Swallows of Siberia

Based on Shakespeare’s plot:

A character spreads a rumour that will ruin someone’s life

Based on Shakespeare’s Quote:

“From civil grudge breaks to new mutiny”

Background

In the summer of 1918, an act was committed that was so tragic and mysterious that it would go on to scar and haunt a nation from then on. During the Russian Revolution the Romanov Family, the last remaining monarchs of Russia, were taken to what is known as one of the most desolate and derelict places of exile. The family, stripped of their rights and freedom, were then taken to the cellar of their prison where they were then massacred at the hands of the Ural Soviet. Along with servants and advisers, Tsar Nicholas II with his wife Alexandra Romanov, his four daughters Grand Duchess Anastasia, Tatiana, Olga and Maria Romanov and youngest son Tsarevich Alexei Romanov, were brutally murdered by the shooting squad in Siberia. The legend states that the jewels of Romanov were sewn into the clothes and furniture of the children. Although current evidence now proves all members of the family were killed, rumours and legends have swept over this story, blurring truth and reality, convincing many that the two youngest children had survived. Numerous stories and interpretations (such as Walt Disney's "Anastasia" )say that youngest child Alexei only 14 and his youngest sister Anastasia 17 were thought to have escaped and survived. Although evidence of a grave for the two missing bodies in a separate forest disprove the stories, the tale of their survival are still told today in memory of a family and a hope worth believing in.

Swallows of Siberia

The moon crossed my path twice before my feet began to beg my tired mind to leave the boy they carried in the ghostly snow and leave him to melt into the bitter fate of Siberia. The ice was merely another weapon, gnawing at my blistered limbs and the snow fell like white marbled bricks, as if I were a target for the angels. Breathing was a chore yet I could not deny that my beating heart was more than a miracle as gifts such as this I never knew to exist. But as kind or maybe as cruel as the gift was, to me they were chains wrapped around my wrists while ten pound weights hung mocking me as they pulled me back into reality and the never ending white that lay behind and beyond. I was alive with a spirit burnt out. While I trudge further into my future, the past behind only dug its claws further into my mind and in the black forests that tower over this desert, I am more in darkness than I am in life. And though I know I am luckier than others I know three girls who have more life in them than me.

My three sisters lie within a pool of red, staining the cellar floor with the rubies of Romanov and the rubies of their veins. And though the sight of those three girls, skipping through the promise of life, will never hold the same value, I know their spirit has left scars upon the hearts of those they met. They should have been the ones to live. If they were to take my place in the shadow of life that I am in, then more of miracle this would have been. For the sparks that have forever burned through the living world, my three older sisters, had more glamour than the scintillating embers of a blazing fire. But as I draw away from them, the time has come to realize that the past can never be changed. And at that I leave my pride and title behind me, to die among the rotting leaves of summer and charred crest of our empire.

My name is Alexei Romanov. Thought to be dead, the villages thought it saintly to save two out of the five children facing execution; dragging the wreckage of the survivors through ice and snow while the rest are left to die. They could not save everyone, because there was only room for two Romanovs in his world. So here I stand alone with only the faint grip of Anastasia’s hand. Her eyes hold all the evidence needed to persuade this nation that love had forgotten us. And although she tries to comfort me with smiles, her heart does not hold the faith to comfort her. The last thing said was that hope was hibernating… If only they had seen its corpse lying cold on the cellar floor. From our parent’s blood we were hidden by the merciful and tucked behind the potato crates of a farmer’s wagon. From there the gates of our prison let us free while guards shot at village men and woman in search for a wanted prince and princess. And though the blood split for us may not have been worth it, I, along with my last sister disappeared into the snow. Nothing was said while on the journey to beyond. For the longest silence of my life, the absence of speech had left me somewhat detached from humanity. The greatcoats our guardians lent to us were not enough to keep the demons away. And as if the images of that cellar weren’t enough to haunt my subconscious, the bitter grey that did not end, tormented my fractured mind until I had forget the reasons to smile. But though the walk was long and the wind blew bitterly, my hand along with heart was slightly harmed in my sister’s grip. There were seven of us to begin with, but I only ever needed my sister. My darling Anastasia… Never let go of my hand.

* * *

My name is Anastasia. I am the last princess… the swallow of Siberia. And if I be worth the blood spilt that eases the villagers’ paths to heaven, I am more grateful than the stars are for their light. They shine beyond the sun and moon and tell me that our hope is only searching summer. And though the road between summer and I is elongated by the rumours and terrors of this country, faith is the only one by my side to walk me to the end. That and my brother, we walk together so I know I am not alone; buried or burnt beneath earth and ash and quicklime my sisters look down at us and kiss the night away to let the sun greet us with a ray of warmth. And while we sleep among crates of root plants and the carrion of animals, I can see my father’s shadow hanging over us, the way a father looks over his young. I have the name of a family lost in life, but found in spirit. I can feel them still near me. And my darling sisters… if only you could see how the moon bends around the earth in search for the radiance only you could reflect. Until I find you I shall wander this white world of broken hearts and hidden dreams. Until then…

It is day three. I, along with the fading soul, that is my brother, were taken by a band of villagers and even though their price if caught would be their lives, these five simple people chose to be angels instead of farmers. Rescued and smuggled through the ravaged villages, we have now reached the desert of snow. Just where the horizon meets the forest, is where our future lies. A train they say; a train for a prince and sister to find their way from out this snow. At least that is what they say.

I look up from my blistered feet to meet the gaze of the farm boy. Out of all the five rescuers he is the only one who tries to hide the horror behind a smile. Failing to persuade us that all is well, I still admire his fortitude. The four others are much older, being 17 you see yourself an adult, however each gnarled line and wrinkle in these peasants’ faces tell a story that stretches far beyond my time. I do not remember a name, but like a needle imbedded in a nerve I never forget a face. Among the elders is the farmer, his eyes are that to be avoided, for he hides a great sorrow behind a mask of anger. His daughter, I assume, cares for the food and bedding, like our old maid that I was much fond of, she has dealt and cared for us with great heart, with not even a frown of a complaint. Shuffling through snow, radiating her potency through creaking bones and toothless gums, a woman with a frail body but fierce spirit is the leader of this troop, plunging deeper into this abyss. Despite having nothing but the rags she wears, she tries and succeeds in living on through her poverty. And though I am beginning to understand that it is her country is responsible for her torment, she continues to save the children of her enemies. Above everything I save respect for this woman in my heart. The last peasant that stands alone behind, is the withered soul of the second farmer. There is no need for tears as his tired face and shaking hands are enough to reflect the fear that courses through his blood. Awkward glances and distant footprints leave the relationship between us and him remote and silent. Yet we are all silent. Apart from the howling of the wolves and whistle of the snow, the silence between us seven wanderers is enough to set us mad.

Night approaches us with the cold driving colder and though we didn't think the ice could thicken any more, the lakes we wonder across are harder that titanium. For our benefit the peasants know this desert backwards, and without the simple guidance of a map the peasants find the forest cabins before the sun dissolves completely. Once inside the spiders greet us with walls of webs. Detaching our hands, Alexei’s frozen palm had moulded into mine. There was a room similar to this, in the palace. With walls of grey and mould for plaster I remember playing ghosts in the cellars while sisters chased us from out the dark corridors, we would scamper round the hallways, lit by the gold lamp s, while the ceiling rained diamonds and the walls seeped silver. Past the bedrooms, down the staircase we used to land ourselves finally, in the room of magic. As my sister once said, the room was the playroom of angles, dripping with jewels I remember dancing in that great hall, watching my dress of the finest silk flow through the air as I danced through the shimmering night. Laced with rubies it glided like a dove through the summer breeze, while my curled hair balanced a tiara of crystal, each one of a colour not yet to be discovered by the artists. The ballroom shone brighter than the sun as the light hit the mirrors surrounding the air with stars and twinkles of glitter. Magic was weak compared to the mystical wonder of that room, fairies of light danced through golden rays and violet sparks, yet I was unaware of the grey that lay beyond the golden windows. And now I know. The cabin was not the ballroom, yet that did not stop me dreaming it was. Lying down within the rags and animal fur, kindly sacrificed by pious peasants, I did not have trouble falling into a dream. But as I did murmurs and arguments arose between the five strangers, as I tried to listen but could only pick the last words before the sparks of the palace flew into my dozing mind: “Villagers… Rumoured… Soviet… Romanovs… Dead…”

* * *

I woke to the shaking of a decaying hand, clasping my shoulder as I emerged back into reality. Reaching for my sister I fully awoke as I saw the empty space of where she was meant to be waiting for me. And at that moment I feared the worst, that now I had been left completely alone, that this world hadn't the mercy to spare me at least one sister. And before I pondered over the infinite possibilities of where she was, I had already decided that her absence was to remain. Before I could collect my strength to call her name, the hand grabbed me, pulling me up from the rags the peasants threw at us the night before, I pulled back my arm as the farmer’s swollen and shaken face glared back and yelled the first words he had ever said to me: “Go!” Without explanation or reason I obliged as I knew that death was chasing me. From out the cabin I fell into the embrace of the darkest shadows, towering over me in the helpless moonlight.

* * *

Sauntering through the ends of the black forest, I know now that gods existence can be as absent as it is present, as he had no input to this end. I would not have left Alexei if it weren't for the dreams that saved me from awaking, as the five saints of Siberia sacrificed themselves for two children who were not their own. In the dead of night the rumours of our escape spread like wildfire across the villages and slower found their way to us. But the souls of that who saved us continued to fight, as I stand not alone but with the remaining farm boy. And though the rest are dead, he risked his skin to save mine. Passing through the ends of the forest he did his best impression of a smile as he remembers my brother. And though I never told Alexei that hope had never let us, somewhere in his burning heart he knew that it was waving from the white horizon. The proof is that I am awaiting the train to take me beyond the white towards the green, where mountains hide the jewels of Russia and where the swallows of Siberia fly to in winter. The farm boy gives his coat in return for the rags I give back. And as smoke rises from the train the farm boy drops the rags. Bending in the fog three scarlet twinkles emerge and from the cloth he raises his hand: the rubies of Romanov.

And whether my family were born to meet this bitter conclusion and whether I was born to wonder alone with only hope and faith, is not important. For in my heart they shall never die. And through the burning sky I see the beaded stars that tell me they will never leave my presence.

Into the snow where hope is too cold to prevail, let not the stars forget us, as my brother prepares to sleep beneath the earth tonight. From civil grudge breaks to new mutiny, let not this legacy be blurred by the soviets deceiving promise of freedom. And like our father, tucked beneath the rising flames of his Empire, keep me rapped in the chrysalis of hope and do not let the divine spark of my soul gutter out into this ice-cast barren wasteland of snow.