Dmitri and the One-Legged Lady. Michael Pearce

at the frames, ‘and Nikita takes them back in his cart.’

      ‘I’m looking for Nikita,’ said Dmitri.

      ‘They’re in the Chapel,’ said the boy. ‘If you’d like to come with me, Barin –’

      He took Dmitri through the shed. Logs, some birch, some pine, were piled high to the ceiling. Drops of gum glistened on the pine like ice and the air was pungent with the smell of resin. At the far end of the shed was a carpenter’s bench. They scuffed through shavings.

      They went out of a door and then across a little closed in yard, and then along dark cold corridors until they emerged in the main yard not far from the door of the Chapel.

      Dmitri went in with a group of pilgrims.

      ‘Where’s the Old Lady, then?’ said one man as they went through the door into the darkness and the candle-light.

      Someone pointed to the space left by the missing icon. The group went up to it and stood for a moment before it.

      ‘This won’t do,’ one of them said.

      Reluctantly, they divided up and went to the other icons.

      ‘It’s not the same,’ grumbled one as they went out.

      The door closed behind them and the shadows recomposed themselves.

      ‘It’s not healthy,’ said a voice suddenly.

      Dmitri turned. It was Volkov.

      ‘What isn’t?’

      ‘This attachment.’ He surveyed the wistful, candle-lit faces on the iconostasis. ‘Maybe it’s a good thing she’s gone missing,’ he said.

      Dmitri had thought they were alone in the Chapel but then behind the iconostasis there was the shuffling of feet. A door opened and the carpenter and another man came through dragging a curious wooden structure behind them. They saw Volkov’s uniform and froze.

      ‘The carpenter,’ said Dmitri. ‘And you’re Nikita?’ he said to the other man.

      ‘Your Honour,’ managed the man, hardly able to speak.

      ‘He’s the carter,’ said Dmitri, ‘he brings logs in to the Monastery. And what do you take out?’ he asked the man.

      ‘Take out. Your Honour?’

      ‘He doesn’t take out anything,’ said the carpenter.

      ‘I saw some frames?’

      ‘Oh, those. It’s a bit of a sideline. Your Honour. When they’ve got a big job on. I sometimes help them out.’

      ‘What’s this?’ said Dmitri, looking at the contraption they were supporting.

      ‘It’s for the Old Lady, Your Honour. When she gets back.’

      ‘The Old Lady?’ said Volkov. ‘The Icon?’

      ‘That’s right, Your Honour. It’s for when they want to carry her. You see, she’s very big and heavy, and if you tried to lift her up on to your shoulders, so that everyone could get a good look at her, you’d never manage it. She’d be too much for you. So what I’ve done is build a frame, which makes it a bit easier. I’ve put a couple of long struts on the back so that those behind can take a bit of the weight –’

      ‘One of the struts needs a bit of work on it,’ said the carter, finding his voice. ‘Otherwise we won’t be able to carry her out at Easter.’

      ‘Out?’ said Volkov.

      ‘Yes, Your Honour. In the Easter processions, we go round all the villages and –’

      ‘Out?’ said Volkov. ‘You take her out?’

      As they were leaving the Chapel, Father Kiril came towards them, eyes blazing.

      ‘Keep them in chains, I say,’ he said. ‘Keep them in chains!’

      ‘Oh, yes?’

      ‘That’s what you’ve got to do. Otherwise they’re up to no end of tricks. Down in the field, I’ve seen them. At it!’

      ‘Yes, well, –’

      ‘They’re all the same. Give them half a chance.’ He nodded towards the space on the iconostasis. ‘She’s no different.’

      ‘She?’

      ‘They took the chains off her. That was their mistake. She’s no different from any of the others. Take the chains off them and off they go. Down to the fields.’

      ‘Ye-es,’ said Volkov, edging away.

      There was a sudden commotion at the gates. Old Grusha’s cart, on its way out, had skidded. The wheels had slipped round and into a snowdrift and now the cart was trapped against one of the posts.

      ‘It’s those damned fools there!’ Old Grusha was shouting, pointing at a group of pilgrims. ‘They wouldn’t get out of the way! You’ve got no more sense than the horse, you haven’t! Do you think it can skip around like you can when it’s pulling a bloody great wagon? You –’

      ‘Grusha, Grusha!’ chided Father Sergei, running out of the gate-house.

      ‘I’ll break their bloody necks!’ shouted Grusha, jumping down.

      One of the pilgrims caught her.

      ‘Father –?’ he looked at Father Sergei.

      ‘Just get her out of the way!’ said another of the pilgrims. ‘We’ll sort this out in a second.’

      Father Sergei took hold of the still-raging Grusha and began to pull her towards the gate-house.

      ‘Come on in here, Grusha, and warm up. There’s a nice bit of a fire in the stove –’

      Gradually, he got her to calm down.

      ‘A spot of tea, Grusha, to warm the inside?’

      ‘I’d prefer a spot of something else.’

      ‘You’ve had that already!’ said Father Sergei sternly.

      ‘Me? Me? The horse, perhaps –’

      Dmitri followed them into the gate-house. The old woman stopped, befuddled, in mid-shout, as the warmth hit her.