Dominion of the Moon

by Kostas Krommydas

  The need to feel something strong, the need to erase the horrifying images playing in my mind, melted my shyness away. She did not seem surprised as our lips met in a soft, gentle kiss, which did not last long. She brought her fingers between our lips and pulled away, tenderly whispering goodnight. Light-footed as ever, she glided up the few steps leading to the front door and disappeared inside the house, leaving me alone, her taste lingering on my lips.

  Happiness flared in my heart, struggling to overcome the sorrow. In the end, sorrow won out. Just before disappearing inside the house, she turned back toward me. In the darkness, I felt her eyes pierce my soul. It was as if we could see each other’s depths through the black shroud of the night. Elizabeth’s soft voice forced Zoe to step inside, her gaze still fixed on me.

  I looked up at the top floor of the house. Only when I was certain they had retired to their rooms did I go in search of some rest, my legs shaking with fatigue. I walked into the basement urgently, needing to feel the coolness of water against my face. I splashed hesitantly from a pitcher on the dresser, not wanting to wash away the taste of Zoe’s lips, which still lingered on my mouth.

  I took off my clothes and stretched out on the bed, the image of my mother twirling through the shadows and the darkness. The pain of the realization that the person who gave you life and raised you is gone forever is indescribable. Especially when it is coupled with the knowledge that she passed away so tragically, so painfully.

  I wondered what fate had determined that a woman who had never hurt anyone should meet with such an end. I thought I had no more tears to shed. But when I closed my eyes, the moistness on my cheeks proved me wrong.

  Nicholas Varvis sat at the long wooden table in the tower’s enclosed courtyard. Simon stood across the table from him. Not a candle or torch was lit; only their soft whispers betrayed their presence.

  “You should have been more careful. I did not want the mother dead. It was a step too far,” Nicholas scolded the steward sternly.

  “Forgive me, master. I made a lot of noise before I set the oil on fire, and no one called out. Stais was at the Sanctuary with the newcomer, and his sister was at her house. I thought their mother was out, too, so I lit …”

  “It’s better this way,” Marika’s voice interrupted them, approaching like the shadow of a ghost. She spoke again once she came to a stop behind Varvis’s chair. “This is no time to play games. We had to send a strong message. Nothing is possible without sacrifice …No one will miss his mother. It was the perfect night for it. She was probably destined to leave this world then …”

  No one spoke for a while, only the northerly wind whistled eerily as it glided over the stone walls.

  “So be it.” Varvis’s voice rang out stronger in the dark. He paused and conspiratorially whispered, “However, it means we must be extra careful now as we proceed with our plan. Tomorrow you go to the policeman and tell him what we agreed. Everything else will fall into place on its own. Go now, go get some rest.”

  Simon turned and carefully edged toward the staircase. Alexandros appeared from inside the tower, holding a lantern. He walked up to his parents, raising the lantern high to shed its light on their faces. “What are you doing out here? I heard the sound of your voices.”

  “Nothing, my love, we are only talking business,” Marika replied, and pulled him closer. She kissed his lips tenderly and stood up. “Light all the lanterns to brighten up the courtyard, and I will prepare our dinner.”

  As she walked away, her son lit a candle. Carefully, he lit the wicks one by one, stealing glances at his father, who watched him, deep in thought. The wind impeded his task, shortening their flame and putting out some of them. The boy, familiar with the sheltered corners of the courtyard, moved them there so they could stand bright against the wind. Nicholas looked on, admiring the way his son tamed the night.

  When all the lanterns had been lit, Alexandros sat next to his father. Varvis stroked the boy’s long blond hair and spoke tenderly. “Alexandros, time goes by as fast as a swallow. One day, all of this will be yours, and when you have a son, he will not just inherit the land, but something far greater. My grandchild, your child, will be the Varvis descendant who will fulfill the prophecy of the old scriptures: he will be the spark that will revive our old religion!”

  Alexandros nodded obediently, showing he was fully aware of his destiny. His parents spent many hours instructing him so he would not stray from his path as he grew up.

  Marika arrived carrying a clay platter, which she placed at the center of the table. From a drawer on the table’s side, she removed cups and glasses and laid them out. Varvis stood up, took a jug of wine, and started filling the cups. When he reached his son’s cup, he stopped and looked at him. “Tonight is the night you taste our wine, Alexandros. You are a young man now, and will have your first drink with us.

  The boy jumped up from his chair in excitement. He had been waiting for this moment for so long. Varvis raised his cup first, proudly looking at his son. Before taking a sip, he tilted it ever so slightly so that a few drops of wine dribbled onto the stone floor, muttering something under his breath. He then raised it high, a sign for everyone to take their first sip.

  Alexandros’s cheeks flushed as the crimson liquid burned down his throat and warmed his chest. He tried hard not to show it, and tried to mimic his parents, who sat, pleased, at the table. His mother reached for the platter to serve them, and Nicholas raised his cup to the height of his eyes, and then toward his son, urging him to take another gulp. His lips broke into a taunting smirk until Alexandros followed suit, and emptied his cup in a single gulp.

  Nicholas and Marika broke into delighted laughter, showing their pride that their son had managed to drink all of his wine so nonchalantly, as if it wasn’t his first time. The boy’s proud grin turned to loud laughter. A few drops of wine spilled out from the side of his mouth and dribbled down his chin like blood drops.

  Like a dog waiting for its master to rise, I sat on the sill of the basement’s sole window, waiting for a sound indicating that the two women had woken up. I had surrendered to a brief sleep, just long enough to rest somewhat and forget the woes that had befallen us. There were times during the night when I would open my eyes and think that it had all been a terrible dream. Sensing the truth around me, I would squeeze my eyelids shut, imploring sleep to come mask the pain for a moment.

  Zoe’s presence gave me hope and courage to face the difficult hours that lay ahead. I was certain by now that I was not searching for some temporary comfort, but hoping that she would stay by my side for as long as possible. Without my mother, and following my sister’s stance, Zoe seemed to have come into my life not simply to replace them but to fill the void in my heart. It was as if I had saved her life that day so she could be here today, lighting the path I should follow.

  The sound of creaking floorboards upstairs alerted me that they had risen. I stood up, splashed some water from the pitcher on my face, and stepped out into the courtyard to make my presence known. A large pomegranate tree struggled to hang on to the red fruit that bowed its branches to the ground. I walked up to it and tried to cut a pomegranate for Zoe. Cutting a pomegranate is not always easy—like a mother clasping a child to its bosom, the spiny branch refuses to be parted from its fruit.

  Hearing their footsteps getting nearer, I pulled with all my strength. As the fruit came free, I felt a sharp pang as the tree sank its thorns into my flesh. My father had always warned me to be careful about pomegranate thorns; they are painful and hard to remove, burrowing under the skin. I looked at my finger and saw the small brown edge of the thorn trapped inside. I brought it to my lips and sucked the drops of blood, then turned toward the women, one of whom was walking to a stone table carrying a tray.

  The sun had just risen and beamed down on the courtyard. Elizabeth and Zoe greeted me with a smile, put the tray down, and beckoned me to join them. Zoe was wearing one of Elizabeth’s dresses, reminding me of the first t
ime I laid eyes on her. I needed to forget the nightmarish events of the previous day, and the sight of Zoe whisked me away from sadness, even for a brief moment.

  I walked up to Zoe and gave her the freshly cut pomegranate, giving Elizabeth a small look of apology. She smiled and said, “I don’t like pomegranates anyway.”

  The smile washed my worries away, and Zoe gently squeezed my hand in thanks. She brought the pomegranate to her lips, as if wishing to give me a small sign of what she felt. We breakfasted, making small talk and avoiding any allusion to the terrible fire.

  Sensing my confused state about all the arrangements that needed to be made, Elizabeth had solved the most imperative issue—the matter of Zoe.

  “Zoe can help out the conservation team for a few days while they handle small artifacts,” Elizabeth said. “I spoke to Karl yesterday, and he said it’s fine. You can both stay here for as long as you like. It’s a big house and Zoe is excellent company.” She gave Zoe a friendly wink.

  Even though this new set of circumstances muddled my thoughts and feelings, I felt better that Zoe could stay a little longer. The thought of my mother struck me once again, and I was overwhelmed with the need to go light a candle by her final resting place. It would be hard for me to move on with my day before I went near her. I felt that she would appear at any moment, with the wide smile she always kept for me every time I came home.

  I jumped up, startling them, and said, “I’m going to the cemetery to light a candle. I’ll meet you at the Sanctuary.”

  Neither of them seemed surprised, and Zoe stood up to escort me to the garden gate. “You know I owe you my life,” she said. “That is not the reason I am staying, however. I wanted you to know that. Would you like me to come with you?”

  “I want you to stay here, to rest. I think it’s better if I go on my own this time.”

  She acquiesced without a word, and raised herself to her toes to kiss my cheek. The desire to keep her close coursed through my body once again. Unaware of my innermost thoughts, she turned back to my colleague.

  I picked an armful of yellow roses from a rose bush in the garden, recalling that they were my mother’s favorite flower. The pain in my finger where the pomegranate tree had extracted its revenge was far too great for such a small thorn, and I wondered whether the pain welled up inside me had found a way to pour out through that small crack in my skin.

  I started the uphill climb that led to the cemetery path, stopping at the church to pick up two candles. Then I walked to my mother’s grave. I saw my sister on her knees beside it, tending to the soil, affection and sorrow etched on her face. Despite the argument of the previous day, the sight brought tears to my eyes. The years we had spent apart may have put some distance between us, but we still shared the same blood.

  I walked up beside her and placed the roses on the mound of soil. Calliope, sensing who it was, did not turn to look at me. She placed my roses beside another bouquet and stood up slowly. She turned to my father’s grave, bent down, and pulled up a couple of weeds. Giving both graves one last look, she crossed herself and walked off without saying a word. Understanding that she felt ashamed, I did not speak either.

  The morning breeze gently stroking my face was my only company among the graves and the dead. I had been near death so many times that the atmosphere of the place felt oddly familiar. Many of those resting here were people I had known. The thought that one day my turn would come seamlessly led to the thought that I should try to enjoy every day as the generous gift it was.

  I still held onto the candles. The wind howled. They would barely stay alight for a couple of seconds before the wind snuffed them out. I planted them between the two graves to be lit another day. I sat there for quite some time, my gaze flitting between the grave and the sky. I could not remember another day when I had spent so long beside my mother since my return to the island, and the irony that I was doing so now was too bitter to bear.

  Feeling my tears dry up, I stood up and looked out at the stormy sea. A boat was struggling in the waves, trying to reach the port. I was surprised anyone had risked sailing in this weather; the waves were so high they could easily sweep it off its course.

  I was making my way down the hill when I noticed some of the locals approaching. I discreetly avoided any contact with them. The last thing I wanted was conversation. We all confined ourselves to a polite nod from afar.

  I decided to go to the Sanctuary. I wanted to see how work was progressing on the spot where the statue had been found, and to see Zoe. The matter of my accommodation kept swirling in my mind. Elizabeth’s house was but a temporary solution and, despite her kind hospitality, I had to find a place of my own. I wished Zoe would join me then.

  Lost in my own thoughts, I did not even realize how I ended up before the fence enclosing the Sanctuary. Vasilis was impatiently waiting for me by the entrance. I prayed he was not going to give me more sad news. I could tell by the look on his face that being the bearer of bad tidings seemed to be his new role in my life from now on.

  “The policeman passed by half an hour ago and told me to ask you to go down to the station,” he said, before I even had a chance to ask what the matter was.

  “Did he say what about?”

  “No, just what I told you. But he seemed nervous and worried.”

  I thought it probably had something to do with the fire, and turned to leave, but Vasilis tugged at my sleeve and lowered his voice. “Andreas, there is something else I want to tell you …” He paused, casting a frightened look around himself, like he wanted to make sure there was no one to overhear what he had to confide. “I heard people in the village say that when they arrived at the fire, they could smell burning oil. I wondered whether someone had soaked the wood.”

  Despite my fatigue, my mind worked fast. “Maybe they smelled the oil we kept in a vat when it caught fire. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Yes, but there is also what Constantis said. He passed through here with his goat herd earlier.”

  I kept quiet, waiting for him to finish.

  “Someone threw a big clay jug down the gully behind your house. It’s smashed to pieces against the rocks.”

  “So what?” I asked nervously.

  “It happened recently. The broken pieces are still dripping with oil.”

  The information I was being bombarded with matched the questions I already had, and confused me even more. Why would someone want to kill my mother and burn down our house? I did not want to show my agitation, so I interrupted him abruptly. “Fine, we’ll talk when I’m back. Do not say anything about this to anyone! Agreed?”

  Vasilis nodded. Troubled by his words, I took the path to Paleopolis and, walking across a small wooden bridge, reached the police station. On such a small island, we had only three officers, and one of them—a man who had only arrived on Samothrace a few months ago—sat behind the front desk. He was all alone, and when he saw me he pointed to a worn, wooden chair, indicating that I should sit.

  I sat carefully, and the old wood gave a treacherous creak. I was too thin to be blamed for the sound, and I tried to keep most of my weight on my legs, worried that the chair would collapse beneath me.

  “Hello.” My greeting hung in mid-air without any response from him. A military march fought to be heard through the crackling sound of radio static.

  The officer’s hair was stuck to his scalp, combed over in a failed attempt to cover the bald patch stretching from his forehead all the way to his nape. Ever since he set foot on the island, the only thing he had done was collect information on suspected left-wingers. He was convinced that law and order rested on everyone’s ideology.

  He scribbled something on a piece of paper and placed it on a pile of similar-looking yellowing sheets, then peered at me suspiciously. He came straight to the point. “My condolences. One of my men had a look at your house, and told me the fire started after some accident. Poor woman.”

  I realized that his words were but a prologue of
fake compassion leading to what he really wanted to say. I replied with a dry “Thank you” and let him carry on.

  “These are hard times, but I am forced to inform you of a serious accusation against you. You visited the Varvis tower two days ago with the American woman—is that so?”

  I was surprised to hear Varvis’s name. I could not imagine how our visit to the tower had anything to do with what the officer had to say. “That’s right. We were invited to dinner, and we went.”

  “I have been informed that Varvis showed you a chest containing pieces from his personal collection. Is that so?”

  That phrase he stuck to the end of every sentence was starting to irritate me.

  “That is so,” I snapped back, trying to understand where he was going with this.

  “That collection disappeared the following morning. It has been stolen!”

  I immediately recollected the bronze eyelash fragments that had once decorated the eyes of statues, and the coins. “What does this have to do with me? What are you trying to say? I don’t understand.”

  “How long have you known the woman who is your guest? Why did she stay behind when all the other visitors left?” His voice became harsher, and his eyes took on the beadiness of an interrogator.

  “I have known her for years, and we happened to meet again here. She stayed on to visit the island. I don’t see how this has anything to do with the theft you claim took place.”

  “We have reason to suspect the visitors did not leave empty-handed. I have asked the mainland police force to search for them, but it will be difficult as they are headed to Turkey. Varvis’s steward has stated that he saw someone acting suspiciously near the tower two days ago, just before nightfall. Then the foreigners sailed away, possibly taking the collection with them. You were the last to see the collection. Is that so?”