fell on my knees. My robe was tearing, black cloth ripping.
"Father, stop it and go away," I said.
"Deep in these pits to bury a boy who can paint with the skill of the angels!"
"Brother Ivan, stop your shouting. It's for God to decide what each of us will do."
The priests ran behind me. I was dragged into the workroom. Ikons in rows hung from the ceiling, covering all of the far wall. My Father flung me down in the chair at the large heavy table. He lifted the iron candlestick with its fluttering, protesting candle to light all the tapers around.
The illumination made a fire on his huge beard. Long gray hairs sprung from his thick eyebrows, combed upwards, diabolical.
"You behave like the village idiot, Father," I whispered. "It's a wonder I'm not a slobbering idiot beggar myself."
"Shut up, Andrei. Nobody's taught you any manners here, that's clear enough. You need me to beat you."
He slammed his fist into the side of my head. My ear went numb.
"I thought I'd beaten you enough before I brought you here, but not so," he said. He smacked me again.
"Desecration!" cried the priest, looming above me. "The boy's consecrated to God."
"Consecrated to a pack of lunatics," said my Father. He took a packet out of his coat. "Your eggs, Brothers!" he said with contempt.
He lay back the soft leather and removed an egg. "Paint, Andrei. Paint to remind these lunatics that you have the gift from God Himself."
"And God Himself it is who paints the picture," cried the priest, the eldest of them, whose sticky gray hair was so soiled in time with oil that it was near black. He pushed his way between my chair and my Father.
My Father set down all but one egg. Leaning over a small earthen bowl on the table, he broke the shell of the egg, carefully gathering the yoke in one side, and letting all the rest spill into his leather cloth. "There, there, pure yoke, Andrei." He sighed, and then threw the broken shell on the floor.
He picked up the small pitcher and poured the water into the yoke.
"You mix it, mix your colors and work. Remind these-."
"He works when God calls him to work," declared the Elder, "and when God calls him to bury himself within the Earth, to live the life of the reclusive, the hermit, then will he do that."
"Like Hell," said my Father. "Prince Michael himself has asked for an Ikon of the Virgin. Andrei, paint! Paint three for me that I may give the Prince the Ikon for which he asks, and take the others to the distant castle of his cousin, Prince Feodor, as he has asked."
"That castle's destroyed, Father," I said contemptuously. "Feodor and all his men were massacred by the wild tribes. You'll find nothing out there in the wild lands, nothing but stones. Father, you know this as well as I do. We've ridden plenty far enough to see for ourselves."
"We'll go if the Prince wants us to go," said my Father, "and we'll leave the ikon in the branches of the nearest tree to where his brother died."
"Vanity and madness," said the Elder. Other priests came into the room. There was much shouting.
"Speak clearly to me and stop the poetry!" cried my Father. "Let my boy paint. Andrei, mix your colors. Say your prayers, but begin."
"Father, you humiliate me. I despise you. I'm ashamed that I'm your son. I'm not your son. I won't be your son. Shut your filthy mouth or I'll paint nothing."
"Ah, that's my sweet boy, with the honey rolling off his tongue, and the bees that left it there left their sting too."
Again, he struck me. This time I became dizzy, but I refused to lift my hands to my head. My ear throbbed.
"Proud of yourself, Ivan the Idiot!" I said. "How can I paint when I can't see or even sit in the chair?"
The priests shouted. They argued amongst one another.
I tried to focus on the small row of earthen jars ready for the yoke and the water. Finally I began to mix the yoke and the water. Best to work and shut them all out. I could hear my Father laugh with satisfaction.
"Now, show them, show them what they mean to wall up alive in a lot of mud."
"For the love of God," said the Elder.
"For the love of stupid idiots," said my Father. "It isn't enough to have a great painter. You have to have a saint."