Messiah is late - L. Khachatrian

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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.

      Return

      “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,

      At Home

      Our Father in heaven,

      Hallowed be your name.

      Your kingdom come…

      Arshak was going to knock, but when he heard the prayer from the inside he held his breath. Seconds later he realized what was happening at home and angrily kicked the door. His mother opened the door. A tiny, thin woman looked at his son with a longing stare. She had not seen him for about two years. She asked him to come inside with a hand gesture.

      “You have brought a priest, haven’t you?” Arshak couldn’t hide his anger. He sat on the very first chair and began to take off his shoes with nervous movements. His mother was silent. The peaceful prayer of the priest was heard from inside the room.

      “It turns out that all the doctors of the city have died,” gabbled the boy.

      “The doctor has seen her.”

      “And…?”

      “He said that Ani is fine. But perhaps after father’s death… She has psychological problems…”

      “And you decided to bring a priest!” Arshak growled.

      The praying voice became silent.

      “The word of God heals souls,” you could barely hear his mother’s voice, but there was tenacity inside her.

      Arshak became even angrier.

      “You talk like a cave dweller – ‘The word of God’. Should we burn a fire in the house and start jumping around it? Maybe it will help…”

      “Don’t say that, my son, it’s a sin…”

      Arshak opened the door of the room. The bed of her seven year old sister, Ani, was next to the window, so in the far she could see the vibrating lights of the city while lying. But her eyes were not open today. The girl was thin and pale. She looked like her mother. The priest, who was about forty years old, was sitting next to the child. His gown was black, his eyes were big and round and he looked worried.

      When Arshak entered the room, his sister opened her eyes. She looked at her brother, smiled lightly. The boy swallowed his anger and went up to the bed. The priest immediately stood up and gave his place to the boy.

      “Hi, Ani,” whispered Arshak. “How are you?”

      “Fine,” meowed the girl.

      “I have brought interesting books for you.”

      This time her smile was truly happy.

      “What has happened? Mother says you don’t feel well.”

      “I am fine.”

      Arshak cast a cold glance at the priest. He could feel that he was starting to get angry again.

      “Then why is this man reading a prayer?” the question was addressed more to the black-dressed man, who tightly squeezed the torn Bible in his hands.

      “So they keep silent,” whispered Ani with trembling voice.

      “They?”

      “The Dragons,” there was horror in Ani’s eyes.

      Tremor went through Arshak’s body. He looked again at the priest, barely kept himself from hitting him. They will make this child crazy.

      “What Dragons,

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