Somewhere East of Life

by Brian W Aldiss

  Their one great find was a quarter of roasted pig or boar, still smelling pleasant. This provided the basis for a meal, eaten with grapes, beside the refectory fire.

  “So God has brought you safe to Ghvtismshobeli,” Kadredin said.

  “Kargi.” Burnell was not going to argue tonight.

  A discussion took place as to whether the gang might return. There was nothing in the dormitory to suggest that the ruffians were doing anything more than passing through the area. It seemed unlikely they would return. If they did so, it would be after daybreak, and their creaking cart would give warning. So Kadredin and Burnell sought to reassure each other while the young gunman cleaned his gun. How, Burnell wondered, does Khachi differ from Larry Foot? Here, no one greatly minds a little shooting.

  Before turning in, Burnell went on his own to look at the church. He could not but wish Stephanie was with him. The moon was lower, lending a slanting light to the scene. He put his hand to the aged fabric, feeling the warmth coming from it.

  Beneath his palm were brick, mortar, moss. He read them as if they were the firm flank of a horse. Whereupon, feelings of reverence conducted him back to the days of his boyhood when he used to ride with his mother, and to the Christmas when she and his father had given him Lollipop. Again he stood by the mare, patting her, overcome by gratitude. Then he swung himself up into the saddle, and he and his mother on Blaze had set off at a canter, toward Elmham rise.

  Many years later, when his father had remarried, Lollipop had been put out to grass in the upper pasture, where she could see horses on Farmer Hitchens’s farm. But what had ultimately happened to his beloved mare…that part of the story had been stolen from him, along with much else.

  Now he stood alone. His sensibilities were extended toward the building he had come to examine. It was as though the masonry had a kind of moral force or, at least, in the intentions of its builders, a powerful influence on the moral considerations of men, reminding them at once of morality and mortality; and he was sure such reflections had visited him before, at the site of other ancient structures now forgotten. Although he had studied the plans and knew the dimensions as figures, here in its presence he found the Church of Ghvtismshobeli larger than he had pictured it in imagination. Now the dark bulk of it loomed above him, continuing its centuries-long wait. This, he thought, this moment was worth everything.

  On the far side of the venerable building the waters of Lake Tskavani glinted. Strange whisperings came from the reeds, while owls hooted about the church tower. Supposing one encountered the real Mother of God, as seemed not impossible, what could one say?

  It was a creepy old place, no mistake about it. He was not sorry to return to the dormitory after a while.

  By morning, all was different. The church was merely a monument to the past; it seemed smaller than in its moonlit avatar, perhaps a reminder of how much of the universe was subjective.

  Burnell was merely a representative of WACH with a covert interest in the fate of an ikon.

  Ghvtismshobeli’s tiled cupola reared above its pantiled roofing. Its walls, once richly carved, had been defaced at some period. They were now fairly covered with ivy. Walking round the exterior before venturing in, Burnell reflected on what he knew of the church’s history. Old Douglas Freshfield had visited this spot in the eighteen-sixties, and had even included a steel engraving of the church in his book. But churches had not excited him greatly and he had made no mention of ikons.

  The church, Burnell saw, had no great claim to architectural merit. A casual viewer would regard it as Byzantine. In fact, it had been built over a century after the fall of Constantinople in a Caucasian style, and hastily built at that. It remained unfinished: a modest memorial to impossible dreams, set in a commanding position at an unfavorable time.

  The structure was built of a local porous tuff or travertine and brick, arranged in patterns. The brick remained in good condition, mellow and pleasant; the tuff had weathered badly and had been inexpertly restored in places. Little here to start hearts a-beating at WACH. Burnell made a few notes and strolled about, enjoying the day and the destination.

  He was alone. Father Kadredin was morose this morning, and out of sympathy with Burnell. He resented having been made to impersonate the Mother of God, and so to commit blasphemy. So he remained in the dormitory, for penance helping Khachi clear human excrement from the rooms.

  For Burnell, solitude was welcome. He regretted only that he had been foolish enough to allow his cameras to be stolen. He reproached himself for his incurable gullibility. Monty Butterworth had deceived him all too easily.

  Stephanie—had she been here—might have asked why the church of Ghvtismshobeli was set in such a remote place. But churches were occasionally built to demarcate the frontiers of a king’s domain. Ghvtismshobeli was designed to serve that function in the sixteenth century. King Zrze, ruler of what later became the Adjara Autonomous Region, was a sworn enemy of the Turk. Zrze commissioned the church to be erected to mark the extreme southwestern point of his small kingdom. On one side of it, the northern, lay Lake Tskavani; to the south lay the expanding empires of the Mohammedan faith.

  As Georgians never tired of telling their visitors, Georgia was surrounded by enemies. This was certainly true in the sixteenth century. The Safavids, moving in from Persia, captured Tbilisi—Tiflis as it was then—on two occasions. In 1555, the Ottomans and the Safavids divided what would become Georgia into two spheres of influence, the Ottomans taking the western half. Ten years after that, Zrze built his church. It became a monument to the triumph of hope over experience—and of experience over hope, for the Ottomans came notwithstanding.

  Zrze left in a hurry. The decoration of his church was never finished, the interior decoration scarcely started, before the masons had to down tools and flee for their lives.

  The Ottomans did not destroy Ghvtismshobeli. There it still stood, facing down the valley of the Tskavani, symbol of vanity and courage as well as holiness.

  Father Kadredin appeared at mid-morning, his tall thin figure slightly stooped. Burnell looked at him enquiringly.

  “So our fellowship is ended, sir,” said the priest in his fluent French, holding out a hand on which dirty fingernails predominated. “I must now return immediately to Bogdanakhi, my duties completed, and take the lad with me. I only pray that you will not be murdered, as is undoubtedly likely when you are left here alone.”

  “What’s that? We’ve only just arrived. I’m not prepared to go yet. We haven’t been inside the Church yet. What are you talking about?”

  “I am speaking of a task fulfilled, sir. As I am sure you know, I was paid only to guide you here. Not to guide you back.”

  “It’s blackmail, is it? Let me tell you straight, that won’t work with me. You know very well you were well paid for both journeys. You know it, I know it. Now then, just remind me of something King Zrze—”

  Kadredin shook his head until his large eyes trembled. “It’s disgraceful when a Western man, rich, well-placed, takes advantage of a poor Georgian priest. Disgraceful, yes. What else can one expect from an atheist? And I’m only asking for five hundred

  “A deal’s a deal, Kadredin. Stick to your side of the bargain.”

  “I can stay only if you pay me. But you could obtain more money from your organization without harm to your own pocket.”

  “Oh, you’re prepared to come to Frankfurt for it, are you?”

  More head-shaking. “You are humorous at my expense. I shall go home.” He turned away.

  “Two hundred,” Burnell called.

  “Three hundred.”

  “Two hundred and fifty.”

  “Done.” The priest turned back.

  “Payment when we are back in Bogdanakhi, OK?”

  “As you will. Beggars can’t be churlish, isn’t that what you say? That’s two hundred and fifty for me and two hundred and fifty for the lad, Khachi.” This was said in a forceful, man-of-the-world style, very unfitting for a
man of any religious order.

  “No, it’s not. He gets part of your share.”

  “Aren’t you ashamed to talk that way, even if you are an atheist? Khachi risked his life for you last evening.”

  “He risked it for you too, so you share with him.”

  “Atheist!” The word pronounced with precision, as if new-minted.

  “Swindler!”

  “That a priest of the church should be spoken to in such terms… Aren’t you ashamed?”

  “You said you weren’t a priest. You said you’d lost your faith. You’re behaving like a beggar. What are you?”

  The question was effective in stopping Kadredin in his tracks. His protuberant eyes became glazed as he stared at Burnell, perhaps hoping to find the answer where the question had come from.

  Finally he came out with the admission that he was nothing. He did not know what he was. He asked himself the question: what was he? This time, he admitted he was a beggar, just as Burnell had intimated: a beggar in a nation of beggars. That was what he and the nation had been reduced to. He could only say in his own defense, for what it was worth—and it was probably worth nothing—that he supported someone he preferred not to name in Bogdanakhi whom he wished to get out of the cursed country. When the heads of mayors could be kicked about in their own public square, what hope was there for decent men? Without awaiting a reply, he begged Burnell to forgive him for behaving in such a despicable way over money, he being an honorable German gentleman.

  Burnell said he was English, having no idea what else to say to this man of such changeable moods.

  Correcting his own error, Kadredin explained he had been overwhelmed by the thought of his own wretched behavior. He was appalled to reflect how he had been forced to beg a few rotten miserable dollars from a rich man. How right Burnell had been to refuse him.

  “I didn’t refuse, damn it! I offered you two hundred and fifty.”

  Kadredin spat into a ribes bush. “What’s two hundred and fifty to you? It’s nothing. Worse than nothing—an insult.”

  “You refuse the offer, do you?”

  “No, no, I didn’t say that. Poor defrocked wretch that I am, a Georgian shunned by all decent humanity, what right have I to refuse your pittance? I accept with gratitude.”

  “All right, change the subject. Tell me what I want to know about King Zrze. When did he die?”

  During this uncomfortable dialogue, Kadredin’s brow had by turns darkened and lightened like a cloudy day. Now it brightened once again, and he tossed back his lank hair with a haughty gesture.

  “Huh! The lowest Abkhazian peasant could tell you that. For the moment, I forget the date myself. I do recall that Zrze inherited the throne at the age of twenty-two. That he did by strangling his father—a conventional medieval way of becoming king. Perhaps this Church of the Mother of God—” the priest crossed himself “—served in part as an act of atonement.”

  “So he was a bit of a character, was Zrze.”

  Kadredin said defensively. “He was widely loved by his people, and also enjoyed support abroad.”

  “Oh, yes, so I believe. Isn’t it true he found an unlikely ally in Pope Pius IV? Pius IV’s last act before he died was to make an unexpected gift from Catholicism to Orthodoxy. He despatched to King Zrze something for his newly-built church: an ikon which had reached the Vatican from a pillaged church in Borzhomi. Isn’t that so, Father? An ikon generally known as ‘The Madonna of Futurity?’ “

  Kadredin’s long face assumed a weary expression. “I’ve never heard of such an ikon,” he said.

  “You’ve never heard of Pius IV’s gift?” The lowest Abkhazian peasant could tell you about it.”

  “I don’t mix with peasants,” Kadredin said, as the clouds came again.

  It was time to enter the church. Burnell led the way to the wooden door in the narthex. Kadredin and Khachi followed behind. The door was locked. Two planks had been carelessly nailed across it.

  Kadredin came smartly forward. To one side of the door, the stone of the pillar had been carved to represent two peasants entangled in vines. Taking firm hold of one of the peasants’ heads, the priest pulled out a small section of the stone, cut about a sinew of the vine. From the aperture behind the block he removed a large iron key.

  Once the door was unlocked, they could wrench off the planks. During the long disease of Communism, the church had been forbidden territory, on the grounds that it might, in this remote place, provide a focal point for a reviving Church. Nevertheless, the building had been preserved. Even in the years of oppression, Ghvtismshobeli had remained a symbol of nationalist pride, which the Soviets had not dared tamper with.

  The church, with its blind arches and few windows, preserved a grim interior appearance. Burnell and the priest stepped inside, to be met by cold and dark. The Eastern Orthodox religions had always preferred to create darkness within their places of worship. Here, the darkness, unrelieved by candles for many a year, had been allowed to accumulate. It bit to the bone.

  Although Ghvtismshobeli was an empty shell, a sense of something waiting there had gathered, as in all deserted places. Emptiness is next to godliness, Burnell thought. They halted in the midst of the gloomy space.

  The narthex door by which they had entered was set in an archway decorated with reliefs of various animals, sheep, wolves, a sportive deer. But the stonecarvers of the Tskavani area had had no time in which to finish their delicate work. Khachi, toting his inseparable gun, loitered in the doorway, a silhouette against the daylight behind him.

  As if suddenly making up his mind to withstand the chill—or perhaps the chill of his own uncertain faith—Kadredin strode across the stone flags to where the iconostasis had once stood, separating sanctuary from nave. Taking up his stance, he began to sing. His deep bass voice flowed out, filling the bowl of the building with its resonance, a well-deep sensation of sorrow.

  Kadredin’s voice died away. In a little while, pitching his voice quietly across the space between them, Burnell asked, “What were you singing?”

  The tall thin figure remained silent for a moment. Perhaps Kadredin was praying to have his faith restored. Then he said, in his normal voice, “ ‘Theotokion… It’s a hymn to the Mother of God. From the Russian Orthodox…”

  The narthex shared a roof with the single nave. Sturdy columns supported the dome. The carving round doors and high windows was of a familiar toothed pattern. Kadredin wandered about, saying absently, “Of course we hate Russia. It brings with it wherever it goes oppression, totalitarianism, injustice, criminality. Lazar Kaginovich is believed to be half-Russian. Yet there is another Russia. It brings with it Dostoevsky, Tolstoi, the gentle Chekhov, Borodin, and Tchaikovsky, and the blessings of the liturgical chants. That Russia we love.”

  “You speak in the plural. What of yourself, Kadredin? Your singular self?”

  “My French teacher was an eccentric woman. She taught me plurals before singulars. So they come more easily to me.” His voice died away. To change the subject, he asked if Burnell was intending to take photographs.

  “My cameras and the camcorder were stolen that night in Bogdanakhi.”

  “You should be more particular where you sleep.”

  The interior had been plastered and whitewashed, perhaps to cover hasty workmanship in those threatened last days of King

  Zrze’s reign. The one mural to be completed stood above the lintel of the door by which they had entered. Slipping his pack from his shoulder, Burnell took out his black notebook and began to sketch. He was furious with himself for having lost his cameras; the priest’s jibe had gone home.

  Three personages stood against a dark blue background decorated with symbols. One was a grand man, bearded and clad in golden robes. Beside him was a small female whose head came up to the level of his hip. She too was dressed in gold, and wore a wimple. The man had on a golden crown, spired like a holy city, perhaps deliberately made too large for him. The third figure was of the Virgin Mary, i
n a light blue gown.

  The positioning of the figures and their mannered gestures conformed to the iconography of a civilization, the heart of which had died a century before Ghvtismshobeli’s foundations were laid. The artists entrusted with the task, scarcely begun, of covering the whole interior of the church with Biblical scenes had perforce to look back to the golden days of Byzantium, before Constantinople fell to the Ottomans.

  As Burnell began to sketch, Kadredin came and stood at his right shoulder, purveying his familiar odor of sheep. He related how Zrze had defended his kingdom against the cruel House of Osman. It was a familiar tale of the clash of faiths, shedding of blood, courage and betrayal. There was generally a Judas in these histories—in this case, Zrze’s brother, who sided with the invaders, and later converted to Islam.

  The fresco, spotted with mold, showed Zrze holding a model of his new church. The model was being offered, with what some might interpret as a “take it or leave it” gesture, to a behaloed Virgin Mary. Clutching as she was an infant Jesus, she was placed in some difficulty as regards acceptance of the gift. Above her, stern but kindly, hovered an angel, dressed in the traditional cerecloths of angelhood.

  Not only gestures but the composition and colors employed had been formulated in an earlier age. Burnell was moved by the fresco, by its naivety and sophistication. He had long admired the endeavors of the Eastern Church to portray what it regarded as the Infinite, while at the same time giving local potentates their worldly due.

  And this local potentate, Zrze, struggling to retain control of his tiny state, had been gobbled up by the vaster forces of the House of Osman. Few recalled the name of Zrze; the world still spoke the name of his adversary, Suleyman I, the Magnificent.

  “Some ikons were here, sir, some sent from distant lands. All were stolen, like your cameras.”

  “Including the Madonna of Futurity?”

  “Whatever that may be. Yet one precious thing remains. The documents of the religious foundation. I’ll show you.”