The enemy is plundering Armenia - one village after another. The smoke of the fires mournfully reaches towards the sky. The wind carries a child's cry. Based on the corpses of the dead, the living are driven into slavery. Some throw themselves into the abyss so as not to go into slavery. Death is behind. There is blood and tears ahead.
Mesrop's heart is torn with grief. He rubs his hot forehead with his palms. He won’t sleep peacefully today or tomorrow—for the rest of his life, until he finds something to help the defenseless. Mesrop’s friend Markoz is also awake.
— The grief of one village does not affect others. Few people in trouble rush to help. Our people are callous,” says Markoz with a sigh. “Not callous,” Mesrop objects, “people are separated by mountains, faith, and dialects.” We need to unite them. Ignite with a single thought. But where is the path to unity? Where is he, Markoz?! - What if we build a temple in our village? From all the villages people will come to pray. They will stop alienating their neighbors, condemning each other’s customs and habits... What do you say, Mesrop? - True thought! – Mesrop was delighted. – Yes, this is exactly what everyone needs! – he got excited, jumping out into the darkness.
He returned at dawn: “It’s a good idea, Marcose, but you can’t build a temple on the plain: something that’s easily accessible doesn’t become holy.” We'll line it up at the top. And not for prayers - let this be the first temple where people come not to shed tears, but to draw wisdom from each other. Enough to mourn.” “There is no way to the top,” Marcose objected. “That’s right.” But you can’t build in a village either - the temple will lose the power of the banner. He will not become a shield of protection and a sword of rebuff. And you need height. Rising upward, people will leave the familiar, break away from worries, and cleanse themselves of the unnecessary. This will make it easier for them to get into something new. From the top people will see more than one village. Before the homeland that opens up to the eyes, small things will be forgotten. But not everyone can overcome these rocks, Marcose. Therefore, we will first pave the way to the top. - But we don’t have enough life for the road! Have you thought about this? - I’ve thought about it, Marcoz. Others will finish. - Mesrop, the people need a temple, and I’m starting with it. - First we need a path...
The friends parted, dissatisfied with each other. Marcoz began to build a temple in his native village. Mesrop in the mountains - the road. Over the course of several years, he carved so many steps into the rocks that a child could climb them without taking a breath. And during this time Marcose built a temple. In the village he was praised, but for some reason no one went to the temple except for a few old women. Marcose waved his hand - dark people.
Mesrop rose higher year after year, moving forward very slowly. His name was generously showered with ridicule. Markoz, having decided to bring his friend to reason, came to him: “Mesrop, you were reputed to be smart, but you have turned into a child.” There are no roads even between villages, and you climbed a mountain. For centuries people lived before us and did not undertake this. Why are you freezing here, starving, and not sleeping? Don't make the world laugh, don't disgrace your father's name. Your own house is falling apart.
- Marcoz! – Mesrop turned around in anger. “You are now no better than the princes who defend their court, only theirs.” Who are you? Doukhobor, sectarian, leading astray? Or an ashug that sings praises to the people, but in difficult times does not show them the way? Better go and pray.
Time rushed by like a fast steed, giving birth to some, sweeping others out of the way. The gray-haired Mesrop hurried, fearing not to make it in time. The summit was approaching - the strength was diminishing. Finally, the day has come... From the top, gray-haired Mesrop looked back. Like years, the stone ledges ran down towards the people.
“My steps are only a few miles long. But these miles can now be covered in an hour. Life in an hour – isn’t that enough?” - Old Mesrop smiled for the first time in many years, rejoicing that the paths of scattered villages would merge to the temple.
Since then, the inaccessible mountain has become accessible. People climbed to the top. They built a temple there. And they named him after Mesrop Mashtots, the creator of the Armenian alphabet. Holy Father Mesrop, we ask you, pray to God for us!
Translated from Russian · original on wisdomlib.ru