Okay, said Arseny. From now on the heart pain and all pain will ease for you.
Commander Sergy stood from the bench and rubbed his back. Straightened. Nothing hurt. He asked:
What dost thou ask for your doctorly help?
I ask one thing, Arseny answered after thinking a bit: that you be very wary of drafts and of lifting heavy loads. They are a sharp knife for you.
Commander Sergy accommodated them in his own chambers and did not let them go to the guest house. Many people visited them over the next three days.
The commander’s father-in-law, Feognost, who had lost his flexibility long ago, came. It seemed he was constantly in a half-bowing position and he leaned on a low cane. Arseny settled the patient on the bench. After going over Feognost’s spinal column, vertebra by vertebra, he found the reason for his inflexibility. Feognost left Arseny without his cane.
The commander’s pregnant wife, Fotinya, came, complaining of the child’s restlessness inside the womb. Arseny placed his hand on her belly.
You are in your eighth month, he told her, and a boy will be born. As far as his restlessness, well, he is the commander’s son after all, how could he be calm?
The commander’s mother-in-law, Agafya, came because a broken bone in her wrist had not knitted together after a winter fall. Arseny bandaged Agafya’s wrist tightly with pieces of linen and held it in his hand.
Grieve no more, O Agafya, for you shall be whoale before the byrth of your grandson.
Among Arseny’s visitors were the steward Yermei with his painful teeth, the priest’s wife Serafima with the shaky head, the urban tradesman Mikhalko with the festering wound on his hip, and several other people who had heard of the astonishing help provided by this person from Pskov. And he healed the ailments of those who came to see him or gave them relief by strengthening their ability to overcome illnesses, because simply interacting with him felt curative. Still others sought to touch his hand because they felt a vitalizing strength from it. And then his first nickname—Rukinets—inexplicably flew in from Beloozero. Everyone who came to see Arseny now knew he was Rukinets. They did not learn his primary nickname until later: Doctor.
During the third night of their stay in Kiev, Arseny and Ambrogio left the city limits and went to the Kiev Monastery of the Caves. They walked along a mountain overgrown with trees as the Dnepr, a dark mass, slumbered below. It was not visible, but it breathed and made itself known, just as the sea or any other abundance of water makes itself known. Day was already breaking when Arseny and Ambrogio reached the monastery. The gently sloping left shore was visible from the mountaintop. Nothing broke the view to the east: the vista soared over a plain and reached Rus’, which lay in the distant distance. A huge red sun was visible from where they stood, and it was even rising, as if in fits and starts.
They were questioned for a long time at the monastery gates, about who they were. There were doubts about letting them in when they learned Ambrogio was Catholic. Someone was sent to the abbot. He gave his blessing for both to enter, deciding a visit to the monastery could benefit the foreigner.
They were given one candle each and then a monk led them into the Caves of Saint Anthony and the Caves of Theodosius. They saw the relics of the Venerable Anthony and Theodosius. There were many other saints there, too, some of whom Arseny knew about, and occasionally some he did not know about. The monk accompanying them walked ahead. He turned at one of the twists and each of his eyes began burning as if it were a candle.
Evfrosinia Polotskaya (the monk indicated one of the reliquaries). She returned here from where you are headed. Her relics were transferred here during the times of discord in the Holy Land.
Peace be with you, O Evfrosinia, said Arseny. And we did stop in Polotsk, though of course we did not catch you there.
She will return to Polotsk in 1910, Ambrogio surmised. The relics will be transported to Orsha along the Dnepr and then carried by hand from Orsha to Polotsk.
The monk said nothing and walked on. Arseny and Ambrogio began following behind him, feeling for the uneven floor with their feet. Dawn and summer were sparkling overhead, outside, but only three candles tore into the darkness here. Darkness slipped away from the candles, though rather uncertainly and not very far. It would stay still under low arches only an arm’s length away and then swirl, ready to close in again. It was already hot outside at this early hour but cool reigned here.
Is it always so cool here? asked Ambrogio.
Here there is never the frost nor the heat that are the manifestation of extremes, answered the monk. Eternity is tranquil and so it is characterized by coolness.
Arseny drew a candle toward the inscription near one of the shrines.
Salutations, O beloved Agapit, Arseny quietly uttered. I had so hoped to meet you.
To whom are you wishing health? asked Ambrogio.
This is the Venerable Agapit, an unmercenary physician. Arseny dropped to his knees and pressed his lips to Agapit’s hand. You know, Agapit, all my healing, it is such a strange story… I can’t really explain it to you. Everything was more or less obvious, as long as I was using herbal treatments. I treated and knew God’s help came through the herbs. Well then. Now, though, God’s help comes through me, just me, do you understand? And I am less than my cures, far less, I am not worthy of them, and that makes me feel either frightened or awkward.
You want to say you are worse than herbs, asked the monk.
Arseny raised his eyes to the monk.
In a certain way I am worse, for the herb does not sin.
But it does not sin because it has no consciousness, is that not so? said Ambrogio. Can this truly be a merit of the herb?
It means one must consciously rid oneself of sins, shrugged the monk. And that’s all there is to it. One must be more like God, you know, not expound on things.
The three men walked on and were met by ever more new saints. The saints were not exactly moving or even speaking, but the silence and immobility of the dead were not absolute. There was, under the ground, a motion that was not completely usual, and a particular sort of voices rang out without disturbing the sternness and repose. The saints spoke using words from psalms and lines from the lives of saints that Arseny remembered well from childhood. When they drew the candles closer, shadows shifted along dried faces and brown, half-bent hands. The saints seemed to raise their heads, smile, and beckon, barely perceptibly, with their hands.
A city of saints, whispered Ambrogio, following the play of the shadow. They present us the illusion of life.
No, objected Arseny, also in a whisper. They disprove the illusion of death.
A caravan of merchants set off for Venice a week later, and Arseny and Ambrogio joined them. In releasing them for their journey, Commander Sergy did not hide the sadness he was experiencing. The commander was sorry to part with such a wonderful doctor. He was sorry to part with good conversation partners. During the short time the pilgrims had been his guests, he had managed to learn a lot about life in Pskov and in Italy, about world history, and about methods for calculating how long until the end of the world. Commander Sergy weakly endeavored to hold back his guests but made no serious attempts to stop them. He knew the reason Arseny and Ambrogio had undertaken this journey.