Chapter 2
“Yes, we’ve all felt the tremors,” Donatiev said. He stood up from behind his desk and walked to the large armoire on the side of his office. He opened it and pulled out a bottle and a small glass. He began to turn, then grabbed a second one and brought both to the desk. He uncorked the bottle and poured clear liquid into each glass.
Mikhail frowned, and was about to say something about how early in the day it was, but shrugged and took one of the glasses.
“Za zdorovje,” he said, and downed the glass.
Mikhail grunted and drank.
Donatiev sat on the corner of the desk. “What would you like me to do for you?”
“I would not say that I was here to ask you to do anything about them, Captain,” Mikhail said. “I just wanted to know whether they were . . . part of your calculations.”
“Meaning?”
“We are all building things, Captain. I erect a temple to the Most High: you build an entire colony. I worry that one good shaking will bring it all down.”
“You worry too much, Father.”
“And I would say to you, Gyorgy Nikolaievich, that you worry too little. My assistant Gennady has learned—”
“Learned? From who?”
“The Spanish monks in the hills. He has learned—”
“He has been talking to the Spanish monks? Why was I not told of this earlier?”
“They are our neighbors, Gyorgy. Captain. They mean us no harm.”
“That is not for you to decide, Father,” Donatiev said. He stood up and placed his glass on the desk. “It is your desire to express good will to all men—Spanish, Russian, British—Catholic, Orthodox, and—whatever faith the British profess. But you overlook the danger they present.”
“A few monks at a little monastery? How could they possibly pose a danger, Gyorgy Ni—”
“They are eyes and ears, Mikhail. They are spies.”
“For whom?”
“The viceroy.”
“San Diego is hundreds of miles to the south,” Mikhail said. He rolled the small glass between his palms, a nervous gesture. “How do you suppose they get messages? A fleet of fast ships? Or horses? Or do they just use their Catholic magic? They are abandoned monks, in a mission that their Viceroy has left behind. They pose no threat.”
“You are a very poor judge of that.”
Mikhail leaned forward and placed his glass next to Donatiev’s, then settled himself in his chair and scratched his beard. “I think you underestimate my judgment, as always. The threat is the shaking of the earth, Gyorgy Nikolaievich. Perhaps this place was not such a good choice after all.”
Donatiev went back behind his desk and sat down. “So now you question my judgment. I think you worry far too much about something over which we have little control. The tremors will stop; the giant under the earth merely shifts in his sleep.”
“Making it into a folk tale does not make it easier to deal with.”
“No,” Donatiev said. “Of course it does not. “But it makes it easier for the men to accept. You tell your folk tales, I tell mine.”
Mikhail appeared ready to respond, offended, when Donatiev began to laugh.
“Don’t worry, Father. If your little church is ready to celebrate the Feast of Peter and Paul, I can promise you that it will be filled.”
The californios worked no harder with the end of their task in sight; if anything, it seemed to Gennady that they moved even more slowly, despite his encouragement and the scowls and complaints from Father Mikhail. Once more, during the last week of June and immediately prior to the feast, there was a slight tremor in the ground; the workmen scattered, but it caused no more than the shaking loose of a few bricks and a single broken pane of glass—enough to make the glazier curse them for their carelessness in an accent from deep in the Steppes . . . until he too was cowed by Mikhail’s stern gaze.
Within the little church, Mikhail had arranged a side-chapel with a beautiful little ikon of Saint Helena, the mother of the Byzantine Emperor Constantine, the first imperial to turn to Christianity. Helena’s hagiography was an interesting one: it was said that she found the True Cross, and then followed a vision that led her to the burial place of Christ in Jerusalem—the place where the Church of the Holy Sepulchre had been erected.
The night before the great feast—with the church mostly complete, but at least in readiness for the following day’s ceremonies—Gennady came upon Mikhail kneeling in the side-chapel. There was a small altar and a rough wooden rail, but no hassock for the old man’s bare knees on the rough stone floor.
Gennady stood respectfully waiting for Mikhail to complete his devotions, but when the old man did not rise or acknowledge his presence, Gennady stepped forward and gently touched Mikhail’s shoulder.
“We are not destined for great things,” Mikhail said without turning. “You know that, do you not, Gennady? We are destined to die here in obscurity, in this distant place for which we have not even chosen a name.”
“They call the great bay Zolotye Vorota—the name the Spaniards gave to it: Golden Gate. Perhaps that is a good name for the town as well.”
“A fine bit of blasphemy, don’t you think? As if this were a great shrine to the Mother Church.” He laughed, but it was a dry, pitiable thing, hardly a laugh at all. “No, this should be Bezmanya Zemlya—the Nameless Land. And this can be the nameless city. Though calling it a city is generous. Help me stand,” he added, and Gennady helped the old man to his feet. He made obeisance to Saint Helena, Gennady followed, and the two turned away to face the darkened nave of the church.
“Tomorrow will be a joyous celebration,” Gennady said. “Everyone will be here—you told me that Kapitan Donatiev had promised.”
“Yes, yes . . . their one and only visit to the church. Then they can go about their business, their duty done.”
“Some will attend.”
“Most will not,” Mikhail replied. “But no matter: I cannot make silk purses from sow’s ears. Perhaps they will come and pray when the ground trembles.
“What do you make of that, by the way?”
“I suspect that the land is unstable.”
“Brother Gonzalo said—”
“The Spanish monk is now an authority?”
“He has been here far longer than we have, Otyets. He said that such things come and go; a few shakes then nothing for months on end.”
“So, we’ve seen the last of it?”
“I don’t know. But he is not worried. So I am not worried.”
Mikhail looked over his shoulder at Saint Helena, the gilt of the ikon reflecting dimly from the votive light before it. “I have a feeling that we should be worried, Brother. But perhaps Saint Helena will intercede for us here in the Nameless Land.”
“I’m sure she is watching, Otyets.”
Mikhail looked owlishly at the younger man but did not respond, his face conveying all of his fears and doubts.
✽✽✽
Morning came bright and sunny; the inhabitants of the town began to gather on the shore of the bay, where they found Brother Gennady and Father Mikhail already on hand at a small altar with the ikon of Saint Helena, a small ceramic bowl, and a large beeswax candle placed on it. The two religious men were clothed in their best vestments and were attended by several workers from the church, as well as two brown-robed Spaniards evidently visiting from their mission in the hills.
On the edge of the beach was a large Orthodox cross set in a footing from which it would be removed, so that it could be carried to the church.
When most of the town was assembled, Father Mikhail raised his hands above him and chanted, “Svjatyj Bozhe, Svjatyj Krepkij, Svjatyj Bezsmertnyj, Pomiluj nas—Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal, have mercy on us;” he then proceeded to recite the Trisagion Prayers, with the congregation—at least those that knew the prayers—following along.
Glory to Thee, our God, Glory to Thee.
O Heavenly King, Comforter, the Spirit of Truth, Who art everywhere present and fillest all things, the Treasury of good things and Giver of life: Come, and abide in us, and cleanse us from every stain, and save our souls, O Good One.
Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal: have mercy on us.
As was customary, the celebrants repeated the phrase three times; with each repetition, Mikhail dipped his fingers in the bowl and gestured toward the water.
Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, both now and ever, and unto the ages of ages. Amen. All-Holy Trinity, have mercy on us. Lord, cleanse us from our sins. Master, pardon our iniquities. Holy God, visit and heal our infirmities for Thy name's sake.
Lord, have mercy. Lord, have mercy. Lord, have mercy. Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, both now and ever, and unto the ages of ages.
When all was again quiet, Mikhail turned away from the inhabitants of the settlement and raised his hands high. “In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, I bless this land and this bay with the name . . .”
Gennady held his breath, wondering if Mikhail would truly call it the Nameless Land in the presence of all of his countrymen, and of the Holy Trinity itself; but he need not have worried.
“. . . Zolotye Vorota—the Golden Gate,” Mikhail finished. “May it grow and prosper, and may the great Father confer his grace upon it and upon all of us.”
From the bay, the people made their way along the wide, flat road into the settlement, led by Gennady carrying the cross. As they walked they recited the Lord’s Prayer—the two Spaniards in Latin, the rest in various dialects of Russian. The path was just over half a mile, winding past the workshops and homes of the Russian emigrants who were so far from home. It was more than a day off work that made them joyous: it was the ceremony, the song, the feeling of the presence of the Divine, the completion of the church—whether they planned to visit it or not—that made them smile and brought joy to their voices.
The procession reached the little church, and the congregation entered, looking around and exclaiming in little “oohs” and “aahs” how impressed they were with the work. Donatiev remained at the doorway with Gennady, who greeted each person as he or she came through the door.
When everyone was inside, the captain looked at the young monk. “You have done well, Brother,” he said, trying to sound gruff, but obviously moved by some emotion he refused to admit.
“It is a dream made whole by the workmen,” Gennady answered. “We have—”
But whatever he was about to say was interrupted by the shaking of the ground. Almost as quickly as they entered, people began streaming out of the church—some walking, some beginning to run.
The tremor did not immediately subside. Gennady could see Brother Gonzalo from his spot just inside the door, as Gonzalo kept people moving. In place of his usual sardonic expression, he looked fearful.
Gennady exchanged a glance with Donatiev and went inside, working his way forward against the press of people trying their best to get out. At the far end of the nave he could see Father Mikhail, his arms raised in invocation, his expression stunned—as if the shaking earth was a personal affront, a blow struck against his doubts the previous evening.
“Mikhail!” Gennady shouted. “Otyets! Come, you must leave!”
“Saint Helena!” Mikhail shouted back, and it wasn’t clear whether it was an invocation—but he suddenly lowered his hands and scurried toward the side-chapel.
Most of the congregants had made their way out of the church, and Brother Gonzalo tugged at Gennady’s sleeve.
“Mikhail—”
Then, without warning, the roof began to collapse. Something struck Gennady and his world went black.
✽✽✽
He awoke, choking on dust.
He was lying on a pallet that had been used to carry bricks to the building site; the bright blue sky above him was not marred by a single cloud, but the air was hazy with dust. Brother Gonzalo leaned toward him with a wineskin and helped him drink.
“Father Mikhail,” Gennady managed to say, but the Spaniard shook his head.
It took an effort of will to stand, but Gennady managed to do it at last, despite a throbbing head. The church was in ruins and the area was a hive of activity; a number of people were sitting or lying, also affected by some injury. Gennady touched his head and found that it had been roughly bandaged.
Those that could do so reached their hands out, wordlessly or with some whispered prayer; he touched each of them, unable to reply.
Donatiev was at the center of it all, his rich dress uniform covered in dust, his hat lost or discarded somewhere.
“Brother,” he said, turning his attention to Gennady. “Thank God. For a time we thought we’d lost both of you.”
“Both . . .”
“Mikhail . . .,” Donatiev looked down, and then reached within his vest and drew out the tiny ikon of Saint Helena. “He did not want to leave this behind. It was found with his body.”
Gennady took the ikon from the captain, and kissed it gently.
For this, Gennady thought. For you, blessed Helena, my dearest friend died . . .
No.
“If there is anything I can do—”
“Da,” Gennady said. “Oh, yes, Kapitan. There is most certainly something you can do.”
He turned away and climbed up the short stairs that were all that remained of the flight leading to the belltower.
“Hear me!” he said, holding the ikon high. The modest height made him very slightly dizzy, but he ignored it. “My friends, my children, hear me.”
To his surprise, he commanded the attention of everyone below, working in the rubble, lying on pallets with their injuries—even Donatiev, who had a curious expression on his face.
“We have suffered a terrible loss, far from our homes, far from the rodina. My dearest friend, Father Mikhail, was struck down by a natural event—not a curse from God, not an indication that His face is turned away from us.
“I have in my hands the ikon of the blessed Saint Helena, who found the True Cross, and the place where our Precious Saviour was buried in Jerusalem. My friend—our friend—died when recovering it from its place of distinction within our church.
“There is only one way to honor his memory and his sacrifice. We must not abandon our plan to serve Holy Mother Church: we must rebuild our structure, make it grander and greater than this one. We must find a suitable place, closer to heaven—”
He paused and looked out, landward, toward the hills beyond the town. One in particular, a tall, conical hill where he knew Donatiev had talked of building a lookout tower, called to him.
“There,” he said, pointing to it. “There we will erect a new, greater church, one that honors the memory of Father Mikhail, and that honors Saint Helena.”
Not Bezmanya Zemlya, he thought. Not the Nameless Land. “It is the name we should give to our town beside the Golden Gate—Saint Helena. Do you not agree, Kapitan Gyorgy Nikolaievich?”
Before Donatiev could answer, a shout rose from the assembled people—they called out the name of the saint whose ikon Gennady held aloft, its gilt catching the sparkle of the morning sun.
✽✽✽
It took six months for the letter to arrive from the Archbishop of Saint Petersburg, and the rite of consecration was irregular: the abbot of the mission of San Francisco and two of the monks participated—but God, whom they worshipped in different ways, smiled upon their work. But it was Father Gennady who laid his friend to rest in the crypt as soon as a place was prepared for him, even before the official title was proclaimed.
It took another eight months to bring the building materials up to the building site on the lookout hill, to construct the church—again with the help of the Franciscans, who had advice on how to set the foundations and reinforce the walls.
There was never any question whether the church would be built on the lookout hill, or that the town would take its name from the saint to which the church was dedicated; Kapitan Donatiev made no objection, and also said nothing about the effort given to the construction of the edifice, which could be seen from out at sea, the onion dome sometimes ringed with fog and clouds, at others sparkling in sunlight. It was a fitting symbol for Saint Helena, the city by the bay.