Opening her eyes without waking up, Anastasia utters:
What a strange life Alexander had. What was the historical goal of his life?
Laurus looks steadily into Anastasia’s eyes and reads his own questions in them. Bending over the sleeping girl’s ear, Laurus whispers:
Life has no historical goal. Or that is not the main goal. I think Alexander only grasped that right before his death.
The clamor of voices awakens them early in the morning. Laurus goes outside the cave and sees men from Rukina Quarter. They have pitchforks and stakes in their hands. Laurus silently looks at them. They are silent for a time, too. Their faces are covered with large beads of sweat and their hair clings to their foreheads. They have hurried here. They are still breathing heavily.
The blacksmith Averky says:
You know, O elder, that there was hunger last year. And the reason for that was the wench Anastasia’s relations with the Devil.
Laurus is looking straight ahead but it is unclear if he sees anyone.
We burned Anastasia, continues blacksmith Averky, but the hunger has not lessened. What does that speak of, O elder?
Laurus shifts his eyes to the blacksmith.
It speaks of there being ignorance in your heads.
You, O elder, are incorrect. It speaks of our not having burned her.
We did not even find her bones, sighs the miller Tikhon.
Laurus takes a few steps in Tikhon’s direction.
Is your wife healthy, O Tikhon?
With God’s blessing, yes, answers the miller.
He notices traces of flour on the hem of his shirt and begins brushing them off.
People have seen Anastasia here, says blacksmith Averky. They have seen her go inside your cell… We know, O elder, that she is here.
The visitors are looking at blacksmith Averky and are not looking at Laurus.
I forbid you to go inside my cell, resounds Laurus’s voice.
Forgive me, O elder, but our families stand behind us, blacksmith Averky says quietly. And we will go inside your cell.
He walks slowly toward the cave and disappears inside. A shriek resounds from the cave. Blacksmith Averky comes outside a moment later. He is holding Anastasia by the hair: it is wound around his red fist like strands of flax. Anastasia shrieks and tries to bite Averky on the thigh. Averky smashes her face against his knee. Anastasia quietens and hangs on Averky’s arm. Her large belly sways. To those standing there, it seems as if that belly will separate from Anastasia any minute and out will come the one who should not be looked at.
The Devil has possessed her, shriek those standing there.
They liven themselves up a bit with those shrieks because they cannot resolve themselves to approach Anastasia. They are stunned by the courage of the blacksmith who is holding her.
The Devil possessed you, says Laurus, gasping, for it is you who are committing a mortal sin.
Anastasia opens her eyes. They are filled with horror. They are so frightful on her upside-down face that everyone involuntarily steps back. Fear grips blacksmith Averky for a brief moment, too. He flings Anastasia away from himself. She is lying on the ground between him and Laurus. Averky pulls himself together and abruptly turns to Laurus:
She has not named the father of her child because he is not here, among those born of this earth!
Anastasia raises herself up on her elbow. She is not shrieking, she is wheezing. That wheeze takes an entire eternity to float to the ears of those standing there.
That is the father of my child!
Her free hand points to Laurus.
Everyone goes silent. The morning breeze slackens and the trees are no longer rustling.
Is that true? asks someone in the crowd. Tell us, O elder, that she is lying.
Laurus raises his head and looks around at everyone with a lingering weathered glance.
No. It is true.
Everyone exhales. The crowns of the pine trees begin swaying again and clouds set sail. A smile flickers on blacksmith Averky’s lips.
Ah, so that’s what’s going on...
Averky’s smile is barely noticeable, lending it a particular indecency.
These things happen to everyone, miller Tikhon whispers into someone’s ear. Absolutely to everyone. This is a realm where, as they say, there are no guarantees.
The callers dissolve unnoticeably into the woods. Their pitchforks and stakes turn into branches on bushes. Their voices fade, no longer distinguishable from the birds’ sharp shrieks. Or from tree trunks rubbing against one another. Laurus absently takes heed of this disappearance. He is sitting, his cheek pressed against the trunk of an old pine. Its bark consists of separate tiles that seem almost glued on. The tiles are crinkled and rough; some are covered in moss. Ants run up and down them. Swarm in the moss. In Laurus’s beard. The ants are not inclined to distinguish him from the pine tree and he understands them. He himself feels the degree of his woodenness, too. It has already begun and it is difficult to counter. A little more and he will not return, ever. Anastasia’s animated voice drags him from the province of the wooden.
You were forced to tell them an untruth.
Sounds form into words. Untruth. Forced to tell them.
Did I really tell them an untruth?
During the next days, numerous loiterers appear in the vicinity of Laurus’s cell. News about him and Anastasia has spread instantly and now the neighboring residents are coming to have a look at them. Even the dire circumstances of their life do not stop the curious: for many people, the attraction of seeing someone else’s fall with one’s own eyes is stronger than hunger. There were few sensational stories in the Middle Ages but what happened with Laurus is, without a doubt, one of them because it concerns the fall of a righteous man.
The residents of close and distant villages are not exactly glad about what happened, it is simply that their ridiculous life, mired in betrayals and squabbles, now seems a bit better. Against this backdrop, they understand that what is demanded of them is not so great. In their conversations, many of them even sympathize with Laurus, noting as they do that a high flight unavoidably carries the threat of falls this profound. It is thus not surprising that they themselves have no intentions of soaring very high in the future.
A week later, the flow of callers is diminishing sharply. There are now far fewer callers than in the previous times, which were not spoiled by all the gloom. It is obvious that this period of hunger plays a role: people think less about their health at times like this.
There is another reason for this, which is likely the most important. After everything that happened, many are losing faith in Laurus’s healing capacities. After all, it had always been obvious that, unlike regular doctors, his capabilities rested on more than just knowledge of the human body. Laurus did not treat: he healed, and healing is not tied to experience. Higher powers encouraged Laurus’s gift, and he was driven by renunciation and a love, of unprecedented strength, for those near and dear. Nobody could have expected that this love (those speaking are laughing behind his back) could take on such forms. The right-mindedness of the rumor mill lies in recognizing that the right to heal attaches itself only to a worthy person. And Laurus is no longer that sort of person.
People still come to him out of old habit but they do so somewhat uncertainly and generally for small things. Laurus has to deal with toothaches and wart removal ever more often. There are more serious cases, too, but their carriers do not themselves know if it is worth entrusting those illnesses to unreliable hands.
The very worst thing happens during those days: Laurus understands that now he cannot handle even the simplest of illnesses. He senses that the healing power no longer emanates from his hands.
Any healing arises first and foremost from belief in it, Laurus tells Ustina. They no longer trust me and that, my love, breaks my bond with them. Now I cannot help them.
And tears wash his cheeks.