Chapter 61 Chapter 60

"After Stoichev finished reading for us, Helen and I sat there in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Helen said, "It must be the same trip." Stoichev turned to her, "I believe so. The monks of the Order of Kirill were transporting the remains of Vlad Tebes which means - except for the two members who were killed by the Turks — they arrived safely at a monastery in Bulgaria. Sveti Georgi — where is it?” Of all the questions that weigh on my mind, this is the one I want to ask the most. Stoichev put his hand on his forehead. "If only I knew." He murmured, "No one knows." He looked at us sadly. "If the Turks have reason to hate or fear this monastery, Then it's probably completely destroyed. I wanted to find out where Sveti Georgi was at one point."

He fell silent, and after a while, "After my friend Angelov died, I tried to continue his research for a while. I thought, maybe Stefan gave Zacharias a wrong name. I think , if the bones of such an important person as Vlad Tebes were buried in that area, there should at least be relevant legends there. Before the war, I thought about going to Snagov to see if I could learn about it there. to what-" "If you go, you might meet Rossi, or at least that archaeologist Gioorgescu," I shouted. "Perhaps," he said with a strange laugh, "if Rosie and I do meet there, perhaps we'll be able to merge what we've learned before it's too late."

I don't know if he meant before the revolution in Bulgaria or before his exile.But I don't want to ask. After a while, he explained, "You see, I stopped my research very suddenly. I came back from the Bachkovo area that day, and my mind was full of plans to go to Romania. When I returned home in Sofia , but saw a horrible scene." He paused again, closing his eyes, "I try not to think about that day. I must first tell you that I have a small apartment near Lenskaya Sterna .I went shopping and my articles and books about Bachkovo and other monasteries were on the table. When I came back, I found that someone had gone through all my things, ripped books from the shelves, and searched me On the table, there's a streak of blood on my papers. You know how the ink-smudges-pages—" He paused, looking at us piercingly, "in the middle of the table is a book I never Books I've seen—"

Suddenly, he stood up and shuffled into another room.We heard him walking up and down, moving books. I should have gone to help him, but instead I sat there, looking helplessly at Helen.Helen seemed to be frozen there too. After a while Stoichev returned with a large folio under his arm.He put the book in front of us, and we watched him turn the pages slowly with a pair of old hands, silently showing us many blank pages and the big picture in the center of the page. The dragon looks smaller here because the page is larger, leaving a larger margin around it, but it must be the same woodcut, down to the tiny smudges as the Hugh James one, and a smudges.

In the yellowing margin, near the dragon's claw.Stoichev pointed at it, but some emotion—disgust, fear—was so strong that he forgot to speak English. "Krv," he said, "blood." I bent down to take a closer look.That brown stain is clearly a finger print "My God." I thought of my poor cat, and Rosie's friend Hedges, "was anyone else in the room? What did you do when you saw this?" "There was no one else in the room," he said in a low voice. "The door was locked. It was locked when I came back. I went in and saw this horrible sight. I called the police, and they searched everywhere, at least— —What do you say?—They analyzed the blood sample, made a comparison, and soon found out whose blood type it was.”

"Whose?" Helen leaned forward. Stoichev lowered his voice, sweat broke out on his wrinkled face. "It's mine," he said. "But--" "No, of course not. I wasn't there. But the one thing the police think I've laid out all over the place that doesn't match is the fingerprints. They say they've never seen anything like it—fingerprints are so rare." "And you broke off the investigation?" I guessed. Stoichev shrugged his thin shoulders helplessly, "This is the only research I haven't pursued. In fact, even if this happened, I could continue, but with this." He said slowly Flipping to the second page of the folio, "This," he repeated.

On that page, we see a word. Helen read aloud, "Stoichev," she whispered, "you found your name on it. It's terrible." "Yes, my own name. But the ink and calligraphy are medieval. I've always regretted being a coward in this matter, but I'm afraid." "It is quite natural for you to be afraid," I said to the old scholar, "but we hope that it is not too late for Professor Rossi." He straightened up in his chair, "Yes, if we can find a way to find Sveti Georgi. First, we must go to Rila to see another letter written by Brother Kirill. I want you to Talk to one of the men in Lila, but he probably won't be of much help."

Stoichev seemed about to say something more, but at this moment, there were strong footsteps on the stairs.I grabbed the folio, rushed into the next room, hid it as safely as I could behind a trunk, and returned to Stoichev and Helen. At this time, Ranov just pushed open the door of the study. "Ah," he said, "a history conference. Professor, you missed your party." He flicked through the books and articles on the table without hesitation, and finally picked up the old periodical, which contained a part of Zechariah's Chronicle that Stoichev read to us, "This is what you are concerned about." Huh?" He smiled at us. "Maybe I should read and get educated too. There's a lot I don't know about medieval Bulgaria. I thought your disturbing niece was interested in me, It is not. In the most beautiful corner of your garden, I extended a solemn invitation to her, but she refused."

Stoichev blushed and seemed about to speak.To my surprise, though, Helen saved him, "Don't touch that girl with your dirty bureaucratic hands," she said, staring at Ranov, "You're here to harass us, not her." At this time, Stoichev had returned to normal, "If you can arrange for these guests to go to Lila, it will be of great help to their research," he said calmly to Ranov. "Lilla?" Ranov weighed the periodical in his hand. "Very well. We're going on another trip, maybe the day after tomorrow." "Can we go tomorrow?" My tone was as casual as possible.

"So you're in a hurry?" Ranov raised his eyebrows, "Such a high request will take time to make arrangements." Stoichev nodded, "We'll be patient." He stretched out a weak hand to Helen, and Helen helped him stand up, "Help me, let's celebrate this teaching festival." Other guests began to gather under the grape arbor, and within a few minutes, some audience jumped up and the accordion began to play again.The pianist shook his disheveled head and opened his mouth to sing a song. "What is he singing?" I deliberately asked Stoichev to hide my excitement.

"It's an old song, very old—I think there are songs like that wherever the Turks enslaved the peoples of the Balkans," Stoichev said solemnly. "In Bulgarian folk songs we have many There are many, many songs like this, all with different content, but they are all calling people to rise up and resist their slavery."