Read Online Ekaterina by Susan May Warren, Susan K. Downs - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Susan May Warren, Susan K. Downs
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“Brother Timofea often spent his later years in this place of worship. Perhaps it will hold peace for you, as well.” He stopped before a small grotto, the walls carved out of the limestone, gleaming whitewash over gray stone. The tiny cave spoke of orderliness. Two wooden candleholders guarded the inside entrance, homemade judging from their rough-hewn form, but perfect accessories in the irregular chapel. At the far end of the room, the cross of Christ loomed center stage, a carved figure of the Savior hanging in gnarled agony. Vadeem tried to ignore it. Behind the crucifix, pockets dug from the surface held over a dozen tiny, lit candles, flickering golden light along the shadows of the cave. The walls smelled damp and dust rose from the floor. An icon of St. Nicholas hung on the wall, his mournful golden face and oval eyes gliding over Vadeem, as if scrutinizing his soul when Vadeem stepped into the grotto. He looked away, tensing.
The priest moved forward and lit a candle in a stand near the cross. The brothers gazed in silence as the smoke spiraled heavenward. Vadeem fought the urge, but found his gaze forced to the cross, gleaming in the candlelight. The thorn-ringed head of Jesus, gleaming from polish, seemed to liven as flame flickered across his face.
Vadeem froze. Memory assaulted him like a tidal wave. Behind his eyes, he watched as the reflection turned to fire, then engulfed the cross, its tongue licking at the wooden Savior. He heard screaming, then his name. His breath clogged in his chest as his throat tightened. He braced a hand on the grotto wall, the world cutting into angles.
The Father started to lecture in his garbled voice about the history of the chapel, how it was used as a hideout for the partisans in World War II, something about artifacts left behind, hidden in the walls, but the voice spiraled out, as if in a tunnel. Vadeem’s heartbeat filled his ears. He could smell the smoke, feel the heat as it beaded on his skin. Save the Bible! Then a hand gripped his arm—
“Captain, are you okay?” Kat looked at him, her eyes probing.
He backpedaled out, bumping into one of the candleholders, sending it thumping to the ground. His shoulder skimmed the doorway as he stumbled through the entrance.
The fresh air hit him like a slap. He filled his lungs with the freedom of outdoors, hands on his knees, gulping for breath like a man drowning.
What was he thinking, walking back inside a chapel—a church? Twenty plus years and he still couldn’t face it.
“Are you okay?” Kat’s worried voice made him bristle. He straightened and fought for composure. The sweet concern in her eyes made something twist inside his chest. He nodded, his voice trapped in the past.
Some things would never be okay.
-
“Brother Timofea was like a father to me. I had the privilege of serving him the last five years of his life.” The young monk Papov sat in the grass, legs crossed, his spine board-straight and hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe. If Kat hadn’t known better, she would have felt like she was sitting in her office, listening to a potential young father outline his qualifications, nerves pinching his voice thin. The young monk never looked up, never met her eyes.
It sent a chill through her bones.
“What about the key?” she urged.
Beside her, Captain Vadeem proved little help. Despite the sun adding color to his angular face, he still seemed spooked. Sitting in the grass, he appeared a sullen contrast to the bright chirp of sparrows, the wind combing the willows to the south, the late morning sun winking and turning the ground into a lush emerald carpet.
The sweet spring air hinted at a glorious day, especially if she could wheedle some answers out of the skinny monk, and all the captain could do was pick at the grass, as if searching for the ends to his fraying composure, oblivious to the fact she was trying to have the most important conversation in her life.
“I only saw the key
The priest moved forward and lit a candle in a stand near the cross. The brothers gazed in silence as the smoke spiraled heavenward. Vadeem fought the urge, but found his gaze forced to the cross, gleaming in the candlelight. The thorn-ringed head of Jesus, gleaming from polish, seemed to liven as flame flickered across his face.
Vadeem froze. Memory assaulted him like a tidal wave. Behind his eyes, he watched as the reflection turned to fire, then engulfed the cross, its tongue licking at the wooden Savior. He heard screaming, then his name. His breath clogged in his chest as his throat tightened. He braced a hand on the grotto wall, the world cutting into angles.
The Father started to lecture in his garbled voice about the history of the chapel, how it was used as a hideout for the partisans in World War II, something about artifacts left behind, hidden in the walls, but the voice spiraled out, as if in a tunnel. Vadeem’s heartbeat filled his ears. He could smell the smoke, feel the heat as it beaded on his skin. Save the Bible! Then a hand gripped his arm—
“Captain, are you okay?” Kat looked at him, her eyes probing.
He backpedaled out, bumping into one of the candleholders, sending it thumping to the ground. His shoulder skimmed the doorway as he stumbled through the entrance.
The fresh air hit him like a slap. He filled his lungs with the freedom of outdoors, hands on his knees, gulping for breath like a man drowning.
What was he thinking, walking back inside a chapel—a church? Twenty plus years and he still couldn’t face it.
“Are you okay?” Kat’s worried voice made him bristle. He straightened and fought for composure. The sweet concern in her eyes made something twist inside his chest. He nodded, his voice trapped in the past.
Some things would never be okay.
-
“Brother Timofea was like a father to me. I had the privilege of serving him the last five years of his life.” The young monk Papov sat in the grass, legs crossed, his spine board-straight and hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe. If Kat hadn’t known better, she would have felt like she was sitting in her office, listening to a potential young father outline his qualifications, nerves pinching his voice thin. The young monk never looked up, never met her eyes.
It sent a chill through her bones.
“What about the key?” she urged.
Beside her, Captain Vadeem proved little help. Despite the sun adding color to his angular face, he still seemed spooked. Sitting in the grass, he appeared a sullen contrast to the bright chirp of sparrows, the wind combing the willows to the south, the late morning sun winking and turning the ground into a lush emerald carpet.
The sweet spring air hinted at a glorious day, especially if she could wheedle some answers out of the skinny monk, and all the captain could do was pick at the grass, as if searching for the ends to his fraying composure, oblivious to the fact she was trying to have the most important conversation in her life.
“I only saw the key
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