At length he pulled open the heavy door, came out on the porch, scratched at his beard, squinted at the sun. I saw the chain, steady, at his neck, the stone infused with violet light.
The person who wanders a lot knows a lot, I called, loud enough to catch his attention.
Oh? he said, coming over to where I squatted in the dirt. He bound his shirt, secured his prize from view.
I grinned. You are a traveller. By the dust on your cloak and the tread torn from your boots, I can trace your long path from there to here. I too was a traveller. My kin moved west, but I stayed.
Why?
Because you have come east.
He gave a small snort, turned to his companion and shook his head, thought me mad no doubt but of little consequence. He need only stay till I had told.
The person who wanders a lot knows a lot, I repeated.
I am too old to travel, he said, looking back toward the church. And there is nought that I know.
Nay. You are but weary! Much hard work, many sad sighs and a sea of bitter tears have been your lot. Stay, I said, patting the hard dust by my mat. Stay a while and I will tell you of other ways to use your hands than to carry a pilgrim’s staff.
What seek you, Lady?
Lady! Most call me hag or witch if they call me anything at all.
The blood of the blacks and the blood of the whites is red just the same. Nevertheless, what do you seek?
To tell of what I have seen.
You want to tell my fortune?
Pah! I am no false prophet who uses her own tongue! And spat the words back at his feet. What I tell comes from the grace of heaven, written plain as day in the marks on your hand.
Here, I crooned, give me your hand, let me read the map of your life. And taking it, I felt all the suffering it held. But love, deep beneath, that I felt too. Yes, in some place within, love still dwelt.
With a shrug, his companion dropped to the dirt at his side. Now I could take my time, read the signs, past present future. Tell him of all I had seen.
Wholly awake or asleep, a desire stirs you. I feel the gift in you, it hums and shimmers in your hand like the duende of a dancer –
It is alright! I hastened as he tried to tug away. I know the duende – I too know the daimon’s spirit which rises up and sets the feet to spin or the voice to cry out in deep song. It knocks. Loud, louder still, does it not? You feel it knock? There will be no peace until you surrender, until you bring her to your dance.
I smiled and repeated: The duende knocks.
He watched me closely.
You are a writer, I said, weaving words between lands. Your duende knocks loud in your hand to write from the book of your heart, the most sacred land of all.
I have no truck with words, he said. His eyes seemed to bore through mine, so certain was he.
But you must! I said in my own certainty. The time has now come to dance with your duende and bring forth what is written on your heart.
Did you not hear me, woman? No words will I again write!
I sighed and pointed to the palm of his hand, traced a finger across the grit trapped in its creases and folds, tried to explain this great thing to him another way.
The duende within you seeks release. As the wind works upon sand, so must you write. Only then will you find peace, when you bring her to your dance.
Her?
Yes. Her.
He shook his head. You talk in riddles. And he tried to leave my side.
Ah, I may be old, I may be wizened, but there is strength in doing the Lady’s work. I held fast to his wrist, looked into his eyes. There I saw only too well that he understood my message.
For the sake of love, I pleaded, do as you are commanded!
Who commands him, woman? said the man at his side.
I turned and saw the good in his companion despite the harsh tone, saw his concern for a brother in need.
His soul commands him, I said. His soul which is bound to the Lady’s.
Oh, how the Sad One winced! Well did he deserve to be called El Crucio! As if a nail had been pounded into his flesh, a Roman sword thrust deep in his side.
Shhhh. I hushed his pain, stroked softly his palm. You will be stirred by love to do this work, to dance with the duende. It is a destiny you cannot deny. It will bring you peace. And peace to all who read your work.
Yet the anguish as he wrenched his hand from my grasp –
Never! he cried and stood up swift. Never! he said and strode away. I will never write again!
His friend breathed deep, threw a few coins into my bowl, rose wearily to his feet. Yet stayed long enough to hear the last of my words.
There are other ways to write, I said.
Song of the Monk
Five
Long years have I dwelt on the isle of Candia tending a garden of the spirit. Long years have I spent in witness of the Lord’s unerring hand which guides the work of His servants. But my story concerns one who taught me what I feigned to already know, but until I saw how he was moved by Grace had never really understood.
We begin on a day of summer sun and citrus scent, a morning on which I visited the market at Rocca al Mare with a novice. We moved between the various merchants lining the street by the jetty and I directed the lad in his purchases while greeting all manner of people of the town.
As I hailed in fine voice a wealthy patron, a donkey laden with sacks passed between us and blocked him from view. Once passed, my quarry was nowhere to be seen but another man, it seemed, had heard and acknowledged my greeting as his own.
He stood on the other side of the street, fair and gaunt, wrapped in a threadbare cloak. And as I stared at the man, his sad countenance draining my heart of joy, he nodded, crossed the street to where I stood and bowed.
Master, he said.
To say I was taken aback does not describe the half of it, nor the reaction of the companion who quickly reached his side. Yet when we returned to the monastery on the main town square from the stalls by the harbourside, my novice had willing arms to share his load while the man in search of a master walked at my side, hands hidden in the folds of his cloak and eyes downcast as if he had already taken holy orders.
I called for tea and fruit, then bade them wait in my chamber till noonday prayer was concluded. But he could not sit still, so I suggested they enjoy the sunshine of the cloister garden. And left him pacing the paths while his friend sat at the fountain’s edge, peacefully trailing his fingers in her sweet waters.
We agreed that first day they could join the employ of the Brotherhood of Agia Aikaterini in return for supper and lodgings. God knows I needed willing workers to tend the fields, assist the harvest, and they were assigned to the monastery of Agios Georgios in the fertile valley of Messara to the south. As far as I knew, they slept in the barn, tended the animals, worked the olive press, threshed the grain.
Some weeks later I had occasion to undertake the journey there myself. As abbot, it was my task to sit with Father Lazarus and review the state of the crops and our likely position come end of season. The quantum of stores we could despatch to our desert brothers in Sinai depended on detailed calculations. And, as was my wont, I broke the journey at Agios Antonios before continuing next morning, the time spent on a donkey’s swaying back a generous opportunity for prayer.
After passing the last scattered hamlet of the region, I scaled a fine ridge, stopped to enjoy the vista spread before me like a feast laid out on a child’s picnic rug. I spied the monastery on its broad terrace lower down, its katholikon a fine cruciform. Stepped rows of grape surrounded the outer walls, drifted into groves of nut and olive, gave way to rippling meadows of grain, and further still, evergreen pasture. Mountains stood at my back and, some miles distant, the vastness of sea afore. By God’s grace and papal intercession we sustained this earthly paradise.
The sun’s ruddy set far behind the horizon drew me down across the hillside where I saw men in the fields. I hailed
the Sad One who stood taller and fairer than his fellows. As before, he came to me and called me Master.
Why do you address me thus? I grumbled, dissembling myself from the donkey’s rough hide.
Because I would be taught, he said and knelt before me.
Rise brother. Do you wish me to hear confession? Or do you want to join our holy order?
I wish only to be taught what I know not.
By this stage his companion, the one they called Albaro, had joined us, sunburned, sweat-soaked, scythe in hand. He looked from me to him and back again but could make no more sense of his friend’s words than I.
I shook my head into this void and said: If Father Lazarus can spare you some days, come to Candia and we can discuss further the meaning of your cryptic request.
I too shall come, Albaro said with some force, at which I raised an eyebrow but held my tongue.
A day came when I received news of their arrival for spiritual instruction. I was still much perturbed by this turn of events. Of course my task is to nurture novices with the waters of spiritual life. Once a sapling knocks upon the door of our order, we plant him in the house of the Lord, accompany his growth, witness his bearing of fruit in the world and trust that it guides him into the next. Like young cypresses reaching to the sky, our novices strive upward, growing ever more slender as they rise.
But these two? The Sad One some years my junior, Albaro a like age to my own. How could I nurture already hardened wood, pitted and gnarled by the sins of decades? Sighing, I put away my ledgers and left the office for the courtyard fountain.
Once more Albaro trailed his fingers in the cool waters, lost in thought, while the Sad One stood at the far end of the yard before the open door of the studio of the Master of Itanos.
He is away at present, I said, joining him. But we still prepare the boards for his return.
May I? he asked, stepping into the workshop.
Two novices stood at a bench, busy with their labour to reinforce wooden panels, paste strips of woven linen onto the boards’ smoothed faces, mix marble dust, water and hide glue into a heavy cream, and apply thin layers of this gesso to the cloth. The Sad One watched, fascinated.
Many coats of gesso are needed before the surface can be sanded, polished and ready for paint, I remarked. Only then can the master write.
Write? he said, and turned to me with furrowed brow.
It is a specialised skill to write the unchanging Truth, I said. But this did nothing to alter his expression. I tried again. Theodore the Stoudite said that whatever is marked on paper with ink is marked on the icon with various pigments. As in painting so in poetry, the image is what first appears. We do not speak of painting an icon, but writing an icon.
I smiled. Think of it as silent poetry. An icon is a window through which we make the connection, through which we are drawn into communion with divine reality. It speaks an eternal language. The iconographer is simply a scribe, a translator, taking dictation from the mouth of our Lord. Once the window is opened –
But he had turned away, walked to where a platter of gold leaf stood ready among dishes of powdered pigment.
Gold represents the radiance of heaven, I said, following him. Its light is pure, eternal. Red bespeaks divinity, blue our humanity. White is the uncreated essence of God. The language is exact and must be followed to the letter. What is written cannot vary from scripture.
I pointed to a line of manuscripts on the shelves above the bench. We have rubrics that prescribe how to write. The symbolism of everything from hairstyle to clothing to background detail is recorded in these manuals.
Yet his gaze did not follow the direction of my hand. Instead he lifted a sable-haired brush, touched its softness to his cheek, and stood silent in this place of holy praxis.
I found him one day in the chapel holding a candle close to a panel of the holy Catherine. Rather than concentrating on his prayers, he circled the walls, the cycle of frescoes documenting the life of our saint and her martyrdom.
Your style is very different from what is produced in the West, he said.
I chuckled, drawing him away from the gloom of the nave into the broad light of late afternoon. Do not forget what preceded our church. Our forebears prayed to pagan gods before stone statues. From the beginning Byzantium abhorred the glorifying of flesh. Our practice is to emphasise the divine nature of spirit. We write icons to convey holiness rather than humanity.
But you are beholden to the Doge. How can they tolerate your faith and alternate rites?
Again I laughed. Our landlords are Venetians first and Roman Catholics second. Reaping taxes from our workshops is a fair enough exchange for them to overlook the small matter of faith. Nevertheless, I conceded, we do hold papal documents to guarantee our rights. Our monastery in Sinai accepts pilgrims from all faiths. Each one needs to be fed and housed. Without our bounty, sand would be the sum of their sustenance.
Have you been there? asked Albaro as we joined him at the fountain.
I shook my head. No, but some of the brothers move between the two communities. I have heard tell that it is fortified against banditry. And that it rests in a wilderness hewn of granite and little else. Yet for many centuries, since the time of Justinian, it has been a place of sanctuary. And for that we give thanks.
In offering spiritual instruction in our rites, he shared with me some of his own learning thus far, and showed me a manuscript he had tried to study.
I read the text through, nodded, smiled, and could well envisage the heavy cloud which stood between him and his desire.
How conscious are you of your sin?
Conscious, he said. And more.
Then do not keep searching the stinking fen of the past, but hang your love on this cloud of unknowing as the text instructs. Stretch up your soul to heaven’s gate as Christ’s body stretched out upon the Cross.
I saw him wince and said: While you dwell in mortal flesh, ever will you feel a burden. But surrender to it, melt to water, allow yourself to be cleansed. It is not impossible.
My words did no good. He was restless even in quietude and shared not the peace of mind of Albaro meditating beside the cloister fountain. Oh, but this did not mean the Sad One did not try. Indeed he strived beyond all striving!
Yet memorising text, reciting prayers? It did not help. Ever did his pain intrude. An affliction which clutched at his throat and strangled his ability to even describe what assailed him. To draw him into conversation about the nature of his suffering was like a struggle with a lame mule, unpleasant for both and exhausting in the extreme, his lips clamped tight beyond a bone-bare three words.
I seek release.
There was nothing for it and I disclosed the remedy with as much dispassion as I could muster, like a doctor who must remain detached from his prognosis, no matter how bitter the pill for his patient to swallow.
I sighed. Your teacher is none other than the Lord himself. He your true master, no intermediary will do, I nor anyone else. You must learn to drink from your own well, to taste the living waters of the spirit.
In all firmness I communicated his task: You must go into the wilderness, confront your arid wasteland a full forty days and nights. You seek release? There you shall find release. Face your sickness, defeat it, or succumb.
Oh! How Albaro stormed in protest. He is not strong enough, he wailed at me. We will lose him!
He turned to his friend and said: Brother, heed not the abbot’s words, for although he means well, he knows you not as I and has not stood by you these long years! Forty days and nights locked alone in your pain? This you could not bear!
The Sad One pressed his fingers into Albaro’s well-meaning arm. I can avoid Truth no longer, he said. This struggle must end, one way or another. This living death must end.
At that time, there was no space in the monastery suitable for his retreat. Indeed we had no room at the inn. Yet I did not want to send him to Father Lazarus. I felt a physician’s responsibi
lity to keep the patient close and monitor his progress. So suggested the small sleeping chamber on the far side of the cloister yard most latterly inhabited by the iconographer’s apprentice. The two had been on a journey to Constantinople these past weeks, their return not anticipated for some months more.
The room was bare, save for a small cot on one side, a single candleholder, a wall niche in which some remnants of trade languished, and a small icon of St Catherine above the bedhead. I offered that a novice sweep it out before he entered, but he refused.
It is of no consequence, he said. We all return to dust at end. My return is simply earlier than most.
For the first and last time I saw Albaro embrace him, a hug of supreme depth and compassion, before he returned to Agios Georgios to spend the next forty days in lonely toil.
The Sad One entered the cell with a bowl of evening repast, a jug of clean water, his Bible, a fresh candle. Each day a ration would be left upon the barred sill of his window but we could do no more. He must be alone with the Alone, it was time that he and his God reconciled.
The smaller the space, I told him as I stood in the doorway, the greater the landscape the spirit may wander.
He nodded and I counselled further: In your meditation, wrap and enfold your intention in one word. Use only a short word, of one syllable.
Again he nodded from within the gloom.
Fasten this word to your heart. Whatever comes to pass, let it be your shield and your spear. Beat on the cloud of unknowing above you, beat on the cloud of forgetting below you. Always, only, with this word. And I shared with him the wisdom of St Denis:
In divine darkness, there will be no voice. All will be united with that which is unspeakable.
Your word is the candle which illuminates the dark, I said, like a firefly its cave. You have your word? I prompted. Your light in the dark?
His reply barely a breath, but its sound still floated toward me from the sanctuary of his tongue.
Six
The Sad One took into his retreat no other sound than a whispered breath from the parched chamber of his heart. A great loneliness, of silent suffering rendered mute by thick walls, thus began. I closed and locked the door, withdrew my eyes from the fragments, all that remained of a dying soul.
The Taste of Translation Page 20
