Post #2 (Coming of Age)

I remember the day before coming to ten years old. It was 19 January, and I was excited about the present I was about to get. I can clearly recall that particular thing I desired—a brand-new Lego Vikings set. And, regarding birthday presents, my father—an extremely religious person even among religious people—had never disappointed me before. He grew up in poverty, and it was important for him to get me a present I wanted.

He did not disappoint me this time too. But he did it in his own way, setting up the birthday I cannot possibly forget.

On the night before my birthday, I went to bed much earlier than I usually did—at 8 pm, skipping my Simpsons episodes. My reasoning was simple enough—the sooner I sleep, the sooner tomorrow will come. But when I was dozing off, my father entered my room and talked to me.

“You remember what day it is tomorrow, right?” he asked, showing no emotions whatsoever.

I did not answer but just nodded, unable to fight the smile.

“Are you ready?” he asked with the same demeanor.

I was somewhat alarmed, but only for a moment. The visions of tomorrow were too strong to ignore, and sweet dreams pulled me inside the black. So I just nodded flatly and put my head back on the pillow.

It was the next day that I found out the full extent of my naivety. And my father’s real intention.

For it was time to go to the monastery.

“It is time to get up, son.”

I woke up in the chill of the night when the winter sun was still down. The whole room was plunged into darkness. I had no idea what was going on. My father was looking at me, towering above my bed, dressed all black. Once again, he told me I needed to get up. I obeyed. There was no morning shower and no teeth brushing. No breakfast I was accustomed to, and no hot tea to warm myself. I was prohibited even to drink water. There was a need to have a clean mind and free body. So I just put my clothes on and went to the living room.

We were ready to go in no time. But just before that, the two of us sat. Just sat—me on the chair, he on the lone stair of the porch. It was an old tradition—the heathen custom that dominated my homeland long before Jesus Christ was born. Even so, I cannot recall a single major trip without sitting somewhere before we depart.

And the trip to the monastery was major indeed.

It was cold outside. Really cold. The warmth of the car was, perhaps, the best that happened that night. It ended too soon, though, for there were no traffic jams at 4 am. Empty streets, bare carcasses of trees, lone signal lights beeping yellow. Snow everywhere.

Sitting in the car, I convinced myself that it was a test. A sort of commitment to obtain the much-desired Lego Vikings set. If so, I mentally prepared myself to endure anything that life was about to spit on me.

It was nothing but darkness outside the window for quite some time. But then I saw it—the only thing that stood out as distinctly as the moon in the night sky. In the very center of the city, a massive complex of buildings lit up from below with powerful projectors. Every domed rooftop was towered with crosses. The buildings were standing on the cliff that loomed over the river with catacombs carved inside that rock. It was the holy city inside the city—the Vatican inside Rome.

Tiny ants ran down my spine.

The guard opened the gate without asking who we were and why we came—they recognized the car and already knew all of that. The narrow streets of the complex twisted sharply and spread in every possible direction, making it hard to orient around. My father did not miss the turn even once, confidently driving us all the way down to the water.

And there, at the bottom of the cliff, near the giant forged gate, they were waiting for us. The abbot and two of his assistants. They were waiting to lead us down into the monastery catacombs.

My father and the abbot greeted warmly, bear-hugged each other. I knew him. He was a spiritual mentor to our family. Both he and my father were drafted into the same army troops some 30 years ago and have remained good friends ever since then. The abbot missed three and a half fingers on his right hand—blown away by an exploded-too-soon grenade. Without fingers, he could not put a proper cross on himself. Even so, he became one of the most respected clergymen not only in the monastery but throughout the whole patriarchate.

I did not want to go down the caves. I felt like it was not the right thing to do. Especially at night. Something evil might be lurking in that darkness. Still, I did not tell anything of my fear. The visions of the Lego Vikings set were just too strong. Soon, five of us entered the cold catacombs.

The path meandered like a snake among the stone halls, lightened up with scarce lanterns. The silhouettes of some unknown animals emerged here and there. They were watching us, but let us go down nevertheless. It smelled of chill and dampness and sanctity. I touched one of the walls. It was colder than winter itself. I became worried that we might freeze ourselves to death. I did not say anything of this, though, and just continued on our way down.

At some point, we emerged in a wide opening, much more well-tended compared to the rest of the catacombs. There were no lanterns there—only candles that occasionally trembled from the breath of the caves. One other monk was standing silently before the iconostasis made of pure gold. We came closer, and the elders began their preparations.

It was warm and cozy inside, but the anxiety refused to leave me. So I just stood there, fighting with my inner self, watching the painted saints and martyrs, candle shadows dancing on their faces. I had come too far to abandon now.

When everything was ready, four monks and my father began to chant a prayer. Slowly at first, their humming voices were growing and growing with each passing second until they echoed through the catacombs. It sounded majestically. I wished I could join them, but I did not know the song. I could not distinguish even a single word from it, if anything. 

But I was still a just-became-ten-year-old boy and grew bored rather quickly. I went to look around. It was better than just standing scared before the iconostasis. My father did not mind. Or did not notice my absence while praying. 

Soon, I found out that we were in some kind of mausoleum. Small bodies were lying in rotten coffins, protected by the thick glass case as if they were products on display in some grocery shop. They looked like mummies, whipped in purple mantles. Prayers and crosses were weaved on those fabrics with golden threads. Many elaborate things I cannot recall were scattered all around.

Those were former monks who dug the caves to hide from the outside world. And ascended sanctity in the process.

I watched them for a long, long time. They were lying there, but…for how long? For what purpose? What made them become runaways? Did they want to be preserved like that? 

Did they even care?

I forgot about the catacombs and the birthday and the present and the whole world around me. Even my warm bed back at home. It all felt unimportant. For it was all a dream. Illusion. Some other realm. Not the caves. Something else.

I was touched. No. Not like that. I was allowed to touch. Allowed to gain an insight into something. Something so sacred that people spend their whole lives in caves to take but a tiniest glimpse of it. And be happy forever afterwards.

I was lucky to see it on my first try. But even now, I cannot fully explain what that was.

I still have it, though. Even now. Within me. Always.

When we left the catacombs, my father smiled at me for the first time since yesterday. I think he was glad I came with him. He was glad to show me his reality. But, above anything else, he was glad I understood. I can swear he saw it in my eyes.

It was already day outside, and the sun blinded me with its bright glow. I wished it was cloudy.

When we were riding in the car, the traffic jam was so big we were crawling like turtles. I wished I could walk in the outside freeze.

When we got back home, my mother was waiting for me with not one but two Lego Vikings sets. I looked at them indifferently.

It was when I lost all interest in toys and started to read.