Azazeel (43 page)

My head spun for a moment and my breathing faltered. The abbot said that Bishop John of Antioch, Nestorius’s ally in his ordeal, had sent a message to the bishops and priests gathered in
Ephesus, telling them he would be a few days’ late because the journey was dangerous. ‘The trip is really perilous these days, because the sea is rough and the land route is not safe.
Bandits are active and unrest prevails everywhere,’ he said.

I began to sweat more profusely, had mysterious tremors and felt dizzy. I did not ask the abbot to elaborate but he stressed that everyone was apprehensive about what might happen in Ephesus,
and that he personally was frightened. I was so shocked by what he said that I could not answer, and I was fully convinced that the horror of the storm was on its way, because I had lived in
Alexandria for two years and in those days long ago I learnt how storms can blow up. I did not ask the abbot how the news had reached him but I did ask him if these reports of his had been
confirmed. He nodded sadly and said he wanted me to deliver to the bishop of the parish in Aleppo a letter about what was happening in Ephesus.

When the abbot uttered the word Aleppo, my mind began to wander and my head spun with questions: why was Aleppo suddenly closing in on me on all sides? The city was lying in ambush for me,
ravaging me and sweeping me away, along with everything around me. Aleppo, the city of taverns, which called out to Martha, the city that obsessed her, and obsessed me. Aleppo, the parish in
turmoil the more the fires raged in Ephesus. Or was it a message to Bishop John of Antioch? What was happening around me?

Suddenly the abbot stood up and said he would write his letter that evening and I could go off with it the next morning after mass. I asked leave to go to my room and join him an hour later in
the church. When I went out into the courtyard the monks were busy preparing for something I could not make out. I did not speak to anyone on my way to my room and my legs would hardly carry me up
the stairs. I shut the door to my room but I did not light the lamp. I sat in the darkness for a while, then lay on my back without spreading my arms along the floor. I closed my eyes and saw
Martha, not smiling. I covered my face with my arms and I saw Octavia dying. Then I saw Nestorius walking along, his head bowed, surrounded by sullen soldiers. Then I saw him alone, on top of Mount
Qusqam.

I sat up, filled with a fear the source of which I did not know. I asked myself: should I go to church now, to feel a little peace of mind? The night prayers must have started. Being in a group
would relieve the anxiety, since nothing is more conducive to fear than being alone. Or should I go to Martha’s cottage nearby and mend what was broken in our relationship, then sleep on the
floor under her bed? Does Martha sleep in the bed where we made love two days ago? Or does she lie on the floor like me? I don’t know much about her. I’ve never seen her from the
inside. In fact I’ve never seen anything from the inside. I always skirt around the surface of things and never go deep. In fact I think I’m afraid of looking deep inside myself, yet I
know the truth about my ambiguous self. Everything about me is ambiguous – my baptism, my being a monk, my faith, my poems, my medical knowledge, my love for Martha. I am one ambiguity after
another, and ambiguity is the opposite of faith, just as Satan is the opposite of God.

I had a bad night and in the pitch dark I was tormented by strange impulsive thoughts. I would have liked to go to Martha’s cottage and slip into her arms, or climb up to
the pulpit where the abbot gives his sermons to the people, spread my arms in the air, summon up my strength and fly off to Nestorius. He would be praying alone now and he would no doubt be pleased
to see me. I would have liked to go back to being a child in the old days, with a mother other than the one I had, and another father like the one that was, a large family to be proud of me
whenever I recited a new poem, two wives who loved me, one like Octavia and the other like Martha, or to be like the male mountain doves, simple and innocent, snatching a moment with whichever dove
came close, then flying off with her.

These impulsive thoughts began to pull me towards the dark core that lies within the self, leaving me at the bottom of a deep chasm from which there was no return. I felt a chill deep in my
bones. I tugged at the coarse tablecloth folded on the table and put it over my shoulders. I left my room and headed for the church, but I walked past it and did not go in. I went on with heavy
steps towards the monastery gate. The stars in the sky showed that dawn was approaching, but the darkness enveloped the universe and enveloped me. None of the Roman guards were at the gate, not
even their dog. I looked towards Martha’s cottage, haunted by impossible hopes and exaggerated fears.

I sat at the monastery gate a long while, plagued by thoughts, most of which I was too weak to resist so I let them sweep me along. I set sail to distant worlds, beyond this
world. I went back deep into past times when human suffering was unknown, times before the beginning of creation as told in the Book of Genesis. Who existed before mankind existed on earth? God,
the angels, Satan? What did they all do before we existed and they had us to worry about?

The first thread of the light of dawn appeared and at that moment I felt for the first time that I was not alone. I felt that someone could see me, from where I did not know. I don’t mean
God, but someone else close to where I was, hidden somewhere near at hand. I looked around and pricked up my ears in the hope of finding something to confirm my feeling or belie it. I told myself
it was just one of those delusions that insomniacs have after long sleepless nights. There might be a fox or a wild rabbit nearby, or a thief who had discovered that the monastery guards were
asleep most of the time.

I picked up a stone from the ground and threw it to the right, then threw other small stones in all directions. Nothing moved and all I heard was the sound of the stones as they fell on the
gravel. So it was my mind playing tricks, the effect of sleeplessness and fear of the hidden unknown. I stood up and I felt the same thing following me. I stopped in the middle of the empty
courtyard, and it stopped. I walked on in trepidation, and it walked on too. I shuddered inside.

The interior door of the church was closed, so I walked until the mysterious building stood in front of me, with the monks’ rooms on my right. I hurried to the right and climbed the stairs
to this room of mine. I closed the door firmly behind me and stayed in the darkness. I told myself: the sun will soon rise so there’s no need to light the lamp, it would be best to rest a
little because it will be a long day. Between snatches of sleep and moments of wakefulness, I felt that whatever had been with me was still there, but I was no longer afraid of sensing it, as I had
been. I was sure I had closed the door and that I was alone in the room, but sure also that there was something close by me.

‘Hypa.’

I heard the deep call and a sudden fear swept over me. Goosebumps appeared on my arms and a shudder shook me, centred in my head. The voice that called me was audible but where did it come from?
It did not come from anywhere in particular, but rather from every direction.

‘Hypa, can’t you see me?’

I looked around and could not see anything. I looked inside myself and through the filters of fear and worry I saw a pale face. Was it the young man I met on the outskirts of Sarmada? Or was it
that elegantly dressed and wily man I met on the road back to Assiut from Mount Qusqam? He had the same eyes as the man in Sarmada and the same ironic smile as the man on the road. So I was right
to be wary of them. The abbot did not believe me when I told him I had met Satan in broad daylight. Satan. Let it be, what could he do with me?

My last question to myself relieved some of my fears and brought along behind it many other questions: ‘Where could you take me, Satan, you wretch? Do you want to undermine my faith in
Christ? Or haven’t you realized that I no longer believe in the same way as I did? Will you tempt me with seductive women? Don’t you know what happened long ago with Octavia and what is
happening now with Martha? Or do you want to lure me on to the paths of heresy? What in the first place is the true faith, to which heresies might be the opposite? There could be no heresies if
there were no orthodoxy. And what is orthodoxy? Is it what they decree in Alexandria, or what they believe in Antioch? Is it the faith of the early fathers, the pious and the venerated, or is it
the pagan beliefs whose followers persecuted the early fathers, who then with time became pious and venerated?’

Questions without answers swirled inside me. ‘Is the true faith the faith of Cyril, or is it the faith of poor Nestorius, who will soon join those excommunicated before him – Paul of
Samosata, Arius the exile, Bishop Theodore of Mopsuestia. All the heretics here were revered there. All the patriarchs are discredited, except among their followers. Satan plays with everyone, so
do you think he’s now trying to play with me? Is it not enough for him to play with those preparing for war in Ephesus? And that fire he is stoking in all the churches. He is never satisfied,
can never make do with a single request. Why else would he be calling me now? Why is he always harassing me? Why did he pick a fight with me openly in Sarmada?’

His face was sharper in the darkness. I examined the features which had first appeared and found they had changed. It was no longer the elegantly dressed man with the leprous pock-marked face or
the young man I had encountered. The face had become more delicate and smaller, and now looked more like Martha’s face than anything else. I stared and then it was completely Martha, with her
sweet smile and her fine head leaning to the right as she spoke. I called her softly but the face clouded over and vanished, just as trails of smoke break up. The features lost their shape and the
image of Martha was gone. I was confused and after wandering around blindly a long while a deep sleep came over me and I no longer noticed my surroundings.

In mid-morning the abbot sent a monk to my room to find out why I had not appeared. I told him I was unwell because of the cold at dawn. In the afternoon Deacon came to check
up on me. My throat was dry and my head was ringing. I asked him for news of the ecumenical council and his brief answers aggravated my sickness.

‘They began today and the emperor hasn’t arrived yet. The carrier pigeons brought the news,’ he said.

I closed the door behind me and lay on my back in the darkness, then I curled up on the ground, bent towards the wall with my arms around my head. I was tempted to sleep but I had a recurrent
feeling that the same invisible being was with me in the room. My mind wandered and I saw Martha again, now in the form of trails of smoke which formed inside my head. I spoke to her and she did
not answer. I moved closer and she moved away. I examined her face and it changed into a face similar to my mother’s face. She moved so close to me that I could feel her breath. She did not
smell of my mother, nor of the aromatic oil which Martha wears. Everything has a smell, even stones, but what I saw had no smell. It was a face whose features slowly changed and at every moment
took on a new guise.