Neil Olson - The Icon

The sound of the blast deep within the house caused them to stop. They waited a minute before moving, to see what would follow. When nothing did, they again made for the open door, from which smoke had now begun to drift.

To the left was a handsomely furnished living room. Ahead, stairs went up to a corridor already filling with smoke. Smoke was also billowing in from the rear of this lower hall and gathering against the ceiling of all these front rooms. To the right a dark-paneled dining room was gathering smoke fastest, as actual flames spat from a doorway in back. A bloodied figure sat against the far wall, next to the French doors. Ana saw him just as Andreas did.

“Benny.” She rushed toward him.

“Stay down,” Andreas commanded, “stay below the smoke.”

She slipped down and crawled the rest of the way. Very well, let her look to Benny; the stillness of the form told Andreas his friend was dead, but he put the thought aside. He went the opposite way, into the white living room, half walking, half crawling across the flokati rug, as far as the doorway into the study. Black fog filled that room, and there was no sound of activity, only the growing snap and sizzle of flames. Anyone in the rear of the house would be overcome by smoke already, and he was in no condition to help. He returned to the hall, the pungent reek beginning to burn his sinuses. Where was Matthew? His eyes drifted up the stairs. The air would be even worse up there, but there was no place left to search. He might last a few minutes. In any case, he could not face Alekos if he left without Matthew. Ana was now trying to drag Benny across the dining room.

“Ana,” he shouted. “Leave him, get out of the house.”

She seemed not to hear, and he realized that retrieving her would mean losing his chance at the second floor. He trusted in her survival instinct and started up, being careful of his feet, aware of how easy it would be to fall in his current condition. Halfway up, Andreas stopped suddenly as a strange form emerged from the gray mist above. Bent over, moving a careful step at a time. Matthew, with Fotis kicking and raging on his shoulder. The younger man stopped a few steps from his grandfather.

“Papou. Thank God.”

“Keep going, get out of the house.”

“Don’t go up there.”

“No, no. Keep going now.”

“Andreou,” screamed Fotis, red-faced and bulging-eyed, grasping at his old comrade as he passed him. “Get the Mother. Mikalis would want you to save her. The bedroom. The Prince is there.” The rest was lost in a wave of painful coughing, and Matthew moved on down the stairs, one hand bleeding badly.

Andreas looked up into the boiling maelstrom of smoke. Leave it. Let the fire do its work. There was no way out the back. The devil would come down these stairs, or not at all. No sooner had he thought it than another hacking cough sounded from above, and another form emerged from the smoke. Two legs with a square shape above them, white hands gripping the edges. Those eyes that Andreas had not seen in more than fifty years: dark, almond eyes on gold leaf, a maroon cowl of robe, rocking back and forth, moving down toward him, a painting with legs. Only gradually could Müller’s face be glimpsed above the frame, blue eyes squinting, just noticing Andreas below. He stopped, but there was no way to go but forward. The German was nearly paralyzed with coughing, but one hand disappeared into his jacket and reemerged holding a pistol. The blue eyes sized him up coldly. A loud shot rang out, and Andreas flinched.

But the shot had come from behind, not in front, and a large hole had opened in the icon, just above the Mother of God’s eyes. Müller reeled back violently, and fell across the upper landing, swallowed by the smoke, the icon vanishing with him. Andreas turned around to see Ana below, both hands gripping Benny’s.45, eyes wide with disbelief. He looked up again but could make out nothing. Suddenly, his lungs could not pull in air, only heat, and he moved down the stairs with all possible speed. Ana seized him at the bottom, dropping the pistol. Tears streaked her sooty face and her expression was wild.

“Matthew.”

“He is already outside.”

“Benny’s dead.”

“I know, child, we must go.”

“We can’t leave him here.”

“We must. Quickly now, go.”

They went as they had arrived, bent, stumbling, leaning heavily upon each other as they left the dying house.

Fotis lay on a damp patch of grass at the edge of the driveway. Andreas sat down beside him while Ana rushed past them to where Matthew knelt on the gravel, heaving and spitting. The Snake’s body was slack, all tension gone, as if the cord of his life force had been cut. Only the blinking eyes showed that there was anyone inside. There were black streaks of ash in Fotis’ hair, his left temple was bleeding, and there were bruises over the rest of his head. The thin, fragile limbs and gaunt face were the same as they had been at that troubling dinner a few weeks before, but the vibrant energy that had animated them then was utterly gone. He was not simply old but used up, dying. It might be tomorrow, thought Andreas, or a few months off, but it would be soon.

“Well,” Fotis whispered.

“It’s gone.”

The eyes closed for several moments, then opened again, staring at the sky.

“You killed him?”

“No,” Andreas answered, bemused. “The girl did.”

“The girl?” In different circumstances, Fotis might have laughed. The best he could manage now was a grimace.

Behind them there was a roaring rush, windows shattered, and flames licked out of the empty frames. The entire house would be consumed shortly. Nothing would be left but the exterior stone wall of the ground floor. From where they sat the two old men could feel the heat.

“You’ve killed me also,” Fotis continued. “All of you. You’ve taken what I needed to live. For what? To feed it to the flames? Better it should be destroyed than I should have it?” There was bitterness in his words, but little heat. “You’ve killed me.”

The words made Andreas tired. He could not expect wisdom or peace to come to his friend so near the end, but still it made him sad. It was a painting, nothing more. Pigment on wood, no pumping heart, no ageless spirit, no soul. He had held it himself, and he knew. They were all mad.

“You are dying from the inside, Foti. No one can help you.”

“You can help me. You can finish the job. You are the one who showed me the icon, made it necessary to my life. Then took it from me, twice. I do not understand why you have worked so hard to destroy me, but at least finish it.”

Andreas looked to the two young people. Ana was attempting to bind Matthew’s hand with her scarf.

“Send them away,” whispered Fotis, “so they will not see. Then put my body in the burning house. I am not brave enough to do it myself, Andreou. You must help me.”

“No.”

“And what if I tell you I killed your bastard brother.”

“I would not believe you.”

“I let him die, then. I was in the crypt, waiting for that fat Mavroudas.”

“But he got out through the flames, instead. So the plan was yours.”

“You knew that before now.”

“Including burning the church.”

“No, that was Mavroudas’ idea.”

“But you went along. You agreed to it. Or else you would not have expected him to use the crypt for his escape.”

“All right, then. I burned your brother’s church. I watched him come down the steps and fall at my feet, bleeding. And I did nothing. I left him to die. How does a brother punish that?”

“There was nothing you could have done. The wounds were too serious. It was evil to leave him like that, but you did not kill him. Your sins are heavy enough without borrowing others.”