Dominion of the Moon

by Kostas Krommydas

  Then I would set off for Samothrace and the others would return to Komotini. On the island, a couple of Americans and their team were already resuming the excavations they had abandoned before the war. The second American team that would be directing the excavation was due to arrive the following day. Perhaps it was best not to waste any more time. In any case, it seemed our efforts here would not bear fruit.

  A terrifying thought seized me as we returned to our tent. To which statue did the smashed head in the gully belong?

  1948, Samothrace

  * * *

  Any minute now the head of the second American archaeological mission would be arriving at the Sanctuary of the Great Gods, where we would be joining forces to continue excavations. Although German, French, and Czechoslovakian teams had excavated the island in the past, the only team on the dig now would be ours, in collaboration with the Americans.

  Wanting to add a touch of ceremony to their welcome, I had elected to meet them for the first time by the Hieron, the Sacred Temple. The evidence we had pointed to it being the site of the ancient Cabirian Mysteries. I stood there silently, surrounded by once-majestic marble columns, which now lay broken and scattered around me like wounded guards. I mused, as I did whenever I found myself at the Sanctuary, on how little we knew about that strange religion. The Cabeiri were significant ancient deities, mysterious and even physically imposing, often depicted in the form of demons with stern faces and oversized genitals.

  The occult rites to celebrate these deities were said to strike fear and awe. Rumors surrounding the merciless punishment unleashed by the Cabeiri’s wrath abounded even back then. We still did not know the details of what the punishment entailed. On the other hand, the cult revolved around birth and fertility. Initiation was supposed to be a gentle, rather than violent, testing ritual. The cult’s strict orders that the initiate abide by absolute secrecy regarding the ceremony sadly left little hope of uncovering enough information about the rites and rituals. However, that did not mean there weren’t enough secrets, shrouded in darkness for thousands of years, waiting patiently to be revealed. That is what I yearned to bring to light.

  Sometimes I would stand here and close my eyes, trying to imagine what it all must have looked like back then. Even now, when only a fragment of the site survived, the perfection with which the ruins framed the area and their artistry fascinated me. I wondered what had interceded to lead to the loss of such profound aesthetics, of what humanity was capable of creating.

  Although the connection between the statue of the Winged Victory and the Cabirian Mysteries was still unknown and certainly not proven, the imposing nature of both made me strongly sense that perhaps there was a secret link to their mystifying existence.

  A feeling of rage always rose inside me when I thought of the sale of the winged goddess’s statue to the French. It was as if wars, as well as other human beings, were conspiring to prevent the elucidation of these unanswered questions. The Turkish occupiers had sold the statue a hundred years ago for a pittance. A French consul, Charles Champoiseau, had snatched the broken up Nike and transported her to France, unaware that the statue could not stand upright, having been mounted on a base shaped like a ship’s prow, which they had neglected to take with them. They returned for the missing parts once they realized and the statue was eventually erected as the unknown ancient sculptor had intended. More than anything in the world, I wanted to bring it home when the local museum was finally complete. I would even give my life for it.

  Vasilis arrived, wearing a black wool hat pulled low over his eyebrows and holding a gramophone as instructed. He carefully placed it on a flat, fallen slab and pulled a record from beneath his coat. He placed it on the turntable and slowly wound the tiny crank as I had shown him, so that it would be ready when our colleagues—our employers, for that matter—arrived.

  I had told him to play this particular record, which I had selected from among the few pieces of Wagner I had been able to find. It was one of the few records left behind by the Germans, just before they handed over the island to the Bulgarian forces. When I gave him the signal, he would play Spring Waltz, which I liked very much. I didn’t think the choice of a German composer would bother the American leader of the mission. I always believed music unites people. Besides, it was a beautiful melody, which would gently accompany our introduction.

  In the brief time I had spent with Vasilis I had come to realize he could be rather clumsy, so I chose the tasks I assigned him carefully. I didn’t have much choice as far as workers were concerned and had to make do with whoever was available. Despite his young age, Vasilis was kind and very eager. An orphan, he had managed to survive the harsh Occupation years on the island. He never spoke of those days, but I’d heard that the Bulgarians caught him stealing a couple of onions and sliced his ear off in punishment.

  There were moments when he would stand still and stare at the sea, anticipation gleaming in his eyes as if he were waiting for something to suddenly surface. When I would ask him if he was all right, he’d jump in surprise. Even though most of the locals made fun of him, it was clear to me that he harbored many secrets. Whatever the reason behind his absentmindedness, I turned a blind eye, sensing that he was weighed down by great sorrow.

  Winter was approaching and promising to be heavy; you could only stay outdoors if wrapped up in heavy clothes. I buttoned up my overcoat, feeling the northerly wind collude with the salty humidity and sneak through the opening like an invisible thief. The sea stretching in the distance was the same uniform grey color as the sky, dotted here and there with small golden sunbeams that crept through the cracks in the clouds and joined water and sky. Behind me, lost in mist, lay Mount Fengari, the island’s highest peak, named after the moon. Countless sources sprang from its slopes, their water trickling down the mountain all the way to the sea.

  I had not found time yet to walk through the woods and climb up as high as I could, ambling beside the streams as they made their course down to the island’s shores. Whenever it rained, they would swell up and turn into treacherous torrents. Perhaps that was the reason the locals called one of the torrents Fonias: a treacherous murderer.

  Longing and regret mingled inside me as I remembered the wonderful pre-war years on the island and the great void left by the war. The fact was that the preceding eight years had been lost, never to return, with only the memories of horror and war left to haunt us.

  When I returned to Samothrace, I was saddened to discover that the Americans were in complete control of the excavations. Everything needed their consent, but there was nothing to be done about it. It was the Americans, under the supervision of the American School of Classical Studies, who had begun construction work on the museum and excavations in 1938. At the time, I was still filled with rage after the bombing of Japan and the thousands of deaths it had caused in a single day.

  My first encounter with Karl and Phyllis, however—the couple who had returned to resume their work at the end of the war—made me change my mind. As I slowly recovered from the traumatic eight years I tried to leave behind me, I realized that, in essence, no one was responsible for the decisions made by their leaders. The people arriving here loved their work, sacrificed their private lives, and invested significant sums in the excavations, motivated by their love for archaeology at a time when Greece, injured by the war and its internal divisions, could barely feed its people. So now, I found myself looking forward to becoming better acquainted, working together toward a common goal.

  In a short while, we would all gather at the museum’s tiny hall. I intended to give the newcomers a brief tour first, before leading them to the museum. Even though works were still in progress, we had managed to transform that one small room into something suitable for the reception. Everyone who worked at the site and on the museum’s construction had been invited. My mother, my sister, and other local women had prepared a small banquet to welcome them. Then I had to make sure they settled into the home allocated to t
hem—an old mansion in the small village of Paleopolis, so they could be near the dig and move easily. Weather conditions permitting, we would be working throughout the winter, picking up where our predecessors had left off in 1938.

  In the intervening years, the site had been abandoned. The Bulgarians showed no real inclination or sympathy for archaeology. On the contrary, they went on a looting spree of their own, selling everything they could get their hands on for a pittance, or removing much of the marble to use as building material in the construction of homes and stores. One of the greatest plagues to befall this island was the limekilns. Dotted around the land and on the actual excavation site, they were used to turn marble into quicklime. Malice was not the driving force behind these acts, just ignorance about the significance of antiquities.

  From the moment I set foot on the island, I had been met with widespread suspicion. I had to belong somewhere politically, left or right, and my neutral stance displeased everyone. I could hear the locals whisper whenever I walked by.

  I had been absent for nine years. Only the landscape and the buildings had remained unchanged. Many of my friends had disappeared, with no information available as to their fate. Some were certainly dead. Others abandoned the island when it passed to the hands of the Bulgarians. The civil war would end at some point, but it would take years for the hatred to be forgotten.

  News of ferocious battles between the army and the guerillas had reached us from Epirus. I never took anyone’s side; both sides were committing terrible crimes. As hard as I tried to enjoy every waking moment, relieved to have escaped the madness, my soul was filled with torment and blood; and the thought of her, and what had become of her.

  No matter how busy I kept during the day, her image still burned in my mind, and I tried to exorcise my guilt by hanging onto the thought that she had survived, escaped, was living her life just as I was mine. Other times, I thought none of it had happened and that I had dreamt it all. When peace returned, I intended to travel back to that village and find out who she was and what had become of her. If I could find her … If she remembered who I was.

  The archaeological mission soon appeared on the small path leading to the temple. Elizabeth, a young American archaeologist, walked ahead of the others, followed by members of her team and some locals. Her long blonde hair spilled out from a red scarf covering her head, and she held her thick woolen coat close to her chest.

  I sensed another presence to my left; as they approached, I turned to look toward the small neighboring hill. A man stood at its peak, the wind whipping up his long overcoat and making him appear like a dark deity, an enormous shadow against the setting sun. A few steps behind him, a woman walked slowly. She reached the man and stood beside him, still as a marble sentinel. It did not take me long to figure out who they were: Nicholas Varvis and his wife, Marika. I had only seen them from afar since my return to the island. I had heard so many stories about them that I did not know what to believe.

  Some said they had collaborated with all of the occupying forces, others that they had fought against them. Others yet claimed that they were not beings of this world. Whatever the truth may have been, I would soon meet them. Their land bordered the dig site and the excavations had to expand onto their property.

  I found it hard to look away. It was as if my eyes were caught by the strange magnetic field exerted by the immovable, towering couple. With great effort, I looked at Vasilis to signal it was time for music. He was already struggling to place the needle on the record. Disappointed, I accepted that there would be no musical accompaniment to this event.

  The large smile that lit up Elizabeth’s face chased away my sense of foreboding, and I spread my arms to greet her. Her freckles made her angular face appear sweeter. She gave me a tight hug with a strength that her fragile frame belied. The scent of freshly cut jasmine tickled my nostrils, and as I inhaled it deeply, I held her for a few seconds longer than was called for.

  We pulled apart and looked at each other awkwardly. When I shook her hand, I realized a tough woman stood before me, not the delicate creature her appearance and perfume seemed to imply.

  At first, I thought something had been caught between our palms, but a quick look at her hand showed a scar—a thick, knotted line. Some old injury, I hurriedly thought. She followed my gaze and pulled her hand away, closing her fingers in a fist. Her eyes were vivid, intense and I had never seen such a deep blue before.

  “W-welcome,” I stammered. “I’m looking forward to be working with you.”

  She opened her mouth to answer, and suddenly the air reverberated with the booming music from Vasilis’s gramophone. Except that, instead of the sweet melody of the Spring Waltz, the majestic strains of the Ride of the Valkyries filled the air. A music piece most unbefitting the occasion. I bit my lip and gave her an apologetic look, trying to ignore my assistant’s gaffe.

  Elizabeth masked her startled look with another smile and pretended to ignore the loud music. “You may call me Elizabeth if you like,” she said in Greek, in a slight American accent. Luckily, her Greek was good and we would be able to communicate easily; my English was still very poor.

  “Thank you. I’m Andreas,” I replied with a nod.

  Vasilis, obviously unaware of his mistake, turned the horn toward us and Wagner’s opera drowned out the rest of our sentences. Unable to pretend that this was all going as planned, I turned toward him and gestured that he should turn the horn the other way around.

  Elizabeth could no longer stifle her laughter. “I’ve heard great things about you,” she said, “and am looking forward to getting started. You have picked the right spot to welcome us; we will be spending most of our time here. And music, too!”

  I couldn’t tell whether she was joking or being sarcastic, so I kept silent. She looked around and added, “Who knows? We might already be standing over our future finds.”

  She was not joking. The area was crammed with artifacts and remnants of the temple. Some were already on the surface, but even more remained beneath.

  After meeting the rest of the team, I showed them the area of the temple. Two other Americans accompanied Elizabeth, newly arrived from the US. They kept looking around ecstatically, filled with child-like enthusiasm. One of them—a tall, imposing young man—bent down and scooped up a handful of wet soil. He brought it up to his nostrils, wanting to smell the scent emanating from the humid ground. At such moments, I felt these foreigners loved the island more than we locals did.

  The cold wind picked up and put an end to our wanderings. I dropped back to help Vasilis carry the gramophone. That’s when I saw them again. Nicholas Varvis and his wife had not budged this whole time. Clouds now covered every naked piece of sky, and their silhouettes loomed darker.

  Only when Vasilis suddenly lifted the needle and silence fell did they move, as if the music had been keeping them enchanted to the spot. I kept my eyes on them until they disappeared from view. A chill ran down my spine. I hurriedly attributed it to the cold. We picked up the gramophone and turned in the direction of the museum.

  The smell of jasmine Elizabeth had left behind her enveloped me once again, and a smile crossed my lips. For the first time in years, a feeling of optimism and happy anticipation for the future timidly stirred inside me.

  My mother and sister waited outside the partially constructed museum building. Although years had passed since my father’s death, they still wore black all year round. Tradition held fast on this island, especially where death and mourning were concerned.

  “My mother, Anna, and my sister, Calliope … Elizabeth,” I introduced them.

  The Americans already on the island stepped outside to greet the newcomers. They all seemed to know each other well, and broke into warm, friendly chatter so fast that I could not follow a word. Their smiling faces were contagious and the atmosphere became festive as we stepped inside.

  Sensing my admiration for Elizabeth, Calliope threw me a look of stern disapproval before entering t
he room. I knew how funny she could be about anyone who was not from the island, and I ignored it, hoping her prejudice would go unnoticed.

  On the other hand, my mother had tried to impress all our guests with her culinary powers. This was probably the first festive gathering she was attending since the death of my father. She had been through her fair share of pain and trouble and, like the rest of us, only wanted to spend the rest of her days in peace. All that she wanted, she often said, was to see us married and have grandchildren to carry on her name.

  The mouth-watering smell of food drifted outside and Elizabeth clapped her hands with glee. “I don’t know what smells so good, but I can’t wait to taste it,” she cheerfully said, and any awkwardness between us disappeared. She had a warm, open nature, a beautiful woman inside and out.

  I was the last one to walk in and, before closing the door, I cast one last look at the hill where our uninvited guests had appeared. All that glimmered in the darkness was the faint red glow of a fire burning where they had stood. Although not an unusual sight on the island, it struck me as curious. I stood there, watching the flames grow stronger, rise higher, until the bonfire lit the autumnal landscape all the way down the slope.

  I heard my mother’s voice sweetly instructing me to shut the door to keep the cold outside, and I reluctantly pulled the heavy wooden panel closed. Who would light such a big fire so close to the archaeological site, and why?

  Summer 1949, Samothrace

  * * *

  The August full moon struggled to break through the thin clouds and spread its glowing light everywhere. It was the brightest full moon of the year, and it gave the evening a touch of majestic solemnity. I was waiting for Elizabeth to arrive so we could visit Nicholas Varvis, who had to give his formal permission for excavations on his land to go ahead. He had been avoiding us until a few days ago, when he sent a message through Vasilis requesting a meeting. His instructions were so precise, yet bizarre, that I feared Vasilis had given his imagination free rein rather than passed on the actual message. He was inviting us to dinner just before midnight, at the stone tower where he lived with his family. He requested us to be at his front door at 11 p.m. sharp.