“‘The dragon,’ Helen murmured to me as we watched them.
“‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We have to find out where they keep this icon and how old it is. Come on. The priest promised us a tour of the church.’
“‘What about Ranov?’ Helen didn’t look around.
“‘We’ll just have to pray he doesn’t decide to follow us,’ I said. ‘I don’t think he saw the icon.’
“The priest was returning to the church, and the people had started to drift away. We followed him slowly, and found him setting the icon of Sveti Petko back on its podium. The other two icons were nowhere to be seen. I bowed my thanks and told him in English how beautiful the ceremony had been, waving my hands and pointing outside. He seemed pleased. Then I gestured around the church and raised my eyebrows. ‘May we take a tour?’
“‘Tour?’ He frowned for a second, and then smiled again. Wait-he needed only to disrobe. When he returned in his everyday black garb, he took us carefully into every niche, pointing out‘ikoni’ and‘Hristos’ and some other things we more or less understood. He seemed to know a great deal about the place and its history, if only we’d been able to understand him. At last I asked him where the other icons were, and he pointed to the yawning hole I’d noticed earlier in one of the side chapels. They had apparently already been returned to the crypt, where they were kept. He fetched his lantern, obligingly, and led us down.
“The stone steps were steep, and the breath of cold that reached us from below made the church itself seem warm. I gripped Helen’s hand tightly as we picked our way down after the priest’s lantern, which illuminated the old stones around us. The small room below was not completely dark, however; two stands of candles blazed next to an altar, and after a moment we could see, if dimly, that it was not an altar but an elaborate brass reliquary, partly covered with richly embroidered red damask. On it stood the two icons in silver frames, the Virgin and-I took a step forward-the dragon and the knight. ‘Sveti Petko,’ the priest said cheerfully, touching the casket.
“I pointed to the Virgin, and he told us something that had to do withBachkovski manastir, although we couldn’t understand more than that. Then I pointed to the other icon, and the priest beamed. ‘Sveti Georgi,’ he said, indicating the knight. He pointed to the dragon.‘Drakula.’
“‘That probably just means dragon,’ Helen warned me.
“I nodded. ‘How can we ask him how old he thinks it is?’
“‘Star? Staro?’Helen guessed.
“The priest shook his head in agreement.‘Mnogo star,’ he said solemnly. We stared at him. I held up my hand and counted fingers. Three? Four? Five? He smiled. Five. Five fingers-about five hundred years.
“‘He thinks it’s fifteenth century,’ Helen said. ‘God, how are we going to ask him where it’s from?’ I pointed to the icon, gestured around at the crypt, pointed up to the church above us. But when he understood he gave the universal gesture of ignorance; his shoulders and eyebrows rose and fell together. He didn’t know. He seemed to try to tell us that the icon had been here at Sveti Petko for hundreds of years-beyond that, he didn’t know.
“At last he turned, smiling, and we prepared to follow him and his lantern back up the steep steps. And we would have left that place forever, and in complete hopelessness, if Helen had not suddenly caught the narrow heel of her pump between two of the stones underfoot. She gasped with annoyance-I knew she did not have another pair of shoes with her-and I bent quickly to free her. The priest was nearly out of sight, but the candles blazing next to the reliquary afforded me enough light to see what was engraved on the vertical of the bottom step, right next to Helen’s foot. It was a small dragon, crude but unmistakable, and unmistakably the same design as the one in my book. I dropped to my knees on the stones and traced it with one hand. It was so familiar to me that I could have carved it there myself. Helen crouched next to me, her shoe forgotten. ‘My God,’ she said. ‘What is this place?’
“‘Sveti Georgi,’ I said slowly. ‘This must be Sveti Georgi.’
“She peered at me in the dim light, her hair falling into her eyes. ‘But the church is eighteenth century,’ she objected. Then her face cleared. ‘You think that -’
“‘Lots of churches have much older foundations, right? And we know this one was rebuilt after the Turks burned the original. Couldn’t it have been a monastery church, for a monastery everyone forgot long ago?’ I was whispering in my excitement. ‘It could have been rebuilt decades or centuries later, and renamed for the martyr they did remember.’
“‘Helen turned in horror and stared at the brass reliquary behind us. ’Do you also think -‘
“‘I don’t know,’ I said slowly. ‘It seems unlikely to me they could have confused one set of relics with another, but how recently do you think that box has been opened?’
“‘It does not look big enough,’ she said. She seemed unable to say more.
“‘It doesn’t,’ I agreed, ‘but we have got to try it. At least, I’ve got to. I want you to stay out of this, Helen.’
“She gave me a quizzical look, as if puzzled by the idea that I would even try to send her away. ‘It is very serious to break into a church and desecrate the grave of a saint.’
“‘I know,’ I said. ‘But what if this isn’t the grave of a saint?’
“There were two names neither of us could have managed to utter in that dark, cold place with its flickering lights and smell of beeswax and earth. One of those names was Rossi.
“‘Right now? Ranov will be looking for us,’ Helen said.
“When we emerged from the church, the shadows of the trees around it were lengthening, and Ranov was looking for us, his face impatient. Brother Ivan stood by, although I noticed they hardly spoke to each other. ‘Did you have a good nap?’ Helen asked politely.
“‘It is time for us to go back to Bachkovo.’ Ranov’s voice was curt again; I wondered if he was disappointed that we had apparently found nothing here. ‘We will leave for Sofia in the morning. I have business to take care of there. I hope you are satisfied with your research.’
“‘Almost,’ I said. ‘I would like to visit Baba Yanka one more time and thank her for her help.’
“‘Very well.’ Ranov looked annoyed, but he led the way back down into the village, Brother Ivan walking silently behind us. The street was quiet in the golden evening light, and everywhere there was a smell of cooking. I saw an old man come out to the central water pump and fill a bucket. At the far end of Baba Yanka’s little street, a herd of goats and sheep was being led in; we could hear their plaintive voices and see them crowding one another between the houses before a boy whisked them around the corner.
“Baba Yanka was delighted to see us. We congratulated her, through Ranov, on her wonderful singing and on the fire dance. Brother Ivan blessed her with a silent gesture. ‘How is it that you don’t get burned?’ Helen asked her.
“‘Oh, that is the power of God,’ she said softly. ‘I do not remember later how it happened. Sometimes my feet feel hot afterward, but I never burn them. It is the most beautiful day of the year for me, even though I do not remember much of it. For months I am as peaceful as a lake.’