The Underlayer: A Deep Dive into Hidden Foundations

Emma, is that you? I asked, startled when a former schoolmate slipped the door open. It had been about a year since wed spoken, yet she had called out of the blue, inviting me over. Emma had never been slight; she was always a little round, confident in her curves, married the love of her life, had a son, and never known want. Now, though, she stood before me as a gaunt, pale woman, dark circles haunting her eyes.

How many stones have you shed? I blurted.

Twenty already. Come in, she said, gesturing toward the kitchen, and the weight keeps slipping away. Happy? Thats why I called you.

If you dont know why, you should have summoned Dr. Albert instead of me. Hes the one who studied medicine, I replied.

Emma poured tea, her hands trembling, and sighed. All the tests are normal. Nothing showed up. Do you remember the story you told me about your classmate Eleanor, what happened to her, how it ended? The doctors found nothing there, too.

Yes, I recall, I said, but you never believed it.

I didnt before, but now something happened. Im not sure what to trust any more.

Tell me then, I urged, eager to hear what truly lay behind Emmas hollow stare.

It began six months ago, she started, I was in the kitchen, dicing cucumber for a salad, when time seemed to freeze. I kept chopping, and the cucumber never ran out. You know Ive never believed in anything that isnt solid or at least, I didnt.

An intriguing start, I murmured, always a lover of the uncanny. I nestled deeper into the chair, ready for the tale.

Before I could fully grasp what was happening, a doorbell rang and jolted me out of the stupor. I peered through the peepholeno one. I thought maybe the boys were playing a prank. I opened the door to find a small parcel on the doorstep. I nudged it aside with my foot, yet some inner voice urged me to look inside.

When I lifted the flap, there lay an old icon, the kind youd see in a cathedral. My eyes asked the silent question, and Emma answered without hesitation:

Its ancient, ancientno doubt about it. My uncle Peter runs an antiques shop in York; he confirmed its age. He even offered to buy it, promising a tidy sum.

Emma, youve never been to church, never prayed, yet you have this relic? I asked, bewildered.

I remembered my grandmothers tales of a miracle icon that appeared by a holy spring. It would be taken to the church three times, only to return to the spring each time. When it chose me, I thought perhaps it wanted to stay with me.

Remarkable, I breathed. I had never heard of an icon finding its own keeper in modern times.

The strange things began about a week later, Emma said, her head bowing. First, my cat, a spry kitten with all its vaccinations, chased an artificial mouse across the flat one evening. By morning, he wouldnt come out when I called. We buried him in the pet cemetery. Before I could recover from that loss, my mother, who works at the local urgent care, phoned to tell me shed tripped on flat ground and broken her leg. I called my husband to ask his mother to fetch her, but he told me hed just been made redundant from his wellpaid job and was being offered a lowwage position instead.

Emma, I interjected, do you think the icon has brought these misfortunes into your home?

Everyone warned me, but I refused to believe them. When they suggested I get rid of the icon, I grew angry, thinking they were jealous of my precious find.

Was it truly a find? I challenged. Someone slipped that parcel under the door. Its a a cover, isnt it?

Can an icon be a cover? Emma hesitated. It depicts the Queen of Heaven herself.

Thats exactly what we need to uncover, I replied, then asked, What happened next?

And then my son fell ill, spent a month in the hospital. I started losing weight, thinking it was stress from everything piling up. I ran back and forth between the shop, the kitchen, the hospital, trying to prepare something comforting for the ward. Meanwhile, my husband took a new job that paid half what hed earned before. When they discharged my son, VasVas was fine, thank Godbut I kept shedding pounds. I imagined that in six months I might be nothing at all. It reminded me of Eleanors case, where the doctors couldnt help.

Yes, they found nothing, I affirmed.

Before our final exams, my friend Tina, her cousin Eleanor, and I planned a picnic by the River Avon. Each of us had a boyfriend. The lads agreed but only if we camped overnight on the riverbank. On the way, we lost the path and ended up wandering through a dense wood. Eleanor was the first to sprint ahead and discovered a silk scarf tangled on a branch. She wrapped it around her neck and suddenly the trail reappeared, leading us back to the water.

Look, this isnt just any scarf, she laughed.

Better not take someone elses, Tina whispered, who knows where it came from?

It was just caught on a branch, someone must have dropped it, Eleanor replied, its lovely, Ill keep it.

We rested, the boys caught fish, we swam, made a stew, drank a little red wine, sang around the fire. In the morning we packed up, but Eleanor was pale, her head throbbing. We barely stumbled out of the woods; her boyfriend, Kostya, carried her the rest of the way.

Eleanor grew weaker, failed her exams, and eventually was turned down by the university. Doctors ran tests, found nothing. I went to her mother and begged for the scarf. She gave it to me. I took it to the village of Crickton, a short train ride away, to see old Mrs. Whitcombe, who was rumored to treat ailments that conventional doctors gave up on.

Mrs. Whitcombe examined the scarf, looked at Eleanors photograph, and said, This is a cover, a veil that transfers illness from one soul to another. Its not a physical disease but an energetic one. Youre lucky she came in time; otherwise there would be no cure.

She instructed me to bury the scarfs ashes beneath a tree behind her cottage and brewed a herbal decoction. Eleanor drank it, her cheeks flushed, and she recovered, leaving the hospital soon after.

Perhaps we should take the icon to Mrs. Whitcombe as well? Emma said, a spark of hope in her eyes.

We set off, but Mrs. Whitcombe had already passed away. We arrived just in time for her funeral, where we met her daughter, Sister Maria, a nun. Maria blessed the icon in holy water, said a prayer, and sent it to the cathedral.

Emma did exactly that. The misfortunes ceased. She regained her health, her figure softened, and soon she gave birth to a little girl, naming her Mabel.