L. Khachatrian - Messiah is late

© L. Khachatrian, 2015

© Alla Aristakesyan, translation, 2015

Created with intellectual publishing system Ridero

The bare-skinned boy was running so fast that from the lashes of the wind his body had become bruised. The chest of the mount was rising up and down in parallel with the tranquil breath of the earth. He felt it throughout his body. In the far he could see the jagged cliffs bulged like an old man’s denture and could understand that it was time to be transformed.

There was a pit in front of him. The boy slowed down for a while, took a breath, and then ran so fast that his chest tore apart from the middle. He shoved himself onward. Jump. His muscles strained. An instant. His bones were clattering seethingly in his body. The fangs were lengthening with pain. Short fur was growing on his skin. Descent. He growled and already a panther he leaped ahead. The wounded wind like a lame dog was barely crawling after him.

“Everything is more complicated,” the Teacher liked to repeat. And when he saw that the students were looking at each other confused, he added, “Don’t take to heart, we are all going to die one day.” He repeated this worn-out phrase in such a self-satisfactory way, as if he was to live forever. Arshak would believe it, if he was not present at the Teacher’s funeral. Even there, in the atmosphere of tears and sorrow, it seemed that the white-bearded Teacher, who was wearing black suit, would soon rise up and announce that the funeral is over; “It was just an experiment. Thanks to everyone, all are free now”.

When the body was buried, he remembered the Teacher’s mutter: “He exists; the old man definitely exists…” He was talking about God when he was drunk, as if he was trying to convince himself. “ Now, you will surely know, which part of your lectures was true and which was not.”

The Teacher’s name was celebrated among the Faculties of Theology of all world-famous universities. Over thirty years he studied faith and world religions. He learnt a lot about men and nothing about God. And why did he die? The Teacher left this world all of a sudden, leaving incomplete the research works of his 12 students. Besides, he had promised to select three best students from the group after the holidays and take them to the Holy City, so they could see with their own eyes how the faithful performed pilgrimage, or, as he used to say, how religion deformed the brain. Nevertheless, Arshak did not expect to be in the selected trio. He never stood out during the classes.

It was no longer important. Under the balanced clatter of the train Arshak was burning his last cigarette. It was the last one, as he was returning home. Although it was already 2 years he was of legal age, he would not smoke in front of his family. His mother would not criticize, but would get upset if she learnt.

“Is there any extra seat?” a young man looked inside from the half open door of the wagon. For a moment Arshak got confused. He was deep in his thoughts and it felt like he was caught smoking. He looked at the intruded head and cooled off.

“Yes.” he answered with a formal smile.

The guest was one of the heroes of the Theological Faculty. It was his classmate-Gregory. Arshak knew that they both were from the same town, but they had never been friends. Gregory was a vigorous and energetic boy. He was also very smart. Arshak always wondered how he could manage everything. Undoubtedly, Gregory was closer with the Teacher. They had even written a scientific paper together. Arshak always felt himself awkward when Gregory was around and tried to be out of his way. This time, however, nothing could be done. They were fellow citizens, the holiday season had started for both and they both had bought the same train ticket. While Gregory roomed his stuff, Arshak quickly opened the Bible which he had at hand and pretended to be reading.

Gregory sat in front of Arshak.

“Gospels?”

“New Testament… well… The Genealogy of Jesus, the Gospel of Matthew.”

“Not so difficult topic,” said Gregory. “No, don’t look at me like that. I mean literature is unlimited on that topic; you will have no lack of references.”

Gregory stretched his whole body and yawned for too long. His eyes were still smiling, but he did not say anything else.

He was a tall, broad-shouldered boy. He had accented eyes with thick eyelashes and high eyebrows. His brown hair was styled and shiny and he had high forehead. He was dressed neatly. There was no single extra fold on his white shirt. Sitting in front of Arshak in the wagon one could see the contrary of the two. Arshak’s messy black curls fell down on his eyebrows and almost covered his almond-shaped eyes. The boy had not shaved for several days. Tracks of dried mud could be seen on his jeans and brutal sports shoes. His black leather coat did not look novel at all.

When Gregory took a book out of his suitcase, Arshak noticed, that even his book smelled fresh. The pages of the book crunched when browsing through; probably he had just bought it. The shabby and crumpled Bible that was in Arshak’s hands looked quite poor.

“I know the place you live quite well,” said Gregory in the evening. He took two bottles of beer from his suitcase, “Here! It is not cold, but anyway…”

Arshak smiled and took it.

“I know many people from your neighborhood. Both my brother and I used to go there quite often. Together with the district boys we used to beat up the Christian children that lived there. But I don’t remember you…”

“Well… I was mainly at church,” Arshak took a sip. “I wanted to become a priest.”

Gregory’s loud laughter filled the wagon.

“In the end you took the opposite camp, didn’t you?”

“Well yes, it seems,” Arshak tried to smile.

“There used to be a lot of followers of that dead religion in your district”

“Not any more. Few are left.”

“Are you also a Christian?”

“I am a scientist… future scientist…”

“I see. You don’t like tales, do you?”

“I don’t.”

“Neither do I. But I believe in God. Have you read the Holy book, Revelation of 7 prophets?”

“About ten times,” Arshak smiled bitterly. “After all, it’s not thick, 30 pages…”

“Indeed, the truth is never long and fuzzy.”

“And meaningless,” thought Arshak, but preferred to remain silent.

Gregory frowned.

“I got it. You are probably one of those scientists who believe the holy revelation is what is left to humanity from so-called world religions. That view is flawed.”

Gregory paused, as if waiting that Arshak would argue, but he heard nothing and continued.

“Ancient religions contradicted each other, sometimes were contradictory to nature, and sometimes were a pile of inhuman texts. It was so complicated and confusing… Especially the Bible; every word, even my grandfather’s swearing, can be attributed to that book. In the end, everything can be found in that enormous tale, which once again proves that it contains incomplete notes of completely different people of different periods that have nothing to do with each other. Or, maybe the link was very weak. And people decided to connect everything and declared that this is the true word of God…”

Arshak said nothing. He sipped from the bottle.

“Well,” said Gregory. “Why I even keep on disturbing you? We have our life and should stop running after the dead God.”

And silence.

“A toast to the memory of the Teacher,” murmured Gregory.

Arshak raised the bottle of beer.

“Cheers…”

Gregory fell into thoughts. Arshak noticed that though he also tried to awaken memories, he felt some sort of emptiness. He was just listening to the sound of the even course of the train.

“Listen!” suddenly Gregory got excited. “Were you hoping to be among the selected three?”

“I have not thought about it,” Arshak lied.

“But I have. To tell the truth, once he himself mentioned to me that I will definitely be among the three. But now, as we will be going with someone else, I don’t feel like going.”

Silence.

“Would you like to go instead of me?”

Arshak got confused for a moment, then forced himself to smile.

“Thank you. There is no need. I have other plans.”

Gregory emptied his bottle of beer and abruptly changed the subject.

He talked about his twin brother for very long. Even their mother could hardly distinguish them. He complained about the economic and moral condition of the country. He told that his brother had flung himself into politics. He would definitely get into trouble one day. Then Gregory recalled his childhood; how two brothers together with friends beat up the boys in Arshak’s district. They had beaten everyone up, but Areg, as the latter, even though it was rather strange, was his brother’s close friend.

“I still can’t understand what he had found in that wordless stupid boy. He was monstrous, like a wild beast. If it was left up to me, we would tear him up first.”

Arshak was not listening.

“A town holding its breath from ceasefire. The mountains folded their hands on their chest followed from all four sides. The forests engrossed the slopes the way the sloppy beard darkened the face of Fedayi.

The wind, rolling down from the mountains, falls into the belly of the town. It curls up on the spot like a frightened snake. It fills the streets with the sniff of already extinct bullets. A town huddled from ceasefire. The morning yawns. The sour light of the sun glides through the brownish buildings and through the flat walls. Tattered tuff. Sweat frozen in the air.

A town furious from the ceasefire.”

Arshak closed the book. This “Collection of Prose Thoughts” was the first thing he bought when he reached his native town. The author’s name was Abel Gichunts. He bought the book, because a woman believer praising the name of One God asked Arshak, if he wanted to get the collection of prose poems by that famous “godless” writer. The chubby shop assistant assured that the book would be useful. The young party members would formally be burning the books of that “damned” writer in the town square that night. “Don’t you also want to throw a book into the fire?” Arshak laughed, “I do.”

The small town located in the outskirts of one of the most powerful empires was a veritable museum. It was one of the unique places where one could still find Christians; a religion, that had long been considered dead. The “World War on Faith” burnt the humanity and forever silenced the prayers. The world saw new prophets that were unanimously telling about One God. The new God did not have a name, did not have complicated commandments; there was only one thin booklet, where the prophets had written how a true believer ought to live. That was it – simple, convenient and understandable. And the humanity started to believe in it. Started to love it. They started to write “One God is with us” on the walls of empires and capitals of small countries. Then, of course, the hunting of the followers of ancient religions began. The leaders of Christian church, and later the ordinary followers, were sentenced and many were publicly burned on fire on behalf of One God. Islam resisted longer than others, but in the end One God took the victory. Now hardly about 100 thousand Christians could be counted in the world. They lived in different corners of the world – split and hating each other. The same could be said about the followers of other ancient religions. They were also mainly tearing each other’s throats in small groups. Arshak’s birthplace had become one of those unique corners of the world that donated delusion of self-esteem to the followers of the dead religions. An almost ruined church had remained near Arshak’s house; two priests were serving there – one was an alcoholic, the other was tiresome. The walls of the church had become black from the many small fires organized by the fan-followers of One God, and the dome was partly covered by the grass that had grown from the clefts of rocks. Nevertheless, every Sunday the priests called the people to liturgy. Sometimes even worshipping ceremonies were held. Arshak lived in a district populated mainly by Christians,