Aphrodite's Tears

by Hannah Fielding

  ‘We can take our time,’ said Mattias, wheezing a little as he stopped for breath and leaned on his stick. ‘The fire-walking won’t start yet awhile.’ Oriel was a little alarmed by the idea of the gods and goddesses walking on hot coals – it seemed like a sacred ritual that could easily go wrong. Yet, like the procession itself, it also seemed a fiercely guarded imperative if the islanders were to keep their volcano appeased.

  They continued up the track, which snaked its way around ancient, withering trees. Below them, the vivid sea splashed uneasily against a jagged wall of rock. There was a beauty to it, raw and barren though it was. The people around them on all sides were rushing up the escarpment in a frenzy – carrying torches, goaded on by the wild music of the deep-throated flutes and thundering drums that followed them. Dun-coloured earth whirled around the revellers in dusty clouds as they made their way to the final flight of rough stone steps that led to the plateau.

  When at last Oriel and Mattias reached the top of the rock the view was breathtaking. The day was ending and settling to rest, the sun dying on the horizon, setting on fire the lively waves of a now purple sea and the countryside aglow with the last orange rays before twilight beckoned the stars – a marine dream scene with a sky dyed pomegranate pink. The atmosphere was surreal.

  The journey hadn’t been easy and Oriel could not help but admire Mattias’s resilience and courage. Now she looked down and the fabulous sight played on her imagination. At her feet the soaring cliff – those noble walls carved by nature that seemed to dominate the island – sloped suddenly away. She visualized herself leaping off, falcon-winged, to glide over the Mediterranean, following the setting sun into its warm, painted seabed. Scarlet, then amethyst, emblazoned the enormous sky before it darkened to obsidian.

  There was already a great crowd assembled at the plateau. Ancient trees formed an arc around three sides of it; they rose upwards, seemingly without end, the canopy above distant, like clouds of green. Their gnarly trunks resembled living walls and seemed to turn the place into an outdoor temple. It was as if they were ancient beings providing sanctuary, casting their protective shadow on those who came to worship at the feet of the great beast Typhoeus.

  At the far end of the plateau, at the foot of the volcano, stood a black granite altar. A profusion of votive offerings had been deposited there by devout islanders: bunches of flowers, amphorae filled with grain, perfumes, wine and oil, as well as produce from the fields, orchards and olive groves of the island.

  With its back to the altar, a beautiful golden throne with red velvet lining stood on a dais. The fifteen islanders portraying gods and goddesses had assembled around it in a semicircle, turned towards Typhoeus, as if worshipping the great volcano.

  ‘That is where the Kyrios will sit,’ Mattias told Oriel. ‘He’ll give a speech later.’

  ‘Will he be walking on the hot coals too?’ she asked, a little nervously.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mattias. ‘But don’t worry, Oriel, Damian will be fine, you’ll see.’

  Close by, beside the roots of a tree, a heap of glowing embers lay in a shallow pit. On one side of it candles were burning while, on the other, stood pots of smoking incense.

  ‘The pit was dug yesterday night for the sacrifice of a young boar,’ Mattias explained.

  ‘Please don’t say they’ll be killing it in front of us. I’m not at all sure I want to witness that,’ said Oriel, her eyes widening with consternation.

  Mattias laughed. ‘No, no, don’t worry. The sacrifice was carried out at dawn by the Kyrios and the chosen fifteen. Shall I tell you how it is done? It isn’t cruel.’

  Oriel laughed. ‘I see you’re dying to tell me so go ahead, on the condition that I can stop you if it all becomes too gory.’

  Mattias looked gravely at her. ‘How can you hope to understand the Kyrios and the people of this island if you don’t understand their customs?’

  She nodded, feeling suddenly contrite. ‘You’re right, I’m all ears.’

  ‘As the sun appears on the horizon, the beast, which has been attached all night to a tree, is brought to the edge of the pit. He is then turned upside down. His throat is slashed by a sword with a single blow so he doesn’t suffer and so that the blood soaks into the earth.’

  ‘At least the blood of the poor animal isn’t left in the road to gather flies and vermin. I’ve seen that happen before.’

  ‘You need to remember, Oriel, that the blood flowing from the animal is said to be the share of the trees and the earth.’

  ‘That almost sounds romantic,’ she had to admit.

  ‘The carcass is then hung and skinned to the accompaniment of music, and the raw flesh and hide cut up and put into baskets to be distributed among the families of the islanders who have taken part in the procession.’ Mattias sat down on a rock step and placed his stick beside him. ‘You must understand, Oriel, it is an honour for the boar,’ the fisherman added earnestly. ‘The chosen one is picked carefully. He must be over one year old, unmarked and not castrated.’

  ‘I’m still not sure I’d want to see a sacrifice, honour or not,’ she said.

  ‘Well, the boar’s sacrifice will be commemorated tomorrow when they plant a new tree on the plateau. That way, Typhoeus knows we remember him and pay tribute to his power.’

  Now their attention was drawn to the seven male gods, who had rid themselves of their elaborate costumes and exchanged them for simple white tunics. They were swaying and spinning, working themselves into a trance-like state, dancing hypnotically to the beat of the goatskin drums. The dancers whirled round the fire pit, where a group of islanders was spreading out the coals with long poles. Slowly, a glowing oval space was taking shape, ready for the fire walk. The spinning men reminded Oriel of a group of whirling dervishes she had seen in Sufi ceremonies in Egypt, and watching them made her feel almost dizzy.

  ‘The fire was lit early this afternoon. They’ve been dancing for most of the time since then,’ Mattias commented.

  ‘It must be dangerous, surely, in this heat?’

  ‘Only the fittest are chosen,’ explained Mattias. ‘And even they must have a six-month retreat and a full medical check-up to qualify. There must be no smoking, drinking or sexual intercourse during that period. Besides, they are protected by the gods they honour and are seized by the spirit of Typhoeus, so nothing can harm them.’

  Oriel spoke her next words without thinking, then felt a blush creep up her cheeks as she realized what they might imply: ‘Damian is participating in the fire walk and he doesn’t seem to have abstained from anything, as far as I can gather.’

  Mattias gave a chuckle. ‘The Kyrios has been a firewalker ever since he took over leadership of the island. The soles of his feet are immune to pain by now.’

  Then, suddenly, the sound of a salpigga was heard, a long copper horn that had been used from the time of the Ancients to signal the start of the athletic games, and the crowd fell silent under its penetrating blast. The islander representing Hephaestus, the god of fire, blacksmiths and volcanoes, came forward – a crippled, bearded man with a hammer, tongs and anvil slung on a strap around his body – and blew into the salpigga three times. The coals were ready and the sacred fire-walking ritual was about to begin.

  It was then that Oriel spotted Damian, a head taller than the other firewalkers, and her heart lurched in her chest. His face was a mask of concentration and she found it impossible to tear her gaze away from him.

  One after the other, barefoot and bearing the statue of the god they represented, the seven male firewalkers approached the bed of scorching coals. Some stepped across it in an unhurried and deliberate fashion, while others took it at a frenzied dash. It wasn’t that the hot embers were burning them, more that they were afraid of being burnt. A number of devotees were kneeling down beside the pit and pounding the ash with the palms of their hands to demonstrate their power over the fire.

  Finally, it was Damian’s turn to walk the fire. His tall, athletic frame, now c
lothed in the traditional white Grecian tunic, strode with a lithe energy towards the glowing apron of scorching coals. With outstretched arms, he stepped on to the incandescent embers. As striking as a timber wolf, he took light strides, calmly tackling the red-hot oval stretch, which shone in the darkness as if spread with rutilant gems. With his glistening dark hair, his tanned complexion and his white tunic silvered by moonbeams, he was magnificent. Oriel stood there transfixed, breathless. It wasn’t just his imposing frame and perfect bone structure that made him so charismatic, an inner beauty shone from his trance-like expression. There was a softness in his eyes, a gentleness in his smile, as he advanced with confidence – a leader for his people who were gathered there to bear witness, while above them glowered the mighty, sacred bulk of Typhoeus.

  Silence hung in the air like the suspended moment before a falling glass shatters on the ground. Looking around at the islanders, who were watching their leader breathlessly, Oriel once again witnessed that, although feared, this man was also admired and dearly loved. Was he playing the role for the sole benefit of the islanders or did he share their superstitions? Did he believe in the myths surrounding the volcano?

  Then it was over and, with the end of the firewalking, the white shafts of daylight had passed, too. As night approached, devouring the magic light, random twinkles of fireflies could be seen, until the space below the cliff, billowing in dark waves, sparked with benign green embers under a star-speckled sky.

  Oriel watched Damian for a moment as people gathered round him. She could see that he was scanning the sea of faces – or fancied she could – and hoped for a brief moment that he might be looking for her; but then Yolanda came up to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. The high-pitched sound of the diva’s laughter made its way to Oriel’s ears through the noisy chatter of the crowd, like glass shattering in the distance. She turned away, not wanting to see his response. Luckily, Mattias steered her away, saving her from further heartache. ‘Come, Kyria, let’s make our way to where the food is being laid out. I want to introduce you to my wife, Anna. She’ll be pleased to meet you.’

  As the people dispersed, Damian sat down at the far end of the plateau on the throne, which had been set up at the foot of Typhoeus in front of an altar of offerings. The islanders had been depositing these gifts since the early morning. The light diffused by the profusion of candles, which had now been lit, surrounded the throne with an arc of brilliant gold in the blackness.

  Oriel and Mattias paused to turn round as Damian addressed the crowd in a clear voice. ‘We must all drink now to Typhoeus who guards our island, and to you, my people, who help me sustain it. We are as one, marching in one direction, working to one aim. To keep this island and our loved ones safe.’

  There was a spontaneous outpouring of emotion and a great shout rose from the crowd as Damian, leading his people in a toast, snatched up a cup of wine and drank to Typhoeus and the islanders’ safety.

  By now the great bonfire, assembled from timber collected earlier that afternoon, had been lit and a red-and-orange ball of flames roared upwards. Plumes of grey smoke and ash floated by the throng of excited children, who by now were chasing each other with screams of delight. Talkative adults, discussing the sacred ritual that had just taken place, paused to watch the great fiery beast before them in awe, their eyes transformed as each flickering flame played a light show on their pupils. The air was filled with the woody fragrance of smoke and the tantalizing smells of spit-roasting meats, which wafted on the breeze.

  The plateau was teaming with chattering, swirling islanders, whirlpools of life, their figures lit up by the golden blaze of the fire. Some of them had seen Oriel at the beach taverna and, recognizing her, smiled shyly or nodded their heads in greeting as she and Mattias resumed their slow progress through the crowd.

  ‘Some of the islanders will stay here until the glowing embers die. The memories of this day will remain with them all through the difficult and harsh winter months, until the Epiklisi next year,’ Mattias explained.

  Oriel realized that this was a festival like no other in which she had ever participated. There was a sanctity here that transcended everyday concerns – she could feel it – and it was timeless, like the forests, the ocean and the mountains.

  Then Mattias spied a large, smiling woman in an apron, who was putting out plates of stuffed eggplant on a trestle. ‘Ah, here she is. Anna, my love, I told you about the archaeologist who is working for the Kyrios, the one I met yesterday on the beach.’

  The woman had coarse dark skin and an engaging smile that showed off a set of brilliant white teeth. Her hair was grey, but still thick, and she had arranged it in a topknot on the crown of her head. She was wearing a simple white tunic, like many of the islanders. Smilingly, she held both of Oriel’s hands in hers. ‘Kalispera, Despinis. I hope you have enjoyed the day? Epiklisi is very special to us.’

  ‘Yes, it’s been wonderful. Thanks to Mattias, who has looked after me right from the start,’ said Oriel.

  ‘Ah, he’s not such a bad fellow,’ said Anna, her eyes twinkling at her husband lovingly. ‘I’ve trained him well.’

  Oriel laughed. ‘Indeed you have.’

  ‘You must come to dinner at our house soon. I make the best moussaka on the island, everybody says so.’ The Greek woman winked and released Oriel’s hands.

  ‘You’re very kind.’

  Then Anna looked around the sea of faces, her hands on her hips. ‘Have you seen the children?’ she asked Mattias. ‘They need to pay their respects.’

  ‘Agápi mou, they’re hardly children, you know. Let them have their fun,’ he said laughingly. ‘We’ll catch up with them later. The night is still young.’

  Just then, Damian appeared – without Yolanda at his side, Oriel was relieved to see, although her relief was quickly replaced by a wildly nervous fluttering in her stomach. She tried not to think about the passionate encounter with him the previous night. Her whole body still vibrated with the dangerous thrill of it.

  ‘Mattias, my friend.’ Damian slapped the fisherman heartily on the back and they embraced warmly. He kissed his wife on both cheeks. ‘Anna, how are you? I see you are doing a fine job fattening us all up with your excellent food, as usual.’

  ‘There are many mouths to feed, Kyrios,’ she answered, chuckling with pleasure at this compliment.

  Damian turned his silver gaze to Oriel. A slow, lazy smile swept across his face as he regarded her, and his eyes smouldered for a brief moment before he said: ‘You look like a true goddess, Calypso. I trust the costume fits you comfortably?’ He stood back and looked her up and down, apparently satisfied that the chitón was indeed exactly the right size.

  Oriel’s mind went blank. She felt as though her emotions might erupt, like the volcano looming above them, but she mustered her disjointed thoughts enough to say: ‘It’s perfect, thank you, Damian. So very thoughtful of you to have it made for me.’ Then, feeling as though she was staring at him, she added as brightly as she could: ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you as one of the firewalkers. Is there no end to your talents?’

  His smile was enigmatic. ‘As I’ve told you before, you should always expect the unexpected with me.’ Something in his knowing look brought a glow to her cheeks that had nothing to do with the heat of the bonfire.

  Both Mattias and his wife were looking from her to Damian. They exchanged glances and Mattias cleared his throat. ‘And you look like Helios himself,’ he said, patting Damian’s arm. ‘The way you tore off in that chariot, I thought you would make flames sprout beneath you.’

  Anna nudged her husband in the ribs. ‘Come, Mattias, help me with this bread. While you talk, it won’t cut itself.’ She stared at him meaningfully and, after a quizzical look, he nodded and grinned widely, following her over to a large basket of loaves.

  Damian leaned against the trestle and crossed his arms. Oriel felt suddenly tongue-tied as his gaze skimmed over her dress and wandered languidly up to her eyes. There they
stopped. In the light of the bonfire, one side of his face was illuminated and he looked half man, half infernal deity.

  ‘Such an amazing array of gods and goddesses you have here,’ she said finally, her voice smoky with warmth.

  ‘I knew you’d love all of this,’ he said softly.

  ‘You were impressive on that chariot.’

  He grinned, the scar on his cheek hitching up as he did so. ‘You’re positively brimming with compliments today, Calypso. I could get used to this. And may I say how impressive you are in that outfit.’ His gaze held hers. ‘The colour looks exactly as I thought it would against your skin.’

  A pulse pounded in her ears. Damn him! He had removed his cloak and helmet, and with his hair so touchably tousled, his gleaming breastplate and long muscular legs clad in soft leather boots, he was every bit the mythical warrior hero. An involuntary warmth swirled low in her belly. Oriel’s gaze flitted away for a moment, as she tried and failed to find something to say. Among the islanders closest to them, she noticed that people were murmuring and looking in their direction. But Damian chose to ignore them and instead seemed to go out of his way to look only at her.

  ‘Damian, Oriel!’

  Stavros suddenly emerged from a group of islanders and came towards them. At his side was a small, pretty woman with dark brown hair curled into a loose bun at the nape of her neck.

  Damian pushed off from the trestle and embraced them both. ‘I thought I’d lost you in the crowd. Mattias brought Oriel here, I think she approves of Epiklisi.’