What is thy name, O boatman?
Prokopy, responded the boatman.
You, O Prokopy, have a tumor in your respiratory tract. Your condition is dangerous but not hopeless. If you decide to ask the Lord’s help, dispose first of what burdens you.
Boatman Prokopy did not respond to Arseny but tears flowed from his eyes.
The river became significantly wider in Rogachev.
Prokopy approached Arseny in Lyubech and said:
Nobody knows of my illness yet but I am already beginning to feel short of breath.
You are short of breath because of your sins, answered Arseny.
As they were approaching Kiev, boatman Prokopy told Arseny:
I have perceaved what thou hast spoken and will do as thou hast sayde.
Upon seeing Kiev’s mountains on the starboard side, boatman Prokopy shouted out:
O ye saints of the Kiev Caves, pray to God for us!
Prokopy’s comrades looked at him gloomily. His unexpected piety put them on guard. When the vessel entered the Pochaina River to moor at Kiev’s Podol district, Prokopy said to them:
Run from this ship that I may repente of my synnes and delyuere myself to those holding power.
If the ship had not stood at a crowded Kiev dock and if there had not been two guests on board, boatman Prokopy might not have managed to leave the ship so easily. It is entirely likely that he would not have managed to leave it at all. But circumstances were on Prokopy’s side.
He went ashore and gave his final orders to his former comrades from there. He advised them not to wallow in sin and, after repenting, to go upstream on the Dnepr, to the city of Orsha, and look for honest work there. The boatmen listened silently, for how could they object to Prokopy’s reasonable speech? As they followed the movement of his lips, they regretted, to a certain extent, that they had not wrung his neck somewhere outside Lyubech and tossed him into the deep waters of the Dnepr River.
The port authorities approached the ship. Boatman Prokopy told them, of his own free will, that the vessel had delivered stolen goods from Mogilev to Kiev, along with linen shirts, clay crockery, the pilgrims, and their horses. He told them that the merchant Savva Chigir was killed three weeks ago in Mogilev. Savva’s property had been transported, by water, to Kiev because it could not be sold in Mogilev, where there was a danger it would be recognized. Other Mogilev merchants’ property had been transported earlier using the same route; boatman Prokopy had known nothing about this, having been hired into service without any special explanations. Though he was surprised, of course, that loading took place in the dead of night, with unusual precautions for mere shirts and crockery. But Prokopy immediately suspected something amiss this time when he discovered jewelry, as well as the murdered Savva’s goblet (his name was engraved on the silver goblet), in one of the bags instead of crockery. And the worsening of his health did not seem accidental to him, so he saw in the words of the pilgrim Arseny instructions from God and was, thus, repenting in the presence of everyone. Prokopy exhaled. And his next breath seemed easier to him than the one before.
After hearing the boatman’s confession, the port authorities went aboard but found no people there. They found several bags that were, indeed, stuffed with valuables. They then began questioning Prokopy about his comrades and he told everything he knew. He spoke in a weakened voice because he could not get enough air.
Arseny approached Prokopy and again placed his hands on his neck. He felt it and squeezed, his index fingers resting on the larynx. The boatman had a coughing fit. He bent in half and a bloody spittle came out of his mouth. It caught on Prokopy’s beard and hung over the ground like a thin pink icicle.
Considering the boatman’s sincere repentance, his lack of involvement in the matter, and the sorry state of his health, the authorities released him.
Now take Communion and you will be on the road to recovery, Arseny told him. Believe me, O brother Prokopy, you have gotten off easily.
Arseny and Ambrogio had a letter from Pskov mayor Gavriil, addressed to Commander Sergy in Kiev. Gavriil asked Sergy to facilitate matters for the pilgrims and, if possible, attach them to one of the merchant caravans that left Kiev from time to time. When the pilgrims began asking where they could find the commander, local residents directed them to the Castle. That is what they called the part of the city that was on a small plateau and enclosed by a wall.
The Castle was visible everywhere. Arseny and Ambrogio took their horses by the bridles and slowly began climbing along one of the streets. The street looped but the travelers knew they would not get lost. The blackened logs of the Castle’s walls hung above them.
The horde, a pedestrian told them, pointing at the darkened wall. Since I recognize you are wayfarers, I will explain the reason for this blackening to you: Mengli-Girei’s horde. It was, quite frankly, a big headache.
He smiled a wide, toothless smile and went about his business.
Russians are not as gloomy as you seemed to think, after all, Arseny told Ambrogio. Sometimes they are in a good mood. After a horde leaves, for example.
A guard greeted them at the entrance to the Castle. They were admitted after giving their names. The homes of Kiev’s nobility and several churches were located within the Castle. They approached Commander Sergy’s house and introduced themselves to other guardians. One of them disappeared into the house after hearing what they had to say. He returned a few minutes later and signaled for the visitors to be searched. Arseny and Ambrogio were let inside after a brief pat-down.
Commander Sergy was bald with thick eyebrows. His eyebrows made his uninteresting face expressive. Thanks to his eyebrows, the slightest emotional impulse, which would go unnoticed in any other person, became a facial expression. After sternly greeting the pilgrims (brows knitted), the commander accepted their letter from Mayor Gavriil. His face smoothed as he read, depending on his level of immersion in the letter, until his brows extended into one even, fat cord. After finishing the letter, he placed it on the table and pressed his hand to it. The fingers of his other hand were tucked under the left edge of his caftan. They were moving.
I know the mayor and will help you, said Commander Sergy. I will send you with the next caravan of merchants. You will live in a guest house while you wait.
Will we need to wait long? asked Ambrogio.
Maybe a week, replied Commander Sergy. Or maybe even a month. It is anybody’s guess. He took a drink from a swan-shaped dipper and drew his palm across his forehead. It is hot.
It was clear their audience was over. When they were already in the doorway, Arseny said:
You know, commander, the problem is not with your heart. It is with your spine. Basically, a lot depends on the spine. A lot more then we are sometimes inclined to suppose.
Commander Sergy’s eyebrows crept upward.
You know about my heart disease?
I repeat: it is not your heart but your spine, replied Arseny. One of your veins is pinched and you think it is your heart. Undress, commander, and I will see what can be done.
After a brief hesitation, Commander Sergy began pulling off his clothes. His shoulders and chest were covered with hair. Stooped and with a large belly, he resembled the dipper from which he had drunk. Arseny pointed to a bench:
Lie down on your belly, commander.
Sergy lay down on his belly as if it were something separate from him. The bench squeaked melodiously under him. Arseny’s fingers plunged into the commander’s shaggy back. They ran from top to bottom, feeling vertebra after vertebra. They stopped on one of them, kneaded slightly and then let the lower part of the palm take their place. Arseny placed one palm on top of the other and began powerfully and rhythmically pressing on the spine. Ambrogio watched the patient’s fatty nape shake. A light crack sounded and the commander screamed.