Winter that year turned out to be unlike any other winter. It was neither frosty nor snowy. It was foggy and misty, not even like winter but like late autumn. If snow fell, it mixed with rain. It was clear to the population that this sort of snow could not live in this world. It melted before reaching the ground and brought joy to nobody. People wearied of winter as soon as it had a chance to begin. They saw a sinister portent in what was happening with the weather. And it proved true.

The day after Christmas, Elder Nikandr slepte. At the end of Christmas vespers he announced to the brethren that he intended to celebrate his birthday, on the twenty-seventh day of the month of Decembre. The elder monk had never celebrated his birthdays and the intrigued brethren gathered at his cell at the set time.

This is a birthday for eternity, he explained from a wooden sleeping bench in the corner. His arms were crossed on his chest.

The brothers began sobbing when they grasped what was happening.

I saye unto you: sob not for me, for thys day I wyll loke upon the face of my Lord. I saye unto you, too, O Lord, I commit my spirite to Thy hands, have mercy upon me and give me lyfe eternall. Amen.

Amen, repeated those who had gathered, as they watched Elder Nikandr’s soul leave his body.

Their eyes dried and their faces lit up. The monastery filled with people from the surrounding area who expected miracles, for a newly departed holy man contains a special power. And they received according to their faith.

Meanwhile, winter still had not really begun. The roads were totally soggy and the rivers had not frozen over.

Getting from point A to point B, they wailed in the quarter, either seems impossible or is overly complicated. We are practically deprived of roads, they said, something we did not have before now, either, in the true sense of the word.

But even the absence of roads did not prevent the spread of the primary misfortune of the time: the pestilence. The disease was first discovered in Belozersk, the princedom’s primary city. From there it slowly moved to the southeast. It captured village after village like a hostile army, behaving ruthlessly in the occupied territory.

Everyone remained in place because there was nowhere to escape the disease. Even overcoming the washed-out roads did not necessarily lead to salvation. According to rumors that reached the residents of Belozersk, the weather was raw in all Rus’, which meant outbreaks of the pestilence could flare up anywhere. After getting started in autumn, as often happens, the disease could not be killed by frost during the winter because winter never set in.

The residents of Rukina Quarter were already worried about the pestilence, though it had not yet reached the quarter. Foreseeing the arrival of the pestilence, they decided to get advice from Arseny. The changes in Arseny had frightened residents of the quarter and at first they did not want to go to him. In light of the impending danger, however, they were left with no choice. They found Christofer’s house empty when they arrived.

The door was not closed and they made their way in unimpeded. Despite complete order, it was obvious nobody lived in the house any longer. More accurately, it was an unlived-in order. The villagers touched the stove, which turned out to be completely cold. There was not even the memory of warmth inside, something that is unmistakable in stoves that have been recently stoked. The villagers searched to see if Arseny had left a note anywhere. But there was no note, either. Dreading the very worst, they peered under the benches, looked around the outbuildings, and even took a walk though the cemetery that abutted the house. The villagers found no traces whatsoever of Arseny, dead or alive. It could happen that he had melted away, for wax melteth before the fire, they thought. More accurately, they simply did not know what to think.

From then on, time definitively began moving differently for Arseny. More precisely, it simply stopped moving and remained idle. Arseny saw events taking place on earth but also noticed that events had, in some strange way, diverged from time and no longer depended on time. Sometimes events came one after another, just as before; sometimes they took a reverse order. Rarer still, events arrived in no order whatsoever, shamelessly muddling prescribed sequences. And time could not cope with them. It refused to govern those sorts of events.

It has become known here that events do not always flow along in time, Arseny told Ustina. Now and again they flow on their own. Uprooted from time. Of course you, my love, already know this very well but I am encountering it for the first time.

Arseny observes the spring snow melting and the cloudy waters flowing down to the Velikaya River through the gutter the sisters have hollowed from wood. The sisters clear out this gutter every spring because it clogs with leaves—oak and maple—in autumn. The wind sweeps leaves into Arseny’s home, too, but Arseny does not object to this sort of feather bed since he considers it not made by human hands.

Arseny sees how an early June sun peers out after a night rain. Water is still quivering on leaves. Water detaches, as clouds of steam, from the John the Baptist cupola and disappears in an improbably blue sky. Sister Pulcheria leans on her broom and observes the water evaporate. A warm wind touches the wheaten locks of hair that have come out from under her wimple. Sister Pulcheria is pensively scratching a beauty mark and dying from blood poisoning. She is lying in a fresh grave a few sazhens from Arseny’s home. Her grave is drifted with snow.

The abbess approaches Arseny at the height of the autumn leaf season. She says:

The time commeth for me to departe from this vayne worlde for the never old, eternal dwellinge. Bless me, O Ustin.

Leaves glide along her vestments with a rustle. Arseny gives his blessing to the abbess.

Even as he does so, he tells Ustina, I have no right to bless someone. And so, my love, I am doing this not because I have the right but from impudence, since this woman requests it. Beyond that, her journey truly is distant, and she knows it.

The abbess is dying.

On a hot summer day, Sister Agafya leans on her broom, standing by the church of John the Baptist. She looks at the church’s cupola and her hand stretches for a beauty mark on her face. Arseny stops Sister Agafya’s hand halfway. He did so in time.

She will live, Arseny thinks as he walks away.

With a steady gait, he walks into the building, to priest John. He jolts the door open. The rough tongue of bitter cold barges in behind Arseny. Priest John and his family are sitting at the table. The priest’s wife is preparing to put food on the table. She peers out the blurry window: there is nothing outside but snow. Priest John stares straight ahead, as if he is trying to spot his own impending fate. The priest’s wife gestures silently, inviting Arseny to share the meal with them. The gesture separates itself from the priest’s wife and flies out the open door. Arseny does not notice it. The children squeeze onto the bench and focus their gaze on their hands, which rest on their knees. Then their fingers tug at the coarse linen of their shirts. To them, Arseny is similar to the lightning ball their father once saw. Their father taught them that when a lightning ball flies in, it is best not to move and not to give yourself away. Best to exhale and be still. They are still. Arseny grabs a knife off the table and lunges at priest John. Priest John continues staring ahead, as if he does not notice Arseny. In reality, he sees everything but considers it unnecessary to resist fate. Arseny waves the knife right in front of priest John’s face. As before, the priest does not move; perhaps he is thinking about the lightning ball. About how it found him anyway. Arseny tosses the knife to the floor and runs out of the house. Priest John feels no relief. He understands that what has happened is prophesy. It is only heat lightning but he is waiting for the lightning bolt to arrive. And he guesses that this time it will not be so easy for it to miss.

Arseny is walking around in Zapskovye, where little boys lie in wait for him. They knock him down, onto the boards of the roadway. Several pairs of hands press him into the boards, though he does not resist. The boy whose hands remain free nails the edges of Arseny’s shirt to the boards. Arseny watches the boys laugh and then he laughs, too. He laughs along with them each time the boys nail his shirt to the roadway. And he silently asks God not to cast blame on them for this. He could neatly tear his shirt away from the nails but does not. Arseny wants to do something nice for the boys. He abruptly stands and the hem of his shirt tears away with a loud rip. The boys are rolling on the ground with laughter. For the rest of the day, Arseny searches the trash for scraps of fabric and sews them on to replace the torn-off hem. The boys laugh even more when they see the new patches on his shirt.

It gets quiet when they run away. Only one boy remains, and he approaches Arseny and embraces him. And weeps. Arseny’s heart sinks because he knows this boy pities him but is embarrassed to show it in front of the others. He wants the boy to be joyful because he recognizes the features of another child in this boy’s features. And Arseny weeps, too. He kisses the boy on the forehead and runs away because his heart is ready to burst. Arseny chokes on his sobs. He runs and the sobbing shakes him and tears fly from his cheeks in all directions, sprouting all sorts of humble plants on the roadside.

The Velikaya River rises in the spring and the wooden roadways float in places. It is muddy in Zapskovye. The priest John wades through the mud on his way home. He hears the juicy squishing of mud behind his back. He slowly turns. In front of him stands a person covered in mud, holding a knife. Priest John silently presses his hand to his chest. A recollection of Arseny’s premonition flashes in his head. In his heart there sounds a prayer that he has no time to pronounce. The person inflicts twenty-three knife blows. With each swing of his arm, he grunts and groans from the strain. Priest John is left to lie in the mud. The person’s tracks are lost in that very place. They say it is as if there was not even a person, only a muddy splash. Which leapt up behind priest John’s back and immediately spread along the road. A short while later an inhuman shriek is heard. It floats across the Velikaya River and the Pskova River, extending over the entire city of Pskov. It is the priest’s wife shrieking.

People come from Mayor Gavriil. They say:

You, O Ustin, are an unusual person and your visits are salutary. The mayor’s wife’s teeth have been aching for three weeks now, might you help her? Many doctors have already come to her but brought no real relief. The mayor asks you to come to his house, too, hoping for your help.

Arseny looks at his visitors from Mayor Gavriil. They are waiting. They say the mayor’s wife could have come to the cemetery herself but, as it happens, she does not feel like coming to the cemetery. Arseny shakes his head. He thrusts his hand into his mouth, pulls a wisdom tooth out of his gums, and presents it to the visitors. They understand that this is, itself, the blessed man’s answer to their request. Taking all due care, they bring Arseny’s tooth to the mayor’s wife. The mayor’s wife places it in her mouth and the toothache goes away.

Mayor Gavriil and his suite come to see Arseny. He brings expensive clothing to Arseny and asks him to don it. Arseny dons it. He and Mayor Gavriil are each given a goblet of wine from another land. The mayor drinks and Arseny bows, turns to the northeast, and slowly empties his goblet onto the ground. The flowing wine forms a spiral as it falls, its polished facets glimmering. The grass thirstily soaks up the precious liquid. The sun is at its zenith. Mayor Gavriil scowls.

How can it be, holy fool Foma asks the mayor, that you don’t understand why God’s servant Ustin emptied your wine to the northeast?

The mayor does not understand and is not even inclined to hide that fact.

Well now, my dear man, says holy fool Foma, you are simply not aware of the news that on this daye there is a fire in Novgorod and God’s servant Ustin is striving to extinguish it, using makeshift methods.

Mayor Gavriil sends his people to Novgorod to make conclusive inquiries regarding what occurred. Upon their return, these people report to Mayor Gavriil that on the morning of the aforesaid day, an extremely powerful fire truly did break out but then died down around noon, through some power unfathomable to the Novgorodians. The mayor does not answer at all. He signals to the visitors to go out and they leave, bowing. The mayor lights an icon lamp. The muffled words of his prayer carry to those standing outside the doorway.

Arseny is walking to a hostelry in the clothes that were given to him. The hostelry’s patrons undress Arseny with the intention of drinking for three days and three nights with the money the clothing fetches. Arseny has a small bundle of old clothes with him and puts them right on. He sighs with relief. The hostelry guests order their first mug. When Arseny sees this, he knocks the mugs out of their hands. The mugs roll with a tinny sound, spilling their contents on the floor. The guests order a second round but Arseny again does not let them drink. One of them wants to hit Arseny in the face but the hostelry keeper bids him not to do so. The hostelry keeper knows he would be the one answering for beatings and so kicks the patrons out. The patrons call it a night and go home, sober and with money in their pockets. When they return home, their kin take away the money and are unable to find any rational explanation for its appearance. They remain completely bewildered.

And do you know, holy fool Foma asks Arseny, how many years have passed since you showed up here?

Arseny shrugs.

Well, you don’t need to know that anyway, says holy fool Foma. Live outside time for now.

Arseny tosses clods of mud at several venerable residents of Zapskovye. He can faultlessly discern small and large demons behind their backs. The residents are displeased.

There is consolation only in the fact, Arseny informs Ustina, that the demons are even more displeased.

Sometimes he throws stones at church doors. Ample quantities of demons throng there, too. They do not dare enter the churches and so huddle around the entrance.

When she sees how Arseny prays at night, the new abbess says:

During the dayes, God’s servant Ustin laughs at the worlde, at nyghte he mourns the same worlde.

Evpraksia, a carpenter’s daughter, is brought to Arseny at the monastery. A ceiling beam in the granary fell on her two months ago and she has been lying motionless ever since. Her affliction does not allow her to return to life but does not release her into death, either. And those around Evpraksia cannot understand which of those conditions she is closer to.

Evpraksia is assigned to a guest cell and prayers are recited over her there. On days with nice weather, she is carried out into the monastery yard, where prayers are recited in fresh air. The wind blows at Evpraksia’s hair but she herself remains motionless. Arseny approaches Evpraksia’s bed in the yard. He takes Evpraksia by the hand.

Life has not fully left her, Arseny tells Ustina. I sense that she may wake up. She only needs help to do so.

Arseny places his palm on Evpraksia’s forehead. His lips move. Evpraksia opens her eyes. She sees Arseny and the sisters surrounding her. It is a warm summer day. The shadows of the trees are sharply drawn. They shift in time with the sun’s movement. The linden leaves are sticky and barely tremble in the wind.

We are celebrating Evpraksia’s return, says the new abbess, but we remember, too, that it is temporary, for everything on this earth is temporary.

I had wanted to speak with her at least one more time, says carpenter Artemy. And now I will speak with her constantly. Meaning, of course, temporarily. I weep at the thought of the boundless mercy of God and the grace that has descended upon God’s servant, Arseny. And all of us standing here (without exception) are capable of inhaling the smells of a warm summer day and hearing the birds chirp. All of us, without exception, because my daughter Evpraksia might have been that exception if not for Arseny.

Carpenter Artemy kneels before Arseny and kisses his hand. Arseny pulls his hand back and crosses the Velikaya on the ice and ends up in Zapskovye. Loaf baker Samson takes out his goods in the early morning. He waits for holy fool Karp, who should steal one of his loaves. Holy fool Karp shows up, grasps a half-coin loaf and, with his arms behind his back, dashes off, away from loaf baker Samson. The loaf baker smiles a kind, loafy smile. The steam from his mouth settles on his beard like frost. He runs his hand through his beard and says:

A man of God, you understand. A blessed man.

The loaf baker lacks the words (as always) to fully express his feelings. Holy fool Karp (as always) drops the loaf and people of modest means pick it up. Karp chews what remains in his mouth.

When his mouth is freed up, he shouts:

Who will be my traveling companion to Jerusalem?

The people picking up the loaf are perplexed. They say:

Our Karp is holyfooling it. Who would go from Pskov to Jerusalem?

Who will be my traveling companion to Jerusalem? holy fool Karp yells to those gathered.

Those who have gathered answer:

Jerusalem, that is, like, you know, really far. How do you get there?

Holy fool Karp looks at Arseny, unblinking. Arseny is silent but does not turn. He has a lump in his throat. He wants to get a good look at holy fool Karp, that is what he came for. Karp cringes, shrinks his head down into his shoulders, and leaves.

Karp, Karp, Karp, he says pensively.

The weakened Davyd is being carried to the monastery. Davyd has been sick since the dayes of his youth. He is unable to move and cannot even hold up his head. Davyd’s head must be lifted when he is fed porridge. Sometimes the porridge falls from his mouth. Then it is picked from his chin with a spoon and again directed toward his mouth. They are carrying Davyd to the monastery cemetery. They carefully place him on the burial mound next to Arseny’s home. They say:

Helpe us, O Ustin, if thou canst.

Arseny does not reply. With his bare hands, he picks nettles from the graves, gathering them into a bunch. When the bunch is ready, Arseny lashes the visitors on their faces and on their hands. They feel their presence here is undesirable. They leave and Davyd remains, lying on the grave. Arseny thinks a bit and then lashes him with nettles, too. Davyd winces but continues lying there since he has no other option. The sun is setting faster than usual. The moon appears in the sky.

Arseny kneels next to Davyd and touches his hand. He examines Davyd’s white and almost lifeless skin. This skin was created for moonlight. Arseny strokes it with his fingers and begins kneading firmly. He switches to the other hand. He turns the weakened man onto his stomach. He kneads his deadened flesh with all his strength, as if pumping vitalizing forces into it. He rubs Davyd’s back along the spine. He kneads at Davyd’s legs, making Davyd’s arms, which dangle off the burial mound, shake. The patient is reminiscent of a large doll. The new abbess comes out to the cemetery twice during the night and twice sees Arseny’s unceasing work. Davyd rises to his feet at dawn’s first light. He takes several wooden steps in the direction of the cathedral, where his kin are already waiting for him. Davyd’s strength leaves him because his muscles are still unaccustomed to walking. His kin rush to him and grasp him under the arms. They understand that the first steps are the most important. But also the most difficult.

What is this? the new abbess asks those present, herself most of all. Is this the result of our brother Ustin’s therapeutic measures or the Lorde’s miracle, appearing independently of human action? Essentially, the abbess answers herself: one does not contradict the other, for a miracle can be the result of effort multiplied by faith.

Arseny gathers plants by the Velikaya River and in the Pskov forests. The Pskov lands are more southerly than Belozersk and produce greater quantities of herbs. There are even herbs that Christofer did not describe in his time. Arseny surmises their effects from the smells and shapes of their leaves. He dries plants like this in the monastery shed and experiments with them on himself. He dries other plants, too.

Some good believers in Christ catch a large fish in the Velikaya River and give it to priest Konstantin. The priest’s wife, Marfa, prepares fish for dinner. She warns her husband that a large fish has large bones and appeals to him to be careful. Priest Konstantin, a carefree person, absentmindedly eats the fish, not thinking about its bones. He is thinking about the parish church that is being built. He is trying yet again to calculate the quantities of purchased materials and worries there will not be enough. Priest Konstantin does not immediately notice that an arch-shaped bone with a fragment of the fish’s backbone has entered his throat along with the fish’s tender flesh. He coughs and pieces of fish—everything but the bone—fly out of his mouth.

The bone is stuck in his throat in three spots. It goes no further down but is not coming up, either. It has gone too deep to reach with fingers. Marfa, the priest’s wife, pounds on her husband’s back but the bone sits there, immovable. Priest Konstantin lies down, his belly on the table and his head hanging almost to the floor, trying to cough out the bone. Saliva and blood run out of his mouth but the bone does not move, not one vershok.

The doctor Terenty is brought to priest Konstantin. Terenty asks the patient to open his mouth and brings a candle toward it. The bone is not even visible under candlelight. Terenty tries to stick his long fingers down the patient’s throat but even he is unable to happen upon the bone. Priest Konstantin silently shakes from retching movements and finally breaks out of the doctor’s arms. Marfa, the priest’s wife, throws Terenty out of the house.

They refuse medical assistance, the doctor Terenty tells those gathered on the street. And, with hand on heart, I say they are correct, for the depth of the embedded bone is beyond the bounds of modern medicine.

After a night of suffering, they bring priest Konstantin across the river to Zapskovye. When they arrive at John the Baptist Convent’s cemetery, they place the priest in front of Arseny. The patient sits on a gravestone because he is no longer able to stand. His throat has swelled and he is gasping for breath. Suffering and grief are in his eyes: he thinks they are already going to bury him. He fears his pain will never pass, even in death.

Arseny crouches in front of priest Konstantin. He feels his neck with both hands. The priest quietly moans. Arseny suddenly grabs him by the feet and lifts him off the ground. He shakes priest Konstantin with unexpected strength and fury. Arseny’s fury is directed at the ailment. A wail, red mucus, and a bone issue from the patient’s throat.

The priest is lying on the ground and breathing heavily. His half-closed eyes gaze at the cause of his suffering. Certain among those who happen to be at the cemetery want to lift him, but he motions to stop them: he needs to catch his breath. The priest’s wife Marfa kneels before Arseny. Arseny bends and grasps her by the legs, trying to lift her, too. The priest’s wife shouts. She is too heavy and Arseny does not have that much strength.

Pretty much unliftable, those present whisper to each other, shaking their heads.

Arseny leaves Marfa and departs the cemetery. The priest’s wife wraps the bone in a handkerchief, as a family keepsake of gratitude.

Mayor Gavriil’s daughter Anna is dead. At fifteen years olde. After slipping on the ferry, Anna falls into the water and sinks to the bottom like a rock. Several people plunge in after her. They dive in various directions, trying to figure out where the maiden’s body has been dragged off to. They resurface, gasping for breath, gather more air in their lungs, and submerge into the water again. They have difficulty reaching the bottom of the Velikaya River and when there they cannot locate the mayor’s daughter. The water is cloudy. The water is swift and full of whirlpools. One of the divers nearly drowns but their efforts are in vain. They find the drowned girl’s body downstream several hours later, after it has washed up in the reeds.

Mayor Gavriil is beside himself with grief. He wants to bury his daughter at the John the Baptist Convent and goes to see the abbess. The abbess tells him it would be better to bury Anna in the potter’s field. Mayor Gavriil grabs the abbess by the shoulders and shakes her for a very long time. The abbess looks at the mayor not with fear but with sorrow. She allows the mayor to bury his daughter at the convent. The mayor orders Anna be adorned in gold and silver jewelry, that she not lose her beauty even when dead. The residents of Zavelichye and other parts of Pskov greet the ferry carrying the body. Everyone is in tears. They commit Anna to the earth, the sobs makynge a funeral dirge. All leave but the mayor. He remains and lies on the fresh grave for several hours. The mayor is led away when night falls. Only Arseny remains at the cemetery, leaning against the entwined oaks. He seems to have become entwined with them, too, having taken on the color of their bark and their immobility.

This impression is mistaken because Arseny’s essence is human and prayerful, not of wood. A heart beats inside him and his lips move. He prays for heavenly gifts for the newly departed Anna. His eyes are opened wide. They reflect a candle flame that uncertainly traverses the cemetery. The small flame skirts the crosses and climbs atop the hillocks. It stops upon reaching Anna’s grave. An unseen hand affixes the flame to a stump alongside the grave. Another hand breaks off a branch of quaking aspen and uses it to hide the flame on the convent side. A shovel appears within the flickering circle the candle forms. The shovel slices effortlessly through the burial mound. Fresh earth requires no effort. The digger is already standing up to his knees in the grave. Standing up to his waist. His face is at the same level as the candle. Arseny recognizes that face.

Stinge, he says quietly.

Stinge shudders and lifts his head. He sees nobody.

If you, Stinge, enter that grave up to your chest, you will never leave it, Arseny says. Is it not stated in the manuscripts you stole? Death is fierce for sinners.

Stinge is shaking. He looks into the dark sky.

Art thou an angel?

Does it really matter who I am, answers Arseny, an angel or a man? You used to steal from the living, but now you have become a grave robber. It turns out that you are taking on earthly properties even while you are alive, thus you can become of the earth in no time.

So what am I supposed to do, Stinge asks, if I am a burden to my own self?

Pray unceasingly and, for starters, fill up the grave.

Stinge fills up the grave.

If you were not an angel, you would not know my name, he says to someone above. Because today is my first day in this burg of Pskov.

Little by little, the renown of Arseny’s doctoring gift spreads through all of Pskov. People come to him with the most varied of illnesses and ask him to give them relief. They look into the holy fool’s blue eyes and tell him about themselves. They feel their troubles drown in those eyes. Arseny says nothing and does not even nod. He hears them out attentively. They think his attention is special, for he who refuses to speak expresses himself by hearing.

Sometimes Arseny gives them herbs. After rummaging around in his bag, Sister Agafya finds the appropriate manuscript from Christofer and reads it aloud to the patient. The one who receives the herb corncockle is prescribed to boil it in water with its root: it will draw pus from the ears. They give the plant quack grass to those stung by bees and order them to rub it on. Arseny silently takes notice of Sister Agafya’s reading though he is not inclined to overestimate the significance of the herbs offered. Doctoring experience tells him medicaments are not the most important part of treatment.

Arseny does not help everyone. He hears out the patient but turns away from him when he feels powerless to help. Sometimes he will press his forehead to the patient’s forehead and tears will flow from his eyes. He shares the patient’s pain with him and, to some degree, his death, too. Arseny’s heart fills with grief because he understands that the world does not remain the same after a patient passes away.

If I had the light within me, I would have cured him, Arseny says to Ustina about patients like that. But I cannot cure him, because of the gravity of my sins. These sins do not allow me to rise to the height where that person’s redemption lies. I, my love, am the culprit in his death and thus I weep for his passing and for my own sins.

But even the patients Arseny cannot cure feel benefit from interacting with him. They think their pain reduces after meeting with Arseny, and their fear lessens along with the pain. Incurable patients see in him a person capable of understanding the depth of suffering, for in his exploration of pain he gets to the very bottom of things.

It is not only the ill who come to Arseny. Pregnant women also show up at the cemetery. He looks at them through his tears and places his palm on their bellies. They feel better and birthing is easy after seeing the holy fool. Nursing mothers whose milk has dried up come, too; Arseny gives them the herb celandine. If the herb does not help, Arseny takes the woman to one of Zavelichye’s cowsheds and tells her to milk a cow. He watches as the white liquid dribbles through fingers red from tension. How the cow’s taut udder sways. The cow’s owners stand in the back, in the doorway. They watch, too. They know the arrival of the holy fool and the woman is a blessing. Arseny signals for the nursing mother to drink some milk. She drinks and feels her own nipples swell. And she hurries off to her child.

Arseny crosses the Velikaya River. Along the way, he notices that the ice is already gone but the water is still cold. An unwarmed river breeze has been blowing on Zapskovye since early morning, chilling that part of the city. Holy fool Foma squints and looks off into the distance somewhere. His beard twists in the breeze. Holy fool Karp stands, covering his face with his hands. He is half-turned toward holy fool Foma. Loaf baker Samson does not make them wait long: he shows up with his tray of loaves. And a kind smile on his lips. Holy fool Karp wearily takes his hands from his face and clasps them behind his back. A blue vein beats on his temple. He is, in his essence, no longer young. His facial features are delicate. Holy fool Karp approaches loaf baker Samson with a soft, balletic gait and grasps the closest loaf with his teeth. Holy fool Karp turns after taking a step away from the tray. He looks pitifully at Samson. Samson’s facial expression never changes as he takes the strap off his neck and carefully places the tray on the ground. He takes several steps in holy fool Karp’s direction. The loaf baker’s well-proportioned body folds. His hand drops to the top of his boot. Something there gleams, cold and sharp. The loaf baker walks right up to Karp. Karp stands to attention. He is taller than the loaf baker and senses the baker’s breath on his neck. The knife slowly enters the holy fool’s body. Oh, ye hosts of heaven, whispers loaf baker Samson, I have waited so long for this day.

The way out of the final Alpine gorge was narrow. It was reminiscent of an archway, with its upper part formed by young saplings that had grown along both sides of the road on the cliffs and bent toward one another. It was in that archway that a group of horsemen appeared, blocking the caravan’s way. The caravan’s tail end was still continuing to make its way through the ravine, though the guards at its head were no longer moving. They stood some distance from the horsemen, making no attempt to near them, for their appearance presaged nothing good.

They are highwaymen, said Brother Hugo, sitting on the furs; those around him could not help but agree.

The highwaymen spoke amongst themselves in Italian. After brief deliberations, Ambrogio was entrusted to negotiate with them. Several guardians offered to go with him but Ambrogio refused. He pointed to Arseny, who was riding toward him, and said:

The two of us are enough.

Three, Brother Hugo intervened. Three. I speak Italian, too, after all. Besides, as of today I have nothing to lose.

They then gave Brother Hugo a horse so he would be on the same level as the highwaymen rather than speaking to them from a lower position. Those in the caravan thought the monk’s appearance was capable of softening even the hardest hearts. The three riders slowly headed toward the highwaymen.

Peace be with you, shouted Brother Hugo, still far away.

No answer followed, and the brother repeated his greeting from closer range.

You don’t speak our language so well, stranger, said a highwayman on a white horse. You must pay for that.

The other highwaymen began laughing. The speaker seemed to be the ringleader. He was heavyset and not young. His face was as crimson as a glass of Piemonte wine and a sable scar was engraved into his skull on his deeply receding hairline. His horse was pawing at the ground, clearly expressing the horseman’s impatience.

To the Lord, there are no strangers, objected Brother Hugo.

Then we will send you to Him, the ringleader said, and you can be among your own people there. And your stuff will be left for us.

The highwaymen laughed again, this time with more restraint. They themselves still did not know to what extent that was a joke.

We have good guards and they will not run away, said Ambrogio. This has been proven.

Proven but not by us.

The ringleader pulled the reins and his horse neighed.

Ambrogio shrugged.

You will have losses, no matter how this all ends.

Without answering anything, the ringleader and several of the highwaymen rode off to the edge of the path. They deliberated for a fairly long time. These people were not the type to fight for the sake of fighting, so they understood the outcome of the battle was not foregone. After steering his horse toward Ambrogio, the ringleader said:

You bring us ten ducats per person, including guards, and no blood will be shed.

Ambrogio became pensive.

One ducat per person, said Brother Hugo. Infidels charge two ducats for the opportunity to go to the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem, which is a total rip-off. In this case, it is the Christians who are robbing us, so I believe it ought to be possible to limit it to one ducat.

We appear to be bargaining, said the surprised ringleader.

I am trying to ease your conscience as much as I can, said Brother Hugo.

After an extensive discussion, they reached a sum acceptable to all: five ducats from each in the caravan. When Brother Hugo rode off to the caravan to announce the result of the negotiations, Arseny said to Ambrogio:

The person who was speaking with you is in danger. There is a loud noise in his head. Blood is pressing on the vessels in his head and they are ready to burst. I see, Ambrogio, that they are swollen from too much blood. They look like fat, coiled-up worms. Blood circulation can still be improved in that head, but believe me: nothing will work out unless there is a change of thought in there.

After hearing what Arseny had to say, Ambrogio addressed the ringleader:

The noise you hear in your head is the consequence of thoughts that have settled in there. The noise is life-threatening but my comrade could still help you.

The highwaymen, who knew nothing about the noise in the ringleader’s head, began laughing again. But the ringleader remained serious. He asked:

And what does your comrade ask for that?

He is a person of the Greek-Russian belief and asks that you alter your thinking; put another way: that you repent, for repentance in Greek is metanoia, which literally means a change in thoughts.

You are bargaining again, smirked the ringleader. But only money can be the object of bargaining.

This is not bargaining, it is a condition, said Ambrogio, shaking his head. A necessary condition, so that my comrade could help you.

Carrying the money, Brother Hugo rode up to the men as they conversed. The ringleader took the small bag with the gold coins from his hands and tossed it to one of the highwaymen to be counted. He turned to Arseny and Ambrogio as they were riding away:

You know, I have not yet accepted anyone’s conditions. He pointed at a piece of sky closed off by the cliffs. Not even His.

The caravan silently watched as the highwaymen left the gorge. The caravan began moving, too, after the last highwayman had disappeared behind the cliff. Everyone understood they had gotten off easy this time, though that gave them no joy.

There are so many different kinds of people in the world, sighed one of the Kiev merchants.

What did he say? Brother Hugo asked Ambrogio.

He said that people are very dissimilar.

What is true is true, confirmed Brother Hugo.

He again climbed onto the wagon with the furs. After settling in comfortably on the sable pelts, Brother Hugo continued:

There are all kinds of people. They say there are people known as androgyns. They have a body that is masculine on one side, feminine on the other side: a person like that has a masculine right nipple but a feminine left nipple. And there are people known as satyrs. Their dwellings are in mountain forests and their movement is quick: nobody can catch up when they run. They go around naked and their bodies are covered with hair. They speak no human language, they just shout shouts. As we know, there are also sciapods, people who rest in the shade of their own feet. Their feet are so big (Brother Hugo raised his own feet) that in hot weather they cover themselves with them, like an awning. There are, I can report to you, many various creatures born into the world: some have dog heads, some have no heads, teeth on the chest, eyes on the elbows, some have two faces, some have four eyes, some have six horns on their heads, and some have six digits on their hands and on their feet.

If they truly exist, asked Arseny, turning, what is the purpose of their existence?

Brother Hugo grew pensive.

There is no purpose, only a reason. The whole thing is that after the Tower of Babel, God let everyone live as their hearts desired. And so some went astray. They chose their paths to conform to their desires, and their outward appearances began to correspond to their ways of thinking. It is all very logical.

Ambrogio began laughing:

Logical? I have known people whose ways of thinking were such that, according to this logic, they should have looked very frightening. But they looked totally fine nevertheless.

Ambrogio spurred his horse and galloped ahead without waiting for an answer. Arseny followed him after reflecting a bit.

There are no rules without exceptions, Brother Hugo shouted to them as they rode off. They tell, for example, of antipodes who live on the other side of the earth. And, just imagine, many of them look exactly the same as us.

But Ambrogio could no longer hear him.

How do you like that? Brother Hugo said to the Kiev merchants.

The merchants nodded. They did not understand a word of German.

But I do not much believe the stories about antipodes, continued the brother, encouraged, and do you know why? Well, because to take them seriously, one must be willing to declare that the world is round! I am not even saying that this is funny or that it is blasphemy—it is, above all, ridiculous. As soon as we acknowledge that the world is round, we will simply be obligated to acknowledge that people on the other side of the earth walk upside down!

Brother Hugo began loudly laughing. The Kiev merchants also started smiling as they looked at him. Brother Hugo’s laugh proved so infectious that within just a minute the entire caravan was laughing. Thanks to that laugh, the anxiety that everyone felt after being subjected to mortal danger over the last several days departed. That laughter contained the joy of people for whom Venice, the most wonderful city on earth, awaited ahead.

As the caravan was leaving its nighttime campsite the next morning, two horsemen rode up from the Alps side. Members of the caravan recognized them as the highwaymen they had met the day before. When the highwaymen saw Arseny and Ambrogio, they approached them.

Our leader is in a very bad way, the highwaymen said to Ambrogio. He was stricken yesterday and is lying motionless. Can your comrade help in some way?

Ambrogio interpreted for Arseny what they had said.

Inform them that I am now powerless to help, Arseny answered. This person’s hours are numbered and he will die in the evening. There is mercy in the quick death the Almighty has presented to him.

After hearing Arseny’s reply, the highwaymen said:

When he was still able to speak, he asked to give you this.

One of the highwaymen took out the little bag with the gold coins and gave it to Ambrogio. Right then and there they returned the money to the people who had given it the day before. The caravan set its course for Venice.

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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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