by Rob Swigart
The heavy March afternoon wore on. At a certain point she felt the presence lurking in the darkness behind her. So it was coming again, coming for her. She stopped rocking.
The first time she felt it she ran from it in panic. No matter how far or fast she ran through the echoing stone hallways and down and up the twisting staircases, the presence was always there. Nothing could stop it; she could not run from it. When she fell exhausted to the ground, it waited.
Then one day it didn’t stop, it kept coming, entered her, and she began to speak. From that day on it was the Voice.
That first time Father Colmillo and Sister had been there in the room with the chair, the bed, and the machines with lights, the room on the corridor of doors, the room where Sister sometimes tormented her.
She began to speak, and forgot about Sister and Father. Afterwards, though, they played back to her the sounds she had made, and she knew then no one must ever again hear the Voice inside her speak. She knew this when she heard her own voice coming from the priest’s machine, and saw the expression on the faces of Father Colmillo and Sister.
She always went somewhere else when she was talking, somewhere far away. She couldn’t say where, but after that first time she would hide, and despite her terror, strange words flowed from her the way blood used to flow between her legs and didn’t any longer because she was carrying a child. For a long time, the sounds meant nothing to her.
Sister, always impatient, waved her big silver cross, and Celia learned to nod whenever the old woman paused for breath.
Sister asked once if the voice ever returned to possess her and she lied and shook her head.
She had learned caution. This afternoon, there was time before supper. She checked the hallway and closed her door. There was no lock inside, and it was possible someone might enter, but she had no friends, and besides, she had to obey the Voice.
She sat cross-legged on the bed, back against the outside wall. This was difficult because of her belly, but she managed. Just before the Voice came and took her away, she pulled the blankets over her head.
This time, because she was in the darkness under the blanket when the Voice came, the strange shifting of the light, the way it dimmed and faded and the way the room disappeared, did not trouble her.
She was in a vast, brown place. She felt sweat under her arms, but the heat dried it quickly. Then, although she was alone, she began to speak. This time she had some control, and spoke under her breath, muffled in blankets and darkness.
As always, the sounds conveyed no meaning. But this time shapeless creatures, barely visible, crawled and chittered and howled. Twin snakes raised their heads, tiny eyes staring brightly. Celia moved smoothly over water and saw she stood in a boat. A dog barked silently at her feet. The words flowed on and she knew they told of her unborn child. She reached out and seized a snake in each hand, holding them just behind the heads. They hissed and coiled in rage. She stared into their eyes, first one, then the other. Their mouths opened, showing pink skin, curved fangs, darting tongues.
The hissing stopped with the words, and she was back in her room.
She removed the blankets. The room was empty, the door still closed. No one had been there, no one had heard, no one had seen.
The expression that appeared on her face like the afterglow of the setting sun was not a smile of joy, of pleasure, even of good humor. Its beginnings were small, a twitch at the corner of her mouth, a transient pursing of the mouth, but the more time went by without Sister crashing into her room or Father Colmillo’s dry, uncompromising look from under drooping eyelids, the broader the smile grew. Her lips, normally slack and thick and moist, lengthened and thinned. The bottoms of her upper teeth showed, tentatively at first, them more broadly. Her smile burned with neither pity nor fear, but something beyond either.
She listened in her mind, repeating there the short, chopped syllables, odd rhythms, and hissing consonants. They slowly gathered meaning, and she began to fill with a terrifying brightness. She began to understand.
The light over the Picos de Europa dimmed further, faded, died. Invisible clouds raced overhead, dragging a wind that screeched and moaned around the severe gray ramparts. Celia remained cross-legged and unmoving late into the night, eyes fixed on something well beyond the walls of the Saint Akakios Monastery.
She had a name. Now she had a purpose.
Saturday: Lex at Athos
Lex Treadwell landed at Thessaloniki just after nine Friday evening. A car drove him for two silent hours to Ouranoupoli, the City of Heaven and entry point to the Autonomous Monastic State of the Holy Mountain.
This trip was a complete waste of time, but he made no complaint. His Teacher asked, and he obeyed.
He spent seven dreamless hours asleep on a thin mattress in an inexpensive tourist hotel near the harbor. Shortly after dawn he walked across to a café for a watery coffee with fresh bread and honey. At 7:30 a man wearing a vaguely official hat tilted rakishly to one side approached and asked his name. When Lex told him, the man handed him a diamonitirion, a visa with his name neatly printed on it, pointed at a sleek speedboat down the quay, executed a perfunctory bow, and walked off.
The ancient sea- and sun-weathered boatman wore a filthy rag scarf around his neck and a black captain’s cap over long white hair. When Lex stepped aboard he nodded wordlessly and started the engine. The boat curved away from the harbor in a wide arc while Lex was still sitting down. Gas fumes fluttered in their wake.
The sea was unusually calm for March, a clean blue under clear skies, a relief from the oppressive humidity of Paris. A noisy hour later they docked at the tidy port of Daphni. Lex waved his diamonitirion at an official at the end of the dock and went straight to a waiting taxi. He scarcely glanced at the picturesque town, but did note the absence of women. The Autonomous State was a garden consecrated to the Virgin Mary. All other females were forbidden, not even hens for fresh eggs, though there were some notoriously independent cats.
The monk at the wheel glanced at Lex. As soon as he had settled in the back seat he set them on a bouncing and slithering journey over rough, unpaved roads. They climbed through green forests, around the ends of deep valleys, and past occasional monastic buildings nestled in small clearings. Another hour later they came to a halt in front of the church in a sizeable medieval village that curved in a semi-circle around a plaza. Some buildings were as much as ten stories high, their white facades punctuated by balconies supported by dark, slanted timbers. The town was pushed against a backdrop of towering crags and wooded ravines. On the other side of the plaza a precipice sprinkled with tenacious shrubs plunged to the Aegean over 300 meters below.
The five gold domes of the church dominating the square glittered in the sunlight. A large clock tower in front read 5:44, seven hours later than Lex’s watch, still set to Paris time. The Holy Mountain was the only place in the world that still lived in Byzantine time: the new day began when the last rays of the sun winked out over the peak of Mt. Athos, 1500 meters above the monastery.
Lex’s instructions were to follow the driver, but long minutes passed and the monk remained behind the wheel mumbling and counting his beads. Lex realized the driver had been praying the entire journey, unheard over the engine.
The monk finally crossed himself and climbed out. Without a backward glance he went down a narrow street shadowed between the church and another building.
Lex followed with a perplexed grunt. These monks adhered to the Eastern rite, not the Syriac liturgy Ophis Sophia pretended to follow. They had different customs. Soon, though, liturgies would no longer hold. All would be swept away once the child appeared…
He chided himself. He must be patient: so much left to do, so many obstacles; do not give in to feelings of urgency. Time. He tried telling himself he had all he needed, but even knowing it was untrue he slowly relaxed his clenched fist.
The chanting from the church slowly faded as they walked down the alley. He could smell incense, fl
owers. A white cloud floated over the narrow strip of sky. The air was cool in the shade.
The building extended more than a city block. Near the end of the alley his guide stopped at an ornately carved wooden door. He took out a large iron key and opened it, standing aside for Lex.
They passed through a vestibule into a long, high-ceilinged hall. Two large circular chandeliers sent out waves of yellow candlelight. Icons glittered on the walls, dozens of saints with sad faces and golden halos, Jesus raising the dead and curing the sick, Madonnas with child, Mary rising into heaven. Lex scarcely glanced at such opulence.
He and the monk crossed the room, footsteps echoing. The monk opened a door on the other side and they descended two flights of stairs. The building must have been constructed down a slope into a canyon away from the sea, or else they were in a subbasement.
At another door the monk gestured. “Go,” he said, his first word, and started back up the stairs.
Lex opened the door onto a long, windowless room the size of the hall above. This one had plain white walls, a ceiling of amber planks, modern LED lighting, and two rows of desks. Most of the desks held four or five monitors and keyboards. At least forty monks in long black robes stared into the screens. All but one ignored the intrusion.
The one who did look up stood and came to him. “I am Constantinos,” he said in perfect American English. “You’re Lex.”
“Yes.”
“Come.” He went back to his desk at the end of one of the rows and offered Lex a chair. Lex folded his hands on the smooth surface and watched the screen saver, small units of text jumping around: “Ἅγιον Ὄρος,” “Agion Oros,” “Holy Mountain.”
Constantine was short and plump, in black robes. Like the others, his hair was tied up in a shiny bun. His beard fluffed to the sides and his dark eyes crinkled with amusement. Lex found his good humor repellent: the man was not taking his business seriously.
“Now, then,” the monk said. “What is it you need, exactly?”
Lex looked around, but no one was paying attention. The rows of screens were filled with graphs, charts, and constantly changing numbers. Their attendants stared, tapping keys, the only sound. “They’re day trading?” he asked.
Constantinos shrugged. “This place dates from the tenth century, my friend. The upkeep of such an old establishment is horrendous. The monasteries must support themselves.” He shrugged. “God provides in His own mysterious ways.”
“But, the stock exchange?”
“Exchanges, all of them. Some monks on Mount Athos perform the liturgy, chanting and praying for salvation. These, though, they provide salvation in the form of money. It is their path.”
Lex shook his head. “It’s allowed? Monks should not be worldly.”
“Most in this room have doctorates from American universities— business, finance, even physics. They made fortunes on Wall Street, and when they grew weary of the world and its ways, they returned to Mt. Athos to escape temptation.”
“It seems hardly resisting temptation to spend one’s time buying and selling.”
Constantinos pursed his lips with a shrug. “We eat, we pray, we sleep, we work. This is their work. Others farm, fish, keep bees, work in the archives, restore icons, or care for the monastery’s precious documents. All God’s work, each in his own way. Now,” he repeated, “what is it you need?”
Lex had come prepared to apply pressure, to extract service from a reluctant monk. He had expected to meet Ophis Sophia’s man alone in a cell where he could apply as much pressure as necessary. He had not expected to be sitting on a hard folding chair with dozens of other men in a large, plain room filled with flashing computer screens.
He cleared his throat. “We employed you to intercept communications. We gave you addresses, names, locations. A group called Delphi Agenda.”
“Ah.” The monk put a fingertip to the side of his nose for a time, thinking. He put his hand down and said, “Yes,” and clasped his hands on the desk next to Lex’s.
“Well?”
“Excuse, please; you have not asked a question.”
“Why haven’t you done it? Already, there have been consequences. This mission is critical. For us; for the world.”
The monk smiled broadly. “Nothing on the Holy Mountain is critical, Mr. Lex. This is Mount Athos. Time as you know it does not exist. When you set foot here, worldly time disappears. It has been thus for over a thousand years. So it shall continue.”
“We paid for your services.” Lex’s voice was tight with displeasure.
Constantine either failed to hear the menace or ignored it. “This has not yet occurred,” he replied reasonably. “I’ve received no payment. You don’t have to pay me, of course, if you’re displeased with my work. The information you provided, however, was insufficient. The people on whom you wanted me to… eavesdrop detected and counteracted my first efforts. So then Constantinos asks himself, who are these people whose secrets the Maronites want to know? To find the answers to this question, and others, I require much more background. Not long ago I requested photographs of the apartment from the street and the number of mailboxes in the lobby of the building. These are things I cannot discover easily from here. Even with this information, though, the job is going to require more time. Which, as I said, does not exist here on the Holy Mountain in the same way you understand it.”
Lex pursed his lips, looking at the black-robed backs, all hunched forward. They were all tapping, squinting, tapping again. Graphs and charts went up, they went down. Numbers flashed. “Time,” he repeated softly.
“Yes. To be fair, I’ve had to be very cautious lest the people in this Delphi Group become aware I’ve been nibbling at their defenses.” He cocked his head and looked askance at Lex, still smiling. “I can continue if you wish, or I can stop. You will find no one better in the world at this, and no better facilities than in this room. Not even large governments can outdo us. It’s up to you. If this is truly so important to you, you’ll allow me to do my work in my own time.”
“How long?”
“It will take exactly as long as necessary and no longer.”
Lex struggled for calm. Time, he thought again. Always, he thought about time, what his Teacher had said. Not enough of it.
He decided to change the topic. “What of the, um, events we asked about?”
The monk nodded, now in the best of humors. “Ah, well, there we are on firmer ground. Much firmer, indeed.” He tapped a key and the screen saver disappeared. A computer desktop appeared in Spanish: “At zero two sixteen this morning local time a certain Dr. Oscar Rigoberto Cervantes— this is the desktop of his computer we’re looking at— discovered a comet. Dr. Cervantes works at the Roque de los Muchachos Observatory in the Canary Islands. He sent in a brief announcement of the discovery to establish the time, but has not yet distributed details.”
“A comet?”
“As you asked. It’s quite close, so close he finds it unusual but not impossible no one discovered it before. It will be visible to the naked eye in Boötes, perhaps as early as tonight, certainly in a few days.”
The first Omen! Lex feigned indifference. “Does it have a color?”
“Dr. Cervantes will do spectral analysis tonight. Would you like me to keep an eye on it?”
Lex nodded. “Of course.”
“OK.” On the screen an email began writing itself as if they were looking over Dr. Cervantes’ shoulder, which, in a way, they were. “Well, look, he’s proposing a name for the comet, if you’re interested.”
Lex didn’t look at the screen. His reply was elaborately off-hand. “Not very, but what is it?”
For an instant he worried he had overdone the indifference, but the monk was squinting at the screen. “Odd word: Lamaštu. A Mesopotamian demon.”
The sudden hiss of Lex’s breath startled the monk. He looked up and saw his visitor make a sign, a cross with an odd final sinuous line up the middle that lifted the monk’s brows, thoug
h he said nothing. Foreigners had their own ways; and besides, this one was American.
“The name means something?”
“Not really,” Lex lied.
“Mmm.”
“What of the other?”
“Blood moon? An eclipse. Blood moons come in clusters, you know, several months apart. Sunlight passing through the earth’s atmosphere stains the moon a deep reddish orange. Not rare, really, just unusual; the next is in four days.”
“The sun will be turned to darkness, and the moon to blood before the great and dreadful day of the LORD comes,” Lex quoted. His heart was racing. Only four days to find the child!
The monk nodded. “Joel 2:31, yes. You believe the end is coming?”
“No,” Lex replied. “What comes is the beginning.”
Constantine grinned. “Yeah, it always is.”
Lex stood. His hand fell on the other man’s shoulder. He squeezed.
The monk looked up in sudden fear.
Lex’s face was empty. “Results,” he said softly. “We expect results very soon. You hear? Soon.”
Constantine swallowed.
“The journey to this place is difficult and uncomfortable,” Lex purred. “I don’t want to come back.” His threat hung like a wisp of vapor in the air.
The monk was rubbing his shoulder, eyes fixed on the American threading his way through the desks and out the door.
Ibrahim Calls
Lisa woke up several times from fragmented images of impossibly high cliffs; oppressive darkness and suffocation; slithering of dry scales on stone.
Her nightshirt was damp and her feet tangled in the covers. She got up to open the window, but the heat outside was worse than her room, and she closed it again. Around two she padded on bare feet to the room where Steve was sleeping. She reached for the doorknob and stopped. Much as she wanted comfort, this was not the time. She needed all her faculties; she needed access to her talent, her curse.