The Fratricides

by Nikos Kazantzakis

  Again Father Damianos led the way; the crowd turned for a last look at their dead, but they saw nothing; all eyes had’ blurred, the world had become a cloud of tears. A frightened cry rose from the living.

  “Courage, my children, courage,” Father Damianos shouted. “Have faith in God—do not weep.” And he wept.

  They were patient, controlling their tears until they returned to the village; then they locked themselves inside their homes and began the lament.

  Early the next morning they loaded their donkeys and

  mules. It was thundering, and a light rain began to fall. They herded the sheep, the goats, the oxen of the village. The housewives lingered on the stoops of their houses, they did not have the heart to tear themselves away. In the church courtyard Father Yánaros had made a pile of all the icons they could not take with them. He made the sign of the cross and set fire to them; the Christs, the Virgins, the Apostles, the Saints all be-came ashes. Father Yánaros scooped up the remains with a wooden shovel, raised it high, and scattered them to the wind.

  They were ready. They made the sign of the cross, fell to the ground, and kissed the earth. They had lived here for thousands of years, generation upon generation; this earth was made up of their ashes, of their sweat and blood. They kissed the soil, dug their nails into it, took handfuls and hid it in their clothing. With forced patience they murmured to themselves, “God is great.” “God loves His people.” “Whatever God does He does for our good.” They steeled their hearts so they would not cry out, but suddenly they could hold back no longer; the first to let out a cry was Father Damianos.

  “Good-bye, beloved soil,” he cried, “good-bye, fathers!”

  His tears fell to the ground, and his beard, his eyebrows, his lips, were covered with mud.

  The rain fell in torrents now, making both mud and people one.

  Years and years have passed since then, but that black dawn with the mud and the weeping never passes. They took the road to exile—days, nights, weeks—they were cold, hungry. Father Yánaros’ wife, a delicate, gently bred woman, could not en-dure the hardships of the journey; she fell ill and died in her husband’s arms. But Father Yánaros did not cry, he lifted his hands to the sky; his lips burned with resentment—resentment and grief—but he controlled himself, he did not utter a sound. He lowered his hands to earth, to the beloved dead body. Alone, he dug a grave on the side of the road, buried her, and went slowly on his way again behind his comrades.

  Days, nights, weeks, until one evening they reached the promised land—an empty village recently vacated by the Turks. The two priests blessed the town, they sprinkled holy water over the houses, exorcised the Mohammedans, baptized the town

  and named it St. Constantine. They made the sign of the cross and entered their new homes. But the village was small, there was not room for two priests; so Father Yánaros took to the road again, with his robes under his arm and a small bundle flung over his shoulder. All that he owned—his two oxen, a few sheep, the clothing and wheat he had brought with him—he gave to the village before he left. Where could he go? What would be-come of him? He stood in the middle of the road and pondered; he was completely alone, his wife had died, his son— his only son—had left home years ago and had gone wandering from port to port, drifting, threshing the seas, once as a smuggler, once as a captain. Alone, completely alone now, where could Father Yánaros go? He stood there, undecided, in the middle of the road, and night fell. There was not a single light or a door he could knock on to find human warmth. He thought of turning back, but he was ashamed. “All right, Father Yánaros, now let’s see what you’re made of—heart or mud?” he said to himself. “Get up and walk! Walk and let the road take you where it may. Let God be your guide—He knows.” Three days he walked.

  On and on he went, no longer questioning where he was go-ing; he knew the Unseen led the way, and Father Yánaros followed with confidence. What joy! he thought, not having to question or fear anything, not allowing the mind to govern, not believing in the visible, but trusting the Unseen and going on!

  He came to a brook of clear water and noticed an old man who was bending over the side watching the flowing water with deep concentration. Father Yánaros approached him and leaned over to see what held the old man’s attention; he saw nothing except the water.

  “What are you looking at, grandfather?” he asked with curiosity.

  The old man raised his head and smiled sadly. “At my life flowing and disappearing, son, flowing and disappearing.”

  “Don’t worry, grandfather, it knows where it’s going—toward the sea, everyone’s life flows toward the sea.”

  The old man sighed. “Yes, my son, that is why the sea is salty—from the many tears.”

  He turned back to the flowing stream and did not speak again.

  He does not believe in God—that is why he fears death, thought Father Yánaros and went on his way. He passed through villages, knocked on doors, they all had their priests, so he went on. He walked with his vestment stole and the Bible under his arm. “Lead the way, Christ,” he repeated over and over again, “lead the way, I am following You.”

  For days now, a tall, snow-capped mountain in the distance came nearer and nearer. Father Yánaros watched with awe as it grew larger; he had never seen a hill with such divine, unearthly serenity. It resembled God the Father, with the snow-white clouds, the snow-white beard, the open arms bent over the green earth with stern kindness. Father Yánaros had entered a ravine; he stopped, dazed—what greenery, what fragrance, what solitude! There were evergreen oaks everywhere, bushes, myrtles, berry trees, and enormous chestnut trees. A holy place, it smelled like church on Holy Saturday. Father Yánaros felt that God commanded him to stop here in this unmarred solitude, after the four days and four nights He had guided him.

  The sky had cleared, not a cloud was in sight, the first rays of the sun fell from the sky, and the earth awakened. He went further on; now he could hear the roosters crowing. And suddenly, through the chestnut trees, the sea appeared, sparkling in the distance. From afar the damp wind carried the sweet sound of a wooden bell tolling. Father Yánaros removed his hood, made the sign of the cross and thought, There must be a monastery nearby sounding matins.

  He ran, climbed on a small incline, and looked across the way. There, above the sea, wedged in the rocks, was a white multi-storied structure with many doors and windows, with towers and cypress trees. A monk with a spade over his shoulder was walking along the path below. Father Yánaros ran down the incline and signaled the monk as he shouted, “Where am I, holy Father? What do I see there, or am I dreaming?”

  The monk stopped. He was young, with a black curly beard, a pointed brown woolen hood, a leather belt, and small eyes that glittered cunningly. His bare feet showed under his gathered robes. He waited a long while before answering; he was looking at Father Yánaros from head to toe.

  “Are you a priest?” he said at last. “Where do you come from? What do you want here?”

  “Answer my question first,” Father Yánaros replied angrily, “and then you can interrogate me.”

  “Don’t get angry, old man!”

  “I’m not angry, I’m only asking you, Where am I?”

  “Mount Athos,” the monk replied, and his eyes twinkled devilishly. “Have you come here to become an ascetic? God help you!”

  He lowered the spade from his shoulder and laughed. “If you have a wife, don’t bring her here. If you have a female goat or a hen or a ewe, or a bitch, don’t bring them either. This is the Garden of the Virgin, no member of the female sex can enter. So think it over!”

  Father Yánaros bowed to the ground and prayed. “O immacu-late mountain of the God-beloved Virgin,” he murmured, “how happy I am to have found you.”

  The monk watched him, and his eyes, his eyebrows, even his beard laughed.

  “Who brought you here?” he said at last, and cupped his hand over his mouth to hide the laughter.

  “God,” Father Yánaros repli
ed.

  “Then lots of luck to you.” He snickered and placed the spade back over his shoulder and started off.

  He walked awhile, but the devil inside of him nudged him and he stopped. “Don’t get yourself in a turmoil, Father,” he shouted. “We don’t have women here, but we have Nereids, and we manage just as well with them!”

  He burst into laughter and disappeared into the myrtles.

  “What an ugly way to enter Your garden, my beloved Vir-gin,” Father Yánaros murmured, and his heart tightened. “What gardeners are these You have in Your employ?”

  He made the sign of the cross again and entered the Virgin’s Garden.

  How long he remained on Mount Athos, no one ever knew. He never revealed in what monasteries he had been an ascetic, or why one day he got up and left. Only occasionally he spoke of the Monastery of the Josephian Brothers, where he had remained two years, and learned to paint icons.

  There were ten monks, with a glass-enclosed veranda for their

  workshop. Every week one of them would cook, wash, and sweep, while the other nine, free from daily chores, painted. They painted the cheeks of Christ too red, the saints too well-dressed and too well-nourished. Their cellars were well stocked with food, their brushes were heavy with red paints and their hearts were at peace. Ascetism in this holy place had become relaxation and red paint and luxury.

  Life in this monastery appeared just too accommodating to Father Yánaros; this was no holy mountain. He suddenly realized that happiness was a trap of Satan; he was frightened. He yearned to suffer, to hunger, to take the uphill road, to crawl on his knees over the stones, to find God—this should be the meaning of Holy Mountain.

  “And so I left,” he would say to end the conversation. “I left the comfortable Monastery of the Josephian Brothers, and I went through all twenty monasteries to find the most ascetic one in which to live the monastic life.”

  “And then, Father?” they would ask.

  But he would not reply; he would bite his lip and remain silent for a long while; then he would begin chanting softly, with anger in his voice.

  One day, however, he could not remain silent; two monks from a nearby monastery stopped to visit him. Father Yánaros received them in his cell. They smelled of incense and garlic and rancid oil, and the priest had to open his window to clear the air. He would not speak, but the monks were in a mood for conversation. One of them was an old, sly fox, with rosy cheeks and a fat belly and a flowing beard. The other was a young man with a pimply face, a thin beard, treacherous eyes, and a lisp. The older monk crossed his hands over his belly and spoke in a severe tone, as though to reprimand the priest.

  “I heard you were at Mount Athos, Father Yánaros. Why did you desert holy solitude and return to the world? May I ask why?”

  Father Yánaros’ eyes flashed. “Holy solitude?” He clenched his fist as he spoke. “And to do what in holy solitude, your reverence? The monasteries today have become nothing more than beehives full of drones; they don’t make honey any more. You

  call that asceticism? Christianity? Is this what Christ wants? No, no! Today prayer means deeds. To be an ascetic today is to live among the people, to fight, to climb Golgotha with Christ, and to be crucified every day. Every day, not just on Good Friday!”

  He tried to stop, but it was too late; his mouth had opened and with it, his heart. He stared at the two monks and shook his head.

  “I was ashamed to live alone, desolate, away from the people. No, I did not want that. Try to understand me, Fathers, I was ashamed. I don’t want to be a useless stone on the edge of the road. I want to be built into an edifice along with other stones.”

  “What edifice? I don’t understand,” lisped the pimply-faced monk.

  “What edifice? Greece, Christianity—how can I explain it? A large edifice—a building, God!”

  “That is arrogance,” the old monk said as he unglued his folded hands from his belly.

  “That,” Father Yánaros replied angrily, “that, holy Father, is known as following the pattern of Christ. As you know, Christ remained in the wilderness only forty days. Then He descended from the summit of solitude, He hungered, He pained, He struggled along with the people, and was crucified. What then, is the duty of the true Christian? I say it and I repeat it: to follow the pattern of Christ here on earth.”

  “And what about us?” lisped the younger man again.

  But Father Yánaros did not hear him. He was infuriated, burning with anger. “I have seen a great deal of dishonesty and hypocrisy and lies in both laymen and the clergy. I can be silent no longer! Sometimes—forgive me, Lord—my soul becomes a flaming rod that wants to burn the world, starting with the monasteries.”

  “What has the world done to you, Father Yánaros, that you should want to burn it? The world is good, it’s the work of God.”

  “It’s the work of the devil! It was the work of God once, but no more. Why do your eyes bulge, holy Fathers? Christ roams from door to door, hungry and cold, and not one door, not one heart opens to say to Him, ‘Welcome, my Lord, come

  in!’ But then how can you possibly hear Him, how can you possibly see Him? Your eyes, your ears, your hearts are clogged with fat.”

  “Let us go,” the old monk said, nudging the younger monk’s knee with his own. “The world has many temptations. We must not listen, we must not look, we will leave. See, Father Yánaros opened his mouth and without realizing it, he blasphemed. Why? Because he is living in man’s world—in the kingdom of temptation!”

  “Let us go,” the young monk echoed in his high-pitched, lisp-ing voice. “The monastery walls are high, and temptation cannot enter.”

  “Indeed, holy Fathers, for heaven’s sake, take extra care.” Father Yánaros laughed and the small cell rumbled. “I’m go-ing to tell you a tale which is not a tale. There was once a monastery that had three hundred monks, and each monk had three carts and three horses. One horse was white, the other red, the third, black. Every day they circled the monastery to prevent Satan from entering. In the morning they used the white horses, at noon the red ones, at night, the black. But Satan took the form of Christ and entered.”

  “Of Christ?” the monks screamed, and slapped their thighs. “Father Yánaros—blasphemy!”

  “Yes, the form of Christ!” bellowed Father Yánaros, pounding his fist on the table. “Of Christ, the way you monks have made Him—a hypocrite, an idler, a glutton! You think that that is Christ, and you follow in His footsteps. It suits you well, you hypocrites, you loafers, you parasites!

  “But that is not Christ, you poor fools, it is Satan who has taken the form of Christ and entered. I say it and I repeat: the real Christ walks with the people, struggles with them, is crucified with them, is resurrected with them.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” snarled the old monk, and mustered all his strength to gather his fat bellies and stand up.

  The younger man rushed to his aid; as he helped him from his chair, he turned to Father Yánaros. “I believe you have insulted us, old man,” he said with malice in his voice. “The Bishop was right when he said you are a rebel in the church, that you raise your own banner.”

  “Yes, my own banner,” Father Yánaros replied, and his eyes flashed, “and do you know who is painted on that banner, holy Father?”

  “Who, rebel?”

  “Christ, holding a whip! Tell that to the Bishop, tell that to the abbot of your monastery. Tell that to all the bishops and all the abbots of the world. Bon voyage, holy Fathers,” he said and opened the door, and he was not laughing now.

  Father Yánaros remembered with joy the morning he slipped out from Mount Athos without being seen. The sun was shining brightly, like that first day God had created it. The white snow-capped peak smiled, like a rose in the light of dawn. One would have thought God looked down on earth and smiled as He watched this little ant shake the mountain dust from its feet and disappear quickly, quickly among the myrtles and the bushes.

  Father Yánaros ha
d felt the cool wind of freedom blowing on his burning forehead several times before, and he had felt great joy. But the joy of this morning was unmatched; the naked branches must feel this way when spring embraces them.

  “Today I am born, today I am born,” he sang as he leaped over the bushes, and not once did he turn to look back at the monastery, which was now disappearing at the bend of the road.

  From village to village, from mountain to mountain, he finally settled in this hill of stones, enthroned himself in Castello. At first it stifled him—there did not seem to be room enough, the place was small, dry. He longed to see a bit of rich soil, a blossoming almond tree, a smile on a human face, a flowing brook. But slowly, as time passed, he learned to love these stones, he learned to pity these people. They were his brothers; on their faces he saw the pain and fear of man. His soul clutched at this wild, rocky earth and sprouted roots. Like the Castellians, Father Yánaros became accustomed to the hardships of this wild life; he went hungry and cold, he had no one to talk to, to unburden his soul to. But he never complained. “This is my post,” he would say, “here I will fight.”