CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Because Krist was only a couple of decades old, most of the villagers came from farther up the river, from villages no more than fifty miles away. Alexsey Chkalov, the priest, was different. He came from the far south, where trees grew only along the streams and the rich loam of the grasslands yielded fodder for cattle and horses and bountiful gardens. Like his father and his father before him, his fate should have been to be a peasant, scraping at the earth. But rampaging Cossacks left his father and half the village as part of the dust. His mother, distraught with grief, sent him to live with a distant cousin who served as a priest. His new guardian was an old man who moved slowly about his parish. He lived in a hovel like his charges, but he owned two books: a Bible and a volume of liturgy.

For the first time in his life, Alexsey touched a book and found awe in the experience. His guardian tried to teach him to read the block letters inside but Alexsey could never understand. He learned to write his name and memorized the liturgy and a few stories from the Bible. After ordination, he headed north to find a village that needed a priest who could not read.

On the way he passed through Moscow. So many people, so much filth, so much wealth. He hoped to see the Archbishop, but the busy man had no time for an unimportant priest. He did see his Holiness pass on a rutted street in a carriage drawn by six fine white horses, like a great lord. The dried flecks of mud on the white paint did not detract from the power, both heavenly and earthly. The Archbishop was heading to the Kremlin for an audience with the new Czarina, the German princess Catherine.

Leaving Moscow, he went from village to village, seeking one that did not already have a priest. Three months later, he heard that the priest of Krist had died, so he went to the provincial capital to seek that position from the local bishop. A dispensation was granted, and Chkalov left for his new home, still dazzled by the gold rings, fine clothes, and large home of the bishop. Such wealth, awarded by God to his anointed.

He first met the girl Sonja when she came to tell him of her latest dream. She was short, even for seven years, with thick, wild blonde hair. A livid birthmark covered the right half of her face. Chkalov had already heard of her. The villagers thought that she was touched by God and they indulged her prattle. This was not right. She was a child, not a man of God. Only the scriptures gave the words of God, not some child. He had been looking forward to putting her in her place.

She came to him in his log cabin, which doubled as the church. When the weather allowed him, he said mass outdoors rather than have the villagers crowd into a room that was no longer than three men lying down.

“Father, I have dreamed a dream and saw Our Lord in all his glory.”

Complex ideas for one so young, Chkalov thought. He wondered what the previous priest, who had died only a year ago, had told her.

“And what did Our Lord say?” Chkalov asked.

“Our Lord says that you are a good man, but vain. What does vain mean?”

Chkalov gaped at her...how?...who had put those words into her mouth?

He sputtered his confusion. “Where?...what?...why do you say that?”

“It is true. Our Lord spoke it.”

The priest grasped for something to say. “And what does Our Lord look like?”

“You cannot see His face. The light of His glory is too strong. Blinding like the sun.”

“Where is Our Lord when you see Him?”

“In heaven,” she said simply, seeming to get bored by the questions.

“What does heaven look like?”

“It is like a meadow in the forest, with great trees surrounding it, going all the way up into the sky. He has baby animals and angels all around Him.”

“No gold?”

“Gold is for man, not God.”

She spoke with such sincerity and certainty that he saw why the villagers held her in such awe. Some of them said that she was a sprite, akin to the spirits of the woods and water. Such pagan nonsense. Perhaps he had stumbled onto a saint in the flesh, like St. Olga. Of course, Olga was originally a princess, not a peasant.

* * * *

When the labor pains began, Mariia Gladkov sent one of her sons to fetch the baba, while she headed for the bathhouse. She was not like other women, who grunted through hours of labor; after six births, she had learned that her babies came quickly.

An hour later, the child slipped from her womb and after the baba cut its cord, she laid it in the mother’s arms. Mariia looked down at her new daughter, who quivered beneath the blanket. White mucus and streaks of blood still covered the tiny features. Finally, after six sons, a girl; someone to help cook and sew in the house and help her father and brothers in the fields; someone to look after her in her old age. Then the exhausted mother slept.

The next morning, she again took the girl into her arms. This time the girl was asleep, snug and comfortable in a blanket that bound her so tightly that she could not move. The birthmark was quite apparent now. Mariia choked on a sob. What man would want such an ugly woman?

As she felt the child suck at her breast, Mariia remembered a story she had heard when just a girl. In another village a girl was born with her face covered with a birthmark. On that hapless girl, the mark covered all her face, except for around her left eye. If she had been missing and arm or a leg they would have let her die, but she was a healthy bawler and her mother fought to keep her alive. The children teased her and she left the village when she was only fourteen to go to St. Petersburg, where she sold her body at the waterfront. The sailors did not seem to care what she looked like.

Was that to be the fate of her daughter? The loss of three of her six sons to various coughs and fevers had hardened Mariia somewhat. She accepted that God allowed life to be cruel, but she could not accept the idea of her daughter lying with strangers for a few pieces of metal.

She prayed to the Virgin to show pity on her new child. Let the other children be kind and let her find some happiness. Perhaps a nunnery when she was older, where she would be useful and not have to worry about attracting the attention of a man.

On the eighth day, Mariia emerged from the bathhouse, now purified from the stain of childbirth. She took the child to her husband, Marek. She saw his eyes flinch at the sight, but he leaned forward nevertheless and laid a kiss of acceptance on his daughter’s forehead. Mariia came closest to crying then, so relieved and grateful to her man. She took the child to the priest and had her baptized. She named the child Sonja, daughter of wisdom.

Every night from that day on, Mariia took the time to offer a prayer to the Virgin for Sonja’s sake.

Before the first year passed, the girl was speaking in full sentences. The other women marveled at this. She was a quick learner, always asking questions and using her nimble hands to emulate whatever she was watching. People always found a ready smile on her face and a kindness that enchanted them. Such goodness from another adult would be embarrassing, an affront to the inadequacies of all, but acceptable in a child. Only her mother noticed when she threw silent little tantrums, eyes shut, teeth clenched, and hands tightened into fists.

She also never lied, even when other children went through those times when they tested the limits of reality and parental tolerance.

One summer evening, when the girl was five, Mariia and Sonja were cutting potatoes for a stew.

“Why does Our Lord wear a dress?” Sonja asked.

“What?” What a strange idea, Mariia thought.

“Every time that I see him, He is wearing a long dress, not pants, and He has bare feet. Doesn’t He have shoes?”

“When do you see Our Lord?”

“All the time.”

“Where do you see the Lord?”

“Behind my eyes.”

Further conversation revealed that her daughter saw almost continuous visions, and the girl did not realize that she was unique in this. She thought everyone saw Our Lord, why else did they worship Him?

Soon Sonja was telling the neighbors what the Lord looked like and what he was saying. That Misha’s son, Sasha, would recover from a fever. That Our Lord loved us all, except when we sinned, which He hated.

The villagers were mystified at these statements, then accepting. After all, the girl was known to have never lied, and had not the village enjoyed good harvests ever since her birth. Few died of sickness or from accidents. Perhaps God protected them because He protected her. Through it all, Mariia watched her child with intent interest. In so many ways, Sonja was like a carefree, innocent child, and in other ways she seemed like the oldest, wisest, kindest person anyone had ever known.

In the autumn when she was twelve, Sonja asked her father for some planed wood. He had to borrow the tool from the monks at Kerga, but had it done before the snow drifts cut them off from the rest of Russia. Sonja kept the wood in a sack with other secret materials and during the long winter nights she worked on the project. She only did this when she was alone and soon the main topic of gossip turned to speculation about what she might be making. Her parents and brothers honored her request to not peek.

When spring came, she showed the creation to her mother—an icon drawn in brilliant colors and unlike any icon that Mariia had ever seen. Childish and natural-looking, Jesus Christ stood in a meadow, with trees and flowers all around. He wore a full-length robe of grey and His face was a splash of white and gold. A small child knelt at His feet, her hands clasped in prayer. The child’s face was partially covered with a birthmark.

For the first time in her life, Mariia genuinely feared for her daughter’s life. She did not know who was supposed to paint holy icons, but she was sure that it was not small children. What would the soldiers do? A Russian army patrol only came by every few years, but they maintained the purity of the faith in the name of the Czar.

“I am taking it to the priest,” Sonja announced as she left their cabin.

* * * *

Even Chkalov had joined in the speculation about what Sonja’s secret was. He thought that it was a doll, probably a gift for someone. Why else hide it?

Sonja came into his church, bowed before the altar as she always did, and went to his room.

“I have brought something for the church,” she said, handing him the piece of wood, no longer or wider than his forearm.

Chkalov stared at it for a long time, uncertain how to react. It was an icon, but unlike any icon that he had ever seen, and certainly he had seen many more than any of the villagers. Despite its oddness, breaking the formal conventions of icon painting, he liked it. Natural curves replaced straight lines and rigid forms. The colors were a bit off, having been made from berries and whatever she could find. The church did not have an icon, a luxury they could not afford. He had no idea if creating this art broke a rule or not. Perhaps he should go ask the bishop, but the head of the diocese was some sixty miles away, not a journey to be contemplated lightly.

“It will perform miracles in return for worship,” she explained. “Our Lord wills it.”

Miracles. That would bring pilgrims. They would bring money to buy food and lodging. There was potential here. Maybe the bishop could wait. Besides, to reject the icon would surely provoke a serious crisis among his flock, with most people favoring her. Chkalov genuinely loved the villagers, but recognized who was more popular.

As soon as he put the icon above the altar, the villagers streamed into the church, kneeling and worshiping. Just as the essence of God is found in every part of the universe, they believed that He lived in that icon. Offerings piled in front of the altar. Never had so many visited the church, even when Chkalov had first arrived and people were curious to see the new priest.

The first healing happened two days later, when the old woman Matryona hobbled into the church and prayed. Moments later she declared that her knees felt much better. Casting her cane away, she left the church proclaiming praises for the icon and Sonja.

After that, more healings occurred and word began to spread. Some monks from Kerga came and worshiped. Peasants from other villages came.

Four months later, in the pleasant warmth of August, the noble who owned the village of Krist traveled the forty miles upriver from his manor and paid homage to the new icon. He pressed a sack of coins into Chkalov’s hands. Such a wonder needed its own church.

Chkalov went to the monastery at Kerga and sought out a monk with a reputation as a master carpenter. They returned and the carpenter put the villagers to work. They labored so hard that summer that the fields were neglected and Chkalov had to buy food. Imagine that, buying food for peasants. By the first snowfall, the church was finished, with a real floor and a single onion-shaped dome over the entrance. Inside, the icon was hung behind the altar. The number of villagers doubled as more peasants came to live near the new building.

With coins in their pockets, the peasants could now pay for weddings and baptisms, and some of the money returned to Chkalov. He thought about hiring the carpenter to return the next summer and build him a house befitting a priest. Visions of possibilities competed for his attention. If he was lucky enough, maybe he could even buy a bishopric of his own. Even better, maybe the icon and the girl would become so popular and pilgrims so numerous that they would make him the bishop of such an important site. He would have to be cunning to prevent the current bishop from stealing Krist away from him.

All winter the visions danced in his mind, entertaining him during the frigid nights.