Around ten o’clock in the morning, I saw a blue and white caique at anchor in a little creek. I was taken aboard, the engine was started. We headed along the west coast. Soon we were in sight of Dochiariou, whose roofs and Byzantine domes reflected in the smooth water which our stern was slicing through. We tied up at the end of a jetty, and chests were unloaded, enough time for me to climb up to the monastery, enjoying the sound of my black boots ringing on the flagstones of the courtyards. I was happy to be alive! On this fine June morning my Luftwaffe uniform suited me well. It symbolized my denial of the Levantine Christ ... Had I been a Christian? Perhaps elsewhere, and in other times? They were calling me from the caique. It was moving away from the quay. We continued sailing, keeping a short distance from the rocks and the beaches. We passed Xenophontos, Panteleimon. Almost straight away I saw the little port of Dáfni.
“Kariés, Kariés,” the sailors shouted, pointing out a path that went up the side of dry stony slopes.
It was a rough path, and I struggled along it under the hot afternoon sun. I was given water at the monastery of Xiropotamou. At nightfall I arrived in Kariés, too late to ask for hospitality at the nearby monastery of Koutloumousiou, whose door would be closed at that time of night.
So I went to find the inn I had already been to. As far as I could remember it was at the top of a steep, narrow alley-way. There was mysterious activity going on in the little streets of Kariés. Lots of monks were coming and going in their black robes. I let myself be carried along by the tide of passers-by. The yellow flames of the paraffin lamps were being lit one by one in the grocery shops of this large village so near to the steep slopes of the Holy Mountain. I caught sight of the bright marble peak, very close, beyond the rooftops, whose heavy carved beams jutted out above the upper storeys and wooden balconies. It was an odd crowd I was mixing with, apparently without them seeing me. These anchorites, these vagrants, these white-bearded Igumenoi looked as if they had walked out of the frescoes in their churches, and had to climb back into them later that night. Their very names were those of the saints they worshipped, and whose gestures and bearing they had: Dimitrius, Pachomius, Athanasius. I saw them, these Moses, these Noahs, these Jobs and Melchizedeks, the apostles Peter and Paul, the ones Rublev painted in the icons of Kiev, those whom God alone could imagine, these worshippers of the Lord, their hair and beards all tangled, a goatskin bag over one shoulder!
In the twisting alley-ways, robust hermits from the nearby hills went into grocery shops with a determined step, met friends, cried out with joy, leant their staves against a doorway, and began endless conversations in the soft warm light of the lamps that faintly lit the shelves and counters piled with bags of sugar, tins of food, drums of oil and rolls of material. A smell of spice and pepper floated in the balmy air. A sewing machine whirred away at the back of a barber’s shop, where a kind of salon was in progress: good monks found the company of others, and were laughing heartily. Climbing three tall steps I entered this peculiar hairdressers where people were drinking coffee, selling hammocks, rakes and forks, and someone was stitching a robe. I went in simply for the pleasure of it, not wanting anything. Everyone went quiet when I appeared. The sewing machine stopped immediately. They gave me friendly smiles. I did not want any hammocks, I didn’t want to buy anything. I stood in the doorway for a moment, then went out again and mingled with the crowd. Uncertain of my own existence, had I only wished to be seen? A convoy just down from the forests was making its way with difficulty through the narrow streets. The mules’ hard, pointed hoofs rang on the cobbles. The clear sound of their lithe bells brought with it some of the freshness of the Holy Mountain, whose pure summit dominated the whole of Kariés, this huge trading post with little internal courtyards full of piles of logs, firewood and freshly-cut beams, which gave off an exquisite smell of resin, with, here and there, at the bend in an alley, far away from the light, a hidden supply of shadows, a stable haunted by old spells, or smelling of fresh grass and straw. Kariés, this village without women, its tiny shops filled at nightfall by the bearded monks and the mule-drivers of Athos, had not only been known to me for centuries, but also reminded me of similar villages I had known in Asia, in the foothills of other sacred mountains, in other climates, and which I could not place in any exact cycle of incarnations or dreams.
But in this one I suddenly saw my inn and went in. I sat down on a bench at the far end of the room, at a long table covered with a waxed cloth, and ordered supper. They brought me a bowl of soup and a glass of raki, followed by a steaming dish of courgettes, fried fish and olives. The flame of a powerful paraffin lamp hanging from one of the beams, together with the fires of the stoves, made the intense heat of the fine summer evening almost unbearable. Three mule-drivers were drinking resinous wine and talking quietly. A monk came in to smell the good smells of the meat simmering in the frying pans. He dipped a finger in the sauces, which he tasted with an air of detachment, as if merely in passing. He tore off a small piece of meat, which he swallowed greedily; then wiped his beard with the back of his hand and went off quite calmly without offering to pay a penny, congratulating the landlord on the quality of his sauces. A novice, with beautiful girlish eyes and long hair falling over his shoulders, appeared from the crowd that was passing the door, went into the kitchen and came out with a copper tray full of cups of coffee, which he took to the good monks who, in the hairdressing salon across the street, were still laughing and chatting to the whirr of the sewing machine. As for me, I was drunk on raki, heat, and even more intoxicated at the thought of knowing I was close to the immaculate peak of the Holy Mountain, which attracted me like a powerful magnet. Would my master come to me? I hoped so; I was sure of it. Recognising him instantly, I would catch sight of him in the doorway of the inn, silently watching me. Without a word, without a gesture, he would command me to follow him into the Sacred Forest. I kept my eye on the street, the vagabonds and the wise men going by. I was sure I would see him before long. Tired from my long wait, I left the table and washed my hands in a copper basin fixed to a wall; I splashed water on my face, I combed my untidy hair. I looked at myself in a mirror ... face burnt by the sun, hair dusty, looking happy, determined, a little feverish. I went back to my place. As the night went on, the bustle in Kariés died down; shops were shut; the sewing machine stopped its tireless tic-tac. My master did not come. The mule-drivers went off to find their beasts. The narrow street was empty; not a single footstep sounded now. I was alone with the landlord, who sat down beside me.
He had recognised me, and treated me well.
“Well then, so you’re German now!” he said with a laugh.
I soon told him about my wanderings and how I had inherited a Luftwaffe uniform. Not knowing who I was, being German by chance for a time did not displease me.
“There’s no such thing as chance in the next world,” he answered me sententiously, pointing a finger at the ceiling! He added that the Germans had not left good memories everywhere. I ran the risk of being taken for an old enemy, attracting some hostility, even being stoned by uncouth mule-drivers. Yes, stoned! “It would be wise,” he went on, “to get rid of this Luftwaffe uniform. It might cause you problems.” At which he asked if I had any money on me? I searched my pockets: I had twenty five drachmas left.
“That’s not much,” he said, feeling the military fabric to make sure it was almost brand-new. Did I still have my old clothes? I could see the seasoned trader appearing, and was not really surprised when he offered me a thousand drachmas for my German Air Force uniform. Not wishing to be defrocked, nor to be stoned by stupid mule-drivers who took me for someone else, and as I was not attached to some borrowed identity, I accepted the price without haggling. Then, to seal our agreement, my Greek landlord gave me a last glass of raki.
After a moment’s silence, I told him that it was a pleasure to be back in his inn again, so close to the dark cedar forests where I wanted to rejoin my master.
“If he even exists!” He di
d not hide from me that this search could be long! Or very short! Only God knew. The Great Ancients might oppose this plan, so it was best if I didn’t talk about it in any of the taverns on Athos. “Don’t worry, I can keep a secret,” he added in a low voice, after making sure we were alone. To hear him talk I might have been an old dreamer, someone who has divine blood in him, who has strange, noble thoughts that ordinary mortals cannot understand; one of those daring souls who are forever talking about distant lands, about unknown gardens high in the mountains. I was one of those people who are treated as mad, often wrongly, for these gardens and mysterious high slopes may actually exist somewhere; or else, sadly, they exist only in their dream-world and thus have no reality, even in the hereafter. I replied that I was sure I had already lived on Athos, and was relying on a host of previous existences and memories to find the master whose call I could hear, whom I loved and had known for all eternity. He wished me luck, but told me that I would soon be back in Kariés. He gave me a thousand drachmas and advised me to get some sleep.
We went through the courtyard. A wooden staircase, then a balcony, led to one of the upper bedrooms of this old inn. He lit a candle, put it on a little marble mantelpiece, and left me, asking the Virgin and Christ to grant me a peaceful sleep.
I went back to the balcony and stayed there a very long time. Was it being so close to the pure marble peak, the altitude? The intense heat that had lasted until late in the evening gave way to air that was almost cold. I leant on the balustrade and took deep breaths of this fresh clear air that smelt of resin, and rested from my long day’s walk. The forests stood out black against a sky white with nebulous cloud and twinkling stars. Everything was still in the perfect tranquillity, in the silence of the night, occasionally broken by hoof-beats from the mules in a nearby stable. A slight gust of wind blew out my candle, whose glow was bothering me. Now I could see the surrounding buildings more clearly. They were very old, with architraves and beams, the gardens enclosed by walls and, on the other side of the courtyard, the stable where the mules were moving about, an old stable with a wooden door painted red, strengthened by iron bars and nails. In the peace of this beautiful summer night, fine smells of incense from mysterious chapels mingled with the strong scent of dung, resin and hay which permeated the whole of Kariés. Beyond the gardens there must have been open meadows, for I could hear the tinkling of a bell, then others, further away, answering it very clearly. I liked Kariés, and I would have decided to stay in this strange village, where so many distant memories came back to me, if my spirit of adventure had not been urging me to climb the high slopes of the Holy Mountain. The call was becoming irresistible. I knew the laws of the next world. In my few days of wandering I had already used up a large part of a powerful karma that had weighed on me since the start of my death. The laws in the Land of the Spirits were odd: not one coincidence, not a single chance meeting! A chain of events brought about by my former lives, an almost mathematical prediction of most of my tendencies. So who had I been to experience so many joys on this side of life? My past existences were still a mystery to me. It seemed I had not been very happy in the world of men, and that my inexpressible happiness in the Land of Souls was compensation for much suffering. Whatever the case, I wanted to go higher up the mountain; as if light-hearted, I could hope to cross the final thresholds! The best and the holiest part of my nature, which had also been formed slowly over many centuries, wanted to be fulfilled in the hereafter as well. Its time had come! My true self was burning with impatience at the thought of rejoining its master, and I would have gone straight away if I had not thought it was a good idea to have a few hours’ rest before setting out on the rough paths of the Sacred Forest.
I went back to my room and lit the candle again. Lying across my bed, a young black cat, like the one I had stroked at Chilandari, was purring softly on the sheets. It got up as I approached, seeming to recognise me, and made a great fuss of me while I was taking off my Luftwaffe clothes. Was it the same one, or another? Or a second appearance in the after-life of a cat I had loved in the world of men, probably more than the men, and whose memory kept pursuing me? I was wise enough already, and too happy by nature, to waste time trying to explain the unexpected reappearance of this friendly cat. I ran my fingers along its back, it rubbed itself against me. I got into bed. It snuggled into the hollow of my shoulder, and I closed my eyes but could not sleep, for I was eager to set off for the mountain. The innkeeper’s words about the Great Ancients’ possible opposition to my plan to climb the upper slopes, which was more or less forbidden, came back to me. Could I trust him to be discreet? He would betray me at dawn, I was suddenly sure of it! As if guessing my secret fears, the cat jumped off the bed, left the room, and miaowed on the wooden balcony. I got dressed as fast as I could, putting on my old clothes, and leaving the military things I had sold the night before on the bed. The boots might be useful on the mule-drivers’ tracks.
With great honesty I reckoned they must be worth two hundred and fifty drachmas, which I put on the marble fireplace where it could be seen. I snuffed out the wick of the candle between my fingers. Then quietly, I left the inn.
In the lovely silence at the end of the night, I walked along several alley-ways with the cat going ahead of me. Stealthily it leapt, and ran over the grassy paving stones, crept along the top of walls, and kept turning round and calling me to follow. In this part of Kariés, the heavy scent of wisteria drifted from the sleeping gardens and filled the still air. A cock crowed from a distant farm.
Still guided by the cat, and by the faint light of the stars, I went boldly down the hundred steps of the last street, which led to a bridge. I set off along a track into the enchanted woods.
PART TWO
Monastery of Grégorios
IV
JOSHUA, THE SACRED FOREST, AND THE VOYAGE TO IERISSOS
S ince the night ended I had been climbing higher and higher into the forest. I had left behind the charred ashes of the woodcutters’ last camps, the heaps of rotting wood shavings, the huts made from cut branches built between hundred-year-old trees. A fast-flowing river roared between the rocks, which in places were submerged beneath its strong, steady current. I went down to the bank and walked into the icy water. This was now the only possible way through the forest, which was so dense it was becoming impassable.
Daybreak, pink and gold, lit up the white marble of Athos. With every step I took, the nearness of it kindled my inexpressible joy at having entered the forbidden woods. A light summer mist lay in the wild gorge, unknown to mortals, where songbirds watched my struggle to make headway through the clear cold river, which here and there formed calm pools that reflected dense thickets of black pine and ancient cedars. In up to my waist, in danger of being knocked over by the strength of the water, was I really alone in the holy forest? I had a feeling I was accepted, judged by the trees who were wiser and happier than men! An incredible secret invaded my clear consciousness: God was roaming the forest! At sunrise He went from branch to branch; He visited His faithful, the great, peaceful trees who had known Him for all eternity and who worshipped Him in silence.
Walking through the icy water using a long pole to tread along the bottom of this violet gorge still shrouded in mist, I was reborn without fear in the hands of God. The strong current foamed against my thighs and washed me clean of life. So who had I been in my many lives to return so easily to this peace, like the peace at the beginning of the world? For the span of a single bird’s call I saw myself back in Byzantium and in unhappy Europe, an alchemist stubbornly listening to the powerful voice of the Lord of Light, knowing His laws and loving Him in secret. I was not a man like other men! Unlike Adam I had not renounced my Creator! Old as the world, I was one of those who, through the ages, never forgot the sweetness and the strength of the primordial state, which is that of the angels.
Certain of my deep love of God, which had lasted for a thousand years, deafened by the constant singing of the waves bouncing over
the many rock ledges, I went higher and higher up the mountain. I entered the region where the hermits lived; the forest got colder and more silent. Near the foaming water, I passed notches cut into the living rock. It was a kind of ancient staircase, worn away, hewn as if by giants, green with damp and marked at almost every turn with little blue-painted wayside altars, semi-abandoned in the sacred peace of the woods. The pale moon was in its last quarter, and shone among the branches. The birds had fallen silent. Far from lifting with the coming of day, the banks of white vapour at the bottom of the valley were getting thicker, and now hid the river. Its roaring got fainter as I climbed through the woods. I carried on up the ancient staircase, which did not stray far from the thundering of the water. I paused; standing on an overhang of rock I looked at the plunging landscape, frosty and pure, laid out before me. The marble and the cedars of the Holy Mountain stood out like islands above the mist.
It melted away slowly, revealing the powerful jungle that covered the banks of the river. Silent doves left the mysterious upper foliage, hovered in the blue air, and came back to their beloved forest. They settled on the branches, beating the green leaves with their wings, and went right into the thickest parts of the woodland, knowing all the secret passages that led to caves. Then, lower down, a little hermitage appeared, with its wooden roof and balcony, and its walls of dried earth. Here the river formed several pools whose stillness contrasted with the choppy little waves that leapt over the stones.
A Journey to Mount Athos Page 10
