“You’re a bloodthirsty wild beast, Captain Katsirmas,” cried the grandfather. “Be quiet!”
“You asked, and I’ve answered. You wanted me to open the trap door, and I’ve opened it. Has it given you a fright, old Sefakas?”
The mocker with the toothless mouth glared savagely t the grandfather. He screamed, “The trap door is open, he evil spirits are coming out. You wanted to see and ear them! ‘Where do we come from?’ you asked. Up out f the earth, Captain Sefakas. ‘Where are we going?’ you sked. Under the earth, Captain Sefakas. What is your uty? To eat, if you’re a wolf; to be eaten, if you’re a amb. And if you ask me about God: He is the big wolf
He eats both lambs and wolves!”
“Don’t blaspheme, old pirate!” cried Captain Mandakas. “You’re drunk, your mind’s reeling, you don’t know what you’re saying. The big wolf is Charos, not God!”
Captain Katsirmas laughed. “God and Charos are the same thing, cousin! But why should I argue with you?
Your brain lives on beans and knows nothing but beans.” He turned to Captain Sefakas. “That’s what I had to say to you, old Sefakas. You shouldn’t have asked me. Now I want some wine.”
“Fill up his cup with wine,” the ancient ordered one of his grandsons. “He’s confessed, let him have communion. …”
He bent his head in meditation. “I’m no judge and I give no judgment,” he said. “God heard him. Let Him be the judge.”
He turned to the schoolmaster, who, all the time the captains had been speaking, had been wagging his pointed, bald head to and fro.
“Speak, schoolmaster. Stop shaking your head!”
The schoolmaster took the lyre from his shoulder.
“All my life,” he said, “I’ve talked. Now it bores me. You ask about difficult things, Captain Sefakas. What devil put them into your mind? I have no words with which to answer.”
“Are we to be dumb, then?” asked the ancient, looking at the schoolmaster angrily. “Be dumb, be blind, be castrated, be at peace? Is that what you want? But, you fool, that means a man is a head of cattle!”
“A question can be put into words, Captain Sefakas. Don’t get angry. Ask questions as long as you’re not tired of asking them. You can shape a question in words, but not the answer. And yet you demand an answer from me.”
“I want an answer,” said the graybeard, throwing back his head.
“You want an answer, old Sefakas. You shall have it. I shall answer you with the lyre. It is my real mouth. If you understand what it says, all is well. If not, I can’t help you. Then you’ll die blind, as you were born blind.”
“Play on your lyre, schoolmaster. God be your helper!” said the grandfather, closing his eyes.
The sky had darkened. Fat drops pattered on the leaves of the lemon tree and fell refreshingly on the heeks, the closed lids and lips of the grandfather. He licked them thirstily.
The schoolmaster grasped the bow, bent over the lyre, and became one with it. The bow danced over the three strings, the little bells tinkled, the dark yard filled with bright laughter, as if it were a schoolyard in which the children were playing and chasing one another during recess. Or as if birds in a leafy poplar were awaking at dawn and rejoicing in the sunlight.
The fiddle bow leaped, laughed, danced, and the hearts of the old captains became children, birds, gurgling springs. The grandchildren and daughters-in-law moved nearer, the men and maids sat down on the ground together. And in spite of the falling rain, they listened.
The old grandfather felt as though his heavily built body were losing its weight, rising into the air and floating like a cloud above lemon trees and cypresses. Only in dreams had he so felt the joy of floating. In dreams, and one other time: He had been on his way back from war, on a Sunday; he had washed off the blood, put on clean clothes and gone into the church to communion. Then too his body had felt like a lightly flying cloud. And on the way home it had seemed to him as if his feet did not touch the earth at all. …
-But slowly the voice of the lyre altered. It became wild and furious. The bells on the bow rattled like those on the neck of a trained hawk as it shoots upward in search of prey. Those were men’s voices that rang out from the strings. The captains thought of their youth, of war, of the groaning men who lay dying, of the women mourning, of the horses whinnying and standing on the field, bloodstained and riderless. “Give me back my youth or be still, schoolmaster!” Captain Mandakas almost cried aloud. But already the lyre had again changed its tune; it was soft and lulling and the old men listened with happy smiles.
The sound, through the moist air, was like a distant humming of bees, or the murmur of a deep stream. The sound was like a woman’s love dirge far beyond themountains, on the shore of the foaming sea. Or was it the sea itself, lapping at the shore and moaning? Or was it a yet more mysterious, more magical voice from beyond life, from the other banks, sweetly and sadly and lovingly freeing souls from the flesh? Was it perhaps God Himself, hidden in the moist darkness of the night, Who was calling and raising up to Him with gentle allurement His eternal beloved, the soul of man?
The schoolmaster played as one possessed, so that the fiddle bow seemed to strike sparks. Deeper and deeper he was lost in the darkness. It was as if the lyre, alone and erect under the lemon tree, were intoning a funeral hymn. But its wailing was also a seductive call.
A deep, broad smile overspread the old grandfather’s lips. His flying, light body rose in one sweep from the lemon tree further into the air, and now lay like a cloud above the house. Soon it would by a soft transformation become a cloud, falling as rain to the ground, to nourish the young shoots.
That is death, the grandfather felt deep down in himself, that is Paradise. I am going to Paradise. I am there, already. Greetings, O my God!
He opened his eyes and saw nothing but darkness. And out of the darkness a soft, tender voice called him by name.
“I’m coming,” the grandfather answered.
All night they let him lie stretched out in the yard. He was showered with rain like a great tree trunk. Kosmas, kneeling down, had closed his eyes for him. Thrasaki squatted beside him and watched him. It was the first time he had seen death so close. With shuddering he gazed upon the grandfather whom he had loved so much. It was as though his grandfather had acquired some new power, dark and sinisteras though he were only waiting to pounce on men and drag them with him under the earth. Thrasaki had a longing to run away. But he dared not stir. He remained where he was, spellbound by fear.
His tribe kept watch around the corpse. The door had been left open. The village had been shaken when it heard that old Sefakas had given up his soul, and all streamed past to take their leave. One after another si ently kissed his hand, which lay stretched out upon the stones.
Two old women had washed him with wine and wrapped him in a white shroud of fine linen. It was a relic of his dead wife, Lenio, who had woven it for this hour. Two of his daughters-in-law placed a lantern near his head and a second near his feet. Under the soft light the face of the dead man took on a mild expression.
“Shouldn’t we take him in?” suggested Katerina. “It isn’t right that he should lie here on the ground and be soaked with rain.”
But Kosmas opposed her. “The dead man wants to be here and soaked with rain.”
A light, compassionate south wind was blowing. The grandsons brought logs and brushwood and kindled a fire in the middle of the yard, to warm themselves. The flames lighted up the yard and attracted the animals. The mule, the two asses, the mare and the two plow oxen stuck their heads out of their stalls and looked with wonder at what was going on in the yard. The three captains had curled themselves up, full of drink and food, against the strong trunk of the lemon tree, and were snoring.
“Good-by, old Sefakas. Greet the dead!” cried the women, loosening their headbands.
“Till we meet again, Captain Sefakas!” cried the old people, pressing his hand. “A happy journey!”
Each w
oman also threw him a sprig of basil, that he might take the scent of the upper world with him into Hades. One mother stricken by Charos laid beside the dead man the chalk and scribbled slate of her little son who was dead. “Take my child his slate, old man!” she cried. “Do me that kindness! His name was Demetrakis, he was your neighbor’s child. You’ll recognize him. He wore a red woolen cap with a tassel, and went barefoot.” Katerina got up and spread heavy rugs over the snoring captains, $o they would not catch cold. Then she took
Thrasaki by the hand. “Come to bed, my child. It’s nearly midnight.”
But Thrasaki refused to obey. “I’m watching over Granddad,” he said. “Father hasn’t come. I’m watching in his place.”
In the light of the flames his eyes flickered hard and decisive, like those of his father. The mother drew back and said no more.
The rain showed no sign of stopping. Renio and the other granddaughters brought coffee to keep the members of the deathwatch awake. When silence fell upon the yard from time to time, the deep, confused voices of the night could be heard: small animals and insects, night birds, restless dogs, groaning cattle. Suddenly the cocks rose up and crowed. Day broke.
Toward noon Stavrulios brought the coffin on his shoulder. Thrasaki ran up to examine the wood. It was walnut.
Two hours after midday the grandsons raised the coffin, in which the grandfather lay at rest, and bore it out the door. Moving slowly, they carried him around the village. Then they stopped at all the crossroads, and the girls threw basil and marjoram onto the corpse, as if it were a picture of the Crucified One.
The whole village accompanied him like a single family, bareheaded and serene, as though he were really the God of the village who had died. They paced slowly along, so that the grandfather might take leave of his village with his accustomed calm. Suddenly, when they were already outside the village and nearing the graveyard, the sluices of Heaven opened wide and the rain poured down. The peasants yelled with joy. For months they had longed for a real rain, for the crops threatened to be dried up. And now, God be thanked, they raised their sunburned faces with eagerness toward the streaming sky.
Without hastening they reached the cemetery, wet through. Two stalwart grandsons had dug a grave. The red, loamy soil was full of mussel shells, as if these mountains had once been the bottom of the sea. It rained nd rained. The grandfather was lowered gently. The mourners each threw a handful of earth upon him. Then they prepared to return to the house.
Now they ran fast, for they were in a hurry to sit down at the loaded tables and to devour the black ram that the grandfather had marked for his funeral feast, and to drink wine. And to forgive his soul.
Kosmas sat on the broad divan. His soul was troubled, his body tired. He shut his eyes. He wanted to rest for a little before going up the mountain. He had bidden Charidimos to find a storm lantern and hold himself in readiness. Before daybreak tomorrow they must be at Captain Michales’ headquarters. His sleep only lasted a moment, but it was long enough to let his dead father in. Kosmas saw him as clear as could be. He stood before the stairway of his house, preparing to go into the bedroom. He had already raised his foot to place it on the first step. Kosmas was terrified. Upstairs his wife was sleeping. The dead man would now go up and frighten her. He leaped up. “Where are you going, Father,” he called out. The dead man with the drooping mustache and the wart on his right cheek wheeled around and looked at him savagely. On his head he was wearing a black headband with a red, bloodstained tassel. His mouth was a wound stopped with cotton wool. He stared at Kosmas, frowning. He was clearly angry, for “he was grinding his teeth, and a small red flame darted from his nostrils and licked his face. Suddenly he opened his mouth. The cotton wool fell out, and the wound lay bare. He gave a wild moan and moved hastily up the stairs.
“Father!” cried Kosmas. “Don’t do her any harm. She’s my wife!”
The son fearfully took a step toward the dead man and called out for the second time, “She’s my wife. Don’t touch her!” He stretched out his hand to stop him. But the dead man vanished in smoke, and Kosmas now heard without seeing anythingheavy steps ascending the stairs….
With a cry he woke up. He opened his eyes and saw the guests at their funeral meal. A great dish was just being brought in, with the steaming ram upon it. It lay on ” its back, with its four legs in the air, complete with head and horns, as though alive. The ravening peasants fell on it and divided it up. The grandsons brought in jugs of wine, and now the funeral meal turned into a joyous feast. But it was not only the wine; it was the heavy rain falling on the thirsty earth; it was also because Charos had paid a visit and had not touched them, but had only taken the old man away with him! So they ate and drank, and the joy waxed. Their feet were tickling. They wanted to dance. The wine he had drunk made the good singer of the village, Stavrulios the carpenter, so far forget himself as to strike up a love song. His neighbors hushed him up quickly. To smother the scandal, the pope washed his throat with a mighty swig of wine and loudly intoned a hymn.
Kosmas stood up and took his aunt Katerina aside.
“Aunt Katerina,” he said. “Tonight I’m going to visit my uncle up on the mountain. Haven’t you any message?”
The woman sighed. “Are messages any good with him, my child? What he’s got into his head, that he’ll do, and the world may go hang. May God guide his hand.” “Won’t he think of his son, Aunt Katerina?” “To be sure. Thrasaki’s the one thing he loves in the world. But he won’t turn his head for that. He’ll do what he’s decided to do. There’s no hope, my child, from a man who’s never once thought of himself.” She wiped her eyes and said no more. Kosmas went over to Charidimos, who had the ram’s kidneys in his hand, while the grease dripped from his goat-beard.
“Charidimos,” Kosmas said to him, “you’ve eaten and drunk well, you’ve celebrated Granddad’s death. Get up now. We’re going.”
The grizzled servant made a sulky face. “It’s raining. A cloudburst. I can’t see to the end of my nose.”
“We’re going,” said the eldest grandson in a tone of command. “It’s got to be done.”
“All right, let’s go,” Charidimos sighed, cursing his fate, which never allowed him to enjoy anything. Just now, as the fun was beginning…
“Forward,” said Kosmas. “Got the storm lantern?”
The hymn was over and Stavrulios asked the pope, “Will you let me sing a robber song?”
And without waiting for the answer, he threw back his neck and made the house hum:
‘When will the starry sky be clear? When will February be here So I can take my gun …?”
CHAPTER 13
OLD CHARIDIMOS threw the light from his storm lan-te/n on the narrow goat path that zigzagged up the mountain. He had not yet recovered from his tipsiness; sometimes he stumbled, and once he fell full length. Ashamed, he got up again and pulled himself together. “Damn wine,” he muttered, “the devil take water!”
He turned to Kosmas, for he longed to talk with him. He was bathed in sweat.
“Master, won’t you open your mouth? I’m nearly dropping. That’s why I’m so unsteady on my legs.”
“None of your gab, Charidimos! It’s pouring. Let’s hurry!”
He wanted to be at his destination by dawn without failbefore the Turks could sight them from the plain. The cloudburst continued, the arteries of the land were welling, the water splashed down in the brooks. From time to time a bright flash split the sky, and the thunder rolled from mountan to mountain. As soon as its echoes had died away, the gurgling of the masses of water could be heard as they streamed down.
“If you believe in God, master, talk to me!” the old man of the mountains begged. “What’s happening out there in the world? Are they sick men like us? Or devils?” But Kosmas had no desire to chatter. Without a word he continued to climb in the darkness and rain, determined not to profane this holy hour with idle words. A strange, new, vital emotion had come over him. He endured the rain
serenely, like a rock, a Cretan rock. To the marrow of his spine he felt the joy of the rocks and the earth as they drank their fill.
The rain was mercifully putting out the fires started by the Turkish soldiers in the Greek villages and monasteries. It was also putting out the flames in the Turkish villages where Christians had begun the destruction.
Turks and Christians went back into the ruins and set themselves to place stone on stone once more and to build their houses anew.
Bleeding from many wounds and gnashing her teeth, Crete bowed under the yoke again. In caves and monasteries the captains had meanwhile been debating. They had read the Metropolitan’s circular again and again, until they had at last understood: it was the voice of Greece. They cursed, they cast threatening glances at the sky and clenched their fists. But at last they bowed their heads. They stuck their daggers into their sheaths, buried their weapons and went home to their work.
Sulkily and taciturnly the Kastrians opened their shops and the peasants plowed and sowed. The heavy wheel of everyday began to turn again.
Captain Polyxigis came back from the mountains, with a new black band around his fez. He went to Saint Me-nas, the captain of the town, lighted a candle before him and stood reproachfully for a moment in front of his icon. Then he opened his shop. He retired into the back of t, so that he would neither see nor be seen. He ordered a narghile and smoked, sunk in thought. He paid no attention to the farmers as they came in through the Kanea gate, bringing with them what they had saved in the way of lemons and oranges, wine and oil. His lips no longer smiled; nothing but venom trickled from them now. He already regretted his weakness in leaving the mountain.
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