My skin, once crisscrossed with angry red welts and white scar tissue, seemed different. In the dim light of the locker, I almost had a healthy pink glow. Could it be?
I leaned in closer and wiped the mirror, foggy from the steam, with the corner of my towel.
The harsh reality of my scars had been softened by the steam and mist from the hammam, but it was more than an illusion. My skin definitely looked different. I was healing, faster than I should have been.
I stared for another moment, confused, slipping out the door and climbing, heavy limbed, back to my changing room. Once inside, I sat on the bench and stared at my pile of clothes. I couldn’t bear the thought of wearing them again, the stiff cotton sure to rub against my tender skin, but I had no choice. My emotions spent, I slipped out of the towel and dressed myself. Muscles tender, I checked to be sure I hadn’t forgotten anything and stole one last glance in the mirror to confirm it had not all been in my imagination. Then, I slipped down the wooden staircase, moving past the tall glasses of tea and water that waited by the cushions. The front desk was empty. I lingered, hoping for the desk attendant to appear, giving me an excuse to delay my return to reality, but after a few minutes it was evident she wasn’t coming back. Knowing I had probably taken more time than we’d planned, I gathered myself to meet the others. I crossed to the heavy wooden door and left the confines of the hammam, wondering just what magic had been worked upon me, body and soul.
I climbed the stairs, walking alone around the perimeter of the building back to our designated meeting place. Suddenly, a strong hand clamped my shoulder.
I reeled, pushing my assailant’s hand away, afraid that Michael’s misgivings had been right and that the Fallen had found me after all. As I stumbled, trying to regain my bearings, I looked up to see the puzzled face of the hammam receptionist.
She held out her hand. “You forgot this, miss.” It was my credit card.
Embarrassed, I thanked her and shoved the card deep into my pocket, hurrying to find my band of angels.
Nobody berated me for being late. All I got was one sideways glance from Michael as I handed him back the credit card.
“You’re okay? Nothing unusual happened while you were in there?” he interrogated me.
I hid how shaken I was by my harmless interaction with the receptionist outside the hammam—better for him not to know how terrified of the Fallen I actually was.
“Good,” he nodded, his relief at my safety palpable.
It was past midday by this point. It was late to be restarting our search, but we had to do something to stave off the hopelessness I knew we all felt. So, with a sense of purpose, Enoch spread out the map we’d gotten at the chapel the day before and looked for a place to start. He was dressed like a fisherman now, a thick cable sweater straining against his burgeoning stomach, his gray head topped with a jaunty cap that tilted to one side, its ribbons twisting in the breeze. His shiny aviator sunglasses looked oddly out of place, but then again, he was a complete anachronism.
“Nice getup,” I said, the sight of him making me smile despite myself.
“This is a maritime city. I thought it an appropriate homage.”
He peered over the map, never letting on whether or not he was actually able to read it with his empty eyes. With a satisfied grunt, he picked up the map and slapped it with his hand. “Perfect. We can get started right now.”
“Here?” I looked around the square.
“Not every site on this map was a church dedicated to Michael. There are other things that were sacred to him. One is right here. Isn’t it Michael?”
Michael was peering intently through the streams of water that jetted from the fountain’s perimeter. He didn’t look at us as he answered; he simply nodded across the square before voicing almost reverently, “Ayasofya.”
We followed him across the wet pavement toward the old church.
The great wooden doors loomed ahead of us. Michael hesitated at the threshold, reaching one hand to grip the doorway. “She is an old friend, this church. Many memories tread her grand halls. But you wish to see the icons, do you not, Enoch?”
“You know the one we wish to see.”
“Very well,” Michael said, slipping inside the great door.
He walked with purpose, leaving me to steal little glimpses of the ancient church, as I hurried after him. But when I followed him through another set of vast, wooden doors, it was as if the sky opened up and I had to stop and stare, dumbstruck.
A huge dome spanned the entirety of the nave, easily two hundred feet above me. It seemed to float overhead, somehow supported only by tiers of marble columns that ran the length of the space. The weak sun streamed in from the endless rows of windows, filling the vastness with an ethereal light. Huge black circles, emblazoned with gold calligraphy, hung from the arches of the dome, marking the church—long ago converted to a mosque—for Islam. Shadows crisscrossed the marble floor. Overhead there was a dizzyingly spectacular gold mosaic, covering the ceiling and filling the entire place with a heavenly glow.
I was overwhelmed by the enormity of the place. There was so much to see, I wasn’t sure where to look. But then I saw Michael and the others heading out the side. With a pang of regret at not having time to explore on my own, I followed after them.
I caught up with them at the top of the ramp that led us to the upper galleries of the building. We wordlessly passed a mosaic of a man holding a skull and a drawing of a sailing ship, not pausing in our pursuit of the icon Enoch had mentioned. The crowds were thin in this second level, and Enoch’s cane, with its distinctive thump, echoed among the marble as we hurried along.
We went through another marble doorway and Enoch whispered, “The Gates of Heaven and Hell.”
“What?” I whispered back, confused.
“That’s what this archway is called. The Gates of Heaven and Hell. Nobody is sure why.”
We turned the corner and found ourselves facing a gorgeous mosaic—resplendent with gold and blue tiles—of Christ, his mother, and John the Baptist. But we didn’t stop there, either, instead winding through the halls, past more magnificent art, heading directly toward the center of the church to push ourselves up against the rail.
We were high up, near the base of the dome. Across from me, nearly at the same level now, hung one of the black medallions with Arabic writing. The soft murmur of the sightseers below floated up, muffled and distant. Michael was leaning against the low rail, his lean body draped, so I could see every muscle. He didn’t say anything but shifted away to make room for me. I took the spot he cleared for me, aware of the closeness of his body and the heat that emanated from it.
“Look up,” Enoch urged, nudging me with his cane.
I looked to where he pointed, at the top of the half-dome that protruded from the main part of the church, and saw an enormous mosaic of the Virgin with the Christ Child in her lap.
“Now, over there,” he said, nodding across the way. I looked across the dome and gasped.
A majestic angel, composed of thousands of tiny tiles, was set into the wall, filling the bottom of the arch. Large pieces of the mosaic had apparently fallen away in ruins over the years, but I could still see his mournful, dignified eyes staring at me across the empty space. Half of a golden halo encircled his head. Most of his wings were intact, the greens, blues, and creamy whites of his feathers falling in graceful rows to the very ends of his wings, which nearly dragged to the tips of his toes.
“That’s Gabriel,” Enoch whispered. “And if you look straight up, above your head, you’ll see what is left of Michael.”
I leaned out over the rail and strained my head to look. All I could see were a few lonely feathers.
“Is there one of Raph, too?” I asked, looking about. There were pictures of what looked like saints and some weird, six-winged creatures, but nothing else that looked like an Archangel.
Raph snorted. “Not likely. I’m surprised they even bothered to show Gabriel, after al
l.”
I bent my head quizzically. “I don’t understand.”
Michael answered, continuing to stare off into space. “The people had a special love for me here. That’s all.”
Enoch interrupted. “You should tell her why, Michael.”
Michael sighed and unfolded his body from the railing, turning to speak. “Because the Emperor Constantine credited me with a great victory and built many shrines to me, many people believed the greatness of Constantinople came from my blessings upon him. It is nothing more than that.”
“Michael always had a knack for getting all the glory,” Raph harrumphed. “And for ingratiating himself to humans.” His easy smile was belied by the sharpness of his tone. I looked at his black eyes, flashing with resentment, and wondered whether Michael could really trust him.
“I still don’t understand why you dragged us here,” Raph complained, pushing away from the railing and stretching like a languorous cat in a beam of sunlight. “There’s nothing special to see; you wouldn’t even know that was supposed to have been Michael if you hadn’t read your guide book. It makes no sense to have him here, anyway, with the Virgin and Child. Gabriel, yes, because of the Annunciation. But Michael, no. Just another sign of the addled human mind.”
Enoch’s lips moved into the faintest of smiles. “Perhaps not. Does anything strike you, Hope?”
I thought hard, knowing Enoch wanted me to figure something out on my own, but I came up blank. I shrugged and looked down at the marble floor.
“No matter,” Enoch continued. “We have seen enough here. Time for us to make our way to the next stop on our tour.”
Enoch gestured to Raph and, together, they began winding their way back through the hallways toward the ramp. Michael lingered, gazing at the floor below.
I hesitated before asking, “What are you thinking?”
He turned and smiled, but his eyes were sad. “I was remembering the night the city fell to the Ottoman army. The very last refugees fled here, to Ayasofya, pleading with God to save them.”
“You were here,” I whispered, searching his face. The lines in his face seemed to deepen with sorrow as he relived that night.
“Yes, I was. But I could do nothing to stop it. God’s face had turned from them, so I could only watch.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, impulsively reaching out to take his hand. He pulled it to his chest, pressing my hand against his heart.
In a flash, his memories flooded my mind. The air was filled with ash, the sconces ripped from the wall turned to torches as the soldiers set about ruining the sacred place of worship. Screams pierced the acrid air; voices begged for mercy in a language I couldn’t understand. But the vicious warriors paid no heed. They cut down everyone in their path, the bodies piling upon each other, their work done only when the marble floors ran with blood, the tangy, ferrous stench of it so strong that it even cut through the lingering smoke.
I snatched my hand away, horrified.
He looked at me, his gaze steady, but the strain of his sinewy neck, the tightness around his eyes, told me the storminess of his soul.
“That is what I remember. What it is like …”
I finished his sentence, feeling dead inside. “… when you cannot help those you should.”
I blindly ran from the gallery, swamped with guilt for all the people who were suffering because Michael was preoccupied with me. I knew that their plight plagued his every moment, and I was certain that there was nothing I could say, nothing I could ever do to make up for the pain and horror he would experience—was experiencing—because of me.
We traveled in silence from Ayasofya, each of us pointedly staring away from one another, fixating on the endless rows of shops, pretending to be fascinated by the magnets and key chains and evil eye pendants that still managed to twinkle despite the dull sky. Enoch had taken over the itinerary, picking places marked on the map for us to visit, narrating as we walked as if we were simply tourists with no other purpose than to take in the historic glories of the fallen empire. We did not have to go far to reach his first destination.
“That, right there, is the Column of Constantine,” he said, pointing down the plaza at a rather dirty marble column, mounted on what looked like an ugly pile of concrete. “They say there is an incredible cache of relics somewhere under or inside the column. These relics include the hatchet Noah used to build the Ark, the stone from which Moses made water flow in the desert, the nails of Christ’s crucifixion, and the basket and remains of loaves from when Christ fed the multitudes …”
“But no rock, stained by Abel’s blood? How unfortunate,” Raph scoffed. “Where are you taking us, old man? And why isn’t the girl leading the way?”
Enoch ignored Raph’s outburst and smiled serenely. “We’re going over by the prison gate to the Church of the Pantocrator.”
“The Pantocrator. The Church of Christ the Almighty,” Michael whispered. “I haven’t been there in …”
“… Centuries? I figured as much,” Enoch interrupted. “We’ll be there soon,” he promised, hustling us toward the platform for a tram. He handed out passes like candy for children, shooing us through the turnstile just in time to see a little train wheezing its way up the hill to us.
Why we were going there, and what we would see, was not discussed. Nobody spoke again until we’d been dropped off back near the Golden Horn, at the base of a wide avenue. We trudged in the direction Enoch pointed. The ruins of the ancient aqueduct were looming in the distance, the walls of an old cistern bulging out toward the sidewalk as we climbed.
“Up here,” he directed, pointing his cane up a steep stone path, rutted with age.
I peered up the hill with skepticism.
“It looks like an abandoned construction site,” I said, unable to keep the questioning tone from sneaking into my voice.
“Trust me,” Enoch said, flashing a smile as he forged ahead, hobbling with difficulty over the rocky path.
The climb was steep, winding us past several walled-off renovation sites and more decrepit wooden houses, leaning and crowding into the alleys as if they were about to collapse around us. “For sale” signs were nailed up against their warped wooden walls, and I wondered who would buy such disastrous piles of decay. We kept winding our way through the alleys, running into dead ends and crumbling walls encroached by brushes and weeds, seemingly going in circles until we found our way past a fleet of driverless trucks to another barricaded work site. My pace quickened. Beyond the tarps and corrugated tin walls topped with barbed wire, I could see the top of a dome, silhouetted against the sky. I began running, my skepticism forgotten. I emerged first from the street, finding myself alongside another stone monolithic church and in front of an abutting restaurant, perched high above the city on a terrace. We walked through the terrace, winding our way through a maze of café tables and umbrellas. A carpet of green grass, punctuated by odd, crescent-topped statues, columns, and shrubbery, surrounded the space. Below it, the Golden Horn was visible. In fact, the entire city of Istanbul spread out before us. It was a crazy quilt of collapse, abandonment, construction, and restoration, sliced through by the blue sparkle of waters where the Bosphorus and the Marmara Sea converged. It seemed somehow out of place to me, like I was visiting a botanical garden, not a church.
But what a church it was.
It was a magnificent pile of stone and bricks, all arches and domes and soaring windows, great bulbous bays protruding from the walls and obscuring its actual heart. It was muscular and massive, commanding my attention.
We followed the packed dirt path around the church walls, looking for the entrance. As we walked, I dragged my hand against the rough stone and bricks, sunk deep into the masonry. I could feel their age, as if the stones were speaking to me of the long-ago time when they were laid, carefully, as a monument to God. I tried to peer through the arched windows, hoping to get a glimpse, but most of them were high above my head, with lattice and steel bars blocking the view and r
evealing only darkness.
Occasionally we’d see a break in the walls, an avalanche of brick where time had gotten the best of the monumental edifice. Tufts of stubborn grass poked through gaps in the mortar. Elsewhere, gaping windows were covered with sheets or boarded up, and whole sections were embraced with scaffolding that looked just as precarious as the crumbling church itself.
“Neglected,” Michael breathed. I gave him a sideways glance, trying to gauge his mood, but his face was placid.
“At least it looks like it is being restored,” Enoch said. His limping gait seemed firmer now, and he charged ahead, pulling us forward by sheer force of will.
We turned the corner, following Enoch’s lead, and came to a full stop.
“It’s closed,” I said, disappointment flooding me. I couldn’t read the words on the sign in the roped-off area in front of the entrance, but I didn’t need to when I saw the heavy chain and padlock on the outside of the door.
“It doesn’t matter,” Enoch said. “Michael, Raph, can you move the ropes away?”
They glanced about quickly to make sure nobody was watching us before rolling away the ropes. Enoch waddled up to the door. He lifted his cane and pressed it, deliberately, against the giant padlock. It fell open, sinking to the cobblestone, immediately followed by the slipping chains that fell with a clank to the ground.
Enoch pushed against the door, and it swung open, hinges shrieking. He turned, pleased with himself, and gestured at us with his cane. “Come on, then. Let’s go inside before somebody sees us.”
“Wait,” Michael ordered. “It’s a mosque now. We should take off our shoes.”
Hurriedly, we deposited our footwear, dumping it unceremoniously outside the door before slipping inside. Carefully, we pushed the heavy wooden doors closed behind us, wincing as the hinges protested once again.
Dark Rising Page 8
