The One Who Runs Away Will Fight Again
Eighteen months had passed since the arrival of Arpaxos in Mani, and the solitude that attracted him to the place was becoming complicated. He was, for the most part, glad for the quiet: before he’d escaped the city, it had become clear that most people had lost all sense of purpose or power, and in the bargain were losing what remained of their voices. Old wives like his aunt were not so easily silenced. They confidently offered up impotent proverbs and pithy wisdoms, each a self-assured attempt to toss salt back in time to correct the obvious misalignment of the planet and misunderstandings of men. He could not bear the simplistic bickering of the gray-haired, black-clad elders of the city, each of them with their metaphorical side tables over-decorated with the wreck and ruin of ancient philosophy. Wasn’t it obvious that the wisdom of the world was passing away? If the scientists could not save the species, what purpose did the old words serve? (To her credit, Tía Íno soon abandoned the annoying – and popular – debate over whose fault the plague was, and turned her proverbial attention to stirring the doomed to reverence. ‘Regard well the end of life!’)
Arpa left it all behind – his father’s rants, the widows’ judgements, the endless bickering sadness – and in the bargain he might have lost what remained of his own voice, and his connection to the human race. Leaving the city may have seemed like a choice to die hungry and alone, but he meant it as a choice to die in peace and quiet. Finding food turned out to be easy; finding peace not so much.
Little challenged his belief that he would never encounter another soul: the apocalypse was one thing, but this place had always been desolate. Until one day, after what seemed like endless days passed in isolation, and as he sat in front of the half-ruined stone shelter that leaned against the low cliff above the church, a priest approached, without ceremony, on sandaled foot, from the southeast. Arpaxos was shocked to see the man, but surprised himself by freezing in place, unable to move or talk. On a good day, on a normal day, he would be unsure of how to interact with a member of the consecrated class, or whether to do so at all. He had never really known what to say to them, or what to ask for, and today was no different in that regard. But these were different days, neither normal nor good; he questioned whether even the priests knew what to say any more. Memories of his last brush with the locals (and of his last encounter with a holy man for that matter) led him to expect at least a rebuke for squatting, if not worse.
His mind raced as the man came closer. Maybe the goat that had been keeping him in milk belonged to this one? Maybe he had news, or would enjoy a little conversation before the end of the world? Certainly, at least, he would be surprised to see that the parish population had grown from 0 to 1, defying the general trend?
But no, it seemed not. The dark-robed figure entered the chapel straightaway, and soon the sound of a monotone prayer came flat on the wind. The sound of the voice almost tore him apart: his heart fighting to escape his chest. His body nearly collapsed under the oppressive sensation that his veins were filled with lead, cold and heavy; he didn’t move. Within minutes the prayer was done and the priest hurried out of the building. Without at all adjusting his hurried posture, he raised his forearm in an awkward gesture (was it meant as a blessing?), this his only acknowledgment that there was another human being present. He never stopped walking and Arpaxos never raised his hand in reply, because the man never turned to face him.
The encounter left Arpaxos with an excruciating curiosity. He waited until the shy itinerant was a safe distance away, then quickly entered the room. Everything looked as it had before. The carbon smell of a spent match hung in the air and a thin trail of smoke rose weakly from a wick propped up in the dolma tin, but the flame had already been extinguished.
He was rattled at the intrusion, could feel, somehow, that the space itself had changed, though apparently only a single match had been lit and everything else remained undisturbed. He stood in extreme discomfort, now suddenly aware of how invested in being alone he’d become, while at the same time he was almost desperate in hope that the visit of the priest might make a difference, might compel the Almighty to finish the work of centuries, to rip the dome open and enter the derelict space. What he felt was not the right kind of change. It was now merely the scent of the man and his impotent devotion that filled the room. There was nothing else, and now he was more desperately alone.
The face on the icon caught his attention, and he thought, almost with a laugh, of course! Never really alone. He only wished he could laugh, but something stopped him, a feeling that what he wanted to turn into a joke was in truth not funny at all. The face; it appeared in this moment that the image was alert, attentive. His immediate response was to feel embarrassed, that this change in attention was not because of him, not meant for him. But changed it was, and now alert, waiting. But waiting for ... what? What was he supposed to do?
Surprised by a groan escaping his own throat, he silenced himself, tried to settle his nerves in the presence of the now activated image. But he could not settle. He was becoming angry, and had the urge to chase after the priest, to tell him that he was required back in the church. A childish thought: had the priest done something wrong? Shouldn’t the visit, the recitation, have been enough? Prayers had been spoken, a flame had been lit, the obligation fulfilled. But the eyes of the image grabbed him and insisted. Perhaps the priest had failed to acknowledge the Savior as well, had only offered a mechanical greeting, as he had outside the church ....
Stupefied, Arpaxos stood in that space with a growing heat behind his chest (of longing? Of despair?) until he decided he was a fool and, with a terrible, cold and rational resolve, rejected the feeling. He had been torn between the wish to never see another person again, and the starving desperation to look into another face. Now a painted picture seemed alive, seemed to confront him with his own willful blindness. In a seizure of febrile rebellion, he cast the image down, and tore at the eyes, scratching with his dirty fingernails, until in his pride he croaked out the words, without believing any of it, ‘Nor shalt thou make unto thee any graven image, for I am the Lord thy God!’ It then became terribly quiet.
He cursed the priest through clenched teeth, and reached his trembling fingers toward the altar, moving them through the fading trail of rising smoke.
