Laurus

‌The Book

of Repose

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It is generally held that Arseny returned to Rus’ in the mid eighties. It is known for certain that he was already in Pskov by October 1487, since that was the beginning of the great pestilence the city suffered. Some people had already managed to forget Arseny before he returned to Pskov. That happened not because so much time had passed (not that much had really passed) but due to the weakness of human memory, which retains only those near and dear. Those considered not near and dear (as was true of Arseny) rarely remain in the memory. People lose sight of one who has gone away and do not usually resurrect his image under their own power. In the best case, a photograph jogs the memory. But there were no photographs in the Middle Ages, so oblivion became complete.

Many residents of Pskov did not recall Arseny, even when they saw him, because they did not recognize him. The person who had returned did not resemble either the holy fool who had first arrived in the city or the pilgrim who had left the city. Arseny had changed. Alongside his dark face, tanned in a way that was not Russian, was light hair that had become even lighter. It might have initially appeared that his hair had faded under the hot Eastern sun but upon closer scrutiny it became clear that Arseny’s hair was no longer light: it was white.

Arseny had returned gray-haired. A scar above the bridge of his nose stretched along his entire forehead; it looked like a deep, bitter wrinkle. Coupled with the real wrinkles that had made their appearance, the scar lent his face the dolefully impassive expression of an icon. And it might have been that expression, rather than the gray hair or the scar, that meant the people of Pskov did not recognize Arseny.

He did not tell anyone anything after he returned. He generally spoke very little. Not as little, perhaps, as in his time as a holy fool, but his words these days rang with a quietness that was not characteristic of even the deepest silence. When he came to see Mayor Gavriil, he said:

Peace be with you, O mayor. Do forgive me.

Mayor Gavriil saw Arseny’s entire difficult journey in his eyes. He saw Ambrogio’s death. And he asked no more about anything. He embraced Arseny and wept on his shoulder. Arseny stood, not stirring. He could feel the mayor’s hot tears on his neck but his own eyes remained dry.

Do dwell in my home, said Mayor Gavriil.

Arseny bowed his head. He placed little importance now on where he stayed.

Arseny wanted to go and see holy fool Foma but by this time Foma was no longer of this earth. Foma had predicted his own death shortly after Arseny’s departure, and he had managed to say goodbye to everyone. Wearied by the burden of his approaching death, Foma found the strength within to make one final round of the city and pelt the most shameless of the demons with some last stones. Everyone knew Foma was dying so the whole city went along behind him, accompanying him on that final round. Foma’s legs were unsteady but people helped him move them.

The dark of death has taken me, and the light wente awaye from myne eyes, Foma began shouting as he circled half the city.

They placed the stones in his hands since he could no longer see anything, and he used his last strength to cast them at the demons; he circled the second half of the city that way because his physical blindness had only sharpened his spiritual vision.

When the city had been cleansed of demons, Foma said, reclining in front of the church:

You don’t really think I drove them out forever, do you? Maybe about five years, ten maximum. And what will you do then? you might ask. Well, write this down. A great pestilence awaits you but God’s servant Arseny will help you, when he’s back from Jerusalem. And then Arseny will leave, too, for he will need to leave this burg. And then you’ll have to display some spiritual fortitude and internal focus. You’re not children anymore yourselves, after all.

Holy fool Foma closed his eyes and died after he had made sure everything had been written down. Then he opened his eyes for a moment and added:

Postscriptum. Arseny should keep in mind that Abba Kirill’s monastery is expecting him. That’s all.

After saying that, holy fool Foma died forever.

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Arseny grew pensive after reading Foma’s missive. For seven days and seven nights, he had not left the annex of Mayor Gavriil’s house that had been given to him as lodging. He might have stayed even longer, but news of the pestilence began spreading through Pskov on his eighth day of sitting around. When the mayor came to Arseny, he said:

What Foma has spake is coming true. We trust in God’s mercy and, O Arseny, in your great gifte.

Arseny was genuflecting, with his face to the icons and his back to Mayor Gavriil. He was praying and it was unclear if he heard what the mayor had said. The mayor stood a little longer but did not bother repeating his words, for he guessed Arseny already knew everything anyway. Mayor Gavriil left carefully, so as not to squeak the floorboards. After Arseny finished his prayers the next day, he left, too.

A crowd awaited him by the front steps. He glanced at the crowd and said nothing. The crowd was silent, too, understanding that there was no need to say anything here. Remembering Foma’s prediction, the crowd knew that Arseny was the only person capable of helping during the coming misfortune. Arseny knew his abilities were limited and the crowd knew of his knowledge, and the crowd’s knowledge was transferred to Arseny. They looked at each other until the crowd had no more unjustified expectations and Arseny lost his fear of betraying their expectations. After all this took place, Arseny walked down the steps and went off to the pestilence.

He made the rounds of home after home, examining the sick. He treated their buboes and gave them ground sulfur in egg yolk, cleansed their bodies of vomit, and filled their residences with smoke from juniper twigs. Even the doomed did not want to let him leave: as long as he was with them, they did not feel so pained and hopeless. They clung to Arseny’s hand and he could not find the strength within to break free of their hands and so he sat up with them for nights on end, until their very deaths.

It seems, Arseny told Ustina, that I have gone back many years in time. The very same festering bodies are in my hands and, can you believe this, my love, they are almost the very same people I treated at one time. Did time go backwards or—let us phrase the question differently—am I myself returning to some starting point? If that is so, perhaps I will meet you in this journey.

Arseny’s hands quickly remembered their forgotten work and now they treated the pestilent sores on their own. As he watched the deft motions of his own hands, Arseny began to fear their actions would become routine and frighten off the astonishing power that flowed through them into the patients but had no direct relation to the art of medicine. Arseny noticed ever more frequently when he was healing people that their recoveries came from that power, not from the ground sulfur and egg yolk. The sulfur and egg yolk did no harm but (or so it now seemed to Arseny) they did not substantially help. It was Arseny’s inner work that was important: his ability to concentrate on prayer while simultaneously dissolving himself within the patient. And if the patient recovered, it was Arseny’s recovery.

If the patient died, though, Arseny died with him. And when he sensed he was alive, he would shed tears and feel ashamed the patient was dead and he was alive. Arseny came to the understanding that blame for a death lay not in the power of the illness but in the weakness of his prayer. He began considering himself a direct culprit in those deaths that occurred and he went to Confession daily, lest the weight of blame become overwhelming for him. And he came to each next patient as if that person were his first, as if he had not examined hundreds of people before this one. So his astonishing power came to the ill as if untouched, for that was all that gave hope for recovery.

Arseny battled human fear as well as illness. He walked around the city and prevailed on people not to fear. As he advised them to take precautions, Arseny warned against panic, which is ruinous. He reminded them that not one hair would fall from a person’s head without God’s will, and called on people not to lock themselves away in their homes and forget about helping those nearby. Many had forgotten.

During the first weeks of the pestilence, Arseny thought he was not up to the task. He was ready to drop from fatigue. He often lacked the strength to get home and so would stay and nap at a patient’s. A while later, Arseny would notice, surprised, that he felt a little better.

I am apparently growing accustomed to what one cannot grow accustomed to, he told Ustina. This proves yet again, my love, that, although there is cowardice, there is no shortage of strength.

Arseny slept for two or three hours each day but could not free himself from the sorrow around him, even when he slept. He saw swollen patients in his colorful dreams and they asked him for cures but he could not help them at all because he knew they had already died. There were no more fantasies in his dreams: these were true dreams, dreams about what had been. Time truly was going backwards. It did not accommodate the events designated for him—those events were too grand and raucous. Time was coming apart at the seams, like a wayfarer’s traveling bag, and it was showing its contents to the wayfarer, who contemplated them as if for the first time.

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Here I am, O Lord, and here is the life I have already been able to live before coming to see you, Arseny had said at the Empty Tomb. And also that part of my life that, by Your ineffable kindness, I may still live. After all, I had not even thought I would be here, for I was robbed and slashed by a sword near the very city of Jerusalem and I consider it Your great favor that I stand before You. My unforgettable friend Ambrogio and I were bringing You an icon lamp in memory of the Pskov mayor’s daughter, Anna, who drowned in the ryver. My hands are now empty and I do not have the icon lamp nor do I have my friend Ambrogio or a number of others I met along the way but lost, also due to my sins. Here I remembre the guardian Vlasy, who laid down his lyfe for his frendes. I promised Vlasy I would confess his sins before You, for he himself is lying in Polish soil, awaiting the universal resurrection. Give repose with the Just, O our Savior, unto Thy servants. Establish them in Thy courts, as it is written. Disregard their transgressions, both voluntary and involuntary, committed in knowledge or in ignorance, for Thou art good and lovest mankind. I appeal to You also with the primary entreaty of my life, regarding Your servant Ustina. I ask You not through my right as her husband, for I am not her husband, though I could have been him, had I not fallen into the clutches of the prince of this world. I ask through my right as her murderer since my crime has bound us together for this lifetime and the coming times. By destroying Ustina, I deprived her of the possibility of discovering what You placed within her, of developing that, and compelling a Divine light to shine. I wanted to give up my life for her, or rather to give my life to her for the life I took from her. And I could only have done that through mortal sin, but who would need a life like that? So I decided to give that life to her using the only means available to me. I attempted, as best I could, to serve as a substitute for Ustina and perform, in her name, good deeds that I could never have done in my own name. I understood that every person is irreplaceable so I had no grand illusions, but how else, do tell me, could I give form to my own repentance? The only trouble is that the fruits of my labors turned out to be so small and ridiculous that I have experienced nothing but shame. The only reason I did not give up is that I would have been even worse at anything else. I am not certain of my path and that makes it ever more difficult for me to progress further. One can walk an unknown road for a long time—a very long time—but one cannot walk it eternally. Is this redemptive for Ustina? If I could have just any sign, just any sort of hope… You know, I do talk with Ustina constantly, I tell her about what’s happening in the world and about my impressions of things, so she can always be, as they say, in the loop about what’s going on. She does not answer me. This is not the silence of unforgiveness; I know her kindheartedness and she would never torment me for all these years. Most likely she has no means to answer me or perhaps she is simply sparing me the bad news for, I say in all sincerity, could I count on good news? I have faith that I can save her in the afterlife with my love, but I need at least some grain of knowledge about this along with that faith. And so, O Savior, give me at least some sign that I may know my path has not veered into madness, so I may, with that knowledge, walk the most difficult road, walk as long as need be and no longer feel weariness.

What sign do you want and what knowledge? asked an elder standing by the Empty Tomb. Do you not know that any journey harbors danger within itself? Any journey—and if you do not acknowledge this, then why move? So you say faith is not enough for you and you want knowledge, too. But knowledge does not involve spiritual effort; knowledge is obvious. Faith assumes effort. Knowledge is repose and faith is motion.

But were the venerable not aspiring for the harmony of repose? asked Arseny.

They took the route of faith, answered the elder. And their faith was so strong it turned into knowledge.

I want only to know the general direction of the journey, said Arseny. The part that concerns me and Ustina.

But is not Christ a general direction? asked the elder. What other kind of direction do you seek? And how do you even understand the journey anyway? As the vast expanses you left behind? You made it to Jerusalem with your questions, though you could have asked them from the Kirillov Monastery. I am not saying wandering is useless: there is a point to it. Do not become like your beloved Alexander who had a journey but had no goal. And do not be enamored of excessive horizontal motion.

Then what should I be enamored of? asked Arseny.

Vertical motion, answered the elder, pointing above.

In the center of the church’s cupola there gaped a round, black opening reserved for the sky and stars. Stars were visible but they were fading from sight. Arseny understood day was breaking.

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By February, the pestilence had begun to abate. Winter’s end was so cold the plague simply froze. And though Arseny began having noticeably less work, it was also in February that he began to feel his strength near its end. Months of fighting the plague had completely run Arseny into the ground, and the usual weakness that comes with the arrival of spring added to that. It became ever harder for him to get up in the morning. When he went out to call on the sick, he would sit to rest several times along the way. When Mayor Gavriil saw Arseny’s exhaustion, he said:

Citizens of Pskov, he has expended all his strength on your numerous recoveries, so look after him, for God’s sake.

By the end of February, cases of plague infection had completely ceased. And when the opportunity came for Arseny to rest, he fell asleep. He slept for exactly half a month: fifteen days and fifteen nights. Arseny knew the strength he had given out during the pestilence had been borrowed from his future, so now he was making up for what had been used up out of turn. Sometimes he woke up to quench his thirst but then he would fall right back to sleep because his eyes would not stay open. He continued to dream of Jerusalem and the journey to Palestine and Ambrogio, who was still completely alive. Arseny’s great sleep ended on the sixteenth day and he felt his strength gradually return.

When Arseny woke up, he understood that spring had arrived. He had become used to measuring the years in springs. Spring differed from the other seasons because its onset was the most noticeable and strident. Arseny usually awaited spring’s appearance, but this time he had awoken in the middle of a spring that had already arrived, just as people suddenly awaken on a lovely day, see the sun is already high, contemplate its glints fluttering on the floor and the silver of a cobweb in a sunbeam, and weep tears of gratitude. At first Arseny thought, based on the smells and overall condition of the air, that this spring was identical to one from his childhood, but he gave himself a talking to right then and there. Arseny was completely different now, so this spring had nothing in common with his childhood spring. Unlike that spring, this one was not filling his whole world. It was a wonderful flower in his world but Arseny had known for a long time that this garden had other plants.

The roadways resounded woodenly in time with Arseny’s movement as he walked through Pskov. Buds were swelling on the trees and the first dust after the winter was floating in the air. As he approached the John the Baptist Convent, Arseny searched for the gap in the wall and found his way into the cemetery. He shed some tears when he saw his trees by the wall because they were trees from a past and irretrievable life.

The abbess and sisters already awaited Arseny in the cemetery. The abbess said:

Foma’s prophesy possesses a quality of necessity. This means it may not be avoided, no matter what your wishes. So you, O man, should head for the Kirillov Monastery. And the sooner the better.

In Pskov’s kremlin, Mayor Gavriil just lifted his hands in dismay. He remembered what Foma had said but deep down inside he had counted on Arseny residing in Pskov until the presumed end of the world. He would feel calmer that way. The mayor was not certain of the practicability of Arseny’s continued presence.

In theory, we are ready to take him in, was the word from the Kirillov Monastery. Tell Mayor Gavriil, would you, that he shouldn’t grumble or put a spoke in the traveler’s wheel, if, that is, we are not talking about travel on foot.

Who would send him on foot after he has been so exhausted? said the surprised Mayor Gavriil. Most likely we will knock together some means of travel commensurate with his services to the burg of Pskov and its environs.

They wanted to offer the mayor’s own wagon to Arseny but he chose a horse. Wagons predominantly served those weak of body, and also women and children. Knowing that, everyone understood Arseny wanted to ride as befitted a man. Though he was not fully healthy, nobody attempted to convince him to refuse to ride on horseback. Mayor Gavriil insisted only on giving Arseny an escort of five men, in the event of unforeseen circumstances. Essentially, the majority of circumstances were unforeseen in this not-so-simple time.

Nearly the entire population of Pskov came out to see Arseny off. He was pale, almost transparent, but he held himself in the saddle well.

Being on the road will bring him back to health for good, said the abbess of the John the Baptist Convent. The road is the best medicine.

Mayor Gavriil, who was usually reserved, did not hide his tears. He knew he was seeing Arseny for the last time. Pskovians were a little frightened by Arseny’s departure. The only thing that calmed them was that the pestilence was over and familiar life had returned to the city, if not forever, then for at least the next five years. In light of the possible end of the world, the residents of Pskov no longer expected a new pestilence.

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Arseny truly did feel better on the road. Recovery entered him with the undulation of the fields and the sounds of the forest. The expanses of the Russian land were curative: they were not yet boundless at that time, so they gave, rather than demanded, strength. The drumming of hooves gladdened Arseny. He did not look around at his traveling companions but imagined that his dear friend Ambrogio was riding a little behind him and behind Ambrogio was the caravan and in the caravan were all those he had parted with at one time.

The horsemen rode quickly. Not because they were hurrying somewhere (Arseny was riding into timelessness, why should he be in a hurry?) but simply because the fast movement corresponded to Arseny’s inner state and raised his spirit. Arseny’s great renown traveled faster than the horsemen, however. It outstripped them and sent crowds of people out to greet them. Arseny dismounted. He attempted to listen to everyone who wanted to appeal to him.

Many awaited help with an illness. Arseny took them aside and examined them carefully. He determined if it was within his power to help these people. If he felt it was within his power, then he helped. If he was unable to help, he searched for possible words of encouragement. He would say:

Your illness exceeds my power, but the Lord’s mercy is far greater than human powers. Pray and do not despair.

Or:

I know you fear pain more than death. And so I tell you that your passing will be peaceful and pain will not torment you.

Many asked questions unrelated to illnesses. They simply wanted to speak with a person they had heard a lot about. Arseny touched them with his hand but did not enter into conversation with them. His contact was deeper than any words. It produced an answer inside the head of the inquirer himself, for he who asks a question often knows the answer, too, even if he cannot always admit that to himself.

Finally, there were a great many people who did not want treatment and did not ask anything, since in any nation the majority of people are healthy and have no questions. These people had heard that simply beholding Arseny was auspicious, and so they came to have a look at him.

Those meetings on the road took time and significantly extended the journey for Arseny’s procession. Arseny, though, did not attempt to speed up his movement.

If I do not hear out all these people, he told Ustina, my journey cannot be considered traveled. Our good deeds, my darling, will save you, but could they be enacted within oneself? No, I answer you, no can do, they are only for other people, and praise the Lord that He sends us these people.

Arseny’s arrival would become known several days in advance and residents would decide then who he would stay with. These people based their decisions on the greatest convenience for Arseny as well as a hope for their own welfare. Along with Arseny’s renown, after all, there also spread the opinion that his lodging in someone’s home portended of great benefit to the owner. Sometimes, instead of being housed in the place that was offered to him, Arseny would look out at the crowd to choose a person and then ask him:

And would you, O friend, allow me to stay with you?

The life of the person Arseny chose would change from that day on, too, at least in the eyes of his townsmen. Arseny also sensed his own life was changing. He had never before experienced such a gain in strength. Despite not sparing himself when helping those who asked, he gained more strength than he lost. And he never tired of being amazed about this. Arseny could feel that the hundreds of people he met gave him strength. He only imparted that strength to those who needed it most.

The travelers rode through places where Arseny had been many years ago, when he set off for Pskov from Belozersk. He recognized hills, rivers, churches, and houses he had seen before. It felt like he even recognized people, though he was not fully certain of that. People do change quickly, after all.

Arseny thought back to the sorrowful events of his youth, but his thoughts were warm. These were already thoughts about someone else. He had long suspected that time was discontinuous and its individual parts were not connected to one another, much as there was no connection—other than, perhaps, a name—between the blond little boy from Rukina Quarter and the gray-haired wayfarer, almost an old man. Strictly speaking, his name changed, too, over the course of his life.

In one of the wealthy homes, Arseny saw himself in a Venetian mirror: he was, indeed, an old man. This discovery staggered him. Arseny was not at all sorry about his bygone youth and, yes, he had felt before that he was changing. Even so, that glance in the mirror made a strong impression on him. Long gray hair. Sharp cheekbones that absorbed his eyes. He had not thought the changes had gone so far.

Just take a look at what has become of me, he said to Ustina. Who would have thought? You, my love, would not recognize me like this. I myself do not recognize me.

Arseny rode and thought about how his body was no longer as flexible as it had once been. Not as invulnerable. Now it felt pain not only after being struck but also without being struck. More specifically, now and then his body felt as if it had been struck. It reminded Arseny of its presence, aching maybe in one place, maybe in another. Before, though, Arseny had not remembered his own body, for he was treating the bodies of others, caring for each as if it were a vessel containing a spirit.

Once, along the way to Kirillov Monastery, he saw a body whose spirit had already almost departed. The body belonged to a man of advanced age: he looked at Arseny with blue eyes but no expression. The old man’s kin had brought him to Arseny, saying the man was weak. Arseny looked into the blue eyes of this man of advanced years and was surprised that they had not faded as everything in the man’s soul had faded.

Dost thou want to live, O olde man? asked Arseny.

I want to be deade, answered the old man.

Well, he died long ago but his body will not let him go, and so you are clinging to a shell, Arseny told his kin. What you loved in him is no longer here.

Well that, as they say, is noticeable, acknowledged the relatives. No more of his former spiritedness is left. If you say to him, maye thou live many more yeares, Grandfather… he says, scram, you. It is a horrifying metamorphosis. But really, what can we do with him, under the circumstances?

There is nothing for you to do, answered Arseny. Everything will be resolved within forty days.

And that is what happened. The old man passed away the day Arseny arrived at Saint Kirill’s cloister.

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A multitude of people greeted Arseny when he rode up to the monastery toward evening. When Arseny saw the monastery’s walls, he remembered his childhood trip with Christofer. He remembered the nighttime cart and the peasant men from the quarter speaking in hushed tones over his head. He thought about how bones were all that remained of Christofer, who had loved him. And he was delighted that he was now nearing those bones. Arseny began feeling their kindred warmth. He attempted to imagine Christofer’s face but could not.

After dismounting from his horse, Arseny sank to his knees and kissed the ground by the monastery gates.

I have returned home after long travels, my love, Arseny told Ustina.

Your travels are just beginning, objected Elder Innokenty. But now they will proceed in a different direction.

Arseny raised his head and looked up at the elder.

I think I recognize you, O elder. Might it have been you I spoke with in Jerusalem?

Quite possible, answered Elder Innokenty.

He took Arseny by the arm and led him through the monastery gates. Once inside the monastery, the elder said:

Monks usually take their vows and are shorn about seven years after they arrive. But the story of your life, O Arseny, is known to us and it has been monastic hitherto, so there is no real need for you to undergo additional trials. And the overall circumstances, as you know, do not exactly lend themselves to a lot of procrastination. If the end of the world truly does await us, well, it is better that you greet it shorn. Though maybe that will hold off.

The elder winked.

The crowd that accompanied them began buzzing. The issue of the end of world was extraordinarily agitating for them. They saw before them two people who lived holy lives, and awaited their explanations. Those who had come knew Arseny had been granted the gift of healing, but they did not rule out that he possessed the gift of prophesy, too. Essentially, knowledge about the end of the earth was more important to them than healing because, as they saw things, acknowledging the nearness of doomsday canceled out the need for healing.

So the question is, the crowd shouted, when is the end of the world? Forgive our directness but this is important to us, both in terms of planning one’s work and in terms of saving one’s soul. We have appealed to the monastery for specifics many times but have never received a straight answer.

Elder Innokenty took in the crowd with a severe gaze.

It is not for man to know times and deadlines, he said. What dates are you waiting for? Every Christian should be ready to meet his end at any hour. Even the youngest of those standing here will live no more than seventy years, well, perhaps eighty. (The young began weeping.) And nobody you see here will still be around in one hundred years. Is that delay great in comparison to eternity? This is why (the elder looked at the young) I tell you: weep for your own sins. But the main thing is: remain vigilant and pray. And be glad you have acquired yet one more man to pray fervently for your souls. And now we shall bid farewell to Arseny, for ye dost now acquire Amvrosy.

After saying that, Elder Innokenty brought Arseny to the abbot. According to custom, a monastic name is chosen that begins with the same letter as the secular name. And Arseny already knew what name would be offered to him and he delighted in that name to the depths of his soul.

We are choosing a name for you in memory of the saint and bishop Ambrosius of Mediolanum, said Elder Innokenty. We have also heard a lot—things always seem to work out this way—about your devoted friend who pronounced this saint’s name in another manner. May this name in its correct pronunciation serve as a remembrance of your friend. How many more lives will you spend henceforth simultaneously?

With the bishop’s blessing, the abbot confirmed Arseny’s new name. Arseny was shorn after seven days of strict fasting.

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Do not seek me among the living under the name Arseny, but seek me under the name Amvrosy. That is what Amvrosy told Ustina. Do you remember, my love, that you and I talked about time? It is completely different here. Time no longer moves forward but goes around in circles because it teems with events that go around in circles. And events here, my love, are tied primarily to worship. In the first and third hours of each day we remember Pilate’s trial of Our Lord Jesus Christ, in the sixth hour it is the Way of the Cross, and in the ninth hour, the suffering on the cross. And that composes the worship cycle for the day. But each day of the week, like a person, has its own face and its own dedicated purpose. Monday is dedicated to incorporeal forces, Tuesday to the prophets, Wednesday and Friday to the remembrance of Christ’s death on the cross, and Saturday to prayer for the deceased, and then the main day is dedicated to the resurrection of the Lord. All that, my love, composes the seven-day worship cycle. But the largest of the cycles is annual. It is determined by the sun and moon, to which you are, I hope, closer than all of us here. The great feasts and the saints’ days are tied to the movement of the sun, and the moon tells us about the time for Easter and the holidays that depend on it. I wanted to tell you how long I have already been at the monastery but, you know, somehow I cannot get my thoughts together. Apparently I can no longer understand this myself. Time, my love, is very shaky here because the cycle is closed and it corresponds to eternity. It is autumn now: that may be the only thing I can say with anything approaching certainty. Leaves are falling and clouds are rushing above the monastery. They nearly get caught on the crosses.

Amvrosy was standing on the lake shore, where the wind was covering his face with a fine spray. He watched as Elder Innokenty slowly approached him, along a wall. A robe hid the elder’s feet so his steps were not visible, making it impossible to say he was walking. He was approaching.

Monastic time truly does lie close to eternity, said Elder Innokenty, but they are not equal. The path of the living, O Amvrosy, cannot be a circle. The path of the living, even if they are monks, has been opened up because, as one might ask, how could there be freedom of will if there is no way out of a vicious circle? And even when we replicate events in prayer, we do not simply recall them. We relive those events once again and they occur once again.

The elder, along with a swirl of yellow leaves, passed right by Amvrosy and disappeared behind a curve in the wall. The shore by the wall was once again unpeopled. Exaggeratedly deserted (as if nobody had even walked through here) and not intended for walking. Only Amvrosy’s immobility made his presence on that shore possible.

So you think time here is some sort of open figure rather than a circle? Amvrosy asked the elder.

That’s exactly it, answered the elder. After I have become enamored of geometry, I will liken the motion of time to a spiral. This involves repetition but on some new, higher level. Or, if you like, the experience of something new but not from a clean slate. With the memory of what was experienced previously.

A weak autumnal sun appeared from behind some clouds. Elder Innokenty appeared from the opposite side of the wall. He had managed to walk around the monastery during the time he spent talking with Amvrosy.

And you, O elder, are making circles, Amvrosy told him.

No, this is already the spiral. I am walking, as before, along with the swirl of leaves but—do take note, O Amvrosy—the sun came out and I am already a little different. I feel as if I am even taking flight, ever so slightly. (Elder Innokenty broke free of the ground and slowly floated past Amvrosy.) Though not very high, of course.

Oh, no, that’s fine, Amvrosy nodded. The main thing is that your explanations are straightforward.

There are events that resemble one another, continued the elder, but opposites are born from that similarity. The Old Testament opens with Adam but the New Testament opens with Christ. The sweetness of the apple that Adam eats turns into the bitterness of the vinegar that Christ drinks. The tree of knowledge leads humanity to death but a cross of wood grants immortality to humanity. Remember, O Amvrosy, that repetitions are granted for our salvation and in order to surmount time.

Do you mean to say I will meet Ustina again?

I want to say that no things are irreparable.

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Once he had become accustomed to monastic life, Amvrosy asked to work in the kitchen. Service in the kitchen was considered one of the most difficult responsibilities at the monastery. Many had gone through service in the kitchen but far from everyone did so eagerly. And even those who went into the kitchen of their own volition looked upon their labor there as some sort of ordeal. Amvrosy did not consider the kitchen an ordeal. He was fond of this sort of work.

Amvrosy liked carrying water and splitting wood. He was not used to the work, so at first he got blisters. The blisters burst, leaving dark, damp spots on the ax handle. The blisters disappeared after he began wearing gloves when preparing the firewood. Later he split wood without gloves, too, but no longer got blisters. The skin on his palms had coarsened. And Amvrosy no longer tired so much. He had learned to hit the middle of the log with the ax, splitting it apart with a short, fine sound so it opened up like two petals of a large wooden flower. When he did not hit the middle, the sound was different. Thin and false. The sound of poor work.

In the middle of the night, as the brethren slept, Amvrosy would light a candle from an icon lamp in the church and carry it around the monastery yard, sheltering it with his palm. He walked slowly, inhaling the nocturnal freshness and the candle’s honeyed scent. From a distance—sheltered by Amvrosy’s palm and not illuminating him—the candle seemed like an independent essence. It moved through the air, carrying its fire into the kitchen.

It was from that fire that the fire in the enormous stove was lit. A short while later, the stove would glow red. It was so hot that it was difficult to stand next to. But Amvrosy prepared food for the brethren with that stove. He set down and took away pots, poured some water, and threw on firewood. The fire singed Amvrosy’s beard, brows, and eyelashes.

Endure this fyre, O Amvrosy, he would tell himself, for this flame will delyver you from the eternal fyre.

Amvrosy simmered cabbage soup in large clay pots. He put cabbage in it—either fresh or soured, sometimes with beets or wild sorrel. He would add onion and garlic, and mix in hemp oil. He cooked porridges from peas, oats, and buckwheat. On non-fasting days, boiled eggs were served with the cabbage soup, two per brother. On those days he would also fry, in a skillet, fish the brothers had caught in the lake. Or make fish soup. During the fast at Assumption, he fed them cucumbers served with honey. On usual days during Great Lent, he served cabbage with oil, diced radish, and bilberry ground with honey, and on Saturdays and Sundays there was black caviar with onion or red caviar with pepper. When he was serving the brethren, he usually ate after them, by himself in the kitchen, rather than at table. Amvrosy ate bread, washing it down with water, not touching the dishes he had prepared for them. Sitting by the fire.

Sometimes he would see his face in the fire. The face of a light-haired boy in Christofer’s home. A wolf curled up at the boy’s feet. The boy looks into the stove and sees his own face. Gray hair, gathered on the back of his neck, frames it. The face is covered with wrinkles. Despite the dissimilarity, the boy understands this is a reflection of himself. Only many years later. And under other circumstances. It is the reflection of someone who is sitting by the fire and sees the face of a light-haired boy and does not want the person who has entered to disturb him.

Brother Melety shifts from foot to foot at the threshold and, placing a finger to his lips, whispers to someone over his shoulder that Amvrosy, Doctor of All Rus’, is now busy. He is observing the flame.

Let her in, Melety, says Amvrosy, not turning. What do you want, O woman?

I want to lyve, O Doctor. Helpe me.

And you do not want to die?

There are those who want to die, explains Melety.

I have a son, O Amvrosy. Take pity on him.

Is he like that one? Amvrosy points at the mouth of the stove where the image of a boy is discernible in the contours of the flame.

There is no reason for you to kneel, my lady (Melety is agitated and gnawing his nails), he does not like that.

Amvrosy tears his gaze from the flame. He approaches the kneeling princess and sinks to his knees alongside her. Melety walks out, backwards. Amvrosy takes the princess by the chin and looks into her eyes. He wipes away her tears with the back of his hand.

You, O woman, have a tumor in your head. This is why your vision is worsening. And your hearing is dulling.

Amvrosy embraces her head and presses it to his chest. The princess hears the beating of his heart. The labored elderly breathing. Through his shirt, she feels the coolness of the cross he wears around his neck. The rigidity of his ribs. She herself is surprised she notices it all. Behind the closed doors, Melety is cutting splinters from logs so they may be used as lamps. There is no expression on his face.

Believe in the Lord and His Most Blessed Mother and ask their helpe. Amvrosy’s dry lips touch her forehead. And your tumor will shrink. Go in peace and grieve no more.

Why do you weep, O Amvrosy?

I weep from joy.

Amvrosy wordlessly turns to the wolf. The wolf licks away his tears.

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And so, in the kitchen, Amvrosy was granted the gift of tears and when he was alone, tears perpetually washed his face. The tears flowed along the wrinkles on his cheeks but there were not enough wrinkles for the tears. So tears then carved new paths for themselves and new wrinkles appeared on Amvrosy’s face.

At first they were tears of sorrow. Amvrosy mourned Ustina and the baby and after them he mourned everyone he had loved in his life. He mourned those who had loved him, too, since he believed his life had not given them any joy. Amvrosy also mourned those who had not loved him and had vexed him at times, as well as those who had loved but vexed him, for that was how they expressed their love. He mourned himself and his life and did not know precisely what might be at issue. With his hope to live out Ustina’s life so it would be counted as her own, Arseny no longer understood where his life dwelled since he, after all, had not died. Finally, he wept bitterly for those he had not managed to save from death: there were certainly many of them.

And then his tears of sorrow changed into tears of gratitude. He was grateful to the Almighty that Ustina was not left without hope and that he, Amvrosy, could make pleas for her while he was alive and labor for her spiritual benefit. Amvrosy’s tears of gratitude came because he was still alive, which meant he was capable of good deeds. Amvrosy was also grateful to the Lord for a great many recovered people, for the opportunity afforded to them to be alive at a time when they should have been dead and no longer capable of good deeds.

The tears cleansed his soul as well as his face. For the first time in his life, Amvrosy felt his soul was finding peace. Amvrosy’s gradual sense that he was finding that peace was born not from overall reverence (his renown was greater than at any time before) but also not from the indifference that seizes many worthy people as they near old age. His sense of peace was tied to a hope that strengthened ever more and more in Amvrosy with each day he lived in the monastery. He no longer doubted the correctness of his path: he was satisfied that he was walking the only possible path.

He did not sense his previous alarm when he looked into the raging flames. More accurately, the alarm remained but at times the thought of an impending eternal flame ceded its place to memories of the past. Now he did not just see his childhood. He saw his life in Pskov and his wanderings. Amvrosy imagined Jerusalem when he closed his eyes by the hot stove.

Low trees in the Garden of Gethsemane. With broad, cracked trunks. With branches like twisted fingers. As crooked and broken as a frozen scream. The stone slabs of roadways, polished by many centuries of walking to Him. They retain the sun’s warmth all night. One can lie on them without the fear of catching cold. Amvrosy grasped that, when he lay on the warm slabs to sleep. When there was nowhere else to sleep. When he was still Arseny.

He was nursed back to health outside Jerusalem after a blow from a Mamluk’s sword. Two elderly Jews, he and she. They lived outside Jerusalem for fear of Mamluks. And it was clear from their faces that they had no children. Their names were Tadeusz and Jadwiga. And they cared for him. No, they were the ones who cared for the dying Vlasy, others cared for the dying Arseny. Perhaps they were Abraham and Sarah. The elderly always care for someone. As it happened, the dying Arseny survived. The elderly couple gave him oatcakes, water, and a little money for the road, and he set off for Jerusalem.

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The ill continued to come to Amvrosy. There were many of them, though there could have been more visitors, had circumstances been different. Several factors contributed to reducing the flow. The primary factor was Elder Innokenty, who forbade disturbing Amvrosy for no real reason. He did not consider treating teeth, removing warts, or other such things worthy grounds for appealing to Arseny, for they distracted him from other, more serious, cases.

I request, announced the elder, that individuals resolve issues of this nature within their local communities.

The abundance of visitors was not just a distraction for Amvrosy. It also bothered the monastery’s brethren, who had withdrawn from the world. Beyond that, it disturbed many that people frequently went straight to Amvrosy, without ever giving thought to prayer, repentance, and salvation.

These people, said the steward father, forget it is our Lord in the heavens who brings recovery, not Brother Amvrosy.

Brother Melety was the first to greet those who came for help: he decided how to handle each case. He sent some home immediately without even hearing them out. This included the great majority, who had lost or never had virility. Melety saw no necessity to restore it, stating that, in his own experience, it was far more difficult to achieve the opposite effect. The exceptions were those living in a childless marriage: after an appropriate prayer, Melety brought these people to Amvrosy. Bedroom thoughts were bestirred after visiting the monastery. After the birth of a child, however, those thoughts quickly disappeared with the aid of Melety’s prayers.

The strictness of Elder Innokenty and Brother Melety was not the only reason the flow of visitors to Amvrosy dwindled rather than increased. Many residents of the Belozersk region did not appeal for help because—in light of the possible end of the world—they perceived no critical need. They thought they could tough out the short time left until that dreadful event. Or, at the very least, simply die, for a deferment of the fatal hour seemed insignificant to many.

There were, however, those who not only did not want to come to terms with death but also reflected on ways to overcome it, even in the case of a universal end. It was among these people that a rumor began to spread, saying Amvrosy possessed the elixir of immortality. That Amvrosy, when he was still Arseny, had allegedly brought that elixir from Jerusalem.

Despite the absurdity of the rumor, its emergence surprised no one at the monastery.

Some peoples’ nerves give out when waiting for the end of the world, said Elder Innokenty. And there is a certain logic that they await the elixir of immortality from Amvrosy. In seeking immortality for the flesh and blood, who else might they turn to if not a doctor?

Brother Melety attempted to explain to many of them that Amvrosy had no elixir, but they did not believe him. Fearing that there would not be enough elixir for everyone when the time came, some people settled in by the monastery walls and built themselves some semblance of housing. They imagined the monastery could function like a new ark that might take them in if the necessity arose.

Amvrosy came to see these people when their numbers topped one hundred. He looked at their squalid housing for a long time and then signaled to them to follow him. After entering the monastery’s gates, Amvrosy led them into the Church of the Dormition of the Mother of God. A service was finishing in the church at that same time and Elder Innokenty walked through the royal doors of the iconostasis carrying the Communion chalice. A ray of morning sun broke away from a grated window. The ray of sun was still weak. It slowly fought its way through the thick smoke of incense. It devoured barely perceptible dust motes one by one: once inside, they began swirling in a pensive Brownian dance. The ray of sun brightened the church as it played on the silver of the chalice. That light was so brilliant that those who entered squinted. Amvrosy pointed to the chalice and said:

The elixir of immortality is in there and there is enough for everyone.

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At one time, the abbot transferred Amvrosy from the kitchen to the scriptorium because there were not enough scribes at the monastery. Three other people sat there along with Amvrosy. Elder Innokenty brought manuscripts for copying. His bold notations of hence and hither were all over the manuscripts’ pages. Ambrosius followed those instructions meticulously.

Amvrosy’s work days began with sharpening quills and marking paper. He would place a wooden block near the edge of the page of the manuscript being copied so it would not close. A thin strip of paper slid down the manuscript page, allowing him not to lose his place. He held the strip with his left hand and wrote with his right. The strip moved down, revealing line after line.

And another brother was deade, after being very ill. And one of his friends cleansed him with a sponge and went into the cave: he wished to see the place where his friend’s body would be laid, so he asked the Venerable Marko about this. The blessed man answered him: Go, tell the brother to wait until tomorrow while I dig his grave, and then he can pass from this life into repose. The brother said to him: O Father Marko, I have already even used a sponge to cleanse his body, which is dead. Who do you bid me to speak with? And Marko said again: as you can see, his place is not ready. I enjoin you to go and tell the departed: the sinful Marko is telling you, brother, live this day, too, then tomorrow you will pass on to our beloved Lord. So I will send for you when I have prepared a place to put you. The brother who had come listened to the venerable man. When he arrived at the monastery, he found the brethren in song over the departed, as was the custom. And he stood alongside the deceased and said: Marko tells you that your place is not ready, O brother, wait until tomorrow. And everyone was surprised by these words. And as soon as the brother uttered them in the syghte of everyone, the departed saw the light immediately and his soul returned to him. And he dwelled that day and all night with open eyes but said nothing to anyone.

After Confession, a certain warrior happened to lapse into fornication with a farmer’s wife. He died after committing adultery. And the monks of a nearby monastery had mercy and buried him in the monastery church, and they held the third hour of the prayer service. As they were singing the ninth hour of prayer, they heard a wail from the grave: have mercy on me, servants of God. After unearthing the coffin, they discovered the sitting warrior inside. Once they had extracted him, they began questioning him about what had happened. But he, choking on his tears, could tell them nothing and asked only that they bring him to Bishop Gelasy. And only on the fourth day was he able to tell the bishop what happened. As he was dying in sin, the warrior saw certain monsters, figures more terrifying than any torments, and his soul began thrashing at the sight of them. He also saw two fine young men in white robes and his soul flew into their arms. And they raised his soul into the air and led him through a series of ordeals, carrying with them a small chest containing this warrior’s good deeds. And for each wicked deed there was, in the chest, a good deed and it would be taken from the chest, to cover the cost of the wicked deed. But the warrior lacked enough good deeds for the last ordeal, which was related to fornication. When the demons brought out all the carnal and debauched sins he had committed since the days of his adolescence, the angels said: God has forgiven him everything he committed before he confessed. To which their formidable adversaries replied: that is so but it was after Confession that he committed adultery with the farmer’s wife and then died immediately. The angels were saddened after hearing those words, and they left, for they had no more good deeds with which to cover that sin. And then the demons grabbed him and the earth parted and they threw him into a narrow, dark place. He dwelled there, weeping, from the third hour until the ninth, when he suddenly saw two angels coming down toward him. And he began praying to them that they would take him out of the dungeon and rid him of this frightful trouble. So they answered him: you are summoning us in vain, for nobody who turns up here can leave here until the actual resurrection of the world. But the warrior continued to weep and pray to them, saying he would serve to benefit the living after returning to earth. And then one of the angels asked his friend: will you vouch for this person? And the second angel answered: I will vouch for him. They then brought the warrior’s soul to the coffin and ordered it to enter the body. And the soul glowed like a bead, though the dead body reeked and was black as mire. And the warrior’s soul exclaimed that it did not want to enter the body, for the body was so darkened. The angels then told the warrior: you must redeem from within a body that has trespassed. And the soul entered the body through its lips and resurrected it. After hearing what was told, Bishop Gelasy ordered that food be given to the warrior. He kissed the food and immediately refused to eat it. And he lived forty days, fasting and keeping vigil, and he told of what he saw and appealed for redemption and learned his own death would come in three days. Reliable fathers related this for our spiritual benefit.

Emperor Theophilos was an iconoclast, and this brought great sorrow to Empress Theodora. It happened that Theophilos got sick with a fierce illness, through God’s rage. His jaws came apart so his mouth would not close, making his appearance ridiculous and frightening. And so the empress took the icon of the All-Pure Mother of God, placed it to his mouth, and his mouth closed again. But in a short time Theophilos vanished from this lyfe and became deade from that illness. The empress was horribly saddened for she knew her husband would be taken for torture with heretics, and so she thought unceasingly about how she could help him. She freed those banished and in dungeons and implored the patriarch that all bishops and the priestly and monastic rank pray for the Lord to rid Theophilos the emperor of his torment. At first the patriarch would not yield but, touched by the empress’s pleas, he said: the Lord’s will shall be. He ordered that all the bishops and the priestly and monastic ranks pray for Emperor Theophilos. The patriarch himself wrote down the names of all the heretic emperors and placed that writing on the table of the altar of Hagia Sophia. And they prayed for Theophilos during the first week of Great Lent. When the patriarch came on Friday to take his writing, all the names on it were intact but God’s judgment had blotted out Theophilos’s name. And an angel sayde to him: your prayer was herde, O bishop, and Emperor Theophilos received mercy, so do not trouble the Divine one about this more. We will behold, O brethren, the benevolence of our Lord God and we acknowledge how much the prayers of his bishops can do. We marvel at the blest empress Theodora’s faith and love for God: it has been spake of such wives, since she will save her husband in death. Neverthelesse we remember that since the soul is one, there is but one time for lyfe, and we do not trust in the offerings of others to save us.

Amvrosy’s manuscripts are currently kept in the Kirillo-Belozersk collection of the National Library of Russia (St. Petersburg). Researchers who study them unanimously note that the writer’s hand is firm and the script round. In their opinion, this attests to the strength and inner harmony Amvrosy acquired, and the tall height of the letter known as er indicates that he had left the kitchen for good by this time and questions related to food for his earthly body were of little interest.

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At Confession, Amvrosy told Elder Innokenty:

At worship services I am not always attentive and at times I ponder unrelated things. Yesterday, for example, I was remembering one of the unforgettable Ambrogio’s visions.

What was it about, in brief? asked the elder.

Here is what Amvrosy told the elder.

August 30, 1907, the village of Magnano. Francesca Flecchia, a young girl of twelve years whose origins trace back to Alberto Flecchia, Ambrogio’s brother, wakes up due to a vague feeling of fear. The fear is rising from somewhere in her belly. She feels a roiling deep inside, jumps out of bed, and runs to the privy that stands in the yard. She begins to feel better there. Francesca cracks the privy door open and watches what is happening in the yard. Her grandmother is standing in a flickering ray of morning sun. It is coming through the branches of a stone pine: it is the branches that make the ray flicker. Her grandmother is pale and wrinkled. Her grandmother is pensive. Francesca notices, with sadness, that she has never seen her grandmother like this. Maybe it is also because of the stone pine. Or maybe her grandmother is just relaxed because she does not know someone is observing her. Francesca has already seen how a person can look young when out and about but then age immediately upon walking around a corner. Certain things depend on willpower but it is impossible to bend one’s will constantly. Francesca sees that her grandmother truly is old. She understands where her grandmother’s old age will lead her. The girl’s stomach is seized by a spasm once again and tears flow from her eyes. Her grandmother disappears into the summer kitchen.

Francesca’s sister Margherita comes out into the yard. Margherita sees the privy is occupied and goes back into the house. Francesca’s mother appears. She has Margherita’s bridal gown in her arms: Margherita is getting married today. Her mother blows invisible dust from the dress and goes back into the house. Their father goes inside carrying an enormous bouquet of white roses in his extended arms. The roses stand in a bucket of water; they are wrapped in gauze. Their father’s face is not visible at all behind the gauze. Margherita comes out of the house and asks Francesca to hurry up. Their father takes a mouthful of water from a mug and noisily sprays it over the flowers. Francesca remembers that today she dreamt of a severed head.

Margherita has only just turned eighteen. She is marrying Leonardo Antonio. Francesca has loved Leonardo for several months now. He is as supple as a leopard and his name constantly reminds Francesca of his suppleness. And of how shrewd he is, especially of soul and intelligence. Sometimes she catches Leonardo’s sad glances and it seems he is only wooing Margherita to distract attention. Just so he can be near Francesca. And if that is how things are, it is incomprehensible that he is wedding Margherita. Francesca is weeping again.

Margherita thinks Francesca is sitting in the privy for a long time on purpose, to not let Margherita in. She complains to their mother. Francesca vaguely hopes Margherita will go to the altar all soiled. Their mother drags Francesca out of the privy. She does this in a kindly way because she knows travel awaits Francesca tomorrow. Their mother wants to give her at least a little warmth for future use. Francesca was accepted at a Catholic boarding school for girls and is leaving for Florence. The parish school in Magnano is not enough if one wants to achieve something in life. Francesca is scared.

The wedding party, unhurried, comes down from the mountain. From Magnano, it goes into a valley where the Church of San Secondo stands, all alone. It is a beautiful Romanesque church from the twelfth century. There are no regular services but they open it for the weddings of Magnano’s residents. Carriages wound with garlands of flowers ride ahead, carrying the bride, groom, their parents, and the witnesses. They ride slowly, very slowly. Numerous guests surround them. The road is wide, allowing them to walk alongside a carriage. The procession moves toward a photographer who is hidden under a black cloth hung over a tripod.

Coachmen in top hats hold the horses back on the steep slope. A wind that has come up catches the bridal veil and it straightens, floating over the walkers like a spectral white banner. Trees sway and rustle over the road. Ripe chestnuts fall from the trees onto the procession. One chestnut sonorously bounces off the coachman’s top hat. Everyone laughs, including the coachman. The carriages’ wheels ride over the fallen chestnuts, crunching.

It is cold inside the Church of San Secondo. This is the coldness of the ages, which is a little frightening to those present. Of course the bride looks the most vulnerable. She looks like a butterfly that has flown into a gloomy crypt. The padre smiles. The fat man Silvio stands behind Francesca. He is breathing on her back. Breathing and snuffling. She senses the warmth of his breathing on her back and that is pleasant. It is a breath of life, despite originating from the nostrils of a fat man like him.

The crowd of attendees seems incongruous to Francesca, set against the antiquity of the church. Like a gathering of ghosts that will evanesce in a moment, leaving the church (it has seen so much!) all alone with eternity. Francesca tries to imagine everyone looking like skeletons. A church full of skeletons, one wearing a bridal veil.

Everyone squints as they go outside. The young couple is showered with small change and grain. The wedding returns to Magnano. On the way back, Francesca has time to tell the padre her dream. About blood bubbling on a headless neck. How it came pulsing out of the chopped-off aorta.

I think this concerns Ambrogio Flecchia, says the padre. It is not surprising it was you who dreamt about him, since you are, after all, relatives. If you dream anything more about him, be ever so kind as to write it down. For all intents and purposes, we still have very little factual material about Ambrogio Flecchia.

Tables with refreshments have been set up on the village square. Around the tables stand stools with boards on them. On the boards are bedspreads. Everyone is in an elated mood at seeing the bountiful table. Everyone is happy for the young couple. Grandfather Luigi rolls a cigarette, takes it between his two fingers, and inhales. Hardened calluses prevent his fingers from bending. His face looks like pumice. He says he has never seen such a sumptuous wedding. His words come out with the smoke and seem steeped in antiquity.

In the evening, they put candles on the tables. Their shadows dance on ocher-colored facades. People blow out the candles at some tables. The smoke floats for a long time in the still air. Couples keep getting up from the table and disappearing in the darkness. They do not, in reality, go far away. They stand, leaning against the buildings’ warm walls. Sometimes they return to drink a glass of wine.

Francesca gets up from the table. She knows she no longer belongs to this world and she feels unhappy. She does not know what world she belongs to. They are celebrating but she is no longer here. They are feasting but she could not swallow even a small bite. Francesca goes to stand in an alcove by a door and now nobody can see her. Darkness engulfs her. This is soothing.

Someone draws a hand along her face. Someone’s finger moves from her forehead to her nose, from her nose to her chin. Francesca is motionless. Someone strokes her hair. She feels the cold of a door handle at her back and finds it with her hand. She grasps it with all her strength. His lips touch her lips. He turns around as he leaves the darkness of the alcove. It is Leonardo.

Francesca left for Florence the next morning and never returned to Magnano again, not once. She married Lieutenant Massimo Totti when she was twenty years of age, after graduating from the Catholic school for girls. They moved to Rome. In 1915, Lieutenant Totti set off for the front and was killed in his very first combat. Francesca gave birth to Marcello, the now-deceased lieutenant’s son. Francesca studied at the university’s physics department and worked in a shoe store as she raised her son. Sometimes she felt like chucking everything and leaving for Magnano. She graduated from the university with a degree as a physics teacher. After much effort, Francesca found herself a part-time job at a school in Naples. She was disastrously short of money. To keep herself afloat, Francesca returned to Rome and went to work at a morgue. The pay was not bad at the morgue. She read Joyce in rare free moments during her shifts. Sometimes she wrote down her dreams about Ambrogio, finally publishing them under the title Ambrogio Flecchia and His Time. Among other things, Francesca developed Einstein’s theory of the relativity of time in the book, based on material from the dreams she had written down. Unlike works by the genius physicist, her book was written in simple, straightforward language and was wildly successful. Francesca became rich and famous. She left the morgue. After buying a mansion on the Ostia coast, she lived there for twenty-eight years, right up until her death. In one of her last interviews, Francesca was asked what day in her life was most memorable. After thinking, Francesca answered:

It was very likely my sister Margherita’s wedding day.

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One day, people representing the Moscow boyar Frol came to the monastery. Frol and his wife Agafya had been in marriage for fifteen years but had no children. Agafya’s womb was closed, though they had visited many monasteries and called for the most skilled doctors. Their hope had begun to ebb, little by little, and the very desire to have a child had ebbed, too, thanks to the approach of the seven thousandth year since the Creation of the world: in light of the possible end of the world, the child’s life could be assumed to be brief and joyless. This is why boyar Frol did not rejoice when he heard tell of the amazing healer from the Kirillov monastery.

Why give birth for death? boyar Frol said to the servants of his house.

But everyone is born for death, the servants objected. We have yet to see other types.

I can inform you that Enoch and Elijah were taken to the heavens alive, answered the boyar, but you truly have not seen them.

You know, life should not be stopped until it is stopped by the Almighty, advised the servants of his house.

Boyar Frol thought a bit and agreed. He said:

Go then to the Kirillov monastery and ask the monk Amvrosy for some prayers to grant me the fruit of childmaking.

Boyar Frol’s emissaries set off on their journey and rode for twenty days. Amvrosy greeted them when they entered the monastery’s gates on the morning of the twenty-first day. Without asking his visitors anything, he said:

I believe your journey is not in vain and, through the prayers of The Most Holy Lady the Mother of God, the Lord will grant boyar Frol and his boyar wife the fruit of childmaking.

With those words, Amvrosy held out two prosphora, for the boyar and his boyar wife. The visitors went to a service after kissing the giver’s hand. They genuflected for half a day and then rested after their journey for the next half-day and night. Boyar Frol’s representatives set off on their return journey at dawn and it was half the length because the scent of the prosphora satisfied their hunger and the sight of them relieved fatigue. When they returned to Moscow, the boyar asked, first thing, about the prosphora. And they handed him the prosphora and two children were born to him within the next two years: first a boy, then a girl.

How did you know about the prosphora? asked the representatives of his house.

And the boyar told them that on the night when his emissaries were resting at the monastery after their distant journey, he and his boyar wife had dreamt of a holy elder with two prosphora. The elder spoke without moving his lips but his speech was distinct:

You will be comforted with a son and daughter. We will pray here that nothing happens this year before Easter. For only on Easter Day will it be possible to hope the world has held fast.

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All the bells of the Kirillov monastery sounded on the Great Day of Easter in the seven thousandth year. That ringing poured out over the Belozersk land, proclaiming that the Lord had shown His boundless mercy to all mankinde and given more time for redemption. It was decided to reset the calculations in the computus: up until this day, nobody had even known if Easter would come in the seven thousandth year.

Tears of gratitude flowed from the eyes of many people. Those with loved ones were comforted because their parting had been delayed, those who had not settled their affairs calmed because they had received time to settle them, and only those craving the end were not joyful, since their expectations had deceived them.

On Easter Day of the seven thousandth year, Amvrosy said to Elder Innokenty:

I seek seclusion, O elder.

I know, replied Elder Innokenty. There is a time for interaction and there is a time for seclusion.

I have been cognizing the world for a long time and have amassed so much of it inside me that from now on I can come to know it within myself.

The time for seclusion has come now that we are more or less calm regarding the end of the world. Prepare, O Amvrosy, to accepte the schema in this yeare.

Treating the ill became Amvrosy’s preparation. The flow of patients increased tenfold when it became clear once and for all that life would go on in the foreseeable future. Those who had recently taken ill were united in that flow with those who had preferred to wait out all those last years but then changed their minds in light of the favorable outlook that was unfolding.

The large quantity of visitors disconcerted the brethren and impeded concentration on prayer. Several of them complained about this to the abbot.

What, you mean to say you could concentrate on prayer before? the abbot asked the complainers.

We could not, answered the complainers, and the abbot thanked them for their honesty.

Amvrosy himself, however, was having doubts about the propriety of what was happening. Sometimes he remembered the words of the father steward, about how many of those who came to see him thought only about health, without giving a thought to prayer and redemption. Those words had sown a grain of doubt within Amvrosy. He began feeling disquiet, but Elder Innokenty was no longer alongside him. By this time, Elder Innokenty had moved to a secluded cell a day’s journey from the monastery. Knowing the distance was not a limitation for the elder, Amvrosy told him from the monastery:

I fear that my cures are becoming a customary matter for them. They receive the cures automatically, which does not prompt these people’s souls to stir.

What do you know about automatism, O Amvrosy? replied Elder Innokenty from his secluded cell. If you have the gift of healing, use it because that is why it was granted to you. Their automatism will pass quickly, when you are no longer with them. Believe me, though: they will remember the miracle of the cure forever.

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On August 18 of the seven thousandth year since the Creation of the World, Amvrosy took the schema in the Church of the Dormition of the Mother of God. The rite for taking the schema was reminiscent of the rite in which his head was covered by the mantle several years before. This time, though, everything was more ceremonial and austere.

Arseny entered into the church, as was befitting, during the “little entrance” in the liturgy, the procession to the altar with the Book of the Gospels. As he entered, he took the mantle from his head and the sandals from his feet. He bowed thrice to the ground. His eyes became accustomed to the church’s semidarkness and the dark mass of those in attendance took on faces. A man who looked like Christofer stood in the choir. Perhaps it even was Christofer.

To the Creator of all and the Doctor of the sicke, O Lord, save me even before I die, Amvrosy whispered after the choir.

A late summer wind blew through the open doors. The flames over the candles began fluttering a little but then stood still, all stretching in the same direction. The fire behaved exactly the same way in his childhood when he had stood in this church with Christofer. And that was all that linked Amvrosy to that time because he had become someone else long ago, and Christofer was lying in his grave. Or at least he had been laid there. It occurred to Amvrosy that he no longer had an exact memory of what Christofer looked like. How could Christofer be here? No, this was not Christofer.

Do you renounce the world and what is in the world, according to the Lord’s commaundemente? the abbot asked Amvrosy.

I do renounce it, answered Amvrosy.

He heard someone slam a door in the back, and the candles’ fire evened out. There was no agitation in the flame now. The soul should become thus, thought Amvrosy. Impassive, placid. But my soul will not come to peace because it aches about Ustina.

The abbot said:

Take the scissors and offere them to me.

And Amvrosy gave him the scissors and kissed his hand. The abbot then slackened his hand and the scissors fell to the floor.

And Amvrosy picked up the scissors and handed them to the abbot and the abbot dropped them again.

And then Amvrosy again gave him the scissors and the abbot dropped them a third time.

When Amvrosy picked up the scissors this time, too, everyone in attendance was assured Amvrosy was being shorn voluntarily.

The abbot set to the shearing. He sheared two locks from Amvrosy’s head to form a cross so that he would leave behind his hair, along with the weighte of the thoughtes that drew him to erthe. As he looked at his gray locks on the floor, Amvrosy heard his new name:

Our brother Laurus is shearing the haires from his heade in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost. We shall say for him: O Lord, have mercy!

O Lord, have mercy, answered the brethren.

August 18, when Amvrosy took the Great Schema, was the day of the martyr saints Florus and Laurus. Amvrosy was Laurus from that day on.

Elder Innokenty said from his secluded cell:

Laurus is a good name, for the plants that carry this name, laurus, are medicinal. Being evergreen, they signify eternal life.

I no longer sense unity in my life, said Laurus. I was Arseny, Ustin, Amvrosy, and I have just now become Laurus. My life was lived by four people who do not resemble one another and they have various bodies and various names. What do I have in common with the light-haired little boy from Rukina Quarter? A memory? But the longer I live, the more my reminiscences seem like an invention. I am ceasing to believe them and they thus lack the power to link me to those people who were me at various times. Life resembles a mosaic that scatters into pieces.

Being a mosaic does not necessarily mean scattering into pieces, answered Elder Innokenty. It is only up close that each separate little stone seems not to be connected to the others. There is something more important in each of them, O Laurus: striving for the one who looks from afar. For the one who is capable of seizing all the small stones at once. It is he who gathers them with his gaze. That, O Laurus, is how it is in your life, too. You have dissolved yourself in God. You disrupted the unity of your life, renouncing your name and your very identity. But in the mosaic of your life there is also something that joins all those separate parts: it is an aspiration for Him. They will gather together again in Him.

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Three weeks after taking the schema, Laurus left the monastery and went to find a secluded cell for himself. This was Laurus’s inner intention for himself, but it raised no objection from the abbot and brethren.

Strange though it was, they felt a certain relief after Laurus’s departure, since the flow of people longing for healing had disrupted the monastery’s established way of life. They had only opened the gates for visitors with special permission, but the crowds of people waiting at the monastery walls could not help but trouble the brethren.

Both the brethren and the abbot tried to regard those who sought Laurus with understanding. They remembered the Lord’s words about how a city that is set on a hill cannot be hid, neither do men light a lamp, and put it under a bushel, but on a lamp stand; and it gives light unto all that are in the house. It is something else altogether that, in a cenobitic monastery, this light could feel too bright for those who thought a monastery’s particular power lies, above all, in collective prayer. That, apparently, was how the light felt.

Laurus left the monastery, taking only a chunk of bread. They attempted to compel him to take more since it was unclear what was waiting for him in his new place but Laurus said:

If God and His Most Blessed Mother forget about me in that place, then why would I be needed?

And so Laurus set off in search of a place where his soul would feel at peace. He walked through the damp autumnal forest, not memorizing the path he had taken. This was something he did not need because he did not foresee returning. He understood that his movement was the beginning of another, more important, departure.

Laurus stepped on half-rotten branches that broke under his feet without a crack. Frost shone white on yellow leaves in the mornings. Toward noon the frost turned to tiny drops that shone coldly in the sun. Laurus drank water from black woodland lakes. And each time he bent over the water, the figure of a timeworn elder in a monastic hood, with white crosses on his shoulders, rose toward him out of the depths. Laurus lifted his eyes to a sky lined with branches and pointed out the elder in the lake to Ustina:

One would think that is me, since there is no one else here to be reflected. I still continue to live through you and see you: you remain the same but you, my love, would no longer recognize me.

Sometimes Laurus thought he had already seen this reflection many years ago, but he simply could not remember when or under what circumstances. Perhaps, he thought, it was in a dream, for when dreams present images, they do not go to the trouble of observing relative things, one of which is time.

Each day, Laurus broke off a piece of the chunk of bread he had taken but it did not shrink. That circumstance surprised him so he asked Elder Innokenty:

Listen, O elder, maybe I just think I am eating?

You are a grown man and a doctor besides, but you are reasoning like a child, said the angry elder. So you tell me, how is it that a body can survive without nourishment? By what biological laws? Obviously you are eating in a most natural way. It is another matter entirely that the chunk of bread increases in weight every day, otherwise you wouldn’t have gotten off so easily.

Calmed by Elder Innokenty’s explanation, Laurus continued moving. He saw many worthy places along the way but had no preferences for any of them. He understood each time, with an inner sense, that this was not yet the final point of his wanderings. Some places were too narrow. Trees would be clustered there, standing almost right up against one another, and could, in Laurus’s opinion, crowd out any soul who settled in that place. By contrast, other places were too broad and their open spaces demanded considerable effort to adapt, for his soul to make them his own. It had been stated in one of Christofer’s manuscripts that many expanses submit to the Russian people but that these Russians will not be able to make those expanses fully their own. Being a Russian person, Laurus was wary of events taking that turn.

He wandered for many days, so many that he recognized his own notches on trees in some parts of the forest. One night, he dreamt of a place on a rise. It was a glade surrounded by tall pine trees. Bushes grew along the edge of the glade and a stone cave was visible through a thicket. The sun’s rays shone freely through the pines’ trunks, making the place bright and peaceful.

Laurus headed toward that place after waking up in the morning. He walked with the brisk pace of a person who knows his way, walking without inner doubts. Toward the end of the day, Laurus reached the place he wanted. It proved to be exactly the same place he had seen in his dream. After saying a prayer of thanks, Laurus kissed the ground he had discovered and said:

This shalbe my rest, here wil I dwell.

He said:

Take me, O wilderness, as a mother her child.

He gathered some brush and pulled up some grass, and laid them in the cave. And then he lay down to sleep there and his sleep was as serene as in a real home. And he was happy in his sleep for he knew this was his final home.

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For several days, Laurus worked on fixing up his new residence. The cave where he had settled amounted to two huge boulders capped by a stone block that was even larger. One side of the block touched the ground, forming a third, sloping, wall. Laurus got to work building the fourth wall himself. The only tool he had was a knife he had taken from the monastery.

Laurus noticed some fallen tree trunks nearby and attempted to drag them to the cave. He did not even go near the fattest of the trunks. But when he wrapped his arms around one of the medium-sized trunks and tried to move it from its place, he could not even do that. Once his heartbeat was back to normal, Laurus pondered the underlying reason—the weight of the tree or his old age—and decided it was old age after all.

And then he got to work on thin young tree trunks that had been knocked down by large fallen trees. He dragged those saplings to the boulders and drove their lower parts into the ground, nestling the tops against the uneven surface of the rock. He tied the trunks together with thick cords woven from vines. He filled the crevices between the trunks with grass and moss. Laurus even managed to make a door by tying together branches. The door leaned in place rather than hanging from hinges but it sheltered him from the cold no worse than a genuine door.

After constructing the wall, Laurus realized the thin trunks were most appropriate here anyway because thick trunks would not have fit together as firmly. He told Ustina:

What a person is able to do using his strength is the very best. But what is beyond his strength, my love, is not useful.

Laurus made a hearth by piling up rocks that were lying around here and there. He understood that old age had arrived, so he no longer counted on his body’s strength. To preserve the life within his body, Laurus began building fires in the hearth on the coldest days. Later, after he had settled into his new place, he began burning fires once a week. On Saturdays he started fires using a steel and tinder that he always kept dry in a hollow place he had found under the ceiling. Laurus burned the fire from morning until evening, watching how the damp smoke from the branches he had gathered slowly stretched through the doorway. In one day of burning, the cave’s stones absorbed enough heat to hold him until the next Saturday. Almost always enough to hold him. If the cave cooled down earlier, Laurus endured, not changing the set day.

Laurus came to love his home. It sheltered him from cold north winds and turned out to be unexpectedly spacious. He could stand at full height in the part nearest the door. He had to bend, though, where the granite slab sloped down. Sometimes Laurus forgot about the hanging block of stone and hit his head hard against it. After wiping away the tears that had come, he blamed himself for his pride and unwillingness to bow his head. Smiling, he was glad the lessons in humility he had been given were so easy.

Laurus understood he was being treated like a child. This was the first time since his childhood that he had been so calm. This is my repose for all time, he repeated to himself, surprised at the depth of his repose. He thought he could hear springs of water under the ground. Clouds breathing in the sky. Lots of things had happened to him in his former life but, somehow or other, everything had happened in the presence of others. And now he was completely alone.

He was not lonely because he did not feel that people had abandoned him. He sensed everyone he had ever met as if they were present. They continued a quiet life in his soul, regardless of whether they had gone off to another world or were still alive. He remembered all their words, intonations, and movements. Their old words gave rise to new words and integrated with more recent events and Laurus’s own words. Life continued on, in all manner of variety.

It moved along chaotically, as should a life composed of millions of particles. At the same time, though, it also had some sort of discernible overall focus within. It began to seem to Laurus that life was moving toward its origin, though not toward the origin of all of life—what the Lord had created—but toward his, Laurus’s, own origin, where all of life had also opened up for him.

Laurus’s thoughts, which used to be taken up with events of recent years, now began turning back to the first years of his life. As he walked through the autumnal forest, sometimes he would feel Christofer’s hand in his. It was scratchy and warm. Looking up at Christofer from below, Laurus finally remembered where he had seen the face reflected in the lake. It was Christofer’s face. From grandfather to grandson, for the days when he had grown old.

Christofer led him along animals’ trails, stopping from time to time to catch his breath. He told of herbs that went to sleep at this time of year and of the characteristics of roots touched by light frost. He told of the journeys of birds who rushed south from the cold, about their difficult life in foreign lands, and about their surprising ability to return.

To return, O Laurus, is characteristic of people as well as birds, Christofer had once said. There should be some sort of finality in life.

Why are you calling me Laurus? asked Laurus. You knew me as Arseny.

What’s the difference? said Christofer. Remember how you wanted to be a bird, too?

I remember. I did not fly long then...

When the boy was exhausted, his grandfather sat him in a bag on his back. He carried him home and the little boy’s eyes would close from Christofer’s even stride. He dreamt he had become a caladrius bird. After taking the sores of others upon himself, he ascends into the firmament and disperses them above the earth. He awakened at night, on his own sleeping ledge. He listened to water evenly dripping in the corner of the cave.

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Toward November, the chunk of bread Laurus had taken from the monastery had begun to dwindle perceptibly. Laurus noticed it dwindling but that did not cause him concern. He understood: if his existence on earth still had any point, then daily bread would be given to him in good time. And that is what happened.

One morning Laurus heard cautious steps by the cave. He went outside and saw a person with a loaf of bread in his hands.

I am miller Tikhon and I brought you some bread, said the person.

His clothing was covered in flour, and he was around thirty years old. Miller Tikhon bowed and gave Laurus the loaf. Laurus silently took it and bowed, too. The miller left.

He returned the next day, leading his wife by the hand; she walked with a heavy limp.

A grindstone fell on my foot and I have not been able to put weight on it since, said the miller’s wife. My health is worsening with every passing day.

How did you get here with a foot like that, unless your husband carried you in his arms? asked Laurus. Not even every healthy person makes it to my forestland.

It was not that difficult, said miller Tikhon. Your forestland, O Laurus, is only an hour and a half on foot from Rukina Quarter. People walking in the woods saw you and now everyone in the quarter knows you live here.

Laurus looked intently at the visitors. He realized that his many-day journey had, in fact, turned out not to be so very long. And that he had gotten lost during his journey but had, as a result, come to the place he needed to come.

Helpe us, O Laurus, pleaded miller Tikhon, for what kind of helper is she at the mill with a hurt foot?

Tears streamed down the miller’s wife’s cheeks because she knew this matter concerned her life, not her foot. Laurus signaled to her to remove the headscarf wound around her hurt foot. After she had done so, Laurus crouched by her feet. Her foot was swollen and had begun to fester. He began slowly probing the foot. Miller Tikhon turned away. Laurus pressed on the foot with both hands and the miller’s wife began sobbing. He again wound the headscarf on the hurt spot.

Do not cry, woman, said Laurus. Your foot will heal and you will return to work at the mill and you will be a helper to your husband.

Will everything be like before? asked the miller’s wife.

No, not everything will be as it was before, answered Laurus, since nothing in the world recurs. I do not think you want that anyway.

And they bowed to Laurus and left.

From that day on, people began coming to him from Rukina Quarter. After seeing that the ascetic monk Laurus had helped the miller’s hurt wife, they understood he would not refuse them, either. After hearing the miller’s story of how Laurus had accepted his bread and how he had thanked him with a low bow, they began bringing him food. And each time they brought food, Laurus asked them not to. But they brought it anyway, maybe bread, maybe boiled turnip, maybe pots of oatmeal porridge. Based on the miller’s story, it followed that these sorts of offerings did no harm. Besides, people in Rukina Quarter had long believed that only paid work brought results. Even if it was the work of healing.

Realizing that it was impossible to refuse, Laurus began sharing the food with birds and animals. He broke the bread in two, flung his arms wide open, and birds landed on his arms. They pecked the bread and rested on his warm shoulders. A bear usually ate up the porridge and turnip. The bear just could not find a suitable den to sleep in, and that made his life miserable.

When he came to see Laurus, the bear complained about the cold, an absence of proper nutrition, and his generally unsettled life. Laurus let him into the cave to warm up on the coldest days, appealing to his guest not to snore or distract him from his prayer. Laurus suggested the bear see their rooming together as a temporary measure. Laurus breathed a sigh of relief when the bear finally found himself a den at the very end of December.

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Beginning that winter, Laurus lost track of forward-moving time. Laurus now sensed only cyclical time, which was a closed loop: the time of a day, of a week, or of a year. He knew all the Sundays in the year but counting the years themselves was, for him, hopelessly lost. Sometimes people told him what year was coming up but he immediately forgot because it had been so long since he had believed that information held value.

The events in his memory no longer correlated with time. They quietly spread through his life, falling into a distinct order unconnected with time. Some events surfaced from the depths of what had been lived, some had submerged into those depths forever because the experiences had led nowhere. What had been lived gradually lost its definition, turning more and more into general ideas of good and evil that were devoid of detail and color.

Among temporal indicators, the words one day came to mind ever more frequently. Laurus liked those words because they overcame the curse of time. They also confirmed the singularity and lack of repeatability of everything that had occurred: one day. One day he realized this indicator was quite enough.

(One day) Elizaveta, a Novgorod boyar woman, was brought to Laurus’s cave. She had slipped and hit her head on a rock many years before. Her vision had been dimming ever since; a while after the accident she could see only the outlines of objects. Not long before coming to see Laurus, the boyar woman Elizaveta had ceased seeing even those.

When Laurus came out of his cave she said:

Anoint my eyes with that water you take from the spring, so I may see the light again.

Laurus marveled at his visitor’s belief and did as she asked. Right then and there she saw the outlines of Laurus’s face and, behind his back, the movement of those who had accompanied her. The boyar woman Elizaveta began pointing at them and calling them by their names. She also gave the names of the herbs and flowers growing around Laurus’s cave. Sometimes she made mistakes because there was still a murkiness in her eyes, but she could already see the main thing: light. She kept lifting her head up and looking at the bright summer sun without squinting: her eyes did not hurt and simply could not get enough sun. The boyar woman Elizaveta’s vision had completely returned by the beginning of autumn.

(One day) they led God’s servant Nikolai, bound in chains, to Laurus. Ten men led him because a lesser number would not have been capable of restraining him and controlling his movement. Nikolai was not tall but the demons who had settled inside him gave him a frenzied energy. His appearance was frightening. Nikolai snarled and howled, and gnawed at his chains, revealing teeth broken on the iron. A bloody foam frothed on his lips. He wildly rolled his eyes so only the whites were visible. Dark blue veins bulged on his temples and on his neck. There was barely any clothing on him since he tore to shreds anything he was dressed in. And he was not cold, despite the frosty weather: the alien forces sitting within warmed him.

Let him go, Laurus said to those holding Nikolai.

Those restraining Nikolai exchanged looks. After some hesitation, they tossed away the chains and stepped away from Nikolai. Quiet set in. Nikolai no longer howled and flailed. Half-bent, he stood and looked straight into Laurus’s eyes. His mouth was half-open. Saliva stretched from his mouth, dangling. Laurus took a step toward Nikolai and laid a hand on his head. They stood like that for a time. Laurus’s eyes were closed but his lips were moving. The two men’s heads slowly moved closer together, until Laurus’s forehead touched Nikolai’s forehead.

In the name of our Savior Jesus Christ, I order you to leave God’s servant Nikolai, Laurus said loudly.

At those words, Nikolai extended his arms toward Laurus, as if he wanted to embrace him. His body slackened. Nikolai slowly slid to the ground, his chains clanking. He lay on the snow at Laurus’s feet and nobody dared approach him. Nikolai’s eyes were open, as if he were dead, but he was not dead.

They have abandoned him and his spirit is on the road to recovery, said Laurus. Let him rest until the end of night, he can go take Communion in the morning.

And so they carried Nikolai off to Rukina Quarter and he lay unconscious at the end of that day and through the night. When he opened his eyes early in the morning, there shone in them the light of reason, as befits a person bearing God’s image. Nikolai was still very weak because all the pitch-black energy he had possessed departed with the demons.

With prayers—his own and from people around him—Nikolai found within himself the strength to make it to the church and take Communion. He felt better after taking Communion because a new firmness had entered him along with Christ’s blood and flesh. Accompanied by the public, Nikolai headed for Laurus’s cave straight from the church.

Laurus came out to greet them and wordlessly blessed them. And they all fell to their knees before Laurus because they saw this person’s strength was firmer than demonic strength. After that, they all asked Nikolai why he had resisted so much when they brought him to Laurus’s cave, screaming at the top of his lungs, louder than humanly possible. And then Nikolai answered them:

You beat me, forcing me to come here, and the demons beat me, too, disallowing me to do it, and I did not know which of you to heed. And after being beaten by one and the other, I screamed a double scream.

And everyone was surprised at what had happened and they praised God in heaven and His earthly oil lamp, Laurus.

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In a year of great hunger, the young woman Anastasia came to Laurus after losing her virginity. She prostrated herself before Laurus, weeping, and said:

I feel that I am carrying a baby in my womb but I cannot bear the baby without a husband. For when the child is born, it will be called the fruit of my sin.

What do you want, woman? Laurus asked.

You know yourself, O Laurus, what I want, but I am afraid to say it to you.

I do know, woman. Just as you know how I will answer you. So do tell me, why did you come to me?

Because if I go to the wise woman in Rukina Quarter, everyone will find out about my sin. But you can simply pray and then the fruit of my sin will leave me the same way it entered.

Laurus’s gaze rose along the tops of the pine trees and got lost in the leaden skies. Snowflakes froze on his eyelashes. The first snow had covered the glade.

I cannot pray for that. Prayer should carry the force of conviction, otherwise it is not effective. And you are asking me to pray for murder.

Anastasia slowly rose from her knees. She sat on a fallen tree and held up her cheeks with her fists.

I am an orphan and now is a time of hunger and I cannot feed the child enough. How can you not understand?

Keep the child and everything will turn out fine. Simply believe me, I know this.

You are killing both me and the baby.

Laurus sat on the tree alongside Anastasia. He stroked her head.

I beseech you.

Anastasia turned away. Laurus sank to his knees and pressed his head against Anastasia’s feet.

I will pray for you and the baby every hour. May he become a child born in my old age.

Are you refusing me because you are afraid of destroying your soul? asked Anastasia.

I am afraid I have already destroyed it, Laurus said quietly.

Anastasia looked back at Laurus as she left, and he was weeping. And she felt pity for him.

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Winter turned out to be very cold. It was dust that fell from the skies, not snowflakes. A white sparkling dust that settled on trees and bushes. It was actually as if there were no longer any bushes. First they became drifts and then the drifts disappeared in the endless snowy coverlet that had been thrown over the forest. Even at the beginning of winter, Laurus said to Ustina:

It seems, my love, as if this is the coldest winter of all those I have had occasion to experience. Or perhaps the trouble is simply that my body is no longer capable of standing up to hardship. I will try to make fires twice a week so my body and soul do not part ways before their time.

But Laurus did not end up heating the cave twice a week. The supply of branches he had readied quickly dwindled and it was challenging to find branches under the deep snow. Up to his chest in snow, Laurus would get to the closest trees and break off their limbs but that required great effort. After bringing a branch or two into the cave, he could not catch his breath for a long time. Worn out, Laurus would fall on his sleeping ledge; it was difficult to restore his breathing, which was constricted by a chesty cough. To economize on firewood, he began heating often but only a little. The stones did not warm from this sort of heating so it was always cold in the cave.

The food that people had brought from Rukina Quarter from time to time, before the large snowfalls, was also coming to an end. Laurus had previously refused what people brought, saying he had many of his own supplies. In the summer and autumn, he truly did have numerous plants and roots, enough to satiate him, but they were now inaccessible under the piled-up snow. Patients had stopped coming to Laurus because of the deep snow and, consequently, also stopped bringing him food. They forgot about him during this difficult time, not with the harsh oblivion of the ill-intentioned but with the forced oblivion of the afflicted. Snow had joined with hunger, and it was not easy for anyone.

Toward the middle of winter, Laurus was already seldom leaving the cave. He was saving what warmth and strength remained. One day he found, in a far corner of the cave, the remains of the chunk of bread he had brought from the monastery at an earlier time.

This bread may not be in its first freshness, Laurus told Ustina, and there may not be very much left but, you know, it will be enough for a while if I do not give in to gluttony. In situations like mine, my love, the main thing is not to be finicky.

After resolving his difficulties regarding proper nutrition, Laurus found the means to warm up, too. He began thinking about Jerusalem.

Laurus wandered the city’s sun-filled streets from morning till night and sensed the scent of the cooling stones even as he was falling asleep. He stroked their rough surfaces. The stones lent their warmth to Laurus’s freezing hands and he was no longer cold. On the third day of February, he met Elder Innokenty on the Mount of Olives. The elder’s face was tanned so it was obvious he had not just arrived in Jerusalem. Instead of a greeting, the elder pointed to the Temple Mount and quietly began singing:

Now lettest thou thy servant departe in peace, O Lorde, acordinge to thy promesse...

Elder Innokenty sang, his head bared, and a warm February breeze ruffling his gray hair. Insects of the Holy Land and dry blades of grasses plucked from familiar old haunts floated through the air, mixing with Jerusalem’s ancient dust and blowing into their eyes. Tears glistened on Elder Innokenty’s eyelashes. He had already closed his mouth but his song was still spreading over the Kidron Valley. As Laurus looked at him, he thought the righteous Simeon must have looked like that in the 361st year of his life.

And it is today that there is a commemoration of the righteous Simeon, smiled Elder Innokenty, did you forget about that or something? And how could we not sing in praise of the liberation whose daye is approaching for me?

I knew that from how you have been drawing nearer, Laurus told him. You have been doing that with a sense of liberation, like a person who has seen everything he should see. Truth be told, I did not expect to meet you here, though where else would we part, if not here?

Elder Innokenty embraced Laurus.

Grieve not, O Laurus, for you will not remain locked up in time much longer.

They were standing atop a mountain. Laurus watched as a cloud, from which not a single drop of rain would fall, drifted out from behind the elder’s shoulder.

‌

In the spring it became clear that the hunger would not end in this newly arrived year, either. A very hard frost struck at the end of May, when grasses and grains had come out from under the soil and fruit trees had just finished blooming. It came amid warm days and raged for only one night. Everything that was capable of sprouting and blooming died that night.

All sorts of misfortunes occurred in Rukina Quarter, but nobody could remember a frost like that in May. The quarter’s miller likened it to the Devil’s breath, which ices up everything it touches. That comparison opened many people’s eyes to the true nature of events and provided direction for the drawing of inferences. It was clear that things like this did not happen by chance.

The search for causes was brief. Despite her baggy medieval clothing, by spring it was no secret to anyone that the orphan Anastasia was with child. When the trouble occurred, they asked her who the father of her child was but she refused to answer. And they asked no more because the answer was already obvious to everyone in Rukina Quarter. The father of the child was the one whose icy breath had destroyed all the grasses and grains and the fruits of every tree. And there was only one way out and nobody uttered what that way out was, for everyone already knew what had to be done.

One bright June night, Anastasia’s decrepit cottage burnt on all four sides. Nobody extinguished the fire, though nobody from Rukina Quarter was sleeping. Many wept and prayed because they felt sorry for Anastasia despite her relations with the forces of evil. To many people, it seemed that if this girl living without parents had become easy prey for the Devil, then fault lay not just with her but also with the circumstances. And all that bound these people together in their characteristic kindliness was their concern for saving Rukina Quarter from hunger. They surrounded Anastasia’s cottage so she could not escape and covered their ears with their palms so as not to hear her dying screams. They did not hear them through the noise of the flames anyway.

When the cottage had burned down, the bravest ventured to rummage in the ashes, to pierce what was left of Anastasia with an aspen pole. After finding no traces whatsoever of the burned girl, the quarter’s residents were even more certain of her guilt since at least something should be left of a nonguilty person. And they were all convinced Anastasia had disappeared, like as the smoke vanisheth, and died, as wax melteth before the fire, from those who love God, and those who mark themselves with the sign of the cross.

But Anastasia had not disappeared. She understood where this was all going, so had secretly fled Rukina Quarter the night of the fire. Nausea and dizziness complicated her flight but the main thing was her heavy belly, where her child tossed and turned. The main complication, however, consisted of having nowhere to flee. The only person she had on earth was the elder Laurus, who had predicted a happy outcome of events. And his prediction (Anastasia smeared the tears on her cheeks as she walked) seemed not to be coming true.

With branches snapping back and scratching at her face and hands, Anastasia cursed the elder for his refusal to help her and nearly called him the perpetrator of her troubles. When she neared Laurus’s cave shortly after midnight, wrath had left her heart and strength had left her body. She no longer had either reproach or even tears. Breathing heavily, Anastasia sank to the ground and called Laurus. She vomited.

Laurus came out of the cave with a saucer of water in his hands. He cleansed Anastasia’s face and hands.

They tried to burn me, whispered Anastasia. They think what is in my womb is of the Devil.

Laurus silently looked at Anastasia. His eyes were filled with tears.

Why are you silent? Anastasia shouted.

Laurus placed a hand on her forehead and Anastasia felt its coolness.

‌

Laurus divides his cave in half. He and Anastasia collect branches and construct an inner wall in the cave by tying the branches together using cords made of vines. They cut an entrance in the outer wall for Anastasia to use. Against the entrance they lean a door made of branches, with ferns woven in. They try to make the second entrance to the cave unnoticeable.

On sunny days, Anastasia goes for walks behind the cave and Laurus stands on the path that people take from Rukina Quarter to come see him. He receives patients in the glade in front of the cave and signals to Anastasia when they have gone.

It is better for them not to see her, Laurus tells Ustina. You never know what is on those people’s minds: there is still so much ignorance in their heads, my love.

Talk with me, Anastasia asks of Laurus. I cannot take it when people are quiet all the time.

Fine, I will talk with you, Laurus responds.

Patients are again bringing Laurus food but far less now than before because there is hunger in the surrounding villages. Moreover, they are used to Laurus refusing compensation. But now Laurus is not refusing. He treats patients and gratefully accepts what they bring. Patients are surprised. They say that in the previous years of plenty, Laurus did not take anything from them but now, in a time of hunger, he takes anything and everything, including meat. Patients sadly note that hardship does not even change ascetics for the better. They are slightly annoyed but do not let it show. Laurus returns their health and life, and food is useless without those.

Laurus does not explain anything to them. He knows Anastasia needs to eat well and he takes care that she does.

I have never eaten so well, says Anastasia.

It is not only you eating now, but your little boy, too, Laurus answers.

How do you know it is a boy?

Laurus takes a long look at Anastasia.

That is how it seems to me.

One day, Laurus says to Ustina:

Perhaps, my love, I will teach her reading and writing as I once—remember?—taught you. Maybe later she will happen to read what they would never teach her in Rukina Quarter.

Laurus begins teaching Anastasia to read and write. Surprisingly enough, reading and writing comes easily for Anastasia. Laurus has no books but he has birch bark, on which he writes what Anastasia reads. Most often, though, he writes on the ground with a stick. To write something new, he brushes away the old. Sometimes he does not.

The people who come to Laurus see these writings but do not guess who they were made for. They simply try not to step on them. They do not know what, exactly, is written on the ground but they are aware that Slavonic letters are sacred, for they are able to represent sacred notions. They have not seen non-Slavonic letters. They move around the inscriptions on tiptoe and make exaggeratedly large strides. This was inquired of Aristides the righteous: how many yeares is it good for a man to live? And Aristides answerd: untill he does understonde death is better than lyfe. People leave without reading the conversations with Aristides. They bow to Laurus and wish him many more yeares.

God forbid, Laurus answers them soundlessly.

Before bed, Anastasia asks him to tell her a story. Laurus wants to tell about his journey to Jerusalem but cannot remember it. He thinks for a long time and recalls the Alexander Romance. Evening after evening, Laurus tells Anastasia of the Macedonian king’s wanderings, of the savage people he saw, and of his battle with the Persian king Darius. Anastasia regards the events of Alexander’s life sympathetically. They push aside the events of Anastasia’s own life; she can calmly fall asleep. And Alexander is lying on the iron earth under a sky of ivory. He is miserable. He does not understand the purpose of all his wanderings. Or the purpose of all the conquering. And he does not yet know that his empire will crumble in an instant.

Opening her eyes without waking up, Anastasia utters:

What a strange life Alexander had. What was the historical goal of his life?

Laurus looks steadily into Anastasia’s eyes and reads his own questions in them. Bending over the sleeping girl’s ear, Laurus whispers:

Life has no historical goal. Or that is not the main goal. I think Alexander only grasped that right before his death.

The clamor of voices awakens them early in the morning. Laurus goes outside the cave and sees men from Rukina Quarter. They have pitchforks and stakes in their hands. Laurus silently looks at them. They are silent for a time, too. Their faces are covered with large beads of sweat and their hair clings to their foreheads. They have hurried here. They are still breathing heavily.

The blacksmith Averky says:

You know, O elder, that there was hunger last year. And the reason for that was the wench Anastasia’s relations with the Devil.

Laurus is looking straight ahead but it is unclear if he sees anyone.

We burned Anastasia, continues blacksmith Averky, but the hunger has not lessened. What does that speak of, O elder?

Laurus shifts his eyes to the blacksmith.

It speaks of there being ignorance in your heads.

You, O elder, are incorrect. It speaks of our not having burned her.

We did not even find her bones, sighs the miller Tikhon.

Laurus takes a few steps in Tikhon’s direction.

Is your wife healthy, O Tikhon?

With God’s blessing, yes, answers the miller.

He notices traces of flour on the hem of his shirt and begins brushing them off.

People have seen Anastasia here, says blacksmith Averky. They have seen her go inside your cell… We know, O elder, that she is here.

The visitors are looking at blacksmith Averky and are not looking at Laurus.

I forbid you to go inside my cell, resounds Laurus’s voice.

Forgive me, O elder, but our families stand behind us, blacksmith Averky says quietly. And we will go inside your cell.

He walks slowly toward the cave and disappears inside. A shriek resounds from the cave. Blacksmith Averky comes outside a moment later. He is holding Anastasia by the hair: it is wound around his red fist like strands of flax. Anastasia shrieks and tries to bite Averky on the thigh. Averky smashes her face against his knee. Anastasia quietens and hangs on Averky’s arm. Her large belly sways. To those standing there, it seems as if that belly will separate from Anastasia any minute and out will come the one who should not be looked at.

The Devil has possessed her, shriek those standing there.

They liven themselves up a bit with those shrieks because they cannot resolve themselves to approach Anastasia. They are stunned by the courage of the blacksmith who is holding her.

The Devil possessed you, says Laurus, gasping, for it is you who are committing a mortal sin.

Anastasia opens her eyes. They are filled with horror. They are so frightful on her upside-down face that everyone involuntarily steps back. Fear grips blacksmith Averky for a brief moment, too. He flings Anastasia away from himself. She is lying on the ground between him and Laurus. Averky pulls himself together and abruptly turns to Laurus:

She has not named the father of her child because he is not here, among those born of this earth!

Anastasia raises herself up on her elbow. She is not shrieking, she is wheezing. That wheeze takes an entire eternity to float to the ears of those standing there.

That is the father of my child!

Her free hand points to Laurus.

Everyone goes silent. The morning breeze slackens and the trees are no longer rustling.

Is that true? asks someone in the crowd. Tell us, O elder, that she is lying.

Laurus raises his head and looks around at everyone with a lingering weathered glance.

No. It is true.

Everyone exhales. The crowns of the pine trees begin swaying again and clouds set sail. A smile flickers on blacksmith Averky’s lips.

Ah, so that’s what’s going on...

Averky’s smile is barely noticeable, lending it a particular indecency.

These things happen to everyone, miller Tikhon whispers into someone’s ear. Absolutely to everyone. This is a realm where, as they say, there are no guarantees.

The callers dissolve unnoticeably into the woods. Their pitchforks and stakes turn into branches on bushes. Their voices fade, no longer distinguishable from the birds’ sharp shrieks. Or from tree trunks rubbing against one another. Laurus absently takes heed of this disappearance. He is sitting, his cheek pressed against the trunk of an old pine. Its bark consists of separate tiles that seem almost glued on. The tiles are crinkled and rough; some are covered in moss. Ants run up and down them. Swarm in the moss. In Laurus’s beard. The ants are not inclined to distinguish him from the pine tree and he understands them. He himself feels the degree of his woodenness, too. It has already begun and it is difficult to counter. A little more and he will not return, ever. Anastasia’s animated voice drags him from the province of the wooden.

You were forced to tell them an untruth.

Sounds form into words. Untruth. Forced to tell them.

Did I really tell them an untruth?

During the next days, numerous loiterers appear in the vicinity of Laurus’s cell. News about him and Anastasia has spread instantly and now the neighboring residents are coming to have a look at them. Even the dire circumstances of their life do not stop the curious: for many people, the attraction of seeing someone else’s fall with one’s own eyes is stronger than hunger. There were few sensational stories in the Middle Ages but what happened with Laurus is, without a doubt, one of them because it concerns the fall of a righteous man.

The residents of close and distant villages are not exactly glad about what happened, it is simply that their ridiculous life, mired in betrayals and squabbles, now seems a bit better. Against this backdrop, they understand that what is demanded of them is not so great. In their conversations, many of them even sympathize with Laurus, noting as they do that a high flight unavoidably carries the threat of falls this profound. It is thus not surprising that they themselves have no intentions of soaring very high in the future.

A week later, the flow of callers is diminishing sharply. There are now far fewer callers than in the previous times, which were not spoiled by all the gloom. It is obvious that this period of hunger plays a role: people think less about their health at times like this.

There is another reason for this, which is likely the most important. After everything that happened, many are losing faith in Laurus’s healing capacities. After all, it had always been obvious that, unlike regular doctors, his capabilities rested on more than just knowledge of the human body. Laurus did not treat: he healed, and healing is not tied to experience. Higher powers encouraged Laurus’s gift, and he was driven by renunciation and a love, of unprecedented strength, for those near and dear. Nobody could have expected that this love (those speaking are laughing behind his back) could take on such forms. The right-mindedness of the rumor mill lies in recognizing that the right to heal attaches itself only to a worthy person. And Laurus is no longer that sort of person.

People still come to him out of old habit but they do so somewhat uncertainly and generally for small things. Laurus has to deal with toothaches and wart removal ever more often. There are more serious cases, too, but their carriers do not themselves know if it is worth entrusting those illnesses to unreliable hands.

The very worst thing happens during those days: Laurus understands that now he cannot handle even the simplest of illnesses. He senses that the healing power no longer emanates from his hands.

Any healing arises first and foremost from belief in it, Laurus tells Ustina. They no longer trust me and that, my love, breaks my bond with them. Now I cannot help them.

And tears wash his cheeks.

Laurus gives Anastasia the small scraps people continue to bring them. To Laurus’s joy, the chunk of bread he took from the monastery has still not all been eaten. He partakes of it with gratitude and trembling.

Nobody has come to see Laurus since the beginning of August. This does not surprise him. Everyone understands the healing has run out, so they consider visits to Laurus needless. Some might still have come to him but the general mood has spread to them, too. After what they have heard about Laurus in Rukina Quarter, it is somehow awkward to go see him. People fear appearing naive or—even more disagreeable—like they connive at sin.

Laurus is lonely. He did not experience loneliness when he escaped from the world because there had been no feeling of abandonment then. Now the world is escaping from him, which is something entirely different. Laurus is unsettled. He sees that the time is nearing when Anastasia will be delivered of her burden. And he does not know how he ought to proceed.

Anastasia is unsettled, too. She feels Laurus’s agitation and does not understand its cause. It surprises her that the great doctor Laurus is so worked up about delivering the baby, a crucial matter but, really, a common one. Laurus has suggested several times that she go to Rukina Quarter to give birth so a midwife can deliver the baby, but Anastasia flat-out refuses. She does not know what to expect from Rukina Quarter. She is afraid to return there.

There are also days when she is afraid to stay with Laurus. Sometimes Anastasia thinks he has lost his mind. Laurus calls her Ustina at times. He tells her she should not refuse a midwife’s help. That if she is afraid to go to the quarter, they should summon the woman here. Laurus is covered with sweat and shaking. She has never seen him like this.

Anastasia listens to the words addressed to Ustina and says “yes” on a lovely August morning. She will not go to Rukina Quarter to give birth but agrees to have a midwife come to her from there. Laurus presses her hand to his chest. Anastasia senses his heart’s desperate beating. She feels that the hour when she will be delivered of her burden is nearing.

Laurus leaves his place of seclusion for the first time in long years. He walks along the path worn by those who have come to him for help. Now he is the one who needs help. And he has nobody to send for it because nobody comes here anymore. Laurus walks, wondering how Anastasia will feel in his absence. He tries to hurry but his breathing is uneven. Laurus stops for a minute and breathes deeply before entering Rukina Quarter. He closes his eyes and breathes. He feels better already. He enters the quarter, keeping his heartbeat in check.

People appear in the doorways of their homes. They soundlessly surround Laurus. Do not take their eyes off him. Even after everything that has happened, the residents of Rukina Quarter cannot believe he has come. Had the Kirillov Monastery itself come to them, the effect would have been the very same. Laurus indicates the forest as he addresses the residents. They cannot hear him because a gust of wind swoops down. He is asking for help. His lips are moving. The quarter’s residents know he is asking for help but there is no help. The midwife is away now. She has never in her life gone anywhere but now she has gone away, that’s just how it is. And nobody can take her place. Absolutely nobody. This has nothing to do with their unwillingness.

Laurus looks around at the crowd and sinks to his knees before them. He says nothing. Everything he said has already entered ears that he treated. Been absorbed by eyes he also treated. He asks for the kindness he showed them for so many years. Many weep, for their hearts are not made of stone. And so, somehow, nothing is working out in a normal human way, but what can they do? Turning aside, they wipe away their tears. They look down at the visitor. Laurus’s figure is wavering in their eyes, its form and contours changing. Rising. Withdrawing.

Laurus does not immediately understand he is going to the hamlet. His feet still remember this path. He and Christofer walked it so many times. Does he hope to catch him there? Christofer apparently died long ago. So long ago that it is impossible to be certain about anything. No, of course, he died and is lying in the cemetery: it was Laurus, after all, who covered his grave with a sheepskin. Then why is he going to see him?

Christofer is in place, in his grave. He spent all the years that have passed here. His grave can still be seen in the thick greenery by the fence. If, of course, this is his grave. But Christofer’s home is not here. Just as Christofer foresaw, a church stands in his home’s place. A church is more important than a home at a cemetery because a cemetery is a home in and of itself.

The church’s door is open. Laurus breathes in the scent of August before entering. He looks at dry autumn birch leaves that are touched by the first yellowing, a little tired of summer. Splotches of sun on the railings. A spider’s thoughtful gliding. This is a return, but his home has become Home.

Candles are burning in the church. Alipy, abbot of the Kirillov Monastery, comes out through the royal doors of the iconostasis. There is a Communion chalice in his hands.

Thou hast come, O Laurus?

I have come.

Elder Innokenty died and could not meet you today. (Alipy is slowly moving in Laurus’s direction.) That is why he made this request of me.

There is a murmur of a warm breeze behind Laurus’s back. The candle flame wavers and the icons come to life. After taking Communion, Laurus says:

You know, I have a favor to ask, too. When I leave my body, do not be very ceremonious with it, for I have, after all, synned with it. Tie a rope to the legs and drag it into the swampy wilds for the animals and vipers to tear to pieces. That’s basically it.

As he stands in the doorway of the church, Laurus contemplates Alipy’s doleful face.

That is my last will, says Laurus. And it should be carried out.

Laurus returns to his cave in the evening. The expectant mother’s labor pains have already begun. He settles her in on the sleeping ledge in the cave and prepares water to bathe the newborn. He prepares a knife to cut the newborn’s umbilical cord. He starts a fire in the glade in front of the cave. Laurus is calm. And he once again feels the power in his hands.

Anastasia (Anastasia?) does not feel like lying in the dark cave and she asks to have bedding arranged for her in the glade. Laurus looks at the sky. There are no rain clouds in the sky. Only bright clouds tinted by the sunset—there will not be rain. He arranges bedding for her in the glade. She lies down facing the cave. The two entrances to the cave remind her of a pair of enormous eyes, open and full of darkness. The cave is like a head. She asks him to help her turn toward the other side. Now she is looking at the forest. The forest is tall and kind. Cozy. Quiet.

Do not leave me, she asks of Laurus.

I am here, my love, Laurus replies. And we are together.

He takes her palm into his hands and coolness flows into it. He takes her pain into his hands. Absorbs drop after drop. Occasionally stands to toss a branch on the fire. In the darkness that has fallen, she can see only his face. The flame from the fire lights it. The terrain of his wrinkles is animated. The fire crackles, spraying sparks. The sparks fly up to the very crowns of the pine trees. Some go out. Others fly higher, to mix with the first stars. Her eyes are directed at the sky, she sees everything. Her eyes reflect the fire’s blaze.

Laurus’s hand is on her belly.

Is that better?

Better.

She shrieks. The whole forest shrieks with her.

Be patient a little longer, my love. Only a little longer.

She is patient. And shrieks anyway.

Laurus’s hands feel the child’s head. It is as if it has stuck to his hands and is gently coming outside. Shoulders. Belly. Knees. Heels. Laurus cuts the umbilical cord. He bathes the baby with warm water.

Here he is, my love.

He shows her the child and tears glisten on the folds of his cheeks. The little boy is improbably pink in the fire’s reflection. Or maybe he is still not completely bathed of her blood. The little boy fills his lungs with air and shrieks. She inhales that shriek into herself, all of it, leaving nothing. She lays the baby to her breast to feed. Her eyes are half-closed. She is calm for the first time in many days. She falls asleep. On the soft, warm grass of the glade, Laurus swaddles the newborn in a clean kerchief. He takes the baby in his arms. Laurus is also calm.

Anastasia wakes up early in the morning from the cool air. The fire has burned down. Laurus is half-sitting, his back leaning against a pine tree. He is holding the baby in his arms. The baby is breathing evenly. He is warm in Laurus’s embrace. After taking the baby from Laurus’s arms, Anastasia gives him her breast. The child wakes and hungrily smacks his lips.

Laurus’s eyes are closed. The sun’s first rays lie on his eyelids. The rays slide through morning’s vapors. Pine needles shine. The shadows are long. The air is thick, for it has not yet lost the scent of the awakening forest. The moss is moist. It is filled with creatures for whom home is a leaf and life is a day. Anastasia sinks to her knees before Laurus and looks at him for a long time. She touches his hand with her lips. The hand is cool but not yet cold. Anastasia sits alongside Laurus. Presses against him. Anastasia knows Laurus is dead. She knew this even in her sleep.

I slept through your death, Anastasia says to Laurus, but my child saw you off.

Ionah, archbishop of Rostov, Yaroslavl, and Belozersk, is walking along the shore of Lake Nero. He always takes a walk there before the morning service. This is the deepest lake on earth but the water is only clean at the surface. What is deeper is silty: it does not release anyone who ends up there. Ionah knows this. He admires the lake’s depth, even as he is aware of its danger. In keeping with his given name, he is not afraid of depths, but he does not recommend that his spiritual children leave firm ground. Ionah is surprised when he sees a person gliding along the surface of the lake.

Who are you who walks on water? asks Archbishop Ionah.

I am God’s servant Innokenty. I report to you of the death of God’s servant Laurus.

Just you be careful in the depths, says Ionah, shaking his head.

Based on Innokenty’s smile, Ionah understands his advice is redundant. With that same smile, Innokenty visits Pitirim, bishop of Perm and Vologda, in a divine dream. He announces Laurus’s death to Pitirim.

Ask that they not bury him yet, Bishop Pitirim tells Innokenty.

No need to worry, O bishop, answers Innokenty, because he will not be buried.

Anastasia takes the child and goes to Rukina Quarter. The residents gather around her. Anastasia tells them of Laurus’s death. She declares that the real father of her child is miller Tikhon, who forbade her to tell of this, under threat of death.

If this information corresponds to the facts, the residents tell Tikhon, you had better confess because this would cast a shadow on a righteous man and Final Judgment will not be easy for you.

For some time, Tikhon does not confess. He keeps his silence, choosing between earthly and heavenly judgment. After weighing everything, the miller says:

I confess in the syghte of all that, after offering flour in a time of hunger, I deflowered the aforesaid Anastasia, and also that, fearing disclosure, I threatened her with death, though if I think things through, I wonder who would have believed her. I see this girl’s youth and freshness as the reason for my fall along with, however, the withered condition of my own spouse, who was under the care of the deceased Laurus.

Abbot Alipy arrives in Rukina Quarter. He is gloomy. Alipy has ordered Laurus’s body not be touched before the arrival of the bishops. After delivering the liturgy, he does not allow any residents older than seven years to Communion. The residents are anxious. Alipy leaves.

The news of Laurus’s departure spreads with lightning speed. People sense this most of all in Rukina Quarter, where soon there is no room in any of the houses. There is no room in any of the nearby villages, either. Those who arrive build shelters in the surrounding areas. Some, in light of it being summertime, spend the night under the open sky. Everyone knows miracles can occur at the interment of a righteous man.

There assemble the maimed, blind, lame, leprous, deaf, mute, and those with impediments of their speech. They carry those sick of the palsie from various places, some distant. They lead the possessed, who are tied in ropes or shackled in chains. There arrive impotent husbands, infertile wives, the husbandless, widows, and orphans. There come the black and white clergy, brethren of the Kirillov Monastery, princes of princedoms large and small, boyars, mayors, and colonels. There gather those who were once treated by Laurus, those who had heard a lot about him but never seen him, those who want to see where and how Laurus lived, and also those who love a large convergence of the people. It seems to those witnessing the proceedings that the entire Russian land has gathered.

Laurus’s body continues to lie under the pine tree by the entrance to the cave. It contains no traces of decomposition but those guarding it are on the alert. They approach the body every hour and inhale the smell that comes from it. Their nostrils quiver with diligence but they detect only the aroma of grass and pinecones. The guards proclaim this in the glade, with cries of astonishment, but at the bottom of their souls they themselves firmly know this is exactly how everything should be.

On August 18, in the year 7028 since the Creation of the world and the year 1520 since Christ’s Birth, when the number of people who have come reaches 183,000, they raise Laurus’s body from the earth and carefully carry it through the forest. This transfer is accompanied by funereal birdsong. The deceased’s body is light. One-hundred eighty-three thousand people are waiting at the forest’s edge.

As Laurus’s body comes out of a thicket and into sight, everyone drops to their knees: first those who have seen him and then, row by row, those behind them. The bishops and monastic clergy accept his body. They carry it on their heads and the crowd before them parts, like the sea. Their path leads to the church built where Christofer’s house stood. The funeral service takes place there. Tens of thousands wordlessly wait outside.

The service inside the church is not audible to the crowd. At first even the words Abbot Alipy utters just outside the church are not audible, either: he is proclaiming Laurus’s last will. But Alipy did utter these words. They spread through the crowd like rings from a stone cast in water. A minute later, this human sea goes silent, for something unprecedented lies ahead.

In full silence, they carry Laurus’s body through the crowd. They place it in the grass on the edge of the green meadow. The grass gently envelops Laurus, expressing its willingness to accept him in his entirety, since they are not alien to one another. It was on this meadow that Christofer showed the deceased where the earthly firmament and the heavenly firmament meet.

Laurus’s feet are tied with a rope, with the rope’s two ends extending outward. Screams are heard in the crowd. Someone rushes to tear away the rope but he is brought down immediately and pulled off into the crowd. If viewed from above, those standing appear to be an unprecedented accumulation of dots and only Laurus has length.

Ionah, Archbishop of Rostov, Yaroslavl, and Belozersk, approaches one end of the rope. Pitirim, bishop of Perm and Vologda, approaches the other end of the rope. They kneel and soundlessly pray. They take the ends of the rope in their hands, kiss them, and stand up straight. Cross themselves in unison. The hems of their robes and the ends of their beards flap in unity. The proportions of their shapes are uniformly deformed by the wind, for both are flaring out to the right. The two of them work as one. Their gazes are addressed above.

Archbishop Ionah nods ever so slightly and they take their first step. The endless crowd behind them repeats that step. The crowd’s endless sigh overpowers the sound of the wind. The arms on Laurus’s chest shudder and burst apart as if in an embrace. They drag behind the body. Fingering the grass just as rosary beads are fingered. The eyelids quiver, making everyone think Laurus is ready to wake up.

Constrained sobbing is heard behind the bishop. The sobbing becomes louder with every moment. It turns into a solid wail that spreads over the entire inhabited expanse. Ionah and Pitirim silently continue their movement. The wind carries their tears to the opposite end of the meadow.

Laurus gently glides along the grass. Following him first is Gavriil, the Pskov mayor. He is gray and infirm and he is led by the arms. They are nearly dragging him but he is still alive. Behind Gavriil walks the Novgorod boyar Frol with his wife Agafya and their children. They are greater in number with each passing year. Further back are the boyar woman Elizabeth, who receaved her syght, and also God’s servant Nikolai, of sound mind and sober memory. And behind them are numerous others who have seen the light and become wiser. At the very end of the procession are the merchant Zygfryd from Danzig, who found himself here on trading matters, and the blacksmith Averky, who is ashamed of his conduct.

What kind of people are you? says the merchant Zygfryd. A person heals you, dedicates his whole life to you, and you torture him his whole life. And when he dies, you tie a rope to his feet, drag him, and tears stream down your faces.

You have already been in our land for a year and eight months, answers blacksmith Averky, but have not understood a thing about it.

And do you yourselves understand it? asks Zygfryd.

Do we? The blacksmith mulls that over and looks at Zygfryd. Of course we, too, do not understand.

‌‌Glossary

adamant (n.) A legendary rock or mineral to which many properties, particularly hardness, were attributed; traditionally associated with diamonds.

bast Bast fibre is collected from the bark or bast of certain plants, such as flax or stinging nettle, or trees such as linden or lime. It can be woven into matting and coarse cloth, and made into shoes, yarn, or rope. Bast fibre is still in use today.

cenobitic monastery Cenobitic monasticism is a monastic tradition that stresses community life, where members live together, rather than in solitude.

computus This is the calculation used to determine the calendar date of the Christian Easter; varying methods are used in Eastern and Western Christian traditions.

honor board Honor boards, usually wooden, are used to recognize achievements or awards in schools, universities and work places. Soviet-era honor boards were sometimes permanent outdoor structures with slots that held large photographs and were placed in locations that greeted visitors to a city region, government building, or factory.

immortelle Immortelle is another name for the plant everlasting, belonging to the sunflower family. It symbolizes eternity and immortality, and has been used for centuries as a digestive remedy, in skincare, and for its essential oils.

Kathisma A Kathisma is a section of the Psalter. Eastern Orthodox Christians, who follow the Byzantine Rite, divide the Psalter’s psalms into 20 Kathismata to facilitate recital of all 150 psalms, which are the foundation of the Canonical Hours, during the course of a week.

kremlin A kremlin is a fortress, a highly fortified complex found in medieval Russian cities, the most famous being the Moscow Kremlin.

kvass A drink often made from fermented rye bread, kvass has a very low alcohol content. Cold soups are sometimes made with kvass in summer.

prosphora A prospheron is a small loaf of leavened bread used in the Orthodox Christian liturgy.

sazhen The sazhen is an obsolete Russian unit of measurement, slightly longer than the old English fathom, measuring roughly seven feet or a little over two meters.

Schema The Schema is the highest degree of asceticism in Eastern Christianity; it assumes observing the strictest ascetic rules. There are two levels: the Little Schema and the Great Schema.

sleeping bench Many old Russian houses had wide, built-in benches on which to sleep and sit.

splinter lamp Splinter lamps were thin strips of dry wood specially cut to be burned as light sources. They were usually placed in metal bases with a vessel of water underneath, both to reflect light and help protect from fire.

stadia A stadion is an ancient Greek and Roman unit of measurement, equivalent to 600 podes (feet) or 202 yds/184.9m, an eighth of a Roman mile.

vershok Like sazhen, the vershok is an obsolete Russian unit of measurement, measuring roughly 1¾" or 4.445cm. A vershok is the length from an index finger’s tip to its second knuckle.

verst A verst is equivalent to 500 sazhens, or roughly 3,500 feet or 1.0668km/0.6629 miles.

well sweep A well sweep is a device used for raising and lowering buckets to draw water from a well. It consists of a long pole with a bucket tied by a rope to one end, pivoted in the middle on another pole, acting as a fulcrum.