“But—”
“The calf has likely been slaughtered in any case, whether for the priest’s table or the Germans’.”
“I hate them,” Chrysanthe cried. “Why can’t you make them go?”
“It’s too big for me, darling,” Kiveli said. “I could no more shake down the mountain. Sleep now, Chrysa. You’ve done all you can, which is more than most people here can say.”
Chrysanthe lay down on her pallet, but sleep would not come. She was so desperately sorry for Alexandra Simeonidou—and for herself. She had thought Alexandra might want to play with her again if she could get the calf back. Alexandra had been such fun before her mother insisted that she was too old to play, especially with the magissa’s strange daughter. But then, Alexandra probably wouldn’t want to play in any case, now that Haralambos was gone.
With such thoughts swirling in her mind, it was no wonder Chrysanthe’s dreams that night were dark and troubled. She woke in the morning with puffy, gummy eyes and a fog in her head, and for two days she hid inside rather than risk meeting Alexandra in the village. She felt obscurely responsible for Alexandra’s heartbreak, though her mother assured her that nothing could be sillier than blaming herself for the Germans’ wickedness.
On the third day, Kiveli all but threw Chrysanthe out of the house, fed up with having her constantly underfoot. Chrysanthe scampered up the slope behind the village’s erratic line of huts, eager to reach the safety and solitude of the mountains. At the top of the ridge, she paused and looked out over the valley, scowling at the Germans’ trucks and the ruined fields. She started to turn away but then paused once more, her gaze drawn to the home of Eleni Tirekidou. Something was wrong there, but what?
Reluctantly, Chrysanthe crept back and hid among the scrub oaks outside the byre where Eleni used to keep her cows. There were voices inside. Chrysanthe held herself very still, for the voices were deep and strident, like the snarling of dogs—they were German.
“Please, I don’t know, I don’t know, please stop—”
A dull, meaty thump cut off the rest of Eleni’s anguished wail. For a moment, Chrysanthe couldn’t hear the Germans’ response over the thudding of her own heart. But then she forced herself to focus on the words of the Germans’ translator, a weedy, oily man named Vasili who was almost more reviled than the Germans themselves.
“Where has your husband gone?” Vasili demanded. “Tell the truth, woman—he has gone to join those criminals in the mountains, hasn’t he?”
“I don’t know,” Eleni sobbed, her voice strangely muffled. “I don’t know, he left, that’s all…”
Tears slid in rivers down Chrysanthe’s cheeks, but she didn’t feel them. Her face, her hands, her whole body was numb with the horror of what she knew was happening within the cow byre. She could hear Eleni’s bones crack and her flesh split open like that of a ripe plum. And the blood—she could smell it, she could hear it dripping on the floor.
Mother, help me. Mother, I need you. Mother, come quickly.
The words swirled desperately in Chrysanthe’s mind, spiraling upward until they flew away, winging into the sky as Chrysanthe pressed herself into the undergrowth. She cowered and shook among the leaves until, suddenly, her mother was there with her, laying a gentle hand on Chrysanthe’s back.
“They’ve gone,” Kiveli said. “Up now, my love.”
Sniffling, Chrysanthe pushed herself to her feet and stumbled after her mother as Kiveli slipped into the shadows of the byre. Chrysanthe hesitated in the doorway, afraid of the still, dark form huddled in the muck at their feet. She couldn’t stand to see Eleni like that, but she couldn’t stand the thought of seeing her wounds in the light, either.
“Chrysanthe,” Kiveli snapped. “Help me.”
Chrysanthe swallowed and moved forward, drawn unwillingly by Kiveli’s order. Together, they dragged Eleni from the byre and brought her into the house, where Mother immediately set about preparing a cauldron of water to boil.
“Run home and fetch the herbs,” Kiveli said. “Yarrow, comfrey, lavender, garlic, onion, arnica… and don’t forget the cabbage. Run, Chryssoula, quickly!”
Chrysanthe darted out of the house like a rabbit and didn’t stop until she reached her own garden. With only a brief thought of regret—hastily smothered—for the loss of their last cabbage, she collected the supplies and returned, panting, to her mother’s side.
“Good girl,” Kiveli said, and spread the supplies out on the table. “Grind up the comfrey for me.”
They worked quickly and efficiently, the silence broken only by the occasional instruction from Kiveli. Chrysanthe’s eyes flicked every so often to the tiny pallet where Eleni lay as if dead. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask her mother if she was sure Eleni still lived, but Chrysanthe saw the force with which Kiveli was pounding the garlic and thought that perhaps it would be better not to ask too many questions. She and her mother would have a full day’s work ahead of them, in any case. Eleni was their responsibility now, to be healed… or buried.
***
By the end of that night, it was clear that Eleni would live, and by the end of that week, she was able to go into the village. The news of her beating had spread like a flu, as news does in such a tiny village, and the villagers welcomed Eleni joyfully back into their midst. It did not escape Chrysanthe’s notice, however, that they praised God for Eleni’s deliverance, without a single word for her mother’s efforts—or hers.
Chrysanthe scowled furiously. “They should be thanking us. But all they do is whisper and stare.”
“We need no thanks.” Kiveli gave Chrysanthe a stern look. “If we have the ability and the opportunity to do good, we do it, and we do it without expecting a reward.”
“Yes, mama,” Chrysanthe said, chastened.
Kiveli smoothed a hand over Chrysanthe’s hair. “I know it seems as though all our friends have abandoned us, my love, but they haven’t. They’re only afraid, as we are. But the fear won’t last forever.” She dropped a kiss on her daughter’s curls. “Run along and fetch us some water.”
Chrysanthe tried to hold onto Kiveli’s words as she made her way toward the village fountain, but she couldn’t help the little spurts of anger and hurt that stung her skin at the sight of Katerina Giorgiou and Anastasia Papaioannou giggling together as they took their own water from the fountain. Once upon a time, they would have invited her to share their joke. But now they hurried away as she approached, and Chrysanthe was left to fume with the knowledge that now she was the joke. She could see it in the sly glances they cast over their shoulders and the smug swishing of their skirts.
Sometimes, she reflected gloomily, she wished her mother were not a magissa, and that she were not a magissa’s daughter. What a joy it must be, to be ignorant of the world’s cruel thoughts.
But Kiveli was a magissa, and Chrysanthe was her daughter. And so, when a German soldier accosted Alexandra at the other end of the street, Chrysanthe felt Alexandra’s fear as keenly as if it were her own. She ran up the street and joined the clump of women who stood nearby, murmuring and hissing in distress.
“Let me pass, kyrie,” Alexandra said softly. “I am not for you.”
Of course the soldier could not understand her, but her meaning was perfectly clear to anyone with eyes. When the soldier put his hand on her arm, Alexandra stiffened and pulled away, her dark eyes snapping. Her lips thinned, and her hand twitched backward, the better to deal the soldier a ringing slap across his florid, piggish face. He looked, Chrysanthe realized, like a vrykolakas, all ruddy and wild-eyed and full of hate.
No, Chrysanthe thought frantically. Alexandra mustn’t hit the soldier, she mustn’t—
She didn’t. Alexandra drew a long, slow breath and forced a smile around clenched teeth.
“No,” she said. She paused and added, carefully, “Nein.”
The women sucked in a breath as one as the soldier seized a handful of Alexandra’s hair under her kerchief. He snarled something at her, sp
ittle flying into her face. Tears of fear and anger leaked from Alexandra’s eyes, but she didn’t cry out. Chrysanthe cast about, searching for someone—anyone—who could help. All she found was old Nikola, Alexandra’s grandfather. Chrysanthe’s stomach sank into a pool of dread.
But she didn’t move. She didn’t stop him.
Nikola hobbled right up to the soldier and closed his brittle fingers around the soldier’s arm, yanking and shouting curses at him until the German released Alexandra.
“Vasili!” bellowed the soldier, who now had Nikola’s skinny arm caught in his own vice-like grip.
Vasili came running out of a nearby house like a dog to its master. All he needed was a tail, Chrysanthe thought disgustedly. But she crept around the edges of the onlookers and crouched beside Alexandra where she had fallen.
“Come on, Aleka,” she whispered. “Come with me.”
“No.” Alexandra shook her head, her eyes fixed on the scene before them. “Oh, no. Papou…”
“You can’t do anything for him,” Chrysanthe said, tears pricking her eyes. “He meant to save you—don’t let it be for nothing!”
She tugged at Alexandra’s hand, and this time Alexandra let herself be pulled to her feet. But she faltered as Nikola cried out. Together the girls turned and saw Nikola on his knees, a trickle of blood winding down his face. The German had his pistol out and was pointing it straight at Nikola’s forehead.
“Don’t look.” Chrysanthe hauled on Alexandra’s wrist with all the strength in her much smaller frame. “Aleka, don’t look! Run!”
Hands clasped, they ran—but not fast enough to escape the blast of the pistol or the thud of Nikola’s body hitting the ground. Alexandra slowed and would have turned if Chrysanthe hadn’t been pushing her from behind. Her face was dead white and empty, just like the refugees’ haunted faces. She stumbled and sagged, as if her bones had suddenly turned to water. Chrysanthe wrapped her arm around Alexandra’s waist to support her and kept pushing, determined to get Alexandra away.
Kiveli was waiting for them in the garden, her hands twisted into her apron. When Chrysanthe appeared, gasping under the older girl’s weight, Kiveli rushed forward and relieved Chrysanthe of her burden. Chrysanthe staggered a few steps and sat down with her head in her hands. The shot that had killed Nikola still rang in her ears, almost insistently, as if determined to hammer home the truth of what had happened.
“Chrysa,” Kiveli called from the door, her face tight and anxious. “Come inside. I want you where I can see you.”
Wearily, Chrysanthe pushed herself to her feet. Once inside, she immediately climbed into her mother’s bed and curled into a tight ball with her arms wrapped around her knees. She let her mind drift, ignoring Kiveli’s murmurs and Alexandra’s sobs. An image of a cave high in the mountains flickered before her closed eyes. She paid it no mind until suddenly she was in the cave, looking out across the valley. Where the village of Kastania should have been there was a cloud of smoke. Screaming filled her ears, punctuated by the crack of gunshots and an indefinable but deafening roar, as if some ancient beast had erupted from deep inside the earth and come to lay waste to those who had awoken it.
Chrysanthe’s eyes flew open. Alexandra was gone, and the house was dark and still. Her mother wasn’t here. Heart pounding, Chrysanthe crawled out of bed and padded across the room to the front door. The garden was a maze of silver and shadows and whispers. But Chrysanthe had no time to listen, though she knew the trees and flowers could tell her much that she did not know. She had to find her mother.
Unerringly, Chrysanthe made her way into the hills, guided by the light of the moon and the gentle push of a breeze. She moved over rocks and through the grasses and brush so quietly that even Kiveli could not hear her.
This was just as well, for when Chrysanthe found her mother, she also found her father. She paused, crouched above them on a rocky overhang, and listened as they spoke to each other in low, urgent tones. They held tight to each other’s hands, their heads bent together. Chrysanthe was frightened by the slump in Kiveli’s shoulders. Kiveli had never let her daughter see her fearful or even seriously worried. But Chrysanthe could see clearly now that Kiveli was more than worried—she was close to despair.
“Fire and blood,” Kiveli was saying. “So much blood, Thanasi—rivers of it. And a cage of bones.”
“You must leave,” said Chrysanthe’s father. “Take Chrysa and hide in the mountains. We will come for you, the boys and I, and we will stay hidden until the Germans leave.”
“If the Germans leave,” Kiveli said bitterly.
Thanasi stroked her hair. “They will. Have you not foreseen it?”
“What I saw was dim and uncertain,” Kiveli whispered. “But the fire, the blood and bone—that is clear. Can you not stop the andartes, Thanasi?”
“No, my heart,” Thanasi sighed. “They are modern, worldly men—the word of a wise woman will not sway them from their course. In two days, the captured soldiers will be executed.”
“As will we,” Kiveli said grimly. “I don’t need a wise woman’s skills to know the Germans will not let such a thing pass without retribution. And if I know it, the andartes know it too.”
“Whatever the Germans do, we won’t be here to see it,” Thanasi assured her. “You will bring Chrysa and I will fetch the boys, and we will leave this place.”
Kiveli made a small noise of distress. “We will leave… and abandon all those who have lived and toiled beside us for twenty years and more?”
“They wouldn’t flee at a word from you,” Thanasi said. “Not anymore. Anything you tell them now will only hurt.”
“It feels wrong.”
“Of course it’s wrong!” Thanasi stood and ran his hands through his hair. “Everything about this is wrong. But we didn’t ask for it, and we aren’t to blame for the choices we face. If you think anyone will join us, do what you can to convince them—but do not put yourself in danger for their sake. Your responsibility is to your children, and to me. Is that not so?”
“Of course it is so, arrogant man,” Kiveli said tartly. “But you will give me your promise also—bring me my sons, whether they wish to come or no. Drag them by their earlobes if you must.”
Thanasi laughed. “It shall be done, my soul.”
Chrysanthe left her perch and flitted back down the mountainside as silently as she had come. Her mind was boiling like a kettle with her parents’ words. She wouldn’t mind trading the village for the mountains, of course, but, like her mother, she felt the pull of the villagers’ need. As magissa, Kiveli had tended to their wounds, both of the body and the heart. She was bound to them, as Chrysanthe would someday be bound. To abandon them this way was wrong, deeply wrong. But what could they do? Her father was right—the villagers had turned away from Kiveli. They wouldn’t follow her now.
She would tell Alexandra, at least. If anyone would believe her, Aleka would. She’d likely even be pleased to go, what with that German sniffing around her like a dog after meat. All Chrysanthe had to do was get her alone.
But Chrysanthe couldn’t get her alone. Alexandra’s mother seemed determined to keep her out of sight, lest the German soldier renew his interest in her. For two days, Chrysanthe lurked outside Alexandra’s garden, her desperation growing with every passing hour. Her mother hadn’t said a word about her midnight conference, and Chrysanthe could only assume she meant to whisk her away once the preparations were complete.
When the andartes executed their prisoners, both Chrysanthe and Kiveli felt the reverberation in their bones. They looked up from their scanty supper and stared at each other, wide-eyed, until Kiveli’s eyes narrowed.
“You heard me talking to your father, didn’t you?” Chrysanthe nodded, and Kiveli sighed. “Well, then you know what we must do now. Come, I have our things ready. If anyone asks, we’re going to gather herbs on the far side of the mountain.”
“It won’t even be a lie,” Chrysanthe said, trying to sound cheerful. “For
we will certainly gather herbs, won’t we, mama?”
“Just so,” Kiveli said with a strained smile, and they gathered their supplies.
But no one did ask them where they were going. Their hut was at the very edge of the village, nestled up against the mountainside. They had only to step out their door and start walking. But as they crested the first ridge, Chrysanthe hesitated, just as she had the day she found Eleni Tirekidou.
“Mama,” she whispered. “Are you sure? Is there no one we could save?”
“We tried, agape mou,” Kiveli replied. “I’ve already asked those who can be trusted not to betray us, and they’ve said no. It’s too late.”
“Even Aleka?” Chrysanthe cried. “Aleka said no?”
“Even Aleka,” Kiveli said gently. “She won’t leave her mother, and her mother has no love for us.”
Tears streamed down Chrysanthe’s face as they continued to climb, but she made no further protest. She knew hers was not the only heart breaking: she could feel the ghost of Kiveli’s tears mingling with her own. And though Chrysanthe knew that it was her fault, that only the need to save her daughter could make Kiveli abandon her flock, she couldn’t be sorry for causing her mother this grief. Kiveli would grieve, but she would live. They both would.
By nightfall, they had reached a cave that Chrysanthe recognized from her dream. It was, Chrysanthe had to admit, rather nice as caves went. For decades, perhaps for centuries, it had been used by shepherds who spent their summers with their flocks in the high pastures. It would suit their purpose admirably. All they had to do was wait—and survive.
But Chrysanthe had always found waiting difficult. Now, she proved entirely incapable of settling herself to any useful task, and Kiveli didn’t press her. While her mother busied herself preparing a makeshift kitchen and gathering what food she could find, Chrysanthe roamed the mountain slopes, hoping to intercept her father and brothers.
The Roots Of Our Magic Page 4