1 The Assassins' Village

by Faith Mortimer

  Macbeth. Act 3 Scene 4.

  The fierce summer heat that year took a harsh toll on the people of Cyprus. With temperatures soaring to record levels, the ground baked as hard as rock. Leaves on the vines withered and died before the autumn. The villagers picked their crop weeks early, lest the grapes shrivelled in the relentless sun.

  Dam building on the island had begun in the early 1900s, but despite these deep life-saving reservoirs, the lack of winter rain now found them almost dry. The mountain rivers were reduced to a trickle, leaving smooth, rounded bottom boulders standing proud. The seasonal late summer breeze failed to materialise and the shimmering air was still and thick.

  In late October the temperatures began to fall. White cumulus gathered above Mount Olympus enveloping and shrouding the mountain. The air felt even heavier. A zephyr of wind drifted over the mountain summit. It teased the cedar and pine trees, causing the lesser boughs to tremble and quiver. A cloying breeze followed, sweeping down into the hills and along the valleys. Dirty-coloured cloud replaced the fluffy white to hang in great drifts of menacing steely-grey. A jagged flash of lightning rent the sky, followed by an almighty crack of thunder which echoed among the peaks.

  Large, oily drops plopped into the dust, leaving a print as large as an old English penny. With the wind freshening, the rain fell in great slanting sheets. It beat a deafening tattoo on the corrugated iron roofs covering the meaner of dwellings. Within minutes, water poured down the streets, bringing with it seven months of accumulated dust, rubbish and grime. Rivulets appeared in between the cobbles. They grew into gushing torrents of tumbling filthy water, full of leaves, twigs and all the collective waste and litter deposited in the long dry months of summer.

  The villagers ran outside, shrieking with delight at the coming of the seasonal rain. It always came eventually. Some years were wetter than others, but there was always enough for those living in Agios Mamas. The surrounding hills had many aquifers full of drinking water. The daily prayers that the village Papas had commanded once again paid off. Late, but nevertheless the rain was here now.

  Antigone rushed around ensuring her livestock were safely penned in for the night. Flashes of lightning illuminated her simple home. The tin cans of geraniums and basil plants were soon overflowing, the excess joining the monumental rush down the hillside to the river below. Laughing, she dashed back into the house, wet through.

  After drying her face on a towel she went through a curtain to the tiny alcove that served as her bedroom. She rummaged in a box stored beneath her bed to find dry clothes.

  The past few months had been hard. Antigone’s father and brother were awkward about her moving out. In anger and disbelief they asked ‘Why?’ what possible reason was there for her to live in a tiny, cramped house? ‘What?’ they demanded. ‘Would she do all day long with no men folk to look after?’

  Antigone held her tongue. How could she tell them she didn’t want to look after them? There was no love or companionship. She was a glorified skivvy.

  After listening to their expletives she explained. ‘I want to start a small business making cheese.’ Kristiakis and her father looked at each other in confusion.

  ‘You’re not being a good daughter!’ her father thundered, smashing his fist down onto the kitchen table.

  ‘Mama would understand my wanting a place of my own. Maybe it is a little early, but I feel ready for the change,’ she stuttered.

  Her father declared it was all a childish whim. ‘You’ll soon come running back. I don’t care, so long as you are there every day to make my evening meal.’ After a moment’s pause he added. ‘Oh, and the laundry won’t do itself either.’ In a foul temper he left the house, slamming the door behind him.

  Kristiakis lounging in a wicker chair, arms crossed, legs sprawled out in front of him, took a while to think before speaking. Glowering at Antigone, he studied her with a deep intensity.

  ‘I suppose this is all to do with the Britisher,’ he said spitting the last word out with contempt.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Rubbish! Still you lie!’ he hissed at her in disbelief. ‘Have you not learned anything? Do you want another taste of this?’ He half sat up resting one large meaty hand on his leather belt.

  Antigone flinched. He was a heartless, cruel bully and she loathed him. But she knew her limits.

  ‘Please, it’s nothing to do with him. I want to try this. I make good cheese. You’ve said so many times. I can’t do it here, there’s no room. Besides in my own house I will be right next to the goats. Please let me try, even for a little while. If I fail I can come back,’ she pleaded.

  ‘He’s not coming back! You can forget about entertaining him there.’ His lip curled disdainfully.

  ‘I know. I don’t want him,’ she whispered, her face as white as chalk.

  ‘Did you know that he’s married?’ he sneered.

  Antigone became still as she listened to his taunting. Something twisted in her heart. She had not known. Did he have children too? A tremor went through her. She gave herself a shake. Damn him to Hell!

  Gathering herself up, she looked him in the eye. ‘It doesn’t matter now. It was all a bad mistake that I want to forget. I was a silly foolish girl. Now I’ve changed, you’ll see. This is the reason I want my independence. I want to prove to you that I have grown up.’

  He gave a snort of disbelief and stood up, bored with it all. ‘As father has taken the easy way out as usual, I’ll have to go along with it. But remember. Just one mistake and you’ll pay.’ He crossed to the doorway, heading in the direction his father had taken when something made him stop.

  He turned his head to look at the young girl standing proudly before him and he saw a look of their mother in her face. It could have been a young Eleni standing in front of his father as she implored him not to beat her yet again. He felt a prickle, as the hairs stood up along the back of his neck. Something clicked in his hard heart. He heard himself gruffly saying he would let her try for a month or two. But her duty towards her father came first.

  Antigone wanted to jump for joy. Freedom! As soon as he left the house she did a little dance around the room. She could make plans! But as they all said in Kypros: Siga, siga, slowly, slowly.

  ~~~

  December swept in. The relentless winter rain brought cold days and colder nights. Antigone’s narrow bed was heaped with blankets and old linen stolen from her father’s house. After closing the wooden shutters and door on the outside world as soon as it grew dark, Antigone lit a single oil lamp which threw a soft light around the room.

  Taking a match, she lit the fire and the dry kindling crackled and flared into life. The roaring log fire gradually took the chill from the room. In the rosy glow of the lamp, some of the shabbiness of her home became lost in the shadows. The wind rattled the shutters and blew down the chimney, sending little eddies of smoke curling out of the hearth and into the house. Shivering, Antigone sat as near to the fire as possible. Her eyes slid over the room. Despite its size and simplicity it suited Antigone. Leaning back in her chair, she slipped off her boots; her icy-cold toes wiggling towards the welcome fire.

  Her cheese-making business had made a good start. The village shop took her produce and the locals became her regular customers. It was hard work, tending the animals and helping her father and brother. She was spending as little time as possible in her old home and neither man noticed the odd spot of dust in the corners or that their clothes were washed less often. Her father, Alexandros, was particularly slovenly, and Kristiakis only smartened himself up when he wanted to impress a lady.

  She sank lower in her chair, feeling warm and relaxed. A log moved in the hearth sending a flurry of sparks up the chimney. Humming to herself, she picked up the piece of crotchet she was working on. It was a tiny garment. Laying it down on her lap and fingering the soft white wool, she placed it gently over her stomach; over the little bump and lovingly stroked it.

  She needed nobody else now. She had her o
wn precious being growing inside. She would pretend the growing child was the result of a passionate affair. That her lover was detained elsewhere, against his wishes, and she had to carry on a life without him.

  Chapter 32.

  Thou art the best o’th’cut-throats.

  Macbeth. Act 3 Scene 4.

  A perfect morning dawned. A hint of a frost during the night left the air crisp and clear. The winter had been unusually bitter for the hill villages of Cyprus, so a morning that dawned sunny and warm was very welcome. April would herald the change to spring, the winds would lose their vicious bite and rising temperatures would be immediately tangible. A warming earth, brought welcome splashes of colour from a profusion of wild orchids, anemones, fruit blossom and spring greens. The sky would be alive with passing migratory flocks of birds on their way north after overwintering in Africa.

  For now, the villagers welcomed this gentle winter’s day. The women threw open the window shutters and scoured their houses, balconies and courtyards clean from the never-ending dust.

  Antigone had spent a restless night, wretched with backache and heartburn. No matter how she lay in her bed, she couldn’t rid herself of the nagging pain in her lower back. Overall, she had put on very little weight during her first and second trimesters. She was therefore able to conceal her pregnancy. When visiting her father’s house she relied on an old baggy coat. The garment hid her stomach and she was careful in not removing it in company, pleading cold and aching joints.

  She knew that before long she would have to make a plan. She had been burying her problem, convinced that something would come along to help her resolve it.

  Today, she left her house as soon as the sun crept over the hilltop casting its warming golden rays on her wall. She took her shepherd’s stick and packed some bread and cheese in a leather bag. After tucking her long dark hair under a woolly hat, Antigone donned her shapeless coat and completed her outdoor garb with stout black boots.

  Her small flock of goats wandered down the lane, scattering over the adjoining slope and eagerly seeking out new shoots on the bushes all around. With the dog as company, she followed them, herding them into a manageable group as they trotted further from the village’s confines and deeper into the countryside. After about a mile she came to a favourite rock. It was large and rounded on one side giving protection from the prevailing wind, whilst the main body of the rock made a platform flat enough to lie on. Giving the goats a final check she settled herself down, thankful to rest her aching back.

  Antigone cast a look at the land spread before her. Despite her discomfort, she felt a glow of pleasure as she thought about her secret. She knew her family would be furious when they eventually found out. They’d shout and storm, and declare she was ruined with no chance of marrying into a good respectable family.

  With youthful optimism, Antigone thought she could win them round. She cared not about marrying anyway. Already proving she could provide for herself, a small baby would take little extra resources. What did she want with a husband to bully her?

  Shifting her weight on the rock, she moved into a more comfortable position. After a while she leant over and opened her bag removing a bottle of water and a small package of food. With bread, cucumber and a few olives she broke her fast. Her full belly and the warm sunshine made her sleepy. There was not another soul to be seen. Her rock was hidden and away from the lane. It wouldn’t hurt to remove her coat and use it as a pillow whilst taking a short nap. An occasional early bee buzzed in the fragrant herbs nearby, and somewhere a chukar was cackling and clucking in the scrub. That plump bird would make a fine stew she thought drowsily. She dreamt she was walking down by the river, the heavy scent of crushed thyme against her legs. She thought she heard a bird give a rapid ‘cack-cack-cack’ harsh alarm and still she dreamed of falling stones and of a shadow passing over the sun.

  ~~~

  Antigone woke, stiff and cold. The sun had disappeared behind a bank of dark clouds gathering from the northeast. The bees and the little game bird were silent. She cast a quick look around giving an involuntarily shiver. There was no one in sight, yet, she had the uncomfortable feeling that someone was spying on her. Scrambling to her feet she gave the coat a good shake and put it on. The coat’s warmth stole over her and she gave another shiver. The dog was nowhere to be seen, until she whistled and within a few seconds it came bounding up from the valley below. The goats jostled and ran before it, their little musical bells tinkling a merry sound. It was time to return home.

  ~~~

  The twisted and misshapen roots of vines scattered throughout the disused vineyards made good burning logs. Best of all, they were free. Yanoulla hummed as she searched the ground, gathering the best of the old dead roots. They burnt hot on a small hearth and would keep her house nice and cosy. Her bag nearly full, she thought it time to turn towards home. She paused, noticing a bank of dark clouds gathering in the distance and hanging over the Troodos mountain range. They would soon blot out the sun and the temperature would plummet.

  It had been a beautiful day, and she stood taking in the scene before her. She loved the village but sometimes it stifled her. She wondered what life would be like in another place. Perhaps she ought to take Alexis up on his offer of marriage and go to England with him. She could live a bit; have some adventure. She wasn’t getting anywhere with Kristiakis. He thought her too old for him and openly scoffed at her tentative overtures of romance with barely concealed ridicule. She grimaced. He could be a pig at times and she felt sorry for herself. It was time she got hitched and had children of her own. She realised she wasn’t a beauty, but she knew she possessed some good qualities.

  She carried on, picking her way carefully through the wicked little thorn bushes. In the distance, she could hear bells tinkling as goats moved over the bondu. Nearby a game bird was cacking and clucking in the thick scrub. Too bad Kristiakis wasn’t here, he was a crack shot with his gun and the chukar would have been perfect for the pot.

  Yanoulla had learned a wealth of folklore from her grandmother that she carried in her head. It was never written down, but faithfully passed between the females of the family. Bending down, Yanoulla picked locally grown herbs of wild sage, cistus and camomile, well-known for their healing powers, carefully taking a sprig or two, tucking them away into her bag. Come the spring, the horta, the iron-rich mountain greens would burst forth proper, their new buds and shoots providing the families with tasty additions to their bland diet.

  She saw a small herd of goats at the end of the bluff to her left. The sound of their bells carried on the clear crisp air. Following a small path well-worn by many hundreds of little hooves over the years, Yanoulla began the gentle uphill climb back onto the main track.

  An outcrop of white boulders lay ahead with a small copse of two or three cedar trees. She knew that if she was lucky she might find some additional fresh herbs sprouting in the sunny protected spot.

  A bird whirled into sight calling its alarm. The game bird took fright frantically working its wings, and clacking its way down the hillside. Yanoulla gave a start. She watched its erratic flight of panic taking it into the distance. Something must have scared it away from the warm rocks. Curious, she decided to go around the rock formation and see for herself. The ground sloped upwards at this point and she puffed a little as she made the climb. Near the top, pausing to catch her breath, Yanoulla stopped and gazed at the sight in front of her. She froze in amazement.

  Lying on her back was a sleeping Antigone. She had obviously stripped off her thick winter coat to lie on. What grabbed Yanoulla’s attention was the girl’s physical state. Her skirt was as tight as could be and the waistband sat well below her navel. Yanoulla felt her face flame and hissed to herself in anger. The significance was apparent. There was absolutely no doubt about it. Antigone was pregnant.

  A flood of emotions raced through Yanoulla. She felt anger; anger because of the shame Antigone would bring to her family and herself. She felt vindic
tive because she had ammunition with which to harm this girl, who annoyed her intensely. But mostly, she felt a wave of envy. The man Yanoulla loved would never look at her, and her one and only proposal of marriage was from a man a lot older than she. She resented and hated the young girl sprawled in front of her. And now she learned she was pregnant, the little slut.

  That was the reason why the common little baggage wanted to live alone. So she could carry and give birth to her brat before anyone realised. Kristiakis had to know and quickly, if he was to discover who the father was and what could be done about it. He would get the secret out of her. With luck, a wedding could take place before she was showing her swelling stomach to all and sundry. That solution would be best for everyone concerned. Antigone would have a husband and father to her child, and the family would not be shamed too much. She shrugged. It happened.

  Quietly, Yanoulla retraced her footsteps. A small smile of satisfaction glimmered on her face. Kristiakis would be pleased she’d discovered Antigone’s secret. He might take notice of her after this. She hurried home, her thoughts in turmoil. Once again she was to be the harbinger of bad tidings.

  Chapter 33. Winter

  The least a death to nature.

  Macbeth. Act 3 Scene 4.

  Antigone felt deathly tired. The nagging ache in her back was relentless, making her working day seem tediously long as she coped with the pain. She was in truth, finding it difficult to handle. Would she manage when the baby came?

  Having no friends, she’d shunned those her own age, aware of the whispered comments behind their hands whenever she walked past. She knew that in the cool dark recesses of the houses, women in black stared after her passing figure, before turning to each other and speaking in a rapid torrent, voicing their blatant curiosity. She had always been different that one.