“And listen,” he said, “to what else I’ve got to tell you, Captain Sefakas has also sent out an invitation to a feast. As if he was going to the underworld as a bridegroom! It’s not yet twenty-four hours since he sent for me. I’m his shepherd, ever since I was born, and his messenger. ‘Run, Kostandes,’ he said to me, ‘take your staff and climb up to the higher mountains and call together the old war leaders. Stand in the middle of each village and cry: Children, Captain Sefakas is dying! You who are of his time, who bore arms with him and are still alive Captain Sefakas invites you to his mansion! He doesn’t want presents, have no fear! You’ll find his tables laid, and you’ll sit down in his chairs and eat and drink. Arid afterwards Captain Sefakas has something to say to you, something important. Pick up your staffs and come!’ “
“What does he want to say?” asked Kosmas, who had listened eagerly. Only the patriarchs of the Old Testament had died with such dignity, he thought, and he felt a mighty pride at having sprung from such a race.
“What’s he want to say?” the shepherd repeated. “How should I know? I wanted to ask him, but I was afraid-he might have hit me on the head with his stick. So I said nothing. With one bound I was outside, running over the mountains and going into the villages. There I cried the message. Only three old men came out. Captain Mandakas, Captain Katsirmas, and the old schoolmaster from Embaros, the lame one. ‘Tell him,’ they said to me, ‘hold out, Captain Sefakas, don’t give up that soul of yours yet, we’re coming.’ They put on their fezzes with the big tassels and girded on their belts… .” Kostandes laughed again. “Three ruins, poor fellows!” he said. “Their heads sown with scars like sieves! Their feet can’t shove them forward any more. Three hundred years old, the three togetherthe spittle running out of their mouths, their eyebrows sagging. They picked up their silver pistols as though they were going to war. Then they hobbled forward, leaning on each other so as not to fall. You don’t believe me? When we get to the village, you’ll see them.”
He stood up and said to Kosmas, “Put on your fez, sir, and come with me. Your grandfather’s dying, didn’t you hear me say? And he wants you to close his eyes.”
The mother crossed herself. “He’ll go to Paradise,” she said with certainty. “He was a good man.”
“So will Father go to Paradise,” said Kosmas. “We shall all reach Paradise, because we’ve suffered in this world.”
His sister shook her head and said with an angry laugh, “God is just.”
“God is merciful,” cried the mother. She went to fetch the incense burner and light the incense.
Kosmas turned to his wife, who had come down and was listening silently on a corner of the sofa. “You’re coming with me, Chrysula.”
But Kostandes struck the ground with his staff. “What d’you want with women, by God?” he cried. “They’re a pest. ‘Forward,’ you say, and they say ‘Stop!’ And sometimes ambition does get hold of them and the poor things do rush forward, but then they gasp and make you sorry for them. Can you leave them behind on the road? That’s wrong! Take them with you? A pest! But you’re the master. It’s for you to decide. I’ve said my say.”
“Kostandes is right,” said the mother, appearing with the incense burner. “Don’t take her with you, my child, she’ll get tired.”
“Take her,” said the sister slyly, “she’ll hold out.”
Noemi shuddered at the thought of remaining without protection in such a house. The air was heavy, and she would have liked to become quite small, like an insect, to be able to hide under one of the basil plants in the yard.
“I’m coming with you,” she said, “I want to get to know Crete.”
“Go and don’t come back!” muttered the sister. She could not bear the girl, she held her breath when she came near her. She had prepared special glasses and plates, knives and forks for her.
“I shall hold out,” Noemi whispered, and rose to get ready.
As she rose, suddenly a giddiness seized her. The house spun around her. With her eyes closed, she leaned against the wall.
Someone touched her softly on the shoulder. She saw her husband standing in front of her with a glass of water. With a smile she reached out, but faltered and collapsed in a faint. The mother hastily brought rose-vinegar, to rub her face and neck.
“She’s tired,” she said compassionately.
“It’s nothing,” the sister said venomously. “A faint even I have fainting fits.”
Kosmas supported her up to bed. Noemi opened her eyes and saw the mother bending over her.
“Forgive me, Mother,” she said, “I’m tired.”
“Go to sleep,” said the mother, and for the first time laid her hand caressingly on her hair.
Kosmas kissed his wife on the neck. “Go to sleep, Chrysula. Don’t come with me. Be patient. I shall be back soon.”
She nodded her head, and shut her eyes. “Go, and blessings with you,” she said.
Kosmas hurried to the Metropolitan, whom he found in the highest agitation.
“I’ve just this minute received the answer from your uncle, that wild barbarian. He’s not submitting, he says, and we’re not to meddle in his business. Christ will bless you if you go to him. Tell him that because of him Crete is in danger. Knock some sense into that hard skull of his. Do what you can, my child, it’s necessary.”
“I’ll do what I can, my lord. I’m going.”
Noemi was sitting up in bed and waiting for him. She was now wearing her yellow nightdress, and her honey-gold hair fell in curls over her shoulders. She clasped her knees and propped her chin on them, brooding. What power love had! How had she been led there, to the end of the “world, to this bedroom with the icons, with the crucifixion of Christshe, the rabbi’s daughter? “Ah, if I had not seen what I saw,” she sighed, “and my soul were a white leaf with no writing on it, what happiness there would be here!” She thought of last night, when she had ain stretched out on the old iron bed, shortly before she fell asleep. Through the open window came the night wind, laden with the scent of basil and marjoram. Not a dog barked, not a human step echoed. The world lay in tender moonlight. From far away, there sounded a soft, unceasing, rhythmical sighing. It was the sea, which, like herself, could not sleep. “How sweet night is, how trustfully the man I love sleeps at my side. And inside me …”
Kosmas came in, shut the door and sat down beside her. He looked at her with inexpressible tenderness.
“Are you going away?” Noemi asked, clutching his hand. Her head was burning.
“Noemi,” said her husband anxiously, “you’ve a fever.”
“No, it’s not a fever, my dear. I think it’s the normal temperature of my race,” she answered with a laugh. And immediately afterwards: “You looked at me as if this was a farewell.” She was on the point of adding, “forever.” She trembled and wanted to cry out, “How can you leave me alone hi this house?” But she fought the words back.
“I shall be back soon, beloved. I want to close my grandfather’s eyes….”
He held his wife’s hand, and life seemed simple to him. All of time gathered into this short moment, as he clasped the hand of his beloved warmly in his. This moment was eternity.
Noemi gazed silently at her husband.
Now it was Kosmas who cried, “Don’t look at me like that, as if you were saying good-by to me forever.”
He kissed her eyes. A bitter taste came upon his tongue.
“That’s how you’re looking at me,” said Noemi, dropping her head back on the pillow.
From below the angry voice of Kostandes rang out.
“Hey, master, your grandfather’s dying. Come on! Your mother’s rilled the sack. Good luck to her. We’ll be off like the wind! We’ll eat and drink on our way. But be quick! It’s almost evening.”
Kosmas bent over and kissed his wife’s bosom, purely and trustfully as though he kissed a sacred picture. “Good-by,” he said.
“Good-by,” whispered the woman, taking his head in her h
ands.
For a few moments he remained quietly leaning on her breast. Her eyes were full of tenderness, forsakenness and dread. “Goodby,” she said again.
Kosmas rose, and would have kissed her on the mouth. But she put her hand over it.
“No,” she said, “no. Good-by.”
CHAPTER 12
THE FACE of Crete is stern and weathered. Truly Crete has about her something primeval and holy, bitter and proud, to have given birth to those mothers, so often stricken by Charos, and to those palikars.
When they had left Megalokastro and reached the olive trees and vineyards, Kosmas rode ahead, while Kostandes trotted behind with his shepherd’s staff over his shoulder. Evening was approaching. The landscape was yellowish and purple, speckled like a leopard skin. Psiloritis was wrapped in its mantle of snow, cheerful, strong and kindly, like a grandfather. In the foreground lay the Lasithi mountains: they also looked cheerful under the soft winter sun. Below them spread the newly plowed fields, some cinnamon brown, others deep black. Here and there stood a group of olive trees with silvery branches, a lonely cypress, a leafless row of vines on which one or two forgotten clusters still hungry shriveled stalks.
Kosmas drank it all in. This is Crete, this is the earth whence I came, this is my mother, he said to himself, his
‘ 1 eart beating violently. Whenever the thought of Cretst had come to him in far-off countries, a severe, relentless voice had sounded within him. “What have you been doing, aU these years?” it would ask. “You keep fighting the air and exciting yourself with words. But you leave your flesh and blood in the lurch, and nourish yourself on illusions. I don’t like you.” And now he roamed over the soil of his islandits scent of thyme was crowding into his lungs. Now he could no longer escape the voice, and he owed it an answer. But what answer? He had accomplished nothing, he was nothing. Were these hands, thighs, and a chest, or were they mere lumps of flesh? He was a disgrace to a hard, irrepressible stock.
And where was he bound now? So low had he fallen: to bury one dragon of his race and to persuade another to surrender. His heart faltered. He turned to Kostandes, to hear a man’s voice.
“Kostandes,” he said, “tell me about my grandfather, old Sefakas.” He gave him a cigarette, which Kostandes stuck behind his ear.
“What am I to say to you, master?” he began. “We’re live, he’s dying. What hasn’t he eaten, what hasn’t he runk, how many Turks has he not killed, God forgive im! You mark my words: he’s filled his life well, very ell. Don’t you go pitying him! When he used to come up o Jhe pen, he’d swallow a giant of a cheese with two ites. Then he’d kill a hare with his stick and say to me:
‘Roast that for me, Kostandes!’ I’d roast it for him and e’d make short work of it! Not a bone would be left. He te and drank, the sinner, and on his wedding night, so I’ve heard tell, he broke three beds. Don’t laugh, master, I’m telling you the truth.”
He took off his headband and wiped the sweat from his dark face. He himself was laughing.
“Did you hear what happened when he married your grandmother?” he asked.
“No, tell me, Kostandes.”
“Her parents didn’t want to give her to him. He was poor; they were powerful, respected, wealthy people. He was a wild spark, and wherever there was a row he was fthere. If there was trouble anywhere, he grabbed for his ‘ gun at once and made for the mountains. And they were dish-lickers, an obedient, well-behaved family. He was f not their sort. Your grandfather sent to ask for her hand; f the abbot of Christ the Lord also spoke up for him. But ‘no! no!’ the bride’s parents answered, ‘we don’t want him!’ ‘Ah, that’s the sort of people you are,’ your grandfather replied, ‘you cattle, now I’m going to show you!’
“One night he jumped on his mare and rode to the bride’s village. He took nothing with him, except a can full of gasoline and a box of matches. And one thing morea gold betrothal ring tied up in his headband. He rushed through the village and sprinkled house after house with gasoline. ‘Hey, peasants,’ he shouted, ‘I’m setting fire to your houses!’ Naturally they jumped out of bed to see what was going on. The bride’s parents, too, came running.
” ‘In God’s name, Captain Sefakas, don’t be guilty of such a crime!’
” ‘Give me Lenio!’ he shouted.
” ‘Have you no fear of God?’
” ‘Don’t mix God up in my business. Give me Lenio! Here’s the wedding ring!’ He undid it from his headband. ‘Choose,’ he cried. ‘Fire or the ring!’
” ‘God will pay you for this, you madman!’ the bride’s father yelled.
” ‘Fire or the ring!’ he shouted again.
” ‘Have pity on the village!’
” ‘Fire, or the ring!’
“By now the peasants were furious. Was a cra2y fellow to order them about? ‘To arms, children!’ they shouted. But at this point the pope came up. ‘Fear God, brothers master your anger,’ he pleaded. He turned to the girl’s father. ‘Hey, old Minotes, cross yourself. He’s a good son-in-law. Give her to him!’ The more cautious ones took the pope’s side.
” ‘I’ll give her to you, you madman!’ yelled the father, ‘but clear out of here at once!’
” ‘I want her now. Bring her to me!’
“Cursing, the father now brought the girl, followed by her mother who was weeping.
“Your grandfather bent down, took the bride under the arms and hoisted her up on the mare’s rump. He dug in the spurs. Dust whirled up. The peasants and the pope ran after him, breathless. At dawn they arrived at Petrokef alo, where the marriage was to take place.
” ‘Back you march now,’ cried your grandfather to the peasants. ‘Next Sunday the tables will be laid, and you’ll be welcome. I’m busy now… .’”
Kostandes took the cigarette from behind his ear. “That’s the way men ought to get their wives,” he said, and lighted it, using a piece of dried mushroom as tinder.
They reached a deep ravine. A thin trickle of water ran over light-colored rocks.
“Are you thirsty?” Kostandes asked.
“No. Let’s get on, Kostandes! It’s late!”
“I’m thirsty. Stop!”
He lay down on the rocks, thrust his wedge-shaped beard and his mustaches into the water and began lapping with his tongue like a tiger.
“There’ll be nothing left of the brook,” thought Kos-mas, marveling at the wild man of the mountains. With pride, as if they were his own, he observed the powerful calves, the slender hips, the pitch-black hair soaking up the trickle.
Kostandes leaped to his feet in one movement, wrung out his beard and shouldered his staff.
“Here, on this rock where I lay and drank,” he said, “I killed the Albanian, Hussein, the hater of Christians. Pitch cover his bones! I swore, then, that every time I came through this ravine I’d have a drink, whether I was thirsty or not!”
“You killed him, Kostandes! Alone?” asked Kosmas, who had heard about the appalling deed from the Metropolitan the day before. It had been one of the causes of the massacre of the Christians in Megalokastro.
“Of course alone!” Kostandes replied. “What else? Man against man, as things are done between men. I’d heard that the dog meant to come this way, after he’d set fire to one of the villages. You’ll see it. We get to it soon. He’d killed all the men of the village. So I swore to kill him. I lay in wait for him and cut his throat.” He began to whistle.
The shadows were lengthening over the face of the land. The two men reached the devastated village. Two or three houses had walls that were still standing. Out of the ruins came women in rags; a girl fetched a sprig from a pot of basil and threw it to Kosmas. “Welcome,” she called out.
They reached the village square. Graybeards gathered around them. The few women who were in the group held back. A huge, bony old man, the spokesman, came forward and took off his cap. “We’ve no chair to offer you to sit down on, we’ve no glass to bring you water in if you’re thirsty, we�
��ve no bread if you’re hungry. The dogs have burned up everythingmay God burn them!”
“We’ve no proper man, either, to talk with you,” said an old woman, and began the keening, in which the other women joined.
“Courage, you women!” said the old man. “Didn’t the same thing happen to us in 1866? And yet there were a few little children left, and out of them the whole village was renewed. As long as there are still a man and a woman, Crete doesn’t die!”
The old man turned to Kostandes. “God bless that hand of yours, my palikar,” he said, “and may you enter Paradise with the knife that slew Hussein.”
“Come,” said Kosmas, who could bear the horror no more. “Good-by!”
In silence the graybeards propped their chins on their staffs and watched the two move on. The old women wiped their eyes. A-girl stood in front of the ruins of her house and gazed admiringly after Kostandes, as with youthful vigor he strode from stone to stone.
The sun was setting as they came to a shut-in, desert plain on which a dark group of oak trees mourned.
“We must hurry,” said Kostandes, hitting the mule with his staff, “if we want to get to the next village before nightfall. We’ll stop there, with old Kubelina. She’s my aunt, my mother’s sister. She’s got no house, but she has a heart, and that’ll be enough for us. You won’t find a house standing in that village either. The bandits have raged there too. Curse them!”
A barefoot, half-blind old woman, loaded down with wood, appeared before them.
“How are things with you, little woman?” asked Kos-mas.
“As they are with dogs, my child,” she answered, “if God would only stop loading man with as much as he can carry!”
“Have the Turks ruined you too?”
But Kostandes made violent signs to Kosmas to be quiet.
“What did you say, my child? I’m hard of hearing. God be praised!”
“Good-by! We must go on.”
“Are you a Cretan?”
“Yes.”
“Take my blessing! Beget children! Crete has grown empty. Beget children, so the Cretans won’t vanish from the world. They’ll be needed, too.” “.“Come,” said Kostandes. “It’s late.” He hit the mule. They hurried on.
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