The Icon Read Online Free PDF Page A

encounter for a long time afterward. Perhaps on some level he came to believe what the old man had said. Yet things had happened, things written of in the past that found a place in his life, bracing up his ever-shaky faith. He had lived long, too long, maybe, yet he had outlived countless dangers, illnesses, injuries. Longevity was one of the powers attributed to the icon. Stories existed of men who owned it, or dedicated their worship to it, living 120 years, fathering children in their eighties. In Kessler’s case, long life had seemed a kind of mockery. He’d defeated illness but had never been completely free of it. There had been only the one child, the son whom he had lost. What was the purpose, the gain of such an old age?
    At some point it had occurred to him that his reward might come in the next world, not this one, and that proved a difficult change in thinking. Because he was not sure he believed in a next world, was not even sure he believed in the Almighty. It was conceivable to him that there was such an entity, and such a place, but one did not arrive there without a deep, abiding faith. No hellfire was necessary for the rest. The contemplation of a black abyss, utter nothingness, was more than sufficiently terrifying. Then he had begun to see Her. And what unexpected joy that had caused. And fear, too, for she would not be there without a purpose, but he was hopeful that she intended him some good. She had ever been the source of mercy in all the tales that he knew, and if she could not save his enfeebled body, perhaps she could save that thing that was more important, if it was real: his soul. He thought of all these things in a moment as the figure hovered at the edge of his vision, waiting. Shame overwhelmed him, suddenly, sickeningly. Belief came from the heart, not the eyes. He had no right to demand proof, he, the worst sinner on earth. And yet, had it not been so with Paul? With all the disciples? And countless others since. Might not the eyes persuade the heart? Who was he to decide?
    He had never yet been able to face the figure. Having tried the first time it appeared to him, years before, and been met with an empty doorway, he’d decided the time was not right. Since then, he had been content simply to sense the presence near him. More content, he suspected, than he would have been with the actual laying on of sight, for there would be a reason for it when that time came, and his craven heart feared the reason. But this was wrong, he must steel himself; he could not escape his fate, only face it bravely and with an open heart. He had never been brave about anything in his life; now was the time. She was forgiveness. His fingers hovered over the chair controls.
    She was forgiveness. Like his mother, who had protected him from his father. A dark study, rain-soaked gusts outside the window, the man in his familiar suit, his familiar smell, tobacco and shaving cream, taller than God, the smile of a fiend, the heavy hand falling over and over again. He hated his father, a mortal sin; he was damned. Fresh tears rushed to his blind eyes. He shook his head. No, she would understand, she was forgiveness. He hesitated.
    What if he were completely mistaken? If what he felt was simply Diana standing there, unwilling to enter his sanctum, waiting for him to finish his prayers to false gods? What if his doubting intellect had been right the whole time? Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, Mother Mercy, all spinning away from him into the void, a fantasy, no salvation. Mother, wife, and betrayed son all spinning away, no reunion, no forgiveness. The hand fell again and again. All his life he’d feared punishment for his wrongs. Here, at the end, he feared judgment far less than its absence. If the end was the absolute end? He could not accept it.
    Enough. His vision swam. The rain had increased to a roar. Enough, be a man, look. His numb fingertips manipulated the controls and the chair made a quarter turn toward