Sherlock Holmes and The Mystery Of Einstein's Daughter

Chapter XI We Meet Father Florus

The monks were up and about by the time I went for breakfast in the simple refectory. Despite my keenness to return to Berne there was an undertaking to fulfil. We had to deliver Miss Durham’s gifts to Father Florus at the Church of Our Lady Among The Rocks. Archimandrite Nikanor greeted me. I explained we were postponing our fishing in favour of a visit to Father Florus. A kavass, a Serbian guide, was summoned to escort us. The Archimandrite led us though a little stone-paved room hung with portraits of the Czar and Czaritsa of Russia out to the start of a well-marked footpath among wild pomegranates. Our kavass led off, a heavy lantern swinging from his hand in case darkness overtook us on our return.

Away from the monastery any semblance of a road capable of supporting a cart ended abruptly. All around was wild, untouched rock, the scent of cistus and thyme on the hill-sides. Shrub oak jutted up among outcrops. Occasional abrupt descents left us slithering and sliding down the sides of stony ravines. Now and then a small flock of sheep pressed past us, hurrying to fresh pastures, driven by little girls with eyebrows blackened, their hair dyed a red as fierce as the bright crimson of the local rams.

Our pace slowed as the altitude increased. Now and then a palisaded village came into view. On patches given over to vegetables, bent figures pushed potatoes, turnips, onions and garlic into the well-prepared soil. At one point we stopped to resupply our water from an artesian well sited by a moving fringe of dogs and crude lean-to toilets. Our kavass told us that in times of danger the villagers took refuge in the most inaccessible gorges.

From above us came the first low growl of a storm. ‘Thunder,’ I called ahead to Holmes’s back.

‘Evidently,’ he replied over his shoulder.

To take my attention off my aching legs my mind returned to fishing. I thought about the time when aged twelve I went for my first night-fishing. I made a great deal of noise stumbling around and fell down, wrenching a shoulder, and never caught a thing.

Mycroft had sent us the most wonderful fishing tackle. During the short time on the Tisza, the Hardy Perfect reel and Mr. W. Senior’s Red Spinners had proved themselves. I needed more time to try out the favourite chub-fly of the late Mr. Francis, a complicated matter of grilse size, silver tinsel, and a tail of white kid glove or wash leather. Cheered by these happy reflections I returned to the present. Holmes had taken the lead, maintaining a relentless pace up the ever-steepening slope. We passed through the ruins of an ancient forum. Green acanthus flourished between the stony leaves of fallen Corinthian capitals. It was now noon. Our guide pointed to a second stony track round the hillside. A ridge of rocks ended in a sheer cliff overlooking a stone-strewn slope.

‘You are there,’ he said. ‘Pass between those,’ he continued, pointing at two immense boulders. ‘You will find the Father beyond them.’

We squeezed between the boulder sand spied a tall figure in the tattered black cassock of a priest. He was aged between thirty-five and forty. Father Florus stepped forward to welcome us.

‘Miss Durham sent word you would be coming. I watched you all the way across the plain in case you had an encounter with the Veele. In South-Slavic mythology the Veele are fairy-like spirits.’

He recounted how the Veele live in the wilderness and sometimes in the clouds, spirits of women who had been frivolous in their lifetimes and now float between the here and the afterlife. They appear as swans, snakes, horses, falcons or wolves, ‘but usually as beautiful maidens, naked or dressed in white with long flowing hair’. The priest sighed.

‘The voices of the Veele are beautiful. One who hears them loses all thoughts of food, drink or sleep. However,’ he continued, smiling, ‘despite their feminine charms the Veele are fierce warriors. The earth is said to shake when they do battle.’

I handed Father Florus a carp sent with the Archimandrite’s regards followed by the gifts from Edith Durham. He picked up the book of Verlaine’s poems and quoted from it: ‘Voici des fruits, des fleurs, des feuilles et des branches’.

He looked at me. ‘One needs little in this life,’ he said. ‘We have so short a time here.’

Father Florus turned towards his tiny domain, a bare stone wall standing against the hillside with a wooden cross at the top, and a two-roomed cottage with a patch of cultivated ground close by. With a further heavy rumble of thunder the heavens opened. The priest pointed at an opening in the mountain. ‘We can find shelter over there. In my little church,’ he said, leading the way.

The cave entrance was devoid of any attempt at architecture. Not a capital, pilaster, pediment, moulding, cornice, or porch broke the baldness. Tiny tawdry objects had been pushed into cracks in the rock. We entered a long narrow cavern, water-worn, with traces of stalactite deposit on the rough walls. Two settles served for pews for the scanty congregation. Torches burned brightly, lighting up a picture of Our Lady, their sap releasing an acrid but pleasant odour. A smaller cave opened on either side, making a ready-made nave and transept. The Father said,

‘The people say this church was built by the Hand of God. His hands in the wilderness. Si non è vero, è ben trovato - even if it’s not true it makes a good story. Is it not in the form of a cross?’

He motioned towards a bier covered with a black and gold cloth, and an illustration of the dead Christ. ‘Here, you see, I have made the Holy Sepulchre.’

The walls at the chancel end were covered with saints and angels, quaint and stiff, their archaic Byzantine forms in perfect keeping with the rough surroundings. Father Florus crossed himself, his chrysoprase ring catching the torch-light.

‘When I pray all alone in the silence, then holy things come to me, pictures, vous savez. I paint them here upon the wall.’

His otherwise serious face broke into a soft and pleasant expression. ‘My poor attempts at painting give pleasure to my people, and they understand. These are the last I have made. There is no paint left.’

‘Were you always here?’ my comrade enquired politely.

‘No. Once upon a time I was elsewhere.’

‘Novi-Sad?’ Holmes asked.

The priest shook his head.

‘No. Not Novi-Sad. Over there. Kać.’

He placed his hands on a silver bowl and an etched crystal goblet of water placed by the silver cross. ‘We are expecting a Christening ceremony here tomorrow,’ he said.

‘I’ve heard that in Serbia an infant receives the blessing 40 days after the birth, is that correct?’ Holmes asked.

The Father replied, ‘Yes, after 40 days- unless the baby is sickly and not expected to live.’

My comrade asked what information the church required on the forms to register the birth of a child.

‘Date and place of birth,’ came the reply. ‘Date and place of the christening. Parents’ names and ages. Name of the priest and godparents. Whether the child was a twin. The child’s placement in relation to any siblings - first, second and so on. And whether defective.’

He crossed himself. His hands touched together briefly as though making a prayer. ‘Or illegitimate. Most births in my region are.’

‘Now,’ he proclaimed, ‘we eat.’

We followed him from the cool of the cave. The hot touch of the outside air on our faces warned of a stifling heat to come. Around us the ground crepitated. Pointing at the cottage, hardly more than a hovel, the priest said, ‘I call this my Konacic. It means little palace.’

Father Florus refused to countenance our departure without a meal. ‘I’ve been expecting you, and besides, when shall I again see visitors from England?’ he exclaimed.

Appreciatively we gulped down burek, pastries made of filo dough filled with goat’s meat and cheese. The pastries were followed by stuffed cabbage, kidney beans and potatoes, grown in his well-kempt vegetable patch. After a last spoonful of sesame honey and a thick prune jam and most of the canned peaches we had carried with us, our host led us to a departure point a hundred yards down the slope towards the boulders. He pointed into the distance. ‘In two or three months those hills will be carpeted with blue periwinkles. You must return at that time.’

We said our goodbyes. The tall dark figure gave us the blessing. He turned towards the little chapel. When we had walked some distance, I looked back. There was no-one to be seen, only the low whitewashed wall, the tiny cottage and the great mountain.