreal tranquility returned to the chilled, windswept landscape as if the city itself was holding its breath, waiting. The box’s arrival had only one witness. A lone, dark brown, skeletal, medium sized dog crept toward the new odd object with the English Words “police public call box” boldly stated in white lettering across its top on each side. The dog’s pink nose wiggled as it sniffed the nearest edge, picking up alien scents from other times and places. With a sneeze and a yelp the mangy animal hurried away down a lump-lined freezing passageway that threaded through a narrow labyrinth of thrown together hovels.
A slim girl, of similar height, with long brown hair emerged from the blue box to join him. She wore a knee length, double-breasted gray wool coat with fur trim over sensible black wool trousers and hiking boots. A matching striped set of cap, gloves, and scarf of rather masculine colors topped of her ensemble. She carried a large black nylon duffel style bag over her shoulder. As her beautiful face contorted into a grimace from the cold and early industrial era pollution that assaulted her senses, she spoke with a thick English accent that suited her perfectly, “Oi, Professor! Where are we again?” If she sensed his change of disposition she did not show it.
The short man inwardly cringed at his companion’s use of ‘professor’ before turning to look at her. His concerned expression still hinted at annoyance, but a quick rumination revealed that the girl was not nearly as cold tolerant as he and the aggravation rapidly faded. He reached for the scarf that hung down the length of her coat and wrapped it up over her full mouth and perfectly formed nose with the air of an over-protective parent. He watched the girl’s eyes take in the same clues he’d already processed: the scrappy dwellings, the frozen unpaved path, the wintry pale sun, the odor of burning coal and kerosene lingering in the air, and the wind eerily whistling around them. “Saint Petersburg, Ace. But the question is when?” He was slightly surprised that his fiery companion did not complain about the scarf. “Clearly it’s mid-winter…after the Industrial Revolution reached Russia.” His eyes scanned around again until they spotted some lard-smeared newsprint with a singular picture on it. It was covering what he assumed was a window. He decided to get a closer look and carefully set out to cross the alley using the umbrella as a cane. Ace fearfully watched him go. The picture was a familiar one even to her, but she couldn’t quite place from where. After deliberating over the blurred Russian for quite some time the man announced, “It’s after the coronation of Nicholas II, Ace….”
“So that’s after – 1894?” she questioned as she looked around more carefully. In reality it was not the ‘when’ she was worried about but the ‘why’. She’d learned that her companion rarely did something without having some other motive. After her last somewhat nasty jaunt into the past she was somewhat leery about this current one. Should he state that he didn’t know why they were here Ace figured that it meant they were in really hot water. Not that hot would be unpleasant at the moment. Her feet were going numb already.
“Um…yes.” The man sounded distracted. Ace adjusted her scarf slightly and looked at him as he twisted his body and head to read something set at an angle. She raised an eyebrow at his back. That nagging feeling just would not go away. Something told her deep inside that there was a tension in the air hanging expectantly for something to happen. This shantytown had no visible improvements of any kind. No running water, no sewage, no electrical, but most importantly of all, no actual buildings, just thrown together shelters with the seams and cracks patched with frozen mud…. She really doubted that post-industrial age workers would put up with such conditions for very long. On a compulsion she reached up and pulled the smudged canvas down over the TARDIS.
“It’s really very cold, Professor.” Ace stepped back to the side of the box out of the light wind and noticed a door and window right behind her. She peered behind the box to make sure the TARDIS was not blocking anything. The movement took her out of the ‘Professor’s’ line of sight.
“Um?” The man straightened and looked at where she had been. His expression reflected momentary alarm until he realized where she was. He crept up behind her and cleared his throat. Ace pointed at another lard-smeared newspaper and raised an eyebrow. It was a newer paper showing in clear English the date of September 7th, 1904. “After the birth of little Alexei, then,” he stated with a slight burr to his voice. “Come along, Ace. It will be dark soon.” Once again using his umbrella as a cane, he set off through the slick, dirty maze with a certain care to his bluster. Ace was quick to follow him. In a place like this he could easily become lost. Or fall. But try as she might to keep her attention on the older man’s back her eyes kept picking out little details that added to her building depression, among them were the frozen lines of wash strung out between narrow side passages. The clothes, darkened by soot and threadbare, were little more than rags. A pack of scrawny dogs nosed through a pile of frozen trash. A somewhat comical slip and recovery in front of her brought Ace’s attention back to the Doctor. She quickened her pace to offer him an arm. Her expectation was that he’d bat away the help, but instead he curled his arm around hers and patted her gloved hand with fatherly affection. It was quiet, only the wind whistled faintly as a counter to their footfalls. All the people seemed to be gone. Ace was actually grateful that the scarf screened out some of the stench. ‘What would it be like come the spring thaw?’ she wondered.
The walk was a long one but as the buildings and ground became more groomed the air became more polluted. Soot lightly stained the heavy stone of the wall rising several stories to their left. Ornately laid brick formed a wall visible on the right as the shantytown gave way to what sounded like a main avenue. She noticed the soot getting thicker. Ace could hear horses and carriage wheels rumbling over what she imagined to be cobblestones long before she could see them. The stone buildings a block before the main road were sturdy and ancient. Hints of beautiful pastel paint peeked out from under the heavy soot stains and Ace stared up at the elaborate stonework with a certain wonder.
Reaching the road, two major features jumped out at her. One, the buildings looked old and sturdy. Two, the odd brick-red paint showing through the heavy soot stains on the building looming across wood-round paved street looked terrible. It was oxidized, peeling, streaked, and just plain ugly. The Doctor pulled up short, nearly jarring her arm out of its socket. She turned to find him in deep study of the structures, as if the date would jump out at him with enough thought. She watched the gears turn in his head, wondering all the while what it was that he was noticing. “No war scars….” He mumbled, almost as if he’d read her mind.
“What, Professor?” But the Doctor did not answer her. He just continued to study the scene ignoring her question. “Should I just shut up and try to figure it out on my own?” That garnered an exasperated expression. Ace felt her defenses going up.
“Didn’t you pay attention during history class, Ace?” He gave her a droll look that was really quite scary in its seriousness; “We are in Russia, right? Why would there be war scars on the buildings after Nicholas II?”
Ace realized with surprise that the Doctor was thinking out loud for a change, something he’d never done before. So, okay… What was important about that? “German invasion?” she offered, not taking her eyes off the horrid red building across the road.
The doctor pointed at her with a wink. “Yes, Ace. Well before it.” He followed her gaze across the road with his eyes and winced, “Um… I’d forgotten that Nicholas did that…” Ace opened her mouth with a question, not sure what he was talking about but he answered before she could speak, “Ordering all government-owned buildings slathered with that horrid color.” He shook his head sadly; “Lousy, cheap paint, too.” Ace found she was in full agreement with him about that. It was almost as bad as the time when the happiness patrol and painted the TARDIS pink…
“So which way do we go Professor?” The question pulled the Doctor out of his study of the scene. He looked both ways, started off toward some distant bare trees, stopped, turned, and headed back the other way. Ace rolled her eyes and waited for him to pass her before falling into step with him. The people going about their business paid them no mind. The numbers were light, Ace noted as they walked. The course she and the Doctor followed took them to an abrupt end of wooden sidewalk as it gave way to a stone path curving around a park-like courtyard dotted with old stately trees. Ace blinked at the old stately stone church dominating the middle of the landscaped snowy grounds. It was clearly a public place. There was an alarming lack of public, however. Aside from a smattering of well-armed guards the square was as empty as the shantytown they’d walked from.
“The Alexander Nevsky Monastery. Usually full of people,” the Doctor’s words hung in the air. Ace shivered. “I think we should go around, Ace.” She was directed to the right. “Look like you are heading to work, not sightseeing,” he whispered. Ace caught his meaning, stuffing her hands into her pockets and lowering her head. The Doctor mimicked her and they trudged their way around the public grounds under the guards’ watchful eyes. If the shantytown had been depressing then this short detour was just shy of frightening. The guards looked quite serious and capable of using those rifles they wore. Just walking under their watchful scrutiny drove home that something was very wrong here. Ace yearned to ask the Doctor about the guards’ unusual uniforms. The clear fact that they were far too tan-skinned to be native to this harsh northern city made her wonder why they were here and who they were. She shot the short man a sideways glance, the question etched in her eyes. Again the Doctor surprised her, mumbling, “Cossacks, native to the southern grasslands. Horsemen. Deadly shots and fiercely loyal to the Czar.”
“Bad sign?” She whispered. He nodded. Leave it to the Doctor to drop right into the middle of a huge historical event without even intending to. She had a bad feeling about this. Very bad.
The path that Ace and the Doctor took eventually deposited them at the end of the Nevsky Prospect. Ace always felt some surprise at how fast the unpretentious, mysterious Doctor covered distances. He walked in a brisk pace that often caused her to trot just to keep up. Now he seemed filled with some unknown purpose and bent on keeping her breathless so that she did not ask too many questions. “Professor,” she called, “wait up!” If he heard he showed no sign. He did not even wave her off. Ace broke into a jog. In spite of the run, she was still cold.
It was not an overly long road, but a rather wide and modern looking one. The contrast was jarring. Electric lights lined the cobblestone multi-lane street. Tall buildings stood back from rather modern looking sidewalks, providing space for summertime stalls. Here too, the traffic was light. At the far end she could see the entrance into the courtyard of the Winter Palace. Within a few blocks the Doctor stopped at the Hotel Europe. This gave her time to catch up. It was a sturdy, square building of impressive size. He opened the door for her. Entering the lobby Ace was aware that there were few people staying here. The Doctor stepped up to the counter and spoke at some length to the gentleman working there in Russian. At first Ace couldn’t understand a word that was spoken… but soon she realized that the two men were trading friendly insults as her companion haggled over the prices of the rooms.
The servants were sequestered in a posh library, stories above the street and close enough to the water’s edge to savor the clean smell of the River Neva. This odor banished any smells of Saint Petersburg’s industry and mingled with the warmth of fine oiled leather. Other scents merged as well, the rare spicy oils and honey sweet waxes buffed to a high sheen on the finely made multi-tone parquet floors; the unmistakable, rich, heady warmth of a lord’s imported tobacco filled pipe carelessly left beside a favorite chair; even the pleasant sweet smell of fragrant cedar wood. The palace workers found themselves surrounded by a room filled with the rich tones of rare woods; leather bound volumes of priceless tomes, and the plush jewel colors of opulent fabrics. They knew the wood floors, toned the blackest ebony, rich brown walnut, golden honey oak, pale ash, and rare ruddy mahogany through years of painstaking hard work. Many had spent countless hours polishing the wood with loving care. Scattered among the ancient books and scrolls were priceless artworks of unequaled beauty.
A scan of the room revealed brocade pillows rich with golden thread adorning plush velvet lounges, and the finest angora throws draping deeply cushioned and gilded leather chairs. None of the servants sat. Instead they huddled together in the center of the room, some kneeling, some standing. Their simple uniforms were identical. All the women wore floor length dresses in black, offset by white aprons, while the men wore suits of simple, refined style with white shirts. The figures nervously shifted. One young slip of a girl drifted toward a window. Her eyes betrayed her fear. She felt contained, trapped even, within a mosaic of handsome stucco molding, artistic carvings, and marble tiled walls. The ceiling presented a depth of historic symbolism through its art, to be seen by those visitors who did not find enough to feast their eyes on. The nervous group did not bother to look up; they were familiar with the brass and leaded crystal chandeliers that floated from gilded plaster moldings of cherubs dancing on the ceiling. They illuminated the room with a soft gaslight glow. It was warm here, like a larger version of a cozy study. But the people held behind the thick locked doors felt no comfort on this cold January morning….
The servant girl pulled aside the ruby velvet curtains that dressed the leaded glass windows closed tight against the winter chill. Her view noted the granite balconies edged in wrought ironwork but lingered on the rarely empty courtyard adorned with a single central fountain. Fresh snow blanketed the contours of the hearty plants awaiting spring and everything else aside from the moving water in the fountain itself. It was so white. So unreal. Not a single footstep marred the snow in the morning light. It is too quiet on this January day, almost as if it were the middle of the night. Nervous rustling of starched clothing and the whispers of burning embers in the fireplace formed a background to the silence. The girl squeezed her eyes closed. Her stomach churned. Something bad was happening. Something very bad. She strained for some sound from beyond. There was not even the distant clatter of horse hooves on the cobblestone streets.
The others in the room are quiet also, almost not daring to breathe. No one wants to be the one to disturb the strange silence. On a normal day, the rust and gray slate tiled courtyard would be filled with the click-clack of polished shoes belonging to smartly dressed officials and dignitaries hurrying from office to office with their papers and assignments neatly tucked under their arms. Moreover, the night’s snow would be cleared away. Today, for some unknown reason, the courtyard is empty. As she watched, a group of palace guards head for the imposing barren granite wall, marring the snow with trails of militant footfalls. As the last of the muffled march faded, silence returned. Even the burbling of the fountain seems hushed. The quiet is nearly stifling. Letting the heavy drapes fall the girl moved back to the others. The worry etched into her youthful face.
This is as far as my muse went, although I want to finish this story sometime as I do have the rest of the plotline worked out. What do you think of my characterizations?
