Short Fiction for Finish the Story Contest- A Thousand Windows

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