T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

Before Sybel could respond, a robed figure stepped up and said, “You are wishing to see my home, yes?”

Sybel seemed genuinely relieved at the invitation. “Very much.”

The monk’s beard fell in gray waves upon his chest. He offered his hand to Wynn, but only a smile to Sybel. The man’s fingers were cool and hard as the surrounding stone. “I am Father Binyamin. Where you are from, please?”

“America.”

“America. How nice. Please, you are Christian?”

Sybel answered for herself alone. “Yes.”

“You are welcome.” He gestured to the right. “I will show you our heart, our church. This way, come please.”

Sybel asked the monk as they walked, “That was not a church where we were?”

“Oh yes, is chapel. We have seven. Where we are, this is outer court. All you see here is new. Seventeenth-century church, sixteenth-century walls.”

“And that is new?”

“Here, yes. Very new.” He stepped into an alcove, pushed open a heavy door, and beckoned Sybel to enter. Sybel hesitated, which the monk found humorous. “Is safe,” the monk assured her. “All is safe within these walls.”

She ducked down and entered the passage, far thicker than it was broad. Wynn bent over, took the three steps, straightened and gasped aloud.

“Is surprise, yes? Of course, of course, Baramous Monastery is a place of many surprises. Many mysteries. Please, you come.”

The inner courtyard was ringed by walls so high Wynn felt as if he were standing inside a sky-domed cavern. The lane they walked was soft as golden flour, and broad enough for a line of poinciana trees to stand attendance down the middle, their red flowers bursting flames of color. Along one wall stretched a series of ancient doors. A sudden burst of wind hummed low and sullen overhead, hurtling great yellow spumes above the ramparts. The monk accepted the returning storm with a tiny shrug. “Do not worry, please. Our home has lived through many, many khamsin.”

As they walked, he explained, “To our left are cells for monks who come out. You understand? Like me. We see the visitors, we work with poor, we farm, we teach. Farther on are cells for those who do not come out. There is a word, yes?”

“Hermits,” Sybel supplied.

“Hermits, yes, of course. Before, they live in caves. Now, we make caves for them here.” He pointed to the open chambers lining the right-hand wall. “Here we make lime for the walls. Olive press. Grape press. Grain room. Kitchen. Wells. All this is the middle court. Ninth century, some eleventh. Mostly ninth. Here another chapel, no, we do not enter here. This way, please.”

He led them down six crumbling steps and into another deep-set alcove. He halted before a door of barred iron and parched wood, searched his robes, and extracted a ring of keys. The door was almost a foot thick but swung open with silent ease. They stepped into another world, one of impossible age.

“Saint Anthony was world’s first monk. His monastery was in Western Desert. He passes to heaven in 325. His student was Saint Baramous. He and others come here in 310. They build this home.”

Wynn stood before a limestone monolith. There were no windows on the ground level, and those higher up were mere cross-shaped slits. High overhead ran a wooden drawbridge.

“Saint Baramous is man of peace in time of war. Barbarians come here many times, attacking oasis villages of Wadi Natrum.” He pointed to the left. “This is northeast corner of monastery. This wall and this house, all fourth century. There you see our caves for hermits.”

Along the outer wall’s rim were crudely carved openings. They looked indeed like entrances to caves, set far apart and utterly isolated. The wind moaned overhead but did not enter. Here the world’s storms were not welcome. Here was only light and heat and silence beyond time.

The monk escorted them away from the hermit caves, toward a flight of stairs carved up the outer wall, steep and curved and slippery with age. “Careful here, please. Very careful.”

Sybel cast Wynn a glance full of questions, then turned and followed the monk. Wynn used both hands to search the decayed surface for holds. They followed a narrow path around the corner of the wall, until the drawbridge came into view. There they halted once more.

When the monk realized they were no longer following, he turned and laughed delightedly. “You think this bridge stands for sixteen centuries, waiting for pretty English lady and gentleman to come and fall down?”

“We’re American.”

“American, English, is making no difference to bridge. Please to come.”

When she turned and looked at him a second time, Wynn said, “Your call.”

Sybel followed the monk. The planks were warped so that Wynn could see the sandy lane far below. One railing was gone entirely. The other shivered in what wind found its way over the parapet. He chose his steps carefully and did not breathe until he reached the other side.

The monk welcomed them with benevolent humor. “When barbarians come, they are not liking bridge either. The monks pull it into long hall here, you see? They close this door, then they wait. There is well for water, there is meal for bread. One time they wait seven years.”

He led them down the narrow hall, dark save for light filtering through cross-shaped windows. His keys rattled again as he unlocked another door. “Here is the church of Saint Baramous. Our heart, our home. Please, you are welcome.”

A faint breath of wind followed them inside, as the monk walked to the nave and returned with a lighted candle. The flame weaved and beckoned, causing wall frescoes made faint by eons to come alive and bid them silent welcome. Seventeen centuries of incense perfumed the air.

The monk carried the candle back to stand before Sybel. His smile danced with the flames. “Here in the heart of our home, we may speak the truth, yes? I think you carry sadness with you.”

If she found the comment strange, Sybel made no sign. Perhaps she shivered, perhaps it was a nod. The monk seemed satisfied, for he said, “Also I think you carry a servant’s heart. The eternal lesson is hard to remember sometimes for servants. So I remind you. You can save only one person. Who is that, please?”

“Myself,” she whispered, the trembling visible now.

“Yes, is very true. We pray for others. We serve with joy. We trust in the One who can save all else. And we hold fast to His gift.” He ushered them from the chapel. “Peace. Peace now. Peace always.”

Sybel’s words rippled like wind scattering dust over the parapet. “This lesson is beyond me.”

As the monk relocked the chapel, he said, “No, Miss. No. You do not understand. So many servants, they learn only to work, to struggle. But this peace, you do not earn. Is gift . To receive, you must only do as desert teaches. Be still. Trust. Wait.”

The wind had quieted while they were inside. The sky was once again an utterly unblemished blue. They clambered along the narrow seam and descended the steps at a very slow pace. The monk smiled at Sybel, made the sign of the cross, and said, “We hunger, we thirst for the realm beyond words. This is your destiny, to drink at the eternal well.”

“I-”

“Mrs. Wells? Congressman?” A wide-eyed Nabil Saad came around the corner, leading a group of four monks. He cast astounded eyes at Father Benyamin, at the central monolith, at them. “How do you come to be here?”

“He wanted to show us.”

“No one is allowed here. No one. In all my years of visiting this place, never have I been invited.” He greeted the monk with a deep bow and words half chanted. The monk replied with a brief murmur and another sign of the cross. The monks behind Nabil smiled and chattered among themselves.