The Crossing Point

by August Arrea

  Johiel accompanied the small group the short distance to where the island began to bow down to the water below. There he offered each of the tourists his hand and a kind goodbye. Watching from the foot of the stairway, Johiel chuckled to himself and returned waves to the tourists as the ferry slowly pulled away from the makeshift dock and began its trek back toward the mainland. When the boat had sailed far enough into the distance, leaving in its wake a trail of frothy rolling waves that gradually widened and receded back into the calm of the deep blue lake waters, Johiel turned to face the deserted island. Pursing his lips together, he let loose a blaring whistle that sounded like a large bird swooping down from the skies. His eyes grazed the terrain farther inland that ascended to the island’s higher ground until they came to a cluster of large boulders where Gotham emerged from behind with Jacob in tow. Johiel motioned to them with a wave of his hand that it was safe to come out and the two started back toward the church.

  “We’re alone now. The last have headed back to the mainland. So now we have a chance of getting better acquainted.” The old man turned to Jacob and extended his hand. “I am Johiel, Guardian of the Gate.”

  Jacob reached out and gently took the old man’s hand. Yet the grip that greeted his was not that of a frail old man. It was strong and unyielding. And there was an immense warmth cupped within the palm. It moved up his arm like an incoming tidal surge and flooded to every corner of his body an intense sensation of comfort like none he had ever before experienced. And he knew instantly this was no ordinary old man standing before him.

  “I’m Jacob…very confused teen,” the boy replied with an awkward laugh.

  The old man smiled. It was a kind smile, and mirrored the kindness that filled his drawn and ancient, yet surprisingly youthful eyes.

  “As the many who have come before you, I have no doubt,” he said.

  ~~~

  “So, young Jacob, tell me, what do you think of the Surb Khach,” asked Johiel.

  Jacob at first appeared to ponder the old man’s question.

  “Surb Kha—Church of the Holy Cross,” he answered transcribing the church’s Armenian name. “It’s pretty spectacular. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a church that color before.”

  “Pumice stone and red volcanic rock,” said Johiel. “King Gagik Ardzrouni, who had this Palatine Cathedral of the Holy Cross built in 915 A.D., had vast amounts transported to the island and assigned an architect monk by the name of Trdat Mendet the enormous task of overseeing the construction of not only the church, but also the Palace of Aght’amar which the king had built right up there.”

  Jacob looked in the direction of where Johiel’s finger pointed to find empty gray cliffs rising in the far distance.

  “Before long,” the old man continued, “the island became a fortified city paved with streets, lush gardens and terraced parks spread throughout the royal complex that included an armory, court, stores, school, prison, and of course the church. But for King Gagik, like the Roman emperors and Egyptian pharaohs before him who sought immortality in the monuments built in their name, it was the palace he had constructed that was the crowning jewel, rising up out of the center of the island like some grand monolith desperate to catch the eye of Heaven with its gilded cupolas gleaming with a golden brightness that could be seen for miles around. And with the arrival of each passing night, the music and laughter from the nightly festivities at the palace spilled out into the darkness and swept across the water to the far shores of the Van Gölü and beyond.”

  There was a far-off look fixed in the old man’s eyes as he spoke while staring off into the distance. One could almost see a glint of the once glorious city reflected in his aged gaze.

  “Like all things in this vast but short-lived mortal realm, it eventually fell victim to the scythe of time. Today, as you can well see, the roots of only a few trees from the fragrant orchards hold to the ground, but the beautiful gardens have vanished along with the buildings. And, should you care to investigate, the crumbled foundation is all you’ll find left beyond those rocks of the once grand palace,” said Johiel.

  “Strange that the church still stands,” noted Jacob. “And in such good condition.”

  Johiel turned his gaze to the walls of the red-sandstone wonder that rose high like a beacon overlooking the vast carpet of blue surrounding Akdamar like some roped-off partition in a museum served to protect a priceless artifact from the reaches of outside hands.

  “The church has dulled greatly over the centuries.” Johiel’s voice was heavy with lament. “Its once brilliantly painted colors have faded. The precious gems, pearls and encrusted gold that made it sparkle and shine like a star-filled night sky have long been picked clean like the bones of some carrion carcass and replaced with bullet holes by vandals who’ve reduced this once spectacular holy site to nothing but a bullseye for their target practice.

  “That must be why they look so angry,” remarked Jacob.

  The old man gave the boy a quizzical look. “Of whom might you be speaking?”

  Jacob gave a nod to the faces of the numerous reliefs staring back from the walls of the church where the eyes of every saint, every angel, every animal contained hollowed out holes burrowed deep into the stone where priceless jewels had long been pried loose by thieving hands. Even Christ himself was fixed with a wild, wide-eyed look of pupils robbed of the sparkling life that once filled the darkened crevices.

  “I know it sounds strange,” continued Jacob in his observation, “but the longer I look at them, the more they seem to be alive.

  He quickly felt a sense of embarrassment when he realized what he had just muttered aloud was more fitting a child ten years his junior.

  “Stupid, huh?” he said almost apologetically.

  The almost childlike observation seemed to momentarily lighten Johiel’s mood somewhat.

  “Hardly. You manage to see what most who come here cannot,” said Johiel. “The heart of Akdamar beats strong within the walls of this church. It has seen much in its time, forced through many changes. Becoming part of a monastery in the centuries following the glory days of King Gagik, a home to the Armenian Catholicosate, a cemetery for the monks of Aght’amar whose blood would come to feed the fruit trees and stain the church walls as they were massacred during the genocide, and ultimately a victim of vulturous vandals until, finally, by the end of the first world war, it was left abandoned and forgotten. An empty shell. Its once grand cathedral looted. The monastic buildings destroyed. All left to rot. And crumble.”

  As Jacob listened to Johiel, his eyes continued to roam the stone reliefs adorning the church walls.

  “That’s him, isn’t it? King Gagik?” asked Jacob, pointing out one of the reliefs among the biblical friezes.

  “You’re quite astute,” said Johiel.

  Jacob studied the image depicting a man with a halo surrounding his head offering what looked to be a model of the church to Jesus while two seraphim angels look on.

  “He sure had a high opinion of himself, didn’t he?” mumbled Jacob under his breath as he took notice of how significantly larger the king was next to the much smaller Messiah. It was a simple, off-the-cuff observation, yet one which drew Johiel to look upon the boy with increased curiosity.

  “Yes,” said the old man quietly as he studied the boy. “Well, then, there’s much more you’ve yet to see, and little light left to do so properly. Come, let’s go inside, shall we?”

  Gotham, who was quietly standing nearby, knew right then by the invitation Johiel extended that Jacob had unknowingly managed to move himself one step closer to the destination they’d traveled so long a way to reach.

  ~~~

  Johiel led Jacob and Gotham through long-forgotten gardens surrounding the church where a small grove of almond trees remained standing. Scattered across the craggy ground beneath the gnarled outstretched limbs were the fractured remnants of numerous weathered khachtars jutting up from the ground like old tree stumps.

  “
Tombstones?” asked Jacob while noting the Christian markings framed within patterns of vines, grapes and pomegranates elaborately inscribed upon the stone faces.

  “Markers,” corrected Johiel. “Erected for the salvation of the soul. And protection.”

  The cry of a saker falcon soaring high above the island echoed loudly in the distance, drawing a glance from Johiel as he ushered Gotham and Jacob through the arched entrance of the gavit leading to the church. The weakening sunlight spilling through the tomblike doorway and small rectangular openings cut along the wall guided the way past the blackened pillared arches lining the oblong room. There was a noticeable chill in the air.

  “The earthen roof,” noted Gotham, pointing to the ceiling. “It’s been altered since the last time I’ve been here.”

  Johiel nodded and sighed a heavy breath.

  “They came several years ago, the Turkish workers. A mission of mercy for this old relic, they called it. And a glimmer of hope for reconciliation between Turks and Armenians,” said Johiel. “For two years I watched from a distance as they sealed off the church from visitors, barricading it behind wire fencing and encasing its fragile walls in steel scaffolding. And then they went to work, shearing off the roof of this zhamatun and replacing it with the concrete and modern stone you now see. How long these walls will be able to carry the added weight before finally buckling, I do not know.”

  Jacob’s eyes followed the old man’s to the ceiling above them, and he felt a shiver move through his body imaging the walls surrounding them suddenly crumbling and bringing the heavy stone slab crashing down upon them.

  “The floor was replaced soon after,” continued Johiel. “I wish I could say that was all that was changed.”

  Even in the faint light, Jacob could see the pained look that suddenly settled itself upon the old man’s face.

  “Funny, man is,” said Johiel. “Constructing their monuments in a desperate attempt to fend off what time inevitably steals from them, only to destroy that which gave temporary immortality to their mortal lives.

  ~~~

  When they reached the end of the hall, Johiel motioned Gotham and Jacob to the cathedral entrance telling them he would rejoin them shortly before disappearing through an adjacent darkened doorway. As the two entered the great dwelling that was the cathedral, Jacob’s stride slowed. The air inside was thick and carried a strong, dank smell to it like that of cement that had been saturated with the first rain of the season, but it was not the air that gave his feet pause but rather the time-gnawed frescoes adorning the tall, vertical stone walls like torn pieces of parchment.

  Jacob found it to be as though he had stepped into a larger than life picture book of the Bible. Everywhere he turned read like a page torn from the Good Book offering still frames of scenes and characters in fading colors desecrated by the ravages of time desperate to scour them clean from the walls and out of existence. Slowly, Jacob circled the cathedral, his eyes moving from image to image that seemed to unfold before him like chapters shuffled out of order and displayed in a random pattern that attempted to meld the Old Testament and the New Testament into one giant, unified tapestry. He suddenly paused when he came to a detailed scene depicting a large enthroned King Herod giving his orders for the massacre of newborns. His gaze then shifted to the figures of six bereaved mothers looking on from an adjoining pillar, and he was drawn to the sorrow brimming in their dark eyes. They seemed to reach out and grab him. Not just the weeping women, but the rising Lazarus, wrapped in linen and surrounded by his sisters as he is seen emerging from his tomb. And six of the apostles, survivors of the ravages of age and man that had consumed the other half of their brethren. They loomed large and stoic, as though appointed guardians of this stone-encased sanctuary, clutching protectively the gospels from which some of the surrounding figures were plucked. They all had the same eyes, large and black. Expressionless, yet full of expression. And feeling. And life. Most importantly, life. While all were gazing with glances turned slightly upward toward the heavens, Jacob couldn’t shake the feeling he was being watched. However, it was much more than just a feeling when, to the boy’s utter shock, he gradually began to notice the many images on the walls slowly started to shift their focus subtly downward onto him as if drawn to his presence.

  “What is it?” Gotham asked, when he noticed the boy slowly backing away from the walls toward the center of the cathedral.

  “Call me crazy, but I think they’re moving…the images,” answered Jacob, sounding somewhat spooked.

  “It’s only the stirrings of curiosity,” said Gotham.

  “I think they’re watching me.”

  A faint, knowing smile crossed the angel’s face. “It’s just your eyes readjusting themselves.”

  “What do you mean readjusting? I have twenty-twenty vision,” said Jacob with a slight panic in his voice.

  “It’s nothing more than the ongoing changes all Nephilim experience, like a second puberty, if you will, that has a habit of accelerating somewhat the closer we get to where we’re going. As far as your eyes are concerned, soon you will see things as the angels do, and not as mortal man.”

  “And how is that exactly? First paintings that come to life. What next? X-ray vision like Superman?”

  The corners of Gotham’s mouth turned upward slightly. Embracing the changes was always a bit unnerving in the beginning. “You’ve been given a special gift, Jacob, discombobulating as it may feel at first. But fear not, you will soon see the world in a completely differently light.”

  Yet fear was the one thing Jacob was not feeling. Impatience, confusion, an overwhelming sense of not having control over what was happening to him, yes. But not fear, even as his eyes darted from wall to wall keeping close watch on the fabled biblical images that continued to show signs of life. As he backed his way across the floor of the cathedral, he stepped into the ring of light cast down from the great dome above, and he felt himself become fully engulfed in a great warmth. A faint chorus of whispers sounding like silk draperies rustled by a gentle breeze coming through the open windows suddenly pricked Jacob’s ears. It called his attention upward to the dome illuminated with the orange-red glow of sunlight spilling through the circle of small openings ringing the upper portion which suddenly grew brighter—much brighter, and whiter, and more brilliant a light than he had ever before seen. Yet it did not hurt his eyes or cause him to squint or shield himself from the intense brightness. And he stared unblinking straight into the white gauze and gazed upon the constellation of weathered biblical images depicting the creation of man looming high above him. Adam and Eve. Jacob recognized them instantly, even though Eve’s face had been eaten away to a blank void framed by long stringy hair, and he followed the couple’s tragic story that unfolded within the dome wall detailing their great fall at the roots of the Tree of the Life in the shadow of an evil, fork-tongued serpent. And a great, inexplicable sadness overcame Jacob while staring into the doomed pair’s large, black painted eyes filled with so much sorrow and regret as they were shown being escorted by an angel out of paradise. The whispered voices grew louder and seemed to descend from the inside of the dome and move freely, circling and darting about like sparrows. Yet Jacob’s attention stayed firmly fixed on the mythic image of the banishment above. His eyes narrowed with curiosity, and they fixed themselves firmly on the figure of the angel escorting the sinners out of the Garden of Eden. Closer he focused on the face, young and fair, and framed with long locks of light-colored hair. There was something strangely familiar about it. Something recognizable within the fading, cracking paint.

  “It’s him,” Jacob muttered to himself, and then to Gotham, “He’s an angel as well, isn’t he?”

  Gotham glanced upward at the Genesis scene scrolled within the dome and the haloed figure upon which the boy’s attention had become transfixed and he knew of whom the question was being asked. He opened his mouth to answer when a voice from behind interrupted him.

  “I thought you migh
t be hungry.”

  It was Johiel, standing in a darkened doorway at the far end of the cathedral holding a beat-up silver pitcher filled with water and a chipped porcelain mug in one hand and a plate of sliced vegetables and fruit, a helping of almonds and a couple slices of bread in the other. Carefully balancing the offerings in his trembling hands he crossed the cathedral to where Jacob was standing.

  “The guards make it a habit to make sure there’s some food here to tide them over when they come to the island.” he said. “It isn’t much. But enough to keep your strength.”

  Jacob took a long, quenching swig from the mug of water he poured himself and with gusto began sampling from the plate of food. So much had happened over the course of the day that he had completely ignored the growing grumbling coming from his empty stomach.

  “So will I eventually lose a need for food altogether, and for that matter sleep?” he asked.

  “Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately, depending on how you look at it—no,” answered Johiel, his craggy face as soft and inviting as the smile he seemed to always have fixed in his eyes and the corners of his mouth. “Unlike Gothamel and myself, you are still very much mortal, and as such will continue to require their creature comforts.”

  “Then, I’m right,” said Jacob, “you are an angel.”

  “You sound surprised,” answered Johiel.

  “Not really,” said Jacob, his cheeks ballooned with grapes. “I kinda suspected it when you were telling the history of this place. I mean, the way you speak of it—the church, the island, palaces that are no longer here—it’s not like anything you would hear from a regular tour guide, you know? I dunno…it’s like you’ve been here through it all. Lived its history.”