The uproar of the waves was dying down. We passed one last reef, not without difficulty, and I caught sight of an inlet. The tall façade of an astonishing monastery stood right at the edge of the shingle. Its damp-ravaged walls, pierced with little windows and arrow-slits, reared up in the shadow of the cliffs, facing the sea. It seemed very old, exposed to storms all its life. At that time of the morning the sun lit up only its grey stone roofs. A little jetty stuck out into the sea. The old man called, as he had done before, near the island in the Bay of Bulls. He slowed the engine, passed very close to the silent monastery, then continued his journey on the foaming sea.
Cliffs, sad and black and out of the sun, loomed over us like a gigantic wall. Totally virgin jungle covered the lower slopes of the Holy Mountain. No axe had ever rung out in these woods which, in narrow gorges, came right down to the waves, their flowers and leaves exposed to the spray.
No footprints on the beaches where a thousand storms had hurled piles of pebbles, witnessed by no one. The birds and insects sang fervently in this high jungle. We were so close to it that it almost entirely blocked out the blue sky.
Suddenly I saw the first inhabitant of this land of the dead, a lone man standing on a rock, dressed in a monk’s habit gathered in at the waist by a leather belt. His long grey hair was tied in a chignon at the nape of the neck, and he had a white beard. Ageless, a basket in his hands, he waited for our boat. He watched us. Without moving a muscle, the folds of his black robe blowing in the wind, he saw us try, and fail—because of the waves’ continual movement—to hold our position close to the rock for a moment. We threw him the boxes, a sack of bread and a can of oil, which he gathered together in front of him, taking care to step back every time foam sprayed up.
Using the engine, rolling from side to side, we headed out to sea again. A hundred metres above the shore, in the thickest part of the vegetation, I thought I spotted the wooden balcony and plank roof of a hermitage, from which came a thin trail of smoke, like incense offered just to the glory of the birds, the trees and the sky.
Without slackening our speed we passed several monasteries built on the rocks. The coast was still very steep. We went round another headland; the old man turned the helm towards land.
With the engine on slow we entered a bay, and headed for some beautiful meadows where there was a very old monastery with thick fortified walls, wooden balconies and stone roofs. For a few moments I glimpsed the bright peak of the Holy Mountain, then it disappeared again behind the hills. Gutting the engine, floating on clear blue water, silently we came alongside a small jetty. A bird was singing in the forest.
On the shore stood a square tower, along with several other buildings that also had wooden balconies and stone roofs, beyond which I saw old kitchen gardens. A long ramp made of flagstones that had been forced apart over the years rose towards the monastery. Everything looked completely dilapidated, abandoned, known only to the birds and the waves. The tide gently wet the shingle, and a hot sun shone over the meadows.
“Iviron,” the old man told me, making it clear that I had to get off.
He leapt onto the jetty and tied the mooring rope to a rusty old ring; he grabbed my bag, and held out his hand to help me to my feet. Then, getting back on board, he slipped the mooring and left me alone on the Holy Mountain, on the first morning of my death.
I was getting used to my new state. I did not know who I was. Apart from that I felt very much alive. The total loss of memory of my past, far from bothering me, gave me a feeling of unconstrained high spirits, lightness, invincible youth, even audacity in this land of the dead with its incredible and savage beauty. Scarcely born into my new life I had only one desire: to venture further into this strange land, which it seemed I was discovering on a June morning because of the bright blue sky, the mass of flowers and the gentle green of the meadows.
On the jetty, bag at my feet, I felt attracted, fascinated, as if I was being watched; as if I was expected in this Land of Souls. The air was fresh and crystal-clear; a thousand flower scents mingled with the rumbling of the sea. The wind from the sea bent the tall green grass of the meadows which lay in the shadow of the old walls of Iviron. The mysterious call was becoming irresistible; my astonishment at living beyond death was turning into unalloyed joy which I felt with all my new soul.
Slowly I went up the ramp leading to the monastery entrance. I saw stables, abandoned sheds with heavy doors, locked with keys that were lost for ever. A bronze tap filled a pool older than history; the water flowed along stone channels into the gardens; climbing vines, where bees were gathering pollen, shaded a sort of alley-way with paving stones worn down by a hundred generations of mules. Not a sound, except the bees and the water. A cat was watching me from a stable loft.
I walked under a dark archway. I entered the courtyard of Iviron. Wooden staircases, several storeys of balconies, with old beams painted in the same blue as the sky, covered the walls of this vast internal courtyard. Nobody! The cat had followed me. Refusing to believe it was the only inhabitant of Iviron, I chose the first staircase I came to. Accompanied by the cat, going from one storey to the next, from landing to landing, I reached a corridor leading into the depths of the monastery, which smelt of incense and mould. A door opened when I pushed it. I went into a dark little sanctuary decorated with wooden carvings and pictures on gold backgrounds, showing unknown gods and angels, barely lit by a narrow arrow-slit which looked out on to the jungle. I closed the door of this inner chapel. The old floors creaked under my feet. Here and there they threatened to break. Other, even darker corridors led only to ancient latrines whose round holes gave a view of lovely kitchen gardens twenty metres below, close to a stream.
I opened another door and went into a kitchen. I might be dead but I was hungry. A hearty appetite, sharpened by the fresh air, made me open the smoke and dirt-blackened cupboards, which were empty except for a piece of bread on a dusty shelf. I took it, sat down on a chest and sank my teeth into the stone-hard crust, almost leaving all my teeth in it. It was the strangest kitchen imaginable. With its enormous frying pans, grills, forks for basting meat, its rotating spits, cauldrons and pans big enough to roast a calf, it owed something to the torture chamber and the forge. Whole trees could easily have fitted into the hearth. Above the sink, which was hollowed out of the wall, a little window with broken panes looked out on to the foaming green sea.
The piece of bread made me hope that Iviron was not just frequented by cats and mice. I was still very hungry; and I was even more impatient and curious to meet the inhabitants of the Holy Mountain: pious anchorites, venerable hermits who were in direct touch with the angels and were filled entirely with contrition. The cat had settled itself on my knees. Exhausted by my sea journey, I fell asleep.
Heavy footsteps in the corridor and the loud, furious sound of boots suddenly made it clear that here, piety went with a dash of vigour. The door was thrown open with a hefty shove. A hairy monk entered the kitchen and planted himself in front of me, hands on hips. Politely I stood up, letting the cat slide down my thighs and hide under a table. I explained to my host that when I arrived ... that same morning, starving because of ... the sea air, I... had taken ... the liberty ... of eating ... a single piece of bread; without adding that this was only because I had not found anything else in his foul kitchen. He would not listen and reproached me, somewhat awkwardly, for searching through cupboards that did not belong to me. Tired of allowing myself to be treated as ill-mannered, as well as being starving hungry, I made the excuse that since I had only recently died I was not yet familiar with the proper practices in the Land of the Spirits.
“I am dead,” I groaned.
“I am dead too,” he exclaimed roughly, “but that doesn’t prevent me from knowing what delicacy is!” I almost retorted that he handled delicacy the way he opened doors, with his fists. But, thinking it wiser to be conciliatory, and repeating my apologies, I asked him very humbly to give me something to eat.
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��Nothing!”
He told me clearly, while stroking the cat, which had reappeared from under the table, that if I wanted to stay in the after-life for a while I must have authorisation from the Great Ancients who ruled over the Holy Mountain. They lived at Kariés, and gave to certain deceased individuals ... a parchment allowing them to travel on the Holy Mountain for a few days, a few years, more rarely a few centuries, to knock at the doors of the monasteries, to ask for board and lodging. In short: no parchment, no bread.
Then I shall go to Kariés, I told my furious monk who, to end the conversation, lifted the cat up onto his shoulder and led me on to a wooden balcony from where he showed me a deep, thickly-wooded valley and the tops of distant hills: “Kariés! Kariés!” I asked him to at least tell me how to get there. With bad grace he came down to the fountain where I had left my luggage. From a stable doorway he took a sturdy staff and put it in my hand. He pointed out a mule-track heading into the undergrowth. “Kariés, Kariés!” he shouted one last time, in the voice you use to tell someone to clear off. Then he went back into his monastery, followed by his cat.
The path climbed into the hills and soon almost disappeared in the dried grass. Under the hot sun of the early afternoon the jungle bellowed with a thousand insect cries. Their shrill songs made me numb, my bag weighed on my shoulders, the slope was getting steeper by the minute. In the trickiest places, steps cut into the rock made it possible to negotiate the worst stretches. I had yet to see a snake, but these hills, covered with riotous vegetation, cut through by deep ravines full of dead trees and rotted stumps, must suit them. I stopped: the constant, strident cry of the insects was becoming almost maniacal.
The path now led down into the deepest, densest undergrowth, where having to crawl slowly over dried leaves made me more and more terrified. In places, old paving slabs overrun by vegetation showed this was an ancient path, once easily usable. But several centuries of little use had made it a shadow of its former self. I had long since lost sight of the sea, and pressed on through this fearsome jungle, striking the ground with my stick for fear of meeting snakes. Yet the path on this side of the woods was beginning to return to its original form, that of a firm mule-track. I made good use of it, and walking got easier, my staff rapping loudly on the paving stones in the full heat of the afternoon, made worse by the maddening cry of the cicadas.
Suddenly, at the bottom of a wild gorge I saw a delightful bridge, a stone bridge shaped like a donkey’s back, very old and narrow. Peaceful water filled natural pools. I was dripping with sweat, and was drawn to the water. I went down to some long flat rocks, sleeping in the sun in a tangle of dried-up trees left behind by floods. I was washing my face, when to my horror I saw an adder come to the surface and head straight for my lips. I leapt back. On the rocks other adders slowly slithered away into the black water, or into dark parts of the undergrowth. There were angry hissing noises under the branches, and the sound of rustling leaves. These pools, deep in the jungle, in the shadow of the bridge, belonged to the snakes alone.
I moved away, shaking with fright, and resumed my long march to Kariés. The path, now almost visible again, climbed steeply. The noise of the insects was still deafening, the heat overwhelming. I got lost in the undergrowth; the path went no further. There was nothing but jungle as far as the eye could see. All I saw was more slopes and deep valleys, absolutely impassable. I retraced my steps, losing an hour’s efforts in the space of a moment. Going back to the Bridge of Snakes, I took another path. Everything seemed mysteriously arranged so you would get lost; it was left to your instinct to decide if a gap in the undergrowth led up towards Kariés; as though this ascent of the first foothills of the Holy Mountain, imposed on all those who wanted to stay here for a time, had no other aim but to discourage the fearful and the weak. My heavy bag, thrown over my shoulder, was dragging on my wrists. My strength was almost exhausted, although I realised that I was often taking paths whose great age was alarming. Some deeply worn step, cut out of the rock, showed that generations of anchorites had trodden on it for a thousand years; an old spell still lingered in these woods. The jungle was beautiful. In its untamed extravagance it might have been laid out by invisible presences. Ruins in the thickest parts of the forest dated back to a time of ancient grandeur long since overcome by the power of the vegetation.
I was nearly at Kariés; my mountain track became a path bordered by walls hiding secret gardens. Many houses with wooden balconies and stone roofs rose in terraces among the cypresses and the vines: a large village. Other mule-tracks joined mine. One last effort; up several steps and I entered a narrow lane, so thirsty I was dreaming of pure, plain water. In the late afternoon everything seemed to be sleeping. Heavy padlocks fastened the doors of tiny shops. The inn was open and I went in, at last finding cool and shade, wooden benches and tables. The landlord brought me raki, coffee and water; never had cold water seemed more exquisite, or coffee more delicious.
“Who was I?” my host asked. I did not know. To him this quite simple confession seemed to bode well for my stay in the after-life. I was not one of those dead people who missed the world, who remembered they had been this or that. I was a good dead person, still young, most agreeable, and very attractive: a handsome face, good, good! He rubbed his hands as he devoured me with his eyes. It was enough to make me think I had entered the house of an ogre. I questioned him about the Great Ancients, who I must ask for the parchment that would open all the doors of the Holy Mountain to me.
“They are still asleep at this time of day”, he said, and advised me to rest quietly in his inn while waiting for the Great Ancients to finish their siesta.
At five o’clock in the afternoon I headed for their palace in Kariés. A marble staircase led up to it. The heat was still oppressive, so I did not mind the long wait in a quaint little drawing room with heavy wall-hangings and closed shutters for the decision that was to be taken about me. I drank a glass of water set out for me on a delightful pedestal table. People were whispering in a nearby room. Having arrived on the Holy Mountain that same morning, I felt such a desire to stay that there was some anxiety mixed with my pleasure at resting from my exertions in this strange little drawing room, which seemed to date from the last century. I still did not know who I was. Did I warrant a long stay in the paradise of pious souls? A dignified old man half-opened a door and handed me a parchment covered with writing I could not decipher.
“How long may I stay?”
From his friendly smile I understood that I was allowed to remain for ... a considerable time. He led me back to the top of the marble staircase. With a sweeping gesture he showed me the whole of Athos, for that was the name of the strange land which I could henceforth explore as I wished.
Evening came. The narrow streets of Kariés were now bustling. Mules led by young grooms brought heavy loads of fragrant wood from the mountain. Twenty mules entered a courtyard; the loads, unfastened in one handy movement, fell onto the paving and flagstones with a crash. Through the open doors of the shops I saw an incredible assortment of sacks of pepper, paraffin lamps, cans of oil, hooks, rat-traps and ships’ rope which attracted the monks from round about and the hermits who had come down from their caves. A cobbler’s hammer was striking ancient soles with gusto. I passed my inn; not much wanting to sleep under an ogre’s roof, I asked my host if some monastery could offer me lodging.
The monastery of Koutloumousiou was not far away, he said. But I must get there as quickly as possible, for a strict and very old rule stated that the doors of the monasteries must be closed at dusk. He showed me the way. I went down the steep slope of a poorly-paved alley which headed towards a stream singing softly in a little valley. I crossed a bridge. The moon was rising above the forest. Cypress trees half hid the venerable old roofs of Koutloumousiou. Close to the stream the air was cool. Tall black pines smelt good in the calm of the evening. Again I encountered the secrets of the near-invisible paths and the undergrowth, which at that time of day were full of bir
d-song. A gate opened on to an orchard. I went through it, walking quicker. I arrived just as the door was being securely closed with iron bars and chains. I showed my parchment with its three signatures. I did not know how long it gave me the right to stay among the dead: I was reassured as to the number of days or centuries I had been accorded simply by the respect they showed me the moment I walked in. Clearly it was a length of stay rarely granted.
The door crashed shut behind me. I walked under a cold archway. It was an old monastery, repulsively dirty, its walls green with damp, its wooden staircases on the point of collapse. Rotten planks covered the edge of a well; old vines were dying on wretched old trellises. Some of the walls had once been whitewashed, which only drew attention to the crumbling state of the large stone roofs and the scarlet church that stood in the middle of the courtyard paved with round pink stones. More than twenty cats were congregating outside the kitchen, out of which came a dreadful stench. This was the way I was taken to the refectory.
The last glimmers of daylight lit up long black tables and benches. I sat down with five or six monks who were eating their supper in silence. Most of the tables in the refectory were empty, which was far too big for the last survivors of a large community. A very old monk was eating alone. Another was reading out loud from a text which he chanted slowly in the delightful calm of the June twilight. A small jug of resinous wine was put in front of me, along with a pewter plate of poorly-fried fish floating in a cold rancid sauce, a piece of bread, and cutlery which was also made of pewter and had never been washed.
Black hoods pulled down over their foreheads, crouched over their crusts, the monks took not the slightest notice of me. They were all getting old, with long white beards, skin the colour of ivory; and were poor beyond imagining. I ate my bread discreetly, drinking the whole jug of delicious resinous wine in little gulps, my horrified lips shuddering as they touched the dirty metal. Yet at the same time, the divine peace of the evening, as well as the presence of these very holy old men who I seemed to have known for all eternity, plunged me into a deep joy, a sort of exhilaration. I was back among my own people! Arms bare against the rough boards, feet bare in my sandals, wearing cotton trousers and a shirt torn by the brambles, with all my youthful strength I searched my mind for ancient memories ... one evening, among other evenings on the Holy Mountain. On a white wall at the far end of the refectory, a sombre god painted on a heavy panel of gilded wood was looking at me. The scent of flowers from the nearby forests came in through the open windows; cool air caressed my face. I had already lived, I had died several times! This brotherly meal, this poor food, this delicious wine, this savage, handsome god: I had known all of it already! Without attempting to work out when, in which century or in which lives, I gave myself up to the joy of returning. As old as the world, I closed my eyes with happiness: an old man who has died a hundred times, I was young again in paradise.
A Journey to Mount Athos Page 2
