Azazeel (5 page)

‘Yes, reverend father, it is Bishop Augustine’s book. These are the first and second parts of it, because he has not yet completed the book.’

‘I know, Hypa, I know, but I’m surprised it has reached you here.’

‘Reverend father, the pilgrims bring with them all things new and old, and they give me books sometimes, and sometimes I buy books from them, but this book is not quite new, because the
first part is dated the year 413 of the birth of our Saviour Christ, and that is more than ten years ago.’

He asked me if I knew how to tell when the book was written, and out of deference I said no. I asked him to do me the honour of telling me. He turned towards me, his smile yet more radiant with
divine grace. He told me of events of which I knew but had never connected. In summary, he said, ‘Augustine is a holy man and no previous African bishop has been the like of him. Perhaps no
one of such virtue and high-mindedness ever lived in the city of Hippo. But he joined the service of the Lord late, after spending most of his life as a soldier and fighting many wars. In the year
410 of the Glorious Nativity, the war took place in which Rome famously fell to the Goths, even if they did not destroy the city as was expected of them. Rome, as you know, is the capital of the
universe and the city of the world. If the world falls, the heavens rise! In exchange for the fall of the city of man, the glory will be to the city of God. After deep thought in the three years
which followed the temporary fall of Rome, he wanted to declare that it was fallen for ever. He declares in the title of his book that the city of God will never fall, unlike the city of man which
is of necessity ephemeral. He also wanted to absolve Christianity of the ignorant accusation that it caused the terrible fall of Rome.’

Then he asked me about the rest of my hidden treasure, and I took out the bag in which I keep Egyptian texts. He began to ask me the titles of the books and Coptic papyrus scrolls, and sometimes
I would answer him before he even asked me. After looking long at the Coptic translation of the
Maymar of the Holy Family’s Journey
, written by Bishop Theophilus the Alexandrian,
Nestorius looked distressed and suddenly was lost in thought for I know not what reason. To bring him out of his reverie, I said, ‘
The Maymar of the Holy Journey
is well known in
Egypt. Have you seen the Greek original, father?’

‘I have seen it, but Hypa, I wonder at the audacity of that bishop. How can he tell stories about the Blessed Virgin Mary, and describe her and cite her words, based only on his claim that
he saw her in a dream? Ha, we don’t need that. What is this old Coptic scroll and what are these fine images drawn on it?’

Silently I thanked the Lord for steering the conversation away from the subject of Bishop Theophilus and his book, because I grew anxious, and I still do, whenever I hear mention of the bishops
of Alexandria. Hurriedly I answered Nestorius’s last question. ‘Nothing, father, it’s the Book of Going Forth by Day, which tells of the Day of Judgement and how the dead should
testify for themselves in the presence of God, according to the ancient Egyptian belief, and those are pictures of the old gods, very old gods.’

‘Extraordinary pictures, and who is this man holding the potter’s wheel?’

‘They call him Khnum, father, the god Khnum. The ancients believed he formed mankind from clay, then Amun blew into the clay to give man life. An ancient belief, father, an ancient
belief.’

‘Khnum, strange name. Does it remind you of anything, Hypa?’

‘Yes, it does remind me of things, but how did you know, reverend father?’

‘From your troubled heart. In fact I can see you are about to cry.’

Telling secrets has never been my practice, nor has trusting anyone. But that night I went and told Nestorius about the temple of the god Khnum which receives the flow of the
Nile at the southern tip of Elephantine Island in southern Egypt, near Aswan. I told him about the archaic aura of reverence and sanctity which diffused for centuries through the temple and its
compound. I told him about my father and how he used to take fish every other day to the sad priests who had lived entrenched within the temple for years, under siege, grieving that their religion
was dying out with the spread of belief in Christ. My father would take me in his boat whenever he visited the temple, to offer the priests half of the fish his nets had caught over the past two
days. We would go to the temple secretly at dawn.

I could not help but weep when I described to him the terror of that dreadful dawn, when I was nine years old. The ordinary Christians had lain in wait for us at the southern quay, close to the
gate of the temple. They were hiding behind the rocks before the boat docked, then they rushed towards us like spectres fleeing from the bowels of hell. Before we had a chance to recover from the
shock of seeing them, they were upon us from their hiding place nearby. They pulled my father from his boat and dragged him across the rocks to stab him to death with rusty knives they had hidden
beneath their ragged clothes. I snarled, cowering in the corner of the boat to defend myself. But my father was defenceless, and as they stabbed him he cried out for help to the god he believed in.
The priests of Khnum took fright at the sounds which broke the silence and lined up on the temple wall, watching what was happening below them in dread and confusion. They raised their arms in
imprecation to their gods and cried out for help. They did not realize that the gods they worshipped had died long ago and no one would hear their fearful prayer.

‘Poor thing, and did the mob come close to you that day?’

‘I wish they had killed me so I could be at rest for ever. No, father, they did not come so close. They looked at me like wolves that have had their fill, then came to the boat, grabbed
the basket of fish and threw it at the temple gate, which was firmly closed. They carried my father’s mangled body and threw it on top of the basket. His blood and flesh, and the fish,
mingled with the dust of the earth which was no longer holy. Then the thrill of victory and vengeance took possession of them and they shouted out and raised high their arms, stained with my
father’s blood. Holding the rusty bloodied knives in their hands, they began to gesture at the terrified priests on the wall. They cheered and exulted, as they sang the famous hymn:
‘Glory be to Jesus Christ, death to the enemies of the Lord, glory be to...’

I began to sob and Nestorius stood up and put his arm around me. I was cowering just as I did the first time, the time when he sat next to me, patted me on the head and made the sign of the
cross several times on my brow. He kept repeating, ‘Calm down, my child.’ Then he said, ‘My child, our life is full of pain and sin. Those ignorant people wanted salvation on the
old basis of oppression for oppression, and persecution for persecution, and you were the victim. I know your pain was great and I feel it. May the merciful Lord bestow on us His compassion. Arise,
my child, and let us pray together the prayer of mercy.’

‘What use will prayer be, father? He who died is dead and will not return.’

‘Prayer will avail, my child, it will avail.’

I heard Nestorius’s voice tremble. When he raised his bowed head from his chest, I saw that tears were running into his beard and that his eyes were inflamed and red from grief. Pain
filled the lines of his face, reflected on his brow in the form of a deep sorrow.

‘Have I grieved you, father?’

‘No, my child, don’t worry. Arise and let’s pray.’

By the meekness of the Virgin we prayed, and we prayed long until dawn came to paint the black of the sky a deep blue. As we sat in silence right after praying, I could hear from afar the
crowing of cocks and the twittering of the birds which sleep on the branches of the trees in the courtyard of the church. Nestorius broke our silence by inviting me to go outside with him and walk
around the church wall. ‘May we receive,’ he said, ‘some of the mercies of the Lord at this blessed dawn.’

Between the first break of daylight and the time when the morning sun had spread across the ground around us, we walked twice around the large space within the walls of the
church. Then we went to the opposite side, where the houses are clustered together as if for safety. The morning sun is troubling to those who have stayed up all night – as I have long seen
and felt – and I still suffer from it on most days. In rhythm with our leisurely step Nestorius told me some of his childhood memories from the town of Marash, some of the events of his youth
in Antioch, stories about him and his master Theodore of Mopsuestia and other things that had happened to him in the course of his life. On that Jerusalem day that inadvertently brought us
together, Nestorius was forty-one years old. Of course I will not say now what he told me about himself that day, because it would not be right to write that down, and I know that he told me what
he told me only to cheer me up, trusting me with secrets that had nothing to do with me and which I could not possibly disclose here.

After we had finished our second turn around the walls and were heading towards the houses, I saw from afar people beginning to stir about their usual daily business. I noticed three deacons of
Antioch waiting for us at the door to my locked room, looking around anxiously. When we reached them, Nestorius said goodbye to me and went off with them towards their lodge. But first, with a
smile laden with the burdens of our long night, he said, ‘You may join us today at lunchtime, and if you cannot, I will meet you in the church courtyard at the ninth hour of the day,’
meaning in the afternoon when we say the last of the daytime prayers.

I went back to my room so completely exhausted that I almost fell asleep at the door. When I was inside I collapsed on my bed, and slept a deep sleep with no dreams. At noon the clamour of
visitors at the door of the church awoke me and I stood up, my body heavy and my soul drained. With unsteady steps I made my way towards the jar of water, took a listless drink, then washed my face
with drops of water which I poured into the palms of my hands. When I half-opened my window, the light poured in and filled the corners of my soul with its sudden radiance. I was reorganizing the
treasures hidden under my bed when a gentle knocking on the door disturbed the calm, and I heard a call I had grown accustomed to in those times: ‘Father, physician monk.’

It was an Arab man dressed like a merchant, come to report to me that he had a cataract in his left eye two years earlier and now he was losing the sight in his right eye, because the water in
his eyes was not staying together in one spot so that it could be drawn off through a thin tube. I gave him a powder and told him to use it as a poultice and come back in two months. In two months!
I wonder, did the man come back two months later and find me gone?

That day the Arab man asked me how much he should pay and I told him the usual, ‘The Lord will reward me, but if you want you can give something as a donation to the church.’ The man
thanked me and tried to kiss my hand, then left. When I closed the door behind him, I reverted to my inner world full of the worries of a lonely man and the sudden flashes of light which would come
upon me without warning. I finished off sorting out my books and scrolls and arranged them under my bed as they were. When I had organized the meagre belongings in my room, I went out in the early
afternoon into the courtyard of the church.

The weather was not hot but I took shelter in the shady corner. In my usual place on the right side of the courtyard, beyond the big door, I leant the back of my head against the leafy tree
which was my favourite there. I felt as weary as a traveller back from a long journey. I closed my eyes and began to fantasize that the tree and I had become one. I felt my soul slip out of my
ribcage and infiltrate the trunk of the tree, then plunge deep into the roots of it and push on up into the high branches. My being swayed with its leaves, and when some of them fell from the
branches a part of me fell with them. At the time I remembered the fragments of Pythagoras I had read in Akhmim, where he says that in a momentary flash he remembered many of his previous lives,
including one life in which his spirit was a tree. I wanted to become a tree like this one forever, a tree that gave abundant shade but did not fruit, so that no one would throw stones at it, but
that people would love for its shade. This is a dry country and the aridity is severe, and if I became this tree I would take pity on those seeking my shade, and my shade would be a solace I would
give them without recompense. I would be a refuge for the weary, not a temptation to those seeking fruit. That day I prayed with the fervour of someone who is far from home, and far from himself,
and I called on the Lord within me. ‘My merciful Lord, take me to You now, and save me from my ephemeral body. Have I not lodged my soul in this beloved tree and come closer to perfection,
for every midday I take pity on the pilgrims who visit this sacred spot, pilgrims purged of sin through your light. In winter I will wait for Your love of the world to fall as rain, and every
morning breathe in the dewdrops which the cold of the night brings to me, and nothing will divert me from singing the praises of Your heavenly glory. Trees are purer than mankind, and love God
more. If I became this tree, I would spread my shade over the wretched.’