Jonathan Rabb - The Book of Q

“Nice climb,” Pearse finally said. “I suppose you must make the trek quite often,” he added, dabbing his neck and shoulders.

The monk breathed heavily before answering. “Maybe twice in the last six months. It’s not something I look forward to.”

“You don’t get out much, do you?”

“Get out much? I don’t understand.”

“Well, if you’ve left only twice-”

“Oh, I see what you mean,” he said, the smile returning to his face. “Dominic obviously didn’t explain. I’m not a Brother of Photinus. My home is the Great Lavra,” he added, giving a quick flick of a finger somewhere off to the east, “the second oldest on the mountain, a mere babe compared to this one. We go back only as far as 963. But Photinus, well, it’s been around since-what is it, Dominic, 384, 85? No one’s quite sure.” He returned to the water.

“Not my period,” Andrakos answered.

“Always the best excuse,” said Pearse, Angeli’s smile appearing in front of him.

Andrakos started to respond, then stopped.

Gennadios laughed. “You’ve actually shut him up with that one. I must remember it.”

Pearse waited for Andrakos’s smile, then asked, “So it’s all right for us to be here?”

“Well, I wouldn’t have made that trip with you if I weren’t sure,” said Gennadios.

“All of the monasteries have a kind of open-door policy with one another,” Andrakos explained. “If you and I had walked in here alone, we’d be in a lot of hot water right now. As long as we’ve got the bearded one with us, they know it’s okay. I’ve actually never been to Photinus myself.”

“Five, six hundred years ago,” added the monk, “that wouldn’t have been the case. Now, with fewer than two thousand of us scattered among the monasteries, we’ve let things loosen up a bit.”

“Without this one here”-Dominic placed an overly enthusiastic hand on Gennadios-“I wouldn’t have been able to see half the archives I’ve needed for my work.”

“And with this one,” the monk nodded, taking Andrakos’s hand from his shoulder, “you’ve managed to get me in all sorts of trouble with half the abbots on the mountain. Brother Timotheos at Stavronikita still isn’t talking to me.”

“That’s because he’s taken a six-month vow of silence.” Andrakos laughed.

“It’s still no excuse.”

Pearse laughed as well, the sound echoing throughout the empty courtyard. It seemed to prompt movement from one of the far buildings, a strange aggregation of striped archways topped by a maroon attic with gabled roof. A small figure appeared from a side door, another black cassock gingerly making its way across. He seemed to glide across the flagstone.

“I see you made it without too much trouble,” he said as he neared them, catching Gennadios in middip, the larger man spinning around and at once pulling the diminutive monk into his barrel chest, an embrace that would have gotten the better of a man twice his size. Still, the little monk held his own.

“You need a bath” were his first words as he disentangled himself from the bear hug. “And our fountain won’t do.” The two laughed.

“It’s good to see you, too,” said Gennadios as he stood to make the introductions. “Professor Seldon, Dominic Andrakos, this is Brother Nikotheos, librarian of St. Photinus, and a man with a finely tuned nose.”

There was an almost feminine quality to his face, delicate olive-shaped eyes, soft white skin amid the wrinkles. Even his beard seemed to soften its texture. His hands, however, betrayed his years, browned and bony. Pearse guessed Nikotheos to be somewhere in his early seventies. “We don’t usually allow guests to arrive after the second meal-in fact, we don’t usually have guests at all-but Gennadios explained your work on Ambrose. I wasn’t aware he’d ever made the trip.”

“I guess that’s what I’m here to find out.” Pearse smiled.

“Yes.” It was clear he’d expected a bit more by way of explanation. When none came, he nodded to the little group and said,“Well, let’s get you to your rooms, perhaps a quick tour. It’s late for us.”

Pearse’s was the last of the cells they came to, more of the flagstone, stark white walls, a small desk and iron bedstead below a single window. The glass panes were pulled open, the smell of minted olives in the air.

As he had done for Gennadios and Dominic, the monk retrieved two bowls from the shelf by the door, one filled with dried fruit and nuts, the other with rose-scented loukoumi , the Greek version of Turkish delight. He placed them on the desk.

“In case you get hungry during the night. We’re up before the sun, first prayer at four.” He turned to go, then stopped. “Oh, I meant to ask-are you Orthodox or heretic?”

It was a question Pearse had hoped to avoid. He knew that the few non-Greek Orthodox they permitted on the mountain were generally of the harmless tourist variety. Those who wished to see the manuscripts were put to far greater scrutiny. Too long a history of disappearing documents, miraculously reappearing in the British Library and the Vatican, had made the monks justifiably wary. Their distrust of Catholics verged on mania.

“I’m a Catholic,” Pearse responded.

“Oh, I see.” Nikotheos’s expression remained unchanged. “How sad for you.” Again, he moved to the door, then stopped. “I wouldn’t make that public knowledge. Several of the brothers feel quite strongly about it, the abbot included.” A smile. “But we’ll make sure you get to see the manuscripts. I’d love to find out how Ambrose ties in with us here.” And with that, he was out the door, pulling it shut behind him.

Pearse tossed his pack onto the bed and stepped to the window, a light mist having settled in the last few minutes. Such was the whim of mountain air. It hung on the upper reaches of the buildings, the moon lost behind it. Even so, he could see the monastery stretch out in front of him, the slope of the mountain giving his third-floor cell a near-panoramic view.

It was far bigger than he had imagined, wide pockets of open area extending up to unseen distances, all of them surrounded by a wide assortment of fifteen centuries of architectural evolution. Closer in to his right, the fountain continued its endless trickle of water, the patter echoing in soulful meter; only the occasional brush of leaves and a flapping of wings broke through the silence. As he continued to stare out, he saw Nikotheos arrive in the courtyard, the monk moving slowly, snuffing out lamps as he went. The area grew dark, save for one or two paraffin lamps glowing in the windows above, late-evening prayers, last-minute assurances.

For the most part, Pearse had little idea what lay out in the darkness. Nikotheos’s quick tour had been just that-quick. One or two of the smaller chapels, refectory, library-all in swift succession, only the last of them, he had discovered, behind locked doors.

“There was an incident at the Great Lavra a few years back,” the monk had explained. “Raiders in motorboats with guns. They stole quite a few manuscripts, gold reliquaries, even a few icons. They were caught, thank heavens, but the damage had been done, illuminations ripped out, destroyed. We keep these doors bolted at night now. Not what I would like, but what can you do?”

Pearse had been relieved to hear that the rest of the place remained open. From Angeli’s notes, he knew he’d have no need for the library and its manuscripts.

Unfortunately, that was all he knew. Little of what he now saw resembled the map she had drawn. Much had changed in nine centuries, most of the buildings fourteenth- and fifteenth-century additions, still others from the golden age of the czars, when Russian Orthodoxy had taken Athos under its protective wing. The one piece that tied the ancient Photinus to its more modern progeny was the outer wall itself, a basic triangle, the entrance doors a fixed landmark situated at the center of its base. He had to hope Angeli’s calculations were accurate enough to lead him from the fountain courtyard to the “Vault of the Paraclete,” a room somewhere within one of the more ancient buildings still standing.