There is nothing complex.
They were silent.
I thought for a long time about who to send to Jerusalem and chose you. You are of varying faiths but both are true. And you seek the same Lord. You will be going to Orthodox and non-Orthodox lands and your differences will help you.
Mayor Gavriil kissed the icon lamp. He embraced Arseny and Ambrogio.
This is important to me. This is very important to me.
They bowed to Mayor Gavriil.
The horses shifted from one foot to another on the shore and were afraid to step onto the vessel. Moving in water was not what frightened them: they had swum across and waded through rivers more than once in their lives. Moving on top of the water frightened them. It seemed unnatural to them. The horses were dragged by the reins along the gangways. They neighed and knocked their hooves on the deck’s wood. As he gazed at the horses, Arseny did not even notice they had set sail.
The crowd on shore set sail, too, beginning to shrink in size and sound after the rowers had begun rowing their oars. The crowd simmered, turning into a whirlpool that spun around the mayor, who stood at its center. He did not even wave. He stood motionless. Alongside him fluttered the robes of the abbess from the John the Baptist Convent. Sometimes the heavy black fabric even touched the mayor’s face, but he did not shift. The abbess seemed far wider than usual in the wind; she seemed lightly inflated. She blessed the departing vessel with slow, broad crosses.
The shores moved in time with the oar strokes. They tried to catch up to the clouds gliding through the sky but clearly lacked the speed. Arseny inhaled the river breeze with delight, understanding it was the breeze of wayfaring.
So many years, he said to Ustina, I sat here for so many years without moving and now I am sailing directly south. I feel, my love, that this motion is beneficial. It draws me closer to you and further from people whose attention, to tell the truth, had begun to weigh on me. I have, my love, a good traveling companion, a young, cultured person with a broad range of interests. Dark-complexioned. Curly hair. Beardless, for they shave beards in his part of the world. He is attempting to determine when the world will end and though I am not sure this is within his competence, attention to eschatology, even on its own, seems worthy of encouragement. Some Pskov boatmen are with us. They are taking us along the Velikaya River to the boundaries of the Pskov land. The river is wide. The residents of the shores that we pass watch us leave, if they notice us. Sometimes they wave as we pass. We wave to them, too. What awaits us? I feel an inexpressible gladness and fear nothing.
Toward evening, they moored at the shore and started a fire. They did not take the horses off the vessel because they had already grown used to being there. A late Pskov night was setting in.
In our lands, said the boatmen, nothing is unexpected. But, according to some sources, there will be people with dogs’ heads further along. We do not know if that is true, but this is what people say.
Do not be too proud, answered Ambrogio, for there is plenty of everything in this land, too. Suppose you go into the kremlin: there are lots of people like that there.
From time to time, one of the boatmen would go to the nearby forest and gather fallen branches. Arseny watched the fire flare up. He pensively added branch after branch, using them to build a pyramid. At first the fire licked them. It was as if the fire was tasting them with its tongue before taking them entirely. Some of the brushwood crackled as it burned.
They are damp, said the boatmen. It is still damp in the forest.
Mosquitoes and gnats circled the fire. They were flying in a translucent swarm, almost like smoke. They drew circles and ellipses within the swarm, making it look as if someone was juggling them. But nobody was juggling them. They scattered when the smoke shifted in their direction. Arseny was surprised to note that the mosquitoes’ escape gladdened him.
Can you believe, he said to Ustina, that I have gotten squeamish and am afraid of these bloodsuckers? I feared nothing when I was living as if in the body of another. And that, my love, does frighten me. Did I lose in an instant what I was gathering for you all those years?
We heard, said the boatmen, that the fire that comes upon the Holy Sepulcher at Easter does not singe. You have set out on your journey after Easter, though, so it works out that you will not see this fire’s unusual properties.
But should not every day of the Lorde become Easter for us? asked Arseny.
He stretched his palm over the very fire. Tongues of fire came through his separated fingers, illuminating them from below with a rosy light. In the middle of the night that had fallen, Arseny’s palm glowed brighter than the fire. Ambrogio stared steadily at Arseny. The boatmen crossed themselves.
The next day they reached the southern limits of the land of Pskov. The boatmen had been ordered to transport the pilgrims to these limits. The Velikaya River was becoming small and turning to the east.
The river is nearing its sources, said the boatmen, and there are more and more sandbars, which are just one more huge headache to deal with. We are, truth be told, sorry to part ways with you, but at least there is some consolation that we will be floating with the current on the way back.
It has long been observed, confirmed Ambrogio, that it is much easier to float with the current. So go in peace.
The horses were led to shore and Ambrogio and Arseny embraced the boatmen in parting. They felt disquiet as they watched the vessel grow distant. From now on, the wayfarers were left to the Lord and their own devices. A difficult journey awaited them.
They headed south. They rode unhurriedly, Arseny and Ambrogio in the front and the two pack horses in the rear, tethered with the reins. The road was narrow, the locality hilly. They dismounted to eat. They cut off strips of dried meat and washed it down with water. The horses hurried to nibble grass at their stopping places. When they crossed brooks, they lowered their lips to it and drank, snorting.
Toward the end of the day, they arrived in the town of Sebezh. Upon entering, they asked where they could stop for the night. They were directed to a hostelry. The hostelry reeked of either spilled beer or urine. The keeper was drunk. After seating the visitors on a bench, he himself sat on another. He looked at them for a long time, unblinking. He sat, his legs spread, arms resting on his knees. He did not answer questions. After touching him on the shoulder, Arseny realized the hostelry keeper was sleeping. He was sleeping with his eyes open.
The hostelry keeper’s wife turned up and led the horses to a stall. She showed the guests to a room.
Hey, Ladle, she called out to her husband, but he did not stir. Ladle! She gave up on him with a wave of her hand. Let him sleep.
Close his eyes, said Ambrogio. It is much better to sleep with the eyes closed.
No, no, it is better like this, said the hostelry keeper’s wife. This way, he will see you if you start prowling around the hostelry.
The Ladle he sleeps—The Ladle the hostelry keeps, said the keeper, with a belch. Don’t try anything clever. The big thing is, do not trespass on my wife, for she will trespass on you herself. He lifted his feet onto the bench and covered himself with a bast mat. You cannot even imagine the things I have to close my eyes to.