They climbed in dim silence for perhaps twenty minutes before emerging on an open bluff, a tiered expanse of rock, earth and sage beyond. Fifty feet to their right, the mountain seemed to come to an abrupt end, the drop-off some eight hundred feet, a full moon perched just beyond the edge of the cliff. Below, they could hear the roll of the surf. Above, a faint glimmer of light poked through.
It was St. Phôtinus staring down at them.
“It gets easier from here,” intoned Gennadios, clearly winded. “Another twenty minutes or so.”
He was spot-on, the monastery inching out over the last of the hillocks some fifteen minutes later. Smaller by a considerable degree than the rest of the “cities” on the mountain, Phôtinus still managed a rather imposing glare from its frontal assault. A stern line of cypresses stood guard along the outer wall, bits and pieces of which dated back as far as the fourth century. Most of the loose stone had been replaced by brick and mortar over time, Byzantine and Ottoman architecture colliding in a wild mélange of turrets and flying buttresses. On either side, the walls matched the rise of the mountain, uneven steps climbing high along the slope, disappearing into an overgrown wood perhaps two hundred yards above, the overall effect that of a headless turtle attempting to take flight.
But it was the sight directly in front of them that demanded attention. Two ironwork doors—vast shields arching to a stone gate thirty feet high—recalled a time when the monks of Athos had been forced to fight for their piety, pirates a constant menace, a long-abandoned gunwale still visible along the topmost part of the wall. Even Phôtinus’s motto, etched crudely into the stonework above the doors, conveyed the dual message of refuge and resistance.
Take Peace Within These Walls and Gird Yourself to Dwell in an Armor of Loveliness and Light.
As the peninsula’s first line of defense against attack from the sea—and forever caught up in the squabbles of distant emperors and sultans—Phôtinus had long ago learned to guard its privacy well. Even now, it was considered the most insular among a community renowned for its isolation.
And yet, the doors stood ajar, three or four lamps from the courtyard inside lighting the last few yards of their approach.
As they entered, Pearse was astounded by the silence, no monks coming out to demand their papers. Instead, they walked undisturbed to the fountain at the center—a simple pool with a strangely ornate spout. It was a monk in prayer, the water trickling from his eyes, as if tears. Pearse stared at it for several seconds. He couldn’t help but wonder if the tears were meant for the one true and holy Christian church, a disturbing thought as he joined the other two. They were cupping great heaps of water, Gennadios on the fountain’s ledge, handful after handful to his neck. The hike had gotten the better of him. Only then did Pearse realize how thirsty he was himself. It was several minutes before any of them spoke.
“Nice climb,” Pearse finally said. “I suppose you must make the trek quite often,” he added, dabbing his neck and shoulders.
The monk breathed heavily before answering. “Maybe twice in the last six months. It’s not something I look forward to.”
“You don’t get out much, do you?”
“Get out much? I don’t understand.”
“Well, if you’ve left only twice—”
“Oh, I see what you mean,” he said, the smile returning to his face. “Dominic obviously didn’t explain. I’m not a Brother of Phôtinus. My home is the Great Lavra,” he added, giving a quick flick of a finger somewhere off to the east, “the second oldest on the mountain, a mere babe compared to this one. We go back only as far as 963. But Phôtinus, well, it’s been around since—what is it, Dominic, 384, 85? No one’s quite sure.” He returned to the water.
“Not my period,” Andrakos answered.
“Always the best excuse,” said Pearse, Angeli’s smile appearing in front of him.
Andrakos started to respond, then stopped.
Gennadios laughed. “You’ve actually shut him up with that one. I must remember it.”
Pearse waited for Andrakos’s smile, then asked, “So it’s all right for us to be here?”
“Well, I wouldn’t have made that trip with you if I weren’t sure,” said Gennadios.
“All of the monasteries have a kind of open-door policy with one another,” Andrakos explained. “If you and I had walked in here alone, we’d be in a lot of hot water right now. As long as we’ve got the bearded one with us, they know it’s okay. I’ve actually never been to Phôtinus myself.”
“Five, six hundred years ago,” added the monk, “that wouldn’t have been the case. Now, with fewer than two thousand of us scattered among the monasteries, we’ve let things loosen up a bit.”
“Without this one here”—Dominic placed an overly enthusiastic hand on Gennadios—“I wouldn’t have been able to see half the archives I’ve needed for my work.”
“And with this one,” the monk nodded, taking Andrakos’s hand from his shoulder, “you’ve managed to get me in all sorts of trouble with half the abbots on the mountain. Brother Timotheos at Stavronikita still isn’t talking to me.”
“That’s because he’s taken a six-month vow of silence.” Andrakos laughed.
“It’s still no excuse.”
Pearse laughed as well, the sound echoing throughout the empty courtyard. It seemed to prompt movement from one of the far buildings, a strange aggregation of striped archways topped by a maroon attic with gabled roof. A small figure appeared from a side door, another black cassock gingerly making its way across. He seemed to glide across the flagstone.
“I see you made it without too much trouble,” he said as he neared them, catching Gennadios in middip, the larger man spinning around and at once pulling the diminutive monk into his barrel chest, an embrace that would have gotten the better of a man twice his size. Still, the little monk held his own.
“You need a bath” were his first words as he disentangled himself from the bear hug. “And our fountain won’t do.” The two laughed.
“It’s good to see you, too,” said Gennadios as he stood to make the introductions. “Professor Seldon, Dominic Andrakos, this is Brother Nikotheos, librarian of St. Phôtinus, and a man with a finely tuned nose.”
There was an almost feminine quality to his face, delicate olive-shaped eyes, soft white skin amid the wrinkles. Even his beard seemed to soften its texture. His hands, however, betrayed his years, browned and bony. Pearse guessed Nikotheos to be somewhere in his early seventies. “We don’t usually allow guests to arrive after the second meal—in fact, we don’t usually have guests at all—but Gennadios explained your work on Ambrose. I wasn’t aware he’d ever made the trip.”
“I guess that’s what I’m here to find out.” Pearse smiled.
“Yes.” It was clear he’d expected a bit more by way of explanation. When none came, he nodded to the little group and said,“Well, let’s get you to your rooms, perhaps a quick tour. It’s late for us.”
Pearse’s was the last of the cells they came to, more of the flagstone, stark white walls, a small desk and iron bedstead below a single window. The glass panes were pulled open, the smell of minted olives in the air.
As he had done for Gennadios and Dominic, the monk retrieved two bowls from the shelf by the door, one filled with dried fruit and nuts, the other with rose-scented loukoumi, the Greek version of Turkish delight. He placed them on the desk.
“In case you get hungry during the night. We’re up before the sun, first prayer at four.” He turned to go, then stopped. “Oh, I meant to ask—are you Orthodox or heretic?”
It was a question Pearse had hoped to avoid. He knew that the few non–Greek Orthodox they permitted on the mountain were generally of the harmless tourist variety. Those who wished to see the manuscripts were put to far greater scrutiny. Too long a history of disappearing documents, miraculously reappearing in the British Library and the Vatican, had made the monks justifiably wary. Their distrust of Catholics verged on mania.
/> “I’m a Catholic,” Pearse responded.
“Oh, I see.” Nikotheos’s expression remained unchanged. “How sad for you.” Again, he moved to the door, then stopped. “I wouldn’t make that public knowledge. Several of the brothers feel quite strongly about it, the abbot included.” A smile. “But we’ll make sure you get to see the manuscripts. I’d love to find out how Ambrose ties in with us here.” And with that, he was out the door, pulling it shut behind him.
Pearse tossed his pack onto the bed and stepped to the window, a light mist having settled in the last few minutes. Such was the whim of mountain air. It hung on the upper reaches of the buildings, the moon lost behind it. Even so, he could see the monastery stretch out in front of him, the slope of the mountain giving his third-floor cell a near-panoramic view.
It was far bigger than he had imagined, wide pockets of open area extending up to unseen distances, all of them surrounded by a wide assortment of fifteen centuries of architectural evolution. Closer in to his right, the fountain continued its endless trickle of water, the patter echoing in soulful meter; only the occasional brush of leaves and a flapping of wings broke through the silence. As he continued to stare out, he saw Nikotheos arrive in the courtyard, the monk moving slowly, snuffing out lamps as he went. The area grew dark, save for one or two paraffin lamps glowing in the windows above, late-evening prayers, last-minute assurances.
For the most part, Pearse had little idea what lay out in the darkness. Nikotheos’s quick tour had been just that—quick. One or two of the smaller chapels, refectory, library—all in swift succession, only the last of them, he had discovered, behind locked doors.
“There was an incident at the Great Lavra a few years back,” the monk had explained. “Raiders in motorboats with guns. They stole quite a few manuscripts, gold reliquaries, even a few icons. They were caught, thank heavens, but the damage had been done, illuminations ripped out, destroyed. We keep these doors bolted at night now. Not what I would like, but what can you do?”
Pearse had been relieved to hear that the rest of the place remained open. From Angeli’s notes, he knew he’d have no need for the library and its manuscripts.
Unfortunately, that was all he knew. Little of what he now saw resembled the map she had drawn. Much had changed in nine centuries, most of the buildings fourteenth- and fifteenth-century additions, still others from the golden age of the czars, when Russian Orthodoxy had taken Athos under its protective wing. The one piece that tied the ancient Phôtinus to its more modern progeny was the outer wall itself, a basic triangle, the entrance doors a fixed landmark situated at the center of its base. He had to hope Angeli’s calculations were accurate enough to lead him from the fountain courtyard to the “Vault of the Paraclete,” a room somewhere within one of the more ancient buildings still standing.
It was odd to think how close he was to whatever was hidden within the Vault, how long the parchment had waited to be found.
If, of course, it was still there. And if Angeli had deciphered the scroll correctly. Too many variables.
A breeze lifted off the water, more of the olive and mint, a gentle reminder of the world he now inhabited. For some reason, the face of the priest from San Bernardo filled his thoughts, the ancient shoulders swaying back and forth, the whispered chant from his weathered lips. Pearse imagined the old man would have liked it here.
He turned to the bed, and he noticed a monk’s robe hanging on the door, evidently the preferred garb even for guests. Perfect, he thought. He would rest for an hour, then go. Better with everyone asleep.
After all, he had to be back by first prayer.
“O existent in very truth.
O being which beholds the aeons in very truth.
Unseen unto all but me.
Unseen unto all.
Éeema, Éeema, Ayo.
O self-originate that lacks nothing and is free,
I have come to know you and to mix with your immutability.
I have girded myself to dwell in your armor of loveliness and light.
And I have become luminous.”
The boy, no more than sixteen, rose from his knees, trying his best to mask the relief pounding in his chest. It was the last of the prayers he would have to recite on his own. The rest, he knew, he could do in his sleep, had been doing in his sleep for the last six months. Preparation on preparation.
Hair parted neatly to one side, he wiped away the few beads of perspiration that had collected on his brow and upper lip. Dressing this morning in his hotel room, he’d assumed the air in the grotto would be cooler, the four floors of solid rock beneath the Ninety-fourth Street armory enough to fend off the heat. No such luck. The thick initiate’s robe wasn’t helping matters, either.
It just went to show how little an Ohio boy knew about New York summers.
Six others waited with him on the beama, the raised platform at the grotto’s center, each of their faces illuminated in a billowing light from torches placed along the walls. Several ancient tapestries hung down as well, not even a hint of air to ruffle their faded colors. If the elect were hoping to shroud the ceremony in a kind of medieval patina, they were more than succeeding. The young men stood entranced.
“You have been formed within the orbit of the light,” chanted the trio of elect, who stood behind the group of initiates.
“So that in your company I might have life in the peace of the saints,” they responded as one.
“And so we welcome you. For the light is within your bosom, an unreproachable light, the sign of the prophets within you.”
“O Iesseus-Mazareus-Iessedekeus.”
“O Mani Paraclete, prophet of all prophets.”
“Eternally existent in very truth.”
“Éeema, Éeema, Ayo.”
The princeps—the highest of the elect—now passed behind each of them, the ritual laying on of hands, a silent prayer. He wore a white cotton shawl pulled up over his head, the rest draping to his knees, a distant cousin of the Jewish tallis in all but the missing Hebrew lettering at the collar. Even the way he manipulated the fringed corners bespoke a connection to an Aaronic past. When he had finished, he kissed each of them on the cheek, followed by the sign of the cross on their foreheads, the sign of the trihedron at their breasts. One by one, the boys stepped down from the beama and took their places among the thirty or so men seated in the chamber. The boy returned to his father’s side.
No words of congratulations. No recognition of any kind.
When the last of them was seated, the princeps removed the shawl from his head and placed it around his shoulders, the face of John Joseph Blaney now revealed to the assemblage. “Let us recall the Primal Aeons,” he said; the gathering rose. “The Deep,” Blaney began.
“The perfect parent, prior source, and ancestor,” they responded.
“Silence.”
“The betrothed. Thought, loveliness.”
“The Intellect.”
“The only-begotten, the parent and source of the entirety.”
“Truth.”
“The betrothed.”
“The Word.”
“The parent and source of fullness.”
“Life.”
“The betrothed.”
“The Human Being.”
“The Human Being.”
“The church.”
“The betrothed.”
“These are the Primal Aeons. Through them, we bind our wills to Your knowledge; through our knowledge, we are bound to Your will. In the Father of Greatness, who resides in the realm of Light. In the Power of the cosmos, who brings our salvation. In the Wisdom of the ages, who returns us to the wholeness of our church.”
“In the Father, the Power and the Wisdom.”
Blaney stepped back to a small podium at center. “And let us recall the ‘Perfect Light, the True Ascent.’”
As one, the voices began:
“It is from the perfect light, the true ascent that I am found in those who
seek me.
Acquainted with me, you come to yourselves, wrapped in the light to
rise to the aeons.
For I will illumine in your illumination;
I will ascend in your ascension;
I will unite in your union.
It is I who am the riches of the light;
It is I who am the memory of the fullness….”
The boy continued to chant, his mind wandering as the words flowed freely. For as long as he could remember, he had committed the prayers to memory, the rituals that had prepared him for today, his father as guide. Always in strict isolation, so different from the shallowness of Sunday, when he would watch his father play the role of minister, stand behind his pulpit and preach words that seemed so far from the truth.
As his mind drifted, so, too, did his gaze, faces all around him, many of which he recognized from neighboring towns—Davenport, Kenton, Elmsford—none of which he had ever associated with the private world he and his father had shared.
Until today.
The journey north to the elect. The day of illumination. Entrance into his cell.
Everything would change now. He had been told as much. How, he didn’t know. Standing among his brothers, reciting the “Perfect Light,” it didn’t seem to matter.
Éeema, Éeema, Ayo.
The fruit was all but gone, the bowl of loukoumi licked clean. He’d been hungrier than he’d realized, the confection far better than he’d expected.
Waiting for the last of the paraffin lamps to flicker out, Pearse donned the robe and stepped out into the open-air corridor, a tree-lined atrium three stories below. The sleeves hung a bit too long, though an ideal spot, he discovered, to conceal the notes he had with him. Not that he was anticipating anything, but best to have the pages out of sight should someone appear. Looking to minimize that chance, he kept his lantern dark as he moved past the other cells, the monks either asleep or oblivious to his late-night wanderings.
The Book of Q Page 20