Free The Shallow Seas by Dawn Farnham Page A

his.
    â€œTogether, yes?”
    He clucked softly and shook the reins. The ponies moved gently away, and Charlotte drew a nervous breath. Within a few minutes he had taught her how to guide them, slow them, urge them on. She had not thought it so easy and laughed with delight. Tigran withdrew his hands from hers, and with an increasing confidence Charlotte drove the ponies on the path to the chapel, which led along the edge of the forest and ascended gently in a long sweep to the white building which gradually came into sight over the rise. Though she laughingly begged him to help her pull the ponies to a halt, he refused, smiling, and when she mastered this little skill and the ponies stopped, she gave a little cry of triumph and turned to him. The sight of her face flushed with delight pulled at Tigran’s heart, and he itched to take her into his arms, but he quickly leapt down from the carriage.
    The chapel was a perfect jewel of simplicity and elegance: a white building with a Dutch gable and two stout teak doors. On one door was carved the image of the Virgin and Child, Mary’s cloak wrapping the baby Jesus. On the other stood St. Gregory the Illuminator, first Primate of Armenia, bedecked in flowing robes and wearing his mitre of office. Charlotte could see that these images had been carved by Javanese craftsmen, for they had the elongated features of the elegant heroes of the wayang . This merely added to their charm.
    Seeing her run her fingers lightly over the carvings, he said, “The Javanese carvers, as Mohammedans, are forbidden to create the human image. It is an offence against Tuan Allah, who created man in perfection. I understand little of the subject, but have been told that when the Mohammedan faith came to Java it found stubborn resistance from ancient Hindoo traditions. With time and a little wisdom, the religion was subtly altered to allow the Javanese their traditional arts, the music of the gamelan and the shadow world of the wayang in particular. Thus were created the elongated, grotesque features of the wayang , which resemble but little the true features of humans but which stand as their shadowy spirits. I cannot speak to the truth of this, but that is what I have been told.”
    They entered the church. Through the windows of lead and clear glass in the chancel and the nave shone a soft light on the teak wood pews and the cool tiled floor. On the altar stood a cross inlaid with gold and lapis lazuli, on the wall a painting of the Ark sitting atop a mountain.
    â€œWe are the descendants of Noah,” Tigran said. “This picture reminds us that Mount Ararat lies at the heart of our country, that we were the first Christian nation on earth.”
    Charlotte recalled the Armenian church in Singapore and wondered aloud if George had visited here.
    â€œYes, of course,” said Tigran, “but I think George’s building is much finer than this. He had more authoritative guides among the priests in Singapore. My father built this simple chapel when he moved here, for the Armenian community. He kept to the Dutch style of the house, for he was, in almost everything but religion, a Dutchman. We are few, no more than fifty in Batavia. But the Armenians are a people used to hardship. A small tribe whose wars are fought and lost, whose structures have crumbled and whose prayers are no more answered . My father used to say that nothing can destroy them utterly, however, for when two of them meet anywhere in the world, they create a new Armenia. This chapel was a centre for this ‘new Armenia’. There is another church south of Koningsplein now, built by Miriam’s husband, but we shall be married here.”
    Charlotte was touched by this poetic articulation of his people’s troubles, their stoical survival against all odds. She viewed with renewed eyes the church and the motives behind its construction. It was a tiny bulwark against annihilation standing in the