Jonathan Rabb - The Book of Q

When she finally spoke some two hours later-her voice barely a whisper-it seemed to echo throughout his entire body.

“It’s not far from here.” The sound caught him off guard, the rote motion of his legs jarred by the intrusion. He nodded and regained his pace.

Ten minutes later, she stopped. They stood at the lip of a wide patch of open land, perhaps two hundred yards in each direction, untouched as far as the eye could see. A line of shadow defined the far edge-trees, he guessed, thick wood beyond. She started out into the field, he at her side, the center of the far shadow growing taller with each step. It took him a minute to realize that there was something in the middle of the field, its outline ever clearer as they drew closer. Twenty yards from it, they stopped.

Gazing down at them was the perfect facade of a church. No dangling roof, no blown-out walls. Perfect. It was no more than three stories high, a vaulted roof with bell tower rising into the sky, its stone glistening in the moon glow. Exactly when it had been built was impossible to say. Fifty, a hundred years ago. Perhaps more. Too little had changed in the way the men of Bosnia built their churches to make an accurate guess. Weathered was the best one might do. Tucked in at the center stood two large rectangular doors, rusted iron rings on each. Petra made for the one on the right, Pearse a few steps behind her.

The inside had not fared as well. Shafts of moonlight poured in from several rows of glassless windows, enough to see that the pews had long ago been ravaged for firewood, the stone floor strewn with bits and pieces unworthy of plunder. As with anything roofed in the region, piles of straw lined the walls, vestiges of onetime tenants, though the most popular routes of escape had drifted farther and farther from the church, thus releasing it from any obligation of sanctuary. A large iron chandelier hung at center, empty sockets, glints of glass below the only remnants of long-ago-shattered bulbs. A second, smaller lamp swung above the altar at the far end, its long link chain twisting in the air from some unseen draft. Above it, segments of the phrase “Benedictus qui venit” were chiseled in thick block letters.

The overall structure of the church, however, remained unscathed, a few chipped pieces of brick and stone here and there, but little else in the way of damage.

“No one comes here anymore,” she said, “not even the refugees.” She had found something on the ground and was trying to make it out in the ivoried light.

“Incredible that it’s survived.” He’d begun to slide his fingers along the wall, cold, smooth stone with a hint of moisture.

“Not so incredible. Destroying it would be sacrilege.”

“‘Sacrilege’?” The word seemed strangely out of place. “That didn’t stop them in Prjac.”

She tossed the piece back to the floor. “That was a Catholic church. Those, they take pleasure in destroying.”

“And this is an Orthodox one?” he asked, pointing to the inscription above the altar. “With the Benedictus etched in stone? I don’t think so.”

“No, this part is Catholic.” She saw the confusion on his face. “It’s the foundations that are a little unusual. Underneath us is an old Orthodox church, most of it destroyed in the time of the last Turks. Enough of it survives, though, to keep it holy ground. Under that, the remains of a mosque from the time of the Bogomils, also holy. All in layers, one on top of the other. The perfect model for how we used to live. Now, destroy one, destroy them all. Sacrilege for whoever fires the rocket.”

Before he could reply, she was making her way toward a small archway at the far left of the altar. He fell in behind her as she disappeared down a narrow set of stairs, the white stone spiraling into darkness.

The light quickly vanished. Hands against the wall, he moved cautiously down the steps, the sound of her in front of him just enough to give his groping some direction. Once or twice, the steps narrowed, breaking his rhythm. He would stop, toe his way forward for a few steps, then continue on.

“Watch your head.” She was farther along than he expected, her voice a good fifteen feet beyond but only slightly below him. He guessed there were only a few steps left, and placed his hand directly in front of him. It was then that he remembered his shoulder, a momentary twinge from the tightened muscle. He had no time for it as his fingers met stone and began to trace the curve of an archway, his feet finding ground at the same instant. He ducked under his hand and continued to move slowly, his eyes growing more and more accustomed to the darkness, bits of wall and floor taking shape.

His victory was short-lived, as a bright light suddenly flooded the area in front of him, its source a flashlight in her hand.

Shielding his eyes from the glare, he noticed the walls were of a different color here, whiter, with more texture. And whereas the cut of each stone had been precise and rectangular in the church above, here they were large irregular slabs that undulated from side to side and top to bottom. The ceiling was no more than seven feet high, its smooth surface and neat brickwork a clear indication of its Catholic lineage above, an intrusion over the small Orthodox chapel in which they now stood. Nothing in the space, however, hinted at its onetime religious calling, save for a few fragments of inscription along the top of each wall, the letters Cyrillic, the words too far gone to make out. More straw, a torn blanket.

“I keep this here,” she said, balancing the flashlight on a clump of stones. He said nothing. For almost a minute, neither said a word. Finally, she nodded. “Maybe I’ve been lucky no one takes it.” It was only then that he realized they were alone. No midnight jaunts, no explosions, no fevered walks to distract. Alone. He could see she had sensed it, too.

He remained by the wall; when he didn’t answer, she turned and pulled the hair from her face. “You’ve decided to go.”

“What?” The question caught him off guard.

“To go. Back to the States.”

He looked at her for several moments before answering. “I haven’t decided anything.”

“Time to become a priest.”

Again he said nothing.

“You don’t have to explain,” she added, now more tender. “I’d go, too, if I could.”

“Really?” His tone was dismissive. “No, you wouldn’t. None of you would.”

“And because of that, you think you should stay? Because we have no choice.” She shook her head. “It’s not a good answer.”

“I’ve stayed because I came here for a reason.”

“The reason you’ve stayed has nothing to do with why you came here.” No anger, no reprimand. She watched as his gaze drifted from hers. “We both know that. Otherwise, you would have left a long time ago with all the other well-meaning boys who’d seen enough after two weeks. No, you stayed because you thought you were stronger than they were, that your … faith could somehow withstand more. The final test before ‘taking the plunge.’ Isn’t that what your father called it?”

He looked over at her.

“Well, my faith lost the battle with this place a long time ago.” She held his gaze. “And now, I think, you’re wondering if yours has, too. Better go before it’s too late.”

Again, the room fell silent. He wanted to answer but couldn’t. No way to defend against the truth.

After nearly a minute, he spoke: “So what do I do? Accept it?”

“No.” She paused. “I don’t know.”

Pearse leaned his head against the wall. “That’s not very helpful.”

She kept her eyes on him. “You could find something else.” She waited, then turned and crouched by the pile, readjusting the light on top, her back to him. “Maybe you already have.” Her head tilted to one side, her hair cascading to her shoulder, neck bare, half shadow, half light.