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

by Sara Alexi

  ‘To do just as you like. Paint it pink if you want.’

  ‘And the land?’

  ‘Yes, and the land.’ This creates a lump in his throat. This was the reason why her home was taken from her in the first place. No land meant no marriage. Perhaps now she will marry. The feeling in his chest shifts. If she is ready to marry, and she could consider marrying him, then he will renounce his calling. Tears fill his eyes. Giving up the church is both a terrifying and a liberating thought. If he still feels the same in a day or two, he will carefully, so very carefully, bring the subject up with her, see how she feels. His instincts say she has very fond feelings for him, but his knowledge in these matters is very unsure.

  ‘I think I will have to ask you every day for a week before I believe you,’ she says.

  ‘Then ask,’ Savvas replies.

  ‘Will you help me with Mama now?’

  They walk side by side into the grand house.

  Every day she asks.

  ‘Is it really mine? And the land, too?’

  ‘Yes, it is really yours. The land too,’ he replies and they both smile.

  After the second day, she adds on another sentence.

  ‘Is it really mine? The land too? And all the trees?’

  ‘Yes, it is really yours. The land too and all the trees.’

  The third day she asks, ‘Is it really mine? The land? The trees? The well?’ It has become a game and he loves to play it.

  ‘Yes, Nefeli. It is really all yours. The house, the land, the trees, and the well.’ He wants to add, ‘And me, I am yours too, Nefeli.’ But he closes his mouth and keeps his lips sealed—for now.

  From his new large bedroom, the window looks down onto the olive grove and many a time he watches Nefeli walking through the trees, graceful in her movements, a hand stroking across the bark, pulling on a low-hung leaf. She is there at night too, her skin shining in the moonlight. Her hair shimmers, unreal, as she looks up at the stars. At these moments, it takes all his willpower not to join her until one night, he can hold himself back no longer and he takes his own stroll, meeting her as if by surprise.

  ‘Oh, Nefeli. You are out late.’

  ‘And you, Papas.’

  ‘Can you not sleep?’

  ‘It is so beautiful.’ Her gaze is into the trees, the leaves shiny or dull depending on the twist of the branch. ‘Can you not sleep?’

  Her scar looks angry in the pale moonlight, ugly and defacing. She may not find a suitor even now that she has the olives; men can be so fickle. But he is there.

  ‘I was reading the bible and pondering on a text.’ He waits for her to ask which one but she doesn’t. ‘Ecclesiastes 4:9-11. Do you know it?’ She tuts her ‘no’ and pulls at a long grass by one of the tree trunks. ‘It says “Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labour.”’

  A flash of the whites of her eyes. He emboldens himself to continue.

  ‘If either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.’

  The look she gives him now is not a kind one. Maybe she has misunderstood him. He must finish the quote so she is not in ambiguity.

  ‘Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm. But how can one keep warm alone?’

  She throws her grass away. This is his moment. This is the second he must make himself plain. No better time will be offered him than this.

  ‘If I were not a priest, Nefeli,’ he begins. Her face is lit by the moon.

  ‘If you were not a priest, things would be very different,’ Nefeli states, looking him in the eye. It makes his heart race. It is beating so hard, she must be able to see it through his cassock.

  ‘If I was not a priest, I would find a way to make a living. I believe I am very capable.’

  ‘As all men are,’ she replies simply.

  ‘Would our relationship be different if I were not a priest, Nefeli?’ There, he has said it. There can be no mistaking what he is asking.

  ‘Of course,’ and with it comes a smile. A bat chirps its agreement. A black bullet. She ducks. The flying rodent catches a strand of her hair. Her hand goes to her head to make all smooth. The bat peeps its position some distance away and calm is restored. But the tender moment is gone. He has been clear but she has not. She has left him with hope but not an assurance. In what way would they be different? In the way he is hoping or in another way? The bat sweeps again and take the remainder of the intimate mood with it, along with Savvas’ courage.

  The next day, she does not ask if the land, and the trees, and the well, and the house are really hers. A pain grips his heart and a tightness takes his throat, drying his mouth when he sees her.

  The day after that is Sunday. The service is an easy one but the villagers have become used to his reflections at the end and he feels obliged to offer some wisdom. But he has no idea what topic he wants to teach, so he is unprepared and finds himself preaching from the heart. Eve as Adam’s mate seems to be the message, but he is making little sense. As he tries to recall his bible quotes to give his monologue validity, something comes from some distant corner of his memory and he begins the verse, reciting each word as it comes.

  ‘Proverbs five: May your fountain be blessed, and may you rejoice in the wife of your youth. A loving doe, a graceful deer.’ From his neck to his cheeks comes an intense heat. He stammers as he remembers the final line. The congregation is silent.

  Wetting his lips with his tongue, he tries to remain calm. The heat in his cheeks is not subsiding, and the final line needs to be spoken to complete his quote. What on earth made him recall this verse of all verses? He opens his mouth and out the words come. ‘May her breasts satisfy you always, may you ever be captivated by her love.’ A few of the women in the congregation gasp and nudge their husbands awake. Maria, who is in her usual seat right at the back of the church, stands, hesitates and then, noticed only by him, walks out.

  But he has no concern over Maria. What on earth must Nefeli be thinking? She is staring at him wide-eyed. After the shock of his words have subsided amongst the churchgoers and they stop twittering amongst themselves, their attention is back on him, but his eyes are on Nefeli.

  The village follows his gaze in unison. Nefeli tenses her back, becomes rigid. Savvas would do anything to take the words back, to take the collective focus away from her. There are only a few who remain looking at their prayer books; Marina from the corner shop for one, and Mitsos, who runs the local eatery, for another. He is grateful that not all in the village are the same. He brings the service to a quick end with a prayer and a blessing and then they file out, leaving Nefeli sitting by herself near the front.

  Like the coward he feels himself to be in that moment, Savvas leaves by the side door to avoid her. Her and everyone else in the village.

  Back at the house, he could cry over his stupidity. He may as well have shouted his feelings for her from the bell tower. It will not be him who is frowned upon. It will be her. Lost for what to do, he goes into his grand bedroom and lays on his bed, willing sleep to take away his thoughts. The smell of goats drifts through his window, along with the slow footfall of the shepherd. No hurry; an ambling walk. As his eyelids grow heavy, it occurs to him how much easier a layperson’s life is, and in this moment he would swap all his status with that goat herder and the simple life he leads.

  Towards the end of the day, but an hour later than normal, he can hear Nefeli downstairs preparing his evening meal. Maybe he should go and say something to her. Smooth the way again, apologise.

  With the intention of doing something, anything, he leaves his glass of ouzo and the game of backgammon that he has been playing against himself on the balcony for the last two hours to slip, on silent feet, down the wide stairs.

  She is by the sink and he has not seen her looking this miserable since he first arrived in the village. Her face is drawn and, although it seems in his mind a bit of an overreaction, it looks as if she has been or
perhaps still is crying.

  ‘Nefeli,’ he begins, but she gives no sign that she has heard. ‘Nefeli, it was with the best of intentions. I hope I didn’t… I mean, I know how the village…’ But it is as if she cannot hear him. Her face remains unmoving, blocking him out. His breath comes in short pants, his hands turn outwards, reaching, imploring. His feelings for her press against his rib cage, bursting from his soul. He can hold himself in no longer.

  ‘For God’s sake Nefeli, I love you!’

  She turns her head so slowly. The tears are streaming down her cheeks. Her arms hang heavily, no longer cutting the bread, her hands just resting on the table. A greater picture of misery he has never seen. Her lips quiver as if she is about to say something. He wills her to speak, to say something, anything.

  She takes a deep breath.

  ‘She is dead.’

  Savvas rocks back on his heels.

  ‘What?’ But he has heard what she said.

  ‘Mama, she is dead.’

  ‘Oh Nefeli.’ And without a thought for himself, he is beside her, his arms around her as she sobs into his silk cassock. She remains there, shaking and sobbing, until he slowly guides her to the sofa so she can sit and then makes her a coffee. There is no need to speak, and so they don’t. He makes her a sandwich but after a bite, she pushes it away. Her shoulders drop forwards, her hair hangs over her face as it has always done, and her defence walls are up. He sits with her.

  Then, as he is thinking that perhaps he should do something, say something, she lifts her chin, forces a smile and says, ‘Is the house really mine?’

  She is inviting him to play.

  ‘Yes,’ he says kindly.

  ‘And the trees?’

  ‘Yes.’ He takes her hand.

  ‘And the well.’

  ‘And the well.’’ He strokes her knuckles.’

  ‘And the land?’

  ‘Everything around you is yours, Nefeli.’ As he says this, he looks deeply into her eyes to let her know he is included in that deal. She sighs and there is the smallest of smiles.

  Unlike in America, the funeral is carried out immediately. With the weather so hot and no facility to cold store the body, it is the only way. The bishop turns up in recognition of the years of service Nefeli’s mama gave to the church. Marina from the corner shop also attends with Mitsos and his small-framed wife, Stella. Stella hands him an envelope and before the service begins, he opens it to find a request for him to bless the hotel’s grand opening. There will be food and drink and music. Life goes on.

  Savvas has written his own letter, addressed to the bishop. He did not spend very long agonising over it, nor did he even bother to word it well. It is straight and to the point.

  ‘Bishop,’ it reads, ‘I thank you for your encouragement but it is with regret that I resign my position. I will complete the engagements on the books but I will be taking no more on past the end of the month.’ The hotel blessing is included in that list of duties as well now, but he does not mind that so much. There will be food and wine there. Maybe Nefeli will go. He hands his own letter to the bishop when no one is looking, and the bishop takes it with a small frown and pockets it unopened.

  Nefeli. Poor Nefeli, alone now. She has no mama and those moments of him consoling her in the kitchen have led him to believe that his feelings are returned. She heard that he loved her and she fell into his arms to sob. What further confirmation does he need?

  Six people follow the hearse from the church to the graveyard, and the coffin is interred.

  Three of the party disperse after the burial, leaving the bishop and Nefeli to walk with him back to the church. The bishop has his open letter in his hand and does not look happy. He looks from Savvas to Nefeli and back, but Savvas refuses to feel any guilt. She makes him happy, gives him reason to live, kills his greed and all in all makes him a better person. Surely that must be the best reason in the world?

  He will share the joyful news that he has resigned with her later. Her mama’s funeral is not the time. When they get back to the church, the bishop makes his excuses and leaves without a word about the resignation letter. Nefeli declares she needs time alone.

  In the evening, he sits on his balcony drinking more ouzo and watches the sun go down. Technically, he muses, it is not his balcony any more. His home will be down in the cottage with Nefeli. His home will be amongst the olive trees with her. If the olives are not enough for them to live on, he will take a job in the nearby town of Saros. If that becomes a necessity, he will have to get his own car. The black four-wheel drive will be for the next priest. His own car, now that’s a nice thought.

  Maria comes out of her front door, catches sight of him, and shakes her head forlornly. It makes him smile now. She will get such a surprise when he invites her to his wedding. He will invite her and the whole village! Maybe if this hotel is a nice place, he can have the reception there.

  One ouzo becomes two and two become three and before he knows it, the night has passed and cockerels are crowing and the first rays of the sun are in his eyes. There is also a noise outside of metal against wood. Surely it is too early for anyone to be up. Rubbing his face to encourage wakefulness brings the world into focus, but what he really needs is water before he can take any interest in what the village is up to. In the kitchen, he drinks a litre of tap water straight down and takes another back up to the balcony. Nefeli won’t be here for another few hours to make his coffee. Another unusual sound comes from outside, from the side of the house, in the space between his house and the cottage.

  Putting his glass down carefully on the balustrade, he leans over to see what is going on.

  At first, it makes no sense. There is a pickaxe and a pile of ropes. The pickaxe is half-lodged under the well cover, which has been prised to one side. What on earth is going on? Nefeli will be horrified. Is this the church’s work? He must go and stop whoever it is.

  As he is resolving to take action, Nefeli calmly comes out of her cottage.

  He rubs his face with both his hands, his fingers rotating on his eyeballs, trying to gain better focus, make sense of what he is seeing. Nefeli rolls up her sleeves, loops one of the ropes around her waist, and tugs to check the other end is secure. Once she is satisfied, she lowers herself over the edge and into the well.

  Savvas gasps. He watches her disappear beneath the well’s edge, hand over hand until there is nothing left to see. He thinks to go down, find out what is going on, but another part of him is in shock. He thought he knew her, that she shared her life with him, that he knew her thoughts, but this is something she has not even given him a hint about. This is something completely independent of him and it makes no sense. He would never revisit that church where he laid prone all those hours. He would nail the doors shut, bomb the place, have it levelled but he would not go inside, not for all the money in the world.

  At first, his next thought seems a surreal notion. But then why else would she lower herself down there? It is crazy, but it is the only thing that makes sense. She simply wants to assure herself of the realities of what she experienced. See for herself that she created dreams to safeguard her sanity. It is easier for him; he never truly believed that he was lying on a beach or in front of a fire, but he could imagine touching the church floor to see if it is really as cold as he remembers it. Maybe that is what she is doing: proving that it is not that scary now she is grown and it is hers to do as she likes with. This is a new side he is seeing of her. A brave, bold, courageous side and he feels a tremendous sense of pride. What a women!

  The rope, which had slackened, becomes taut again, and soon she reappears, hand over hand. He would never have given her credit for such strength. Her apron pocket is bundling and jolting against her skirts before her. Once on firm ground, she kneels, loosens her apron, and there are flashes and flames. The sun hits at angles, sending shards of light in all directions. The glints and blazes, glitterings and prisms of sunlight blind him so he cannot tell what he is seeing and onl
y when the objects stop falling from her skirt to lay motionless on the ground is it clear what is there before her. In a heap lays a pile of gold coins, silver spoons, a small silver box, and a few other items that are indistinguishable from this distance.

  Unable to move, he watches her fill a waiting bag with her trove, which she then carries into her cottage and closes the door behind her.

  Savvas shuts his mouth, which has fallen open.

  Maybe she kept this from him because she was not sure if it was a dream? Maybe she even wanted to surprise him. One thing is for sure: he will not have to get a job in Saros! The gold and silver hoard will be worth thousands! More than the value of the house. Should he wait for her to come to him or should he go to her now?

  He should go to her. He has not even told her about the letter to the bishop yet! He will go down and tell her that he has quit the church and that they can now be married and she can show him the treasure!

  He trots down the wide staircase, holding his cassock up between finger and thumb. His heart beats so hard, his chest feels like it might crack. The back door swings open as he runs into the olive grove, round the side of the house, and past the well. He stops just beyond the gaping black hole, and retraces his steps to stare down into the depths but doesn’t linger and instead hurries on to tap lightly but rapidly on her door.

  ‘Nefeli?’ he calls.

  After a few minutes, she opens the door a crack.

  ‘Nefeli, it is me.’

  She opens it wider, allowing him admittance. The gold is on the table. Some of the coins are stacked in towers, as if she has been counting them. The sight of it take his voice away and he just stares. There must be more wealth there than a person needs in a whole lifetime, no matter how well they live! After the initial distraction, he turns to her.

  ‘Nefeli.’ He wants to do this properly. He tries to slow his racing heart down, take it slowly. ‘I once asked you if I was not in the priesthood, would you and I be different, and you replied yes.’ He gazes into her eyes, trying to gauge her reaction. She is wide-eyed but does not offer any resistance to his words, and he allows himself to be encouraged. He lifts his cassock and drops to one knee.