The Fratricides

The Fratricides Page 6

by Nikos Kazantzakis

  Father Yánaros opened his eyes; night had fallen; the flame of the wick burning before the icon of St. Constantine cast a faint light in the long, narrow cell, on the Second Coming still on his knees, on the golden-yellow quinces hanging from the beam. Silence—the village was already asleep; from the narrow window one could see the freshly whitewashed dome of the church softly gleaming, and from the strip of sky that was visible, two stars twinkled.

  Father Yánaros closed his eyes again; he returned to Mount Athos, to the cell of Father Arsénios.

  What calm, peaceful discussions the two had had; how many days and nights he had stayed with him—they had passed like lightning! Surely this must be how the hours and days and centuries go by in Paradise. The hours passed, and the two souls strolled before God, gurgling like pigeons.

  “How can you live like this, Father Arsénios? How do you stand the loneliness?” Father Yánaros asked one day as he watched the sea from among the orange trees and felt the longing to leave, “Have you lived in solitude many years?”

  “I’ve been glued to this cell since I was twenty, Father Yana-ros,” he replied, “like the silkworm in its cocoon. This,” he said and pointed to his cell, “is my cocoon.”

  “And is it large enough to hold you?”

  “Yes, it is, because it has a small window, and I can see the sky.”

  When night came and midnight passed, Father Arsénios would take up his delicate tools with excitement and begin, silently bent over the cypress wood, to carve the holy visions be-fore they could disappear.

  One evening, a young monk from the Monastery of Lavra came to bring a message. As the older men sat talking, they heard someone sighing behind them; Father Yánaros turned and saw the young monk crouched, dazed, listening to them.

  “Why are you listening to us?” he asked him. “What do you understand of all this?”

  “Nothing,” the monk replied, “but I ask only one favor of God—to let me listen to your conversations throughout eternity —it would be Paradise!”

  Father Yánaros held his ‘breath. Suddenly the urge to leave overcame him—to leave, to take God with him and leave! Here in Castello his soul was crumbling; every day, one by one, its feathers were being plucked. He had fought with the people; he had shouted from the pulpit, from the narrow streets, from anywhere and everywhere; he had shouted so many years now, and what had he accomplished? Did the evil stop? Did it grow less? Did they drop their rifles and stop the killing? Did even one person—at least one person—become a better human be-ing? One woman, one man? No! No one! He must leave! He had to take God with him and leave!

  He would go and find Arsénios. Was he still alive, was he still carving out his heart in wood? Oh, to build a cell near him, a cocoon for himself, too, in solitude, to see not orange groves or the sea from a small window, but a piece of sky! And sometimes to go and talk with Father Arsénios in his cell, to talk of the sweet tears that flow from the eyes of men in solitude!

  He was the only friend, the only pure and serene conscience he had met on Mount Athos. How many times, here in hell—

  in Castello—Arsénios came to the priest’s mind and comforted his soul.

  As long as such people exist on earth, he thought, the world will not crumble. Father Arsénios is a pillar that holds the world up, above the abyss.

  And as he sat there with closed lids, his hands on the carved icon, thinking of his friend and seeing Mount Athos before him like an old holy fresco that is worn out by time and dampness, sleep came and took him. And he had a dream: the trumpets of Judgment Day had sounded; the earth began to shake and rise, and from its depths crept the dead—countless thousands of them, like snails crawling from the soil after the rain, all covered with mud. They dried in the sun, their bones hardened, their flesh tightened, eyes appeared in the empty sockets, sharp teeth wedged back in their mouths, and their bodies filled with soul again. And all of them leaped, panting, and stood up, some to the right, others to the left of Christ, who sat between earth and sky, on a blue, gold-embroidered cushion. And at His feet lay the Virgin, praying.

  Christ turned to his right and smiled; and immediately the huge emerald door of Paradise opened wide, and the rose-hued angels with sky-blue wings embraced the just and led them, singing, through flower-bordered paths to the house of God. Then Christ turned to the left and wrinkled his brows; a lament rose, and countless demons with tails and horns held flaming spears and jabbed the sinners as though they were spearing octopuses, preparing them to be tossed into hell. The Virgin heard this la-ment; She turned; Her heart ached for them.

  “My children,” She cried, “do not weep, do not shout; my Son is not only just, He is also merciful; do not be afraid!”

  And Christ smiled. “My children,” He said, “I only meant to frighten you; come, God’s heart is great; it holds both the just and the sinners as well—enter, all of you, enter Paradise!”

  The demons stopped in surprise; the spears fell from their Hands, and they began to weep. “Lord,” they howled, “what will become of us now?”

  Christ looked at them with compassion; and as He watched them, their horns and their tails fell off; their faces became se-rene, and curly wings began to grow on their backs.

  “Enter the House of God,” Christ said to them. “The Second Coming does not mean justice—it means mercy.”

  And as Christ talked, it seems a soft rain began to fall, and everything—the just and the unjust, Paradise and hell and Christ —vanished.

  Father Yánaros let out a scream and jumped to his feet.

  “O my God,” he murmured and made the sign of the cross, “What doors open up for us in sleep, what wings we are given! Lord, we’re lost if you keep a record of our dreams, too.”

  The voices of the night had wakened; in the stillness came the sounds, from afar, of the jackals coming toward Castello.

  “Night falls upon us,” Father Yánaros murmured, “and the massacre of night begins; now the beasts—birds, mice, caterpillars, jackals—will leap on one another to kill or kiss. God, what kind of world have You created? I cannot understand!”

  Suddenly he heard a sound; he jumped up, and in one stride he was at the door; he listened intently; in the darkness, behind the church, he thought he heard the deep moans of a man in pain.

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  He seized his staff and ran outside; the night was warm and sweet, like all nights that follow massacres and battles. It seemed to Father Yánaros that the stars were lower in the skies tonight; they hung like sanctuary lights in God’s dark spaces. Thank God for sleep, Father Yánaros thought. It brings us what wakefulness denies. A soft breeze floated within his heart, the sweetness of his dream still dripped, like honey, from his inner being. If only what he had dreamed were true! If only this were the way the Second Coming would be! Mercy! Mercy, not justice! Man, the unfortunate soul, cannot endure justice; he is weak, and sin appears tempting, God’s command-ments heavy; justice is fine, but it is only for angels—man needs mercy.

  Father Yánaros entered the courtyard of the church; it seemed to him that the moans came from there. He leaped over the timeworn graves—priests of the village were buried here according to old custom. Father Yánaros, too, had dug his grave here, with his own hands; he had chiseled letters on a tombstone and painted them red: “Death, I fear you not!” Father Yánaros stood happily for a moment over his grave. “Death, I do not fear you,” he murmured, and suddenly he felt free. What does it mean to be free? He who does not fear death is free. Father Yánaros stroked his beard, satisfied. God, he pondered, is there a greater joy than freedom from death? “No,” he went on, “no!”

  At that moment, still from a distance, came the sound of the

  moans, more intense now, more painful. Father Yánaros turned from his grave. It must be one of the wounded left behind, he thought, and leaped over the ledge and onto the road. He looked to the right, to the left, as he walked in the darkness. Every so often he would stop to listen. When he passed the edge of the village, h
e took the path that led to the hill. Suddenly he heard slow, tired footsteps; a stone rolled, someone was coming down the hill.

  Father Yánaros ran toward the sound of moaning, stumbling as he felt his way in the darkness. As he fumbled, he heard a low, breathless voice: “Father Yánaros, is that you?”

  Straining his neck and moving forward, he perceived the form of a man with hands outstretched, leaning against a rock.

  The priest hurried to him; he took his arm and leaned over to look closely at his face. He seemed young, dark, thin—all bones; he appeared wounded; his hands suddenly clutched his chest, and he sighed deeply. Father Yánaros felt the man’s chest and pulled back his hand filled with blood.

  “Who wounded you?” the priest asked softly, as though it were a great secret.

  “You mean who hasn’t wounded me!” the young man replied. “Some communist because I’m a Christian! Some Christian because I’m a communist! I couldn’t tell who!”

  “Come with me; my home is nearby. I’ll wash your wound. Are you badly hurt?”

  “You’re Father Yánaros, aren’t you?” the youth asked again.

  “Yes, I’m the one people call Father Yánaros; God calls me Sinner—that’s my real name. Are you badly hurt?” he asked again.

  The youth put his arm over the priest’s shoulder and slowly, with the older man’s support, they began to walk.

  “You know very well,” the wounded man replied, “that when a brother wounds you, you are always badly hurt.”

  They were silent; as they entered the village they could see the whitewashed dome of the church glowing softly. Father Yánaros pushed open the low door alongside the church, and they entered.

  “Sit down, my son,” the priest said, and helped him to the small cot.

  He lit the lamp; its light fell on the pale, embittered, ecstatic face of the young man. Father Yánaros looked at him and drew back in alarm. He had seen this face before, but where, when? In his dreams? The boy wore a monk’s robe; a simple cross hung from his neck, and his eyes were large, deep blue, and they looked at the world with astonishment, as though for the first time. The eyes—Father Yánaros had always imagined these to be the eyes of the Angel Gabriel when he came to earth and said to the Virgin: “Hail, Mary, full of Grace!”

  And in that moment a flash appeared, illuminating Father Yánaros’ mind; now he remembered! Years ago, when the Met-ropolitan Bishop of Yánnina ordered a painting of the Annun-ciation, Father Yánaros had painted the Archangel Gabriel in the image of this young monk, with these same deep-blue eyes.

  Father Yánaros was frightened for a moment; how mysterious is the soul of man! What strength it has—it can shape and destroy the world! Surely the soul is a flame from God’s Fire that falls on hay—the flesh—and sets it afire.

  He leaned toward the monk and asked in a trembling voice, “Who are you, my son?”

  The wounded man bit his lips. “I’m in pain,” he said and closed his eyes.

  Father Yánaros felt ashamed—he had neglected the boy’s wound to ask questions. Quickly he brought a pitcher of water, opened the man’s robe, and carefully washed the wound. Then he took a salve from the shelf, an ointment he had been saving for such emergencies, applied it to the spot, bandaged the wound, and helped the young man lie down. He brought a stool and sat beside him.

  The monk relaxed; he opened his eyes, looked at Father Yánaros, and smiled.

  “I’m all right; I feel much better now; God bless you,” he said and closed his eyes again.

  “Do you want to sleep, my son?”

  “No, I want to collect my soul, to gain strength, so I can talk to you.”

  “Rest first; don’t tire yourself. I won’t question you, not who you are or what you’re doing near Castello. I want nothing from you—just rest.”

  “If I’m to rest, I must talk, Father. That’s why I came. I have a secret.”

  “A secret?” Father Yánaros felt disturbed as he looked at the young man. Can he be insane? he thought. Those eyes are like those that see the Invisible; only the insane and the angels have such eyes. “What secret?” he said aloud.

  The young man swallowed; he remained silent for a minute, then spoke. “A glass of water,” he said, “my throat is dry; forgive me, Father.”

  He drank and felt refreshed.

  “When they shot me, I prayed to God, mustered all my strength to hurry and find you, to tell you this; to entrust you with my secret before I die; for I may die, Father.”

  “Don’t talk like that, my child,” Father Yánaros replied and felt an indescribable tenderness for this boy who was fighting with death, who was fighting with God, here, before him.

  “Are you afraid of death, Father Yánaros?”

  The priest smiled. “No,” he replied.

  “Well, then?”

  Father Yánaros did not reply; what he meant to say was that he feared death only when it took the young men, in the bloom of youth, before they could become ripe, before they could bear fruit; but he did not speak.

  “I was afraid of death once, too, Father; when I was younger. But a saintly ascetic said something to me one day, and since then I have made my peace with death.”

  “What did the ascetic say to you? I’d like to hear it, too.”

  “He said, ‘Death is that point where God touches man.’ Father, I feel an invisible hand over me, touching my heart. That’s why I’m in a hurry. That’s why I gathered all my strength to come and find you, to entrust my secret to you; so it will not die with me.”

  “Entrust it to me? Why me? I’m seventy years old.”

  “You are twenty years old, Father Yánaros. I have heard many things about you. Father Arsénios …”

  The priest sat up with a start. “Who? Father Arsénios? From the Monastery …?”

  “Yes, the Monastery of St. Anna, may God rest his soul.”

  “He died?”

  “No, he went mad.”

  “He went mad?”

  Father Yánaros’ eyes filled with tears.

  “He went mad,” the monk continued, “from the rigid fasting, from being too saintly, from having too many conversations with God. He could endure it no longer; the trap door opened, and all the hidden demons escaped from within him. He no longer carved Virgins and Christs on wood; he would get up at night, light his lamp, and carve demons and naked women and pigs.”

  “No, no!” Father Yánaros cried, rising from his stool. “Father Arsénios had no demons within him, only angels dwelled there! Do not taint his memory!”

  “Demons and naked women and pigs,” the young man repeated. “All of us, Father Yánaros, all of us harbor demons and naked women and pigs within us.”

  Father Yánaros did not speak; he looked within himself. Walking over to the carving of the Second Coming, he stopped, made the sign of the cross, and bowed to worship. He watched it thoughtfully for a while; for a moment he had forgotten the wounded monk and the secret he supposedly brought; his heart filled with Father Arsénios. “Demons, women, and pigs .. he murmured. “Alas, I think this young man is right.”

  He remembered the day he had asked Father Arsénios what dwelled within a sinner’s heart. And he had lowered his eyes and replied in a choked voice, “Why do you ask me, Father Yánaros? Why do you ask me about the heart of a sinner? I have the heart of a virtuous man, and still all the demons dwell within it.”

  How many years did these demons remain hidden within him—chained by the fear of God? Is that why, with such sleepless agony, he carved the saints? Is that why he had such fear of dreams and refused to sleep? His secret desires could have remained dormant all his life, through deep prayer, and he could have died a saint. But the trap door opened; his mind wandered; and the imprisoned demons revealed themselves.

  Sweat poured from Father Yánaros’ brow. He felt that he was burning—a great fire—he went to the door, opened it, and stood at the threshold. The night air refreshed him. He remembered his guest, closed the door, and went back to the
stool be-side the monk.

  “Tell me more about Father Arsénios,” he said. “Don’t spare me, tell me everything.”

  “You feel such pain for one person,” the monk said sternly, as though reprimanding him, “why don’t you feel as deeply for all men? And I thought … and that’s why I came.”

  “I’m a human being,” Father Yánaros said stubbornly, “I’m a human being; I’m not an angel yet, you see, and I’m not a beast. A human being … I feel pain for even one soul. What happened to Father Arsénios after that? I want to know.”

  “Gradually his madness increased; he began to walk around undressed through the orange groves; he would fall on the ground screaming hysterically. And one Sunday he walked into church stark naked. Another old ascetic read the blessings to exorcise the demon, but the demon would not leave; the monks beat him unmercifully with their leather belts—blood came out, but not the demon. So they locked him in his cell and brought him only bread and water every morning. He would not touch it; he must have died by now.”

  “Enough, enough!” Father Yánaros shouted. “Is that your secret?”

  “No, it’s not, Father Yánaros, but you asked me about Father Arsénios, and I told you,” he replied. “I lived in a cell next to his for several months. He sensed all those dark devils within him, and he was anxious to die. To die, before they found the open door to escape. And I am certain that all the while he was carving those saints and angels, his ear was cocked for Death the Deliverer; and he must have heard him in every beat of his heart when Death approached. And he would smile happily then. ‘Father Arsénios,’ I asked him one day, ‘why do you always smile, and why does your face always shine?’ ‘Why shouldn’t I smile, brother Nicódemus,’ he replied, ‘why shouldn’t I smile, when every hour, every moment, I hear Death approaching?’ “

  The monk’s immovable face shone; his voice was calm but filled with controlled pathos; his eyes sparkled as though behind them a huge fire raged. Father Yánaros watched him uneasily; he was leery of the serenity on his face, the calmness of his voice. This soul was a flaming bier that would not burn.

 

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