Emily, is that you? I blurted, startled as my old schoolmate swung the front door open.
We hadnt seen each other in about a year, yet shed called out of the blue and invited me round. Emily had never been the type to flaunt a svelte frame shed always been a bit roundbodied and owned it with a grin, marrying her sweetheart, having a son, never knowing what it meant to be poor. So when I saw a gaunt, weary young woman with dark circles under her eyes, I was taken aback.
How many kilos have you shed? I asked.
Twenty already, come in, she said, gesturing toward the kitchen. The weight keeps melting away. Think Im thrilled? Thats why I rang you up.
If you dont know the cause, you should have called Vas, the doctor, not me, I replied.
Been to the doctor, Emily poured tea, her eyes softening. All the tests are normal, nothing found. Remember that story you told about your university mate, Sophie? What happened to her? The doctors couldnt pin anything down either, right?
Yes, I recall, I said. But you werent buying that at the time.
I wasnt, and now Im not sure what to believe any more.
Spill it, I prompted, eager to hear what on earth had befallen Emily.
It started six months ago, she began. I was in the kitchen, chopping cucumber for a salad, when time seemed to freeze. I kept slicing and the cucumber never ran out. You know Im not one for the supernatural well, I wasnt, anyway.
An intriguing start, I said, a selfdeclared lover of oddities. I settled in, bracing for the tale.
Before Id even processed that, the doorbell rang and jolted me out of my trance. I peered through the peephole nobody. I guessed the lads were up to mischief. I opened the door to find a parcel on the step. I nudged it aside, but something inside me urged a peek.
I lifted the lid and there lay an old icon, the kind youd find in a centuriesold parish church.
Catching the question in my eyes, Emily reassured me. Its definitely ancient, Im sure. My uncle Pete runs an antique shop; he verified it and even offered me a tidy sum for it.
And you? I asked, surprised, since Emily had never been one for church or prayer.
I remembered my Gran talking about a miracle icon by a holy spring. Supposedly it appeared there on its own, was taken to the church three times, and then kept finding its way back to the spring. So I thought, if the icon chose me, I might as well keep it.
Remarkable, I said, genuinely impressed. Id never heard of an icon picking its own owner in modern times.
Things got weird about a week later, Emily sighed. First, my cat, Whiskers, vanished. He was a healthy tom, fully vaccinated, and one evening he was chasing a plastic mouse around the flat. The next morning he wouldnt come out when I called. We had to bury him in the pet cemetery.
Before I could even mourn, my motherinlaw rang from the care centre, saying shed slipped on a flat surface and broken her leg. I phoned my husband, asking him to fetch her, only to learn hed just been made redundant from a wellpaid job and offered a pitiful wage instead.
Emily, dont you think the icon is dragging trouble into your house? I said, halfjoking.
Everyone warned me, but I dismissed it. When people suggested I get rid of the icon, I got angry, convinced they were just jealous of my treasure.
Randomly found? I questioned. Someone slipped that parcel under your door. Thats a coverup, isnt it?
Can you coverup an icon? Emily hesitated. It bears the image of the Queen of Heaven herself.
Thats what well have to sort out, I mused. But first, tell me what happened next.
Emilys son fell ill and spent a month in hospital. Meanwhile, I kept losing weight, convinced it was all stress. I was running back and forth to the shop, cooking something tasty, then to the hospital. Work didnt pause either, so I kept spinning plates. My husband found a new job, but it paid half of what he earned before.
Vasili was discharged, healthy as a horse, thank heavens. I kept shedding pounds like a badly fitted coat. It was terrifying to imagine what Id be like in six months. Then I recalled Sophie’s case doctors were just as baffled.
Exactly, I said. Lets hear the story.
Before her final dissertation defence, my friend Tina and her cousin Nina decided on a picnic. Each of us had a beau at the time. The lads agreed, on the condition wed spend the night in tents by the river.
On the way we lost the path and ended up deep in a wood. Nina was the first to sprint ahead, finding a silk scarf tangled on a branch. She slipped it around her neck and, as if by magic, spotted a trail that led us back to the river.
See? Not just any scarf, she laughed.
Tina was nervous who knows where that scarf came from? she fretted.
It was just lost, I guess. Beautiful and lucky, Ill keep it, Nina replied.
We relaxed, the lads caught fish, we swam, cooked a hearty fish stew, tasted some cheap red wine, and sang around the campfire. The next morning we packed up, but Nina was pale, her head throbbed. We struggled out of the woods, and her boyfriend, Kostya, carried her the last stretch.
Nina grew weaker, failed her exams, and was expelled from university. Doctors ran tests, found nothing. I went to Ninas mother and begged for the scarf; she handed it over. I took it to a local healer, Mrs. Winstanley, who was famed for treating cases the NHS had given up on.
She examined the photo of Nina, the scarf, and said, Its a coverup. The illness isnt physical, its energetic. Youve caught a stray misfortune through the scarf. We must bury its ash under a tree and brew a herbal tea. The moment Nina drinks it, shell feel better.
She did exactly that. Ninas cheeks flushed, laughter returned, and she was soon discharged from the hospital.
Maybe we should take this icon to Mrs. Winstanley too? Emilys eyes brightened.
We did, only to find Mrs. Winstanley had passed on. We arrived just in time for her funeral, where we met her daughter, Sister Maria, a nun. She bathed the icon in holy water, said a prayer, and instructed us to return it to the parish church.
Emily followed the advice. The misfortunes lifted, her health returned, she even regained a bit of her former plumpness. Soon enough she gave birth to a baby girl, whom she named Lily.
And that, dear reader, is how a mysterious old icon, a misplaced scarf, and a dash of British perseverance turned a string of calamities into the most unexpected happy ending.
