“Do not harm the village,” Father Yánaros continued pleadingly. “You must respect life and the property and honor of men.”
“You ask a great deal!”
“I ask a great deal because I also give a great deal! You must not kill anyoneenough of all this!”
“Not kill anyone? Not even that dog, the army captain? Not even that rotten, miserable old Mandras and his sons?”
“No oneno one, they are all my people. I must answer for them at the Second Coming.”
“And I must answer here on earth at the First Coming. I have to answer for my comrades who were killed in the alleys and on the rocks of Castello, Father Yánaros! And don’t wrinkle your eyebrows, don’t try to frighten me; you think I’m still that boy you used to beat like some dog? Remember how you hung me upside down and whipped the soles of my feet until they bled? So I could become a decent human being, you said! I set fire to your house once, now I’ll set fire to your village, too, and I want no bargaining; it’s my turn now!”
The village rose in flames before the old man’s eyes; he held back his heart so it would not leap out.
“I’ve sent messages to all the neighboring villages, Captain Drakos; tomorrow at noon the people will gather in front of the church, and we will take over the barracks. We will tie up the captainmost of the soldiers are with usand then we will signal you. That’s what I came to tell you. That’s what God ordered me to tell you, have mercy my Captain, swear that you will harm no one.”
Drakos looked around at his men. Loukas approached, and as he opened his mouth to offer a word of advice, Drakos covered it with his hand. “I’ll make my own decisions,” he growled. “I’m the leader here.”
He bit his mustache and fell into silence; his face was hard and unmoving, like stone, but slowly, very slowly, a satanic smile spread over his thick lips. He turned to Father Yánaros. “All right,” he said, “I won’t harm anyone, I’ll swear to that.”
But the old man shook his head. “What would you swear
to?” he said. “What can someone who does not believe in God swear to?”
“I swear to the idea, the causethat is my God.”
“Ideas do not exist, only people who believe in them; for ideas take the form and the body of the men who nurture them.”
“My body is large, go on your way, what’s been discussed here will be respected.”
“May God place his hand upon all this,” Father Yánaros said, and made the sign of the cross.
“If God has a hand,” Drakos said, and burst into laughter. He turned to his men. “To arms, men! The people have risen!”
“Truly they have risen, Captain,” they shouted back, mocking the Easter Resurrection cry, and the hill echoed with their laughter.
16
“SEVEN TIMES A DAY God blows upon the reeds and bends them,” Father Yánaros muttered out loud as he walked downhill. “What reeds? Men! Blow, then, my Lord, on this ogre, my son, and bend him, too….” When he turned past the first rocks and out of the guerrillas’ sight, he paused and raised his hands to the sky.
“My Lord,” he shouted loudly, so that his voice could reach the sky, “my Lord, how much longer will an Antichrist be the leader of men? How much longer will man look upon man with distrust? The honest men on earth are in danger, and how many are there? Only a fewdon’t You pity them? Why do You give them love and virtue and humility, and deny them strength? These are the men You should arm, my Lord, these and not the others. The others are wolves; they have teeth, nails, strength. But the sheep? You must arm them, too, my Lord, so they will not be eaten by the wolves. And if You are to appear on earth again, do not appear as a lamb, come as an innocent lion…. I weigh and I measure, but I do not understand; why do You torture those who love You so heavily, my Lord?”
Father Yánaros went on his way feeling somewhat relieved after shouting his complaint to God; he was in a hurry to reach Castello. The moon had set and day was breaking; soon the village appeared between the rocks, stone upon stone. Slowly the green and black rooftops of the village became visible, and the chimneys without smoke, and the herds of shacks, sick from the
filth, with the church in the center, the house of God, a sad, disillusioned motherthe picture and image of the houses of men. And within the church, Christ, lying on His Bier among the wildflowers, waited today, Holy Saturday, for man to resurrect Him.
Father Yánaros shook his head. “Help us, my Lord,” he murmured, “lift Your hand and help us to bring harmony, if You want to see a Resurrection in Castello.”
Father Yánaros stole into the village quickly so that he would not be seen; dawn had arrived. He strode quickly across the courtyard, entered the church, and fell in a heap, exhausted, on a bench. His eyelids were heavy, the Bier, the icons, the golden iconostas were spinning, quick as lightningblack, red, gold; he was dizzy; he closed his eyes and immediately he sank into a deep sleep.
The village began to move; it was awakening. A door opened halfway, and a head peeked out; a voice was heard, a dog howled, and again, silence. In a little while, the faltering cry of a hungry baby drifted from some courtyard; it could be heard all over the neighborhood by the puppies, who were hungry, too, and had begun to cry. At the other end of town, the soldiers had awakened and were cleaning their rifles.
How many seconds, how many hours was Father Yánaros drowned in sleep? This was no sleep; the old man had entered the horrible future, and his whole body, from his head to his toes, began to tremble. He dreamt that the sixth seal opened and that he embraced a rock, thinking it was God; and he held it tightly to save himself; and his eyes were bulging as he looked. The sun had become black, and the moon was bloody, and the stars in the sky began to fall to earth, as the rotted fruit drops from wild fig trees when a strong wind blows. And suddenly the darkened skies split open, and seven angels with trumpets came forth.
The first one blew his trumpet, and fire and hail mixed with blood fell on the earth. And one third of the earth and one third of the trees and all the green grass became ashes.
The second angel blew his trumpet, and a mountain of fire fell on the sea, and one third of the seas became blood, and one third of the fish died, and one third of the ships sank.
The third angel blew his trumpet, and a flash of fire fell from the sky, and one third of the rivers and springs dried up.
The fourth angel blew his trumpet, and one third of the sun and moon and stars disappeared.
The fifth angel blew his trumpet, and the well of abyss opened, and smoke rose from it; and within the smoke, armies of locusts with poison-filled tails swarmed and stung, like scorpions, whatever living thing had remained. They were like horses trained for war, and their faces were like those of men, and their hair like women’s, and their teeth like those of lions, and their voices like the neighing of horses that charge into battle.
A locust saw Father Yánaros behind the large rock he was embracing and leaped upon him. The old man let out a cry and fainted in his sleep; when he regained consciousness, everything angels and locustshad disappeared, and Father Yánaros found himself within a large city; the devastated houses were still smoldering; the air was heavy with the stench of corpses; hungry cats and dogs ran through the ruins, and Father Yánaros stood at a crossroad, wondering if he had lost his mind. Once in a while a passer-by would stumble along like a drunk; their bodies were the bodies of men; their faces were those of wild beasts torn, muddy, bloodied. Standing motionless at the crossroad, Father Yánaros held out his hand like a beggar. “Please, sir,” he would ask the wayfarer, “tell me, am I insane? It worries me that I do not know.””
“What can I tell you, sir?” the passer-by would answer, without stopping. “You tell me if I’m insane or not! I’m worried, too, for I honestly don’t know.” He would shake the bloodied mass hanging from his mouth, burst into laughter, and go on his way. And Father Yánaros would still stand at the crossroad motionless, with outstretched hand, waiting in agony
for someone else to come along so he could ask again.
“Father Yánaros, eh, Father Yánaros!” He heard someone call him as he stood with outstretched hand, in his sleep. He jumped up, looked around, then walked to the door and out into the yard. No one was there. God pitied me, he thought, and called out my name so I could waken. So I could waken and not see or talk against God’s workshop. He went back into the church, dragged himself to the icon of Christ on the iconostas, and stood
on tiptoe; he kissed the long-fingered hand that held the green spherethe world.
“My Lord,” he pleaded, “pity us and do not let my dream come true. Peace! Peace! We ask nothing else of You my Lord! Neither wealth and comforts, nor honor and glory; peace! Give us peace, and we will take care of everything else.”
He tightened his belt, looked at Christ, and went on: “We have a great deal of work today, my Lord; the salvation or the loss of Castello depends on this day; help us! Don’t leave us at this difficult hour, my Lord! Look into the heart of the captain, calm him down; the rebels will come down tonight. Lean over, Lord, and blow into their eyes so they will open them and see that we are all brothers. The heart of man is a jumbled mass of caterpillars; blow on them, my Lord, so they will become butterflies!”
He turned toward the door; at the threshold he paused and looked back at the icon. “Don’t play games with us, Lord,” he said. “We’re human, we can’t endure.”
He walked outside, and the sun dazzled him; he looked around the churchyard with its few tombstones and paused at his grave: “Wait,” he said to it, shaking his finger, “wait until I finish the orders God gave me when He brought me to the world. Don’t be in such a hurry.”
Small, humble blades of grass had sprung up around the empty grave and between the slates that were laid on the ground; it smelled of spring. The first butterflies had come out of their tombs, testing their untrained wings in the warm air; a golden-green beetle buzzed as it flew wildly, hitting the walls head-on.
“Lord have mercy!” Father Yánaros observed, “the sun is high already; I think I overslept, and any minute now the neighboring villagers will appear; I’d better ring the bell!”
He rose. His bones creaked; his back felt a stab of pain, and for a moment he felt dizzy. The courtyard spun around before him, and he paused for a moment.
“Courage, old mule,” he murmured, “hold on; you’re passing by a precipice, don’t slip.” Gently he slapped his heavy-boned body.
A trying day today, he thought. I must have the strength to see it through. He took two strides, grabbed the rope of the bell, and pulled it quickly, stubbornly. He felt that this bell was his real voice. And the church, with its painted saints and demons, with its courtyard and tombstones, was his real body. High in the dome of his head he felt his soul shrieking like a bat in the hands of the Pancreator.
The bell was of bronze and silver and human sound; the wind was warm and scented. Even an infidel would feel that today is Holy Saturday; it smells of Easter, and God, crowned with fresh green grass, rises from the earth!
Every so often Father Yánaros would shield his eyes with his hand and look toward the road to see if the neighboring villagers had set out for Castello. For a moment his face would glow with the Resurrection; for a moment it would cloud thoughtfully; the laughter of the young rebels around their campfire still echoed in his ears. It was as though the whole rebel mountain laughed mockingly while it drove him away. Father Yánaros coiled like a serpent; a cold wind entered his heart. These men have no God, he thought; they fear and respect nothing; they will break their oaths. And the old shepherd trembled now for fear of having opened the gate to the wolf.
Suddenly he was very tired; he let go of the rope, and the bell stopped ringing. He cocked his ears and heard the village doors opening and closing, and human voices approaching. He sat down on the stone ledge and wiped the sweat from his brow. Soon footsteps were heard; someone stopped short in front of the church doors; the old man lifted his head. On the threshold stood a short, stocky man with fat cheeks, a mouth wide as a well, and dirty hair that fell to his shoulders.
“Is that you, Kyriákos?” Father Yánaros asked. “Come in; you’re just in timeI need you.”
“At your command, Father,” the man replied, but made no move from where he stood. “I have a message, a message for your reverence.”
“From whom?”
“From the captain, Father. He says he wants you to go to him he has something to say to you.”
“Tell him I have work to do; tell him I don’t have two mastersonly God.”
“Forgive me, Father, but I’m afraid to tell him that. Pity me and go to him.”
“I will go when my Master tells me that all is ready, and only then! Tell him that. Eh, you poor soul; Kyriákos my boy, you’re preparing yourself for the priesthood in the worst possible way with fear. To be a priest is to fear no man.”
Kyriákos sighed. “I’m afraid of both men and God,” he said, “what can I do?”
Father Yánaros felt sorry for this flabby little man, this naive coward.
“Come here beside me,” he ordered, “kneel down.”
Kyriákos understood and began to tremble; he knelt and bowed his head. Father Yánaros placed both his wide hands on Kyriákos’ headthey were hot, heavy, full of strength; he kept them there, motionless, for a long while. Then he raised his eyes to the sky.
“God of Might,” he murmured, “come down and fill this empty wineskin with Your strength. You give strength to an ant, to a mosquito, to a worm; then give strength to this creature, too, to this man. Lord of Strength, give strength to Kyriákos, the town crier of Castello!”
Father Yánaros drew his hands away.
“Get up!” he ordered.
But Kyriákos did not move.
“Again, again, Father; pray again.”
Father Yánaros placed his hands on the bowed head again for a long while.
“What do you feel, Kyriákos?” he asked softly.
But Kyriákos did not reply; he felt a sweet warmth, a gentle river, flowing from the hands of the priestwhat could it be? Fire, joy, strength? He could not understand it, but he felt his body filling with it.
He grabbed the hand of Father Yánaros and kissed it; then he rose and his face glowed.
“I’m going,” he said.
Father Yánaros looked at him with surprise. “Where?”
“To tell the captain that you cannot serve two mastersand that you will go to him when God commands you.”
The old man was pleased; he raised his hand. “Go with my blessings,” he said. “Do you understand now?”
“I understand, Father.”
“What do you understand?”
“That I was only an empty wineskin; that now I have been filled; that now I can stand up.”
As Father Yánaros watched Kyriákos walking toward the barracks, he noticed that his steps were quick and sure. But, as he watched him, fear and grievance overcame him.
“Ah, man, you poor soul,” the priest said loudly, “you can move mountains, perform miracles, and yet you sink in manure, in lethargy and faithlessness! You have God within you; you carry God around with you, and you do not know it! You learn it only on the hour of your death; but then it is too late! Let us who know it roll up our sleeves and let out a cry so they may hear us!”
He grabbed the bell rope again.
“What’s happened to Father Yánaros?” “Why is he ringing the bell?” the villagers asked one another with surprise. “Do you suppose that the pigheaded priest has finally decided to proclaim the Resurrection?”
Doors opened and men stepped out, followed by old women wearing kerchiefs over their hair.
“God only knows what he has on his mind again, let’s go see!”
The first to appear at the threshold of the church was Andreas the coppersmith, carrying his heavy staff; he grabbed the bell rope in his calloused hand.
“Let it go, Father,”
he said, “you’re tired.”
“Good day to you, Andreas,” the priest replied, “it’s a great day today, we have a lot of work.”
“So we’re going to have a resurrection after all, eh Father?”
Father Yánaros slapped Andreas’ shoulder playfully. “Man first, my son,” he said, “man first, then God! Don’t be in a hurry.”
The priest loved the coppersmith; during difficult moments he always called him to his side. Big and heavy-set, but an honorable man. He had worked in the copper shops of Salonica and become friendly with a Jew who took to indoctrinating him. The Jew would tell Andreas that he was hungry and wronged; Andreas believed him and joined up with other pros-elytes who gathered at meetings, first in a basement then out
in the open in the town squares. They would hold rallies, and Andreas would climb on the Jew’s shoulders and make speeches. Their minds would take wing, and they would throw stones, swing clubs, and break up shops. The police would catch them, imprison them, then set them free, whereupon they would start all over again. Until Andreas tired of it all, realized that justice was long in coming, that the rich continued to snatch everything, that the poor continued to be hungry, that women painted their faces, that fat-bellied priests walked around the town square in the company of fools, that the jails were crammed with honest men, the streets with the dishonest. The world would never change! So Andreas returned to his village, to Castello, opened up his own tinker shop, and settled down like a decent man. But how could he escape! The village teacher took him in hand; his mind took wings again, and once more he lost his serenity. He began to dislike the world again, he wanted to form a new one. One day he met Father Yánaros and approached him. “Father,” he said, “I don’t know what God is, but I know that I am only a coppersmith, a thick head, a thick heart, a piece of rough wood; and yet if I had created the world, I would have done a better job.”
The priest laughed. “The world, Andreas, is being formed every day. It’s being remodeled every day; don’t despair; who knows, perhaps one morning God will call upon you to create the world you have in mind.” They both laughed, and from then on they became friends.
The Fratricides Page 23