A New Earth
A short story for Good Friday 2026
He could smell salt, and coconut. He breathed in, filling his lungs. Was that water he could hear? A gentle sound of waves lapping against a sandy shore. He opened his eyes to see a deep blue, a blue so intense he didn’t think he’d ever seen anything so beautiful. If this was a dream he hoped he would not be rudely awakened. He pushed himself up, his fingers registering dry sand that yielded, and saw he was on a beach. A memory surfaced of a beach in Odesa. The only time he had visited a beach in his life. He had stood on the shore, sand under his feet. His bare feet. Around him, his family, his children were laughing and shouting, while his wife readied a blanket for their picnic. That was a good memory. His heart seemed to swell as a cascade of mental images overlaid themselves so that he was looking both at the beach and sea in front of him and that beach at Odesa that he had stood on… how many years ago?
Where was he?
He looked round. To his left and his right palm trees stretched off into the distance. Turning fully round he could see an unbroken line of them. He turned onto his knees and then stood dusting the sand off his bare knees. He took stock of himself. Shorts. A simple cotton shirt. Short sleeves.
Where am I?
He set off towards the line of palm trees. Palm trees, he thought. I’ve never seen a palm tree before, not in real life, only through photos. He stopped as he reached one and put his hand on the bark. Warm like the sand, like the air around him. He turned and looked back at the sea. He wanted to see whether it was warm as well. But no, first he had to explore.
There were palm trees several rows deep, not in any special order, but a good stretch of them. Tall, towering over him and as he looked up, he saw that they were laden with fruit. Dates and coconuts. Best to avoid walking under the coconuts, he thought. Though for some reason he knew he was in no danger.
As he walked through the trees, beyond them he could see space opening out. A field with grass that came up halfway to his knees. Beyond that a village. Simple wooden huts, thatched roofs. He felt that he knew this place, he’d been here before. But when? And where? He continued forwards, heading for the village. There didn’t seem to be anyone around. His bare feet registered a cool grass as he made his way through it, and the soil under his feet gave way slightly, as the sand had on the beach. No rocky field this, no frozen tundra. Another memory came to him of running through his grandfather’s field, recently ploughed and stones collected. He had run as only a child could, laughing and leaping, knowing that each time a foot touched down it would sink into the soft earth, leaving behind a trail that he imagined would look as if a giant had strolled past. He smiled at the thought now that the child did not yet understand no-one else would think a giant had made those tiny footprints. And even so, and even as he looked down at his own feet and knowing that even these adult sized feet were not large enough to fool anyone, he felt a desire to start running. And so he did. A slow jog to begin with then, as he discovered he had the strength and energy to do so, a lazy run. He drew close to the village and found himself veering away. Not yet, his thoughts whispered.
Even running did not seem to exhaust him and he gradually increased his speed until he was running flat out, faster than he believed he’d ever run before. He allowed himself to take in the vivid colours, the azure sky, the emerald grass, the aroma of the earth as his run curved in a wide arc around the village. Where he had exited the palm trees, he could see they continued in what appeared to be a straight line to each horizon. All else was grass apart from this solitary village. Where am I, he asked himself. Somewhere I have been before. He knew this. It did not trouble him that he could not remember. There was no sense of pressure to recall. No urgency or stress. He felt free. And with that he leapt. He was still no giant, yet he was pleased that he could jump so far. His childhood self would have shouted with delight had he been able to soar for so long. The landing was easy, his knee absorbing the impact, his foot sinking deep into the soft earth, and then he pushed himself upwards and forwards again and bounded forwards. He yelled out, a triumphant sound, and thanked God that he was alive. This dream was a most pleasant experience.
He reached the place where he had begun to curve away from the village and slowed, coming to a halt. Taking stock, he was not out of breath. His legs and joints had all coped remarkably well. He could not remember ever running and jumping like that as an adult. And as a child he was certain he could not have run as fast, or as far, or jumped so high. It was exhilarating. It was time. He set his face towards the village and strode forwards.
There was a hedge that ran around the village. Some sort of berry grew from it. He picked some and ate, finding the berries had a sweetly tart flavour. He picked some more, trying to recall if he had ever eaten such a fruit before. The hedge continued, unbroken as he walked round. He had not noticed the hedge as he had run round, revelling in the chance to run and jump. It was not high, only about waist height, and it occurred to him that he may even be able to leap right over it, such was his newfound ability. There was no rush though. Even though he had not noticed it while running, he knew where he could pass through. He ate some more berries and decided that was enough. His hands were stained a deep red with the juice. He wondered if his lips and face also had been stained. The image came to him of his daughter laughing as he tried to wipe her face. It had been strawberry season, and her hands and face were sticky after gorging herself on the fruit. Her little arms tried to wave him off, protesting as he’d wiped. He had got her as clean as he could when she reached out and plopped one last strawberry in her mouth. Whatever frustration he’d felt at this little act of rebellion, he’d laughed it away, before snatching her up and swinging her round. How long had it been since he’d last seen her? A long time. Would she now be an adult? Did she look like her mother? He hoped that he would see them again soon. And he stopped as he realised that this was no fake hope, no wishful thinking. This was a hope that was certain and sure. It filled him with gladness. ‘I will see them again,’ he whispered.
He continued on around the hedge, and knew he was approaching the entrance. And there it was, a broad break in the otherwise continuous run of the hedge that, despite not having paid any attention while he rounded it, he knew otherwise ran unbroken the whole way round. He paused there, noting that the entrance was on the opposite side to the line of palm trees. This was curious. He looked round and away from the village. There was no road. That seemed important, though he was unsure why. He tested the ground under his feet, almost but not quite jumping in place. The earth underneath seemed as soft as everywhere he had stepped or leaped in this vast field. No road. Was that important? Not sufficiently so, he decided. The village was waiting. He felt a reluctance to enter it, yet knew it was important to do so. ‘Be strong and courageous’, the quotation that had sustained him for long years prodded and prompted him to step forwards. He struggled to understand what he was feeling. Not fear, though he could remember fear. Not anxiety, though that too he could recall. Pain? There had been pain, he was sure of that. And there had been fear, and anxiety, and even terror. But perhaps worse had been despair. The knowledge that no-one was coming to rescue him. That his sentence was indefinite. That he would never leave this place that he was now willingly walking back towards. Except, not this place.
Reaching the first hut he reached out and placed his hand on the wooden wall. Warm, like the bark of the palm tree. He recalled cold brick that could not be touched in the winter for fear your skin would freeze to it, trapping you outside. Guards laughing as they debated whether to leave you to die or cut off your hand. The idea of rescuing a prisoner and fetching warm water never seeming to enter their thoughts. When he had demanded they do just that, poor Victor having already given up all hope and hanging from the wall, at risk of further sealing his fate as his face grew dangerously close to the freezing brick, he had received his first beating. He could not remember much after a rifle butt had slammed into his head. That had been a mercy. The pain he had endured for weeks afterwards though — intense bruising on his back that meant he could not lie down, the probable broken ribs that meant every breath was an agony — that he remembered. He put a hand to the site of the probable break in one or more ribs and took a deep breath. As he breathed out, he wondered that it had been years since he last could breathe freely.
Victor had been rescued though; the beating he had endured had at least satisfied the cruelty of the guards sufficiently that a prisoner was sent to fetch warm water. And for a time other prisoners had called him Vsevolod, some in derision, others with genuine respect. He had to ask them to stop. He was no ruler, he had no power, and this was never in doubt as the guards never stopped, even for one day, attempting to break him.
He stepped back from the hut and slowly made his way round it. The hut had what he thought of as windows, except there was no glass, only doors that were opened outwards, leaving an opening large enough to easily climb through. Or out of. He smiled at that thought. Windows large enough to climb out of! That were left open. They had been lucky at times to be in cells which even had a window. Albeit a window so high above the concrete floors that you would have to jump to look out of them. And who had strength to jump.
He did. Now. And he bent and flexed his knees once more and just because he could, he did. He jumped up, as high as he could, landing easily. Oh, it felt good!
This first hut was fairly small. It reminded him of the guard post, where the guards would warm themselves for a time before returning to supervise the prisoners. Not that they were allowed outside for long during the winter. Too long outside and prisoners died. And it seemed that an unwritten rule for the gulag was that prisoners were to be kept alive as long as possible. Death would have been an escape from the suffering and punishment. The stated goal was rehabilitation. Repent of whatever crime you had committed, confess your sins, pledge your undying allegiance to the Party, and the hope was dangled in front of you like a carrot in front of a donkey that one day you may have finally earned your freedom. Yet even though it was dangerous to venture outside in temperatures so cold that the engine of the guards’ truck froze, they had regularly been herded outside to stand, shivering while a roll call was made. Some days he had not warmed up from the previous day’s excursion outside before being roughly ordered out again.
Continuing around he reached the door, which was wide open. He stepped inside, looking all around. The open door and wide windows allowed light to flow in. The interior walls were also wooden, a double skin he realised, looking at the depth of the windowsill. A similar reddish brown as on the outside, though perhaps warmer in tone out of direct sunlight. And that thought startled him. He quickly left the hut and looked up at the deep blue sky. Where was the sun?
Walking away from the village he turned all around and even though there were no clouds, there was also no sun. How could that be? He knew the answer, he was sure of it, just needed to give it a moment and the reason would poke out of his subconscious, announce its presence and put to rest the confusion he was experiencing.
Answer me!
The memory forced its way to the forefront of his jumbled thoughts. He forgot the sky and began walking back into the village. He knew the way. He’d been marched there and back so many times. Sometimes dragged back. Sometimes carried, unconscious. The guards had used a wheelbarrow rather than lift him themselves. He only knew this because they did it for any prisoner who had been beaten or abused past the point they could bear.
He reached the place. This was no hut; this was a mansion. Multiple windows demarked the many rooms inside. Double doors again stood wide open and he walked to stand at the entrance, looking down a hallway lined in the same wood that the guard hut had been lined with. The hallway was not long and joined another in a T junction.
Why are you here!
What are your crimes?
Who helped you?
Determined not to betray his family or any of his brothers and sisters in the church, he had decided before arriving that he would not speak. Would never give the guards, who in truth were his torturers, the satisfaction of using his answers against him. Other prisoners had confessed to him after particularly brutal sessions that they had revealed the names of people they loved. It had made no difference. The guilt they felt at their betraying loved ones was soon beaten out of them as the guards did not believe them. Speak or do not speak, the outcome was the same. Though he knew that was unlikely to be true except only immediately, to their situation. Far away, loved ones may well have been rudely woken and bundled out of homes and into trucks and cars, before boarding a train that led to a similar village like this one.
Stepping into the hallway, he strode forwards, shouts and screams remembered. It was an effective tool, to allow them to hear the cries of pain and pleas made by their fellow prisoners, to be led past rooms where the interrogations and tortures were taking place. No sound proofing here. Thin walls with vents strategically placed to allow every prisoner walking or being dragged past to hear. And that fact had escaped him for too long. The determination he had felt at the beginning to remain silent, over time, as months slowly turned into years, had gradually begun to seem pointless. What use was silence? Not that he had not cried out. He had, and screamed, and groaned and made every other noise a person can make when treated as he was. Except speak. Until it occurred to him, oh how late, that perhaps speaking was what he must do. And for a time, it had seemed the guards might kill him for the words he spoke. Instead of accusations against loved ones, confessions of crimes against the State and Party, he had begun to pray for the souls of the men who tortured him. Ask God to bless these cruel men. Had prayed, out loud, so loud in fact that on one particularly memorable day, the building had for the first time fallen silent, apart from his earnest prayers for the salvation of the torturers. Those vents which allowed screams to carry, it seemed, could also allow prayers to be heard by those being interrogated and those doing the interrogating, and torturing, throughout the building. His voice, almost a shout, had echoed through those cold rooms. He found out later, after regaining consciousness, and after being allowed back into the general population, that the guards had all fallen silent, looking at each other as if uncertain, in some cases even displaying a hint of fear. Oh, the prisoners who heard his prayers were still beaten. The interrogations had continued. Though only after he had been knocked unconscious. But for a time, even though he had no idea the impact his prayers were having, evil had been thrown into disarray.
Here. He stopped outside his room. Always his room. How much better to torture a person than to return them daily to the same place, so approaching it would bring to mind the horrors they had endured.
As with every other door he had approached and walked past, this one was open. He stepped inside his room. And to his surprise, this room had a chair in it. He had not noticed any furniture in any other room he had entered or passed. A wooden chair, similar in grain to the walls, a reddish-brown colour. Rough construction, simple design. It looked sturdy though. He sat on it. Yes, it felt like there was no danger of it collapsing under him. It had not been a wooden chair he had been sat on. Instead, an iron chair, also of simple design, though bolted to the floor. Sometimes in the room there would also be a table, and another chair or chairs for the guards, those were not bolted to the floor. He occasionally wondered where these accessories were stored. Did they have a room somewhere that only contained tables and chairs, or were the guards forced to share a single table and two chairs that were rationed out for torture sessions. He was tempted to seek out this storeroom, though felt content to sit for a while, and suspected that even if the store room was there, it would now contain no furniture, at least of the table and chair variety.
It had been while seated on this chair, or rather the chair this one was modelled on, or was modelled right? This chair was an improvement. He wiggled about a bit. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, not like an armchair or sofa, yet felt as if he could sit on it for as long as he wanted. Not like the earlier chair, that had seemingly designed to be uncomfortable. The seat shorter than standard, and the iron bands that served as the actual seat of different thicknesses so that some pressed against his thighs and rear. So too the bands at the back, only two, neither of which were broad, and all the bands straight so that if he leaned back, or was pushed back, his spine jutted against them.
What had he been thinking? Oh yes, it had been while seated like this that he finally saw who the guards were. Torturers. Bullies. Cruel sadists. Evil and wicked sinners, just like him. Perhaps his own cruel deeds were in a different league, but had he not on occasion bullied another child? Was he innocent of causing another pain? Hadn’t he taken pleasure in someone else’s misfortune? He had judged his own heart and actions many times and found himself wanting. And if it had not been for Jesus, for the mercy and kindness shown to him, might he not have continued to be cruel, even if only in little ways. And if, as he believed, no-one was good, and it was only through the mercy of God that any of us would be forgiven and welcomed into God’s presence, was there really such a gulf between him and the guards? Didn’t Jesus die for them as well? And he knew that Jesus did. And if the thief on the cross could be taken by Jesus into paradise, well, perhaps he was not here to suffer, but to pray for the souls of these evil men, that like him, they might be saved from the punishment they deserved and find God’s mercy.
How had it taken him so long to understand this? How much time had been wasted? In that moment he had chosen to waste no more time and had begun praying for the guards, shocking them as he uttered his first intelligible words in that room. It had been the words of Jesus he had spoken that day, ‘Father, forgive them, they know not what they do.’ He had no creativity or imagination, only a memory of an unbelievable compassion shown to those who did not deserve it. From that point on, as much as he was able, he responded to questions and accusations with prayers for the guards. This frustrated some of them and enraged others. The violence against him intensified, yet at times he felt Jesus’ spirit rise up in him in response to that increased violence, empowering him to feel compassion in response to hatred, forgiveness for cruelty. They sought to break him, not seeming to understand that he was already broken. God had broken him long ago. He knew he had nothing, no power in himself, and as they tried to crush him, he retreated to the Rock, his only solid foundation.
‘You saved me,’ he whispered, as a wave of emotion filled him such that he thought he might cry. ‘Thank you, Jesus,’ he spoke out clearly, as if to guards towering over him. No tears formed, however. The thankfulness he felt at having been rescued from that place, from this place, instead found its vent in a laugh. Almost a shout of a laugh, and that led him to roar in exaltation. Laughing, shouting, roaring – how long had it been since he last felt able to express himself like this? He was free. Finally free. He stood, and with no guards there to stop him, walked out of the room, out of the building, and back into the village where he encountered the first person he had seen since waking.
Still full of a riot of emotions, he barely registered surprise at seeing someone in what he had assumed was an abandoned village.
‘Andrei!’ The man said, noticing him, delight evident in his expression.
Do I know you, he asked himself. The man could have been any one of hundreds of prisoners that had been imprisoned in the camp. He was carrying a shovel. That brought back memories of futile attempts to break up the frozen soil which thawed briefly in the summer, and then only to a depth of five centimetres.
The man laid down his shovel and held out his hand. ‘You won’t remember me,’ he said. ‘I never got a chance to thank you for saving my life.’
‘Victor?’ Andrei asked.
‘You do remember.’
Andrei took Victor’s hand, and found he once more had the strength to grip. Victor put his other hand over their clasped hands. ‘What you did, standing up to the guards like that, for me. I would have frozen to death, perhaps even cursing God with my last breath in anger at such a cruel end. You valued my life; you gave me hope that God still cared for me. He sent you to this place…’ Victor laughed, ‘well, that place, to rescue me.’
With a final squeeze of his hand, Victor let go, then he reached out and clasped Andrei’s arm. ‘Come, you must meet the others.’
‘Others?’
Victor smiled, ‘Of course. We’re all here.’
As Victor led him deeper into the village, Andrei tried to remember when he had last seen him. He could not recall past the beating he had received. ‘What happened to you?’ he asked. ‘I don’t…’
‘They kept me in solitary for two weeks, then shipped me out on the next supply train. I imagine they could not have kept me there, telling other prisoners how you stood up to the guards.’
‘Where did they take you?’
‘Another camp much like this. Bitterly cold. Cruel guards.’ Victor grinned at him. ‘But I took something beautiful with me, a memory of kindness, of compassion. And I shared what you did with everyone who would listen, and in small ways I was able to show kindness to others. You rekindled my faith in God, helped me to believe again that our Father in heaven had not given up on me. I carried that fire with me and shared it, and saw others warmed during the coldest of winters.’
‘I confess, I forgot about you.’ Did he feel shame about that? Andrei wasn’t sure. It felt right to speak the truth, and he had forgotten. The recovery from the beating he had received took all his strength for the weeks that followed. And there were other prisoners who needed encouragement, what little he could give.
‘I never forgot you,’ Victor said.
They held each other then, two men who had endured terrible things, and yet had a connection that had outlasted all that had been done to them.
Victor slapped Andrei on his back and stepped back. ‘The others are waiting,’ he said.
‘What for?’
‘For you, of course.’
Victor was grinning at him, and Andrei was unsure why. He had never been insecure, even after being tortured, deep inside he had a confidence that he knew was a blessing from God. He had been able to laugh at himself, sharing a joke when he had said or done something ridiculous. Yet he did not get the sense that was why Victor was smiling at him.
They walked on and now Andrei heard other voices. Men at ease. Many of them. They passed one larger hut and the village opened out to reveal a large area at what he assumed was the centre. Easily a couple of dozen men were there, some digging away, a couple each had a wheelbarrow, a single plump sack balanced and… were they racing each other? He chuckled to see they probably were. Quite a restrained race, each man walking stiffly round at the opposite side of the clearance to where they had entered. A few men stood in a group just talking. Gradually the chatter ceased and the men racing their wheelbarrows came to a standstill, though not until one had taken the lead, he noticed. All of them were looking at him.
‘Come,’ Victor said.
He was encouraged forwards and the men all gathered round them. Every single one of them was smiling at him. Broad grins, looks of delight. Andrei looked round at their faces, trying to remember. There! ‘Vasili!’
Vasili grabbed his outstretched hand and pulled him into a bear hug. ‘It is good to see you,’ Vasili said as he released him.
Then Andrei realised that Pyotr was there. And as he recognised Pyotr, Pyotr also drew him into a tight hug. ‘Brother,’ Pyotr whispered as he held him close.
And there was Roman, and Nikolai, and Kirill… Recognising each one brought with that recognition memories of hushed prayers, shared bread, words of encouragement. They had all faced terrible treatment at the hands of the guards, but had supported each other, reminding and being reminded that Jesus too had suffered, had warned them that they would suffer. This is the cost, he had said to more than one of them. And if this is what we must suffer for Jesus, let us turn it into something of beauty. Let us pray for those who persecute us, that they might repent and also find Jesus. Let us sow seeds that will bloom and blossom in eternity.
Andrei looked around at the gathered men, his brothers, his friends. ‘Is this all,’ he asked. ‘Are there no others with us?’
‘We are here, isn’t that enough?’ Kirill answered.
And for the first time since waking, Andrei felt a deep sadness. ‘I hoped,’ he started to say, ‘I hoped there would be more.’
Several of the men nodded at this, their faces also indicating disappointment.
‘Where are we?’ Kirill asked.
‘The gulag,’ Pyotr responded.
‘Are we?’ said Kirill in return.
Looking past the group, to the wooden huts, the clear blue sky, feeling the soft earth under his feet, Andrei knew they were not in the gulag.
‘We’re in heaven,’ Victor stated.
‘No.’ Andrei shook his head. ‘This is the new earth. We were never promised heaven, perhaps we will never need heaven. This is enough,’ he said as he remembered waking on the beach, at peace, surrounded by beauty.
Kirill nodded. ‘I was the first to wake here. Each of you joined me, one by one. Perhaps there will be more.’
‘But if this is the new earth, where is Jesus?’ Roman asked. ‘Where is God?’
Kirill laughed. ‘Don’t you know?’ He gently poked Roman in the chest. ‘Where he has always been, in your heart!’
Roman put a hand to his chest. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Though I thought we would meet, in person.’
‘We will.’ Andrei surprised himself at saying so with such confidence. He knew it was true, did not know how he knew, only that it was.
‘But when?’ Asked Roman.
‘When it is time,’ Kirill replied.
Roman’s questions reminded Andrei of another longing. ‘My family?’ he asked.
Kirill put his hand on Andrei’s shoulder. ‘The old earth was a big place, why should the new be any smaller?’
‘They are elsewhere?’
‘Why would they be here,’ Kirill asked in response.
And Andrei knew he would never have wanted them to come here, at least, to the old here. Now though, would he want them to be here? The thought confused him and he chose to focus on one fact he was certain of. ‘I would see them again.’
‘You will. For now though, join us, we have work to do.’
‘Work?’
Gesturing round at the clearing, Kirill grinned. ‘God has given us a garden, and seeds to plant.’
‘What kind of seeds,’ Andrei asked.
‘Sunflowers.’
‘Sunflowers? In the gulag? Truly we are on a new earth!’
Andrei joined the men, taking a shovel that was offered, and digging into the rich earth. Together they planted the seeds, eating far more than they planted, until the clearing had been almost fully turned over with only a broad path between the huts and what was now a field. After so much time spent digging, and bending over to pick up seeds and plant them, and raking the earth back so it was covering the seeds, Andrei was surprised to find that he was not tired. He walked over to Victor. ‘Is there no night here?’
‘I have not slept or felt the need to since I woke.’
‘How long ago did you wake?’
Victor laughed. ‘I have no idea. Kirill,’ he called out, ‘how long have you been awake?’
Looking towards them, Kirill walked over. ‘I have counted twenty-two of you arriving.’ He gestured up at the sky. ‘I have no other way of measuring time.’
Eternity, Andrei thought to himself. I wondered what it would be like. Now I get to find out.
‘How long will it take for the seeds to sprout?’ Andrei asked. ‘For them to grow? Will it rain? I have not seen a single cloud.’
‘So many questions!’ Kirill shook his head. ‘I have no idea. However, that is not totally true. I have one idea.’ He turned from them to stand looking over the clearing and raised his hands. ‘Father in heaven, thank you for this place, thank you for bringing us here, and for giving us good work to do. We have planted these seeds you prepared for us. We ask you will send…’ he paused and Andrei saw him concentrate, his look appearing to focus no longer on what was in front of him and instead on something Andrei could not see. ‘We ask that you will water these seeds,’ Kirill continued. ‘You will bless them and cause them to grow.’
Lowering his hands, he nodded at Andrei. ‘There,’ he said, ‘now we wait.’
‘Now we eat!’ Pyotr announced, joining their small group.
Bemused, Andrei followed Pyotr as he led the way. A couple of the men were carting the bags of seed back to one of the huts. The hut that Pyotr led them to turned out to be a store. Andrei walked in to find shelves all around the walls. No place for windows in this hut. Instead, shelves allowed sacks and jars and pots to be stacked neatly from floor to ceiling all around. Pyotr took a large pot from the shelves and passed it to him.
‘What is all this?’ Andrei asked.
‘We found it when we arrived. A gift from our Father.’
‘And in this pot?’
‘You have never had surprise supper?’
Andrei laughed. ‘In the gulag, it was always a surprise to be fed.’
Pyotr turned to him, now laden with small sacks and a couple of jars that were precariously balanced against his chest. ‘In the gulag I was always hungry but never enjoyed anything I was served. Here I have been for I don’t know how long and have never once felt hungry. Since we found this treasure, I have had three meals, and each one was a banquet. It does not matter how much we take, a little or a lot. There is always enough.’
‘You seem to be taking a lot,’ Andrei observed pointedly.
‘I wanted to make something special this time. I need more ingredients.’
Pyotr slowly made his way outside, with Andrei following, where Nikolai met them and took the jars from Pyotr.
‘Were you not worried you’d drop one?’ Nikolai voiced what Andrei had been thinking.
‘I knew someone would rush to my aid,’ Pyotr said as he walked on.
‘I’ve not felt a need to worry since waking,’ Andrei said.
‘Were you worried?’ Pyotr asked Nikolai.
Andrei saw Nikolai frown in concentration. ‘I’m not sure. It’s difficult to describe. I felt you needed help, and I was surprised you were carrying so much. Was that worry?’
‘What would have happened had the jars fallen?’ Andrei asked.
‘Someday we will find out,’ Pyotr stated, ‘but not today.’
‘It is always today,’ Kirill said, joining them.
‘Today, someday? If there are no more nights, we will need a new vocabulary,’ Andrei thought out loud. ‘Do we even have time?’
‘What is time?’ Kirill asked and then immediately answered, ‘one thing happening after another. The question is not do we have time, instead it is whether one thing has to happen after another, or if another can happen before?’
‘What do you mean?’ Andrei asked.
Kirill stopped walking, and Andrei halted after him, waiting for his answer.
‘We are going to set the food down, then prepare it, then eat it. You can accompany us as we do, or you could go in the opposite direction and meet me once more when we first met.’
‘I don’t understand. The opposite direction?’ Andrei glanced behind him.
‘Not in space, in time.’
‘The opposite direction in time? How would I?’
‘How do we do anything?’ Kirill smiled. ‘We just do.’
Andrei felt that was particularly unhelpful. Just do what? Will oneself backwards…’ Everything seemed to sway around him.
‘That’s it,’ Kirill said, nodding approvingly. ‘See you in a bit.’ He turned and walked away.
‘Wait!’ Andrei called, then left alone, tried to remember what had thought, felt, and once more everything swayed, and then went into reverse. At first, he saw Kirill walking backwards, and then heard him speak backwards, as if a record was being played in reverse. And then, even more disorienting, he himself was walking backwards, unable to see where he was going. Or was he? I’m not going there, he told himself, I’m coming from there. And he turned himself around so he was no longer walking backwards, but forwards into the past. And if he could turn himself around physically, he wondered if he could also turn the conversations around, and he found he could, hearing himself speak normally, and what the others were saying. And so, he returned into the storeroom hut, carrying the pot, and gave it back to Pyotr who put it back on the shelf, and then exited.
Kirill had said to meet him when we first met. Not where, but when. Which had been before planting the sunflower seeds. Did he have to retrace all his steps at the same speed as he had first walked them? Or could he… he skipped. Ahead or behind he was not sure, but now he was once again standing surrounded by his brothers, they were all greeting him, and as Kirill reached out a hand, Andrei saw him smile in a way he had not smiled the first time. It was a knowing smile, and Kirill drew him close and whispered, ‘The food is ready. Time to come back.’
As Kirill withdrew, Andrei stood, uncertain how now to re-reverse course. He focused on the thought that the meal had been prepared. There was food waiting for him. He could almost smell it, a savoury stew. The world around him swayed as he aimed at that meal, skipping ahead past all that had occurred between and finding himself standing by a fire, his brothers all seated around, chatting amongst themselves, except for Kirill who was looking expectantly at him.
‘We are not bound by time?’ Andrei asked.
‘It would appear to be so.’ Kirill gestured for him to sit.
Andrei joined him. ‘So,’ he started, trying to decide which of the many questions this all raised that he wanted answered first, ‘we can experience time in both directions?’
‘I’m not sure. We are still constrained by our body, and our body only has eyes at the front.’
‘But I turned round, I was able to hear what was said as if spoken normally.’
‘Good. I had to learn to do that as well. We still seem to have an inner ear canal. We can be disoriented and feel off balance.’
‘Can we feel pain?’
‘Why wouldn’t we be able to? The absence of pain is the absence of touch. Bodies need to be able to feel, otherwise we harm ourselves and the damage is far greater than if we felt a little pain.’
‘I could have done with the absence of pain many times.’
‘Your treatment was particularly cruel. Yet did you ever feel disconnected while being beaten or tortured?’
Andrei thought back and started to feel that swaying sensation. He put his hand down and grabbed at the grass and earth, grounding himself. He did not want to go back and relive those experiences. Though… ‘Can we travel back to before?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have?’
Kirill nodded. His expression was solemn.
Thinking about it, Andrei both did and did not want to enquire more deeply. He knew Kirill had suffered. They all had. And while he could have asked when Kirill revisited, he knew that it would only be putting off his own journey into the past. ‘Be strong and courageous’, he had tried to live in obedience to this command. He would choose now to continue in the same spirit. He did not want to. But he would.
Letting go of the grass, allowing the earth to fall from his fingers, Andrei cast back for a time he had been tortured. He focused on that memory, poor though it was, and began to feel himself pulled back. No getting up and walking backwards this time though, instead he focused intently on the memory and… was there.
His face was slapped. His vision blurred and he tried to focus on the wall.
‘Why do you resist?’ the guard, Melnik, spat at him. ‘The Party is your god now, has always been your god, and always will be. Confess and be set free.’
Another slap.
He wanted to say something, to stand, to push the guards aside and walk out. Unlike his first experience though, he found himself trapped, unable to initiate movement, to speak words that had not already been spoken. He could witness this moment but could not change it. Why was he allowing the guards to treat him like this?
The violence of the moment, the shock at having come from a place of peace and contentment to this cell and this treatment, horror and sadness and guilt threatened to overwhelm him.
‘We own you, Andrei Fiodorovich Vorobey.’ This was said by Karamazov, the second guard in the room.
They did not own him! The force of that thought reverberated through time. He knew he had internally responded in the exact same way and this realisation allowed him to consider - he could observe the physical and spoken, could he also observe his thoughts, his feelings?
The guards kept hitting him and taunting him, over and over, each an assault in its own way, and threatening to distract him. But although it had been difficult, and long fought for, he had learned to focus in these situations. Had used the torture and beatings to learn how to endure them, and ultimately to find a way to fight back. He knew how to. It was all about surrender. Not to the moment, not to the guards, or to the pain. It was all about surrender to Jesus. And he began to pray, calling on Jesus, giving up to Jesus. Not my will but yours be done. He hoped to be able to hear what had gone through his mind, to feel again what he had felt. Instead though, as he submitted himself once more to the one who had always loved him, would always love him, he realised there was someone else in the room with them.
He was hit from behind. Taunts made about his wife, what was happening to her while he was trapped here.
He looked around, certain someone else was there. He could not see anyone else, only the two guards. Yet, even without the ability to see this person, the assurance grew that they were indeed there, and not just there as a passive observer, there interceding for him, sustaining him, whispering words of encouragement. And Andrei, for the first time in his life, heard his saviour speak to him. And felt the tender touch of his hand on his head.
He lost consciousness soon after that. At least, the he that was. Andrei was still aware, still observing the room and the guards. They joked to each other about slapping him awake. One suggested getting some water to throw over him, yet neither did. Instead, cigarettes were taken out. They chose to have a break from dishing out violence. His saviour took no such break. Still not visible to him, Andrei could hear the intercession continuing.
‘Thank you,’ he managed to say, feeling an intense gratitude for this kindness. If only I had known, he thought, then rebuked himself. You did know, or at least, you chose to believe. Much of the time it had been hidden from him, yet on occasion he had felt his saviour’s presence in this very room. The comfort of His spirit, enabling him to respond with blessing rather than curses to the torture that was all the guards had to offer. He had never heard his saviour speak though, had never felt physical touch as he did now, and with this new perspective, he could feel his body being strengthened, and vitally, his spirit. The he that was woke. Lifted his head to look at the guards. Andrei was both reliving the experience and observing it. It was then. It was now. This was the moment everything had changed. He could feel his perspective shifting, the realisation dawning on him of who the guards were - just like him. And he could see how the guards responded to the way he was now looking at him, each of them wary, unsettled, as if they also knew something fundamental had changed while they were distracted. Andrei understood now that it had not been his compassion he had felt for the guards, though it became his as the compassion Jesus felt for them was shared with him. He knew now what he had to do, how he must respond as Paul had written so long ago - bless and do not curse.
‘Father,’ Andrei said, speaking the first word he had uttered in this room, ‘forgive them, they know not what they do.’
The guards acted as if that was a goad. Cigarettes were discarded and the beating restarted. But even though they punched him and slapped him his voice rang out, filling the room with words of blessing, with prayers for their souls, and Andrei once again felt an exaltation as the love of Jesus for these men filled him such that he no longer saw them as cruel, instead he saw their fear, their hopelessness, their loneliness and regret. They were as much prisoners as he was. Trapped by a cruel system, deceived and led to evil. If he did not pray for them, who would? If he did not show them the love of Jesus, how could they ever experience it? And if this was the cost, well, had not his saviour also suffered for him?
With one final harsh blow, his body could not take any more and Andrei lost consciousness. Yet he continued to observe, in his body, yet also aware of everything around him at the same time. Finally, the guards stopped hitting him, seeing his body go limp. And now he saw that they both retreated, fear disguised by their fury and passion, yet fear was there, obvious to him now. Had his prayers for them been answered? Had they ever accepted Jesus for themselves? He heard them whisper to each other, words of solidarity, contempt for him, reassuring themselves that nothing had changed, that they were still in control. He saw though that they were both unsettled, and he began praying for them again. Asking his saviour to have mercy on them, to forgive them, as he had forgiven them. Having asked all he could, Andrei ceased to pray, and then realised his saviour was continuing to intercede, had never stopped, not during that terrible beating, and even now as he hung from the chair, Jesus was praying for him, asking the Father to deliver him, to heal him, to strengthen him, and also praying for the guards, that their hearts would soften, that their eyes would be opened, that the hold evil had on them would be broken.
‘Did they ever turn to you?’ Andrei asked.
A whisper, ‘On the final day, all will be revealed.’
It was not over. There was still hope, he realised. And he began again to ask God to save these guards, and those elsewhere in the camp. Praying blessings on them and petitions for them that he would go on to pray in future interrogations and beatings. Prayers that at times had seemed futile, until he had asked God to give him more love, more compassion for these men who were not yet brothers, but who could one day be. Those who ruled over them with an iron rod thought they were placing him and others into the gulag to break them and destroy their will. All along, it had been God’s will that he and those who loved their Father in heaven would instead win the guards for Christ.
‘Stand firm,’ Andrei told himself, willing his unconscious body to hear. ‘Never give up hope, always trust that your Father has a plan.
He could stay, he knew that, could witness everything that had happened to him over the long months and years. He could also return, and knowing that, he was eager to find out how it would ultimately end. If there was a final day, he had not yet lived it, and he wanted to know if any of these men had recognised their need for his saviour.
Andrei focused on the village, Kirill, the fire, the meal, and once again stood there, the sound of his brothers laughing and sharing stories, the smell of the stew still filling the air with fragrant spice, the fire crackling and sending sparks high. The sky was still blue, and Kirill was waiting for him.
‘Would you like some stew?’ Kirill asked.
He nodded and Kirill called to Pyotr, ‘Our wanderer has returned. He is hungry.’
And Andrei realised he was. He was passed a bowl of stew, thick cut vegetables in a gravy that was a perfect consistency. Steam rose and he inhaled an aroma of unfamiliar herbs and spices. He tested a small amount, it was good. A full spoon though was too hot and so he blew over it until he could eat. There was no rush and he knew to eat slowly, unsure how his stomach would handle such rich food. Had he ever tasted anything as delicious? Before the gulag, he remembered enjoying food, though his wife prepared simple fare and he had been content with that. These herbs, spices, he did not have names for them. He saw Kirill was laughing at him. ‘What?’ he mumbled, mouth half full of stew.
‘No-one is going to steal your food here,’ Kirill said in a mock whisper.
He realised that he was hugging the bowl close to him, his posture defensive. A learned behaviour from years in the gulag. Initially it had been other prisoners who had stolen his food, until he had earned their respect, and until almost all of them had no more strength to make another’s life miserable. Later, the guards had used mealtimes as an opportunity to make their lives less tolerable, snatching away an unwary prisoner’s bowl, or dashing it to the ground.
Andrei allowed himself to relax. He raised his bowl in salute to Pyotr. ‘It is good,’ he said.
Pyotr smiled. ‘Do you want more?’
Looking down, he saw the bowl was half full. Why not, he thought to himself. He passed the bowl back and Pyotr ladled more stew in. Andrei nodded his thanks as the bowl was returned to him.
He listened to the conversations his brothers were having as he ate. Some were more serious, recalling events from the gulag, while others talked about life before. It was enough to listen for now. Reliving that moment when he had finally began praying for the guards had been intense. The revelation that Jesus was not only there, but had been interceding for him the whole time, encouraging him, strengthening him, he felt like his perspective was being re-oriented. There had been other times when he had felt the comfort and sustaining of the Holy Spirit, now he wondered if Jesus, if his Spirit had always been there. It was just that he had been blind.
Laying the bowl down, he looked across at the field where they had laboured. The earth seemed darker. He stood and stepped over to the edge of the grass. Reaching down he grabbed some soil. It was damp. A memory came to him of a preacher telling of the first garden, of mists rising up from the earth to water the plants. He brushed the wet soil off his hand then returned to join the others.
Time passed. Or did not. One thing happened. Then another. And now aware that he could retrace those happenings, Andrei found himself more intently aware of what he said and did. He mused that his former self might have paid less attention, become lazy, careless, knowing that he could return and retry. Though, then he considered that he had not been able to retry, only observe and re-experience. They talked together, explored the village, and played games, so many games! Growing up he had enjoyed Wizard, especially in the summer when instead of just catching a person who then had to stand still until freed, they filled bottles with water and “caught” them by soaking them. Reflecting on the games played as a child, he now saw another side to them. Often violent, some seemed to foreshadow his time in the gulag. Instead of simple expressions of fun and energy, Knives prepared them to handle weapons and develop skill in throwing them. He had enjoyed Cossacks and Robbers as a child. Now, having effectively lived as the Robber for so many years, he doubted he could ever again play that game which even as a child he observed that it could turn cruel, the Cossacks hunting the Robbers who left clues to where they were going, and when they were caught, the mock interrogations to make the Robber reveal a secret. Even Ring Ring, where they sat in a circle, passing a ring surreptitiously from hand to hand and one of their number had to identify who had the ring, this had somewhat sinister overtones to him now. Though remembering that game also reminded him of the time a prisoner managed to smuggle a bible into the camp and for months they played their own version of Ring Ring, the guards growing more suspicious, yet - praise God - that bible had remained undiscovered. His brothers seemed to share his aversion to certain games, and he found that they knew of others which he had never before played. And so, they passed the… time.
No-one else arrived at the village, and while sitting enjoying another meal, this time prepared by Roman, Andrei asked Victor, ‘Are we waiting for more from the camp?’
‘I was waiting for you,’ Victor replied.
‘Here I am,’ Andrei laughed. ‘What now? Do we stay here?’
Victor took some more food, chewing slowly. ‘I feel that we will know. I don’t think it will be long.’
It was not.
They shared one more meal after that and then, as he helped tidy up, Andrei felt a calling. It was familiar, as if he had been hearing it his whole life, only he had barely paid attention. Kirill was near him and Andrei looked over to see Kirill was gazing into the distance. ‘Kirill,’ he called.
Kirill blinked twice and turned to look at him, as if in a daze. ‘Did you hear that?’
Andrei nodded, though it had been more of a feeling inside him than something he heard.
They stored everything that had been taken out of the huts, and without needing to agree or discuss, congregated near to the opening in the hedge that surrounded the village. Andrei saw they were all there, all looking at him, and he realised they were waiting for him. It was a final honour, and he smiled at them in gratitude. ‘Let us go,’ he said to them, and turned and began to walk.
There was no road, but he knew the way. They all did. What had once been tundra rose until they could see mountains in the distance, steeper and higher than any he had seen even in photos. Yet between these mountains he knew there were many paths and as they approached, he saw that in the distance on either side of their group, other groups were also walking in parallel. He felt a growing anticipation, knowing they were all headed to the same place, would meet there, and finally, after so long, he would be reunited with his wife and children.
The mountains were steep, yet the valley they walked through was pleasant. It felt good to walk up a slope, the grass under his feet and still soft earth that appeared to have never been trod on before. And then at the gentle summit of the pass, he saw the valley fed into a great forest which stretched out to the horizon.
This was no ordinary forest he found as they reached it. Each tree bore fruit and as they walked through, finding the trees well-spaced out allowing them to walk without hindrance, other types of fruit could be seen. Apples initially, then plums, followed by pears. An orchard that stretched to the horizon, and that seemed as they continued through it, to have been planted with almost every type of tree that could bear fruit.
When he desired to, he picked and ate. They talked in pairs as they walked, occasionally a larger group, and often he just listened to the conversations the others had. Then they merged with another group, also former prisoners from a different gulag, and this prompted more conversations. Where were you? What was your experience? How did you come to know Jesus?
Then another group merged with them, or had they merged with that group? Andrei smiled at the thought he could entertain such questions again.
Sometimes an individual would join them, or a couple. It was not just former prisoners now, villagers and those from isolated homes. Their group became a company, then a battalion, then so many joined them that they were beyond counting. And eventually, Andrei noticed the trees beginning to thin out. And he became aware that their mass of people was about to join more who had arrived already, a crowd of people gathered at the centre of a great plain. A crowd that stretched almost to infinity, millions, billions of people, some of whom are standing, some of whom are prostrate on the ground. And as he approached, he began to hear a great sound. Crying and weeping and wailing, along with shouts of joy and exaltation. He has not seen anyone upset since waking and is confused at first at the distress some are showing, until he realises. Andrei knows sadness once more, that so many had the chance to recognise Jesus, to acknowledge their Creator, and yet failed to do so. And now there is no more time.
Finally, he reaches the crowd. Although there are so many people in front of him, he can see everything. Thrones at the centre, the Son at the right hand of the Father. Strange beings of light are at work before them. Are these the angels he had been taught of? When he tries to look at these beings, he sees flashes that remind him of wild creatures. A roaring lion, a charging bull. Wings, as if those of an eagle, strike down, propelling them forwards, sideways, slashing back and forth like lightning. Yet these glimpses are only his mind forcing patterns on something he does not comprehend.
Books are being opened, and a hush falls as the first statement is read out. An account of everything that person did and said, even their thoughts. Not in detail, only that which was relevant. The kindness shown. A moment of temper. A cruel word. Acts of generosity. And then, the confession.
Hearing the person’s confession, Andrei was reminded of his own. That moment when he realised how weak he was, how deeply corrupt. It almost seemed as if there was no hope, except hope was offered, Hope showed up in the form of Jesus. And for the first time, he had confessed Jesus’ name, confessed his need for a saviour, confessed his sin and asked for forgiveness. And he had been forgiven! Andrei fell onto his knees and began to worship Jesus and their Father, so caught up in his own wonder at God’s love and mercy that only gradually did he become aware that many around him were also worshipping the ones who first loved them.
That first person was embraced and welcomed, and Andrei was filled with hope and expectation that he also would be.
Then a second person was called forwards, but this one had to be dragged to stand before the Judgement. There had been acts of kindness done by them as well, acts of generosity, and also acts of violence, cruelty. Outright and open rebellion against God.
‘Take her away,’ the command was given and angels dragged the woman away, where to, Andrei could not see, but he could hear shrieks and pleas which gradually faded.
Another person was called, then another, and another. A few were welcomed, many were taken away, and then one man stood, confident, assured. A list of his accomplishments was read out. The great prayers he had prayed, the many acts of charity, carefully teaching God’s word. And at the end, Andrei could see his expectation, only to see that dashed as Jesus turned away from him.
‘Away from me, I never knew you,’ the Saviour said.
And Andrei could hear the sorrow Jesus expressed at a life that had been wasted. How? How could someone who had immersed themselves in the Faith, in the study of God’s word, who had devoted themselves to prayer - how could they never once have sought the salvation they had studied and preached to others? It was astonishing, heartbreaking. You must be born again - wasn’t that statement from Jesus clear enough? I am the way, the truth and the life, no man comes to the Father except through me - it was only through Jesus, not my works, not my goodness, not anything I could give or do. Only ever through Jesus. And there was nothing heartless in Jesus’ rejection of that man. How could he welcome someone into eternity who had never even once acknowledged his need or expressed gratitude for Jesus’ sacrifice. Andrei knew that Jesus could not allow falsehood into eternity. Would not allow those who had so casually dismissed him, even if they had acted the part of faithful follower, to continue that slight in his presence.
All these thoughts rushed through his mind as yet another person was called forwards. One by one they were called, and some walked forwards, other were dragged. And finally, after an eternity it was his turn. And Andrei stepped forwards, the crowd which was still so large, parting before him. He wanted to fall down on his knees, but he cannot. In front of him is the most glorious being. The lamb. His king. And as he sees his saviour for the first time in person, part of him wants to look away. It is too much. The brilliance, the glory. And yet he finds he is able to look and bear it, tempered as it is by love and compassion and mercy.
His story is told. Nothing of significance is left out. There was a time when he would have felt shame that everyone can hear, everything is exposed, and yet there is no shame, not anymore. He recognises that some of his choices were not beneficial either to him or to others, but it is done and it has been told. And Jesus has paid for it all, every sin, every mistake, every failure, all has been paid for. And then it is over. Jesus holds out his hand. The words he has been longing to hear are said. “Well done, good and faithful servant. Come and enjoy.” And Andrei stepped forwards and took the hand that was offered and was led, and then he sees them. They are all standing there. And finally, he understands.
A great table has been laid out, a feast. And waiting for him by his place are so many who persecuted him, tortured him, mocked and beat him. So many of them are there, men and women who betrayed him. And he remembers praying for each one that they would be forgiven. Difficult as it was at times, even as they continued to ill treat him. He had prayed they would repent, that they would also know the saviour. And now here they are, looking at him with gladness and gratefulness.
He wonders if they will crowd round him, but they wait for him to approach. He looks into the eyes of the first, recognises him as Karamazov, a man who beat him without mercy. Andrei sees gratefulness in his expression and the former guard whispers, ‘Thank you.’ It was all for this. Every agony he endured, the years of suffering, countless prayers, that this man could also be saved. Andrei reached out and embraced him, no longer his enemy, but now his brother in Christ. They parted, Andrei continuing to hold the guard’s arms for a moment, studying a face that had transformed. ‘My brother,’ Andrei told him, smiling. Then he let go and found the next man waiting. Another guard, Raskolnikov, who had shown signs of disgust at himself, almost going through the motions until he stopped participating in the torture. ‘You prayed for me… forgave me… how can I ever convey…’ he continued to speak, almost saying nothing as he seemed unable to sufficiently express his gratitude, yet saying everything through that. Andrei took hold of his arms, and the former guard stopped speaking.
‘Jesus did far more for me than I could ever have done for you. I understand,’ Andrei told him.
The guard nodded.
They embraced then. And when they parted, it was enough that the guard nodded his thankfulness.
Andrei spoke with each one, embraced each of them, and only as he let go, recalled there had been more. More he had prayed for; more he had forgiven. Yet they were not here. A feeling of grief filled him then and he allowed it, mourning those who could have been with them, but had chosen a different path. Then he let go, allowed the grief to ebb, and he joined his new brothers at the table, and watched as more of his brothers and sisters joined them, former prisoners, and there! His wife and children! He wanted then to run to them, but the feast was about to start, and the Lamb was taking his place of honour.
A hush fell over them all as Jesus lifted his hands, still bearing the scars he had endured for him, for them all. Andrei glanced once at his family, knowing now that he was again reunited with them, would be able to hold them once more, and also realising that they had been transformed. They were all now brothers and sisters in this new world, all because their Father had continued to call them, and their Brother had sacrificed everything for them.
Jesus spoke, welcoming them all once more, blessing the food laid before them and thanking the Father for his provision.
Andrei looked round in wonder, recalling his favourite Psalm, one he had recited to himself most days, seeing those who were once enemies seated with him; seeing his family and friends, all of them together, all of them redeemed. The promise had been kept, though he had not understood at the time what the promise was, now he saw and his heart was filled with gladness and joy at the goodness of God.
Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
Psalm 23:4-6
The End
Copyright Mark Anderson Smith 2026
(Story inspired by the work of Open Doors)
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