This shalbe my rest, here wil I dwell.
He said:
Take me, O wilderness, as a mother her child.
He gathered some brush and pulled up some grass, and laid them in the cave. And then he lay down to sleep there and his sleep was as serene as in a real home. And he was happy in his sleep for he knew this was his final home.
For several days, Laurus worked on fixing up his new residence. The cave where he had settled amounted to two huge boulders capped by a stone block that was even larger. One side of the block touched the ground, forming a third, sloping, wall. Laurus got to work building the fourth wall himself. The only tool he had was a knife he had taken from the monastery.
Laurus noticed some fallen tree trunks nearby and attempted to drag them to the cave. He did not even go near the fattest of the trunks. But when he wrapped his arms around one of the medium-sized trunks and tried to move it from its place, he could not even do that. Once his heartbeat was back to normal, Laurus pondered the underlying reason—the weight of the tree or his old age—and decided it was old age after all.
And then he got to work on thin young tree trunks that had been knocked down by large fallen trees. He dragged those saplings to the boulders and drove their lower parts into the ground, nestling the tops against the uneven surface of the rock. He tied the trunks together with thick cords woven from vines. He filled the crevices between the trunks with grass and moss. Laurus even managed to make a door by tying together branches. The door leaned in place rather than hanging from hinges but it sheltered him from the cold no worse than a genuine door.
After constructing the wall, Laurus realized the thin trunks were most appropriate here anyway because thick trunks would not have fit together as firmly. He told Ustina:
What a person is able to do using his strength is the very best. But what is beyond his strength, my love, is not useful.
Laurus made a hearth by piling up rocks that were lying around here and there. He understood that old age had arrived, so he no longer counted on his body’s strength. To preserve the life within his body, Laurus began building fires in the hearth on the coldest days. Later, after he had settled into his new place, he began burning fires once a week. On Saturdays he started fires using a steel and tinder that he always kept dry in a hollow place he had found under the ceiling. Laurus burned the fire from morning until evening, watching how the damp smoke from the branches he had gathered slowly stretched through the doorway. In one day of burning, the cave’s stones absorbed enough heat to hold him until the next Saturday. Almost always enough to hold him. If the cave cooled down earlier, Laurus endured, not changing the set day.
Laurus came to love his home. It sheltered him from cold north winds and turned out to be unexpectedly spacious. He could stand at full height in the part nearest the door. He had to bend, though, where the granite slab sloped down. Sometimes Laurus forgot about the hanging block of stone and hit his head hard against it. After wiping away the tears that had come, he blamed himself for his pride and unwillingness to bow his head. Smiling, he was glad the lessons in humility he had been given were so easy.
Laurus understood he was being treated like a child. This was the first time since his childhood that he had been so calm. This is my repose for all time, he repeated to himself, surprised at the depth of his repose. He thought he could hear springs of water under the ground. Clouds breathing in the sky. Lots of things had happened to him in his former life but, somehow or other, everything had happened in the presence of others. And now he was completely alone.
He was not lonely because he did not feel that people had abandoned him. He sensed everyone he had ever met as if they were present. They continued a quiet life in his soul, regardless of whether they had gone off to another world or were still alive. He remembered all their words, intonations, and movements. Their old words gave rise to new words and integrated with more recent events and Laurus’s own words. Life continued on, in all manner of variety.
It moved along chaotically, as should a life composed of millions of particles. At the same time, though, it also had some sort of discernible overall focus within. It began to seem to Laurus that life was moving toward its origin, though not toward the origin of all of life—what the Lord had created—but toward his, Laurus’s, own origin, where all of life had also opened up for him.
Laurus’s thoughts, which used to be taken up with events of recent years, now began turning back to the first years of his life. As he walked through the autumnal forest, sometimes he would feel Christofer’s hand in his. It was scratchy and warm. Looking up at Christofer from below, Laurus finally remembered where he had seen the face reflected in the lake. It was Christofer’s face. From grandfather to grandson, for the days when he had grown old.
Christofer led him along animals’ trails, stopping from time to time to catch his breath. He told of herbs that went to sleep at this time of year and of the characteristics of roots touched by light frost. He told of the journeys of birds who rushed south from the cold, about their difficult life in foreign lands, and about their surprising ability to return.
To return, O Laurus, is characteristic of people as well as birds, Christofer had once said. There should be some sort of finality in life.
Why are you calling me Laurus? asked Laurus. You knew me as Arseny.
What’s the difference? said Christofer. Remember how you wanted to be a bird, too?
I remember. I did not fly long then...
When the boy was exhausted, his grandfather sat him in a bag on his back. He carried him home and the little boy’s eyes would close from Christofer’s even stride. He dreamt he had become a caladrius bird. After taking the sores of others upon himself, he ascends into the firmament and disperses them above the earth. He awakened at night, on his own sleeping ledge. He listened to water evenly dripping in the corner of the cave.
Toward November, the chunk of bread Laurus had taken from the monastery had begun to dwindle perceptibly. Laurus noticed it dwindling but that did not cause him concern. He understood: if his existence on earth still had any point, then daily bread would be given to him in good time. And that is what happened.
One morning Laurus heard cautious steps by the cave. He went outside and saw a person with a loaf of bread in his hands.
I am miller Tikhon and I brought you some bread, said the person.
His clothing was covered in flour, and he was around thirty years old. Miller Tikhon bowed and gave Laurus the loaf. Laurus silently took it and bowed, too. The miller left.
He returned the next day, leading his wife by the hand; she walked with a heavy limp.
A grindstone fell on my foot and I have not been able to put weight on it since, said the miller’s wife. My health is worsening with every passing day.
How did you get here with a foot like that, unless your husband carried you in his arms? asked Laurus. Not even every healthy person makes it to my forestland.
It was not that difficult, said miller Tikhon. Your forestland, O Laurus, is only an hour and a half on foot from Rukina Quarter. People walking in the woods saw you and now everyone in the quarter knows you live here.