“Alright,” Mykhailo said. “But don’t get agitated, it’s really nothing...”
“You’re like a courtesan.”
“Iov’s clever pupil!” Yakiv added.
Mykhailo measured him with a cold stare, glanced in alarm at his close friend, tanned brown and dripping with sweat, who was hiding from the profanity of the world in this dense wilderness, and said quietly: “Someone is spreading rumours among the Kharkiv populace that you condemn the use of meat, wine, and vodka...”
“The priests call you a heretic and a Manichean follower,” Yakiv filled him in.
Mykhailo gave the blabbermouth a furtive punch.
“Apart from that,” he continued staidly, “they say that you consider gold, expensive things and sumptuous clothes to be pernicious, and seeing as all this is from God and created by God, they—”
“Say you’re a b
