Chap­ter VIII reveals the slow ero­sion of won­der in the vil­lage of Zhuko­vo, where once live­ly tales and half-whis­pered leg­ends have been replaced by plain talk of debt, hunger, and land dis­putes. Sto­ries of buried trea­sure or ghosts have all but van­ished, trad­ed for com­plaints about tax­es and the local Zem­st­vo, which Osip blames for the village’s steady decline. The vil­lagers speak plain­ly now, with lit­tle left to dream about. Men, hard­ened by labor and dis­ap­point­ment, regard reli­gion as some­thing tol­er­at­ed rather than believed in. Women like Granny and Marya cling to cus­toms out of habit more than con­vic­tion, cross­ing them­selves with­out know­ing why. Even the old church is more a back­drop for funer­als and hol­i­days than a place of faith.

Among them, Olga stands out—not because she preach­es or scolds, but because she lis­tens and reads aloud from the Gospels. Her qui­et devo­tion earns her a kind of respect, espe­cial­ly from those who still find com­fort in reli­gious words. When she goes on pil­grim­ages, it’s not to escape, but to find moments of peace. She always returns with a soft­er heart and a firmer sense of pur­pose, tend­ing to her fam­i­ly with fresh resolve. But her faith doesn’t spread far. Zhukovo’s real­i­ty weighs too heav­i­ly, and even reli­gious hol­i­days turn into excus­es for drink­ing sprees that often end in vio­lence. What should be holy days become blurred by noise, anger, and regret.

A rare moment of spir­i­tu­al uni­ty comes with the arrival of a sacred ikon, car­ried into the vil­lage with rev­er­ence and awe. For a few days, peo­ple gath­er togeth­er, pray­ing sin­cere­ly and hop­ing for some­thing to shift—health, good weath­er, or maybe just peace of mind. The ikon offers a pause, a feel­ing that maybe not every­thing is lost. Faces soft­en. Even the gruffest men low­er their eyes in silence. It is as if the vil­lage remem­bers what faith once felt like. But when the ikon leaves, so does the mood. The hope it brought evap­o­rates, leav­ing behind only deep­er long­ing.

Dai­ly life quick­ly returns to its grim rhythm. The poor work them­selves to exhaus­tion, while the well-off begin to think about their lega­cies, plan­ning elab­o­rate funer­als as if cer­e­monies could buy them peace in the next world. Death is not feared by the poor in the same way—it’s seen as a release, an end to their aching hands and emp­ty stom­achs. What they dread more is ill­ness, the slow, humil­i­at­ing decline that comes with pain and help­less­ness. A small cough can spark pan­ic. Peo­ple whis­per about who might die next, as if fate could be bent by their wor­ries. There is no doc­tor, only old reme­dies and a deep fear that sick­ness means the worst.

The vil­lagers’ view of life and death becomes almost trans­ac­tion­al. Few expect joy; they set­tle for endurance. Chil­dren grow up watch­ing their elders bend under the same loads, learn­ing ear­ly that hope is dan­ger­ous. Even kind­ness is rare—small acts, like a warm meal or shared blan­ket, are trea­sured pre­cise­ly because they are so unusu­al. Yet despite every­thing, some spark remains. Olga con­tin­ues to read. She con­tin­ues to believe, even if no one else ful­ly shares it. Her resilience isn’t loud, but it is steady. And in that, there’s a qui­et rebel­lion against the apa­thy that sur­rounds her.

Zhuko­vo is not paint­ed as cru­el, but tired—its peo­ple shaped by weath­er, work, and years of dis­ap­point­ment. Faith flick­ers but rarely catch­es fire. Most have learned to live with­out expec­ta­tion, focused only on what the next day might demand. Even so, in its own sub­dued way, this chap­ter reminds us that mean­ing can be found in rep­e­ti­tion, in the small, per­sis­tent choic­es to care or reflect. While the vil­lage waits for noth­ing, Olga waits for some­thing more. Whether that “more” ever comes isn’t clear. But her belief, how­ev­er faint, marks a dif­fer­ence. In a place where dreams have fad­ed, belief itself becomes an act of courage.