Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [40]
Then Father Luke coughed, with a dry, rasping sound. And Ivanushka thought: He is like a husk, buried in the earth.
‘And so the body dies, that the soul may live.’
Ivanushka knew that some monks kept their coffins in their cells, in this long preparation for death.
He realized that Father Luke was watching him dispassionately, observing how he received these words. But he could not conceal his disappointment, his desire to escape from this image, as it seemed to him, of death.
‘Yet it is not death,’ Father Luke went on, as though following his thoughts. ‘For Christ overcame death. The grass withereth, but the word of the Lord does not. So it is that, even in our mortal condition, our souls live in the world of the spirit, humble before God.’ But if this was meant to bring Ivanushka comfort, it brought him none.
It was an old idea, this ascetic ideal of the withering of the body. For centuries it had been practised by single-minded hermits in Christian Syria. This was not the wild infliction of pain that was often indulged in by the flagellants in the west, but rather the slow process of sapping the vital juices from the body, reducing it to a useless husk that would not interfere with the life of the spirit and the service of God.
Still watching him carefully the monk continued: ‘These extremes are only for a few. Most of the monks here live a simpler life, devoted to the service of God and their fellow men. Indeed, this is the rule favoured by our Abbot Theodosius.’
Ivanushka was too discouraged, however, to find comfort even in this.
‘Do you wish to serve God?’ the old man asked abruptly.
‘Oh, yes.’ He was almost in tears though. The idea of serving God had always been such an exciting thought before. With a single heart, a single mind, he had seen himself riding in God’s service over the waving grasses of the steppe, fighting the heathen horsemen.
The old man gave a grunt.
‘The boy is young. He loves his body.’ It was said calmly, without anger, but it was obviously the monk’s final judgement. He turned his back on Ivanushka.
‘You do not think he would make a priest?’ Igor asked anxiously.
‘God touches each man at the proper time. We do not know what we shall be.’
‘He should not be trained for the priesthood then?’ Igor sought clarification.
Instead of answering, Father Luke turned back to Ivanushka and laid his hand on his head, in a gesture that might, or might not, have been a blessing. ‘I see that you are going on a journey,’ he said, ‘from which you will return.’ Then he turned away again.
A journey? Ivanushka’s mind was racing. Could he mean his plan to go to the great River Don? Surely he must. And he had said nothing about him becoming a priest. At last there was hope.
Meanwhile, the old monk was gazing at Igor rather severely.
‘You fast too much,’ he said abruptly.
‘Surely fasting is permitted?’ Igor said in surprise.
‘A fast is a tithe we pay to God. And a tithe is a tenth, not more. You should limit your fasts. You are too severe with yourself.’
‘And my prayers?’
Ivanushka knew that his father prayed for a long time at dawn, and then again, three or four times, before the day was over.
‘Pray as much as you wish, as long as you don’t neglect your business,’ the monk replied sharply. He paused for a moment, then went on: ‘This fasting, you know, came into our church from the Latin west, through Moravia. I am not one of those who condemn the west, but too much fasting amongst the laity is foolish. If you want to do that, you must join the Romans and say their creed,’ he added with a faint smile.
For more than a decade now, there had been, technically, a breach between the eastern and western Christian churches