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 Book
of Journeys
