When Burnell praised intelligence and inquiry above faith, Kadredin countered by remarking that Lazar Kaginovich was intelligent; to which he was reminded that Kaginovich also accounted himself a Christian. Growing more excited, for he saw where to develop a more crushing line of argument, Burnell said that philosophers and poets had long since agreed that it was impossible to believe that the great Spirit—whatever you called it—which created the universe could possibly have thought of coming down to Earth to have intercourse with some unknown woman in Palestine. That was just a primitive Creation myth, along with the tales of Adam and Eve, and the Devil with great wings. To believe such mumbo-jumbo disqualified one from logical thought.
Bowing his head, the priest sat in silence after this for such a long while that Khachi came over to see that he was well. At last Kadredin spoke in a low voice.
“Then I shall not argue with you more. You defeat me, sir. You have been sent by whatever power from your modern country to abuse me here and bring my sin of doubt to confront me. Well, I won’t blame you for arrogance. Instead, I blame myself for worthlessness. As you point out, the scriptures must be absolutely worthless also… All I and my people have believed in is illusion. It is best if I take Khachi’s gun and shoot myself—not in here, but outside among the goats…”
At this Burnell was greatly alarmed. He saw that he had trespassed, whether or not the priest was sincere in what he said. He begged him to cheer up, to see that they were just two men, friends already, having a discussion over supper, one warm evening in the country.
In any case, he added, by way of excusing himself, he had understood the priest to say that he had lost his faith, and so rather expected he felt the way he, Burnell, did.
Kadredin gave no answer. He rose, tall and thin, hair falling about his face, to stare for a time at the candle flame, now burning low. Then he marched over and took the Kalashnikov from Khachi. Burnell got hastily to his feet.
Kadredin smacked the gun. He declared that with such weapons Georgia had defended the Christian faith against heathen enemy over many centuries. Was such faith to be insulted during a so-called “discussion over supper?” He wished to say, without wanting to be offensive—that Burnell was an enemy of all the Orthodox Church stood for. How typically unfeeling of the West to send such a man, who had blasphemed against the Mother of God, to inspect Ghvtismshobeli, the shrine of the Mother of God.
Lifting his cup, but not drinking from it, Burnell explained humbly that it must have been the wine which spoke. He apologized if he had given offense. He begged Kadredin to sit down and continue with the meal, and he promised to say nothing more on the subject.
With reluctance, Kadredin approached the table, while Burnell politely stood for him. He caught sight of his own face, pale, reflected in the glass of the window. Isn’t this typical of you?, he thought; you must always have been like this; no wonder Steff left you.
As Kadredin sat down, he remarked in a sulky voice that it was evident Burnell had not had parents to show him what he referred to as the Way. He had been fortunate in that his dear father had been exceptionally devout.
“Ah ha!” said Burnell.
And before he could stop himself, he had launched into the argument that religion was similar to a virus.
“A virus, Father Kadredin. Which children can catch from their parents. Some people grow out of it when they’re adult. They cure themselves—the body throws it off, as it throws off measles. But the religious virus is pretty contagious, and occasionally sweeps through a country like an illness. Like influenza, it mutates, causing worship of one god here, another god there. The sufferers are all equally fervent. The brain is affected, as a computer can be ruined by a virus invading its program.
“In extreme fevers—and there are records of many such in history—nothing will convince you you are unwell. You go forth and kill all those who are not of your faith. Crusades, pogroms, inquisitions, fatwas… In this way, the virus ensures its survival, and propagates.
“Of course, the virus has lived so long with humanity it’s now something of a symbiote: how else would the Jews have survived innumerable persecutions without strong infectious beliefs?
“Religion is similar to a psychotic condition. Maybe this terrible virus is carried in the genes, which harbor other destructive viruses. The chief symptom of this virus in those who contract it is that they believe they are in touch with God—often in some kind of intimate relationship with him. Why else were lunatics in earlier times believed by the devout to be touched by God?” He had a certain shame-faced pride in this speech.
Lavash in hand, Kadredin rose from his chair.
“Sir, I can’t listen more to you. I feel compassion for you and for your incomprehension. You speak in a language of science which I do not understand. I know science presumes to explain away all the secrets of the universe. But the love of God cannot be explained away, any more than sunlight can be explained.”
Burnell raised a fist. “Sunlight can be explained! Science explains it.”
“You are so confident. Perhaps you too suffer from a virus? Science may explain the physical properties of sunlight. No one can explain the miracle of it. The beauty of it.”
With that, he pulled open the frail door of the house and went into the darkness.
All this time, Khachi had been eating with his mouth open, stuffing food into it intently, looking from one man to the other and saying nothing. “Oh God, I’ve been drinking too much wine,” Burnell said to him. “Why didn’t the idiot remind me that self-discipline is one useful effect of religion?”
He couldn’t endure the gustatory silences of the gunman. Sitting at the table, arms folded against its rough wood, Burnell remained staring into the candle flame. He wondered what he was thinking about. If God bothered to look down into his thoughts, He would see his mind blowing from side to side, flickering, no more capable of illuminating a room than could the candle.
Still the priest did not return. Staggering, Burnell got up, went to the door, pulled it open, and propelled himself into the darkness.
Some distance away moonlight was sketching in pasturage and clumps of trees. They registered as his eyes adjusted. The Moon in the sky was hidden from view by mountain, and did not shine on the old woman’s house. Scabrous clouds piled overhead, still as glaciers, rendering the world in pencil-sketch form. Kadredin was standing a short distance from the house, thin, upright, one arm out horizontally to steady himself against a tree. He was looking away from the house. Burnell went over to him. He cleared his throat like a butler to announce his presence.
“Father, I wish to apologize for what I said just now. The wine’s rather strong. Got the better of what I like to call my judgment…”
Kadredin did not respond.
“I’m too fond of argument. Sometimes I say things…well, we all do… I don’t mean… You understand what I’m saying? I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” Kadredin spoke without looking round, still gazing to where the land was laden with silver. “I profess faith in God. But that faith has gone from my heart. You sensed that?”
“Please don’t be offended. I’m a real shit. I was in a brothel last night in Bogdanakhi, screwing a prostitute. I’m sinful, I’m a sinner…” Yet even as he spoke, he was accounting himself insincere, and remembering how much he had enjoyed the lady. He could not tell where his sincerity or his cameras had gone. Changing gear with an effort, he continued, “I didn’t intend to be insulting. Only clever. So I made a fool of myself.”
“Sir, you became clever because you perceive me for a fool.
Men in general find my presence hard to tolerate. The Lord too, doubtless…”
“No, don’t say that! Perhaps you are wiser than I. I’m a hollow man, Father. I’m in awful trouble. Ten years of my memory have been stolen. My wife’s left me. I’m no one. Really, I’d be enormously glad of that love of God you talk about.”
Then Kadredin turned. He put a hand
for a moment on Burnell’s shoulder, saying in a deep voice, “Let’s sleep now. We shall make an early start in the morning.”
“Shit,” Burnell said to himself as they went back into the house and the aroma of goat. “He’s no fool. My penitence is utterly insincere and he sussed that. Why can’t I find the truth in myself? I sincerely meant to be sincere…”
He laughed. He felt slightly sick. The night air was chilly.
As usual the dreams were bad. The one about divine justice, with God furious and driving a jeep, almost cracked Burnell’s skull open. When he thought he was waking, he thought he opened his eyes. There was the Devil, his face close to Burnell’s. The sardonic lips, the beard, the caprine slitted eyes, the horns—oh, yes, it was the Devil right enough, much easier to recognize than God. And about to take a bite out of Burnell’s flimsy blanket.
He sat up and shooed the goat away. Mists cleared from his mind. This was Hypothermia House. He rose shivering.
From the rear of the house—it was just a shack, he realized—came the sound of coughing. Moderately attracted by it, creaking at every step he took, he went through to the back room. It served as lounge, kitchen, stable, chapel, bathroom, and, presumably, abattoir. The goats were there. Kadredin stood at the back door. It was he who was coughing into the dawn air. Khachi was wandering aimlessly about outside.
“There’s some coffee,” the priest said. He looked pale and strained. “Then we’ll be on our way.”
“Any breakfast?”
“You ate it for supper last night.”
As they shouldered up their packs and left, Burnell asked where the old “Babo” was. Kadredin said she was already in the woods, gathering sticks and pheasant eggs. He had paid for their night’s stay. He named the sum. Burnell was astounded at its modesty.
“She doesn’t understand inflation. She lives in the past,” said Kadredin, between coughs.
“Shouldn’t we have given the poor old girl more than that?”
“We have a duty not to spoil things for other travelers who may come here.” As he spoke, he regarded Burnell with his bulging eyes and an absolutely straight face.
Throughout the day they walked. Khachi was always some way ahead of them, looking alert. The silence of the countryside had a calming effect on Burnell’s nerves. At midday, they rested under a tree from the heat of the sun. Kadredin produced bread and salami and a bottle of flat Borzhomi.
The priest had been moody all morning. Finally he spoke in his leisurely French.
“Would you explain to me again this blasphemous thing you said about the virus of religion contracted in childhood? I wish to understand your theory.”
Burnell went through his argument again. In the end the priest said, “What you say might apply to another form of belief—ideology. For most of the twentieth century, most of mankind was sick with one ideology or another. Maybe God has left this world…”
Khachi came and told them to get on their feet again. Ghvtismshobeli was no more than a stroll away. The approach might be dangerous. They should keep their silly traps shut.
Burnell nodded in agreement. “From the mouths of babes and gunmen…”
10
“Time Had Run Out”
In Burnell’s mind was a clear picture of Ghvtismshobeli, the Church of the Mother of God. In the WACH offices he had studied plans and old sepia photographs. He knew it for a monastic church, founded in the mid-sixteenth century by the strangely named King Zrze, and never completed.
He was unprepared, nevertheless, for their first sight of it. A brilliant scarlet in the western sky was flooding the cliffs about them with outrageous light. The going had become harder. They emerged through a thicket of stunted oaks on to a clearly defined path, where the priest and Burnell rested while Khachi reconnoitered ahead. There, partly visible, were the roofs of Ghvtismshobeli.
“ ‘Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came’…” It was no time for quoting Browning, if there ever was one. Khachi returned to say in a whisper—Kadredin translated it into French—that the place was occupied. The occupants might well be dangerous.
This was bad news.
They moved forward cautiously. King Zrze had granted the church many hectares of land. The Communists had curtailed the land to a mere two hectares; the rest of the old church lands, cultivated for centuries by Christian and Muslim, had become wilderness.
Encircling the church and dormitory were walls of Communist razor wire to keep out intruders. It was for this reason that Jim Irving had given Burnell the wire cutters, but they were not needed. A heavy vehicle, possibly a bulldozer, had been driven up and flattened the wire into the earth.
Here the approach was steep where a cliff had crumbled, taking stone steps with it in its fall. Inside the fenced-off area, a small house had stood. Shellfire had broken it open. As though in a wild token of self-destruction, the house had spewed out its miscellaneous contents to the elements.
The ruin spoke of lawlessness. The house had been built in part of breeze blocks. Perhaps a caretaker had lived here with his family, in the bygone days of Soviet power. Furniture spilled into brambles and rank grass from gaping mouths of rooms. Smashed beds, mattresses, a mirror, clothing, the entire clutter of domesticity, lay exposed to rot. Burnell wondered dully if there were corpses among the fallen rubbish. It was a gruesome introduction to Ghvtismshob eli.
As they negotiated this dismal site, music came to their ears. Wild and ragged, the sounds originated in another building, a corner of which came into view. The building stood foursquare between them and the church. It was a dormitory, intended for monks and holy men, pilgrims, and others, all of whom no longer existed. A cautious reconnaissance revealed figures on the upper colonnaded balcony which ran the length of the building. One man appeared to be armed.
Khachi signaled to Kadredin and Burnell to keep down. He crawled forward, clutching his gun. No sooner had he disappeared than shots rang out. Flocks of starlings, passing overhead through the dulling sky to roost, scattered with cries of alarm. Kadredin looked at Burnell with horror on his face. Burnell bit his lip and moved up to see what was happening. If the boy had been killed…
Khachi lay behind a bush. Without looking back, he gave the signal to lie flat. As he did so, more birds flew overhead. More shots rang out.
The lad and the two men scrambled back into better cover and consulted in whispers. The dormitory-dwellers were probably shooting at birds. Such random firing suggested a rough lot. Only four men, according to Khachi; of course, more might be in the building. Both Kadredin and his gunman were against Burnell’s idea of simply appearing and hoping to be allowed to go to the church unmolested. At best, they would be beaten up and robbed.
While they were in this state of indecision, dusk came on and an almost full moon gained strength in the sky. They had retreated to the shattered house for better security. Burnell caught a movement and looked round hastily. It was only a reflection of Kadredin he had seen, caught in a cheval glass lying amid the debris.
That the mirror remained unclaimed, even though it was cracked, convinced him that they had met with ruffians. The ruffians had no women with them, who might have moderated their behavior. Women would undoubtedly have claimed the mirror.
“Will these people be superstitious, do you think?” he asked Kadredin.
“Staying so near an empty church with its tombs? If they’re ignorant men, they will be nervous.”
So it was that, a few minutes later, a spectral figure could be seen in the thick dusk. It paraded slowly in front of the dormitory, moving toward the church. This awesome figure was enveloped in white, in a sheet which also served as head-cover. In its arms it carried a babe in swaddling clothes—or at least a bundle closely resembling a babe in swaddling clothes.
The figure glowed with a ghostly aura, rendering it at once clear to the view and indistinct in detail.
When the specter came into full view of the dormitory balcony, a cry went up from that quarter. Then sh
outs of alarm. “The Mother of God! Preserve us! The Mother of God herself has arrived! See the infant Jesus in her arms! This dump is haunted!”
Burnell crouched behind a bush, directing the beams of the moon on Kadredin by means of the cheval glass. He listened with grim delight as the noise of alarm, from the dormitory increased. He turned the mirror away: the Mother of God faded from view. Kadredin immediately ran back for cover, dragging the torn old sheet from his shoulders. He threw the filthy pillow he had cradled back into the destroyed house.
“You were very convincing,” Burnell whispered. By way of congratulation, he and the lad patted the priest. The latter mutely shook his head.
For simple minds, simple ruses. Of the success of this one they were soon aware. The stamp of boots, the noise of fighting, came from the dormitory. A pistol shot sounded. Screaming, shouting, then comparative quiet.
Minutes later, six men emerged, rushing into the courtyard. With all the haste they could muster, they harnessed up an old nag to a farm cart and set off, bumping down the trail by which the bulldozer had once entered the church grounds. They could be seen dimly in the moonlight, zigzagging downhill, shouting at each other to keep quiet.
Burnell, the priest, and the lad stayed where they were, crouched in concealment until dew and the evening chill got to them. The dormitory was approached with caution. A door stood open, from beyond which came a flickering light. Keen to show he was no coward, Burnell entered first. After a hall came a refectory. Refectory, kitchens—now in ruins—and a washroom occupied all the ground floor. The ruffians had started a fire in the refectory grate, burning logs dragged in from the woods.
Khachi went and stood by the fire, grinning and warming his hands. He seemed to want nothing more. He remained by the fire while Burnell and the priest searched the cubicles upstairs almost lightheartedly. Most of the cubicles were littered with excrement and little else. On the balcony, where the ruffians had recently lounged, lay shells of cartridges, bottles, and a scatter of rubbish. A tin mug of coffee was still warm.
Somewhere East of Life Page 15