Irannika Yasin

They asked of the Toyogarov Satrap: what was his downfall? Where did he go? Why did he take off into the Taiga one night, with torn clothes and incoherent screeches?

The forest sang, in reply, the song of the hill country: the Mesogriadines, where a new Amatodate over the ashes of the old was rising, as through the centuries —

Young Veronica stared down the prince's cannons
Then on a flaming chariot to heaven she soared
A rough-woven sash became her wedding garment
But her palace-rags she leaves for Jaromil

With his army and cannons perched on the hilltops overlooking the monastery, Jaromil Toyogarov had pleaded with Sister Irannika to leave the people of Abbé Musa and to return to the palace, once again, as queen. He might even forgive her defection to the Sultan — everyone, as a matter of course, believed that the religious of Amatodate secretly favored the Muslims — and to guide her return to the true faith. He wept, he cried out, he let the tears course down his face. "My love, my betrothed!"

Irannika, who watched him from the ramparts, did not respond. For the onlooker it did not seem apparent that she was moved by the prince's emotional affect, or if she heard at all what he had said. We found out later from Sister Olivia, who had served her in the courts of Toyogarov, that Sister Irannika was likely to be in a state of panic. Fear dominated the couple's betrothal, for Jaromil was a vile man, cursed to an irascible temper, who lashed his subjects with the slightest provocation. The bride herself had no shortage of anger directed at her from the prince.

"Leave this evil man, he will be your death," the servant Olivia had suggested, one day.

"Where can we go? Who will protect us in this lawless land?" Irannika was uncertain.

"Do you remember your aunt, Ershebet? She was close to death, and given one month to live. She gave the month in service to the poor and the sick taking sanctuary in Amatodate, and passed away five years after. Whoever was watching over her will watch over us as well!" Then, putting on her snowshoes, she said, "He may only have hurt you with words now, but he will do to you all that he has done to me before, now that I am gone."

And so, Princess Irannika Yasin and her servant Olivia Hutanonoyong went out, plowing into the snow, and made for Amatodate. For young Irannika was fond of her late aunt, and longed to follow in her footsteps.

Prince Toyogarov was dismayed by the lack of response from his bride. A wave of rage hit him like a wall, and he tasted blood in his breath. Irannika could see the tenderness in his eyes disappear, turning into resentment, shame, and then rage. Then suddenly, raising his left hand, he ordered the cannons to fire.

The last thoughts of Irannika Sikanderovna Yasin were filled with fear. Curiously, and contrary to her own expectations at the time, the fearfulness was not at the thought of Jaromil, nor was it the prospect of her own imminent death. A random seed of a thought had just taken from in her mind about the elderly Anita, who had stayed behind in the building, and refused to evacuate. Anita-neni will die, far from everyone, alone, if I do not go now.

The thought of it filled Irannika with dread. She broke free of her panic-induced torpor, tore her gaze away from the cannons, and made a dash towards the stairwell, heading straight for the dormitory where Old Anita stayed.

We could see all this happening from across the lake. We watched as the buildings of the monastery collapsed into a cloud of chipped wood and ash. With it went our Sister Irannika, Old Anita Kachituvan, and Brother Arkadius Wijaya. May they rest in peace.

The rumors came out of the Christian army that the Toyogarov Satrap's true motivations of finding his bride at Amatodate was no secret, despite a carefully-crafted pretext by his general that the monastery had housed injured soldiers in service to the Sultan. The prince reacted to his own decision with immediate regret, and rallied his men to a search for Irannika's body as soon as the dust had settled on the rubble. They searched for one week, they searched for two — they turned over every stone and wooden beam, but all it turned out was a blue robe of softest silk, finely embroidered; the one she wore on the day of their betrothal.

"Our daughter Irannika has gone the way of Elias Nabi," rejoiced the survivors of Amatodate upon hearing the news.

Ainu Robe. Collection of: Los Angeles County Museum of Art [source]

The Adventures of Zhang Qian in Alexandria Eschate, 128 BC

After years of trekking through the scorching deserts of the Tarim Basin, Zhang Qian —famed diplomat and explorer on a mission to procure horses for Great Emperor Wu's campaigns against the Huns— arrived at Alexandria Eschate, where settled the furthest diaspora of the Macedonian Empire. Seeing the snow-capped peaks of Tien Shan in the distance, he exclaimed: Truly, I must have been the first of anyone in the China to lay my eyes on such a wondrous sight! And then he had for lunch a huge bowl of beef la-mian from Chinatown down the street, because travelling also made him very hungry.

Tien Shan [Photo: Maureen Barlin]

Abbé Musa

This was the week before the autumnal equinox. In one of the nights the people who stood sentry at the monastery's ramparts noted an unearthly, flickering red glow on the ground on the distance, but could not discern how it had happened. At the same time Sister Irannika was in the throes of a nightmarish vision which she later recounted to Abbé Musa. This was how it went:

A demon, which seemed to be three men welded into one in the inferno. Three heads, three torsos, an indeterminable number of arms and legs, none being where they belonged. The faces locked in grimace, their complexions at once deflated and ashen and glowing with impotent rage, their voices chanting and announcing their names: Ivanov, Beria, Dzhugashvili; Ivanov, Beria, Dzhugashvili... 

"The local demons of Taimiria," noted Abbé Musa. "In the empire which spanned this land of eons past, the pharaohs sent their men to work to the death in Taimiria and as far east as Šaškotan, where poor and noble alike built the road and were buried under it when the cold claimed them, and to where the souls of the pharaohs themselves were banished."

Sister Irannika Yasin continued: And then at once the three heads spoke to me. Dogs! Swine! The tribe of Tanezeden are little better than animals. They dared speak against our Prince of Toyogarov; they spoke treason against the Taimirian race. They shall not even be seen as equal as flies, whose wings and legs we pull apart for sport. And that is what we will do to them.

Lies, lies! I cried. But they laughed at me. Lies? They believed the lies of the Metropolitan of Archangel and his representative. Lies, but who speaks truth? We are at war, truth we have long trampled into the sod. The bleeding edge of the sword, the smoking barrel of a gun, these are now our Truth. 

We do not ask "what is true?", but rather "whose side are you on?" I will show you what happens when you are no longer on our side. I will show you the monsters that the Tanezeden clan really are. The truth, our Truth! The men we tortured until death, the women we violated in sight of their kinsmen. And all taken apart to pieces to hung on rotting boughs, heads against legs, arms against trunks. Monsters that we vanquished and humiliated, a testament to our might!

Poor Irannika was drenched with tears at this point. "These were my cousins, my kinsfolk that were murdered by Prince Jaromil. I could not bear to look, but I could not tear away my eyes. I felt I had had a glimpse of hell. I know in the past that people who see hell do so while protected by Maryam Eme. Why not now?"

Abbé Musa replied. "I had a dream last night, too. I did not pay attention to it and let myself forget it in the busyness of the day's affairs, but it has come back to me now. Maryam Eme gave me a horse-drawn cart, but it had been set alight in a bright flame. Be assured that your cousins are now restored to dignity and risen to the bosoms of our Mother, with the forerunners of Amatodate, as what was done to Elias Nabi on his last day on Earth."

Los desastres de la guerra, plate No. 39: Grande hazaña! Con muertos! (A heroic feat! With dead men!).
Francisco Goya, circa 1810

Notes
1. This passage takes its inspiration from discourse surrounding current events, and also the particular work of Francisco Goya depicted.
2. The role of Maryam Eme was described earlier in Haji Thexeira.
3. The character of Irannika Yasin was first introduced in Lisbeta Griadina.
4. The present iteration of the monastery Amatodate is taken as the setting here. Previous iterations are described in Amatodate. The monastery is ultimately based on the presently vacant Territorial Abbacy of Tŏkwon, now the site of the University of Wonsan, North Korea.
5. The many-headed demon references figures in Soviet leadership Lenin, Stalin, and Lavrentiy Beria.
6. A phrase from the demon's monologue was lifted from a quote by Mao Zedong.
7. The Abbé referred to the "Road of Bones". This is the place which we know today as the Federal Highway R504 "Kolyma" of the Russian Far East.
8. The Abbé references the story of Prophet Elijah taken to Heaven (2 Kings 2:11)
9. The name "Šaškotan" comes from an island in the northern Kuriles. In the present context, it is understood simply to mean the furthest east of the Asian landmass.

Mother's Day Storm

The Storm came on Mother's Day. The Storm tore up the northeastern corners of Lancaster County. The Storm went and we were alive— but me, I had begged to die. The Land of Plenty had no privation to starve the body with, but poverty of spirit lashed out at me, like so many tentacles from the maws of Hell opened up, wrapping around my arms and feet, drawing me in. I have come a long way since. I have resumed a state of normalcy. Now it is clear what to do and what to avoid in life. I have met with objectively worse crises and have been able to keep myself above the circumstances. But the events of May 2015 were a watershed; these small events dictated my most important life choices afterwards, my habits, my outlook. And you, you were in the thick of it all.

I have been advised to look to the experiences of Job for spiritual consolation. I can relate to his experiences having smart-ass friends surround him, and attempting rather lamely to rationalize his suffering. For me, I had trouble coping with outpourings of sympathy when my old friend came to her untimely death. I know well-meaning people sent me full-length essays to exhort me to hope, to optimism. Now is the time to announce that I either skimmed through them or did not read them at all, although I appreciate their decidedly unfathomable thoughts. Others shied away from me, as though I were a cursed object— To those people, I say: you stayed silent; you turned away. You pretended I was not there, that I was not hurting. Yes, the demons that assault my mind do not cross a certain boundary. You did not do wrong, but you are no friend.

The day after the accident, I went for mass in the morning, not being able to sleep at all. My friend Benedict can vouch for my account of what happened next, because he was with me, and saw it happen. The good people of La Obra were also there. As per custom, they sat not in a group, but dispersed themselves among their pews, each giving a wide berth to the other, as if they were strangers. Also according to custom, they spent a good few minutes in adoration of the Blessed Sacrament after the end of mass, even after the rest of the churchgoers had dispersed. On this day they stayed even later than usual, after the sacristan had switched off all the lights and we were plunged into darkness. The good people of La Obra changed their seats wordlessly, still maintaining mutual distance, until they formed a ring around Benedict and myself, not importuning me with outpourings of sympathy or words of instruction, but facing Jesus and praying as hard as they could. The good, upright men knew who to run to in times of difficulty. Because of this— three years and six months later— I joined their ranks.

I did feel the expected emotions of sadness, grief, and loss at each turn, but the strongest emotion was one that you might not expect: a feeling of being spooked, a sense of impending doom. I could not and have never since shaken the feeling that one day I too will be hurled into the nether-world without warning. I bore my listeners to sleep wondering out loud if today will be my last. But I do believe, that, if one does not become too obsessive about it, it could be beneficial. The awareness of the fragility of your life is a glimpse of the bare truth of existence. So many habitually cloak that truth with the pursuit of small pleasures, and fall asleep not caring if the a mark has been placed on their head for the Grim Reaper. Me, I am as sensitive to the prospect of death as a World War I soldier crossing no man's land is sensitive to the prospect of a stray bullet, over all of my waking hours.

Then came the Storm, which laid waste to the flimsy shack I built for myself in the wake of the first disaster. What could I do in such a place? My friends are not real, my acquaintances keep their distance. I could die here out of sheer chance; it could be the elements, a freak accident, or a random miscreant like the white supremacist Ignatius Noogent, who haunted my dreams. Who then will find my body, who will weep over it? The voice in my head hissed into my ear: no one. And the gates of Hell opened on me, leaving me clutching at straws.

Let me live, cries Laleh Pourkarim, the poet. Let me live! Let me live a little while more. I live, I live, I live another day again. I am glad I did not die. I am happy knowing there are still things to do. I give thanks for the sun in the sky and the roof over my head. The pursuit of happiness, I throw at the wayside. No time, I mutter. No time. I fear death and I fear it with a passion. I was and am scared out of my wits at being dragged to the wedding banquet underdressed. Eat, Pray, Love? No! Live, Live, and Live. Eat to Live, Pray to Live, Love to Live. I work hard, because I can earn my keep, eat food that does not poison me, and live. I pray so that I can be close to God and live. I love because good friends are precious and genuine friendship keeps me alive. Bad habits do not help me live; they must go! Good things superfluous to the purpose of living, they will get the hatchet as well!

Now, I am making a long stay in Cleveland. I came with no family, no friends, no network to take my falls. I found myself plunged into a culture which encouraged people to be greedy, selfish, miserable, and resort to violence to solve their problems. To these things, I want to say no! I want to be the contradiction; I will be the fly in your ointment. Greed will be the death of Charity, and Selfishness separates me from friendship. Misery leads to despair, and despair will cut me away from the Lord. The wages of sin is death. I have no intention of following the crowds down that path!

I have no choice but trust, to give myself. I do so, because it is that or leave me wilting away inside, like a corpse. I have no choice but to keep the Lord's commandments, because I want to live forever. I went out and conquered my fears of the city and all its wondrous unknowns, because to cloister myself in fear is no way to live. I made the choice long ago; I have no desire to do otherwise. Do you know? I have found my treasure in the field. Do you understand now why I do things the way I do? Of course, I cannot for the life of me expect any response. I write a blog which no one reads. And now it is time to go to bed. Goodbye.

Mackinac Bridge, Michigan

The Story of St. Casimir's Church, Cleveland

To jest moja parafia - Sw. Kazimierz

This is the Polish parish in Clevie's St. Clair-Superior neighbourhood. In earlier times, Polish people from Poznań moved in in large numbers. They got to have their own parish because św. Stanisław, which serves the Warsaw Poles at South Broadway, was too far away. The church was closed in 2009 and re-opened in 2012 after parishioners (and, they say, the patron St. Casimir himself) kicked a fuss. When the bishop came to close the church, Władysław Szylwian pulled the plug on his microphone and became the instant village hero. The uncles and aunties here lured me in with Polish cuisine and have managed to conscript me as parishioner. They also signed me up for their parish school alumni club, but I have no idea how that works.

The neighbourhood of St. Clair-Superior was a literal riot in the '80s and '90s. The pastor was regularly mugged on parish grounds, and the sound of gunfire lulled residents to sleep. Sw. Kazimierz was turned into a fortress with a perimeter of barbed wire, and the stained glass windows, which the hoodlums liked to shoot at for sport, had a bulletproof layer installed. The gangsters have supposedly shot one another all to death since that time, and thus the neighbourhood today is somewhat less exciting than it used to be.