YANNIS (Cretan Saga Book 1)

by Beryl Darby

  Father Minos shook his head. ‘But no medicine, no proper homes, little water; it’s not right, Yannis. Something must be done.’

  ‘We could do with some more packs of cards,’ grinned Spiro. ‘Some of ours are so worn we can hardly see the spots. Come and see if the girls have some food ready for us.’

  Slowly they escorted Father Minos and Andreas to the patch of concrete where they sat with Kyriakos. He was already there, having been carried back from the port and propped against the wall and waved gaily to them.

  ‘Come and talk to me. I could hardly hear you down there.’

  Father Minos sat beside the crippled man. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘For ever.’

  ‘You were one of the early arrivals?’

  Kyriakos nodded. ‘I was a young man when they first sent me. I had my legs.’ He looked down ruefully. ‘We were most of us young then. I’ve seen some changes.’

  Father Minos cleared his throat; he had a delicate question to ask. ‘When one of you passes on,’ he hesitated for a moment to see how his words were being received, ‘What happens to the body?’

  ‘It goes into the tower.’

  ‘The tower?’

  Kyriakos nodded. ‘When we’ve eaten they can take you on a tour of the island. There isn’t much up this end, just the cliffs and the fort. Go down the other way and you’ll see the houses Yannis built, then round through the tunnel and you’ll see the other church and the tower.’

  Father Minos was not sure he wanted to see the tower, but felt he would be a disgrace to his calling if he did not go and say a prayer for those poor souls whose bodies had been disposed of so casually.

  ‘Do you use the churches?’

  ‘Only for shelter in the winter.’

  ‘We’ll start to use them properly soon,’ interrupted Yannis. ‘Once everyone has a house there’ll be no need to use the church. Then we can clean it out thoroughly and use it for its proper purposes.’

  ‘Do you have a priest here?’ asked Andreas.

  ‘No. For a moment when you arrived I thought you were both sufferers who’d been sent here.’

  ‘Who’s the little girl with you?’

  ‘That’s Flora. She’s a plucky little thing. She was the first person who volunteered to help us. She can’t do much with her arm the way it is, but she’s quite invaluable in cadging. We wouldn’t have half our tools if she hadn’t spent time persuading the fishermen to give them to her.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her arm, apart from the obvious?’ asked Father Minos.

  Spiro looked round to make sure the girl could not hear him. ‘It’s very badly ulcerated. It could easily go gangrenous. She ought to have it amputated.’

  His words were received in a shocked silence.

  ‘I had no idea,’ murmured Yannis.

  ‘Don’t tell her,’ warned Spiro. ‘I make sure she doesn’t see it.’

  ‘Don’t you mind touching it?’

  Spiro shrugged. ‘Someone has to do it for her. I’ve seen worse sights.’

  Yannis remembered from the hospital how Spiro had nursed Manolis devotedly until the man had finally died.

  ‘What’s keeping those girls?’ Spiro was feeling hungry. ‘I’ll go and help them carry it down.’

  ‘I don’t know what they’re preparing for you. I doubt if it will be very elaborate, but they certainly do wonders with what we’re sent.’ Yannis was beginning to feel somewhat uncomfortable, the conversation had lapsed and the questions he wished to ask were private. It was with relief that he saw the little procession coming down the path and went to the side of the bank to take the plates and bowls from them.

  Without any hesitation the two visitors ate with relish everything that was placed before them and declared it tasted as good as the meal they had eaten the night before in the taverna, lacking only the bottle of wine.

  ‘Now, that would be a luxury,’ smiled Yannis.

  The four men walked back down to the port entrance and Yannis led the way onwards to where most of the repaired houses were situated. A barrage of questions regarding construction or shouts proclaiming the successful completion of a task greeted him.

  ‘You should have seen it six months ago,’ boasted Spiro. ‘They were just ruins, not only unfit to live in, but unsafe as well.’

  To Father Minos and Andreas the buildings still had a somewhat dangerous aspect, some walls propped with timbers, no cement holding any of the stonework in place, one or two having sagging balconies which, as yet, had not been touched. Both men tried to hide their horror at the conditions in which so many of the sick men and women spent their time.

  ‘It’s much better now,’ Yannis assured them. ‘When it’s warm everyone stays outside. It was during the winter when there were so many of them crowded into the church that it was almost unbearable, even they realised that at last. Come and meet Panicos. He’s been very sick, but he’s on the mend now.’

  Father Minos remembered the man from the crowd that had surrounded him. The sunken eyes, sallow skin and persistent cough all spelt out tuberculosis amongst his other problems and the priest thought it most unlikely that he was recovering. He sat beside the emaciated man and chatted whilst the others waited outside for him. When he finally emerged he looked at Yannis speculatively. The boy he had met in Heraklion had been petrified by his illness and the consequences. This young man seemed to have come to terms with every obstacle that was continually put in his way. First Spiro had given all the credit for rebuilding to Yannis and now Panicos had said the same. He wondered what had happened to bring out this hidden strength and leadership from a very ordinary person. From Panicos he was taken to visit Antionis.

  ‘He had such faith in me,’ explained Yannis. ‘He was convinced that the houses could be repaired. Whenever I was about to give up in despair I could hear his voice encouraging me.’

  Father Minos bent over the frail old man as he lay on his mattress, his unseeing eyes staring at the broken roof of his house. A withered, wrinkled hand touched the cloth of the priest’s robes and a smile of contentment settled on his face.

  ‘Father, would you hear my confession?’

  ‘I would be honoured.’ Father Minos put his head down close to Antionis and listened to the weak voice as he told of misdeeds in his youth, taking an apple from a stall, forgetting to shut his father’s chickens in for the night, the lie he told his wife about leaving her for another woman when he first found out he was ill. For each small sin Father Minos gave him absolution and when the list finally ended Antionis smiled again.

  ‘I feel at peace now. Thank you, Father. I doubt we shall meet again. Look after Yannis, won’t you? He’s needed here. I’m tired, so very tired.’

  Father Minos rose. He was more moved than he cared to admit by the old man’s confession and stood in the dark interior to regain his composure before joining his companions. He wondered how many more of these pitiful victims had died without gaining absolution for their sins. It was wicked that there was no one on the island who could comfort them in their last hours.

  ‘He asked me to confess him,’ said Father Minos by way of explanation for his long absence. ‘He hasn’t much longer and knows it.’

  ‘They always do,’ remarked Spiro. ‘He’s a strange old man. Refused to let us touch his house. Said he wanted us to leave it as it was, wanted to remember it that way. He’s been blind for years so he wouldn’t have been able to see the repairs anyway. The others won’t move back in with him now, they’re still in the church.’

  Yannis led the way up the steep path and pointed out the tower where the bodies of those who died were flung and left to disintegrate. Almost opposite, but some distance away was another tiny church.

  ‘Is there anyone in there?’

  ‘There’s no roof.’

  They moved on, the path narrowed and they had the high walls of the fort on their left side and a steep drop down to the rocks and s
ea below them on their right. Andreas shuddered and averted his eyes, relieved when the path widened out to show an old catwalk of the fort below them, the drop appearing less formidable. Rounding an outcrop of rock they arrived almost opposite an ammunition tower and walked on down the path to the patch of concrete where Kyriakos sat awaiting their return.

  ‘Well?’ he called. ‘What do you think of our island?’

  Father Minos smiled sympathetically. ‘I couldn’t describe it as paradise.’ He looked at the sun. ‘We mustn’t stay much longer. I was told to report back to the doctor at seven. I don’t want to be late. He might not let me come again.’

  Yannis looked up in delight. ‘Do you really plan to come again?’

  ‘I most certainly do. I have a number of plans for the immediate future and returning here is one of them. Would you like us to take any messages to your family?’

  ‘You won’t tell them I’m here!’ Yannis looked at his friend in horror.

  ‘I think your family would be far happier knowing you’re here, in reasonably good health, than not knowing whether you’re alive or dead. The news could work wonders for your mother.’

  Yannis considered. ‘I suppose so. You’ll make sure they know I’m all right, won’t you?’

  ‘You’ve no need to worry on that score. I think you look remarkably fit and well, don’t you, Andreas?’

  Andreas nodded in agreement. ‘I’ll write to Annita and let her know where you are. She could send a letter to me and I could get a boatman to bring it over.’

  Yannis shook his head. ‘There’s no point in her writing to me. Tell her that I release her from our betrothal agreement and that I wish her well.’

  Andreas shrugged. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  ‘I do,’ confirmed Yannis.

  Father Minos rose to his feet. ‘Should we tell the people we’re leaving?’

  ‘Of course, they’ll all want to wave you off. Before you leave I’d like to say thank you. It’s meant more to me than I can say to see you and Andreas.’

  ‘Now we know you’re here we’ll do something about it. There are a lot of improvements that could be made. We won’t rest until you have all you need over here to live a decent life.’

  Yannis smiled, the words were comforting, but he saw no way that either Father Minos or Andreas could put them into effect. It was more convenient for the authorities to forget them.

  Crowded together on the quay they waved farewell as the tiny boat edged gently away from the island into deeper water where it could turn and navigate the treacherous channel that led to the open sea. Once out of sight Yannis found his legs gave way beneath him and he sank to the ground.

  ‘I can’t believe it. They did come, didn’t they, Spiro. I didn’t dream today, did I?’

  ‘They came. What a wonderful man Father Minos is. He never flinched whatever he saw, he never once shuddered and looked away.’

  ‘Nor did Andreas,’ Yannis defended his cousin. ‘Do you think they will be able to help us?’

  ‘I know they’ll try. I’m going along to Antionis now. Coming?’

  ‘No, I just want to sit and think.’

  Spiro nodded. ‘I understand.’

  He walked away, leaving Yannis to shed bitter tears as he remembered all the details of his life with his cousin and family, details he had fought so hard to obliterate from his mind.

  No word was spoken between Father Minos and Andreas on the journey back to Aghios Nikolaos; each was immersed in their own memories of the day. Once ashore Father Minos thanked the boatman and took Andreas to one side.

  ‘I have to see Doctor Kandakis. When I’ve finished with him can I meet you somewhere? I think we should talk.’

  Andreas nodded. ‘I’ll be at the taverna where we ate last night. I’ll have to get permission, but that should be easy.’ Andreas watched as the priest walked swiftly away to the doctor’s house and wished he could be present at the impending meeting.

  Father Minos hammered on the doctor’s door and without waiting for an answer he swung it open and entered. No one was waiting in the small room, but the doctor opened the door of the surgery to investigate the noise. A look of annoyance crossed his face when he saw his visitor.

  ‘Was it you making all that noise?’

  ‘I’m afraid it was. I was taking out some of my anger and frustration on your door.’ Father Minos strode over to the doctor, standing almost a head taller. ‘What kind of man are you? What sort of doctor do you call yourself? No wonder you didn’t want me to go over to that island. I’ve seen sights there today that would make men weep. Have you any idea how they survive? When did you, you who are supposed to be looking after them, ever do a single thing for them?’ Father Minos paused for breath and the doctor backed away from him.

  ‘I think you should sit down and explain yourself a little more calmly. Come, take a seat and share a glass of wine with me.’

  Father Minos hesitated. It was no good antagonising this man too far. ‘Very well, but I’ll say what I wish and then leave.’

  Doctor Kandakis poured two glasses of wine and sat heavily in the chair behind his desk. ‘Now, what is it you wish to consult me about?’

  ‘Don’t you think that as a doctor you should know about the conditions that exist over there?’

  ‘It is hardly my business. The Government send the people there.’

  ‘I see, so if I told you they are dying through neglect, lack of decent housing and sanitation, poor food and no medicine, you would just shrug and say it was none of your affair?’

  ‘I find what you say rather difficult to believe. Many of them have lived there for years without complaint.’

  ‘Without complaint! Who can they complain to? No one is allowed to land except the boatmen to offload supplies. They would not take a letter back to post for them, even if they had writing materials. They have little water, ruined houses to live in and you feel there is no need for you to do anything because they have not complained.’ Father Minos banged his fist down on the desk. ‘I insist you do something.’

  ‘You insist! How dare you insist! You have no idea how debased those people on the island really are. No doubt they behaved themselves for you today, but I’m sure the boatmen could tell a different story.’

  Father Minos took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. ‘I spent seven hours on that island. I sat and talked with educated men. Men who calmly bandage an arm that is gangrenous and realise that amputation will eventually be the only way to save a life. I talked with men who are trying hard to repair the buildings to give them some reasonable shelter during the winter because they realise that to be exposed to all weathers is harmful and to be crowded together is a way of spreading disease. I gave absolution to an old man who knew he was dying and wanted to confess his sins before his soul departs and his rotten carcass is thrown into the tower to finally disintegrate. The sights I’ve seen over there today defy description.’ He covered his face with his hands. ‘I shall never forget, never, and you,’ he looked venomously at the doctor, ‘you would just wash your hands of them and say they’re not your responsibility.’ The priest leaned back against the upright chair and took a deep shuddering breath. The face of the doctor had at first purpled with rage under the onslaught, but now he had paled, a greenish tinge about his mouth.

  ‘It is God’s will that they are outcasts and therefore suffering,’ he tried to defend himself.

  Father Minos rose and drew himself up to his full height. ‘It is God’s will, but I am God’s messenger on earth and God has told me that the time has come to help them.’

  Doctor Kandakis’s mouth opened without any words coming from him as the priest stalked across the room, his glass untouched, and slammed the door behind him. Once outside he cursed himself for a fool. Losing his temper with the doctor was no way to get the help he so much needed. He leaned against the wall of the house, the cool night air a balm to his over heated brow as he foug
ht to regain his composure.

  Andreas was waiting for him at the taverna and raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question as the priest approached. Father Minos shook his head.

  ‘I made a terrible mess of that. I lost my temper.’

  Andreas said nothing, but poured a glass of wine and pushed it towards his friend who drained the glass and pushed it back to be refilled.

  ‘Would you believe that he says being a leper is God’s will and therefore not his responsibility? How can you talk to a man like that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t got your experience of life and people,’ Andreas leaned forward. ‘I know what I want to do, but that’s probably impossible.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I’d like to buy the materials and medicines they need and send them over with the boatmen. I told you it was impossible.’

  Father Minos smiled. ‘I’ve thought the same, but it’s a question of money. I’m sure if we spoke to the villagers they would send whatever they could, but medicines and building materials,’ he pursed his lips, ‘that’s a different matter.’

  ‘We could try, though, couldn’t we?’ Andreas spoke eagerly. ‘If I spoke to my father and uncle they could ask the other villagers. They don’t have to know Yannis is over there. They can say a priest visited and he is appealing on their behalf.’

  Father Minos shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t be fair. Yannis’s father would beggar himself trying to help his son. The Government should take the responsibility.’

  ‘They do pay the farmers for sending their quota over. We could do something about that. I remember helping to pack crates when I stayed on the farm. They always send the worst of the crop, the grapes that would have been trodden into the ground as fertiliser, or the olives, which haven’t ripened properly, vegetables that have been blighted. You put a few decent ones on top so they look all right.’ Andreas’s eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. ‘I know uncle Yannis will always send the best in future and he could try and persuade the others to do the same. They wouldn’t make so much money, of course.’

  Father Minos nodded. ‘That’s certainly something that would help. I’ll visit Yannis’s father tomorrow. I hope the shock won’t be too much for his mother. Do you think I should tell her or ask her husband to break the news?’