Amongst the armies of drunken adventurers, crazed alchemists, obsessive collectors and mercenaries in search of treasures; amongst the unsettled souls who have seen God face to face and who with every thought yearn after lost chalices, crowns of thorns, fragments of the true cross or blessed amulets and occult medallions, bracelets, necklaces and rings; who seek daemonic icons, forbidden books, forgotten words, divine blooms and burning bushes or any such object that sits uneasily between God and Man; amongst all of these troubled souls, there are a few, no more than the number of fingers of one hand, who seek nothing more dazzling or sort after than a humble knife. They probe the mysteries of other ages and abruptly cut the conversation short if anyone tries to uncover the dark motives of their quest. If you are lucky enough to come across one drinking in a tavern, you must be shrewd to catch them off-guard, lulling them with talk of the world and only then, in a moment of great weakness and lonely melancholy, will they whisper one blood-soaked phrase in a fading voice: a meandering fable of how God gave His Grace and His Fury to Petro Bol?’s knife. Then, knowing that they have revealed too much, they’ll rush from the table in a hurried silence and leave the bewildered listener sitting alone in cruel confusion the foul tale of Petro Bol? and the gentle knife often has that effect.