Emily, was that you? I asked, astonished as the former schoolmate pushed open my front door. We hadnt spoken for a year, yet she had called out of the blue, inviting me over. Emily had never been slight; she was always a bit round, never shy about it shed married the love of her life, had a son, and never known want. Now before me stood a gaunt, exhausted young woman, dark circles staining the skin beneath her eyes.
How many stones have you shed? I blurted.
Twenty already, she replied, gesturing toward the kitchen. The pounds keep slipping away. Think Im happy about it? Thats why I called you.
If you cant tell whats draining you, you should have called Dr. Basil, not me, I said, recalling the physician whod taught us both at university.
Emily poured tea, her eyes heavy with sorrow. All the tests came back clean. Nothing was found. Do you remember the tale you told about your classmate, Eleanor, and what befell her? The doctors found nothing there either.
Yes, I remembered. It was a strange case, but you never believed such things.
Once I didnt, now something happened. Im not sure what to trust any longer.
Tell me then, I urged, eager to hear what had truly befallen Emily.
It began six months ago, she started. I was chopping cucumber for a salad, just as I am now, when time seemed to stall. The cucumber never finished. Ive never been one for the supernatural, never
An intriguing start, I said, always fond of mysteries. I settled more comfortably, ready for the tale.
Before I could grasp what was happening, the doorbell rang, snapping me out of my reverie. I peered through the peepholeno one. I thought perhaps some boys were playing tricks. I opened the door to find a parcel on the step. I nudged it aside, yet something inside urged me to look inside.
I watched as she lifted the lid to reveal an old icon, a centuriesold holy image.
Seeing my silent question, Emily reassured me. Its ancient, Im certain. My uncle Peter runs an antique shop in Whitby; he confirmed its age and offered a tidy sum for it.
And you? I asked, surprised, for Emily had never been a churchgoer.
I recalled my grandmothers story of a miracleworking icon that appeared by a holy spring. It would be taken to the chapel three times, then return to the spring on its own. I thought, if this icon chose me, perhaps it should stay with me.
Remarkable, I breathed. Ive never heard of an object finding its own keeper in our times.
Emilys face grew solemn. Soon after, a string of misfortunes began. First, my cat, Tom, who was a spry, vaccinated lad, vanished one morning after chasing a toy mouse. We buried him in the village pet cemetery. Grief still clung to me when my mother, a nurse, called from the infirmary, saying shed slipped on level ground and broken her leg. I rang my husband, asking him to fetch his mother and bring her home, only to learn he had been laid off that very day, his once wellpaid post cut down to a pittance.
I fretted, Emily, do you think these woes arrived with the icon?
Everyone warned me, but I dismissed it. When they suggested I get rid of the icon, I took it as envy, thinking they coveted my precious find.
Not by chance, I replied, that parcel was left at your door. Its a a cover.
Can an icon be a cover? Emily wondered, It bears the image of the Queen of Heaven herself.
Thats what we must discover, I said, but first, what happened next?
Emily sighed. My son fell ill and spent a month in the hospital. I began losing weight, thinking the stress of everything piled on me. I ran back and forthshopping, cooking, visiting the wardwhile still holding my job. My husband took another job, earning half what he used to. When Vasili was discharged, all was well, thank heavens, but my weight kept dropping. I feared what Id look like in six months. I recalled the story of Eleanorher doctors found nothing either.
Exactly, I confirmed. Tell me the rest.
Before my final exams, my friend Tina, her cousin Eleanor, and I planned a picnic. Each of us had a suitor. The boys agreed, on the condition we camped by the river that night. En route we lost the path and found ourselves in a dense wood. Eleanor was the first to dash forward and discovered a silk handkerchief tangled on a branch. She tied it around her neck, and the trail reappeared, leading us to the river.
See, this isnt an ordinary handkerchief, she laughed.
Better not take something that isnt ours, Tina warned. Who knows whose it is?
Someone must have dropped it, Eleanor replied, admiring its beauty, and kept it for herself.
We rested, the lads caught fish, we swam, made a stew, drank a little ale, sang around the fire. Come morning we packed to leave, but Eleanor grew pale, her head pounding. We barely made it out; her boyfriend, Kostya, carried her the last stretch.
Eleanor grew frail, failed her exams, and was placed on academic probation. Doctors ran tests, found nothing. I went to her mother, begged for the handkerchief, and she handed it to me. I took it to the village of Crickley, a short train ride to the cottage of Aunt Ustina, a reputed healer for the incurable. She examined the photograph of Eleanor, the handkerchief, and said, A bad thing passed through this cloth, a hidden ailment not of the body but of the spirit. Its a cover, not a cure. Yet because you brought it in time, we might still help. She instructed me to bury the cloths remnants beneath an oak, then brew a herbal decoction. The moment Eleanor drank it, color returned to her cheeks, and she soon left the hospital.
Perhaps we should bring this icon to Aunt Ustina, Emily said, a spark of hope in her voice.
We did, only to find Aunt Ustina had already passed. We arrived for her funeral, where we met her daughter, Sister Mary, a nun. She bathed the icon in holy water, said a prayer, and dispatched it to the parish church.
Emily did the same. The misfortunes ceased. She regained her health, her figure blossomed, and soon she gave birth to a little girl she named Margaret.
Thus the story of the strange relic, the hidden cover, and the turn of fate lives on in my memory, a reminder that in the old country, sometimes the unseen threads of belief can stitch together the torn pieces of our lives.
