A Thousand Windows by @f3nix
From the Little Ararat’s peak, Vartan "tiger's eye" observed his hometown, Yerevan. In the ample pocket of his tunic, well sheltered from the harsh wind, his squat fingers played with two graceful jade discs, while his steed, foaming with fatigue, seemed suddenly reinvigorated at the sight of home after months of traveling. If it had not been an animal, it would seem that he was moved. In Vartan's eyes, the only veil was that of travel fatigue.
Armenian merchant of precious stones, merchant son of merchants, he did not care how dangerous the journey was, nor how many moons had rotated above the long caravan: his mind was a precision balance that incessantly weighed and estimated without respite Indian emeralds, Burmese rubies, Pakistani aquamarines. This was Vartan's life since the cradle: he made a profit, and he did it surprisingly well.
A brisk early March night, something unexpected happened to him: he had a dream. Being an unusual experience for him, he awoke to throw in a far corner of the room the brocaded bedspread, upset and wet with sweat despite dawn’s breeze. In his family no one used to dream, there was no space for these frivolities. If he reflected well, maybe a couple of times he had dreamed of carving a gem or making a good deal, but he never came across those surreal dreams like a sand mirage in the ocean. After that episode, dreams began to visit him more and more frequently, as the unstoppable progression of pot-bellied drops in an August downpour. Frankly, it was a very unfortunate situation for Vartan, who was soon forced to invent every kind of wild night escapade to justify the increasingly evident dark circles under his eyes.
Then one day, while he was dreaming, the unthinkable happened: he suddenly perceived that he was in the dream. That first experience of dreamlike lucidity did not last long, nothing but an imperceptible beating of wings of awareness before the rules of the dream came back to swallow him and to dictate the story, relegating him to a mere spectator. Night after night, he began to acknowledge the laws that governed that world and how to bend them to his creative power. Thin and rarefied realms could become dense with colors, shapes, and perfumes. The Escheresque geometries of dancing fractals disobeyed space and time. Gradually, Vartan learned to attribute a new meaning and content to the term comprehension. For every new dream he was immersed in, the breath of those universes and his soul were united in one single essence longer and longer. In those dreams, Vartan traveled in the folds of reality, learned the language of angels and played dodges with them in the heart of perennial storms of unknown planets.
Soon, what was happening in Vartan's soul could not remain hidden to the eyes of the family, his friends, and the entire city of Yerevan.
All the awareness, self knowledge and power to shift the foundations of reality did not alleviate the ache in Vartan's heart. He had rushed away- run away- from Yerevan to cope with the the sense of emptiness. Now Vartan was back, or more accurately a new Vartan had come to Yerevan.
He could see the bright blue roof of the monastery surrounded by huge mountains and noble peaks. His soul was there 'looking' at the iron gates of the monastery, guarding the silent monks, unchanged for hundreds of years. The monks- both men and women- never spoke to outsiders and never went very far from the monastery. All of Yerevan, specially the rich merchant families, like his own, sent servants and provisions regularly. Vartan had always seen this 'donation' as selfish, for the monks were from the children of Yerevan 'given' in the service of God. Either due to pledges like- I will give away my second male child if ... or due to desperation when crop failed or the head of a family died unnaturally or even as punishment for crimes which were too serious to just levy a fine and but not so serious as to warrant death.
Vartan's vision warped to the day he had seen her for the first time. Grief and pain engulfed him- he did not know her name. She was hobbling on side of the road using a long branch for a walking stick, one ankle swollen red. Vartan was leading a train of mules loaded with supplies. He had stopped near her and insisted that she ride his horse. He had been smitten by her simple beauty, her full smile which lit up her green eyes and the dimples which formed when she smiled. On reaching the monastery she had been carried away in a chair. The monks could not speak to him about her and the servants did not seem to know, except that she was now recovering in the farther most out -house behind the kitchens.
Vartan was lodged near the kitchens and at night he had climbed the outer wall of the monastery and walking on it to the out house where he guessed his dream woman was recuperating. He had frozen at the shout "Stop Right Now." It was her. Then he felt the stone beneath his feet crack and break into fragments. He would have fallen down into the ravine if she had not somehow leapt and caught his arm. Vartan found himself lying on top of the wall with her hanging onto his arm. They both tumbled down together into the grass bordering the courtyard. That is how they found her. Under Vartan, hugging him and feet entwined. She would be hanged for breaking the code. The last he saw of her was when she turned to face him and said clearly. "Go. I don't want you to see me hanged." The bell which announced a hanging was tolling even as Vartan left the monastery.
She had become an angel. An angel who felt Vartan's love and pain, who forgave him and loved him back. An angel who gifted him the secrets of creation, the ultimate gesture of placing trust. There was no verbal communication between the two- yet; but this time Vartan was determined not to fail in love. He uttered a prayer to the Creator for help in this quest of love, that his beloved had set before him. A smile played on Vartan's lips- killing dragons, fighting ogres and cutting paths through mountains- these were the quests the fairy tale heroes faced to win the princess' hand. Becoming a monk, to serve all selflessly, for love seemed radically different.
THE CONTEST: https://steemit.com/finishthestory/@bananafish/finish-the-story-contest-week-39
Hello!
You got an upvote from me for this post.
This is just a small contribution, but I hope it will help you, and the steem community to grow further.
Thank you for you support.
my pleasure ;)
I like your take on this well done.
Thank You!
Your tale was entertaining, but I didn't find the end satisfying. I'm not sure why. Perhaps it's because I'm annoyed that she was hanged. Joining the monastery that killed her....I don't know.
But it was very well told and creative. An author has complete control of characters. That's the wonderful part about writing. Readers just go along for the ride.
Well said @agmoore a new perspective.
Sometimes I don't have complete control of my characters, ideas can be that way.
Many Thanks and Keep Steemin!
I know, and once I create them, they're real for me. Of course, keep Steemin. Where else would this happen?
A Medieval World, a Medieval ideology, an expected course. The (supposedely Orthodox) Monastery, a desperate Merchant and a lone dame. The love was æsthetic and centered on his desires, yet his platitudes and attitudes by the merchant to disobey the ideology and its unwritten rules shows a courageous heart and negated his original desires even if they still cling on desperately. And her, to escape would be a reward enough but her heart so caring for a human life that she swap her miserable life to save a so slightly better life is commendable. She, and she herself, asserted her whims and knew of her actions and consequences. She was willing to pay any price to escape the (cruel) life she had and, with escaping it, had been rewarded to be the Genius (actually the Latin word for Guardian) of the Merchant and see a life that she had been prohibited from thanks to the gaze of her society in Yerevan. Though the Merchant and Angel wish for a life together in the flesh, she had proved herself a knight that was infinitely resigned (in the Søren Kirkegaardian way). But he? Had he not the wealth to buy her freedom out? Was there not a corrupt Head monk, for even the fiercest Monk knows they need all the recruits and funds they can get. After all, even the Ruling class in Yerevan send their tribute to maintain this powerful clique they can wipe off without trouble. Yet, with keeping of a powerful weapon, the Merchant couldn’t save her nor corrupt the rules a bit for the occasion. Such is the sad fate of Medieval Yerevan, they had yet to fear the power of Money when they still feared the power of a God.
Many Thanks for making time for detailed comment. Thank You for recognizing her as the real hero.
Keep Steemin!
wild. he shoulda saved her!
Maybe he did save her from human bondage?
Hi sarez,
Visit curiesteem.com or join the Curie Discord community to learn more.
Thank you!
You took a different direction from the first half and gave life to an inspired stand-alone love story. Congrats for your Curie vote!
I saw that Vartan was too much a hero to be without love. Maybe it's the yummy brownies making my thoughts mushy!
Thanks!
Thank you for this story, I was always amazed by ability of people continue any unfinished story and just steer it into any direction that they want and this is something really interesting so many people and so many thoughts. Beautifully described the emotional status, easy to feel with heroes, like the end of the story, happy end.
I am blaming it on the chocolate brownies ( Yummy, soft and dense, delectable). Somehow love seemed right.
Thanks!
Oh my! ;3; Went through so many emotions while reading this entry. A trip for my feelings in just ~500 words.
I'm amazed of how you turned the prompt around and focused on a "different" storyline that was nonetheless converging and not forced upon the given start, for dreams are often a great manifestation of how we are interacting with the love in our lives...
I was awed and humbled by this loving Vartan, who's eyes (and heart) were truly open to love, accepting its transformations, and understanding that it does work in mysterious ways, but it is never truly absent.
Thanks for a much comforting read : )
Thank you for your support!
<3 can never get too much <3
Thank You. For your support and comment.
Keep Steemin!
You gave us a fantastic story that could have slipped into a search for vengeance or despair, instead turning it to a love story. His love, her life taken due to strict and unyielding codes, continuing to love Vartan and guide him after her death. All culminating in a quest that eschews the traditional grand show of heroism, asking instead for service and endurance for the sake of love.
Congratulations on your well-deserved Curie vote!
--Bris
A fantastic start to the story helped. The hero needed quest, my first thought was -LOVE.
Thank You @bananafish The Force is strong in you.
"Stories finish you must and the force with you always will be" - Obi Wan F3nobix.
An unusual love story. With a way other than the sugary way we usually define love. A bit like a thousand and one nights. Dot with mysticism and spirituality. What seems cruel to us in life is often not when we look at it differently. You have taken away the horrors of death.
Love above All. Thank you for you support.
A tragic ending to a well written story. Nicely done :)
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Maybe she was an angel from the beginning, made him take a spiritual turn in life.
I find your story almost Christological, since it is someone's sacrifice to save a soul...
The little bit of research I did on this topic for my story, helped me understand your story.
Christianity has a funny way of keep humans separated while preaching about unity with the divine.
Quite a loss Vartan suffered.
Hoist the Bananafish colors! Our 40th Edition is ready and waiting for you, brave storyteller.