Ikon

In the village of Nizhrilovskaya there dwelt fewer than two hundred souls. And as they slept in their beds through the long winter nights, spidery wisps of wood smoke rose into the brittle air from the chimneys of their huts. These izbás, each of rough-hewn logs, were clustered on the flank of a hill where a few of the farmers tended meager flocks of goats and sheep while others coaxed threadbare plots of wheat and rye from the rocky soil. Six days by wagon from Saint Petersburg, it was a world unto itself, as far removed from the glories of the imperial court as from the nocturnal firmament. So as they slumbered, the humble folk of Nizhrilovskaya, if they possessed the capacity at all, could conjure only in their dreams the resplendence of the tsar, his beautiful wife and their five children. And when word finally reached them many weeks after the fact that all the royals were dead at the hands of the Bolsheviks, they were stupified.
“It is the will of God,” declared the village priest with great sagacity from the altar of St. Sophia’s, the tiny church that occupied the center of Nizhrilovskaya. His flock, the old and the young, echoed this somber pronouncement, bowing their heads reverently and crossing themselves once, twice, thrice while the priest swung a brass censer to and fro, leaving the air redolent with the sweet spice of frankincense.
At the age of twenty-seven, Father Pyotr Petrovich Bulgakov was a man angular of body and intensity of mien, an imposing figure in his black cassock and clerical cap, gold cross and chain. The pallor of his drawn face was rendered the more stark by a bushy beard and sunken dark eyes that not a few of the villagers swore in hushed tones could pierce to their very souls.

Father Bulgakov had served the people of Nizhrilovskaya for nearly two years since his predecessor, a venerable and beloved figure, was taken up by the angels at the age of eighty-one. The contrast between the two men was sharp:  Old Father Viktor had been resolutely understanding and cheerful, always gentle in his reproaches and compassionate in ministering unto the needs of his “children.” Short and rotund, he was known fondly in private by the villagers as “tot grusha”--the pear. Father Bulgakov on the other hand, though not unkind, was much sterner, often lecturing his parishioners in blunt language during his sermons about the evils of deviating from strict Orthodox teachings. He was a moody man, frequently distracted, immersed in his own thoughts and quick to annoy. He never spoke of his past and little was known about it, save for whispers.  There had been talk among the village elders that the priest had been banished to their tiny parish as punishment for an indiscretion while at the Donskoy monastery in Moscow. Had it been insubordination? A lapse of faith? A breach of his vow of celibacy? To these questions there were no answers, and as time passed, the speculation faded.
Now, in the village of Nizhrilovskaya, there lived a shoemaker, Nikolai Mikhailovitch Petroshevsky, his wife Polina Kalieva and their two children, twelve-year-old Arkadi and his eight-year-old sister Alina. They were a well-regarded family. Nikolai Mikhailovitch, stout and swarthy, with flowing moustaches, was judged to be good at his trade—careful with the repairs he made and fair in the modest prices he charged for his work. Moreover, his demeanor was unfailingly open and friendly, ever eager to share a good story or a ribald joke.  Polina, too, was gregarious, with a toothy smile and ruddy cheeks beneath a thick shock of hair bundled under a faded blue babushka. She was a favorite among the women of the village, who gathered regularly at the well to cluck the latest gossip.
Of the two children this can be said:  Alina was very much in the image of her mother, given to chubbiness, with the same crimson-tinged cheeks and wide grin. She laughed easily and enjoyed mischievous pranks at her brother’s expense. Arkadi took these in stride, but it was not in his nature to reciprocate. By temperament, he was quiet, reserved, a studious lad who, from a very early age, had been very much taken with the Church.  Each day he earnestly recited from a worn volume of liturgical verses good Father Viktor had given him on his ninth birthday. Although his parents could not account for their son’s piety, it did not displease them; they encouraged it, including his regular Sabbath service at St. Sofia’s as an altar boy.
The change came over him when autumn was deepening, the angle of the sun growing more acute. The skies bore a leaden cast and the wind took on winter’s first bitter bite. To the west of the village, below the steep crest of the hill, the bubbling waters of Shukhov Creek were muted by the season’s icy rime.
As a young acolyte, Arkadi had been taught the significance of Holy Communion in the life of the Orthodox Christian and that its prerequisite—even for an altar boy of twelve—was confession before receiving  the blessed sacrament. And so, each week, to prepare himself for Communion on Sunday, the evening before he would dutifully trudge from his home on the outskirts of the village to the church where he would stand before the stern figure of Fr. Bulgakov in the anteroom of the sanctuary, fold his small hands and recount his sins of the previous week— a harsh word to his sister, a minor shoving match with a schoolmate, a parental command that went unheeded.
When he finished, he crossed himself as the priest admonished him to see the error of his ways. Then, Fr. Bulgakov raised the simple purple 1stole that hung nearly to the floor and draped it over Arkadi’s bowed head while quietly intoning:
“God, the Father of mercies, through the death and the resurrection of His Son  . . . ”
The stole rested heavily on the lad, reminding him that he was, indeed, a sinner. He fervently promised to himself in that moment that he would try harder to be better, fearful of failure but taking comfort in the closing words of the prayer.
“Through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.
“Make the sign of the cross,” the priest instructed, “and say ‘amen’.” This Arkadi did in his thin voice. “Now, go with God. I will see you in the morning,” Father Bulgakov said before turning back into the sanctuary.
As he made his return through the village, Arkadi was helped on his way by the risen full moon.
“God speed, malchik, before the Devil nips your behind,” cried old Yevgeny with a toothless grin from the doorway of his hut. Arkadi waved and drew the collar of his thin coat up around his neck against the evening chill. He hurried on for several more paces before stopping in his tracks and turning around. He remembered at that moment that he had forgotten to tell Fr. Bulgakov he would be a few minutes later than usual for the morning’s service. Breaking into a trot he was soon back at the rear door of St. Sofia’s.
He entered quietly, stepping softly into the small anteroom containing the closet where he hung his altar boy’s robe. He heard murmuring from the sanctuary and, thinking the priest was reciting prayers, he crept forward as silently as he could to the doorway hung with a drape of black velvet. Carefully, he drew back the edge of the curtain just enough to peer inside. When he did his eyes went wide.
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The next day Arkadi fulfilled his altar boy’s duties,  but more than once gave Fr. Bulgakov a look of puzzlement. Still, he kept his questions to himself. And during the succeeding days, his reticence showed.
“Are you not feeling well, dear one?” Polina asked one evening at the dinner table.
“I am fine, mother,” was Arkadi’s less-than-convincing response.
“I know what ails the boy,” said Nikolai Mikhailovitch as he scooped up a large mouthful of bean stew with a thick slice of dark rye bread. “You are sad because old father winter is ready to bellow and blow. Am I right, son?”
“Yes, father,” Arkadi answered, forcing a wan smile.
So it continued in this fashion throughout the week until Saturday evening when it was again time for Arkadi to make his confession.  But this time as he stood before the priest with clasped hands, his mind was clouded and he replied distractedly when asked for a recitation of his sins. After Fr. Bulgakov finished the prayer of absolution, he looked down at Arkadi, head bowed, crossing himself.
“I can see something else is on your mind,” the priest began. “What is troubling you?”Arkadi looked up at Fr. Bulgakov, who seemed even taller and more imposing than usual.
“I—I…” he stammered.
“Come, come, you can tell me.” Still, Arkadi faltered, casting his eyes down. Now, the priest was losing his patience. “Either speak up or leave, boy, I don’t have all night.” After a long moment, Arkadi mustered up all his courage and spoke in a quiet voice.
“Last week, Father, after I made my confession and started back home, I remembered that I had not told you I would be late for divine liturgy, so…”  Again, his words caught in his throat.
“Yes, ‘so,’ go on,” Fr. Bulgakov urged sternly.
“So I returned to the church to tell you. And when I came in here, I-I heard your voice from inside the sanctuary. I thought you were praying and did not wish to disturb you. But when I peaked in, I saw you holding the ikon of the Holy Mother and your other hand was under your robe and—”
At that moment the priest’s face twisted into a mask of rage. He raised his right hand and struck Arkadi hard across the face.
“Silence! You are an ignorant little liar! You saw nothing and you are never to speak of it. Do you hear me?” Arkadi stumbled back, stung from the shock of the blow and nodded. “Now, go and never forget what I have told you.” The young boy turned, his face red and smarting, and fled.
So it was that as late autmn gave way to the  deepening frost of winter in the village of Nizhrilovskaya, Arkadi did not speak.  He said nothing, not only about what he had witnessed, but not a word on any subject. This completely confounded all those around him—his mother and father, teachers and playmates. Despite all attempts to coax him from his profound silence, Arkadi remained mute.  Add to this, he abandoned his daily devotions and stubbornly refused to serve any longer at Sunday liturgy.
At their wits’ end, his parents, believing that in some fashion their son had come under the spell of a demon, implored Fr. Bulgakov to conduct an exorcism and free the boy. With deep solemnity, this the priest agreed to do.
The next day, early in the evening, he came to the Petroshevsky’s izbá, and with Nikolai Mikhailovitch and Polina Kalieva looking on, worry etching their faces and childlike hope fueling their whispered prayers, the priest stood over Arkadi as he lay in his bed and gravely rebuked the unclean spirit to depart with long, muttered incantations punctuated by liberally sprinkling holy water on the child. At the end, he commanded the boy to sit erect and look into his dark, blazing eyes as he intoned “Go, my son--newly cleansed—under the shield of Our Lord Christ Jesus!”
It had taken less than an hour.
It changed nothing.
Arkadi remained as before, mute, and as the days passed, more withdrawn than ever. His father spent long stretches staring into space, unable to grasp what had happened to his beloved son. While his distraught wife prayed fervently morning, noon and night, sister Alina was given to sudden spells of crying. His neighbors, the good people of the village of Nizhrilovskaya, could do little but shake their heads and cross themselves, silently grateful that the fate of the Petroshevskys had not befallen their families.
When the days shortened and the wind swung north by northwest bringing with it the first snows of the winter, a new crisis descended on the village:
Arkadi had disappeared.
It was on a Wednesday, the 21st of November, the date the Feast of the Entrance of the Theotokos was marked by the Church, that Polina Kalieva grew concerned when Arkadi hadn’t returned from school at his usual time. And she became even more alarmed when a knock at the door was his teacher to inquire if illness was the reason why he had been absent from class.
Polina sent her daughter to fetch Nikolai Mikhailovitch from his cobbler’s shop. He closed at once and returned home as word spread throughout the village. Parents questioned their children, but none could recall having seen Arkadi during the whole of the day.
Evening shadows fell, and while several of the neighbor women gathered to console Polina, a small group of the menfolk joined with Nikolai Mikhailovitch, kindled torches and with light flurries swirling in the air struck out to comb a broad swath of thick gorse that meandered west of the village where the golden aspens whispered together on the banks of Shukhov Creek.  The men moved with purpose, noisily, repeatedly calling Arkadi’s name.
For more than an hour, they carried on thusly. But finally in the depth of new-moon darkness, the group turned back to the village, vowing to resume their search at first light.
For the village of Nizhrilovskaya, the night seemed to stretch on with agonizing slowness. In some of the homes, hushed voices dared to speak the unthinkable.
With the crowing of the cocks, led again by Nikolai Mikhailovitch, his eyes dark-rimmed from lack of sleep, the men assembled, this time accompanied by Borya, the gray-and-white laika who was the faithful herding companion of farmer Alexei Podolov.
After providing the dog with one of Arkadi’s shirts to sniff, the group set out to the north, where the hills rose to an outcropping of ancient crags. While their wives rocked to and fro, beating their breasts and mumbling fervent prayers with Fr. Bulgakov within the walls of St. Sofia’s, the men labored up the steep grade, led by lively Borya, alert to the trail he had picked up. The higher the climb, the more he lunged forward, impatient to be off his lead. A hundred feet below the highest part of the hill, Alexei Podolov finally relented and freed the dog. In an instant, he rushed ahead excitedly, nose to the ground, sweeping left and right in a tight arc until he reached a spot between two great weathered stones upthrust from the chill earth where he pulled up abruptly and began pacing back and forth, barking with urgency.
In a few moments, the men caught up, and to their horror, saw quickly what had stirred Borya to such excitement. A short distance where the ridge angled down and away, was a cleft in the crags, shadowed from the morning sun. And there, curled up tightly, was the figure of a small boy, his face partly obscured by a gentle dusting of snow. In his right hand he clutched a small Orthodox prayer book. At this sorrowful sight, Nikolai Mikhailovitch sank to his knees and cried out in anguish.
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Forward and back, side to side, Fr. Bulgakov swung the brass censer, first above 1the smooth pine coffin, then out and over the bowed heads of the villagers who crowded every available space of his church. And as the rich scent of frankincense filled the air, the priest intoned:
“O God of spirits and of all flesh, Who hast trampled down death and overthrown the Devil, and given life to Thy world, do Thou, the same Lord, give rest to the soul of Thy departed servant Arkadi.”
At these words of the ancient prayer, a fresh wave of sobbing rose from Polina Kalieva, who slumped against the stolid figure of her stricken husband. By their side, young Alina sat, dazed, unable to take her eyes from the coffin.
There was much weeping among the faithful as they wrestled1 with their grief over what had led the lad to run away from home only to freeze to death on a desolate hillside. Clearly, whatever devil had taken hold had retained its grip on Arkadi despite Fr. Bulgakov using his power as the agent of the Almighty to dislodge the demon.
While the simple peasants struggled with their bafflement, Fr. Bulgakov concluded the prescribed invocations. Setting aside the ornate censer and gilded prayer book, he began extolling Arkadi’s virtues—what a fine boy he was, how beloved by his family and the village, how much he would be missed. As he carried on with these perfunctory remarks, there arose a stirring, a tension among the faithful. When it reached its peak, a ragged cry burst forth from one of the men near the back of the church.
“But, why, Father? Pochemu?”
The priest stopped, closed his eyes and said nothing for a long moment as he stroked the gold cross that hung at his breast before reaching out and placing his hand atop the coffin before him.
“Because, my children,” he began, opening his eyes and sweeping them from one side of the church to the other before coming to rest on Arkadi’s grieving family, “it was the will of God.”​

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Nick Young is a retired award-winning CBS News Correspondent.  His writing has appeared in more than thirty reviews, journals and anthologies. His first novel, "Deadline," was published in  September.  He lives outside Chicago.
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Image: Andrey Bond / Unsplash