The Name of Hero was published by Tarcher/Houghton Mifflin in 1981. The rights have reverted to the author, Richard Seltzer. He grants permission to make and distribute verbatim electronic copies for non-commercial purposes provided that the copyright notice and this permission notice are preserved on all copies.
This historical novel is based on the life of Alexander Bulatovich, a Russian who was an explorer in Ethiopia, a cavalry officer during Russia's conquest of Manchuria in 1900, and later, as a monk at Mount Athos, led a group of "heretics" who challenged the hierarchy of the Russian Orthodox Church, asserting the divinity of the Name of God.
You can buy this book in hardcover:
The
Name of Hero by Richard Seltzer. an historical novel based
on the life of Alexander Bulatovich, a Russian who was an explorer in Ethiopia,
and a cavalry officer during Russia's conquest of Manchuria in 1900. Later,
as a monk at Mount Athos, he led a group of "heretics" who challenged the
hierarchy of the Russian Orthodox Church, asserting the divinity of the
Name of God.
You can also buy it on CD ROM with the author's other works:
Everything
But the Internet gathers the complete non-Internet
works of Richard Seltzer on CD, in plain text, with software that lets
you listen as well as read. It includes: The Name of Hero, Ethiopia Through
Russian Eyes, The Lizard of Oz, Without a Myth, Spit and Polish, Mercy,
Rights Crossing, short stories, articles, book reviews, and poems.
You'll find related materials at www.samizdat.com/readers.html#ethiopia
Bulatovich was alone in the desert. Dry heat. No water. Where had his servants gone? Where were the camels and mules? Just rock and dry ground in all directions. He must have slept. He must have been exhausted and slept through to noon of the next day. It looked like the Danakil Desert. He'd been here before on his way to Addis Ababa. He was back in Ethiopia. How had he gotten here?
It was like his first time in Ethiopia, when bandits had taken his mules and supplies, leaving him and his guides with no water, nothing. That time Leontiev had chanced on them there in the desert. Incredible luck.
Luck. Bulatovich had always had luck before. He had never even had to wish for it. It simply happened. But now he needed it and knew he needed it. He sensed that there was something different about his situation. He could feel himself sweating heavily, more heavily than heat would warrant -- he hadn't exerted himself. This was sweat of desperation.
A sudden chill went up his back. Then he sweated even more heavily. He couldn't survive for long, losing water at this rate.
He remembered Sonya's words (when had she said them?) "Just come back to me safely. I want you whole and sound to take in my arms..."
He scanned the horizon, hoping to find some clue, some familiar landmark. He felt he had been here before. Maybe there was water near, if he could just remember.
Now he remembered. He had been following the course of a mighty river. There had been two streams to follow, and he had chosen this one in hopes that he would be known as a great explorer, a hero. For a while it had been a great roaring river. But it turned out to be the Awash, not the Nile. I slowed, then died abruptly in the desert.
He must have followed the river to its end, then wandered on aimlessly, frustrated. How long had he been walking? Where had he come from? Could he find his way back? He must go back.
He scanned the horizon, looking for signs of water. He thought he glimpsed it, near the horizon to the east. He raced toward it, despite the heat, despite common sense. He ran. Itlooked like a lake, not a river -- a cool, fresh lake. Maybe the river, his river, the river he had devoted his life's efforts to hadn't died; it had gone underground, to rise again as this beautiful lake, this miracle of nature. He could almost taste the water already. It seemed so close. But it must be huge because it didn't seem to get any closer as he ran.
And mirrored on the lake, so vivid, he saw the face of Sonya, Sophia Vassilchikova. His Sophia.
A chill went up his spine. He blinked. I t wasn't there. A mirage. A trick of the imagination. "Sonya. Sonya. Sophia," he tried to shout, but his dried-out tongue stuck to his palate; he could only mutter, barely audibly, "Sonya."
Chinese Sonya gently wiped his brow and his freshly shaven head with a cool wet cloth. She turned to Laperdin. "He can't be as sick as you say. Listen. He recognizes me. He calls me by name. He's done that many times."
Laperdin smiled, ironically, "Is your name Sonya Vassilchikova?"
"Vassilchikova?"
"A colonel's daughter. I've heard him say as much. He's completely delirious. He says many things. But you choose to hear only what you want to hear."
She bit her lip, then wiped his brow with redoubled tenderness.
The desert -- everything was dead and desert. Nothing grew, no matter how much he labored. He kept bringing water again and again, pouring it over the dry cracked earth and over his own sun-baked body; but nothing grew, not even a weed.
Then he felt her touch. He must have been dreaming. He was still not completely awake, but he could feel her touch, her unmistakable touch. Asalafetch -- so palpable, so present -- restoring his strength as only she could. He was capable of anything. He had no limits. He was more than ordinary man. That touch -- he'd recognize it anywhere -- lingering now on his brow, his eyes. (Had he come down with the fever again? Was that it? But how did he get back to Ethiopia? He couldn't remember.) The eyes, yes, she was taking the sting of the desert out of his eyes. And soon her hands would slowly descend to the rest of his body. He was recovering. She would sense it and arouse him. she had loved him. She would do anything for him. She would have his child, his children. And he would be a prince, complete master in his domain.
The touch. There could be no doubt. Or could there? Something about it. A tenderness, a gentle warmth. The touch of someone who sought to give pleasure, to heal and to soothe, but expected nothing in return. Not Asalafetch. No. She gave Pleasure only for the pleasure she would receive and did receive in their mutual sensual play. He had never been touched so tenderly before. Could it be another friend of Asalafetch? And Asalafetch was watching, ready to laugh as she had before when he mistook someone else's touch for hers. Who was it then? He wanted to wake fully and see her. But his eyes wouldn't open, and he knew that it would be dark if he did open them -- that was the way of Asalafetch, complete darkness, a prerequisite for complete sensuousness. But why so tender -- he would almost say "loving" -- why should a stranger touch him so?
"Sin jelada," he tried to say. It meant "I love you" in Oromo. But his tongue could only manage, "Sin."
"Father, pray for him," Sonya asked Lavoisier. "He is very troubled. Not just his body, but his mind, too. I sense it from his troubled face, his restless shifting. And he keeps saying that word. Did you hear it? The English word 'sin.'"
Latin. He could hear the singsong Latin of a Catholic priest. When had he heard that before? What about a Catholic priest? Yes. He had rescued one. Lavoisier. Poor man, suffering from typhus. Good to hear that he's well. That's a strong, healthy voice now. Determined. Quite urgent in his prayer.
Mother preferred to pray silently. She did it aloud for social purposes, to make others happy -- for Aunt Elizaveta on her deathbed and for Father at his grave.
Father was Catholic. And when they were in Switzerland, Mother had wanted a Catholic priest to pray over his grave because he would have waned it so -- loudly and pompously.
The priest refused. "The wife Orthodox. The children Orthodox. He was no Catholic. I cannot perform a service for such a man."
She cried and said that his prayers weren't worth anything. But then she went herself to the grave, and repeated over and over again, loudly and solemnly, the Lord's Prayer, the only prayer she knew in Latin.
But if you asked her she'd say she didn't understand why some people prayed aloud. Only silent prayers gave her comfort. Everyone to his own comfort, she'd say, but to her it seemed that God was within, and could only be approached privately and silently.
Bulatovich tried to pray. He tried to, as she had once said, pray till the prayer blotted out all thought, so he could sink deep within himself and find the water of life. He needed water.
He was sinking. He felt himself sinking down a deep well. It was dark and he was falling. But where was the water? Was there any water? Had there ever been any water? It was getting hotter, not cooler, and he kept falling.
He was frightened, nothing to grasp or touch or see -- just falling. He stopped praying but he didn't stop falling. He was dying. Like Aunt Elizaveta, he had fallen too far to climb back to life. He scrambled and struggled and just fell faster.
As he struck the ground, he screamed, he bellowed, he would not die quietly.
God, if there was a God, was not in here. He screamed as his body was crushed on the dry bottom of the well -- louder than a desperate bull elephant, tossing dirt to the sky and roaring angrily to God, wherever God might be, for bringing death.
It was late at night. Sonya was alone at his bedside. She had fallen asleep on the ground. She was suddenly awakened by an unearthly noise, not loud, but distinct; she feared it was his death rattle. Laperdin had led her to expect as much. A man that weak from loss of blood and loss of sleep couldn't possibly survive so severe a case of typhus. It was a miracle that he had lasted this long. But the deeper he had sunk into his coma, the more she had redoubled her efforts -- old water to keep the fever down, milk and soup forced down his throat to keep up his strength. Lavoisier and the Mazeppy. Starodubov and Pyotr in particular, had helped her and supported her. But she seemed to be the only one who held out any hope that he would even so much as regain consciousness. There was a strength about him. She could sense it when she touched him to bathe him and tool his fevered frame. He gave her faith -- faith that he could meet this new challenge as he had met so many others, that he would live. She hadn't fantasized beyond that point. She concentrated all her efforts, all he will and prayer on helping him survive.
The tenth day and the eleventh day of the disease had passed. Her hopes had grown stronger. Laperdin had told her that, on the average, the crisis and beginning of recovery came on the fourteenth day. He kept emphasizing that this was a particularly severe case and that with Bulatovich's general weakness, having suffered from insomnia and loss of blood, never having recovered from the would, "It could be three weeks or four weeks, theoretically. All theoretically. The crisis will never come, do you understand? He will die. You're wasting your effort. Worse, you're getting emotionally involved with a dead man. If you believe in God, then pray. But don't pray for his recovery; pray for his immortal soul, and try to take some consolation from that foolish religion of yours. Use it for what it's worth. I have nothing better to offer. Use whatever you can to pull yourself away from him and back to the world of the living. You're young and very beautiful. You will find other men, other heroes to worship. Go, just go. And don't look back."
But she had stayed, and she maintained her faith by touching his brow, sensing his strength remained. Then she awoke to the sound of his death rattle.
Tears rushed to her eyes and she wanted to scream, but instead she lunged at him and pounded on his chest angrily. "Don't die. Don't leave me here. I love you. do you understand? Don't leave me. Don't..." She collapsed, sobbing, on his chest and listened instinctively for a heartbeat. Laperdin had told her repeatedly that it would be the heart that would fail first. He had her listen to the heart time and again, demonstrating to her, he thought, that it was getting weaker every day. But she had pressed her head closer and harder to his chest each time, amplifying the beat with the intensity of her attention, convincing herself that it wasn't anywhere near as bad as Laperdin contended.
She heard a beat even now and began to sob convulsively, uncontrollably. It was so cruel for her ears to play tricks on her when it was all over. It was probably the beat of her own heart she was hearing.
But the beat grew stronger, and she could sense her own pulse weakening.
She stood up, frightened as if she had seen a ghost.
She lit a candle and came close.
The eyes were open. But they had an empty, dead, glassy look. She turned aside and vomited convulsively on the ground beside his bed.
Again she came close with the candle. There was no response to the candle in his eyes. The pupils were contracted as they had been throughout the disease.
Then she glanced down. Near his abdomen, the sheet was wet and yellow. In his death throes, he had fouled himself. He hadn't urinated for days. She had been watching for a sudden gush as a sign that he had reached the crisis. But now, cruelly, it had come in death.
She tried to shut the eyes. She couldn't bear to look at them. But they wouldn't shut. So she shielded them gently with a cool cloth she had ready near at hand. Then she bent near, holding the candle close. She saw the square head, the firm jaw, the chin still thrust forward, taut muscles holding it rigid in that position. all through his illness, she had kept the top of his head shaven to keep it cool and his beard trimmed the way he liked it. But his cheeks were sunken, the skin pale and loose, discolored with large dark red spots.
She reached under the cool cloth and gently touched the little red indentation on the bridge of his nose, where his heavy glasses used to rest. She tried to remember him alive and well, trying to gather the strength to give him a parting kiss. She had never kissed him, and she had never kissed a dead man before.
The candle flickered wildly, sending eerie shadows swaying. The large airy hospital tent that Dr. Stankevich had been kind enough to leave them was open on two sides -- but it was a clear, still, windless night. She trembled and the shadows swung more wildly. She blew the candle out.
She licked her little finger and held it in front of his nostrils. A breeze. She licked it again. Yes, a distinct
breeze. A breath.
She pressed her ear close to his heart. A beat. Yes. A beat And louder than she had heard for days, or she was going crazy. Crazy and happy. She hugged him, and his body responded -- warmly and tenderly, if ever so slightly. She was sure of it.
Weeds started to sprout in the desert. Then bushes and trees. In a matter of moments a jungle had sprung up -- new life, green and abundant. But it was none of his doing. All those days and years of struggling to make something grow had led to nothing; and now, for no apparent reason, a jungle had grown. And he resented the jungle that he had worked for and prayed for, because it wasn't his jungle; it was beyond his control. so he took an ax and chopped every tree in sight. If it couldn't be his jungle, the result of his effort, there would be no jungle. With his own sweat and muscle, he would tear it down.
But he soon grew weary and rested; and while he rested, new tees sprouted and grew to full height.
He raised his ax again, then dropped it. He was dreaming. He realized he was dreaming.
He bit his tongue, purposely, to wake himself. He hated that dream. The pain was a small price to pay.
He opened his eyes. Half a face, one eye was staring at him, hot blood pouring at him. The dead boy. The boy he killed. The boy who wounded him. Did they call this courage? Killing. Facing death. Manhood. Murder. Nothing more than murder. The face. He shut his eyes, and still he saw the face. He prayed for blindness, a blindness that would erase this image from his mind.
He woke up, or did he? Something was missing. The train was on the wrong track, it wouldn't stop, and he didn't know how to get off. But Chinese Sonya was there. He remembered having seen her enter his compartment a few miles back. And then she was gone.
He missed a touch. Not the sensuous, selfish touch of Asalafetch, not the provocative, playful stroke of his Sonya -- no, a tender, loving hand that comforted and asked nothing in return.
He was curious. He longed for it. He felt incomplete without it. The memory of that touch and the desire to feel such warmth, such love again broke through the nightmare images that plagued him, giving him something to look forward to -- looking forward, if nothing else, to the memory, the dream that there could be and in act was such a person.
He awoke. His eyes were open. He knew he hadn't opened them -- they were open already -- but just now he saw through them clearly. Maybe fuzzy images had been mixed with his dreams, but now he was awake, he was sure of it, because the tent was dull brown and static and the ground, the sheets -- everything was less vivid than it would appear in a dream.
"Sonya," he said automatically. Pyotr was the figure standing at his bedside. And Pyotr seemed to wince at the word "Sonya." "Where is she? Where is Sonya? I could have sworn that she was here beside my bed."
"Father, he's awake!" shouted Pyotr, running from the tent anxiously, perhaps to spread the word.
"Good morning," Father Lavoisier greeted him.
"Where is Sonya?" asked Bulatovich.
"Oh, yes. You often asked for her in your delirium. Yes, many times these many days. 'Sonya Vassilchikova,' if I heard correctly. You are in Manchuria. Do you remember? We are at Ta-ku-shan. You were badly wounded. Then you caught typhus on top of that. You caught it from me, having saved my lie. You deserve a medal for that, you know. And I'll see that you et it. the French Legion of Honor. Your superiors are such narrow-minded men. But no matter. You're alive, no thanks to them. They simply left you here with me and your Mazeppy. Laperdin was the only one with any medical knowledge. Everyone thought that you would die. It was simply too much punishment for a body to take. Your Shemelin kept saying that it was a test, God testing you. I haven't been able to make any sense out of his beliefs. You were dreadfully sick. Even after the crisis, you were unconscious for three weeks and more. It may be another couple weeks before you have the strength to walk. But Laperdin would know that better than I."
"Where is Sonya?"
"Yes, Sonya, your Sonya. Like I said, we're in Manchuria. Remember/ Your Sonya is back in Petersburg, I believe. Safe and sound, in all likelihood. She'll be there waiting for you, I'm sure, when you get back."
"No. I man the other Sonya. Chinese Sonya. Where is she? I could have sworn that she was here."
Lavoisier grimaced, then took a deep breath. "It was most unfortunate."
Bulatovich quickly raised himself on his elbows. "What are you saying?"
"She was most devoted to you those two weeks up until the crisis. I must admit that she was the only one who believed that you would live that long. A girl of strong faith and strong will."
"Where is she?" Bulatovich persisted anxiously.
"She took sick. Typhus. You caught it from me. And she caught it from you, while nursing you, apparently."
"And how is she now? Has she passed the crisis?"
"No..."
"Then take me to her. Call the Mazeppy. Have them take me to her." Looking up, he noticed that the Mazeppy had gathered near the entrance of the tent and were standing about nervously, looking more at the ground than at him. "What's gotten into you, men? Do I look that bad that you don't want to come near me?" He glanced down and saw his protruding ribs. "I must look a sight. Rather like a ghost. Right, Butorin? Is this what your ghosts look like?" He laughed, but no one laughed with him. "What's wrong?" he shouted and fell back on the bed, suddenly aware that he was, indeed, very weak.
Pyotr stepped forward, went up to his bed, and knelt there. "Like Father Lavoisier said, sir, Sonya took sick."
"Well, take me to her. What are you waiting for? I'm the weak one, not you. You and Starodubov, pick up my bed and take me to her."
Laperdin interjected, "You wouldn't want to go where she is."
"Let me tell it," insisted Pyotr.
"Tell what?"
Pyotr hesitated, so Laperdin said simply, "She died."
Bulatovich sat up suddenly. "Died? What do you mean, died? Lavoisier's alive. I'm alive. She's a strong young girl, stronger than either of us. She'll pull though. Don't worry. She'll pull through. Just take me to her now. Immediately! That's an order!"
"There were complications," Laperdin interrupted.
"What?"
"It seems she was pregnant," he explained. "And it certainly didn't help that she lost so much sleep nursing you," he added in a burst of bitterness, almost admitting how much he had cared for her, then catching himself short. "The fact is she's dead and buried."
Bulatovich lay back, his muscles taut, his jaw thrust forward, his fists ready, but he said nothing and did nothing. For three days, although he often appeared to be conscious, he didn't move.
On the fourth day, he started to talk again, but he only showed interest in his own health, complaining of aches and general weakness, inquiring about the course of his disease and what could be expected next. He showed no inclination to try to get up.
Each day he appeared a little stronger physically, but to hear him talk one would think he were much worse. he seemed to magnify every little pain and discomfort. He seemed over-aware of his own frailty, vulnerability, and mortality, and unwilling to take the slightest risk.
Pyotr and Father Lavoisier continued to be solicitous, doing everything they could to make things easier for him, to reduce his pain and anxiety.
But Laperdin soon grew impatient with his patient and began to bait him, much to the consternation of the other Mazeppy. "Why do you want to live?" Laperdin asked. "Or do you want to live? Do you have any idea what you want to do with your life? Or are you just hanging onto it out of habit and out of fear of death?"
"Why do you badger me?"
"Because I hate to see a man watch himself die."
"Has my condition worsened?" he asked anxiously.
"You have begun to die," replied Laperdin firmly, but with an ironic grin.
"How much longer do you think I have to live?" asked Bulatovich, seriously concerned.
"Not long at all, sir. Barring accident, I'd say you have no more than thirty, forty, fifty, maybe sixty or seventy years left."
"What nonsense are you spouting now?" asked Bulatovich, showing the first signs of anger of his convalescence.
"You've stopped living, sir. You stopped living when you stopped having a reason to live, when you no longer believed in anything you'd be willing to risk your life for. You stopped living and began to watch yourself die, just a little bit more each day."
"Take him away! Pyotr! Starodubov! Take this madman away!"
Bulatovich was in no hurry to rebuild his muscles, no hurry to stand or walk or push himself in any way. When he did start walking, it was probably because boredom drove him to it -- he was sick of looking at the dark walls of the mud hut they had moved him to when the weather turned wintry.
He soon fell into the habit of strolling to the top of the hill overlooking their campsite and sitting next to the headstone Starodubov had carefully fashioned for Chinese Sonya. From there Bulatovich stared off to the east, where several miles away puffs of steam sometimes arose and sometimes the distant clatter of construction echoed. Repair of the railway apparently was progressing. The way to Port Arthur was open, as was the way back to Russia. But Bulatovich showed no interest in trying to board another train.
It was on that hilltop that the Mazeppy confronted him one crisp mid-December morning.
Pyotr spoke first, "Where are you going to go, sir? What are you going to do?"
"Nowhere. Nothing."
"But you can't, sir. There are people who depend on you and look up to you as a hero. You can't just give up."
"I can do whatever I choose to do and that is nothing."
"But your record, sir," offered Sofronov. "Surely, you want to clear your good name?"
He simply shook his head.
"Sir," Shemelin tried anxiously, "you met the test, the test of life. You risked your career and your life not for glory, not for advancement, but simply to save a fellow human being. You have every reason to feel proud."
"You were wounded," added Butorin. "Isn't that magically supposed to give you true courage?"
"I wish it were that simple," replied Bulatovich.
Starodubov, who had been standing just behind him, suddenly picked up Bulatovich and threw him on the frozen ground.
"What in the name of God?" he said as he picked himself up.
Starodubov grabbed him again and threw him on the ground.
"What are you trying to prove?" Bulatovich asked.
But when he stood up again, Starodubov threw him down again.
"What are you trying to prove?" Bulatovich asked.
But when he stood up again, Starodubov threw him down again.
"Now look," said Bulatovich, beginning to lose his temper.
"This ground is hard, and I'm in no condition to play this kind of game."
His glasses had fallen off. He crawled and groped, but before he reached them, Starodubov bent down, picked up Bulatovich, lifted him over his head, and threw him back to the ground.
The impact stung his back and stunned him for a moment. Bulatovich looked up in amazement at the blurred form of this white-haired giant.
"You, sir, are a coward," said Starodubov.
"What?" asked Bulatovich, without glasses unable to determine the expression on Starodubov's face, uncertain how seriously he should take these strange actions and words.
"You're a coward -- that's your true name. All your life you've had this luck. You were so sure of it, you could afford to be careless. You could dare to do anything. And now it's gone, you're nothing but a man, just as vulnerable as the rest of us. And now you're scared. Now you see it's not easy to take chances when you know you can die. All along you were just a lucky coward parading around like a hero. You won't be lucky this time, sir. I'm going to kill you."
Starodubov jumped and landed belly down on top of Bulatovich, grabbed hold of his throat, and started choking him in earnest. Bulatovich broke the grip and scrambled free, only to be caught and wrestled down again.
Lavoisier stepped forward to intervene, but Pyotr stopped him. "Just let them alone. Starodubov knows what he's doing."
Bulatovich struggled, using all the strength he could muster in his still-weakened body, but to no avail. His arms and legs were pinned, his back painfully contorted. It was no contest, hopeless -- this man was three times his size. At any moment Starodubov could snap his back like a twig. He sensed that this gentle, awkward giant, so like Old Hrisko, so like a father to him, intended to do just that. He had no idea why Starodubov wanted to kill him. He just knew that he wanted to live, that he had to preserve his life any way he could. He lunged with his head and bit hard with total abandon, missing the throat; teeth digging into shoulder flesh, desperately.
Starodubov screamed, let loose his hold, and straining his powerful arms, managed to pry loose the jaw, throwing Bulatovich to the ground near the headstone. He stood there ominously above Bulatovich, laughing, yes, laughing like some madman ready to take his final revenge for some imagined wrong or for no reason at all. But instead of attacking, he reached out to pull Bulatovich up off the grave and hugged him warmly. "Yes," he laughed and cried, "yes, you are my son."
Bulatovich hugged him back, with all the surge of energy and strength his sudden danger had given him. It felt good to be alive.
End of The Name of Hero by Richard Seltzer
This site is published by B&R Samizdat Express, 33 Gould St., West Roxbury, MA 02132. 617-469-2269 seltzer@samizdat.com
Links to the complete novel, The Name of Hero.
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Sample chapters from The Name of Man
Complete text of From Entotto to the River Baro
Complete text of With the Armies of Menelik II
Return to Readers' Room and Writers' Showcase.
You can buy this book in hardcover:
The
Name of Hero by Richard Seltzer. an historical novel based
on the life of Alexander Bulatovich, a Russian who was an explorer in Ethiopia,
and a cavalry officer during Russia's conquest of Manchuria in 1900. Later,
as a monk at Mount Athos, he led a group of "heretics" who challenged the
hierarchy of the Russian Orthodox Church, asserting the divinity of the
Name of God.
You can also buy it on CD ROM with the author's other works:
Everything
But the Internet gathers the complete non-Internet
works of Richard Seltzer on CD, in plain text, with software that lets
you listen as well as read. It includes: The Name of Hero, Ethiopia Through
Russian Eyes, The Lizard of Oz, Without a Myth, Spit and Polish, Mercy,
Rights Crossing, short stories, articles, book reviews, and poems.
A
library for the price of a book.
Return to B&R Samizdat Express.
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