Neil Olson - The Icon

“I’m not concerned with that. And I do not ask you to put yourself in danger, only talk to me. Do you know where your godfather is now?”

“No.”

Ioannes regarded him for several long seconds. Despite the literal truth of his reply, Matthew felt uneasy in the priest’s gaze.

“You have no idea?”

“Look. What is it that you think you can do? Do you think you can keep it safe? Do you think you can get it back to Greece without being intercepted? Do you think your corrupt church can really protect it?”

The calm face registered no offense at the hard words.

“I am uncertain about the answers to those questions, but my fears are similar to your own. That is why I feel a more permanent solution is necessary. Shall we go on discussing this here, or find a more private place?”

Matthew looked around, seeing nothing. Something in the priest’s words had gotten to him, and he knew that they must go on with this. Where? What coffee shop would be quiet enough and private enough? What place was safe any longer?

“I need to do a few things. Then we’ll go talk.”

Matthew spent another half hour finishing an acquisitions memo and reviewing the growing mountain of reports and phone calls he would have to return to another day. The cardboard model of the new Byzantine rooms sat on a table just outside the door of his cramped, airless office, and he stared at it a moment as he passed. The proudest achievement of his time here; work was already proceeding in the chambers beside and directly below the great staircase. He could not bring himself to care about any of it. He could not even fake it anymore. Nevins gave him a sour look as he left. Surely they would fire him.

Father John wandered the great expanse of the Medieval Hall until Matthew came to collect him. The priest asked no questions as Matthew led him through the busy streets of Yorkville to his apartment. No better location had occurred to the younger man, and he could at least lock himself in and keep the telephone ready at hand. He had memorized Andreas’ and Benny’s numbers.

Surprisingly, the priest accepted a beer, which he sipped slowly from a water glass. Matthew left the shades down and lit a short, fat emergency candle to minimize the light any window-watcher might spy. The effect was more gloomily atmospheric than he would have liked.

“You are convinced, then?” Father Ioannes nodded at the pages spread across the wooden kitchen table. “That it is the same icon.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m convinced. It’s quite possible.”

“And this means nothing to you?”

“It doesn’t change the nature of the work, or what it was intended to do. Heal. Engender faith. I suppose what it does is explain why people who know of its genesis would be willing to kill for it. It’s exceptionally old, and built around an artifact even older and more precious.”

“The swatch of robe.”

“Yes.”

“Soaked in the blood of Christ.”

The quiet awe in the words, spoken by the old priest across a flickering candle, first chilled, then annoyed Matthew.

“If you choose to believe that.”

“Why not believe it?”

“Because there are countless claims of such things, pieces of the true cross, finger bones of saints, the crown of thorns, the spear of Longinus.”

“Undoubtedly many are false. And very likely some are true. The icon has power; you have felt that yourself. The power comes from somewhere.”

“Faith,” Matthew insisted, “does it not? The image inspires faith, and the power is granted by God. The image holds no power by itself. Any more than Peter’s skull or Paul’s thumb knuckle. It seems to me you people had a big fight about this a thousand-odd years ago. Iconoclasm. The destruction of images. I’m no supporter, but they had a point, and they forced a distinction. Proskynesis, the kind of veneration you could show an image, versus latreía, the true worship due to God alone. Yes?”

Ioannes put down the beer glass.

“The lesson was not necessary. Your point is understood, but your reasoning is false. Of course an icon is only wood and paint, worthless by itself. You cannot compare that to the blood of the Savior. Not even the bones of a holy man compare. A line is crossed when dealing with the very substance of the Christ himself. There is nothing more precious, nothing more terrible.”

“My mistake. But why believe it’s genuine? There are at least two famous icons associated with the clothing Mary wore, both lost. This one doesn’t seem to match what I’ve read about either, so now we have a third one that nobody knows of?”

“It was known. The fragment of Theodoros I left you. The knowledge was lost.”

“Why does Theodoros the Blind know this story that nobody else does? Why does it not appear in other histories?”

“There are few histories for those times. Very often we must trust a single source.”

“And for that matter, why have I never read that passage before, when I’ve read Theodoros inside out?”

“It does not appear in the standard translations. It was found eighty years ago in a very old manuscript copy, somewhere in central Europe. Vienna, I think. By a man named Müller. He went to Greece a few years later to take the icon, but was unsuccessful. The priest with whom he tried to negotiate became suspicious of his motives and shared his concern with others in the village, including a curious, and larcenous, altar boy. The boy stole the papers from Müller and gave them to the priest, who delivered them to a nearby monastery for safekeeping. Müller’s son, who became a Nazi officer, also had a copy of the pages, or knew their content. Later, he too came to Greece. I think you know that story.”

Matthew nodded. The priest knew everything he did and a good deal more.

“And you read the pages at the monastery.”

“Yes.”

“OK. Let’s assume Theodoros was writing the truth as far as he knew it. This found piece of robe really is in the icon. We still have to trust that what Helena brought back from Jerusalem was the robe of Mary. There’s more than a three-hundred-year lapse. Who has been holding the robe all that time? Who can authenticate it? Who, having held it so long, is willing to surrender it to the mother of a pagan emperor?”

“The Arabs. What do they care for it?”

“Why would they have it?”

“They had the cross, which they did give to her.”

“If you choose to believe that story.”

The candle flickered wildly, and Matthew realized that it was his breathing causing it to do so. Ioannes stared into the darting flame and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“We go in circles. This argument begins to resemble a more basic one. The man of reason demands proof in exchange for his faith. The man of God may believe in reason also, but knows that it will only take him so far, that there will come a stepping-off point into the unknown. He thinks with his mind until he reaches that ineffable place of mystery. Then he thinks with his heart, pushing forward or retreating. You are a man of reason. Good. But tell me, when you stood before that image, when you touched that wood, did you not feel a special power? Speak the truth.”

Matthew had nearly suppressed the mesmerizing experience of being before the panel. There was art to it-the sad eyes, the dusky shadows-but with the image as damaged as it was, artistry alone could not explain his response. And he had known nothing of the robe or the history when he first encountered the work.

“I felt something. It’s difficult to describe, or to say what it means.”

“You need not try. I have felt it also.”

“You’ve seen the icon.”

“Yes, I know it very well.”

“How?”