Genius Loci

by Edited by Jaym Gates

  The entire population of the monks clustered at three long tables in a room designed to hold five times our number. Although we were not a silent order, there was little talking at meals, the sound of flatware and clay plates punctuated by the occasional voice asking for the bread to be passed. Nevertheless, after the hours I had spent in khaghagh, the clamor of the meal was deafening and it took all my resolve not to flee the room. By the time I finished eating, I had adjusted to the normal monastic sounds.

  The next day, I again retreated to the khaghagh following lunch.

  At one time, the room had windows to the outside, but over the course of centuries, they had been bricked and plastered over. No amount of touch up work, however, could make the room appear to be the same style as the rest of the monastery, even as the architecture of G'ndevank reflected different styles, they fit together in a way that the khaghagh did not. The room had an ancientness to it. Elsewhere, the weight of all those years might have been oppressive, but in the khaghagh, it somehow added to the sense of peacefulness, an almost oneness with the universe.

  I began spending as much of my time as Brother Dadour would allow in the khaghagh. Both he and Father Mesrop warned me that the tranquility could prove addictive, and I understood their concerns when I was not in the retreat. When I was inside the retreat, I didn’t care, for time, apprehension, doubt, all disappeared.

  I didn’t abandon my monastic duties, but they began to be less important to me than the serenity which I felt when I prayed to Him in the khaghagh. I could lose myself in contemplation, only to be brought back to the earthly world when Brother Dadour began knocking, sometimes pounding, on the door. The khaghagh was, in every conceivable way, my sanctuary.

  During the Holy Season culminating in Easter, I spent less time than I would have liked in contemplation in the khaghagh. My monastic and religious duties required me to be with my fellow monks. When I was among them, I found myself battling a surliness I had never felt before, an unsociability that I never felt when I was in the khaghagh. I confessed to Father Mesrop, who gave me penance and a caution. “There is much good to gain from the khaghagh and I know you are strong enough, but you must not lose yourself.” I did my penance and I focused on his words, but by July, I was again praying as often as I could in the khaghagh.

  As I prayed, the true form of the khaghagh revealed itself to me. Wooden walls beneath the stone and plaster. There was a hole in the roof to let in the warmth and light of the sun and fresh air. In the center of the dirt floor was an ancient well that I somehow knew had gone bad and been sealed up a millennium ago, shortly after the consecration of St. Stepan’s by Princess Sofia.

  Rather than being alarmed by the change in the khaghagh’s aspect, I was comforted in a warm, womblike protection. For twenty years, I had lived in the monastery at Gndevaz, but for the first time, I realized it really was my home. It wasn’t a question of being part of the community of monastic brethren, but rather being accepted by the holiness of the edifice itself. The prayers in the chapel, the toil in the fields, the monastic rule, they were all a part of the monastery, but they weren’t the monastery itself.

  I have heard that extended periods of solitude can cause a person to have visions and hear voices, but I do not think I imagined the gentle, feminine voice that spoke to me in an archaic Armenian, so old that it made the Church liturgy seem like the latest slang spoken on the streets of Yerevan.

  I had thought that the peaceful atmosphere of the khaghagh came from the Lord of Peace, for the monastery has done His work for a millennium and Armenia has been in His hands for twenty centuries, but the khaghagh was holy long before the Blessed Thaddeus and the Blessed Bartholemew brought the Good News to the Armenians.

  The voice told me of the legends of Astghig, wife of Vahagn, early Armenian heroes who were viewed as gods by the Armenians before the Word was brought to them. While Vahagn was a great warrior who slew dragons, Astghig was the source of life, the bringer of water, the civilizing influence on a race of hunters and warriors. I heard of her love for Vahagn and how she rushed to his aid in his fight against evil, shedding blood as she raced barefoot through the roses. How she sprinkled rose water over the land to bring love and harmony throughout Armenia. The voice spoke of how Astghig brings the morning dew and mist to create a peaceful, calm beginning for each day.

  The well in the khaghagh was dedicated to Astghig and her spirit remains in its waters, even as they lay stagnant through the millennia, the unmoving waters reflective of the stillness of the room above them. Far from the khaghagh being dedicated to Christ’s love, it remained under Astghig’s protection, a sanctuary beyond strife.

  By its very nature, though, this holy place, dedicated to the ancient Armenian Goddess of Peace, was united with His mission on Earth. To bring peace, love, and understanding to His creations.

  In the two thousand years since Christianity had come to Armenia, it had stamped out nearly all traces of the pagan beliefs that predated it. Aside from the khaghagh, which few outside G'ndevank were aware of, only the ancient temple of Garni still existed.

  Brother Dadour’s knock roused me from my vision and I found myself once again in the familiar khaghagh. I opened the door.

  “Please come with me,” was all he said. A sense of sadness hung heavily over him and I wanted to close the door and retreat into the solitude of the khaghagh. Instead, we walked through the halls of the monastery. I saw monks at work in the fields, their bodies dripping with water, and watched as Brother Onik upended a bucket over Brother Patvakan.

  “It is Vardavar?” I asked Brother Dadour. I realized I had lost all sense of time’s passage.

  “Yes, today is the Transfiguration of the Christ.” He hurried on. I knew that Vardavar was more than the Christian holiday we celebrated. It was the holiday in honor of Astghig, who would sprinkle the world with water, bringing roses to life and peace to those who were thus baptized.

  We arrived at the door to Father Mesrop’s office and Brother Dadour paused. “Today should be a joyful day, and it still is for most of the monastery.”

  When he opened the door, I saw Father Mesrop slumped over his desk. There was no thought that he might be merely sleeping. Brother Dadour’s demeanor and those of the other three monks in the room laid that possibility to rest.

  I rushed to Father Mesrop’s side and took his cold, flaccid, hand and began to recite the prayers for the dead.

  “Brother Hovhan found him.” Brother Dadour indicated one of the other monks in the room. “And now we must tell the rest of the brothers.”

  We left the Abbott’s office and moved to the chapel of St. Stepan, with Brother Dadour asking Brother Zavur to ring the bell to summon the monks from the fields. The extant and mountainous nature of G'ndevank’s property meant that it took close to half an hour for all the monks to filter into the church, some of them still drenched from the celebration of Vardavar or holding roses. Despite the nature of the holy day, the mood inside the chapel was somber as the monks waited for Brother Dadour to address them.

  Father Mesrop’s death was not entirely unexpected. Although none of us knew exactly when he was born, he had served as the head of the monastery since the 1930s, more than eighty years. Brother Dadour and I had once estimated his age as 105, but that was as much an article of faith as it was a mathematical certainty. He had been as much as part of the monastery as the cross hanging behind the altar or the khaghagh. More a part of the monastery than the khaghagh, for he was seen and known by all the brethren, not just the few.

  Brother Dadour’s announcement was greeted with a great wailing and cries of prayer. Pandemonium’s gates had broken loose in the chapel, and yet I felt the calm I so associated with the khaghagh even as I was in the midst of the maelstrom.

  Brother Dadour whispered to me, “Father Mesrop has left note of his desire for you to succeed him.” I felt a piece of paper being pressed into my hand.

  Father Mesrop’s scrawling hand
writing should have been difficult to read, but it wasn’t. “And if anyone is there who shares in peace, your peace will rest on that person; but if not it will return to you.” The khaghagh has seen that you promote peace and your serenity will fill this House. “For everything there is a season and for every matter under Heaven.” You have the strength within you to know what needs to be done and when, and when things need not be done. I have faith that you will protect this house.

  I walked out of the chapel and made my way down the hall. I passed the khaghagh, its closed door separating Astghig’s peace from the chaos reigning in the monastery in the wake of Brother Dadour’s proclamation. Father Mesrop’s profession of faith rang in my head as I walked past the khaghagh’s door and made my way to my own cell to pray for the guidance I would need to lead the community with the serenity I learned from Astghig’s calming waters and to keep the dangers of the world at bay, outside G’ndevank’s ancient walls.

  FOREST FOR THE TREES

  Steven S. Long

  Every forest has its guardian, and often those guardians extend their protections to humans who treat the forest with respect and care. In Roman mythology, Silvanus is the guardian of the woods and fields. Silvanus protects the woods, but he also protects the fields and orchards that bounded the woods that the cattle that grazed nearby. Anyone who dealt kindly with the forest could count on Silvanus to protect his or her crops and kine.

  In Germany, the forest is protected by the Waldgiest spirit. Like Silvanus, the Waldgeist has a reciprocal arrangement with travelers in their woods. The Waldgeist protects those who enter the forest with a pure heart, and people hang carvings of the Waldgeist over their doorways to obtain protection for their homes.

  Meilikki is the Goddess of the Hunt in Finland. Like Silvanus, she extends her protection to cattle and to hunters and gatherers. Meilikki is a healing goddess who heals animals and people alike. In Hinduism, Aranyani can be heard walking through the forest because she wears tinkling bells on her ankles. She feeds people and animals and is described in the Rig Veda as always wandering but never lonely.

  Some places have guardians that chase everyone away and that guard their locales with single-minded ferocity. But other places, like the forests of Finland, Rome, and India, reflect a gentler relationship. The forest can be a place of menace, but it can also be a source of sustenance and shelter, especially if tended properly through the centuries.

  ***

  Today’s the day. The thought made Dylan smile for the first time in… months? Years? He wasn’t sure how long. Now that Cutler had finished and filed the final changes to his will he didn’t have a good reason to wait any more.

  He yawned and stretched as luxuriously as nausea and pain allowed. He didn’t normally sleep in so late, but today of all days, why not? It wasn’t as if he had anywhere to go.

  He got up, moving slowly and carefully, the way he had to these days, and put on his clothes. Then he made his way into the bathroom to comb his hair and brush his teeth. He didn’t really need to—he’d look pretty disgusting by the time someone found him regardless—but somehow it offended him not to.

  After he finished his morning routine he opened the medicine cabinet and took out an amber plastic vial. Unlike the dozen other pill bottles in the cabinet, this one had no label. He twisted the cap off and dumped the contents into his left palm. He laid the pills out on the counter, one by one, in a straight line, evenly spaced.

  Twenty-four pills, each carefully bought at the price of six hours of agony. Once the cancer had become so advanced that he didn’t have any hope despite what the doctors kept telling him, he’d held back one painkiller here and there whenever he could tolerate it. He had no intention of withering away in slow torment like the people he saw at the clinic every week. His time was up, for all intents and purposes, so he might as well check out and see what awaited him on the other side.

  He didn’t know the best way to take them, though. Just swallow all of them with a cup of water? Grind them up and mix them with some food? The thought of eating made his nausea worse, so all at once it was.

  As he reached for the blue plastic cup he glanced out the window and saw the woods half a block away. The early spring leaves had come out. He left the cup on its holder and went over to the window for a better look.

  The woods. He’d had some sort of dream about them last night, but he couldn’t remember it. In the usual way of dreams, it lingered in his mind as a vague memory, growing ever more vague as the day went on. He used to struggle to remember his dreams, even keeping a notebook and pen by the bed so he could write them down when he woke up. These days he didn’t care.

  He hadn’t gone down to the woods in a long time—not since that kerfluffle with the Homeowners Association Board several years ago. But now, of all days, he felt the old call again, the one that had enticed him under the trees to play nearly every day when he was a kid.

  He looked back at the pills on the counter and shrugged. He could take them this afternoon. Why not indulge his fantasies now?

  #

  Even in his current condition it didn’t take long to walk to the edge of the woods. Clambering down the hillside through the trees to the forest floor was a little trickier; the last thing he wanted was to fall and break a leg. He stopped several times along the way to lean against a tree, catch his breath, let the pain die down. The hill hadn’t seemed nearly so steep when he was ten.

  At last he made it to the level ground near the creek, where the trees thinned out some. He stood there for a minute, just looking around, hearing the water rippling over the rocks, invigorated by the forest smell of loam and leaves. A flood of childhood memories accompanied the sensations: playing with his friends; fishing for minnows; watching birds and squirrels; bringing home feathers, odd-shaped stones, and other treasures only a boy could love. He used to keep them in a cigar box Dad had given him and look through them on rainy days sometimes. He’d thrown the whole collection out decades ago, too stupid as a twenty-something to recognize its value.

  Barb Phillips and the rest of the people on the Board were idiots! Selling this plot of land to a developer would have been a tragedy. He didn’t regret one penny of the money he’d spent to outbid that guy, though the stack of Past Due bills on the kitchen table back home argued that he’d made a bad decision. But what was done was done. Now that the Nature Preservation Trust owned this little patch of woods, no one would ever replace it with houses and lawns.

  As he looked at the creek he realized it was… wrong. Something was off about it somehow. He stared at it for a few minutes, and walked up and down one section of the bank, until it hit him: the meanders through the forest had changed shape over time, obeying the immutable laws of erosion and water flow. God I’m old. I’ve lived here so long I can measure my life by geological processes.

  “Hi,” said a young voice behind him.

  He turned around, slightly embarrassed that someone had found him wandering in the woods. Ten feet away stood a little girl in a green dress. Eight years old, maybe seven—or ten? He’d never spent much time around kids.

  “Hi,” he responded neutrally, looking all around. “Where’s your mother?” he asked, all too aware of the presumptions people made these days about men found in the presence of small children.

  “She’s around,” the girl said, stooping down to look at a bug. “She’s always around.”

  “Maybe we should go find her. You don’t want to get lost.”

  “I could never get lost here,” she said. “What’s your name?”

  “Dylan,” he said, smiling just a bit in spite of himself. “What’s yours?”

  “Sylvie.”

  “Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Sylvie. That’s a pretty name.”

  “Why are you down here? No one ever comes here but me.”

  “Just… reliving memories, I guess. I used to play in these woods every day when I was your age.”

  “For
real?” she said, skepticism that he’d ever been that young plain on her face. Part of him shared the sentiment.

  “It’s true! I know a place where there’s a pirate ship, a castle, a race car, and a space cruiser.”

  “No way!” she said, looking all around for them.

  “Want me to show you?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Come on, it’s this way,” he said, gesturing east down the flow of the creek. It wasn’t as easy a walk as it used to be; he had to make a few awkward hops from bank to bank or bank to rocky shoal to avoid patches of poison ivy or fallen branches. Sylvie practically skipped along, skirting the obstacles almost as if they didn’t exist.

  They rounded a bend in the creek and came to one of the long, straight parts of the stream. “See? There they are.”

  “Where?”

  “Right there,” he said, pointing.

  “That’s a log,” Sylvie said, leaving the you silly grown-up part of the sentence unspoken.

  “Don’t look at it that way—look with your imagination,” he said, squatting down so he could talk to her more easily. “Close your eyes and dream. It’s not just a big log that crosses the creek like a bridge. It’s the deck of good Captain… Morgan’s pirate ship. He’s going to fight the wicked Captain Crook. Draw your cutlass and prepare for battle!” Sylvie leaped into action, drawing a pretend sword. “En garde!” she said, giggling.

  “Or maybe it’s a castle. From the tallest tower the Princess Sylvie looks out at a fearsome army of trolls preparing to attack. You have to defend your people and save the kingdom!” Grinning, Sylvie shifted stance and mimicked drawing a bow and aiming.

  “Sssss—thunk! You got one of the biggest trolls with that shot!”

  ‘Yay!” she said, dancing around.

  “See what I mean? With your imagination and that log, you can go anywhere and do anything.”