Neil Olson: The Icon

“Captain.” Kosta’s voice reached them from the mouth of the cave, in a tone demanding attention. Elias, Mikalis, and a few others shuffled through the darkness, gathering their old, battered rifles as they went. “Above, Leftheris has seen something.”

The cave entrance was screened by a short stand of cedar, but the ledge above commanded a view of the entire valley. Leftheris grabbed the captain’s sleeve as he came up, and pointed toward a low hilltop a kilometer or so away. Elias recognized the black silhouette of the church tower against the indigo sky, then saw the odd, multihued flickering of light below. Flames, seen through the rose window. Something had gone wrong.

“Looks like they got started early,” said Kosta, “and with your church, Father.”

“Quiet, you ass,” said Spiro.

Elias grabbed Mikalis’ shoulder, even as the priest began to struggle down the slope.

“There’s no point. The whole thing will be on fire before you get there.”

“The Holy Mother,” whispered Mikalis, and several of the men crossed themselves in the darkness. Most had not known until that moment that their protectress was still in the church, hidden behind a false wall. In his mind’s eye, Elias saw candlelight on gold leaf, saw the sad black eyes burning out of the wood as the object was brought forth, saw a church full of strong, cynical men fall to their knees in reverent silence. Saw even the Snake hypnotized by its beauty. Love of the icon could undo all his plans.

“Where is it?” Leftheris asked. “Will someone down there retrieve it?”

“No-no one else knows where it is.”

“What do we do?”

“Leave it,” the captain pronounced, but they were all speaking at once now. The fire had not been part of the plan, but it would hide the icon’s disappearance, assuming the Prince had been quick enough to get it out first.

“Listen to me,” Mikalis broke in. “If we can’t put out the flames, at least I can save the Holy Mother. Let me go.”

“We all go,” said Spiro.

“No,” Elias commanded, but he could feel the men balking at his resistance. They seldom disobeyed orders, and never contradicted him to his face, but he was fighting a higher power here and risked losing control. Besides, something had gone wrong, and he should see what could be salvaged. He took the priest by the shoulders and pushed him in the direction of Leftheris.

“Keep hold of this one,” he told the sentry. “Kosta, Spiro, come with me.”

“But how will we find the Mother without him?”

“I know where it is.”

The priest’s objections pursued them briefly down the rugged hillside, then all was silence. Trees loomed and disappeared in the dark; they crossed a low stone wall. There was no clear path from the cave to the church, but each man knew the way easily, even on a moonless night. Elias could hear old Spiro’s labored footfalls behind him, but Kosta was impossible to pinpoint, though the boy was just yards away. Everyone had said Elias was mad to take Kosta under his tutelage, but he had known better. Few men could be trained to move silently, convey complicated messages in code, kill without hesitation. It had been strange for Elias to be teaching these skills so soon after learning them himself, but Kosta had proved an apt pupil. It was always the outcasts who were the best at the game.

Stamatis Mavroudas was Katarini’s leading merchant, a black-marketeer and suspected collaborator with the Germans, and so his son Kosta, while tolerated for his good humor, was trusted by no one. That meant nothing to Elias; insurgency work was full of compromises. And the boy had taken to him quickly, all the more so since the father had virtually disowned him: what idiocy, to join the guerrillas when there was money to be made from this war. Now it was rare to see Kosta and the captain apart. Elias wondered at the cost to the young man. Cut off from his family, with no real friends, Kosta seemed unmoved by the occasional deaths of comrades, and a little too eager for the kill when the time came. Yet he was completely dependable, able to execute the most difficult tasks with speed and creativity. Elias could have used ten more men like him.

In a short time they ascended the slope below the church, and crawled on hands and knees until they could crouch behind the north wall of the front courtyard. The old stone edifice was lit from within, wild, jumping flames playing against the sooty stained glass. The crack of burning timber was audible, and the cool air stank of smoke. Across the courtyard a dozen German soldiers milled about, some still strapping on helmets and checking rifles, seemingly having arrived only minutes before the guerrillas, and so far unaware of them. An officer was backing out of the church entry, from which black smoke billowed. Probably Müller, the SS man, thought Elias, but it was hard to tell in the strange light. There was nothing in the officer’s hands, no treasure taken from within. Had he arrived too late?

The captain swore silently. The plan was turning to shit. It had been a miserable scheme from the start; damn the Snake for talking him into it.

“Spiro, go and see if the crypt entry is clear.”

The old andarte slipped away silently.

Now the German officer-definitely Müller, the Prince as they called him-was moving off, around the south side of the church, and most of the soldiers followed. A glance passed between Kosta and the captain, and the younger man looked away quickly. Was he ashamed of his commander, ashamed of his own knowledge? Kosta was the only other person besides the Snake and Müller to know the captain’s plan, and had run messages between various parties when Elias needed to be elsewhere. Was the secret proving too great for him?

There was a commotion of snapping branches from the base of the hill behind them, and the two guerrillas swung their rifles up to fire.

“Hold,” said the captain.

Mikalis emerged from the trees and came recklessly up the slope, Leftheris on his heels. Kosta slid down the incline and yanked the priest to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” whispered Leftheris, unable to look the captain in the eye. “He said I would be damned if I didn’t let him go.”

Elias did not waste time berating his man, but looked hard at the priest.

“Threatening damnation to get your way. You surprise me, Father.”

“Brother, let me get into that church.”

“See those soldiers?”

“They won’t shoot me.”

“The fire is in the front, you can’t get in.”

“Then let us try the back. Or the crypt.”

As if in answer, Spiro reappeared at the captain’s shoulder.

“The crypt is no good. Too many Germans that way.”

“Then we try the back,” Mikalis insisted. “There are trees, they won’t see us.”

Again, the men were eager, and the captain could not justify inaction. Nor could he trust the errant priest to anyone else.

“Stay by me. On my left, and just behind me, understand?”

“Yes.”

They skirted the tree line to the north and came up on the rear of the old stone structure, where the cleric’s private entry lay in shadow. The fire had indeed started in front, but they could chart its progress through the tall, murky windows, and it seemed that the better part of the interior was now in flames.

“It’s too late,” Leftheris said mournfully.

“No.” The priest began to force his way past the captain, who seized him.

“Leftheris is right.”

“Let me at least try. The icon…”

“Is wood and paint, Mikalis. Let it go.”

The long face thrust itself at Elias, forehead to forehead, whispering.

“You’re wrong. There is more to it than you see.”

“What?”

“But even if you were right, faith may invest objects with power. The Mother has cured the ill here for centuries; it means everything to these people.”