On the mountain they had taught him of a God very different from the one the village priests knew. The old priest’s God had been sad and angry in turn, like the man himself. The young priest also had preached a God of his own fiber, a passionate spirit who spoke to the needs of the moment, the need to resist, to survive. These deities fulfilled a purpose generated by man; they did what was required of them. On the mountain, they were not above invoking the angry God, to frighten the novices. Fear was known to sharpen the senses, and fear kept a boy in line until the mind, fed on incense and sacred visions, had grown sufficiently to accept the full depth and breadth of the true God, in all his glory. Ioannes had needed more time than most to achieve this readiness but had absorbed the lessons deeply. The terrors which defined his youth, which had initially held him back, became his sustenance once the path was discovered, became the fuel for the fire lit in his mind. Darkness was banished, and a door opened in his soul directly into the world of spirit. He would have been more than content to spend his life in isolation and explore the way.

The squat, balding young man in the leather jacket did not inspire confidence, but he knew the priest on sight, took his luggage, and guided him out to the parking garage.

“I’m Demetrios, by the way,” he said.

“I bet they all call you Jimmy here.”

“Yes. I know why you’ve come, I know what’s going on.”

“Indeed?”

“I work very closely with Bishop Makarios. I’m not just a driver.”

“I see.”

It was somehow appropriate that his masters would wrench him from his solace at the moment he had fully embraced it, and reintroduce him to the world. Ioannes hated them for it at first, yet came to know after many years that it was consistent with their message, consistent with the way. The world of spirit must reside within him; he must take it with him into the world of flesh and allow it to inform his decisions. Anyone could maintain faith within the quiet of sanctuary walls. The flock lived outside the walls, and the Word must go to them.

“You’re here to check up on Tomas,” Jimmy persisted as the luggage went in the trunk and they settled into the needlessly large black vehicle; the American bishops always had cars like this. “Forgive me for saying that you’re a little late.”

“What do you mean?”

“No one has been able to reach him for a few days. It could mean nothing, of course,” the burly driver added, unconvincingly.

The difficulty arose when the old masters died, and instruction now came from men younger than himself, men who did not have the inner fire in their eyes. What was required of a man when the inner voices no longer matched the commands of the outer voices? Ioannes had been feeling his way along for years now, but he sensed that this latest assignment would challenge his entire way of being. Maybe it was time.

“I have an appointment with Tomas tomorrow,” the old priest said.

Jimmy shrugged as the car made its way down the dim, winding ramp of the concrete garage.

“I hope he shows.”

Ioannes fought down a rising unease. Everything happened for a reason, and in any case he should not be trusting the word of this twitchy little fellow.

“Father Makarios and I will sort the matter out, I trust.”

“Makarios,” Jimmy snorted. “No offense, I love the bishop. But I’ll tell you right now, I’m the guy you’re going to need on this matter.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

10

He should have known better. The whole thing had felt wrong from the start, but Matthew had plowed mulishly ahead, needing to justify his actions to himself. The trouble had begun with the phone call the day before, Fotis suddenly skittish.

“The girl has spoken to you.”

“She says the contract was signed yesterday,” Matthew confirmed. “Tomas and someone else picked up the work last night. And deposited it with you, I assume.”

“All has proceeded as arranged, praise God.”

“That’s almost twenty-four hours. I really would have expected to hear.”

“My apologies. You are eager to examine it again. We must arrange a time.”

He’d had to force out the next words. “We had talked about someone else seeing it.”

“Yes.” A nervous whisper. “Do you think he is up to it?”

“I don’t know; he’s not up to much of anything. I thought that was the point.”

“I would not wish to cause him any unnecessary anxiety during his recovery.”

“It’s not a recovery, it’s a remission. Theio, this was your idea. What are you trying to tell me now? I’ve got to make an appointment, and my father is not welcome?”

“I am simply being careful. How will you persuade him to come?”

“Leave that to me. When should I bring him?”

“Tomorrow. It’s a Saturday, and I think you were to pay him a visit anyway.”

It was unnerving the way he knew everyone else’s schedule.

“Yeah, we even talked about a drive. I don’t think he had Queens in mind.”

“I will be here all day. And my boy, forgive this advice. Do not tell your father some foolish story. He will see through it and you will only make him angry.”

“You’re saying I’m not a good liar.”

“Tell him I’ve asked you to come and look at some art. It’s the truth. Tell him you want his company, his support. Let him feel he is doing something for you.”

His father had not objected but had agreed to the visit like a man condemned, sitting grim-faced and silent for most of the drive. At the house in Queens, Fotis greeted them with barely veiled agitation, working his green worry beads nervously. Canvases hung about the study, and Fotis and Matthew discussed a recently acquired Dutch landscape. Alex seemed to relax, and scanned the bookshelves around him. His wheelchair was positioned by the window, weak sun spilling over his strong shoulders, a fresh stubble forming an aura of gray light about his head. Six feet in front of him, beneath a white cloth, a medium-sized square panel sat on an easel, and Matthew could not keep his gaze from swinging constantly back to it, drawn by a special energy. Suddenly the whole production filled him with dread. Catching Fotis’ wet, round eyes, he saw that the old man shared his unease. Before he lost his nerve completely, Matthew stood up and stepped over to the easel.

“Dad,” he said, pulling the cloth from the work, half expecting something else to be beneath it until the eyes caught him once more, nearly stealing his voice. “This is the piece I’ve been consulting on. Fotis is holding it for a buyer in Greece.”

Alex turned his head to the panel only very slowly. There was a determined expression of resistance on his face, which loosened at once when his gaze met the image, and a true look of wonder seemed to play about his eyes. Matthew’s spirit fed off that look.

“I know you don’t have much use for religious art, but I find this one particularly affecting, and I really wanted you to see it.”

He took advantage of his father’s trancelike state to step behind the wheelchair and move it closer to the easel, close enough that Alex could reach out and touch the icon, if he wanted.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

He could no longer see his father’s face, and there was no immediate reply. Then the large head seemed to nod, almost imperceptibly, and indeed the right hand reached up and outward. Did he actually touch it?

A spontaneous moan escaped Fotis at that moment. Alekos’ hand recoiled from the painting, and his head swiveled to stare at the old man. Matthew squeezed the handgrips of the wheelchair in frustration and also looked at Fotis. The schemer wore an expression closer to naked terror than Matthew had ever expected to see on that calculating face, and the young man could not tell whether the old one’s eyes were focused on Alex, or on the door behind them. No one said a word for several seconds. Then Alex shook his head slowly, as if clearing his mind of a dream, and when he spoke his voice was tight with disgust.