by August Arrea
The question brought a smile to Gotham’s face, but only briefly when he then glanced over at Jacob and found the boy looking a little too tickled at such an idea.
“No, I’m not a professor,” answered Gotham. “Just a great follower of history.”
“You can say that again,” quipped Jacob under his breath with a chuckle, drawing a narrowing glare from Gotham.
“Do you think if I left you here a little while you can manage to keep out of trouble?” asked the angel once the lady had returned to her picture-taking.
“We’re on an island in the middle of a lake,” answered Jacob, offering little reassurance to Gotham.
“I’ll be back in a moment. There’s someone here I wish you to meet,” said Gotham.
He did not need to second-guess leaving the boy alone. Unlike Tatvan, or anywhere else one might draw breath in the world, he knew the island was one of the few places whose threshold the agents of the Darkness would think twice to cross. As Gotham disappeared around the corner of the church, Jacob turned to find the woman’s gaze fixed curiously on him.
“Adam,” he said with a confident grin, pointing to the relief depicting the father of all mankind. “You know, as in Adam and Eve.”
~~~
Gotham had to duck somewhat and bend himself forward to fit himself through the low, square doorway set within a rounded archway of multi-colored stone blocks to enter the zhamatun of the church. Inside he came to a sudden pause. He looked curiously about the large, empty oblong hall pierced by a minimal amount of sunlight that followed him from behind through the doorway and streamed in through the half a dozen or so small, rectangular windows lining the walls. It looked the same as when he last stepped foot inside the sacred vestibule, perfectly preserved in its hapless ruins. Yet something was different. It had changed. Or rather it had been changed.
The inside of the great room was as dark and black as he remembered, looking like a charred, burnt-out hull. The pink hue of the tufa stone walls was permanently scarred by fire damage as were the numerous stone pillars supporting the massive archways lining the hall. The air carried a faint acrid stench, the lingering remnants of the fires that once burned freely inside the zhamatun and church by vagrants looking to beat back the chill of the night air and the looters who used the firelight to aid in their work. There was another smell, a new one: the dank scent of fresh mortar and cement.
He glanced about the room and then to the ceiling above. Immediately he noticed the earthen roof that had covered the top of the zhamatun since it was constructed had been replaced by a thick layer of cement. And he felt a tinge of sorrow recalling the beauty the roof had once provided the church in the spring when the island was alive and in full bloom, appearing like a giant emerald block of green plants decorated with brilliantly colored flowers. As he made his way slowly cross the hall, the echo of his heavy footsteps caught his ears. They sounded strangely odd in the tomb-like surroundings. He glanced downward to the floor which felt noticeably different beneath his feet and he saw that the mishmash of round, irregularly shaped stones that had once paved the ground had been removed and replaced with more cement and modern-cut rock.
What had happened here? he wondered to himself.
When he reached the entrance leading into the cathedral, he felt a sense of tension move through him. What was awaiting him on the other side of the doorway? What other changes? What further desecrations? He took a calming breath and again ducked through another low opening. Inside he found the cathedral empty except for the presence of two Turkish guards relaxing against a far wall joking with one another while enjoying a smoke. When they saw they were no longer alone, their smiles quickly vanished and they reluctantly straightened themselves. Gotham watched as they each took a final drag from their cigarettes and his cold, icy glare followed the remains that were discarded with an unconcerned flick of their fingers and left to smolder on the floor.
Turning his back on the two men, he sighed with disgust and slowly took in the cathedral’s cavernous innards. Time and man had not been kind to this holy place, that much was certain, but at least they had not been so outwardly venomous or malicious to its soul. The frescoes, for instance, that had once dressed every inch of the stone walls, pillared archways, and numerous niches in brilliant details and colors still managed to cling to life, though many were close to being sandblasted out of existence by the elements and left in tattered patches by the looters and vandals over the centuries. High above, the faded and chipped remnants of images detailing the life of Jesus from the nativity to the crucifixion still clung to the walls in ghostly hues of blues and browns. And, inside the drum of the cathedral’s great dome, vestiges of the story of Genesis could still be seen.
The sun coming through a ring of eight small, rectangular openings illuminated the inside of the dome and was reflected downward to the floor below in a circular burst of brilliant white light where Gotham stood. With his golden eyes gleaming brightly, he stared upward studying the fragmentary scenes that told of the birth of Adam and Eve, their seduction into sin and finally the tragic fall from their terrestrial paradise. A faint whisper of voices coming from the rafters pricked his ears; voices that had long been extinguished, yet continued to linger within the church’s walls. Gotham closed his eyes and listened to them as they circled about him, carried on the wings of a gentle breeze that came from outside and moved within the stone structure like an invisible phantom. Then he heard the echo of another voice coming from elsewhere inside the church. And the whispers vanished.
He opened his eyes and directed them to the movement he spied inside an apse on the other side of the cathedral. Casually, he slunk away from the circle of light surrounding him and retreated from sight into the darkness lurking in an inconspicuous nearby corner where he quietly waited. Within moments, a group of a dozen or so tourists emerged from within the niche. They trailed behind an elderly man with white hair that hung in long frizzy strands to just above his shoulders dressed in khaki pants and a long-sleeved, blue button- down shirt, both of which appeared to be a size or two too large for the somewhat frail body they loosely covered.
“There are many ancient churches rooted to the shores surrounding the Van Gölü: Surb Hovhannes, Surb Echmiadzin in Soradir, Yedi Kilise, also known as the Seven Churches, Surb Bartolomeos, Surb Tikin in the village of Elmac and so on. But this church here at Akdamar is unique even residing in a chest containing so many jewels,” said the old man to the group that gathered around him in the light beneath the dome. “The generations of Armenians who long established themselves here in this part of the world have an old saying: ‘Van in this world, paradise in the next.’ ”
The adage elicited a murmur of approval from the group.
“Unfortunately, that about concludes our time together,” said the old man. “But if anyone has any more questions, I will do my best to answer them.”
His offer was quickly accepted by a round-face woman whose homeland revealed itself in the German accent that phrased each and every syllable. “Is it true the island is named after a horrible drowning?” she asked.
“I take it you are referring to the legend of a tragic love story between a peasant boy and an Armenian princess,” replied the old man, nodding knowingly as though he had been asked the question—not to mention recited the answer—countless times before.
“As the tale goes,” he began, “a beautiful Armenian princess named Tamar once lived on the island and she fell in love with a commoner who came across the lake to Akdamar each day to tend to the fruit trees. Her father the king, however, soon learned of the relationship and was none too pleased about it and he forbad his daughter to ever lay eyes on the boy again. Tamar and the boy, however, were too much in love and the thought of never being together, even for one day, was too painful to endure. So they came up with a way to deceive the king. In order for the two to see each other, the boy would secretly cross from the mainland to the island each night, guided by a beacon Tamar would
light so he could make his way safely through the dense darkness. When her father learned of the clandestine visits, he became enraged and vowed to keep the young lovers apart once and for all. So, one particularly stormy night, as Tamar awaited her beloved’s arrival, her father found the light she had dutifully lit and snuffed it out. As the boy crossed the lake, his boat became overwhelmed by a sudden storm and capsized, throwing him into the cold, churning waters. He tried to swim, but without the light to guide him he became lost in the blinding darkness and soon succumbed to exhaustion and the overwhelming waves which eventually swallowed him.”
The old man studied each face staring back at him, wholly transfixed to the story. “It is said the boy’s drowning cries of ‘Akh Tamar, Akh Tamar—Oh Tamar’—can be heard to this day coming across the water at night.”
A coo of appreciation for the tale came from crowd. All except the woman who had inquired about the legend and was clumsily fumbling through her purse in search of a tissue to dab the tears now streaming down her cheeks.
“I’ve also heard that there’s a creature that lives in Lake Van. Like the Loch Ness monster,” another tourist chimed in, eliciting giggles from within the group.
The old man’s heavily craggy face lightened with a smile.
“Ah, yes, of course,” he replied with a chuckle, running a hand over the top of his frizzy hair that glowed an almost blinding white beneath the light coming down from the dome above. “I don’t think I’ve yet conducted a tour where I haven’t been asked about the famous monster of Van Gölü.”
“Have you seen it?” another prodded jokingly.
“Well, I guess that all depends on what you deem to be a monster,” answered the old man. “At one time there were stories of great reptilian-like monsters said to roam the Indonesian Islands that explorers later discovered to be Komodo dragons. Dangerous, yes. Monsters…?”
He turned his face to the light streaming down from above. And his gaze framed with the deep creases of time widened pushing back the tired, sagging folds of his eyelids to reveal a glint of gold that flashed from his pupils as they came to rest on the images looking down from within the dome.
“And the Lord God said to the serpent: ‘Because you have done this, cursed are you among all animals and among all beasts of the field; on your belly you shall crawl, dust shall you eat, all the days of your life.’ ” he muttered. And his recitation seemed to confuse somewhat the tourists patiently waiting to hear if the lake indeed was home to some unseen, legendary creature.
“The word ‘monster’ derives from the Latin word monstrum, meaning an aberrant occurrence rising up from within the natural order,” continued the old man as he turned back toward the tourists and recognized the puzzled look on their faces.
“You ask if the existence of a monster lurks within these waters.” He gave a carefree unknowing shrug and smiled. “Then again my reality of the natural order of things most likely differs from yours.”
~~~
“The island of Akdamar is a very special place. It is said this spot bore witness to the creation of mankind, and also its destruction by the Great Flood as told in the Book of Genesis,” the old man continued. “There is reason why Akdamar has become marked by so much legend and folklore and continues to bring hordes of visitors to her shores. Whether it be the echoes of a tragic lost love heard rising in the night, or some kind of dark, unknown entity swimming beneath the tides. Or that Van Gölü itself, as legend also holds, is enchanted and frequented by angels seen coming in and out of its—”
The old man’s voice trailed off abruptly as he glanced past the crowd before him to the entrance of the church at the far end of the zhamatun revealing the blue waters of the lake on the other side of the stoned archway. His eyes, however, shifted sharply about the church until they found Gotham’s presence cloaked within the shadows of a far wall.
“Waters,” the old man finally uttered in a quiet exhale of breath.
He quickly announced the end of the tour to the group of tourists thanking them for their time and attention with a pleasant smile before inviting them to continue on with their exploration of the church and the island grounds outside. Patiently he took time to shake hands with several members of the group, and humbly accepted their gracious thanks for the entertaining knowledge he had provided them. And once the last of the crowd had dispersed to the far corners of the cathedral to examine more closely the visual relics on its walls, the old man looked again in the direction of the entrance and found Gotham still at his spot.
Slowly, with a worn, tired shuffle he made his way to him.
“Do my eyes dare deceive me?” asked the old man.
Gotham reached out and grasped the man’s upper arm and gave the delicate limb a reassuring squeeze.
“It’s good to see you again, Johiel,” said Gotham.
The old man’s frail, slightly stooped frame appeared even more diminutive standing before the angel’s towering presence.
“How long has it been?” asked the old man.
“Long enough.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d ever grace these shores again.”
Gotham nodded and forced forth a smile. “Neither did I, dear friend. Did the thrush I send ahead deliver my message to you?”
“Night before last,” said Johiel, drawing Gotham’s gaze upward to where the small brown bird whose white chest adorned with a collage of black spots could be seen perched on the rim of the dome cleaning the plumage of its wings. “And a most peculiar message it was. I could not help but be certain the thrush had grossly misunderstood you.”
Gotham’s answer came in the silence that followed and they both succumbed to the peacefulness surrounding them. Johiel fixed his gaze on Gotham’s eyes and, as he searched deeply the golden orbs, a troubled look slowly surfaced in his face.
“You’re not alone.”
Gotham opened his mouth to answer, but before he could form a word the man looked away toward the entrance to the church. Pulling away from the angel’s grasp, he made his way as fast as his age could carry him to the open doorway where a breeze sweeping up the gray limestone cliffs from the lake below greeted him. His eyes darted about the few tourists seen wandering the church grounds. Not finding what they were looking for, he moved swiftly along the perimeter of the stone wall. When he reached the corner, he was met with more crowds milling about. Again he searched the sea of colored T-shirts paying particular attention to the handful of teenaged children in the tow of their parents when finally he caught sight of Jacob wandering nearby. In that moment, it was as though he were stricken by some unseen hand that had reached into his chest and gripped tightly his beating heart.
“That would be him, wouldn’t it? The boy you sent word to me about?” asked the old man while carefully studying the teen still engrossed in the biblical hieroglyphics embossed upon the outside walls of the church. Yet it was a question to which he already knew the answer.
“Then it’s true. You expect to be granted passage through the Gate,” said Johiel with an air of disbelief to Gotham, who stood silently behind him.
“I expect—” Gotham began before catching his tongue. “I would hope you would do for him what you would do for any other Nephilim. If anything, out of respect for our close bond that has withstood far greater challenges.”
“This goes far beyond any bond you and I might share, Gothamel. Just as this boy is unlike any Nephilim who has ever set foot on Akdamar,” argued Johiel with a tone of growing anger that he quickly wrestled to restrain to ensure his words wouldn’t reach nearby wandering ears. “How can you expect me to act in accordance to your wishes, Gothamel? I have a duty. To conspire with you on such an act would be an ultimate act of betrayal on my part. Worse, it would be a high crime of treason against the heavens themselves.”
Gotham was prepared that his visit to Akdamar would be challenging. And perhaps even fruitless.
“Would it not be a worse crime to not get down in the mud and wrestle fate w
hen you and I both know the unfortunate path left should we not?” asked Gotham. And the angel’s words seemed to take hold of the old man. “I am Fallen, and because of that such things shouldn’t heed a moment of my concern. But it does. And I knew you of all would understand it’s not who plants the seed, but who tends to it in the growing years that determines the beauty and strength of a tree.”
Johiel stood quietly watching the boy in the distance while listening to Gotham with the weight of conflict clearly visible in his haggard face.
“You have to know the steadfast anger such a brazen act would draw from the other side,” the old man remarked.
“Most certainly, at first,” said Gotham. “But it would also be quickly dulled when it is realized the decision to allow the boy through came from someone as highly regarded as yourself.”
The old man’s weathered face cracked a smile. “Do not attempt to win me over with such a cheap ploy as flattery.”
“All I ask is that you meet the boy,” said Gotham. “If he doesn’t manage to win you over himself then we will leave the same way we came. No hard feelings.”
The old man stood quietly mulling the request while staring deeply into Gotham’s eyes.
“The tourists will be leaving the island in about another hour or so. Take cover further inland until they leave and then we will have our introductions,” said Johiel.
Gotham sighed a hint of relief. The hard part was over; Johiel was at least willing to consider his appeal. Johiel, however, was quick to add with a firm grip to Gotham’s arm, “Understand, I make you no promises.”
He gave a last lingering look Jacob’s way before turning and making his way back into the sanctuary of the church.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Johiel
T
here were only a few hours of daylight left. The sun was beginning to soften and the shadows along Akdamar’s rocky landscape slowly began to stretch and lengthen in their reach. The deep, baritone horn from the last ferry docked at the water’s edge sounded in the distance signaling to the remaining tourists that it was time to depart. For the two Turkish officers, it meant their day-long shift of standing watch over the grounds would come to an end with the final task of accompanying the last visitors onto the waiting boat, and they began rounding up the stragglers and hurrying them along like sheep dogs nudging their herd.
