Finding the Ice Sculptor's Castle

That year, in my opinion, every sculpture displayed at the Ice Garden was the best St. Petersburg has ever seen.

Unfortunately each photograph Pavel Kozlow took of the event and had circulated in the Russian Messenger and the Moskovskie Vedomosti, amid other publications, were terrible and conveyed nothing of what it was actually like to be there and witness the ice sculptures for oneself. Sketches by the master draughtsman, Sergei Zubkin, drawn whilst he visited the Ice Garden do contain some quality of those startling frozen artworks; despite the fact his drawings are rushed and not very good.

The main attraction, of course it was by Misha, happened to be an exact replica of Saint Basil's Cathedral in ice. Misha had spent over a month working on it. Its highest turret reached more than twenty meters in height and the overall dimension had been something like forty meters wide. As many as twenty people could walk through the ice cathedral at once. Tsar Alexander II himself honoured the Ice Garden that Christmas with a quick visit. He, like everyone else, was impressed. I remember the night of the opening a wonderful celebratory dinner was held in the Ligovsky Room at the Bolshaya Theatre, purely for the success of Misha's sculpture.

Although I've spent many years pondering over the mystery of this peculiar man and his art, I now think he gave me the answer to it right then and there when my father asked him.

"Why bother to spend so much time and effort, to sacrifice the comforts of a bourgeois life, to make a thing that will simply melt away and be forgotten?"

Yes, that night truly was a memorable occasion; something I still cherish from my childhood.

But alas, this is a tragic story and even though the ice castle did that rare thing, make people happy, it was still just a copy, based on another's design and above all subject to nature and therefore doomed not to last and the ice sculptor knew it.

Mikhail Cherevin had been the star sculptor at the Ice Garden since the early 1870's. He was always the first to arrive and begin his work. So far this had consisted of a twelve foot tall Poseidon holding his Trident high ready to release its fury, a giant chess set with the Royal family as the frosted pieces, a pantheon of over thirty life-like renditions of characters from Aesop's Fables and he was every time the last to finish.

At the close of the year I recount, 1879, it was clear to those of us who knew Misha that something was troubling the great artist. Besides a few church commissions carved from wood, a John the Baptist, a Christ on the Cross, a noble St Paul, all of which were highly praised, he had never done anything else other than in ice. Art critics scoffed when hearing of the ice sculptor from St Petersburg who drew in big crowds every Christmas. Much of the establishment laughed at Misha. That was until they saw his work, then it was a different story, then they praised him, made him promise he'd devote more time to his craft.

In February of 1880 the local council decided to take Misha's ice castle down. It was the last work still on show. There had been some protest from local residents and admirers saying the structure was so beautiful it should be allowed to melt, that its destruction was in fact a crime. By this time however Misha had other things on his mind. He had packed up all his belongings, moved out of his lodgings and was temporarily living at the Kievan Inn on Nevsky Prospect.

Now the Kievan Inn was not then, or is it today, a luxurious establishment by any stretch of the imagination – nor could Misha, under any assumption, be considered a rich man. But there was a particular reason why he chose to stay there before leaving St Petersburg and all of Russia. On the first of March 1880 all of Misha's personal belongings were put up on auction at Tsarevna House. My father and I went along to do some bidding. Unfortunately my father, unlike myself, was not a man who put much worth in the esoteric. This was the first time I had been to an auction, something I'm fond of now and maybe that's why I can recall it all so clearly, although I'm sure I would have remembered it anyway.

Up for sale were sketchbooks, half completed clay and ceramic sculptures, abandoned paintings, designs for literally hundreds of ice palaces that somehow even then I knew Misha would never start let alone complete. Each item sold for much less than it was worth. Every buyer failed to comprehend that they'd spent their pocket money not on an eccentric curiosity but a great and truly original piece of art. When the auction was over I looked around for Misha but could not see him anywhere.

Later that day my father told me Misha was still staying at the Kievan Inn and was planning to leave Russia, planning to do something big.

"What?" I asked.

"I'm not sure," my father told me. "Perhaps it's an ice sculpture of some kind, at least that's what I've heard."

"But why is he leaving the country?"

"I do not know my son, I presume because he cannot make the sculpture here and send it there."

Many months after Misha left St Petersburg I began to hear some of the rumours swirling around in the city about him. As I mentioned before, there was a reason why Misha chose to stay at the Kievan Inn while sorting out his personal affairs. This was because he had become romantically involved with the daughter of the publican, a woman named Irina.

Believe me Irina was no prize trophy. She was the eldest of two siblings and the only one still not married. Aged thirty-four she was a full seven years senior to Misha, but she loved the ice castles and somehow understood him too. I had seen her at the Ice Garden a few times when Misha's work was on display. She would eerily hover around it, ignoring everything and everyone else; just how I hear she behaved in his presence.

Much later, Vasily her father the publican, would constantly lament that he knew something funny had been going on. "If only I had acted in time and put an end to my daughter's strange infatuation with that layabout artist," he'd often complain to anyone who would listen.

Anyway, on that fateful night of the first of March 1880, when all the lights of the Kievan Inn were out and it was too cold for any but the youngest and fittest to be traversing the empty cobblestone lanes, Misha softly tapped on Irina's door, took her hand, helped carry her luggage and they both stole quietly out onto St Petersburg's still streets and disappeared.

The next morning when Irina had not risen by nine-thirty, and made no sound or reply to the barrage of knocks on her door, Vasily busted it down. He found nothing unusual except a note left on her pillow. It read:

Dear Father, Mother & brother Venyamin,

It is my belief that Mikhail Cherevin is a great artist whose work
deserves to last so that future generations can too experience it. I
am afraid that this goal is unachievable here in our native Russia.
After much thought Mikhail has decided to leave the country to
pursue this dream. Despite many misgivings and objections I have
finally persuaded Mikhail to allow me to accompany him on this great
expedition. I am sorry I did not tell you in person, I did so only because
I knew you would refuse me. I do not know how long I will be away for,
I am sure that it will be a long time. Forgive me?
Now I am off to help my love fulfil his life's ambition in the only place
on Earth hospitable to his art, the Arctic!

Love Forever
Irina

All that happened nineteen years ago and if what I now know is true I don't think anyone in Russia heard anything more of them.

So now we arrive at the present; Vasily the publican is no more, the establishment he ran is still functioning and profitable, although under different management. We have a new Tsar, Nicholas II, who as far as I know has no interest in ice sculptures and also my own father is unfortunately no longer with us. Yet this is not the end of the story.

How suitable that it was in this current month in the year of our Lord, 1899, and in the deepest of winters, when the year has just about run its course, that I should once again see Mikhail Cherevin. The Ice Garden is now much more popular in the city; more of the common folk have caught onto the crafts fleeting beauty and like me have refused to let that enchantment go. I'm sure Misha at seeing this must have been delighted. However when I first observed him it was apparent he'd been studying the ice-works for some time.

It is always strange when someone who you have not seen in a long time, but who has remained strong in your memory, reappears and you do not recognise them at all. And so it was with me earlier tonight when I saw Misha. He had aged terribly. Stooped over, bent back, long grey beard, wearing pauper clothes, but worst of all were his hands. Calloused and broken, claw-like, the right one had several fingers missing. At first I did not realise it was Misha, my attention only being drawn to the man because of his dishevelled state.

When glancing up from the ice statue he was perusing, a rendition of Baba Yaga the witch, his eyes met mine and I instantly recognised him; although it was obvious there was no comprehension on his part. He turned away from me, moving on to look at the next ice-work but I went straight after him.

"Misha! Mikhail Cherevin!" I shouted.

He turned around and I took his shoulders.

"Remember me?" I asked him.

It was clear that he did not. So I told him who I was and when I mentioned my father's name I saw a gleam in his eye and knew he remembered.

"What happened to you? No one has heard any news in twenty years. Irina, do you know what became of her?"

At the mention of her name I knew I had struck a painful nerve. He turned from me and I feared he would put an end to the conversation. I even started to doubt that this poor wretch of a man was Mikhail Cherevin. Then he spoke.

"Irina died four winters back. She is buried in an unmarked grave beside a large frozen lake. I offered to bring her back to Russia, promised that I would, but as Irina lay dying she made me swear I would not return home until I'd completed the work. She did that, like so much else, for my sake."

"She is dead? This is terrible. I know her brother and mother are still alive. Have you been in contact with them? They have always wondered about her."

It was clear I once more had pained him and this time I believe he was adamant our conversation should end. But I changed my tone and tried again.

"Please, I'm sorry for prying. It's just that when I saw you here I was overjoyed. We really should be honouring you. I know Victor Vorbiev; he's the director of the Ice Garden now. If you would only wait one moment and let me find him I just know he would be thrilled to make your acquaintance."

Mikhail Cherevin put up those ruined hands. "No, no, I'm finished with ice sculptures now."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said and meant it. "Please Misha, if I could ask one thing more I promise I'll let you on your way. My father told me you left to go abroad to work on a big commission. Tell me; for I have wondered all these years, did you complete it?"

At this his face lit up and his whole demeanour changed.

"Yes, oh yes, I finished it."

I started to smile too because I knew I had asked the right question, played the right note so to speak. He turned, this time towards me, to face me completely. He gesticulated quite a bit, reminding me of those American actors I've seen on the funny-reels. They never stay still and so it was with him. He kept raising his hands, up and down, revealing the scope of his story and the magnitude of his achievement. This is what he said.

"When Irina and I left Russia we boarded the cargo schooner Atalanta and sailed through the Arctic Ocean to the Norwegian owned archipelago of Svalbard then travelled, by various means, to her furthest outpost. I had collected numerous maps and made all necessary preparations for our departure to the Arctic…"

"So you really did go there?" I said flabbergasted, stunned that someone would actually do such a thing.

"Of course, what better element for my art," Misha replied as if there was nothing to it. "I knew exactly what I was to do. Had it all figured out. I estimated it would take me seven years; it took eighteen."

"My God, so what did you sculpt? It must be massive."

"Let me tell you. We arrived at Krent Land, which is a small island about forty kilometres north off the coast of Svalbard and fifteen kilometres from the nearest ice sheets. A base camp is there, manned by mostly German and Dutch cartographers engaged in coastal surveying.

"They allowed myself and Irina to stay and of course thought me insane once I explained to them my intentions. The cartographers were able to tell me precisely where, if I was serious about my endeavour, would be the perfect location for what my specifications were. They spoke of a huge ice field, flat, safe from avalanches; they guaranteed there would be no problem with melting, my eternal foe, as the temperature there never rose above minus-zero.

"This flat plain was an area due north-east of Krent Land, near another wide open snowy plain that had not long before been named the Achen Ice Shelf. They explained to me that as far as they knew this field I sought was unnamed, although many sailors knew of it and Beluga whales were often hunted there. It would be a half-day journey by sea. With what money I made from the auction of my goods I bought a boat and would often pay for help from anyone I could.

"The first time I made the crossing it took a whole day to find the place. Afterwards I came to know that route like the back of my hand or poor lovely Irina's face and I was often to make the voyage in just a few short hours. After a while I devised means so I could stay on the ice field. It became the norm to stay a few days there, then by schedule and allotted time be picked up in the skiff by Irina and taken back to the island for recuperation and more supplies.

"I always wanted to stay longer on the ice field. Doing so would have enabled me to finish the work much quicker. I would have too, but Irina would not hear of it and soon I came to trust her judgement; even to be superstitious about it."

"Yes, I understand," I said in a voice that to me was shocking because it in no way conveyed how excited I was. Everything he said was fascinating but I wasn't interested in the details. I wanted to know about the actual work itself. It felt like I had waited so long, too long, I thought. "Your actual ice sculpture Misha, what was it? Is it still there? You said you completed it."

"I did, I did, but it took time to find the proper location and yes it's still there, it will be there forever!"

At this outburst a great deal of other patrons in the Ice Garden looked our way. This did not faze either him or me.

"Right from the start I knew it had to be a temple. A work dedicated to God; for it is only He who is truly worthy. Ever since childhood, when I first saw paintings and prints of the great cathedrals and temples, the Hagia Sophia, Notre Dame, the Parthenon, the Italian Basilicas; they have inspired me. I wanted to match them, to create something bigger and better. I knew I could and now I have. I have surpassed them. The great buildings no longer mock me. They used to taunt and tease shouting 'You could do this!', 'It should be your design standing tall before the masses for eternity!' They did this to me, relentlessly, until I could take it no longer. I gave up everything to end that mockery so one day my soul could truly rest and be content…"

Here he sighed deeply; a lot of energy seemed to exit his body with that exhalation. He then continued, although not as excitedly as before.

"…That's why I have nothing now, not even a rouble, because I followed my dream."

I had come to the end of my tether. "What did you sculpt Misha, please?" I could not listen anymore I had to know.

"Over twenty gables hold the front gate. In eighteen years I only once saw the sky absolutely free of clouds there. When the sun hits the spires atop the barbicans on the front gate something very special happens." He looked up at nothing and yet the gleam in those eyes told me he could see it all clearly right before him. "I was always worried about polar bears as I'm sure you can well imagine. Surprisingly I never had to, as they, for whatever reason, chose to stay far away from my magnum opus. Even so, to prevent any wild creature from getting inside my temple I built the main outer wall five feet thick, the height sixteen meters, and sculpted jutting spikes on top for the entire length of the perimeter…"

Misha suddenly took a deep breath. I let out one because I knew that finally he was going to tell me exactly what he'd sculpted.

"…From the center of the structure rises an open-topped tower, the pinnacle of which on very cloudy days vanishes into them. It is wreathed with a carpet of clear vines that crawls and manoeuvres from top to bottom. Those vines to both my pleasure and sorrow took much too long to get right. Parapets and turrets run along just behind the main outer wall, they too, took years to perfect. The first thing you see after the main gate and outer wall is the frozen moat which travels along the wall all the way around inside the structure. Mermaids, Nereids and water sprites fully show or half submerge themselves from fantastic icy depths. Very close to the main gate, once inside, you'll see the monstrous Kraken look up at you from shallow waters. The Kraken I managed to carve in such a way, that if you let yourself fall for the optical illusion, it does look like he's just about to emerge from the frozen water and once out he'd be bigger than Hebeca itself."

"Hebeca?" I exclaimed.

"Yes that is what I've called it, Hebeca Castle, my life's work. The only work I've done that will survive me. There are seven courtyards; one contains a small forest complete with natural animals and mythical ones as well. There are sixteen balconies, twenty-two halls, sixty-one rooms, nine churches, four theatres, thirty-nine frozen fountains, three pavilions, eight sweeping pilasters, twelve loggias, forty-four minarets, one library…"

"Misha," I said breaking his plethora of statistics. I knew not what I had in mind to say but the words came to me all the same. "My friend what you say seems fantastic. Do you give me your word, on your honour as a former gentleman, that what you say here is true?"

At this remark whatever light had been left in his cold blue eyes vanished. I immediately regretted asking the question and framing it as I had. Mikhail let out a wheezy breath and stooped back over, turning again from me to gaze upon the ice statues. I put my hand on his shoulder but Misha shrugged it off with contempt.

"I am sorry," I said. "It was a thoughtless question."

But Mikhail Cherevin didn't pay any heed. The tormented artist shuffled away slowly and I decided to let him be. Even as a young man Misha had been hard to approach and difficult to talk to. Now after suffering such hardships and stresses that he has purposively put himself through, those character traits that had always made Misha isolate himself from others, had unfortunately become exacerbated. Suddenly there popped into my head one more question. It was probably the best question I had come up with all evening and fearing I would never see Misha again I had to ask it.

"Misha! What are the coordinates for Hebeca?!" I shouted. "Please Misha, I'll write them down so that people can go and see your masterpiece for themselves, if they are able and have a mind to!"

The ragged man stopped but did not turn around to face me.

He then spoke very softly, yet just loud enough that I could hear him. "Latitude 84.2167° N, longitude 17.5500° E."

And with that the greatest artist ever to have worked in St Petersburg, Russia's Mozart of ice, walked on only to briefly halt in front of the last sculpture on display then, very briskly, left the Ice Garden. Immediately I pulled out my notepad and wrote down the coordinates.

I reflected on the numbers for a moment then scribbled under them Hebeca.

After that, well, I instantly dashed out of the Ice Garden, caught the first hansom-cab home, raced to my study and penned this letter. Now, arriving at the end of it, you may be scratching your head and wondering why.

However you are one of my closest friends, I can see you smiling now. No doubt you have deciphered the undercover scheme, what my intentions really are. We must go there; the Arctic Circle, Hebeca Castle. Please do not think my only motive for writing is because you've got enough money to fund such a venture. This is not true. Expenditure for this voyage should not be thought of as a black hole leading to nothing but instead as a reasonably safe investment. If we get the right people; good photographers, trustworthy cameramen etc… This is something that may excite the whole world. At least the big European and American newspapers would pay a lot for something like this. By acquiring enough live-action reel-footage of the ice castle, palace, temple, whatever you wish to call it, we could distribute the contents, perhaps as a documentary, through the new film companies. The Germans and Americans are making a fortune in that game. Done right, this voyage will certainly go down in historic repute.

P.S.

Having just read through this letter it appears I have relayed to you everything I wanted; except for two things. In my excitement it seems I forgot to write what Misha's answer to my father's question was. However, thinking again, perhaps I did. One thing I definitely overlooked was the whole point of contacting you--to ask the most important question at hand.

Tell me, are you interested?

THE END

Bio: Mr. Mulroy lives in Newcastle, NSW, Australia. He’s work has previously been published in Perihelion Science Fiction, AntipodeanSF, and Oblong Magazine.

E-mail: Sean Mulroy

Comment on this story in the Aphelion Forum

Return to Aphelion's Index page.