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To Marius； who stood beside me as faithfully as a shadow； I confided that I could not have endured it； but we both knew this was a lie。 In all likelihood I would have endured it； and I would have died without ever knowing any other world。
I moved into the first of the long tunnels where the monks were buried； and； closing my eyes and cleaving to the mud wall； I listened for the dreams and prayers of those who lay entombed alive for the love of God。
It was nothing but what I could imagine； and exactly as I recalled。 I heard the familiar； no longer mysterious words whispered in the Church Slavonic。 I saw the prescribed images。 I felt the sputtering flame of true devotion and true mysticism； kindled from the weak fire of lives of utter denial。
I stood with my head bowed。 I let my temple rest against the mud。 I wished to find the boy； so pure of soul； who had opened these cells to bring the hermits just enough food and drink to keep them alive。 But I couldn't find the boy。 I couldn't。 And I felt only a raging pity for him that he had ever suffered here； thin and miserable； and desperate； and ignorant； oh； so terribly ignorant； having but one sensuous joy in life and that was to see the colors of the ikon catch fire。
I gasped。 I turned my head and fell stupidly into Marius's arms。
〃Don't cry； Amadeo；〃 he said tenderly in my ear。
He brushed my hair from my eyes； and with his soft thumb he even wiped away my tears。
〃Tell it all farewell now； son；〃 he said。
I nodded。
In a twinkling we stood outside。 I didn't speak to him。 He followed me。 I headed down the slope towards the waterfront city。
The smell of the river grew stronger； the stench of humans grew stronger； and finally I came to the house that I knew had been my own。 What madness this seemed suddenly！ What was I seeking？ To measure all this by new standards？ To confirm for myself that as a mortal child I had never had the slightest chance？
Dear God； there was no justification for what I was； an impious blood drinker； feeding off the luxurious stews of the wicked Venetian world； I knew it。 Was this all a vain exercise in self…justification？ No； something else pulled me towards the long rectangular house； like so many others； its thick clay walls divided by rough timbers； its four…tiered roof dripping with icicles； this large and crude house that was my home。
As soon as we reached it； I crept around the sides。 The slush of the snow had here turned to water； and indeed； the water of the river leaked down the street and into everywhere as it had when I was a child。 The water leaked into my fine…stitched Venetian boots。 But it could not paralyze my feet as it had once done； because I drew my strength now from gods unknown here； and creatures for whom these filthy peasants； of which I had been one； had no name。
I lay my head against the rough wall； just as I had done in the Monastery； cleaving to the mortar as if the solidity would protect me and transmit to me all that I wanted to know。 I could see through a tiny hole in the broken clumps of clay that were forever crumbling； and I beheld in the familiar blaze of candles； and the brighter light of lamps； a family gathered around the warmth of the large brick stove。
I knew them all； these people； though some of their names were gone from my mind。 I knew that they were kindred； and I knew the atmosphere that they shared。
But I had to see beyond this little gathering。 I had to know if these people were well。 I had to know if after that fateful day； when I'd been kidnapped； and my Father no doubt murdered in the wild lands； they had managed to go on with their usual vigor。 I had to know； perhaps； what they prayed when they thought of Andrei； the boy with the gift to make ikons so perfectly； ikons not made by human hands。
I heard the harp inside； I heard singing。 The voice was that of one of my uncles； one so young he might have been my brother。 His name was Borys； and he had since early childhood been good with singing； memorizing easily the old dumys； or sagas； of the knights and heroes； and it was one of them； very rhythmical and tragic； which he was singing now。 The harp was small and old； my Father's harp； and Borys strummed the strings in time with his phrases as he all but spoke the story of a lusty and fatal battle for ancient and great Kiev。
I heard the familiar cadences that had been passed down by our people from singer to singer for hundreds of years。 I put my fingers up and broke loose a bit of mortar。 I saw through the tiny opening the Ikon corner…directly opposite the family gathering around the shimmering fire in the open stove。
Ah； what a spectacle！ Amid dozens of little candle stubs and earthen lamps full of burning fat； there stood propped some twenty or more ikons； some very old and darkened in their gold frames； and some radiant； as though only yesterday they'd e alive through the power of God。 There were painted eggs stuffed amongst the pictures； eggs beautifully decorated and colored with patterns I could well recall； though even with my vampire eyes I was too far away to see them now。 Many times I had watched the women decorating these sacred eggs for Easter； applying the hot melting wax to them with their wooden pens to mark the ribbons or the stars or the crosses or the lines which meant the ram's horns； or the symbol which meant the butterfly or the stork。 Once the wax had been applied； the egg would be dipped in cold dye of amazingly deep color。 It had seemed there was an endless variety； and endless possibility for meaning； in these simple patterns and signs。
These fragile and beautiful eggs were kept for curing the sick； or for protection against the storm。 I had hidden such eggs in an orchard for good luck with the ing harvest。 I had placed one once over the door of the house in which my sister went to live as a young bride。
There was a beautiful story about these decorated eggs； that as long as the custom was followed； as long as such eggs existed； then the world would be safe from the monster of Evil who wanted always to e and devour all that was。
It was sweet to see these eggs placed there in the proud corner of the Ikons； as always； among the Holy Faces。 That I had forgotten this custom seemed a shame and a warning of tragedy to e。
But the Holy Faces caught me suddenly and I forgot all else。 I saw the Face of Christ blazing in the firelight； my brilliant scowling Christ； as I had so often painted Him。 I had done so many of these pictures； and yet how like the one lost that day in the high grasses of the wild lands was this very one！
But that was impossible。 How could anyone have recovered the ikon I had dropped when the raiders took me prisoner？ No； it must surely be another； for as I said； I had done so many before my parents had ever gotten up the courage to take me to the monks。 Why； all through this town were my ikons。 My Father had even brought them to Prince Michael as proud gifts； and it was the Prince who had said that the monks must see my skill。
How stern Our Lord looked now pared to the recollection of the tender musing Christs