This is the Holy Mountain, where all the years have stopped.
He remembered. He remembered when it was the dream of every mother in his little village to send a son to Athos. He remembered the day it was announced that he too would go. He remembered their celebrations, his grandmother’s prayers, and his mother’s tears. He remembered the long walk down through the mountains and valleys, his short stay in the city, and the first smell of sea, salt, and sailors when they arrived at the port. He was a young man, and if it provided temptations, the young monk escorting him ignored it – he had business to attend to, and so on.
He remembered the first time he saw the sea: the dull brown waters of the port were slowly swallowed by the green-blue sea, and the calls of merchants faded to the cries of seabirds. He remembered the breeze blowing on his face.
He remembered their approach to Athos, seeing that mighty mountain arise from the sea like a fortress, and the faint smell, coming and going, of burning incense. Bells rang out across the deep and resounded in the ship’s hull. His escort smiled; the sailors crossed themselves.
He remembered the tales told to him a century ago when he first arrived at Athos: how St. Nicholas had appeared to two brothers and blessed their bread, feeding them for months; how his icon, thought destroyed, had been found while fishing, and how Saint Damian and Saint Cosmas had descended from heaven and healed a brother when they were left without doctors.
He remembered the countless tales of people who had been saved through the prayers of the monks, how so many portents had been given to them through the miraculous icons there, and he remembered when he had first heard talk of the invisible elders.
He remembered working with his brothers to repair a monastery on the eastern side of the peninsula which had been damaged in a storm. A ship sailed past while they were working, and he heard a woman’s voice. She was happy about something. He remembered his years spent as a hermit atop the heights of the mountain. He remembered when his tomatoes failed, and he had to go to the village to get some. That was the first time he had said a word not uttered in prayer for five years.
He remembered visiting the monastic libraries, reading Evagrius and Diadochus, Maximus and Palamas, and the Antirrhetikos and Philokalia in manuscripts written by ancient hands. He remembered books so old they could not be opened lest they fall apart - the monks indicated them with great reverence.
He remembered a pilgrim whom he had met on the path one day while walking; he asked him for healing and begged to touch his robes. He was lost in thought and embarrassed, but said he would pray for him. The man touched his robes and left.
***
He remembered a night in a storm. A few brothers had gathered to celebrate the feast of St. Athanasios the Great. They had just finished chanting the Trisagion when the storm broke. As they sang, the wind wailed, and soon it was not candlelight but lightning that illuminated the altar. Rain poured down on the little chapel and the sea churned and threw waves against the cliffs. It seemed that the sea would swallow them, or the clouds bury them. Through the mist they saw huge thunderheads when bolts of lightning bore down on the mountain.
They prayed through the night, now standing, now kneeling, now prostrated. The sounds of the many waters, the mighty beakers of the sea drowned their chanting, drowned their prayers, drowned their thoughts until the only prayer left to the brothers was the still prayer of the heart. He fell into a waking sleep.
When the warm light of the morning sun roused him, he could not remember most of the night. His brothers told him not to worry; they had performed the divine liturgy, and yes, he had taken the Eucharist. He told them that he had an urge to go the sea, to wash his face and watch the now still sea. Some of the brothers agreed, so they made their way slowly down to the shore.
The storm had left its mark on the beach: branches and old planks of wood had been washed up all along the coast; bottles, buoys, pieces of fabric, old bits of rope, fishing line, rubbish and all sorts had been thrown up along with coral, fish, and other sealife. Gulls trotted amongst them with the brothers, seeking an easy meal.
“Glory to God!” came a cry from one of the brothers further up the beach. “Glory to God! Glory – come see!” As the monk approached his brother, he saw that he held an icon, washed up with the dross of the sea.
“Glory to God!” they cried.
***
He remembered reading alone on a hillside many years later, when his beard had gone grey. A pilgrim approached him. The pilgrim bowed at the monk’s feet and said that he recognized him, that he had asked the monk to pray for him for healing, and had been healed. The monk blessed him, and they parted.
He remembered being taught the guard of the mind by an old hesychast. The old monk showed him the postures and taught him how to breathe, and led him to his mountain cell. The old man kept watch while he practiced, and when their lessons ended, he warned him of the dangers of pride.
He remembered the old monk’s death, how he lay in bed with his eyes closed. He remembered every rattly breath. Finally, he recited the prayer, smiled, and sighed.
He remembered his first months in the old monk’s mountain cell. He had no company but his thoughts, and the icons and cross that adorned the wall. At night, the waves whispered him to sleep.
He remembered that he had been praying in the pitch black, recalling the feast of St. Athanasios, when the heavens opened up before his eyes. His old teacher came to him amongst a chorus of angels, smiled, and led him to a library, burning, and an altar. He remembered being awakened by a light and voice.
He remembered when the invisible elders began to visit him, the beauty of their teaching, and how he could not contain himself and told one of his brothers. They stopped coming, and he wept bitterly.
He remembered when they returned, when he had almost killed himself fasting. He remembered their reprimands, and their teaching. He remembered being filled with light, seeing with the eye of the soul, and when the overwhelming desire to find someone with whom to share what he had learnt had first surfaced in him like unyielding fire in his heart.
He remembered visiting old monks in their cells, asking them about what he had seen, but though they were venerable, they did not understand, or he did not understand them, and his heart was full of fire. He sought out the most wizened old hesychasts, and begged them to tell him what they knew, but they did not understand him, or he did not understand them, and his heart did not know peace. He asked the young monks, the Russians, the Serbians, the Romanians. He listened to their discourses for days, followed their practices, humoured their speculations, their recommendations, and their reprimands. But he did not understand them, nor they, him, and his heart he felt no peace.
He resigned himself to prayer, and it seemed to him that he should prepare a student. So he waited for student to be brought to him.
But none came.
***
His hair was white now, and he no longer walked freely across Athos. He leaned heavily into his walking stick and took frequent breaks, but he did not mind. He started in the early morning, leaving his cell before the sun rose. He bid farewell to the elders with whom he had spent the night in meditation and prayer, and made his way down to the port to watch the new arrivals. The cries of seabirds and the smell of the sea grew stronger. He saw the boat approaching the headland.
He arrived before they did. As they moored and unloaded their goods, he searched the faces of the newcomers and pilgrims. He thought he saw something in the eyes of one, but when he came nearer, he did not even acknowledge the monk, and asked someone loudly about how well stocked the grain stores were. He saw a young man, dressed in robes. He spoke respectfully to the old monk, and asked him what he was doing at the port. But he was not the student and he went on his way.
Once, he saw an old pilgrim arrive at the port, and the two’s eyes met. It seemed that they recognized each other, and they spent the day together in conversation, shared lunch, and attended the divine liturgy together. The pilgrim helped him up and down the stairs, but did not allow him to accompany him back to the port. He was a good man, but he was not the student and the monk’s heart did not know peace.
Eventually the old monk was too feeble to leave the monastery, so he had some of the younger brothers report to him what they had seen at the port and around the peninsula. Sometimes they tried to distract him by reading to him. He entertained them and pretended to nod off. When they left, he prayed to find someone who he could speak to in truth. Sometimes the young monks came to him in a fervour, and, kneeling by him in his cot, would ask him to teach them. He taught them about the virtues, about the Bible, about the Church Fathers, and how to pray. He taught them about the history of the church, the wonders of the Athos, and the secrets of the monks and those who inhabited the holy mountain. But though they were good monks, and better men, they did not understand him when he tried to speak to them in truth, and still his heart burned him, knowing no peace.
One night his old master came to him in a dream accompanied by an angel. He told him that the time was coming soon when he would be with the Father. The old monk woke up and rolled over in his cot. He thought for a long time, lit a candle, and prayed. A cool breeze came through the window and blew it out, and he went back to sleep.
Now when the young monks brought him his breakfast he tried to teach them. He did not have long. They were sympathetic, but had other duties to attend to, and even with his blind eyes he could see that none of them was the one he was looking for. He could reach none. The monks who brought him his other meals were the same.
Some of the brothers he had known since he had first come to Athos visited him from time to time. They sat with him and spoke of times gone by, of their old masters now passed on, of the wonders of monastic life, the new generations of monks, and the affairs of the world. Sometimes he tried to reach them, but they did not understand, and so he let off.
One morning he awoke, and as he was having his breakfast, he felt that the end was coming. The young monk asked why he was quiet, and the elder told him to gather others because he wanted to be born out to the hillside near his old retreat.
It took them some time to get ready, but by the time he had finished his breakfast and morning prayers, they had managed to find and bring out a stretcher to carry him. Two of the young monks lifted him down the stairs. They placed him on the stretcher and bore him out of the monastery into the fields. It was a sunny day. The elder could hardly see, but he felt the warmth on his pale skin and smiled. The monks sang hymns as they carried him.
He knew that they had arrived and told the young monks to stop here. They placed the stretcher so that he faced towards the sea, as the elder instructed, and tried to make him comfortable. He was frail, and the trip had tired him.
He told the young monks about his time in the cell, about the many wonders there. He told them about when he first came to Athos, and how he had felt hearing about the gifts of healing, and prophecy, the icons that washed up on the shore, the invisible elders, and learning the prayer. He told them about the time he and his brothers had been shut in the church all night during a storm, and how they had found an icon the next morning, washed up amongst the rubbish of the sea. He told them that many of these things were but signs. He told them how he had come closer to God and his mysteries, and the things that had been revealed to him in dreams and visions, and through elders and angels. The monks sat around him listening in silence. He told them all these many things, and then he began to forget.
He forgot his small town, and his first time in a city; he forgot its temptations, and the sound of women’s voices. He forgot arriving at Athos and learning about being a monk; he forgot the miracles he had seen, and those that had been worked through him and his brothers. He forgot about the night in the storm, meeting the invisible elders, and learning to pray with the heart. He forgot how he had broken his fast, and he forgot where he was. He looked back over his long life, and saw all the brother monks he had ever known. The fire in his heart burnt fiercely. He wanted to reach them all.
He sent the young monks to bring an icon from his old retreat. They left to look to for it. Looking out over the sea, he felt its cool breeze; he felt the warm glow of the sun. He felt a fire in his heart. He bowed his head and breathed his last.
This is the Holy Mountain, where all the years have stopped.
