"If my first glimpse of Stoichev's house had filled me with sudden hopelessness, my first glimpse of Rila Monastery filled me with awe. The monastery sat in a dramatically deep valley - almost filling it, at that point - and above its walls and domes rose the Rila Mountains, which are very steep and forested with tall spruces. Ranov had parked his car in the shade outside the main gate, and we made our way in with several clumps of other tourists. It was a hot, dry day; the Balkan summer seemed to be closing in, and dust from the bare ground swirled around our ankles. The great wooden doors of the gate were open, and we went through them into a sight I can never forget. Around us loomed the striped walls of the monastery fortress, with their alternating patterns of black and red on white plaster, hung with long wooden galleries. Filling a third of the enormous courtyard was a church of exquisite proportions, its porch heavily frescoed, its pale green domes alight in the midday sun. Beside it stood a muscular, square tower of gray stone, visibly older than everything else in sight. Stoichev told us that this was Hrelyo's Tower, built by a medieval nobleman as a haven from his political enemies. It was the only remaining part of the earliest monastery on the site, which had been burned by the Turks and rebuilt centuries later in this striped splendor. As we stood there, the church bells began to toll, frightening a flock of birds into the sky. They soared upward, startled, and, following them with my gaze, I saw again the unimaginably high peaks above us - a day's climb, at least. I caught my breath; was Rossi here somewhere, in this ancient place?
"Helen, standing next to me with a thin scarf tied over her hair, put her arm through mine, and I remembered the moment in Hagia Sophia, that evening in Istanbul that seemed history already but had actually been only days before, when she had grasped my hand so hard. The Ottomans had conquered this land long before they had taken Constantinople; by rights, we should have begun our trip here, not in Hagia Sophia. On the other hand, even before that, the doctrines of the Byzantines, their elegant arts and architecture, had reached out from Constantinople to flavor Bulgarian culture. Now Saint Sophia was a museum among mosques, while this dramatically secluded valley brimmed with Byzantine culture.
"Stoichev, beside us, was clearly enjoying our astonishment. Irina, in a broad-brimmed hat, held his arm tightly. Only Ranov stood alone, scowling at the beautiful scene, turning his head suspiciously when a group of black-cowled monks passed us on their way into the church. It had been a struggle for us to persuade him to pick up Stoichev and Irina in his car and bring them along; he wanted Stoichev to have the honor of showing us Rila, he said, but there was no reason Stoichev couldn't take the bus like the rest of the Bulgarian people. I'd restrained myself from pointing out that he, Ranov, didn't seem to take the bus much himself. We had finally prevailed, although this didn't prevent Ranov from grumbling about the old professor most of the way from Sofia to Stoichev's house. Stoichev had used his fame to promote superstition and antipatriotic ideas; everyone knew that he had refused to drop his very unscientific allegiance to the Orthodox church; he had a son studying in East Germany who was almost as bad as he was. But we had won the battle, Stoichev could ride with us, and Irina whispered gratefully during our stop for lunch at a mountain tavern that she would have tried to prevent her uncle from going at all if they'd had to take the bus; he couldn't stand such a hard trip in this heat.
"'This is the wing where the monks still live,' Stoichev said. 'And over there, along that side, is the hostel where we will sleep. You will see how peaceful it is here at night, in spite of all the visitors in the day. This is one of our greatest national treasures, and many people come to see it, especially in the summer. But at night it becomes very quiet again. Come,' he added, 'we will go in to see the abbot. I called him yesterday and he is expecting us.' He led the way with surprising vigor, looking eagerly around, as if the place gave him new life.
"The abbot's audience chambers, when we reached them, were on the first floor of the monastic wing. A black-gowned monk with a long brown beard held the door for us and we went in, Stoichev removing his hat and entering first. The abbot rose from a bench near the wall and came forward to meet us. He and Stoichev greeted each other very cordially, Stoichev kissing his hand and the abbot blessing the old man. The abbot was a lean, upright man of perhaps sixty, his beard streaked with gray and his blue eyes - I was rather surprised to realize there were blue-eyed Bulgarians - tranquil. He shook hands with us in a very modern way, and with Ranov, who greeted him with obvious disdain. Then he gestured for us all to sit down, and a monk brought in a tray of glasses - not full of rakiya, in this place, but of cool water, accompanied by small dishes of that rose-flavored paste we had encountered in Istanbul. I noticed that Ranov did not drink his, as if he suspected poison.
"The abbot was clearly delighted to see Stoichev there, and I imagined the visit must be a particular pleasure to both of them. He asked us through Stoichev where we were from in America, whether we had visited other monasteries in Bulgaria, what he could do to help us, how long we would be able to stay. Stoichev spoke with him at length, translating obligingly so that we could answer the abbot's questions. We could use the library as much as we liked, the abbot said; we could sleep in the hostel; we should attend the services in the church; we were welcome anywhere except the monks' quarters - this with a gentle nod at Helen and Irina - and they would not hear of Professor Stoichev's friends paying for their lodging. We thanked him gratefully and Stoichev got to his feet. 'Now,' he said, 'since we have these kind permissions, we will go to the library.' He was already making his way cautiously to the door, kissing the abbot's hand, bowing.
"'My uncle is very excited,' Irina whispered to us. 'He says to me that your letter is a great discovery for Bulgarian history.' I wondered if she knew how much was actually riding on this research, what shadows lay across our path, but it was impossible for me to read anything more in her expression. She helped her uncle through the door and we followed him along the tremendous wooden galleries that lined the courtyard, Ranov trailing us with a cigarette in his hand.
"The library was a long gallery on the first floor, nearly opposite the abbot's rooms. At the entrance, a black-bearded monk ushered us in; he was a tall, gaunt-faced man and it seemed to me that he looked hard at Stoichev for a moment before nodding to us. 'This is Brother Rumen,' Stoichev told us. 'He is the librarian monk at present. He will show us what we need to see.'
"A few books and manuscripts had been put into glass-fronted display cases and labeled for the tourists; I would have liked to look at these, but we were on our way to a deeper recess, which opened out of the back of the room. It was miraculously cool in the depths of the monastery, and even the few raw electric bulbs could not completely chase away the profound darkness in the corners. In this inner sanctum, wooden cabinets and shelves were laden with boxes and trays of books. In the corner a little shrine held an icon of the Virgin and her stiff, precocious baby flanked by two red-winged angels, with a jeweled gold lamp hanging before them. The old, old walls were whitewashed stucco and the smell that engulfed us was a familiar odor of slowly decaying parchment, vellum, velvet. I was glad to see that Ranov had at least had the grace to put out his smoke before following us into this treasure-house.
"Stoichev tapped his foot on the stone floor as if summoning spirits. 'Here,' he said, 'you are looking at the heart of the Bulgarian people - this is where for hundreds of years the monks preserved our heritage, often in secret. Generations of faithful monks copied these manuscripts, or hid them when the monastery was attacked by the infidel. This is a small percentage of the legacy of our people - much of it was destroyed, of course. But we are grateful for these remains.'
"He spoke with the librarian, who began to look carefully through labeled boxes on the shelves. After a few minutes he brought down a wooden box and took from it several volumes. The top one was decorated with a startling painting of Christ - at least I took it to be Christ - an orb in one hand and a scepter in the other, his face clouded with Byzantine melancholy. To my disappointment, Brother Kiril's letters were not housed in this glorious binding, but in a plainer one beneath it, which had the look of old bone. The librarian carried it to a table and Stoichev sat eagerly down to it, opening it with relish. Helen and I drew out our notebooks and Ranov strolled around the library shelves as if too bored to stay in one place.
"'As I remember,' Stoichev said, 'there are two letters here, and it is unclear whether there were more - whether Brother Kiril wrote others that have not survived.' He pointed to the first page. It was covered in a close, rounded, calligraphic hand, and the parchment was deeply aged, almost brown. He turned to the librarian with a question. 'Yes,' he told us, pleased. 'They have typed these in Bulgarian, and some of the other rare documents from this period, as well.' The librarian set a folder in front of him, and Stoichev sat silent a while, examining the typed pages and turning back to the ancient calligraphy. 'They have done quite a good job,' he said at last. 'I will read you the best translation I can, for your notes.' And he read to us a halting version of these two letters.
Your Excellency, Lord Abbot Eupraxius: We are now three days upon the high road journeying out of Laota toward Vin. One night we slept in the stable of a good farmer, and one night at the hermitage of Saint Mikhail, where no monks now live but which gave us at least the dry shelter of a cave. The last night we were forced for the first time to make our camp in the forest, spreading rugs on the rustic floor and placing our bodies within a circle of the horses and wagon. Wolves came close enough in the night for us to hear their howling, whereupon the horses tried in terror to bolt. With great difficulty we subdued them. Now I am heartily glad for the presence of Brothers Ivan and Theodosius, with their height and strength, and I bless your wisdom in placing them among us.
Tonight we are made welcome in the house of a shepherd of some wealth and also of piety; he has three thousand sheep in this region, he tells us, and we are bid sleep on his soft sheepskins and mattresses, although I for one have elected the floor as more fitting to our devotions. We are out of the forest here, among open hills that roll on every side, where we may walk with equal blessing in rain and sunshine. The good man of the house tells us they have twice suffered the raids of the infidel from across the river, which is now a few days' walk only, if Brother Angelus can mend himself and keep to our pace. I think to let him ride one of the horses, although the sacred weight they pull is great enough already on them. Fortunately, we have seen no signs of infidel soldiers on the road.
Your most humble servant in Christ,
Br. Kiril
April, the Year of Our Lord 6985
Your Excellency, Lord Abbot Eupraxius:
We have left the city some weeks behind us and are now riding openly in the territory of the infidels. I dare not write our location, in case we should be captured. Perhaps we should have chosen the sea route after all, but God will be our Protector along the way we have chosen. We have seen the burned remains of two monasteries and one church. The church was smoking as yet. Five monks were hung there for conspiring to a rebellion, and their surviving brothers are scattered to other monasteries already. This is the only news we have learned, as we cannot talk long with the people who come out to our wagon. There is no reason to think one of these monasteries is the one we seek, however. The sign will be clear there, the monster equal to the saint. If this missive can be delivered to you, my lord, it shall be as soon as possible.
Your most humble servant in Christ,
Br. Kiril
June, the Year of Our Lord 6985
"When Stoichev had finished, we sat in silence. Helen was scribbling notes still, her face intent over her work, Irina sat with her hands folded, Ranov stood negligently against a cabinet, scratching under his collar. For myself, I had given up trying to write down the events described in the letter; Helen would catch everything anyway. There was no clear evidence here of a particular destination, no mention of a tomb, no scene of burial - the disappointment I felt was choking.
"But Stoichev seemed far from downcast. 'Interesting,' he said, after long minutes. 'Interesting. You see, your letter from Istanbul must lie between these two letters here, chronologically. In the first and second letters, they are traveling through Wallachia toward the Danube - that is clear from the place-names. Then comes your letter, which Brother Kiril wrote in Constantinople, perhaps hoping to send it and the previous letters from there. But he was unable or afraid to send them - unless these are just copies - we have no way to know. And the last letter is dated June. They took a land route like the one that is described by the Zacharias "Chronicle." In fact, it must have been the same route, from Constantinople through Edirne and Haskovo, because that was the major road fromTsarigrad into Bulgaria.'
"Helen looked up. 'But can we be sure this last letter describes Bulgaria?' "'We cannot be absolutely certain,' Stoichev admitted. 'However, I believe it is very probable. If they traveled from Tsarigrad - Constantinople - into a country where monasteries and churches were being burned in the late
fifteenth century, it is very likely that this was Bulgaria. Also, your letter from Istanbul states that they intend to go to Bulgaria.' "I couldn't help voicing my frustration. 'But there's no further information
about the location of the monastery they were looking for. Assuming it even was Sveti Georgi.' Ranov had settled at the table with us and was looking at his thumbs; I wondered if I should hide my interest in Sveti Georgi from him, but how else were we going to ask Stoichev about it?
"'No.' Stoichev nodded. 'Brother Kiril would certainly not have written the name of their destination in his letters, just as he did not write the name of Snagov with Eupraxius's titles. If they had been caught, these monasteries might have suffered extra persecution, eventually, or at least might have been searched.'
"'There is an interesting line in here.' Helen had finished her notes. 'Could you read that again - that the sign in the monastery they sought was a monster equal to a saint? What do you think this meant?'
"I looked quickly at Stoichev; this line had struck me, too. He sighed. 'It might refer to a fresco or an icon that was in the monastery - in Sveti Georgi, if that was indeed their destination. It is difficult to imagine what such an image might have been. And even if we could find Sveti Georgi itself, there is little hope that an icon that was there in the fifteenth century would still be there, especially since the monastery was probably burned at least once. I do not know what this means. Perhaps it is even a theological reference that the abbot would have understood but that we cannot, or perhaps it referred to some secret agreement between them. We must keep it in our minds, however, since Brother Kiril names it as the sign that will tell them they have come to the right place.'
"I was still wrestling with my disappointment; I realized now that I had expected these letters in their faded binding to hold the final key to our search, or at least to shed some light on the maps I still hoped to use.
"'There is a larger issue that is very strange.' Stoichev ran a hand over his chin. 'The letter from Istanbul says that the treasure they seek - perhaps a holy relic from Tsarigrad - is in a particular monastery in Bulgaria, and that is why they must go there. Please read me that passage again, Professor, if you will be so kind.'
"I had taken out the text of the Istanbul letter, to have beside me while we studied Brother Kiril's other missives. 'It says, "¡ what we seek has been transported already out of the city and into a haven in the occupied lands of the Bulgarians.'
"'That is the passage,' Stoichev said. 'The question is' - he tapped a long forefinger on the table in front of him - 'why would a holy relic, for example, have been smuggled out of Constantinople in 1477? The city had been Ottoman since 1453 and most of its relics were destroyed in the invasion. Why did the monastery of Panachrantos send a remaining relic into Bulgaria twenty-four years later, and why was that the particular relic these monks had gone to Constantinople to find?'
"'Well,' I reminded him, 'we know from the letter that the Janissaries were looking for the same relic, so it had some value for the sultan also.' "Stoichev considered. 'True, but the Janissaries looked for it after it was taken safely out of the monastery.'"'It must have been a holy object with political power for the Ottomans, as well as a spiritual treasure for the monks of Snagov.' Helen was frowning, tapping her cheek with her pen. 'A book, perhaps?'"'Yes,' I said, excited now. 'What if it was a book that contained some information the Ottomans wanted and the monks needed?' Ranov, across the table, suddenly gave me a hard look.
"Stoichev nodded slowly, but I remembered after a second that this meant disagreement. 'Books of that period did not usually contain political information - they were religious texts, copied many times for use in the monasteries or for the Islamic religious schools and mosques, if they were Ottoman. It is not likely that the monks would make such a dangerous journey even for a copy of the holy gospels. And they would already have had such books at Snagov.'
"'Just a minute.' Helen's eyes were wide with thought. 'Wait. It must have been something connected with Snagov's needs, or the Order of the Dragon, or maybe the wake for Vlad Dracula - remember the "Chronicle"? The abbot wanted Dracula buried somewhere else.'
"'True,' Stoichev mused. 'He wanted to send Dracula's body to Tsarigrad even at the risk of the lives of his monks.'
"'Yes,' I said. I think I was about to say something else, to meander down some other path of inquiry, but suddenly Helen turned to me and shook my arm.
"'What?' I said, but by then she had recovered herself.
"'Nothing,' she said softly, without looking at either me or Ranov. I wished to God he would get up and go outside to smoke, or get tired of the conversation, so that Helen could speak up freely. Stoichev glanced at her keenly, and after a moment he began to explain in a droning voice how medieval manuscripts were made and copied - sometimes by monks who were actually illiterate and encoded generations of small errors in them - and how their different handwritings were codified by modern scholars. I was puzzled about why he was going on at such length, although what he said held considerable interest for me. Fortunately, I stayed quiet during his disquisition, for after a while Ranov actually began to yawn. Finally, he stood up and made his way out of the library, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. As soon as he was gone Helen seized my arm again. Stoichev watched her intently.
"'Paul,' she said, and her face was so strange that I caught her around the shoulders, thinking she might faint. 'His head! Don't you see? Dracula went back to Constantinople to get his head!'
"Stoichev made a little choked sound, but too late. At that moment, glancing around, I saw Brother Rumen's angular face around the edge of a bookshelf. He had come silently back into the room, and although his back was to us while he put something away, it was a listening back. After a moment, he went quietly out again, and we all sat silent. Helen and I glanced helplessly at each other and I got up to check the depths of the room. The man was gone, but it would probably be a matter of a short time before someone else - Ranov, for example - heard about Helen's exclamation. And what use might Ranov make of that information?"
