The Priest's Well (The Greek Village Collection Book 12)

by Sara Alexi

  In the end, it could be said the he was just adapting to the ways of the world for the greater glory of the church. After all, God helps those who help themselves. Mama had told him this repeatedly. That was how his baba became the man he was, she said, although Savas was never sure what it was that his baba had done when he was alive. All he knew was that it was enough to keep his mama in comfort and private health care to the end of her days.

  Maria does not take back her notes. Instead, she wishes him a good morning, her hands behind her back as she walks away. The same cat he saw earlier that morning follows her as she goes.

  The sheaves of paper are covered in a spidery hand-written scrawl. Maybe he will go and find the local kafeneio and read them through, but then he would be sidetracked by meeting everyone, so perhaps not. He hasn’t even seen inside the church yet, but a church is a church, and he will be spending much of his future life there, so there is no hurry. However, the walls of the cottage are beginning to feel like they are closing in around him. He needs to get out, but where to go? No car means he is stuck in the village for now. That’s the first letter he will write, but for now, he needs to be outside. He goes around to the side of the cottage past the firmly boarded-up well.

  The olive grove behind the house is not very big but would provide an income for a small family. He walks between the trees, which do not appear well tended. Did his predecessor take care of them? Did he rent out the land? Or did he leave it in the hands of Nefeli’s family? That is most likely.

  The sunlight dapples the ground through the olive branches. The breath of an occasional breeze spins the leaves to show the bluey-green flashing to silver, and then back again. The rustling is so soft, he has to focus on it to hear it properly. There is a smell of warm earth and somewhere towards the village, a dog barks and children laugh. A car changes gear behind him and over at the grand house, a shutter bangs as if caught by the slight wind. It is peaceful here. His mama would love that he is Greece, in the land of his roots, in amongst the olive trees. She would be joyous at his coming home.

  Below a tree he finds a smooth rock that is almost clear of twigs and debris. He sweeps at it with his foot, then sits. It is clearly a spot others have chosen before him, with the curve of the tree trunk just right to lean against. The view through the trees is a delight, the dappling of sun perfect. When did he last sit like this, on the ground in the sun? Not since he was a boy! He is glad he has two extra cassocks because this may dirty the one he is wearing, but right now, in the moment, he doesn’t care about the dust.

  He smooths out Maria’s essay, which he has curled into a tube, and begins to read. It reads like a person trying to write a sermon as they imagine a priest would write. It is full of clichés and familiar bible quotes. It is all focused on making whoever has stolen her items of clothing feel guilty. Exactly what the items were is not specified. Having quickly read to this point, he is just about to give up when the last few paragraphs seem to change subject. They read, ‘even men of the church cannot resist all things.’ Is she talking about him or the last papas, Sotos?

  ‘They are just as susceptible to the charms of the devil as any man.’ His interest is momentarily aroused. Then it goes on to quote various bible passages that seem to have no relevance until, at the end, underlined: ‘Even with a whole heart, even with a whole spirit, desires and passions can take our lives until we realise it is a mistake. Sometimes it is too late to change our lives.’ Savvas frowns, trying to recall where he has read this. Somewhere, recently. Yes, isn’t that the last verse of the poem underlined in the book from the bureau? When would Maria have had access to the papas’ inner chamber?

  A tree root is digging into his bottom and he tries crossing his ankles the other way around, but it brings no relief. Shuffling to one side, he looks at the ground to judge where it is flattest. The tree root arcs out of the soil before returning underground and reappearing to mould into the trunk. Where he has been leaning is the only bit of bark that is smooth. The rest of the tree is twisted and knotted, with deep holes and fissures that suggest multiple sapling trunks have grown and fused together. Some of the holes are so deep, they are partly filled with leaves and debris, but something blue is in one that is at ground level and wide enough for an animal to live in. Whatever it is has been stuffed deeply in the hole, leaving only a corner showing. Rolling onto hands and knees allows him to see more clearly that it is a book.

  He looks around the olive grove, but apart from the humming of insects, he is alone. The book sticks as he tries to retrieve it and it takes bit of wiggling for it to come free. It does not look old, but when he opens it, on the first page is the date some ten years before. He flips through to the end, where the last date, in a very uncertain hand, is earlier this year. He remembers his own horror when he caught his mama reading his journal, and his initial response is to return the book to its hiding place. But something about the last date and the handwriting cause him to falter.

  With another look around the grove, he pulls it free once again and puts the book up his sleeve to return to the cottage.

  Just as he steps through his front door into the shadows, a ringing sound emanates from among the bags and boxes that remain untouched where he put them down on his arrival last night. It is his phone. With quick movements, yanking at buckles and pulling harshly on zips, he locates his state-of-the-art mobile. The book in his sleeve is proving an inconvenience and so, hurriedly pulling it out, he puts it in amongst his things. He hurriedly presses the answer button and speaks in a slightly breathless voice.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ah Savvas, how did you sleep?’ It is the bishop.

  ‘Yes fine.’ He tries to recall the most pressing point he needs to address with the bishop. It returns to him quickly. ‘Yes thank you, now I am just finding my feet. But I am having trouble locating my car…’

  ‘Car?’ The bishop seems thrown by such a request. ‘Do you really think you will need one?’

  Savvas can feel a knot of tension start at the base of his neck. He is leaning against the wall and part of the bedroom doorframe digs into his back.

  ‘Well, I really think…’

  ‘Settling in all right?’ The bishop’s voice is jolly, cheerful, deflecting.

  ‘It’s a bit small. I was wondering if…’ He pushes off from the frame and turns to pick at the paint that is peeling off the moulding, small flakes falling to the wooden floorboards.

  ‘Is Nefeli taking care of you?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ An image of her squeezes out all logical thought and practical issues. He stops running his nails under the paint. ‘Is she, well, can I ask?’ He stammers ‘The bump on her head, how badly has it affected her?’ A voice inside his head qualifies it as a rational question. After all, he needs to know what sort of person he is dealing with, both as his housekeeper and in relation to the house.

  ‘Ah yes, poor child. How scared she must have been. They did not find her immediately. When they brought her up, she was delusional, I heard. She created in her mind a magical world out of the well and they say she never really returned to reality.’

  ‘Magical world?’ It rings a bell of recognition for Savvas. How he tried to make his own deceptive reality when lying on the cold church floor in a crucifix position all those times. With his eyes tightly shut, rolling his weight a little to one side so only one leg and half his chest touched the cold tiles, he tried to convince himself that really he was basking on the hot sand on the beach or lounging on a furry rug in front of a fire. As the floor’s temperature bit deeper, he tried to just imagine the cold was really heat. Sometimes, he could do that, and it almost felt like he was burning—usually just before he became numb.

  ‘Yes,’ the bishop continues, ‘She said the well was a magical world filled with treasure hidden there by pirates. Some thought she had gone crazy. Personally, I think she heard of the stories from Orino Island. Have you heard those?’ He doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘The tales of the rich merchan
ts putting their gold down the wells to keep it safe when the island was invaded. It would be natural, stuck down a dark hole like that, for a child to let her imagination run wild at such a time, I think.’

  Savvas can see her wide eyes staring up from the bottom of the well, the blue circle of sky above her. Maybe she shouted? No maybe about it. She was sure to have shouted. How long did she scream unheard? Now she says so little, as if she no longer wants the world to hear her. She gave the world its chance and it was not there for her. Poor thing. He will not be like the rest of the world. He will take his time to listen to her.

  ‘Well, I’m glad you are settling in.’ The bishops speaks briskly, as if wanting to round off the conversation, his duty done. Savvas tries to recall the things he wanted to bring up, areas that did not satisfy him with his situation, but nothing will come to mind, just Nefeli’s pale browny-green eyes peering at him out of the darkness of his mind.

  The phone purrs. The bishop has gone. He feels himself to have been totally ineffectual. He must pull himself together. Perhaps it is better to put what he has to say to the bishop in writing. One thing is for sure: he must continue with his demand for a car. It is time to organise his thoughts, start a list. Returning his phone to his bag, he falters, caught by a little wave of excitement as he spots the blue book he found in the tree’s roots.

  At the bureau, he compares the writing in the front of the poetry book with that in the diary. It is the same.

  It may be a personal diary but the man is dead; there is no one to mind. Besides, anybody in his position would do the same. He flips open the first page and sits down to read. It opens with a few reflections, a few thoughts about life in general, the odd note to remind himself of mundane things such as funerals and baptisms he had to perform. The writing gives a sense of despondency. The tone lifts at one point in a long passage about a tree that fell in a storm and crushed the village shop. It seems that this event caused Sotos’ beliefs in mankind to rise that day, as the whole village worked together to help the people trapped inside and to rescue the goods from the rain. But a few entries later, the despondency returns.

  The handwriting becomes less clear as the diary passes through time, more scrawled, as if his pen increasingly scratched into the paper. A few pages further, and some of it stops making sense. Words repeated and spiritual things are referred to in very abstract ways. The thoughts of a rambling old man.

  By an ink blot, in capitals, are the words GOD FORGIVE ME. Savvas turns back a few pages to find out what this refers to, and the writing here is intelligible, clear. He is drawn in.

  ‘I should not go.’ Savvas creates Sotos’ voice in his head. He makes it old and shaky, a bit gravelly but kind, soft. The voice of a man who would give his house away.

  ‘I should not have remained there yesterday. But I did not walk away, I stayed, unable to move. When it was over, I all but ran indoors. Shame must have been emblazoned on my face, my sin visible to the world. But to go again today, I cannot excuse as an accident. It will be a deliberate choice and a very definite sin, not just against God’s word but also against Nefeli herself. But the air in this big empty house is suffocating so even if I do not go there I must be outside.’

  The journal must span the time Sotos moved from the big house to the small house. Savvas releases any guilt that remains for reading the diary. There could be something in here that is useful. Useful for the church to re-acquire the grand house. He reads on with enthusiasm.

  ‘I could not overcome my urges. Once outside, other than the place I must not go, I could find nowhere to sit to write. So I thought to return my journal to its hiding place. The sun’s heat was intense even under the olive trees, so the walk to replace my book could not be a quick one. My limbs felt like I was walking through warm honey, so lazy are my reactions at this time of year, when it is so hot. After returning my diary to its safe place, I stood and stretched. I must straighten out these days after I bend down. My old limbs are stiffening by the day. But in stretching them out, I did the very thing I promised not to do. Once my eyes had landed on the open window in the cottage I could not look away. Within a minute, she was there. I stepped back behind the tree and, God forgive me, I watched again!

  ‘She followed the same routine. The shower turned on, she slowly disrobed, brushed her hair, wound it in a knot on top of her head, and stepped under the cascading water. Her movements so lithe, so graceful. She has no idea of her beauty. It is rare to see the hair off her face, but a more stunning countenance is impossible to imagine. The scar on her forehead was not invisible from the distance I was at, but it was not a desire for a clearer view of that which drew me closer. Running like an animal from behind one tree to the next, creeping up on her like a thief, I wanted to see the water run over her skin, every detail of her femininity. I was so close that if I had whispered her name, she might have heard me but for the sound of the water. The wet made her skin shine. Her eyes with those dark lashes closed against the stream of the shower. She sighed as the water cooled her and my hand went under my cassock. I am not sure how long I was like that.

  ‘That was when it happened.

  ‘From around the side of the big house, around the well, Maria came seeking me out.

  ‘She saw. She saw everything and with one look, she condemned me as strongly as I condemned myself.

  ‘My hand dropped from its hidden place but I could go nowhere. For all the world, I did not want to go towards Maria, to hear the words that accompanied that look. Besides, if I moved, Nefeli would have seen me, so I remained like a rabbit in torchlight. Fixed, not looking at Nefeli but at Maria instead, who, after her denouncing stare, turned on her heel and marched away. I remained hiding behind that tree, now forcing myself to look at the ground until the sound of running water stopped and I felt sure Nefeli had towelled, dressed, and left the small room.

  ‘I ran to the back door of the house but instead of going up to my rooms, I went down into the cellar, where I slithered down the wall and sat on the floor, muttering out loud, pretending my words were prayers. But in my heart, I was damning God for giving me desires and then denying me a way to satiate them. Why would he put such a woman in my path? His ways are not mysterious; they simply make no sense. How can I believe in a God with such little compassion? A God that gives us dementia and strokes and cancer and women like Nefeli?’

  Savvas looks up from his reading. This is the same God who said he could marry before he was ordained but not after! The same God who killed both his mama and his baba before they reached any great age. The God who drove his mama to make him lie in the shape of a crucifix on the church floor for hour after hour whilst she arranged the flowers to make the place pretty for the following Sunday. He can understand Sotos’ disquiet. Especially about putting Nefeli in his path. In both their paths.

  He turns a few pages. It seems something new has occurred.

  ‘I cannot control myself when he comes calling on her. The rage in me starts in the pit of my stomach, and I feel sick. But then the feeling tightens like a knot and with it comes energy and the energy turns into power that courses down my limbs, making my hands ball into fists, giving me the energy of my youth. At first, I was concerned for her safety, that he should not harm her or hurt her emotionally or otherwise. Has his mama not confided in me countless times, telling me of her son’s extreme emotions, telling me of her fears for her safety when he drinks to excess? But my own rages against him did not last long. Soon I found myself daydreaming about accidents he could have. Nothing fatal, just the sort of thing that would make him less desirable: a twisted leg, a scarred face. Then these became fantasies about accidents in which I was the assaulter, my fist in his eye, my foot crashing down on his nose. Such shameful thoughts, but where is God when I need Him? Is He here to give me strength, or is He giving children bone cancer and having rats nibble the toes of the old who cannot move their limbs?’

  The rest of the page is blank. Savvas turns it over and the writing conti
nues.

  ‘I have not written for a few days. I have been studying my bible and focusing on prayer. But for what? For God to put them sitting on the well’s edge, discussing their future. The shutters and window were open; it was not as if I was eavesdropping. No—God wanted me to hear. Nefeli’s voice almost so soft I could not make out her words, but his were loud and strong.

  ‘"With the income from my land and the olives here at the back of your house, if your mama will give them over to you, we can afford to live. The papas can marry us!"

  ‘How triumphant he sounded. How knowledgeable he seemed about the value of the olives. Well, I had news for him: this papas was not going to marry them. I remained rigid, listening to every word. My neck was so tense, I was so strung out I thought I might snap a ligament if I turned my head away. In the end, I didn’t move from that room all that day, even after Nefeli and her suitor had left the rendezvous. The sun went down, the lights in the village came on. The dogs started their evening chorus, the bells of sheep and goats as they were taken in for the night accompanying them. Shutters began to be closed with that familiar wooden bang in the homes all around the church, and I continued to sit. I sat until I decided on this plan.

  ‘If it is the olives that will allow her to marry, I will take the olives away. I know that this is an evil decision but the jealousy that rages within me knows no rest. I want to strike out at him, at my impotency in life, at God. The olives come with their house, so I will take their house away. But I cannot leave them homeless. I do not wish to cause Nefeli herself suffering. I just wish to show her that this man, this suitor, has no real regard for her. But even as I write these words, an idea has come to me. There is only one of me, and I need very little space. In fact, I would prefer not to rattle around in this big house, where the echoing walls do nothing but remind me of my loneliness. The empty rooms mock my status. The barren kitchen and single bed jeer at my solitude. The air hangs heavy and still and undisturbed and within these walls, I am locked inside my own head, a witness to life through these eyes sockets but unable to partake. I am caged in my seclusion. So I will give over the big house to Nefeli and her mama! They can clatter about this big house and it will give Nefeli nothing that would attract a local farming boy. It is just a pile of stones that needs a lot of maintenance. A soulless building that is hard to keep warm in winter and cool in summer. It is a burden. It will ensure that she never marries, as I will make it that it is hers after her mama dies. But—and as I think these thoughts, I cannot justify these actions other than delighting in the feel the power of evil that is really digging deeply into me—she will not own the house. I think I do not have the power to give it to her, so she will never be in a position to either sell it or rent it out. Ha, no! She can just have use of it, be responsible for its upkeep. A non-transferable burden that she must maintain. Like the burden she is to me, the weight she creates in my heart. If I cannot have her, then no-one can.