As a man of science, I’ve never had much use for the Bible, but there is one passage that resonates deeply with me.

In the Book of Ezekiel, there is a description of dry bones in a valley that miraculously become covered with flesh and are reanimated into an army of living soldiers. It’s a rather vivid account, full of rattling joints and tendons and fleshy tissue. An impressively accurate use of anatomical language for an Old Testament Prophet.

But even aside from that, there is something about the story that emboldens me. Not in a religious way, of course, but I guess as a sort of validation. Not many people see life and potential when they look at a pile of bones, but I, like Ezekiel, am entranced by them. For me, they are the torches handed on by the past to the future. Studying them can help us understand not only where we came from, but what our destiny is. They are the blueprints of evolution. It was the wisdom and magnificence of these dry bones that led me to become a paleontologist, and it is for the sake of the life encoded within them that I am committed to go to the furthest reaches of the world.

There is certainly nothing else on this planet that would motivate me to sit with my knees crunched into my chest in this Soviet-era skiff as it is slung through the Arctic Ocean by some Siberian off-the-gridder.

He’s not much of a conversationalist, but not even he can resist asking me why the hell I’m here right now. I welcome any distraction from the half-frozen whitecaps lunging over the bow and onto my back, so I take the opportunity to launch into my life story.

“I’ve been researching woolly mammoths for close to a decade now, and I’ve finally received enough grant money to get here and start a dig on the isle of Epitrikhil. Based on previous findings, it is believed that mammoths inhabited the isle until very late in prehistory; possibly even as recently as 4000 years ago. The odds are pretty good that I will find a complete skeleton here.”

He looks about as impressed as if I told him I were going on a fishing trip. He stays silent for about half a minute before I see his mouth stirring behind his whiskers to speak.

“Thought maybe you were a pilgrim.”

I expect him to elaborate, but he doesn’t.

“What would make you think that?”

“Last time I ferried people from the mainland to Epitrikhil Isle, they were going to look for an old church. I hear some say there is a holy man living there, a mystic.”

Again, he sees no need to elaborate.

“A mystic?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of mystic?”

It seems like I’ve finally asked a question that he finds interesting, because his eyes widen and begin to gleam a little. He arches himself closer to me.

“It is said that he is a man of great conviction; a man who has been touched by the hand of God Himself. He was long ago a high-ranking priest in Moscow, but he spoke more truth than the KGB wanted to hear, so he went into hiding. For many years he has prayed and fasted in solitude, growing closer and closer to God. He now lives with one foot in heaven and another on earth. When he speaks, it is the voice of an angel that people hear. I am told that some have been converted simply by looking upon his face.”

He looks as though he wants to say more, but stops abruptly and settles himself back onto the steering arm of the vessel’s outboard motor. Apparently he has stunned himself by talking for more than ten consecutive seconds.

After a long stretch of earnest silence, the jagged stretch of island unfolds into view.

It really is just a thin crust of land plastered upon the ceiling of the world, but it is somehow majestic. Its barrenness is in fact what gives it an intensity; a fierceness like a sharp light unfiltered by a shade. For me, it is confirmation that I have come to the right place to do my work. This proving ground; this haven which is strangely both a desert and an oasis, seems to have been set aside by fate just for me to make the discovery that will define my career.

I am so eager to begin my dig that I don’t even take the time to set up camp. I fling my chisels and brushes into the earth like a percussionist beating a snare drum, abandoning myself to the rhythm it produces.

Within hours, I have already come across a bone. The sacred ivory of a mammoth tusk! There is perhaps nothing more emblematic of my last decade’s worth of research. This is truly a long-awaited victory for me, and yet I can’t help but be haunted by the feeling that it was too easy.

Scanning the surroundings that for the past afternoon I have been so frenziedly oblivious to, I realize why I have this intuition. The outcrop of rock in which I have made my discovery is not any natural deposit. It is debris left behind from a previous dig. I can even see outlines where the rest of the bones were embedded before someone extracted them. Somehow, the tusk was left behind. I have been robbed of my destiny, and the thief was so cruel that he left behind this fools’ gold just to gloat.

My paleontological fieldwork has become a criminal investigation. I proceed over the cluster of hills and cliffs at the outer rim of the island and down into the valley that serves as hiding place for a small village. There are really only a few handfuls of rustic houses there, but someone must have information about the marauder who has stolen my mammoth fossil. My first instinct is to look for the local tavern and inquire there.

As I look around, my eyes fall onto an unassuming little onion dome with a cross sprouting from the top of it. The village church. I don’t think much of it at first, but then I recall the testimonial of the boatman who brought me here. If there is a mystic on the island, this has to be where to find him. I can think of no better reason to test the spirits and see if he can prophesy me up some leads.

The only light other than the gray tints of dusk sneaking in through the window slits comes from a couple of oil lamps suspended from the vaulted ceiling. Still, this is enough to produce a striking illumination as it ricochets off the gold leaf of the altar screen at the opposite end of the church. Its intricacy meshes well with the predictable Orthodoxy that resounds within this space, and yet it is still somehow unique. The curves and angulation of the interwoven framework have a ruggedness to them; a kind of stoicism that is refreshing in contrast to the overwhelming piety around it. The only flaw is the asymmetry of the communion gate in the center of the piece, which seems to be missing half of its upper arch.

“Do you like it?” An echoing voice asks from a side entrance, as if able to discern my observations. The voice is quickly chased by an imposing, long-bearded figure in a black cassock.

Shaking off my surprise, I can’t help but answer in the affirmative. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“That was my intention.”

I assume that this man is the mystic, but aside from his priestly attire, he doesn’t look the way I thought he would. There is a wryness to his expression; an almost playful demeanor that seems far from otherworldly. The subtlety of his smile suggests that he wants me to continue talking.

I cast another glance at the altar screen. “Where did you get it from?” I ask.

“From a place you seem to know about.” His eyes point to the tusk that I have forgotten is still in my hand.

He doesn’t say any more, but settles onto a closeby kneeler and retreats into silent meditation. I take that as an invitation to solve the riddle he has presented to me.

It doesn’t take much more analysis for realization to sink in. The rawness of the structure’s shaping and latticing that was just moments ago so refreshing to me is now shocking and irksome. All the beams and spindles are so individually distinct and yet so fluently connected with one another. A rib cage; a jawline; a knee joint; a femur. It’s now clearly visible. Disguised in gilded paint and mosaic, I am looking directly at my missing fossil.

I pry my eyes away from it and leer over at the culprit, still reposed on his kneeler. Even though his eyes are shut, I can tell he is conscious of me looking at him. That humorous edginess still flashes from his face; although now it is concentrated in prayer. It is almost appropriate in this context; a holy man grinning knowingly at the irony of God’s timing and the futility of worldly designs.

He is indeed a mystic, transcendent of all classification and stereotype. The boatman was right; he has been touched by the hand of God, and continues to chuckle under the tickling caress of that hand. He does not presume himself to be worthy of his gift, but delights in it like a man who has won a contest that he didn’t even know he was entered in. He is the Ezekiel who has breathed more life into these bones than I ever could.

Drawing closer to the communion gate, I notice a small indentation on the top of one of the outer columns. The sharp end of my tusk fits naturally into it to fill the gap in the lintel. A complete skeleton.