“The library was a long gallery on the first floor, nearly opposite the abbot’s rooms. At the entrance, a black-bearded monk ushered us in; he was a tall, gaunt-faced man and it seemed to me that he looked hard at Stoichev for a moment before nodding to us. ‘This is Brother Rumen,’ Stoichev told us. ‘He is the librarian monk at present. He will show us what we need to see.’
“A few books and manuscripts had been put into glass-fronted display cases and labeled for the tourists; I would have liked to look at these, but we were on our way to a deeper recess, which opened out of the back of the room. It was miraculously cool in the depths of the monastery, and even the few raw electric bulbs could not completely chase away the profound darkness in the corners. In this inner sanctum, wooden cabinets and shelves were laden with boxes and trays of books. In the corner a little shrine held an icon of the Virgin and her stiff, precocious baby flanked by two red-winged angels, with a jeweled gold lamp hanging before them. The old, old walls were whitewashed stucco and the smell that engulfed us was a familiar odor of slowly decaying parchment, vellum, velvet. I was glad to see that Ranov had at least had the grace to put out his smoke before following us into this treasure-house.
“Stoichev tapped his foot on the stone floor as if summoning spirits. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘you are looking at the heart of the Bulgarian people-this is where for hundreds of years the monks preserved our heritage, often in secret. Generations of faithful monks copied these manuscripts, or hid them when the monastery was attacked by the infidel. This is a small percentage of the legacy of our people-much of it was destroyed, of course. But we are grateful for these remains.’
“He spoke with the librarian, who began to look carefully through labeled boxes on the shelves. After a few minutes he brought down a wooden box and took from it several volumes. The top one was decorated with a startling painting of Christ-at least I took it to be Christ-an orb in one hand and a scepter in the other, his face clouded with Byzantine melancholy. To my disappointment, Brother Kiril’s letters were not housed in this glorious binding, but in a plainer one beneath it, which had the look of old bone. The librarian carried it to a table and Stoichev sat eagerly down to it, opening it with relish. Helen and I drew out our notebooks and Ranov strolled around the library shelves as if too bored to stay in one place.
“‘As I remember,’ Stoichev said, ‘there are two letters here, and it is unclear whether there were more-whether Brother Kiril wrote others that have not survived.’ He pointed to the first page. It was covered in a close, rounded, calligraphic hand, and the parchment was deeply aged, almost brown. He turned to the librarian with a question. ‘Yes,’ he told us, pleased. ‘They have typed these in Bulgarian, and some of the other rare documents from this period, as well.’ The librarian set a folder in front of him, and Stoichev sat silent a while, examining the typed pages and turning back to the ancient calligraphy. ‘They have done quite a good job,’ he said at last. ‘I will read you the best translation I can, for your notes.’ And he read to us a halting version of these two letters.
Your Excellency, Lord Abbot Eupraxius:
We are now three days upon the high road journeying out of Laota toward Vin. One night we slept in the stable of a good farmer, and one night at the hermitage of Saint Mikhail, where no monks now live but which gave us at least the dry shelter of a cave. The last night we were forced for the first time to make our camp in the forest, spreading rugs on the rustic floor and placing our bodies within a circle of the horses and wagon. Wolves came close enough in the night for us to hear their howling, whereupon the horses tried in terror to bolt. With great difficulty we subdued them. Now I am heartily glad for the presence of Brothers Ivan and Theodosius, with their height and strength, and I bless your wisdom in placing them among us.
Tonight we are made welcome in the house of a shepherd of some wealth and also of piety; he has three thousand sheep in this region, he tells us, and we are bid sleep on his soft sheepskins and mattresses, although I for one have elected the floor as more fitting to our devotions. We are out of the forest here, among open hills that roll on every side, where we may walk with equal blessing in rain and sunshine. The good man of the house tells us they have twice suffered the raids of the infidel from across the river, which is now a few days’ walk only, if Brother Angelus can mend himself and keep to our pace. I think to let him ride one of the horses, although the sacred weight they pull is great enough already on them. Fortunately, we have seen no signs of infidel soldiers on the road.
Your most humble servant in Christ,
Br. Kiril
April, the Year of Our Lord 6985
Your Excellency, Lord Abbot Eupraxius:
We have left the city some weeks behind us and are now riding openly in the territory of the infidels. I dare not write our location, in case we should be captured. Perhaps we should have chosen the sea route after all, but God will be our Protector along the way we have chosen. We have seen the burned remains of two monasteries and one church. The church was smoking as yet. Five monks were hung there for conspiring to a rebellion, and their surviving brothers are scattered to other monasteries already. This is the only news we have learned, as we cannot talk long with the people who come out to our wagon. There is no reason to think one of these monasteries is the one we seek, however. The sign will be clear there, the monster equal to the saint. If this missive can be delivered to you, my lord, it shall be as soon as possible.
Your most humble servant in Christ,
Br. Kiril
June, the Year of Our Lord 6985
“When Stoichev had finished, we sat in silence. Helen was scribbling notes still, her face intent over her work, Irina sat with her hands folded, Ranov stood negligently against a cabinet, scratching under his collar. For myself, I had given up trying to write down the events described in the letter; Helen would catch everything anyway. There was no clear evidence here of a particular destination, no mention of a tomb, no scene of burial-the disappointment I felt was choking.
“But Stoichev seemed far from downcast. ‘Interesting,’ he said, after long minutes. ‘Interesting. You see, your letter from Istanbul must lie between these two letters here, chronologically. In the first and second letters, they are traveling through Wallachia toward the Danube-that is clear from the place-names. Then comes your letter, which Brother Kiril wrote in Constantinople, perhaps hoping to send it and the previous letters from there. But he was unable or afraid to send them-unless these are just copies-we have no way to know. And the last letter is dated June. They took a land route like the one that is described by the Zacharias ”Chronicle.“ In fact, it must have been the same route, from Constantinople through Edirne and Haskovo, because that was the major road fromTsarigrad into Bulgaria.’
“Helen looked up. ‘But can we be sure this last letter describes Bulgaria?’
“‘We cannot be absolutely certain,’ Stoichev admitted. ‘However, I believe it is very probable. If they traveled fromTsarigrad -Constantinople-into a country where monasteries and churches were being burned in the late fifteenth century, it is very likely that this was Bulgaria. Also, your letter from Istanbul states that they intend to go to Bulgaria.’
“I couldn’t help voicing my frustration. ‘But there’s no further information about the location of the monastery they were looking for. Assuming it even was Sveti Georgi.’ Ranov had settled at the table with us and was looking at his thumbs; I wondered if I should hide my interest in Sveti Georgi from him, but how else were we going to ask Stoichev about it?