Dominion of the Moon

by Kostas Krommydas

  “I’m sure you will, son. And I think it’s time you started calling me ‘father.’”

  “That would be a great honor. If you will excuse me, I must get ready.”

  Varvis nodded, and stood up himself. He walked to the ledge facing the sea and let his eyes wander over the blue expanse.

  Several hours had passed since take off, and we would be soon landing in Zurich. Luckily, we wouldn’t have to wait long for our connecting flight. Although I generally kept up to date with what was happening in Greece, I had spent most of the flight reading all the latest news about the state of the country.

  Greece’s economic crisis was still deeply felt by its people, who were struggling to land on their feet. At the same time, large waves of refugees were creating huge problems in the wider Mediterranean region. Last year, I had found myself in a closed meeting with security officers from around the world. One of the issues discussed was the refugee and general crisis in the Middle East. I will never forget the words of a Turkish colleague. He stressed that what we were witnessing was only the beginning; that the world would be experiencing the greatest humanitarian crisis since the Second World War in the years to come. It would be caused by the outbreak and protraction of civil wars, which would not stop but only intensify, as well as climate change, which would cause mass migrations of people in search of better living conditions.

  In the distance below, the lights of a big city sparkled, probably somewhere in Germany. Memories of my grandmother flooded my mind. She had been one of the bravest people I had ever met. Pregnant with my father, she had sailed for the US. There, with the help of some American archaeologists who had worked with my grandfather, she managed to make a life for herself. She worked at the American School of Classical Studies, close to the people who had known the man she had loved.

  A veil of mystery covered the disappearance of my grandfather. He had been accused of antiquities smuggling, but no evidence had ever materialized. Not only did my grandmother refuse to believe these accusations, she refused to believe my grandfather was dead. She’d spent her whole life waiting for his return. She had searched for him for a long while without finding a single trace. It was as if the man had suddenly vanished from the face of the earth. She had asked me to continue looking for him, to investigate his disappearance, but I confess I had not. Now, I was plagued with remorse. My conclusion, however was that he must have died. Many crimes at that time went unsolved, committed in the shadow of war and civil strife.

  I chose to keep the good memories of that story, their love that was so brief yet lasted a lifetime. I could tell that the few days they had spent together had given birth to a great love affair, feelings so strong they could not be dimmed by the passage of time.

  He had been an archaeologist on the island. Zoe had recounted how he had saved her life as the war neared its end, how they had met again by chance, years later, on Samothrace. What a pity they never managed to live together … When my grandmother returned to visit Maronia, she repaired her family home and returned to Greece regularly. The last time I had visited was years ago, with my father. I still remembered how beautiful it was, and I could not wait to find myself seated on her balcony to the sky. Zoe used to spend so many hours there, and on a night with a full moon, she would not come back inside until dawn had chased the moon away.

  My father had grown up in New York. There, he met my mother, and I was the result of that brief, ill-fated relationship. They never married, and I was still a young boy when my mother returned home to Canada. I felt no bitterness about her leaving. My grandmother immediately filled the void created by her absence. Mother had chosen to leave, and I made my peace with that early on. Having formed no strong emotional bonds with her, to me she was just my biological mother. I did not miss her, because the great love I got from my grandmother immediately covered any gap. Nor did I ever feel the absence of an extended family. I always felt sheltered by the band of archaeologists who had worked with my grandfather and become surrogate uncles and aunts. They guided me, spoiled me, and helped me, as if they owed it to his memory.

  Elizabeth was the other custodian of my grandfather’s memory. She gave me other insights into the man; she claimed he was a passionate archaeologist, obsessed with the statue of the Winged Victory. Compassionate, yet rational. Elizabeth always maintained that my grandfather had probably drowned in a flash flood caused by the storm that hit the island on the night of his disappearance, and that there was no substance to the allegations that he was involved in anything illegal.

  It is hard to find the words to describe Destine’s unbridled joy when she saw me again in Athens. I had never seen her like this, wildly clambering all over me, trying to reach my face and lick it. Everyone at the airport laughed heartily at her antics. A Greek officer stepped out at passport control to greet me. Destine gave a low growl, but I reassured her with a caress.

  "Mr. Stais, welcome to Athens. Headquarters briefed us about your arrival. I wanted to let you know that we are here for anything you may need during your stay. I think you do not have a weapon with you, but if you need to …”

  I simultaneously shook his hand and my head. "Thank you. I don't think I'm going to need anything, especially a gun. But I appreciate the offer.” I was surprised at how quickly my Greek was coming back to me.

  "And if I may,” he continued, “I would like to congratulate you on the arrest in Argentina. You people have done great work in this field. We are proud a Greek was involved in such a large operation. I watched the video. I confess I enjoyed it very much. The bastards need to pay, even after so many years."

  "It's probably too late for this guy to pay, " I said and, without wasting any more time, I thanked him and pulled Destine toward the car rental kiosk.

  Minutes later, we were driving toward the center of Athens. I decided to spend the evening in a hotel near the Acropolis that accepted dogs, rest, and begin my long journey the following morning.

  After about half an hour, having crossed the entire center of Athens, I parked the car at the hotel. The Acropolis was very close. I took what I needed for a walk, and headed out with Destine. The weather was warm, but the light breeze made it a pleasant walk. We ambled up the pedestrian street beneath the Acropolis, intending to walk to the Temple of the Olympian Zeus.

  The Parthenon dominated Athens atop the sacred rock. We passed people from all over the world, their faces blending into a cultural mosaic of humanity. It did not take long to reach the main entrance to the impressive museum, where visitors patiently stood in a long queue waiting for a ticket.

  I would have continued walking had it not been for Destine, who stubbornly refused to budge, stretching the leash. Surprised, I tugged lightly and encouraged her to follow. But she stood her ground, her gaze fixed on the museum’s entrance. I turned to see what had caught her attention, and that is when I noticed the banner. It showed the headless statue of the Winged Victory and the title of the exhibition: Samothrace. The Mysteries of the Great Gods.

  I’d had no idea this exhibition was on, but I could not believe it was mere coincidence. Sitting comfortably beneath the banner, a cat enjoyed the shade it cast. That must have been what caught Destine’s attention, but ultimately led to me finding out about the exhibition. I approached one of the guards, who informed me animals were not allowed inside. Without wasting any time, I returned to the hotel and left my disappointed canine companion in our room.

  Minutes later, I was standing in line for a ticket. I entered the exhibition area full of curiosity. Numerous exhibits filled the room, some in display cases and others behind a thick cord. Music that sounded like a mechanical roar mixed with the sounds of countryside animals rose and fell in the room. A film of the Sanctuary of the Great Gods was being projected on a wide screen. It was more than halfway through as I entered, so I continued my tour, hoping to catch the next showing.

  I joined the small crowd gathered before the statue of the Winged Victory. Softly lit, it rose in the middl
e of the exhibition space as if it had just emerged from the ground. Though wounded by time, the sculpted marble seemed alive, ready to spring toward me.

  I inched closer to a woman who seemed to be acting as a guide, explaining to the visitors the history of the statue’s discovery.

  I immediately remembered the words of my grandmother, who, along with my archaeologist grandfather, was there on the day the statue was discovered. As far as I could tell, I was now looking at the exact same statue. A strange and nostalgic feeling forged a bond between the past and the present.

  Distracted by these thoughts, I thought I heard someone call me. I looked around me, and realized the guide had just mentioned my name. She was not referring to me, of course, but to the work of my grandfather. I felt deeply moved. As soon as her talk was over and the visitors began to disperse, I walked up to her.

  "Good afternoon. May I ask you something?”

  She nodded with a bright smile.

  "Please excuse my Greek. I have only just arrived, and I haven’t spoken it in many years. I heard you mention someone called Andreas Stais, if I'm not mistaken."

  "Yes, he was part of the team that discovered most of what you see around you.”

  I fumbled for the words that would explain who I was, but she beat me to it. "I should probably introduce myself,” she said, smiling warmly. “My name is Alkistis Cosmas. I’m an archaeologist at the Sanctuary site and the museum of Samothrace.”

  I shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you. Andreas Stais.”

  She looked at me, and tried to stifle a giggle. "Yes, as I told you, he was one of the archaeologists who..."

  I took a deep breath and tried to explain. “No, what I’m saying is, my name is Andreas Stais. I’m the grandson of the archaeologist you mentioned."

  Her face lit up and she gaped at me, trying to determine whether I was joking. We stood there for a while, me explaining who I was and how I came to be here. Impressed by our meeting, she offered to show me around. It was becoming very clear that she admired my grandfather and knew much about his life. More than I did.

  "Andreas Stais is one of my heroes. I've been on the island since early summer. Although I tried hard to find some information about what happened back then, I couldn't. People shut down the moment they hear his name. I am writing a paper on the Mysteries of Samothrace, the rites that still take place on the island, and how they may be the remnants of ancient rituals. I go as far back as the end of the second world war, which is when your grandfather returned to Samothrace.”

  I hung on to her every word with mounting interest. Unfortunately, one of the museum guards interrupted us before she could tell me more, saying she was needed elsewhere. She hastily pulled out a card and, propping it on her knee, scribbled something on the back. "I have to go. Would you like to meet up again when you are in Samothrace? You and I have a lot to talk about, believe me. Why are you visiting now, at this time of year? "

  “I’m going for my grandmother’s funeral, the day after tomorrow. She wanted to be buried on the island.”

  "Your grandmother? You mean...”

  "Yes," I said, as a light of understanding dawned in her eyes. I understood she was pressed for time, so I added quickly, "I know it’s not customary, but if you wish to attend the service...”

  "I will be there,” she replied with great fervor. “Call me tomorrow with the details, although I imagine I’ll hear about it anyway. It’s been a pleasure meeting you."

  I stayed on for a while, looking at the exhibits she had not had time to show me, and left after watching the film on Samothrace. I was bursting with curiosity. I had been won over by the images on the screen, and was now looking forward to immersing myself in the beauty of the island.

  The sun was setting, crowning the Parthenon with purples and pinks for a final few minutes, the white marble a mirror for its setting glory.

  A long nap would sort out my jetlag and prepare me for the long road trip ahead. I took out my phone and called Sophia to find out how the funeral arrangements were going. Some distant cousins on my grandfather’s side had suddenly appeared and intended to attend the funeral. My father had never liked them much, and my grandmother had called them vultures. All I wanted was to say goodbye to Zoe in the way she deserved. She always used to tell me, “Do not fear death. Love beats death. I beat death, twice!” Those were the words I turned to whenever I felt my courage might fail me.

  An old man’s voice answered the phone, a voice I had never heard before, yet it sounded strangely comforting. Familiar.

  “Hello Andreas,” he said, as if he had been expecting to hear from me.

  Night had settled around Samothrace, with clear, starlit skies. Nightingales perched on the branches of the plane trees by the stream, filling the air with sweet song. Small lanterns lit the atrium of the house that nestled under the tall oak.

  Iro and Erato, the cello player at the symposium, relaxed on chaise lounges sipping wine and enjoying the tranquil evening.

  "I expect everyone will be drinking through the night now that the symposium is over," Iro said. Taking a long sip, she added in a serious tone, “Erato, I don't feel ready for the ceremony."

  As if struck by lightning, her friend bolted upright and leaned toward her. "You will never feel ready, Iro. You are the Chosen One! That will give you immense strength when you need it."

  "I don't think I'm the Chosen One," Iro said, hiding her face in her hands.

  "Why would you think such a thing? Your family is the guardian of the legacy of the ancestors, and it all leads right down to you. In a few days, you will be the Great Mother,” Erato said affectionately.

  Iro lifted her face up and looked around, worried. “Did you hear something?” she whispered.

  Both women kept very still, ears pricked for any unusual sound camouflaged by the birdsong.

  Erato earnestly grabbed her friend’s hand. "You are fretting over nothing. After the initiation ceremony, not even death will frighten you."

  "I'm not fretting. I just don’t want to become something I do not think I was destined for.”

  "I've never seen you like this; what's wrong with you?" Erato said, frowning.

  "My mother might have died when I was very young, but she still had time to tell me something I’ve never told anyone... She tried to rebel against my father. But there wasn’t much she could do. She told me that they all expected a boy, an heir to carry the mantle. I ruined their plans. When she fell ill and died without having any more children, I was chosen as a last resort. Not as the Chosen One!”

  Erato raised her voice, almost scolding her. "Listen to yourself! You are your father’s flesh and blood, and that is all that matters! Everyone might have wanted a boy, but fate chose you! Your father adores you and is very happy to have you as …"

  "My father wanted to have a son. He found that son in Miltos. That is why he wants us to marry so quickly."

  "I don't know what's gotten into you, what’s making you so morose, but you're exaggerating! You love Miltos, don't you? "

  Iro pondered the question before replying. "Yes, I think so. I don’t understand what’s happening to me. My head is a mess. It’s as if the moon is growing inside me, haunting my thoughts.” She turned to look at the moon rising from the east.

  The muffled rumble of thunder issued the clarion call for moon and clouds to engage in a battle for the sky. Erato put her glass down on the floor and came to stand behind her. She tenderly pulled her up and began to knead the nape of her neck. Iro let out a contented sigh.

  "I’ve never seen you this tense,” Erato said.

  "I always thought something would happen, and we would not get this far. Yet, here we are."

  Erato’s hands pressed harder, and Iro slowly started to unwind. She leaned back and listened to the murmur of her friend’s voice, grunting softly in reply. For the first time in days, she felt herself relax, the pent-up tension inside her finding some relief. “Thank you, I feel better already,” she said hoa
rsely.

  Erato picked up her glass and returned to her seat. She grabbed the wine bottle from the ice bucket and refilled their glasses. "To the gods who always show us the way," she toasted, giving Iro a look full of meaning.

  Dark shadows fell over the island as the clouds sped toward the mountain, swallowing up the stars in their path. The moon disappeared, and only flashes of lightning lit the windows as Iro dozed on the chaise longue.

  "Rain’s coming. I hope the weather holds for the full moon," Alexandros told Miltos, as the two men sat at the long wooden table in the courtyard.

  "Forecast says no rain, but Samothrace has its own weather god. You never know," Miltos replied, watching the storm come in.

  "Whatever the weather, the ceremony will take place. The moon will still be there, watching. Nine days pass quickly! I need you to look after our people. Make sure no one tries to gatecrash. Only the initiated. No one else," Alexandros said briskly.

  "Everything has been taken care of … father.”

  Alexandros gave Miltos a look of satisfied approval. "These days the island is filled with hippies who think they are gods. They go to the water pools and leave their filth behind them like scavenging hyenas. This time last year they trampled over our vines, but this year, they will not dare. I have taken precautions. Although, what I’d really like to do is grab them all and fling them down the gorge, see if the gods they worship can save them from the vultures feasting on their bones.”

  Miltos smiled at watching him get so riled up. "We have nothing in common with them. Like you said, nothing but a handful of quacks braying at the full moon, high on drugs and cheap wine.”

  Varvis smiled and leaned back in his wooden armchair. He knew the man sitting across him was the best choice he could have made for his daughter. For years, his father, Nicholas, had heaped scorn upon him for failing to sire a male heir. On his deathbed, with no grandson in sight, he made Alexandros promise that Iro would mate with someone from Miltos’s family.