Now he hears the familiar clatter that on every journey whisks him into a state of creative meditation. Only after the sound does Roshko appear out of the fog, leading a horse by the bridle; after him comes the vicar’s britchka. At the sight of the carriage, Father Chmielowski feels a surge of energy, slaps his glove against his hand, and leaps up into his seat. Roshko, silent as usual, adjusts the harness and glances at the priest. The fog turns Roshko’s face gray, and suddenly he looks older to the priest, as though he’s aged overnight, although in reality he’s a young man yet.
Finally, they set off, but it’s as if they’re standing still, since the only evidence of motion is the rocking of the carriage and the soothing creaks it makes. They’ve traveled this road so many times, over so many years, that there’s no need to take in the view any longer, nor will landmarks be necessary for them to get their bearings. Father Chmielowski knows they’ve now gone down the road that passes along the edge of the forest, and they’ll stay on it all the way to the chapel at the crossroads. The chapel was erected there by Father Chmielowski himself some years earlier, when he had just been entrusted with the presbytery of Firlejów. For a long time he had wondered to whom to dedicate the little chapel, and he had thought of Benedict, his patron saint, or Onuphrius, the hermit who had, in the desert, miraculously received dates to eat from a palm tree, while every eighth day angels brought down for him from heaven the Body of Christ. For Father Chmielowski, Firlejów was to be a kind of desert, too, after his years tutoring His Lordship Jab?onowski’s son Dymitr. On reflection, he had come to the conclusion that the chapel was to be built not for him and the satisfaction of his vanity, but rather for ordinary persons, that they might have a place to rest at that crossroads, whence to raise their thoughts to heaven. Standing, then, on that brick pedestal, coated in white lime, is the Blessed Mother, Queen of the World, wearing a crown on her head, a serpent squirming under her slipper.
She, too, disappears into the fog today, along with the chapel and the crossroads. Only the treetops are visible, a sign that the fog is beginning to dissipate.
“Ka?ka won’t go, good sir,” Roshko grumbles when the carriage comes to a stop. He gets out of his seat and vigorously crosses himself—once, twice, and then again.
He leans forward and peers into the fog as he would into water. His shirt pokes out from underneath his faded red Sunday doublet.
“I don’t know where to go,” he says.
“What do you mean, you don’t know? We’re on the Rohatyn road now,” the priest says in astonishment.
And yet! He gets out of the britchka to join his servant. Helplessly they circle the carriage, straining their eyes into the pale gray. For a moment they think they see something, but it’s only that their eyes, unable to latch on to anything, have begun to play tricks on them. But how can they not know where to go? It’s like getting lost in one’s own pocket.
“Quiet!” the priest says suddenly, and raises his finger, straining to hear. And indeed, from somewhere off to the left, through the billows of fog, the faint murmur of water reaches their ears.
“Let’s follow that sound,” the priest says with determination. “That’s water flowing.”
Now they’ll slowly creep along the river people call the Rotten Linden. The water will be their guide.
Soon Father Chmielowski relaxes back inside his carriage, stretching his legs out before him, allowing his eyes to drift within this mass of fog. Right away he slips into his musings—for man thinks best in motion. Slowly, reluctantly, the mechanism of his mind awakens, wheels and pinions starting up, the whole getting going just like the clock that stands in the vestibule of the presbytery, which he purchased in Lwów for an exorbitant sum. It’ll be just about to chime. Did not the world emerge from such a fog? he starts to wonder. After all, the Jewish historian Josephus maintains the world was created in the autumn, at the autumn equinox. A reasonable notion, since of course there were fruits in paradise; given the apple hanging from the tree, it must indeed have been autumn . . . There is a logic to it. But right away another thought occurs to him: What kind of reasoning is this? Could not Almighty God create such paltry fruits at any time of year?
When they come to the main road leading to Rohatyn, they join the stream of persons on foot and horseback and in every variety of vehicle who appear out of the fog like Christmas figurines sculpted from bread. It is Wednesday, market day in Rohatyn, and the peasants’ carts are loaded with grain sacks, cages with poultry fowl—all sorts of agricultural bounty. As the carts roll slowly by, merchants skip between them, carrying every imaginable commodity—their stalls, cleverly collapsed, can be thrown over their shoulders like carrying poles; then, in a flash, unfolded, they are tables strewn with bright materials or wooden toys, eggs bought up from the villages for a quarter of what they cost here, now. Peasants lead goats and cows to be sold; the animals, frightened by the tumult, stop among the puddles and refuse to budge. Now a wagon flies by them, its cover a tarpaulin riddled with holes; it carries a load of the exuberant Jews who converge upon the Rohatyn market from all over. Next a very ornate carriage wedges its way through, though in the fog and the crowd it has trouble preserving its dignity—its vibrant little lacquered doors are caked with mud, and the cerulean-cloaked coachman’s countenance is wan, as he must not have been expecting such a commotion and is now desperately seeking any opportunity to get off this terrible road.
Roshko is persistent and will not be forced onto the field; he keeps to the right side with one wheel in the grass, one on the road, and moves steadily forward. His long, gloomy face gets flushed, then taken over by a hideous grimace; the priest glances at him and remembers the etching he studied yesterday, featuring spitfires in hell with faces very like Roshko’s right now.
“Let the Very Reverend through! Nu, poshli! Out of the way!” shouts Roshko. “Out!”
Suddenly, without warning, the first buildings appear in front of them. Evidently the fog changes all perception of distance, as even Ka?ka seems confused. She lurches, yanking the drawbar, and were it not for Roshko’s firm hand and whip, she would have overturned the britchka. In front of them is a blacksmith’s; maybe Ka?ka got spooked by the sparks spewing from that furnace, or else by the anxiety of the horses waiting their turn to be shod . . .
Farther on is the inn, in a state of partial ruin, reminiscent of a rural cottage. A well-pole juts out over it like a gallows, piercing the fog, then disappears somewhere higher up. The priest sees that the filthy fancy carriage has come to a stop here, the exhausted coachman’s head fallen to his knees; he doesn’t leave his seat, nor does anyone emerge from inside. Already a tall, skinny Jew and a little girl with tousled hair are standing before it. But the vicar forane sees no more—the fog subsumes every passing view, each scene as fleeting as a flake of dissolving snow.