But Captain Polyxigis was not listening. Leaping up, he hit his head with a dull thud against the stone wall.
“Who killed her? Who? Everything else later!”
“I did,” answered Captain Michales, standing up and meeting his friend’s glance calmly and firmly. “I did, Captain Polyxigis.”
Captain Polyxigis leaned against the stones, and his brow darkened.
“No, no!” he shouted at last. “That’s impossible! You? You!”
“I had to kill her or you. I thought of Crete. You are a good fighter. Crete needs you. So I killed her. It lightened my heart. Yours too will grow light again. Don’t fumble for your knife. If you like we can bar the door, put out the lamp and fight it out here and kill each other. But think of the women and children in the cave. Their lives depend on us. Think of our forefathers. Think of Crete. Then decide.”
Captain Polyxigis reeled and fell. He buried his face in his hands. His chest was heaving. He could no longer control his sobs.
“When I read that there is no more hope,” Captain Michales went on, without paying any attention to his friend’s tears, “I don’t know what demon it was rose up in me, Polyxigis. Instead of letting it press me down, I felt a new, savage courage. So that’s how it is with you, Great Powers, I thought, you refuse to give Crete freedom. Shame upon you! I, Captain Michales, I, a little Cretan porcupine, don’t need you! And let God leave Crete in the lurch if He pleasesI’m not!”
He touched Captain Polyxigis lightly on the shoulder.
“Captain,” he said gently, “aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”
The other mastered his tears. The murderer’s words bored into his head.
“Since the hour I lost all hope, Captain Polyxigis,” Captain Michales went on, “I’ve had the feeling, by the soil on which we tread, that I’m immortal. Who can do anything to me now? What can death do against me? Even if all the Turks come storming at me, my ear lobe won’t twitch. I am like Arkadi: my clothes, hair and guts are full of powder, and when I see that there’s nothing else for it, I’ll blow myself sky-high. Do you understand?”
And it was trueonly defiance and pride now found room in him. Was it a demon, a God or some wild idea as old as history? He himself did not know. He knew only one thing clearly: whatever might happen, he would not stoop to curse his destiny or to bewail it. He would come to terms with neither the devil nor God nor the Sultan. He would blow himself sky-high like Arkadi.
Captain Polyxigis stood up. Violently he tugged the heavy cloth straight around his head.
“I cannot sleep in the same house with you, Captain Michales,” he said, “nor do I want us to kill each other as long as our country is at war, nor will I desert you hi danger. But we two will have our reckoning as soon as
Crete is at peace again. For you have turned my heart to ashes, Captain Michales.”
And without another glance at the murderer, he walked out the door.
The women had climbed onto the flat roof, to scour its dangerous burden of snow. With sighs they gazed out at the mountain. What, O God, was happening to the Christians up there? Katerina raised her eyes to the snow-covered peaks and thought of her fear-inspiring husband.
Today the sun was shining brightly, the sky was deep blue, the air icy. The grandfather sat by the hearth and stared into the flames. For some days he had not spoken. He grew paler and paler and remained sunk in dark thoughts.
As Thrasaki entered, the grandfather stood up. He had ordered a tin of red paint and a brush brought him from Kasteli. He beckoned to Thrasaki.
“Take the paint, little Thrasos. Let’s go. And give me the brush.”
“Where are we going, Granddad?”
“You’ll soon see. Be quick, while it isn’t snowing.”
They reached the street door. Grandfather and grandson looked out at the village, which lay as though dead, swathed in snow. The gleaming, intact snow made everything beautiful. Thrasaki could not marvel enough at this overnight transfiguration of the village.
The grandfather pulled a large, many-colored handkerchief out of his belt and began to clean the snow from the door. Then he took the lid off the tin and dipped the brush into the paint. “In God’s name!” he murmured.
“What are you doing, Grandfather?”
“You’ll soon see.”
He raised the brush and began, slowly and carefully, to paint on the doorfirst an “F,” then an “R,” then a “P”
“Ah,” said Thrasaki, “I understand!” The grandfather laughed. “Now you see why I took the trouble to learn to write. In the whole village I’m not oing to leave a wallI shall even climb up the bell f tower, I shall go into the mosque, and before I die it will be everywhere: ‘Freedom or death!’ “
After each letter he put his head back and admired his work. He wondered at the mystery of how one could put together little strokes and curves and out of them raise a voicea choir of voices. How could those signs speak? Great art Thou, O Lord!
How his street door spoke. He had given it a voice. “Have I written it well, Thrasaki?” he asked anxiously. “No mistakes?”
“I give you good marks, Granddad. Excellent,” said the grandchild with a laugh.
“Then let’s go on!”
At the street corner there was a piece of wall free from snow. The grandfather again dipped his brush and wrote. Then he moved on. The paint splashed over his beard and boots, it spotted his waistcoat, but he did not notice. A sacred flame had enveloped him. Wherever he found a flat, clean wall or a large door, he stopped and painted the magic signs. The walls and doors, which before had stood dumb and forlorn, now loudly voiced their longing.
His hand had now acquired the knack of writing and flew along. He reached the village square. Here were the school, the church and the mosque, and a little farther on, the coffeehouse. He dipped the brush into the paint and^ set to work on the school door. Freedom or death! Two’old men came out of the coffeehouse.
“Hey, Captain Sefakas, since when can you write? What are you painting there? What’s come over you?”
“It’s my farewell,” replied the grandfather, undisturbed. “Take it, to ‘emember me by.”
The old men shook their heads and moved on.
“An angel has visited old Sefakas,” they said. “Charos is near.”
The grandfather now stood before the mosque. The walls had been freshly whitewashed, the door was painted yellow.
“Here’s where I’ll do my best work,” said the ancient, “and adorn each letter with a flourish. Just look!” He moved the brush firmly up and down on the yellow door.
“Now let’s go home. I’m tired. The church another day. I’ll climb up the bell tower on a ladder.”
“I can’t have you falling down, Granddad. I’ll do the climbing.”
All over Crete the captains had put water in their wine. They now took counsel and debated this way and that. The Greeks and the Franks and the Muscovitesall were holding themselves aloof. Only a few captains still resisted.
“I have subdued Crete,” proclaimed the Sultan. “Not a gun is now to be heard on the island. The privileges which in my goodness of heart I had extended to the Cretans, I withdraw, because they have showed themselves treacherous and rebellious.”
On the crest of Selena the guns had not been silenced. Captain Michales did not surrender. His shots sounded in Constantinople and the Sultan was enraged. He sent an order to the pasha of Crete: “Bring me Captain Michales’ head! If not, your own!”
And the pasha jumped up and down and swore. “Yes, by my faith, I’m going to crush the giaour!”
He girded on his scimitar and looked out toward those accursed Lasithi mountains. He sent a message to Captain Michales: “Go, Captain Michales, take your palikars and leave, with your weapons and with your flags flying. By Mohammed, I will not hurt a hair of any of your heads!”
Captain Michales had answered: “As long as I breathe I shall not leave. Let all Crete submit if it will, I am aoi submitti
ng. I spit on the beard of your Prophet!”
“Damn Crete, damn all Cretans, damn my lot!” muttered the pasha, and unbuckled his scimitar again. “How am I to clamber up the mountains hi the snow and hunt this devil’s own fellow! I shall send still more soldiers.”
He clapped his hands. The Arab appeared. “Bring me some chestnuts and a raki. I’m worried … do you see the message from the Sultan?”
Without a word the Arab brought a glass of raid, then knelt down and put a row of chestnuts on the glowing cinders hi the brazier. The pasha stretched himself out on the divan.
“Tell me some pretty tale, Suleiman, even if it’s untrue. By Mohammed, I don’t care!”
The Arab’s teeth showed hi all their width and whiteness. “Today as it happens, Pasha Effendi, I’m able to bring you a piece of good news that will turn your heart into a garden.”
“Tell it, you liar, with my blessing! Has Captain Michales laid down his arms?”
“That’s not the news, Pasha Effendi, but something better! You’ve heard of Hamide Mula, the sorceress, who has the saint hi her yard. I made her cast the beans today and tell your fortune. She squatted down in the middle of the yard, took a sieve and brought out her little bag with beans and shells and pebbles and bats’ knuckles. She shook them into the sieve, rattled it and bent over it. Then she muttered the charm. Suddenly she gave a cry, threw off her shawl and began to dance. ‘What can you see, Hamide Mula?’ I shouted to her, ‘what have the beans got to say?’ She became calm, sat down again and stirred the beans with her fingers. ‘I see a red fez clapped down over the whole of Crete from Garbusa to Topla Monastery! I see the pashathat small, dead snailreceiving a firman from Constantinople, with a gold seal, gold lettering and gold cord. The Sultan is sending him gold pounds and gold braid.’ ‘Yes, isn’t he also sending him his daughter, to make him his son-in-law?’ ‘By the saint who is listening to us, I can’t quite make it out.’ ‘Tell me exactly, Hamide Mula,’ I said to her, ‘when are all your deeds and wonders going to happen, that I may go and announce them to the pasha and receive a small baksheesh and you too, my poor woman.’ Again she bent over the beans, mixed them and threw them this way and that. ‘In three periods of time,” she answered. ‘Tell the pasha that. He’s not to worry.’ And just as you clapped your hands, I was coming hi from Hamide Mula’s yard to bring you the news.”
All this time the pasha had been playing with his amber necklace and listening openmouthed. His face had become gentle and peaceful; through closed eyes he saw the Sultan’s messenger enter Megalokastro, followed by caravans of camels with the dowry from his father-in-law: sacks full of gold pounds, emeralds and opals, and others full of musk, almonds and cinnamon. And a little hanum, the Sultan’s daughter, dressed hi silk, stepped down from a white camel and with supple movements swept up the marble steps of his seraglio.
At length Suleiman stopped talking. The pasha started, as though awakening. He yawned. “Have you finished, silly Suleiman?”
“I’ve finished, Pasha Effendi.”
“Now stick the pot into the fire and make me a coffee, a foamy one, to wake me up. Are the chestnuts roasted?”
“Aren’t we going to send any baksheesh to poor Hamide Mula?”
The pasha laughed. “Silly Suleiman, we’re going to take care not to let our mind be puffed up with wind! First we’re going to let two ‘periods of time’ go by!”
“He’s not such a fool as I took him for,” the Arab muttered sourly as he put the pot into the fire.
As the day was nearing its end, the Metropolitan kept pointing his telescope fearfully toward the restless surface of the sea. Today he was expecting, with the steamer that touched at Megalokastro every week, the secret messenger who was coming to him with Instructions from Greece. In the mountains the captains still negotiated with the Turks. They had made up their minds to come to terms, but had not yet laid down their arms. “In God’s name,” cried the more reasonable ones, “let’s harden our hearts to stone, bury our weapons once again, and collect our strength until even the mourning mothers gain strength once more. And then we can raise the banner gain. Pretend to kiss the hand you cannot hack off.” Still the more fiery ones retorted: “Freedom or death!”
Greece too was undecided: sometimes she uttered vague threats against the Turks, sometimes she fell at the feet of the Franks. The Metropolitan did not know to which opinion he should give his allegiance. His understanding advised him to be measured, patient, and to yield; but his heart, with its crazy courage, shouted, “Freedom or death!” Today, thank God, the secret messenger would arrive from Greece and show him the right course. But darkness was already falling, and there was no sign of the ship.
I must be patient, he thought. God will bring another day tomorrow. Then the news will come.
He went downstairs and into the church, to pray God to calm the sea.
The night passed; the sea grew smooth. At daybreak the soft fragrance of thyme floated over the sea from the mountains, and Kosmas, the eldest grandson of old Sefakas, standing on the bows of the steamer, breathed in the fragrance of his native land. Crete lay before him. Wild cliffs, mournful trees, distant rose-colored mountain peaks. It was a spring day in the heart of winter. Kosmas could not gaze enough at the flesh and bones of his country. How had he set out, twenty years ago, a child with downy cheeks and downy soul? and how was he now coming home? He turned. A young woman, small and pale, came up to him and also looked, with large, terrified eyes.
“Crete,” said the young man with a laugh, gently touching her shoulder.
The woman shuddered. “Yes.”
“This is where you’ll bring our son into the world,” he said softly. “This is now your country. Forget the other,” he added tenderly.
“Yes, Kosmas, dear,” said the woman, and she gripped his arm and pressed it fearfully, as though to make sure that it was there. She became a little calmer.
Crete’s mountains, olive groves and vineyards drew nearer. Megalokastro appeared in the white scintillation of the early morning. The scent of thyme grew stronger. The full light had now glided from the peaks over the slopes down to the plains. The trees could be distinguished from one another, the cocks were audible in the sweet moment of morning, the world was awakening.
The man bent toward his wife. “Please,” he said softly, “now that you are entering my father’s house, keep your heart firm and don’t be afraid. Remember that I’m always with you. Remember that you’re carrying our son. My mother is a Godfearing woman; she will take you to her heart. My sister, I must tell you …” He stopped, frowning.
“What?” she asked, looking at her husband anxiously.
“When she was twelve, her father gave her this order: ‘You are not to cross the threshold of the street door any more, and you are not to appear before me any more. Go!’ From then on, the poor thing remained shut away from her father and the outside world. She sat all day weaving and knitting for her trousseau. When the old man came home in the evening, she fled to the inner part of the house to hide. When she was twenty, my father noticed that day after day a young man passed by and watched for my sister. One evening a woman of the neighborhood brought her a note from the young man and later several more. He was in love with her, and he wanted her to meet him one night so that they might get to know each other, with a view to marrying later. After many letters the girl was moved by sympathy and one evening told the neighbor to say that she would be standing at the door at midnight.”
Kosmas stopped short. The veins on his brow were swollen. Hatred, fear and admiration of his father reigned in him once more. Crete had vanished. Instead, the terrifying shade of his father swept through the air.
“Be quiet!” whispered the young woman. “That’s enough.”
“No, you must hear it all,” he replied. “At midnight she went down with bare feet, to make no noise on the stairs. But the old man was watching. He glided behind her without a sound. The poor girl went out into the yard, and just as s
he started to open the door, the old man rushed upon her, seized her by the hair, bored his nails into her and flung her, fainting, into her room, which he locked. Year after year passed and my sister never once dared to go to the window. The old man was killed at Arkadi. Twenty years have gone by since then. But my sister’s brain is shuttered tight. She works all day in the house, washing, cooking, and still weaving and sewing, poor thing, at her trousseau. At night she doesn’t go to bed. When midnight draws near, she opens her window, leans out, and if some nocturnal wanderer comes by, calls out to him timidly, ‘Is it nearly midnight?’ “
Kosmas paused. Tie fair hair, the blue eyes, the charm of his sister, her laughter when she was young …
“Please don’t be frightened,” he said to his wife.
He took several steps along the deck and looked down into the hold, where Turkish soldiers lay stretched out. “Unlucky Crete,” he murmured, and felt the lining of his coat, where he kept hidden the letter with the secret information.
Kosmas could now clearly distinguish, behind Megalokastro, the celebrated mountain luchtas with its human shape: a gigantic head lying on the ground among olive trees and vineyards, with a high, bold forehead, a bony nose, a wide mouth and a beard of bluffs and boulders. It lay there, a deed, pale-blue marble god.
The giant is not dead, Kosmas thought, as he looked at the reassuring mountain. As long as he’s alive and rumbling inside me, he hasn’t died. As long as I’m alive and thinking of him, he won’t die. The others may have forgotten him. His life depends on me. He holds me, but I hold him too.
He could feel that his father had struck roots within him that would not be destroyed. Abroad, he had often thought of him, and a trembling would come over him at hese-times. But never had he felt the dead man so near as at this momentor so menacing. He knows, he thought, why I’m coming back to Crete and what my secret mission is. Relentless fighter that he is, he’d like to silence me.
Kosmas turned again to his wife. It seemed to him that his father had cast a glance filled with hatred at the foreign woman. But the young man’s love for this woman grew still stronger and bolder in the presence of his father. He pressed her to him and defended her and would not give her up to the dead man.
Freedom or Death Page 38
