by Donald Tyson
Immediately, the torrent dropped back to the rocks with a crash that threw up glistening droplets and soaked the three of us to the skin. I wiped my eyes and looked at the sky, but the monk was already gone from his place. We stood for a time, gazing at the rushing water in the gorge.
“We’ll need a rope,” Altrus said.
I nodded to show that I understood. As usual, he was thinking three steps ahead. If the talisman was kept in the monastery, and we stole it, we were unlikely to have the aid of a flying monk when we chose to leave the mountain.
The path became steeper. In places it consisted of steps cut into the rock of the mountainside. Iron rings had been driven into holes in the rock to act as handholds. Even so, it was a perilous climb. I paused to breathe with my hand in one of these rings and looked out across the plain over which we had traveled. I could see the entire breadth of it even though it had taken us days to cross it. The shadows of clouds crawled over the sands like caterpillars.
“Do you think the talisman is kept in the monastery?” Martala asked me. She, too, had paused to rest.
“Unless there is some cave or shrine on the peak, it seems the most likely place for it.”
“How will you recognize it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you even know what it looks like?”
“No.”
Her expression spoke her misgivings more eloquently than words.
Eventually we came upon a gate set in a stone wall that crossed the path where it led through a narrow defile. I grasped the brass knocker and worked it against the door three times. As I was about to repeat this performance, the gate swung inward and a monk gestured for us to enter.
We continued up several long flights of stairs cut into the rock to the monastery, which was itself carved into the side of the mountain.
The serious monk with the dark eyes who had first greeted us on the path met us at the top of a broad marble stair in front of the monastery entrance. “Our abbot wishes to speak with you.”
Two monks stood on either side of him. Their posture was not threatening, but their intention was clear. We were going to be taken to the abbot.
“We would be delighted to speak to your abbot,” I told him in Greek, with a smile. “I wish to thank him for his hospitality.”
3.
The abbot met us in a long chamber hung with tapestries and divided midway along its length by an intricately carved wooden screen that was set in a frame against the walls and ceiling. The only windows were in the front portion of the room, which extended back deep into the mountain. As a consequence, the area behind the screen was gloomy with shadows.
The wall hangings depicted various scenes in the life of the prophet Jesus. I recognized them from my study of the Christian holy books. One showed Jesus exorcising a horned and winged demon from a kneeling man. In another, the Devil tempting him on a mountaintop. Still others showed him scourged, fainting beneath the weight of the cross, and crucified. In the last, a man caught in a cup a stream of blood that flowed from a wound in his side.
The abbot was a little man of around sixty years of age. His eyebrows were white as milk, and thicker than any others I have ever seen. They almost looked like tufts of white feathers. Beneath them, his eyes shone blue and bright. He wore a black robe trimmed with white and gold, and a tall cap of the same colors. Around his neck hung a golden medallion with a hole in its center. Its surface was curiously engraved with interlocking dragons fighting, or perhaps mating—it is difficult to tell with dragons.
“Welcome, friends, welcome to the monastery of St. John the Divine. My name is Father Joram, and I am the abbot. You are most welcome here. We get so few pilgrims to our mountain.”
I walked up to him with my hand extended and a broad smile on my lips. “The exalted and noble Moawiya, the Caliph at Damascus, wishes me to extend my warmest greetings on his behalf. He has heard about your wonderful monastery and is most impressed.”
He took my hand. His fingers were cool and dry, and surprisingly strong. “You know the Caliph?”
“Indeed, a dear friend of mine. When he learned of our intention to make a pilgrimage to this mountain, he expressed a wish that I inquire into the practices of your order.”
“I am flattered, but I confess to some surprise that so great a man as the Caliph should have an interest in our lowly community, or even know of its existence.”
“Priests of your Christian faith have lately come to him with a petition to establish a monastery at Damascus, and he wishes to understand the nature of the various monastic orders before deciding which order to approve.”
From the corner of my eye I saw Altrus look at Martala and raise an eyebrow. All that I had just told the abbot was false.
“But you say that you were coming to the mountain to pray in any case?”
“The holiness and purity of the Mountain of Shadows is known across the length and breadth of the Caliphate. It is said that one of Mohammed’s teachers prayed on its summit for seven years, before being elevated directly into heaven.”
“Indeed. That is most interesting. Our order has occupied this mountain for over two centuries, and our records show no such holy man.”
“No doubt his presence was too inconsequential to chronicle.”
“I’m sure that is the reason,” he said, but his voice was doubtful.
“The Caliph particularly wishes to know of any sacred objects that may be venerated by your order.”
The abbot spread his hands. “We are simple monks. We venerate no objects.”
“But surely you have sacred things that are precious to you?”
“A few relics from saints. Bits of bone. We have the skull of Saint Timothy set in silver, and the finger of the apostle Luke contained within a vessel of crystal.”
“Your humility is a credit to your faith.”
He bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment of the compliment. As he did so, I looked beyond him into the shadows that lay in the far end of the room. There was something standing back there in the arch of a shrine; a statue of some kind. My eyes are better in darkness than those of most men, but not so good as the eyes of a true ghoul, and the details of the figure escaped them.
What do you see, Sashi? I silently asked the djinn who resides within my body.
It is the figure of a man wrapped about in something. More than that I cannot see. The screen obscures it.
I went to one of the windows and gazed out. “What a magnificent view you have.”
The abbot came to my side with a smile of pleasure. “It is quite splendid. We tend to forget how impressive it is, until we are reminded by travelers who see it for the first time.”
I caught Altrus’s eye and nodded at the old man, then at the window. He came forward and took the monk gently by the elbow.
“Look there, holy Father. You can see the route we used to cross the plain.”
When the abbot turned his back to converse with the mercenary, I quickly drew my dagger and caught the sun on the flat of its polished blade, then directed the ray of light to the back of the long chamber and through the wooden screen, playing it up and down. It lit the standing statue of a naked man entwined all about his body with the coils of a great serpent. The mouth of the snake and the lips of the man touched, as though in a kiss. Something flashed and glittered on the forehead of the serpent, but before I could see what it was, I was forced to sheathe my dagger.
“Forgive me, friends,” the abbot said, turning to face me. “I must attend to my duties. Brother Manasseh will escort you to your sleeping chambers and will call you when the evening meal is served in the dining hall.”
He tugged a silken cord that rang a bell. A young, shaven-headed monk with projecting ears entered. The youth stared at Martala with wide blue eyes. I wondered if she was the first woman to enter the monastery.
As we followed the monk along the great balcony that extended the full width of the monastery, I deliberately lagged behind, and
Martala and Altrus fell into step beside me.
“I saw something flash behind the screen,” the girl murmured.
“A jewel of some kind,” I told her, and described what I had glimpsed by the reflected sunlight from my dagger.
“Is it the talisman?”
“It may be.”
“What about the medallion around the old man’s neck?” Altrus said. “That has the smell of magic about it.”
“That, too, is possible.”
“We can steal them both,” Martala said.
“Let us not act in haste. First we need to see the rest of the monastery and the peak of the mountain. Who knows what shrines may be there, or what they may hold?”
4.
The flat peak of the Mountain of Shadows had two shrines. One was pagan and, to judge by the extreme weathering of its stones, almost as ancient as the mountain itself. The other was smaller and of cruder construction. It bore a Christian cross on its keystone. Its altar was stained with rust, attesting to blood sacrifices at some time in the not-too-distant past.
“I thought the Christians didn’t sacrifice beasts,” Altrus said as he rubbed his hand over the altar stone. It left reddish powder on his fingers.
“There are different sects. Heresies, they call them. Some of them believe extraordinary and grotesque things.”
“Like what?”
I waved my hand vaguely in the air. “Some monks cut off their own pricks and balls to avoid carnal desires. Others believe that sexual excess is the path to spiritual attainment.”
“All Christians are mad.”
“So are those who follow the Prophet.”
Martala called my name and waved us over to the pagan shrine.
“What have you found?” I asked her.
She pointed at a large, flat stone in the shadowy rear of the shrine. It was not made of the same type of rock as the mountain, but was greenish and translucent, almost like jade. Carved upon it was the image of three interlocking circles of different sizes, and in their common center, a single round depression. Spiralling rays surrounded this hollow. In its center there was a hole. I put my longest finger in and it slid down to the depth of the last knuckle.
“Something was set in here.”
“It’s dangerous to stick your finger into strange holes,” Altrus said.
“Who taught you that?” Martala asked.
“A girl in Alexandria. At least she said she was a girl.”
Holding up my finger, I wiggled it. “Nothing chopped it off.”
“Is this an image of Yog-Sothoth?” she asked.
I studied it more critically. “It could be.”
“Alhazred, behind you by the path,” Altrus murmured.
I checked to make certain the glamour over my face was holding, then turned and saw the young monk who the day before had escorted us to our chambers, and later to the dining hall.
He hobbled toward us, breathing heavily from his long climb. “I came … to see whether … you needed anything,” he gasped between breaths.
“Rest a moment before you speak,” I told him. “You are winded.”
“There are so many steps.”
“Why didn’t you just fly up here?” Altrus asked him.
The monk smiled at the notion. “Only the most skilled of my brothers possess that ability. I am yet too young.”
When he had rested for several minutes, Martala approached him.
“Do both of these shrines belong to your holy order?” she asked, smiling and blinking more than was necessary. She always was a clever girl.
The youth blushed, but his eyes were bright on her. I noted again, as I had earlier, that they were as blue as the eyes of the abbot. Indeed, there was a distinct resemblance between the face of the monk and that of the abbot.
Altrus gave me a look, and I discreetly backed away so that the monk could move nearer to Martala.
“The small shrine nearest the path is ours. The other was here when the founders of my order came lost and wandering across the barren plain. Nobody knows who built it, but they must have been the same people who carved the monastery into the side of the mountain.”
“Didn’t your order build the monastery?”
He shook his head. “Most of the rooms and passages were here when the first brothers came. That was two centuries ago. They found the mountain deserted and made it their home. They were starving and dying of thirst. They found the cisterns full of rainwater and the granaries full of grain. It was as though the inhabitants had only gone away a short while before their arrival. They interpreted this as a sign from God to remain here.”
“What do you know of this carving?” she asked, pointing at the slab of green stone.
“Only what the elder monks tell us—that it is the image of some ancient pagan god of a lost people. Even its name has been forgotten.”
She put her finger into the hole in the center of the depression.
“It almost looks as though something set here in the stone has been pried out.”
His face paled. “I know nothing of that,” he said with a slight stammer.
She smiled and put her hand on his. “Is it true there are no women in your monastery?”
“There are none. The nearest woman is in the village of Erda, and that is a full day’s ride to the east.”
“It must be strange, to live your whole life without a woman’s touch.”
He cleared his throat nervously, so that his Adam’s apple bobbed. I saw small beads of sweat form on the top of his bald skull.
“We have all taken an oath to remain pure in body and spirit. We become accustomed to our celibacy.”
She leaned nearer and spoke in a low voice.“We should talk more together, tonight while the other monks are asleep and no one will disturb us.”
He glanced over at Altrus and I, who turned our heads and pretended not to pay attention.
“Don’t worry about them,” she said. “I am a free woman, and come and go where I please.”
“Well, perhaps it would be good to learn more about Damascus.”
“And in return, you can tell me more about your way of life here at the monastery.”
They agreed to meet after midnight in the girl’s sleeping chamber. I almost felt sorry for the monk. He stood trembling like a newly foaled colt, and did not want to release Martala’s hand. Finally, she had to jerk her fingers out of his sweating grasp. After a few more words, he left us and began the long descent back down to the monastery.
“Do you think he can tell us anything of use?” Altrus asked her.
She shrugged. “He has lived here all his life. It may be that he knows more about its secrets than he realizes.”
“He knew something about whatever was set in that hole in the stone,” I said. “I saw him hesitate before denying it.”
“After tonight, we will know it also,” she said with confidence.
“Do you mean to actually take that trembling flower to bed with you?” Altrus asked in disbelief.
“That is a matter between the monk and me,” she said with a smile.
He shook his head and turned away, muttering to himself.
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous? He’s not much more than a child.”
“Neither are you.”
“Enough foolishness,” I said. “Search the peak for caves or cavities in the rock, anywhere anything might have been hidden. We need to be certain nothing of value remains here.”
We spent the next two hours searching the top of the mountain and down the slopes where they were of gentle enough incline to descend them. We found several openings but they were empty, and did not appear to ever have been used to hide anything.
“Useless,” Altrus said in disgust. “We’ve wasted our time.”
“Not at all,” I said. “We now know that if the talisman exists, it is almost certainly in the keeping of the monks of Saint John.”
With this thought in mind, we descended to the monastery.
> 5.
Martala let herself into my chamber and eased the door shut behind her. A flame burning on a short wick in the stone lamp on the table cast only a dim glow. It was enough to show that I sat on the cot fully clothed, and Altrus dozed in a chair with his head resting back against the wall. He sat up when he heard the door, instantly alert, then relaxed when he saw it was her.
“How went your evening of pleasure?” he murmured.
We had already ascertained that the stone walls of the cells were so thick, minor sounds could not be heard from one to another. It was safe to speak in low voices with the door shut.
She shrugged. “Brother Manasseh became so excited, he could not contain his enthusiasm. It spilled out over his thigh.”
“An excess of zeal. A common failing of the young.”
“What have you learned?” I asked.
“In the folklore of the monastery there is a tale that when the first brothers came to this mountain, they found a jeweled talisman embedded in the pagan altar on its peak, and removed it so that it could be sanctified in the service of Jesus Christ.”
“We were right,” Altrus said, meeting my gaze.
“Did you discover the keeping place of the talisman?”
“There, we encounter a slight problem.”
“Which is?”
“The talisman is in three parts. One part hangs around the neck of the abbot. The second is the ruby on the brow of the serpent in the statue that stands in the abbot’s private chapel. You glimpsed it through the wooden screen.”
“And the third part?”
“The folktale says it is in the form of a key, which, when inserted into the back of the jewel’s gold setting, locks the jewel into the center of the golden medallion, so that all three parts become joined together.”
“Very good. Where is the key?”
She spread her slender fingers. “Brother Manasseh did not know. He said that nobody knows apart from a few of the most senior monks.”
“The Abbot will know,” Altrus murmured.
I nodded. “I’m sure he will be happy to tell us, if we go to his private chambers and ask him.”
“When?”
“What better time than now?”