Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [115]
It was at this time that she found one place of sanctuary. She discovered it three days after her abortion.
It was a church, but not a stone one. It lay in the Potters end, on the St Sophia side of the city, and it was constructed entirely of wood. It was dedicated to St Blaise.
This saint was a typical example of how, at the level of the simple people, the Christian Church had wisely adapted itself to the customs and affections of the Slavs and Finns it converted. St Blaise was a saint who protected animals. To all intents, the saint was identical to the old Slav god Veles, protector of cattle, god of well-being and wealth.
Something about the atmosphere of the dark wooden building with its tall sloping roof made her feel at home. From the outside, it was more like a high barn, yet inside, with its low ceiling and its dark little icons and gleaming candles, it had the warmth and intimacy of an izba. True, the logs it was made of were huge. It was as solid as a fortress. But the priests, the old men trying to look busy, the stout women patiently sweeping or polishing the candlesticks that stood everywhere, all seemed friendly. As she stood, sometimes for an hour or more, in front of the icon of St Blaise, she felt that, perhaps, even in her own miserable and useless existence, there might be hope.
‘Lord have mercy. Lord have mercy,’ she would sometimes whisper to herself.
Once, as she turned from the icon, she saw a tall, dark-bearded priest who looked at her kindly and said: ‘Our Father loves all His children. Above all He loves those who have fallen and who repent.’ And Yanka, knowing that he had seen into her heart, felt tears crowd into her eyes as, with head bowed, she quickly left the church.
It was a few days later that she met a young man.
There was, at first glance, nothing exceptional about him. He was about twenty-two or three, she supposed, a little above average height, with a brown beard. His cheeks were rather high, his eyes almond-shaped and brown. She noticed his hands. They were workman’s hands, and calloused, yet there was something fine, strong yet sensitive in the well-shaped, tapering fingers. Unusually for a workman, his nails were carefully pared. He had a serious, studious look.
When she first saw him, he was standing quietly, in reverence, before an icon, but as she moved towards the door, he immediately left off his prayers, so that she smiled to herself.
He let her leave just in front of him and then caught up and fell into step beside her.
‘You seem to think you are going my way.’ She smiled a little mischievously.
‘Only to protect you. Which way do you go?’
‘Towards the Leatherworkers end.’
‘I too. My master lives there.’
There seemed no harm in him.
He was a slave, she discovered, a Mordvinian who had been taken captive after a raid when he was twelve. His name was Purgas. His master since he was fifteen had been a rich merchant here in Novgorod, who had had him taught carpentry.
They parted near the inn, but not before he had learned that she liked to visit the wooden church each afternoon.
She half expected, therefore, to see him there the next day, but she was surprised when he produced a little piece of carving he had done. It was a tiny riverboat, no bigger than his hand, carved out of birchwood, with oarsmen and a little sail.
It was so perfectly done that, for a moment, she caught her breath; for it reminded her of the carvings her brother used to do.
‘It’s for you,’ he said. And he insisted that she take it.
He walked her home again that day.
They often met after that. He was always friendly, rather quiet and, she soon observed, there was a kind of shyness about him, a reserve, that she liked. When they walked through the streets, he would pause from time to time, to point out some feature of a house that she would otherwise never have noticed: a little carving, some latticework by a window, or simply the way that the heavy logs were joined