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223 pages, Hardcover
First published July 23, 2024
So Myra was saved. I am not sure what they did about the famine down the coast a few miles at Antiphellos or Phoinike.
God’s mercy is infinite— an infinite eye— which, seeing all, favors none, and makes no particular distinction in quality between those who eat and those who starve.
he was arguing with history itself, which once had been wind upon a plain, and now was fallen stone.
his eyes were wide with piety. “these rough features may speak of the eastern steppe,” he declared, touching his chest, “but christ is engraved within my heart—a christ as white as oyster shells and blond as wheat.” he closed his eyes in reverence.
the saint hunter’s face grew flat. he said, “in my village when I was a child there were many gods. they were all over the place. but I was taken away from there, and as I got older, there were fewer and fewer. once I reached khurasan, there was only one left. and now, finally...they’re all gone. I have none.”
the relic thief watched him go. “benedictine?” he asked gallenice, with a nod of his head.
“yeah. nice guy, though.”
the sheep shifted. tyun and nicephorus crawled with them. [...] the monk and the saint hunter stayed low and wormed along the ground.
legs a forest by their heads. “like odysseus and the cyclopes,” said nicephorus.
“why would you say that right now? why do I need that information? are they watching us?”
the victory feature of one feast, he knew well, was always the corpse of another.
the afternoon falls from the sky.
I ask Saint Nicholas to tell us a tale to pass a winter night, so that when we rise in the morning, we may feel resolute in the new dawn.
[T]his is a story of St. Nicholas, Navigator and Thaumaturge, gift giver and magician, who flies through the snow to remind us of wonder, and of how we deceive the ones we love most into believing in miracles; and how that deception might be a betrayal or, perhaps, a gift in itself.
I would point to the nature of medieval nonfiction: We have only a few bare sentences in Greek and Persian that cover, for example, the spread of the Seljuks into Lycia; whereas a nation of dog-headed people is attested at length in Herodotus, in the Chinese Classic of Mountains and Seas, and in most Eurasian travel narratives written for the next millennium and a half after them. I wanted to write a historical novel with the love of a good story, incidental detail, and willful inaccuracy demanded by the European Middle Ages themselves.There is something to be learned of in here, and in the dog-men and dragons that here be, in the white spaces of the terras incognitas. For we may all find ourselves lost in time— and in the Land of Darkness you must reach down and grab whatever your fingers find.
This story is what we recall in giving our children miraculous gifts from the saint: We shall not have to sell you. We will keep the world from you as long as we can. Soon enough, you will have to sell yourselves
... There are those who would devour us; and worse, most of us live by devouring others without ever knowing our sin. We must watch what goes into our mouths and what comes out.
Remember, when you are trapped in this life, that often whatever liberates you, whatever transports you, must drag you by the hair to yank you free.
We are all our own icon, our own avatar; an idol made in our shape, haunted by a spirit longing to intervene in the calamities we witness.