Nicked

by M.T. Anderson

The monk heard that a ship had arrived carrying one of the dog-headed people whom travelers speak of when they tell tall tales of the one-eyed and the winged, and he went out to the docks to see if it was true. This is how he first laid eyes on the relic thief; this is how the voyage to steal the corpse of Saint Nicholas began.

“I called out like a lamb in a ravine,” said the Duke, “and you, great shepherd, have come.” “When the dearest of God’s servants bleats,” said the Archbishop, “I cannot refuse.” The Duke grimaced. “I of course do not bleat.”

If it is my fault that we are all here upon the sea, he requested in the dark hours, strike me with fire like those who burned on deck, and cleanse this ship of the curse of me.

“There is some secret anxiety that weighs on you?” Nicephorus pressed. “Think, Benedictine. I am a dog-headed man on a ship marked with the urine of thirty friends.”

“I knew as soon as I had the dream of Akritis’s doom…” “You can’t trust dreams.” “Can’t you, dreamer?”

“It is miraculous,” said Nicephorus. “To think of the impossible antiquity of the Earth. Imagine the ancient history of this world. Look at these hills of rock and think: it has been six thousand years, six thousand long years, since the Earth was formed molten in the Creator’s hands. And since then, empire after empire spread here. The kingdom of giants. The Greeks. The Persians. The Romans. Byzantium. We are passing over their dining halls and marketplaces. We are so blessed to walk for a while in this place, before we too are covered with silt.”

“The rich do not need miracles,” said the holy man. “The accrual of rent from those who can’t pay it is miracle enough.”

“So I am denied grace because I am rich?” “You are granted grace because you are rich. Be thankful for what you have. There is so much more for you to atone for.”

Nicephorus found himself wishing it were just the two of them breaking and entering by night. Since when, he wondered, have I been so drawn to burglary?

At the center, there is a void. Emptiness. An empty tomb. That is what all Christians long for: to find the stone rolled away, and nothing within.”

He never saw the body of the saint, if there was a body, if there was anything in that tomb at all other than oil, yellow as sunshine, green as the ocean depths, in which something might tumble and float free.

“You, dream boy, are a wonder,” said Tyun. “I could kiss you.”

“This is your donkey?” said another one. “It is.” “These bags are yours?” “They are.” “So the bones are yours.” “The bones,” said Tyun, remembering the bones.

“How long were you with him?” “Until I killed him,” Tyun said. He rolled the wax into a ball between his palms. “Yesterday you and Reprobus told me he was dismembered by a cherub.” “What?” Tyun looked at the monk with barely concealed pity. “That was yesterday.”

“She was writing this hymn, and she heard the sound of many horses on the road. She heard the jingle of elaborate trappings and medallions, and she knew it must be the Emperor of Byzantium. He had finally come.” “Will this lead to fornication?”

“When he had gone, she went to the desk and read what he had written: ‘Eve hid herself when she heard His footsteps walking through the Garden in the cool of the morning.’ Then Kassiani knew that he had seen her hiding in the room. But she did not erase his verse or scratch it out. She let it stand. It was a sign of his great love and respect for her that he had known she was concealed there, but did not acknowledge it. There could be no greater token of their bond than silence.

“That’s your great love story. People who never touch each other.” “I can’t tell it without my voice trembling.” “I think you should lie down.”

“His body in death is more important than mine in life,” said the Guardian defiantly, or meant to, except he became confused in the pronouns and said “than yours in mine in…” and did not finish at all.

“Will you show us where you’ve hidden Nicholas?” The Guardian looked at the Venetian boy in fear. He whispered, “Yes.” Matteo goaded him angrily: “Now you will tell us? Why? Now that you know death is real? Wasn’t there death a minute ago? What did you think? That there wasn’t death? Wasn’t there death an hour ago? Wasn’t there death as soon as the world was born?”

Tyun said, “We can claim sanctuary, right? That’s a thing Christians do?” “It depends…” “You talk a lot. I want to hear ‘Yes.’ ”

To worry, for a dog, is to wrestle a thing clutched in the teeth, unable to let it go.

But here was the trick: To keep my weight constant, I had to piss at exactly the same rate as I drank…” “That’s a lie, right?”

This was the world: the comedy always turns eventually to tragedy. Just wait long enough, and the wedding of Helen and Menelaus becomes the stabbing of Agamemnon in the bath.

“Don’t pretend you’re not already thinking about how you’re going to produce a miracle with these bones back in Bari.” Tyun thought about this.