Azazeel

by Ziedan, Youssef

  Everyone fell silent and no one looked at anyone else. I glanced around at them all, amazed at the effect of the strange monk’s words and how they fell silent after he spoke. He definitely had some status among them, or he would not have spoken so forcefully or disconcerted everyone in this way, although his appearance did not suggest he was at all important. I realized at that moment that in this world the Lord has men who have profound knowledge of the secrets of love, men whose worth is known only to the elect. This monk, it seemed to me, was one of those with a deep knowledge of love. He was very much like St Chariton, whom I saw in the cave near the Dead Sea. Both of them were elderly, with oriental beards and gaunt frames. Both of them trembled when they spoke, and people trembled when they heard them speak. Was this mysterious monk a brother to St Chariton, or were they perhaps the same person, appearing in different places in different guises, so that these saints could be a sign to people, bearing witness to the Lord’s miracles on earth? That is what ran through my mind at the time, along with strange spiritual ideas which I no longer experience in the same way as I did in that faraway time.

  Suddenly Nestorius the priest stood up, brushing down his gown with both hands as though he were brushing off the silence which had reigned at the meeting. He told Bishop Theodore that we would leave him to rest, that he was taking his leave to go with me to my room to discuss certain matters, and that he would be back shortly after sunset. That was the end of the meeting at which I saw Bishop Theodore for the last time.

  On our way to my room I could not resist asking Nestorius about the taciturn monk who shouted out and whose words had brought an end to the meeting. He told me he was one of the best-known ascetics in the oldest monastery in the land of Cappadocia, which provided Christianity with the three most famous fathers of the Church, known as the Cappadocian Fathers. This taciturn monk, he added, was known for his life of abstinence and asceticism and people told stories of his marvels and miracles, which he insisted on denying. He said the monk was known for staying silent for long periods and rarely speaking, and churchmen greatly revered him. Bishop Theodore considered him one of his spiritual mentors, because at more than eighty years of age he was many years older than the bishop.

  ‘He looks like Chariton the monk,’ I said.

  ‘How would you know, Hypa? Have you seen St Chariton?’

  ‘Yes, father, I visited him in his cave some years ago.’

  Nestorius wanted to know more about my meeting with Chariton the monk, and I wanted to know more about what the taciturn Cappadocian monk had said, so that day we had much to talk about. We sat together for many hours, our conversation interrupted only by the arrival of a poor man seeking medicine for a severe pain he had in his intestines after eating some rotten food. The only treatment for the man was the general-purpose theriac known as methroditos and I had some of it in my room. I gave it to him and declined any fee with my constant phrase: ‘If you want, you can put something in the gift box in the church.’ The man went off, and I went back to my conversation with Nestorius, who was pleased to see me treat the sick for charity. ‘All that is stored up for you with the Lord, blessed Hypa,’ he said.

  ‘Father,’ I said. ‘I learnt medicine without paying, so how could I charge anything now? As our Saviour Jesus told the disciples, “Freely you have received, freely give.”’

  We went back to our agreeable conversation and I told Nestorius the rest of the story of my wanderings, what I witnessed around the Dead Sea, and how I met Chariton the monk after sleeping in front of his cave three days running, waiting for him to come out and reluctant to walk in on him and disturb his retreat. Every week a group of visitors would come to Chariton’s cell and leave a basket outside, filled with pieces of bread, chunks of dry cheese and a jar of water which would not last an ordinary human more than two days. But he made do with all that till the end of the week. It was the villagers who showed me the cave, and advised me not to go in unless he called me. After two nights of vigil at the mouth of the cave I began to doubt that he was inside it. It occurred to me that maybe he had died years ago and no one had noticed, and the food they left him was taken by wild dogs. But when I fell asleep one day around noon I saw Chariton telling me in a dream that the time had not yet come, and that he would ask for me when the time came. After the third night, my bag had run out of food and I had nothing left but books, scrolls and inks. I was completely resigned as I awaited the signal, not impatient for it and never thinking of leaving the entrance to the cave. That day at noon I heard him calling in a deep and echoing voice from far down inside his retreat. ‘If there’s anyone out there, come in,’ he said.

  When I went in, his appearance appalled me. Little was visible but his eyes shining with sainthood, in a face surrounded by tangled hair, above an emaciated body covered in faded black rags. The cave was in the form of a cellar, with many cracks in the walls. The floor was cold and damp, and when I entered it was a relief from the blasts of hot air that had scorched me throughout the three days I had spent alone under the sun, which shines fiercely in these arid regions. I went gently into his retreat, which was full of light and solemnity. He spoke first. ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘Father, I’ve been alone at your door for days, waiting to see you and receive your blessings, and ask you about things.’

  ‘What makes you think I have the answer?’

  ‘That’s what I imagine and hope, father, because my questions torment me.’

  ‘Sit down.’

  I sat in front of him politely and talked to him of the doubts which beset me and had led me to investigate the origins of Christianity. I told him of my journey to the Dead Sea caves in the hope of finding answers from the Essenes, and how I found no life in their caves, for all mention of them had ceased, as though they were a fleeting memory. I spoke at length of my horror at the rivers of violence which had swept the land of God and my alarm at the terrible killing which was happening in the name of Christ. I told him candidly of my need for certainty and how I lacked it.

  Chariton the monk did not speak until I finished. Then his emaciated body shook and the bones of his chest and shoulders protruded as he spoke to me, saying, ‘Certainty comes only through quelling doubts, and doubts are quelled only by putting your trust in the Lord, and that comes about only by recognizing the miracles of His creation, and acknowledging that His miracles come only by affirming the incarnation of God and His manifestation in Christ.’ Then he advised me to go on pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and he emphasized that I should not enter the city immediately but should tour the surrounding area and visit the spots where the feet of Jesus the Messiah had trodden, then I should approach little by little the centre, which is the place of His resurrection, and I should not go there until I had received a signal from Jesus the Messiah.

  ‘And from there you came here, Hypa?’ Nestorius asked.

  ‘Yes, father, from there.’

  Nestorius leant back against the wall and stretched his legs along the bed. He paused for a moment of deep thought and his face showed signs that he had drifted off into a world of meditation. After a while he shut his eyes a little. Then he looked at me and said something which I memorized and recorded in my papers that evening. ‘Chariton is a holy man without a doubt,’ he said, ‘but his way is different from our way in Antioch. He abandons the world in order to find rest, he probes deep into his own soul in order to save it, and he renounces things only to have them pursue him. But our way, Hypa, is different: we believe with our hearts and affirm the miracles of God, then we harness our reason to help mankind go forward to where God wishes. We believe that miracles are only miracles when they happen rarely. Otherwise, if they happen too often, they no longer count as miracles. The Lord took bodily form once in Jesus Christ to show the path for mankind ever after, and so we do not need to relive the miracle itself but rather to live by the path he showed us, or else the miracle would lose its meaning. Chariton the monk gave your heart relief by clearing your mind o
f whatever was troubling you. He hoped to dispel the worries of the mind and make the heart illuminate the path to discernment. Because the heart, Hypa, has the light of faith but not the ability to investigate, understand or resolve contradictions.’

  Nestorius pointed to the window of my room, towards the dome of the church of St Helena. ‘Look with your heart at the magnificence of this church and your heart will be full of faith,’ he said. ‘Then think about the fact that the saint who built it, Helena, the mother of Emperor Constantine, began life as a barmaid in the brothels of Edessa. How can we understand that transformation in the life of the emperor and his mother, other than by analogy with the miracle of Jesus Christ? And miracles, Hypa, rarely happen. We believe they rarely happen, and then we put reason and analogy to work on the phenomena, until we understand them and resolve their contradictions. That is the case with other things too: we believe, then we use our intellect and our faith is affirmed. This is our way.’

  ‘Some contradictions will remain that the intellect cannot resolve,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe your intellect, but after you someone will come who can do it,’ said Nestorius.

  ‘Or the contradictions will collapse spontaneously and will be forgotten, and people will not bother with them.’

  ‘True, Hypa, there are many examples of that.’

  I felt that the time was right to ask him about the outburst by the Cappadocian monk, whose words had silenced everyone, but I was a little hesitant for fear of annoying him. It seems that with his sharp insight he noticed my hesitation. He looked at me with a smiling eye and a cheerful face and, as he poured himself a cup from the pot of warm mint, he asked me what I was hiding and why I was hesitant. ‘You can read my mind and heart, father,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you frankly that I was most interested in what the Cappadocian monk said. He made me think about the contradictions between Christianity based on sacrifice and love, and those acts committed in Christ’s name in Alexandria.’

  ‘Hypa, what’s happening in Alexandria has nothing to do with religion,’ said Nestorius. ‘The first blood shed in that city, after the period of pagan persecution of Christians, was Christian blood shed by Christians. Fifty years ago the Alexandrians killed the bishop of their city, Bishop Georgios, because he agreed with some of the opinions of Arius the Alexandrian. Killing people in the name of religion does not make it religious. It was this earthly world that Theophilus inherited and later bequeathed to his nephew Cyril. Don’t confuse matters, my son, for those are people of power, not people of faith, people of profane cruelty, not of divine love.’

  ‘In the church in Alexandria, father, I saw one of the monks who killed Bishop Georgios the Cappadocian.’

  Nestorius was surprised at what I said, then he surprised me with his words, because they reminded me of what I had always believed. ‘What you saw there was not a monk,’ he said sadly. ‘Monks do not kill. They walk lightly on earth, following in the footsteps of the apostles, the saints and the martyrs.’

  SCROLL TWELVE

  Moving to the Monastery

  My days in Jerusalem varied little until Nestorius came with the pilgrims that year, but after his arrival my time became pleasant and agreeable and I no longer felt like a stranger there. We used to meet mostly in the church, or in my room or at their residence. I always cheered up when he came and my worries abated till I almost forgot them, and they left me alone. But after twenty days were past he told me they were preparing to go back home, now they were sure that the roads to Antioch and Mopsuestia were safe. I was anxious all night and on the day of their departure I woke up early and was at their residence with the first rays of the sun. The square was full of pack animals and the delegation was absorbed in preparing for the journey. Everyone was busy with departure and I worried about how desolate my life would be after they were gone.

  From afar Nestorius saw me as he moved among the group briskly and enthusiastically, saying one thing to one person and giving an order to someone else. Everyone obeyed him, and he had great prestige among them. He saw me and approached with a smile. He took me aside at the wall of the big guesthouse, but kept an eye on the people preparing to depart. Then he turned to me and said, ‘Why don’t you come to Antioch with us? Or join us with the next caravan that comes?’

  ‘Antioch, father, is a big noisy city and I can no longer live in such places. My only remaining aim is to spend the rest of my days in peace.’

  ‘What are you talking about? You’re only thirty years old!’

  ‘Is it thirty? It feels like three hundred,’ I replied.

  Nestorius laughed at my remark and his face beamed all the more. Inquisitively he asked me if I intended to live out my life as a hermit, or as a practising physician. He added in jest, ‘Or you could become a priest in our country. If one day you want to give up the monastic life, I’ll find you a good Christian wife who will beget a tribe of Egyptians for you in our country.’

  ‘Sir, I tell you I want to live in peace, and then you suggest marriage!’

  Nestorius laughed, showing his even white teeth. He adjusted his cap and asked me if I was content to live in Jerusalem. I showed him the palms of my hand as if to say I had no other option. He said that if I wanted to live in peace I should think of living in a monastery. He added politely, ‘I won’t describe to you how peaceful life is in a monastery, because you Egyptians invented monasticism and monasteries, reviving the traditions you had followed since ancient times.’

  Nestorius told me that day that in a green area north of Aleppo there was a monastery affiliated to their church in Antioch and that it was one of the quietest and most beautiful places on earth. He asked me if I would like to settle there and without thinking I said, ‘Yes, father, I would like that. I’m tired of living here and nothing will console me in Jerusalem when you’re gone.’

  Nestorius asked for a pen and some ink, put his hand in his pocket and took out a small piece of washed leather parchment inscribed on both sides, and told me it was a letter to the abbot and that he would give me a warm welcome. He described the site of the monastery to me and told me about the fine climate and how close it was to Antioch, that in fact it was just one day’s walk and that I could visit them at the cathedral whenever I wanted. He said he might drop in on me on his travels between the many towns and monasteries in those parts. ‘The monastery is more relaxed and safer than Jerusalem, which is surrounded by wilderness on all sides and is far from the capital of the empire,’ he said. He paused to think a moment and then continued, ‘Soon I might move to Constantinople because the bishop there is ill and they are talking to me about taking on the bishopric after him. As you know, the bishopric of the capital is no less important than the papal see in Rome, and my presence there might be of benefit to Christians.’

  ‘God willing it will be of benefit, father, and fortunate.’

  ‘Let God do with us what he wishes. And now, Hypa, I bid you farewell in the hope that we will meet again, and do not delay in moving to the monastery.’

  The caravan moved on, bringing to the surface my underlying anxieties. I walked behind them until they left Jerusalem through the southern gate, which they call the Zion Gate. Then they veered westwards to head to Antioch along the coast road which skirts the great sea. When the caravan disappeared from sight, I had a powerful sense of loneliness and estrangement. I hurried back to my room with a determination to leave for the northern monastery as soon as possible.

  I spent two weeks organizing my departure and a third week waiting for the trade caravan which passes close to Aleppo. I thought that travelling with them would be less strenuous than all my previous travels. Most of the merchants in the caravan were Arabs who speak a language the intricacies of which were unfamiliar to me and which I had no intention of learning. Although the language is similar to Syriac, it has no written literature which would encourage me to learn it, and its speakers are people without any special religion. They include Jews, Christians and pagans and in the barren heart
of their peninsula they have shrines for idols, and they walk naked in circles around those shrines. They are said to be the descendants of Ishmael and are mentioned in the Torah, but I do not believe that. Those who are Christians have a bishopric in the deserts of the peninsula, which is known as Arabia. They are traders, cunning and warlike.

  As I expected, my journey with the caravan was comfortable. On the way we passed by a large town called Damascus, surrounded by orchards and overlooked by a tall mountain. Beyond it the land flattens out and a plain extends northwards as far as Aleppo and the villages around it. After two weeks we reached Aleppo at sunset one day, and I could make out the features of the town only on the morning of the next day. It is a pleasant city inhabited by many Arabs, Syrians and Greeks, as well as some families from Palmyra who took refuge there a century and a half ago when Palmyra was destroyed and abandoned. So it is a city of an Arab character, with Arab inhabitants.

  The strange thing about Aleppo is that it does not have a city wall. The houses are scattered around low hills and in the middle stands one enormous hill. On top of that stand the remains of an old castle with ruined gates, though the remaining walls are still high. From the antiquity of the town it seems it was of some importance in previous centuries and then its importance gradually diminished and merchants moved in. I spent the night in the guesthouse attached to the parish of Aleppo and early in the morning a servant who worked in the parish travelled with me to the monastery. He was taking some provisions to deliver to the monks living in the small monasteries dispersed along the roads between Aleppo and Antioch. That’s what the servant told me when he saw my surprise at the many things loaded on to the two donkeys that were with him. My many books, which had come from Jerusalem to Aleppo on a camel, now travelled the rest of the way on the backs of two wretched mules.