The trembling light of the tallow candle – a useful and necessary object, if foul-smelling – mixed with the flicker of the hearth, so that the shadows of the three men, seated on low three-legged stools and taking turns sipping from a bowl of thick bean stew, for which Hristo the Latin was a renowned master, danced across the walls of the small, smoke-blackened room like people startled in their sleep. The leather opanci of old man Vasil, set to dry near the hearth but not too far away – everyone knew the Apostle never left his sandals more than an arm’s length from him – filled the room with the scent of a man who rarely stood still, day or night. A sharp, almost angry scent, which old Vasil carried with him everywhere like a warning, a kind of personal message to anyone foolish enough to block his path with words or deeds – even if the many years of working with all sorts of men had taught him more patience and restraint than his naturally fierce character would have allowed.

Otherwise, the room contained almost nothing – just a low divan, covered with a few woolen rugs and noisy-to-the-touch pillows, plus the small table and the three-legged stools. The inn had only recently been rented, mostly for committee business, and Hristo, who showed up here only rarely, couldn’t care less about the comfort of guests who were, in any case, few and far between.

“The beans are good, we’ll be farting ourselves healthy tonight,” old Vasil grinned and discreetly burped into his hand. “You blessed them before we started, didn’t you, father? Maybe that’s why they were so tasty.”

The shaggy man opposite him, heavily bearded and planted in the ground like a stone, stirred and the stool creaked under his weight.

“Don’t call me ‘father’, deacon,” Krastyo growled, digging his fingers into his matted beard, angry and defiant. “I’m no priest of yours, and my pistol’s no worse than yours. When the time comes, we’ll see.”

Old Vasil chuckled good-naturedly. It seemed the good meal had loosened him a bit after the long wander across the frozen fields of Lovech.

“Feisty, isn’t he, Nikola?” he turned to the third man at the table – a young, nearly beardless man with a clever brow and a gaze full of fervent devotion, radiating from his whole face. Everyone knew the Apostle was, for him, an icon – a living saint, father and mother in one. “Say, Krastyo, if five or six zaptiehs were to come on us now, what would you do? Gut them all? Five at once, eh? Heh heh heh…”

“Laugh it up, go ahead!” Krastyo snarled, yanking at his beard. “But when I told you we should’ve done away with that mad holy fool Dimitar, you wouldn’t have it! There were rules, you said, laws, regulations. Well, there you go! Now they’re hunting us like mice, one by one. And it’s all your fault, Apostle! All of it!”

Old Vasil’s face turned so pale that even in the dim light it looked like wax. He clenched his fingers, cracked them loudly, then rose to his feet, tense as if ready to pounce, paced nervously back and forth with his back to the other two, and then, without turning around, growled:

“Nikola, did you check everything around? I’ve got a tightness in my gut – this night isn’t good, damn it, it isn’t good!”

“I’ve checked it all, Apostle, how could I not?” the young man replied quickly. “It’s all clear, not a soul outside, I went around three times as far as the edge of the village. Who would be wandering in this frost besides us? People have other worries…”

“Go, go and check again! I’m telling you, Nikola – this night’s no good, I feel something, but I can’t say what. As if some beast is stalking me, lying in wait nearby, ready to pounce and tear me apart. Go on, go, look again.”

The youth stood up at once, though his face clearly showed he had no desire to step out into the December freeze. The Apostle’s word, of course, was law – not just for Nikola, but for all his comrades. Only Dimitar Obshti, the holy fool, had dared accuse him of dishonesty – and now they were all bearing the consequences of that unspeakable, almost inconceivable accusation, which in the end had turned out to be the foulest betrayal in the entire history of the Committee. To raise a hand against the Apostle was to strike at the Cause – everyone knew that, and everyone was ready to give their life for the saint just as willingly as they would for Freedom itself. But that was already known – and no words, no matter how noble or self-sacrificing, could undo the evil done by Dimitar (and the goodness of the Apostle).

And this mad journey, which he had undertaken in defiance of all sense, as if to atone for some guilt no one would have dared lay on him – no one except Pop Krastyo, the gnarled of the gnarled – this too seemed shrouded in the heavy shadow of betrayal and the inescapable despair that had gripped them all since the Empire had finally caught wind of what kind of stew was brewing under its nose, in the long-asleep heart of Rumelia where no one had ever expected such a thing. And since Dzhinghibi – the Uncatchable – had become the most wanted man between Edirne and Vidin, between Ruschuk and Thessaloniki. It seemed the time had come when God Himself had finally decided to separate the chaff from the grain – and woe to anyone caught in that merciless sieve, whether chaff… or grain.

Old Vasil waited until Nikola had closed the door behind him. Still turned away from Krastyo, he pivoted, wolf-like, without moving his neck — and stared straight into the priest’s eyes with a look sharp enough to pierce stone. But Krastyo wasn’t easily shaken. He too was carved from gnarled wood — knotted, cracked, but heavy and unyielding like a dark and spiteful rock. The two men sat in silence, snorting like beasts in the cold, until Vasil finally broke through the searing quiet.

“So that’s how it is, Krastyo? This is all my fault, is it? Because I wouldn’t have him killed? Because I insisted we hold a committee trial, not just play executioners like some midday bandits?”

The priest only grunted, his fingers buried in his tangled beard.

“How many times did I warn you, Vasil? How many? Did anyone else say what I said? That he was rotten — a fool, a fraud, a traitor hiding in rags? Once? Twice? How many times did I say your soft heart would be the death of us all? You were raised without a father, Vasil — that’s where this all began. No one taught you how to carry the weight of manhood. That’s the root of it.”

Vasil sprang forward, clearing the space between them in a single bound. The low table flew aside as if swept by wind. In the next instant, his hand had Krastyo’s beard clamped in a vice grip, on the verge of ripping it out by the roots.

“Say that again — just once more, Krastyo,” he hissed, violently shaking the priest’s head until his kalimavka flew into a corner and vanished from sight. “Go on. Say it again.”

Krastyo’s eyes flared, ready to fight, but then dimmed and dropped.

“Forgive me, Apostle… forgive me,” he murmured. “It’s the grief talking — grief for the Cause, and for all of us. The Devil clouded my mind. These words, they weren’t worthy of you… or anyone. I’m tired, worn out and losing faith. Tell me, Apostle — how do we go on from here? Tomorrow or the next day, they’ll round us up one by one. And the people? They’ll sit quiet as ever, like they always have. So tell me — how?”

Vasil let go of the beard, wiped his hand on his trousers, pulled up one of the stools, and sat down hard. He buried his face in his hands — and for a moment, the light in the room seemed to dim completely.

“You want an answer, Krastyo? One I’ve been searching for myself for ten years now, since the moment I began this work — and still I can’t find it. Who is this for? For those who set their dogs on me when they hear I’m near their village? Or for the others, the ones who hide behind their neighbors’ walls because they know I’ll ask for help? Do you know how many times I’ve asked myself — who am I doing this for? Everywhere I go, horns lowered, ready to gore me. To throw me in the ditch, spit on me, deny me.

“What kind of people are we, Krastyo? Can you explain it to me? They say a prophet finds no honor in his own land — but ours is something else. I’ve been to Serbia, to Wallachia — the people there walk taller, their eyes have a spark, their women are proud, their children alert, hungry for more than just bread…

“But here, Krastyo? What’s here? Were our kings lesser than theirs? Is our spirit, our faith any weaker? What is this madness, Krastyo? Once — in Kotel, no less — a man stood up in the middle of a meeting, twirled his moustache, and said right to my face: ‘Easy for you to talk, Vasil. Easy for you to play hero, to say you’ve got nothing to lose — because it’s true. You’ve no home, no wife, no children. Not even a dog or a cat. You wander the roads, no one’s son, no one’s man. And you come asking us to give up our homes, for some Cause, for God knows what. But what if you were in our place, Vasil? What if you worked for your bread with blood and sweat, earned respect from both Bulgarians and Turks alike? What if you had property, a family to raise? Then maybe you’d understand before preaching freedom and sacrifice. Because when the soldiers come, it’s our houses that’ll burn, Vasil. You — you don’t have one.’

“I still don’t know why I didn’t shoot him right there, Krastyo. The rage, it blinded me — I don’t even know if I replied or just clenched my teeth in silence. But a man who doesn’t want freedom… who chooses the yoke and the whip, just for a scrap of bread — what is he, Krastyo? Is that a man, or some pitiful beast? I tell you, a camel could pass through the eye of a needle before our people awaken. Before they stand tall and demand to be a nation — not this blind, speechless herd.”

The priest, who by now was bug-eyed and gaping, suddenly started crossing himself in a frenzy. He pulled a large metal crucifix from under his cassock, kissed it, and began to wave it urgently over the Apostle.

“Lord, have mercy! Lord, have mercy! Vasil, deacon, Apostle — wake up, come to your senses! Cast off the Devil from your shoulders! Reject him, for it is only he who tempts you into such thoughts. He is testing you, tormenting you, to see what kind of wood you’re made of. The whole nation looks to you, Apostle. Maybe they don’t know it yet, but in time all will be revealed. For it is written — there is a time to sow, and a time to…”

“One of them, Krastyo…” Vasil interrupted, as if he hadn’t heard a word. “It wasn’t just one — not even two. One of them said to me, ‘Who the hell are you to come begging us for money like some beggar? We don’t even know what you’re doing with it. Enough of your whining, like some widow craving cock — always trying to squeeze five groschen out of each of us. Damn crybaby. As if the Turks and the greedy bosses weren’t bad enough already.’ These are the words I hear every other day, Krastyo. And I’m supposed to believe I’ll overthrow the Empire with these people? That I’ll bring them light? Freedom? When they neither want it, nor even know what kind of creature it is?

“Who are we, Krastyo? Do we even ask ourselves? Do we want to know? Do we try to understand who we are, where we come from, where we’re going — why we’ve ended up like this, why we never became something else? Who are we, Krastyo?”

The priest, his head now buried in his hands, eyes fixed on the flames as if expecting a revelation, muttered in a hoarse, rusted voice:

“As for Dimitar… don’t worry about him, Apostle. There’s no escape for him. God above sees everything, and the Turks — if there’s one thing they never forgive, it’s betrayal. They’ll punish him for us. Mark my words, Apostle. Our false Dimitar won’t walk out of that dungeon alive. No matter how he twists and wriggles, no matter how many souls he sells, no matter what he hopes — there’s no mercy for men like him. That’s how it’s always been. And that’s how it always will be. Forever and ever.”

“And how many more like him are there, Krastyo?” Vasil pressed on, trembling, like a man possessed. “How many more? Take Nikola Tsvyatkov — a good lad, honest and smart. But how can I know what he’ll do tomorrow, when — God forbid — we finally stand against the Empire? From Ivanko, the assassin of Asen, all the way to today — is there anything more natural to us than betrayal? Not for thirty silver coins, not even three, not even one — but for a crust of bread. Or worse, just out of spite, envy, or impotent rage. ‘If I can’t have it, better no one can.’ ‘Let me win, and the rest be damned.’ Everyone looks out for himself — no one gives a damn about country, or freedom, or progress. This isn’t a nation, Krastyo. It’s a herd.”

“Apostle, please… don’t tear my soul apart like this…”

“I never thought it would come for me, too — this Bulgarian plague, Krastyo. I never believed that one day I…”

“What are you saying, Apostle? Wake up! What’s gotten into you?”

“Listen to me, don’t interrupt. There’s something I’ve never told anyone — a story I carry like a needle under the heart, pricking me day after day, bleeding me dry.”

Vasil groaned and stood, pacing the room like a caged lion. The priest stared, frozen — as if turned to stone.

“I met a woman once, Krastyo. Her name was Manolka. A good woman. Decent. Don’t ask me where or how. A widow. Lived alone, handled everything on her own. And… now and then, I’d stop by her place. I’d tap on her shutter, and she’d let me in. No questions. No interrogations. She’d warm up some water, wash me clean, lay out whatever food she had, and then — draw me close. She warmed my soul, Krastyo. It was… good. It was good, what more can I say?

“Was it a year? Three? I don’t even want to remember…”

He stopped, swallowed hard, spat into the hearth, then resumed circling the room.

“After a while… I started getting scared of myself, Krastyo. You know — the Cause. I started softening. Lingering too long at her place. Because it was good — why lie? One day like this, the next the same, and then suddenly I snapped…

“And why did I curse her so cruelly, reject her so viciously, humiliate her like that — I still don’t know. Maybe there’s a slave living in each of us — bitter, brutal, vengeful. What do you think, Krastyo? Why? Why? Why?

“‘You’re a simple woman, Manolka,’ I told her. ‘Uneducated. We’re not meant for each other. It’s time we went our separate ways. I feel trapped here — stifled and bored. My soul’s rotting. Damn you, Manolka!’ And she didn’t even flinch. Just… her eyes clouded over, like someone had pulled a rug over her face. And all she said was, ‘As you wish, Vasil. If that’s your decision…’

“That was all. Not another word.

“I gathered my rags and left, like nothing had happened… But if only I’d known, Krastyo, what kind of hole something like that leaves behind. Big as a crater, but nothing ever passes through it — not forward, not back. It stays sealed forever, even though it gapes right in the middle of you — like someone ran a skewer through your ribs.

“So I kept going about my committee work — pretending all was well. But after a while, I noticed something, right here…”

He struck his chest, once, twice, three times.

“Right here in the middle — I was hollow. Everything passed through me, nothing stayed. Not joy, not grief — just this sour feeling, and a question that wouldn’t stop gnawing at me: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?

“And there’s no answer. Yesterday I thought I knew. But today — nothing. I don’t know who I am, why I exist, or where I’m going. And so I decided… to repent. To go back to Manolka, ask her forgiveness — hoping it might ease the weight inside…”

His voice cracked, splintered, then gave out completely. He choked, buried his face in his hands, and fell silent.

The priest waited — until it felt like all the air had been sucked from the room. Then, unable to bear it any longer, he asked softly:

“And then… what happened then, Apostle?”

“Nothing. What was there to happen? I went, knocked on her shutter with our old signal. She appeared at the window, didn’t open it. Just said: ‘What’s done is done, Vasil. Thank you for everything. Now go your way.’

“If she’d cursed me, scolded me, called me names — it might’ve been easier. But like that… Like a fallen angel. You don’t know which world you’re in anymore. Only something inside starts scratching, biting, knocking… a voice, small but endless.

“Once you’ve fallen, Krastyo, you can never believe in yourself again. One time is enough. Because faith — it doesn’t break in pieces. It’s either whole and unbroken, or it’s gone — just like that, with a single blow.”

Vasil fell silent again. Then added:

“And I’ve made a decision, Krastyo. Though I’m not entirely sure… And you mustn’t tell a soul — not a word!”

His eyes flared, and his gaze darted hawk-like toward the pistols at his belt.

“I’ve decided: if things stay this way — desert outside, desert within — I’ll pack up and leave. Maybe to Wallachia, maybe to Serbia. I don’t know yet. But I can’t stay here any longer. I can’t believe in any of you — or in myself. Let someone else carry the crown of thorns, the so-called crown. If those things even exist. As for me… I’m just a man.”

Father Krastyo rose as if drunk, swayed once or twice, then collapsed to his knees before the Apostle. He seized his hands and wept like a child — deep, broken sobs.

“Apostle, Apostle, Apostle! Come back to yourself, man, I beg you! The Devil has tempted you — stolen your wits over nothing! You can’t be so proud, so blind to what you’re about to do. If you fall, we all fall with you, Apostle! Can’t you see that?

“Better…”

He took a deep breath, as if something were choking him.

“Better dead…
Than like this.
Better dead.
Through death, He trampled death…

Vasil pulled his hands from the priest’s feverish grip, stepped back a pace, looked at him with surprise, then his eyes once again clouded over and seemed to sink inward, into himself.

“Maybe you’re right, Krastyo. Maybe you’re right. I don’t know what’s best — for me or for you. But that’s enough, it’s past midnight, time to sleep. Tomorrow I’m back on the road again — you know that.”

“Right, right”, the priest suddenly rushed about, as if struck by revelation. “You’re right, you’re right, Apostle. But I’m not tired yet. You go, rest, and I’ll keep watch outside. When Nikola returns, I’ll make a round myself too, just in case — you never know. Four eyes are better than two. You rest, you rest.”

He stood up, kissed the Apostle, and left.

In the dark…^[1]

^[1] According to undocumented sources, Father Krastyo betrayed the Apostle to the Ottoman authorities. Though never conclusively proven, this accusation remains one of the most bitter and enduring stories of treason in Bulgarian national history.