Prot. Dionysius Dunaevsky. An arrow in silence: where Abba Silouan stayed when his cell was burningtranslated

The sun was setting, coloring the dry rocks of the Skete desert with crimson. Abba Silouan stood in his cell, built of rough, unhewn stones. His hands were folded crosswise on his chest, his eyes were closed, and his mind was completely absorbed in secret prayer. For him at that hour there was neither the ground under his feet nor the stifling heat of the evening - the soul of the old man stood before the Throne of the King of Glory.

Suddenly the pre-sunset silence was broken by a frantic, wild cry. From behind the dunes, raising clouds of dust, a horde of nomadic Moors rushed out. They raided defenseless abodes, sparing no one on their way. There was the roar of breaking doors, the sound of iron and the frightened cries of young novices fleeing for their lives.

One of the barbarians, with a drawn curved sword and a torch in his hand, ran into the cell of Abba Silouan. The nomad expected to see an old man gripped by horror, begging for mercy or trying to hide the meager monastery vessels.

But the old man didn’t even move.

He stood in the middle of the cell, straight and motionless, like a statue made of ancient basalt. His breathing was even and quiet. The enraged Moor, shouting, swung his sword over the head of the righteous man, but the blade stopped a hair's breadth from his gray hair...