The coppersmith took the rope and began to ring the bell with fervor. “I’ll even wake the dead,” he said laughingly. “It’s a great day today for all of us together, the living and the dead!”
He winked slyly at the priest.
“I smell a rat, Father,” he said. “Last night I couldn’t sleep so I wandered out into the fields. All of a sudden I caught sight of someone climbing the hill; I couldn’t make out if it was wearing a dress or a robe.”
“It was a robe,” the priest said, “it was a robe and inside the robe was an old man, and around his neck hung a village.”
“And …” the coppersmith added, his tongue twisting, “and … did you meet with the you-know-who? Did you come to an agreement?”
“I did.”
Andreas let go of the hell; his eyes flashed as he lowered his voice. “Father,” he asked, “does this mean the sword will speak?”
“Friendship will speak, Andreas. To the devil with the sword!”
“Oh ho!” the coppersmith cried mockingly, “are you still on that, my priest? You mean you still haven’t seen the light? The sword is the only thing that speaks here.”
“Love is a sword, Andreas my son; Christ had no other sword but love, and with that he conquered the world.”
“Christ would have conquered the world with a reed, or even a feather, but as for us … don’t weigh everything with the measure of Christ, Father!”
“Christ is within us, Andreas; the measure of Christ is our measure, too; don’t humble man so; trust him. Isn’t the teacher your friend? Go see him someday, he will explain things to you; the only difference is that he gives the Lord another name. Have you seen him lately? How is he?”
“How else, Father? Day by day he fights with death; but he will not let it put him down. ‘How can I die?’ he says, ‘I have a great ideal.’ That’s what keeps him alive.”
“That’s what keeps me alive, too,” the priest replied, “that’s what keeps the whole world from crumbling; the teacher is right. Give him my regards.”
He lowered his voice; he had been speaking to Andreas for some time now, and Andreas listened open-mouthed, with pleasure.
“Fine, agreed, Father,” he finally said. “Praise the Lord, you finally got to the meaning of the matter. But if it becomes necessary for the sword to take over, the sword will, so you may as well know it. This world needs pruning, Father Yánaros.”
“You’re right, my son, the world is a tree and a time comes when the fruitless branches grow wild and destroy the tree; but let’s leave the pruning to God.”
As the two conversed softly, the villagers moved along the narrow paths of the village, and the churchyard began to fill.
The elders with their caps and their worry-beads, old man Mandras, Stamatis, Uncle Tassos and Hadjis; behind them, like a long tail, came the sons and family men, and the anxious
people, with their sunken cheeks, their frightened foxlike eyes, some barefooted, others with torn shoes, all of them in rags; and several old women with black kerchiefs on their heads, and with the endless, half-smothered dirges within their withered breasts. A soft drone rose like a distant lament, like dry branches being lashed by the winds. Two old men and three young women whose minds had broken from fear ran behind the crowd, laughing hysterically. Old Polyxeni, the Mandras maid, was with them. She was barefoot, with a wide red ribbon in her hair; when the fearsome elder saw her, he sent her away with a gesture of his eyebrows.
The sun now slipped over the top of the sky, burning as be-fore the rain. The heated rocks were steaming. Suddenly, from the hillside, came the sound of heavy, slow-marching feet. The stones moved, dogs barked, there was a great clamor, like curses, like crying. Father Yánaros sprang from the threshold, craned his neck and looked out; from the side of the hill appeared bands of men and women from the nearby villages, carrying the church labara. They would merge with other smaller bands who joined them along the way and they swept toward Castello. Five mothers walked ahead clad in mourning, and as they heard the bell ringing, calling out to them, they could not hold back any longerthey burst into dirges. Chrystal, the old woman, threw her black kerchief behind her head and began to unknot her pain; and as her voice broke with fatigue, another woman, from the next path, picked up the tune, beating her breasts, lamenting her son.
Black swirling clouds appeared on the horizon and began to rise; the sun hid for a moment, a small cloud had passed in front of it and the world darkened; the face of peasantry clouded, the villages became frightened and quickened their footsteps.
17
FATHER YÁNAROS stood on the threshold of the church, and his heart pounded wildly as he watched his people approaching. The blessed hour has come, he thought, the world will be judged by this day. Even if Castello is a miserable little villagethe world will be judged by today.
Behind the labara he could distinguish the men approaching, their tools thrown over their shoulderspicks, hoes, scythes, sifters; they approached silently, with bowed heads. The sun was only halfway across the sky; a strong wind must have blown high above, for the few clouds had scattered. The hills, dipped in light, were gleaming. The vultures watched the people gathering; soon they would all be corpsesthe birds were certain of this and they paused to sharpen their beaks on the rocks. For what man calls war for honor and country, the vultures call a feast! And what man calls a hero, the vultures call tasty meat.
The neighboring villagers arrived; Father Yánaros opened his arms and welcomed them. “Welcome to the house of God, my children; this is the only secure roof, the only impregnable refuge. Come under the wings of Christ, do not be afraid; to-day will mark the end of all of Christianity’s troubles.” The courtyard swelled with people; they overflowed into the street. The voices rose, and several black-clad women slowly began the dirges. Old Mandras, his sons, and the other three elders of the village stood in a row before the priest. Behind them, in utter confusion, were the impoverished villagers.
All eyes were raised, watching Father Yánaros and waiting. The sun fell directly on the upturned faces and pitilessly revealed the tear-filled eyes, the sunken cheeks, the wrinkled necks. An old man with eyes swollen from tears raised his staff.
“Eh, Father Yánaros,” he shouted, “why did you drag us all here? If you have something to say, say it: We’ve come to the edge of the cliff; we’ve eaten everything there is to eat, every bit of grass the hill has shot up. We’ve shed all the tears that were kept in those sacs behind our eyes. But why do I stand here and talk? Words cannot measure the pain of man!”
His voice cracked; embarrassed, he covered his face with his handkerchief. An old woman untied the scarf from around her head; her white hair flowed over her shoulders. She raised her fist to beat her breasts and begin the lament, but Stelianos the weaver, who stood beside her, grabbed her arm. “We don’t want any dirges, Aunt Marióra, so don’t beat your breastshave faith in God.”
“I can’t stand it any longer, Stelianos, my boy,” the old woman screamed, furious that they would not let her chant her lament and unleash her tensions. “No, I can’t stand it any longer. Where is the God you speak of? Why doesn’t He come to Castello and put the village in order? I want Him here, I want Him now! Stelianos, my son, if God does not help man, what good is He?”
“Father Yánaros is the representative of God in Castello,” Kyriákos cried out; he had just returned from the barracks and was still excited. “Quiet,” he shouted, “Father Yánaros is going to speakGod is going to speak through the lips of our priest; be patient, Aunt Marióra.”
Uncle Thanasi, the medico-philosopher of the village, was infuriated now. He was neat and thin, with a sparse gray beard; he raised his arms in their wide white shirtsleeves and with eyes fixed on Father Yánaros he began to shout. “All I know is that two devils have divided Greece, two devils, curse them! One is red, the other blackneither is a Greek. May God show one up as the liar he is, Father Yánaros, but I think you’ve set your mind to r
outing only one of them, and you open the door and let the other in. How are we going to get rid of that one, eh? Who’s going to get rid of him? When are we going to be free
of those two devils, so we can remain masters in our own homes? Damn it, aren’t there any Greeks we can leave Greece to?”
Voices rose up from the people. “Quiet!” “Quiet!” “The priest is going to speak.”
Father Yánaros made the sign of the cross and leaped upon the stone ledge beside the door of the church.
“Quiet, my children,” he shouted, “quiet! I have returned from somewhere very far away, not from the peak of the hill, but from the peak of God. Listen to me, I have an important message for you. I am not the one who speaks, but God. I lay on the slate floor of the church, crying out for God to pity us, that we were being destroyed! I cried, I pleaded, I complained, and for a moment, my mind was jolted with pain. I, the worm, raised my voice to God, threatening! And God pitied me, and a reply came from above. ‘Come!’ the voice said. ‘Where, my Lord?’ ‘Follow my footsteps wherever they take you!’ He stepped before me, and I followed like a puppy; He took the road up-hill, and I was close behind. We came to the rebel camp …”
“Don’t shout; don’t raise your fist, Mandras; eh, you! Don’t walk out the door! God is speaking, show Him some respect! I am the lips, He is the voice, listen!
“We reached the rebel camp; God paused, opened His mouth, but no one heard Himno one, only I. He chanted hymns, and I took His words and spoke to the rebels.”
Father Yánaros paused for a moment and wiped his sweating brow with the edge of his sleeve. He was inflamed as he spoke; and now, for the first time, he realized that what he was saying to the people was the truth. It happened exactly this way, but he had not realized it before. All this time he had been touching the flames that encircled his body; he knew now that these were not flamesthey were God.
“Well,” Mandras cried angrily, “never mind the big words, priest, we’ve had more than enough. What did you discuss with the redhoods? What agreements did you make? I don’t trust you, Father Yánaros, you catch fire too easily, be careful you don’t burn up our village!”
“Don’t burn up our village, Father Yánaros!” “Don’t burn up our village!” Voices rose from the crowdthe people had be-come stormy, they swayed like the sea.
Father Yánaros put up his hand, and the crowd quieted down; again his deep voice rang out.
“It is a holy moment, my children, when the people reach the edge of the precipice, suddenly see it, reach out their hands, and grasp the robes of God. Castello stretched out its hand and it has caught God’s robessalvation is coming!”
“Words, wordsnothing but words!” old Mandras shrieked. “Speak clearly, priest! What did you scheme up there with that traitor, your son? Someone go call the captain, we’re in danger! Listen to me now, Father Yánaros, weigh the matter carefully before you place the keys of Castello on the tray and surrender them. You hear, Father Yánaros? Do you hear, Castellians and neighbors? That’s what I had to say; you heard one, you heard the othernow judge!”
“He’s right! Mandras is right!”
“Father Yánaros is right,” shouted other voices. “Stop, it’s enough!”
Father Yánaros waved his hands and moved his feet, as though dancing on the ledge; he felt God around him, everywhere, like a fire, and he was burning. Whom could he fear now? His soul, all-powerful, leaped within him.
“My children,” he cried, “great pain and fear have fallen upon us; rise! We have become a flock of sheep, and each day the butcher selects a few for slaughter; how much longer? Rise up together! This is what God commanded me to tell you: Rise!”
He turned to Kyriákos, who had slowly approached and was looking at him with open mouth and shining eyes.
“Kyriákos, my son,” he said, “go into the sanctuary and bring me the Bible that is on the altar; we’re going to take it with us.”
“We have already risen,” shouted the coppersmith, waving his club high over his head. “Onward, friends!”
But old Mandras pushed the crowd aside and turned toward the door. “Those who believe,” he shouted, “come with me. Let us go and report to the captain what we heard and all that we saw; Father Yánaros has set a trap for us!”
He reached the threshold of the outer door; behind him were the elders and the sons and several family men; he turned to the people, who moved around, dazed, not knowing which Way to turn.
“If you believe in Christ, brothers,” he shouted, “let no rebel set foot in our village! And as for you, Father Yánaros, we’ll set-tle with you later!”
He walked away quickly, his group behind him, heading for the barracks.
But Father Yánaros only opened his arms to embrace the people; the sunlight fell on his beard and on his hair; he fumed.
“If you believe in Christ, my children, wait,” he said, “listen to me! I know for a fact that the rebels had decided to attack our village tonight, Holy Saturdayto enter Castello and burn and slaughter everything, so that not even a stone will remain. There was only one hopereconciliation! So I went to them and bargained. The fighters will come down, they will not harm anyone; they swore this; they will respect our lives and our honor and our possessions, and we will celebrate the Resurrection together. All of us together, in friendship, in certainty! Blessed be the name of the Lord, my children; Castello will walk ahead to open the road for peace and brotherhood; and who knows the ways of God? Perhaps this humble little village will set in motion the salvation of Greece.”
His eyes roamed over the people as his robe fluttered like wings in the wind.
“This very moment that I speak to you, my children,” he shouted, “God stands pleased, beside me; none of you can see Him, only I, your priest. Trust me; have faith! Between the two devilsthe red and the blackand ahead of them God opens a path and He beckons to us. ‘Come,’ He says.”
The people shuddered; there on the ledge, to the right of the priest, the five mothers saw a shining light and a white tunic and two gleaming eyes.
At that moment, a wild cry rang out; Kyriákos leaped out of the threshold of the church, pale and dazed.
“Brothers,” he cried breathlessly, “the Virgin is weeping.”
The crowd groaned and ran to Kyriákos, surrounded him, fell over him. He leaned against the wall with foam spouting from his mouth.
“What are you saying, Kyriákos?” the crowd shouted. “Speak upspeak clearly!” “Did you see Her?” “Did you see Her?”
“She’s weeping, I saw Her! I went in to get the Bible and as
I approached the altar, I raised my eyes … I raised my eyes to prayand what did I see? Two heavy tears dropping from the eyes of the Virgin Mary! She’s weeping, She’s weeping! Go and see for yourselves! Don’t kill me! Go see for yourselves!”
Father Yánaros jumped from the ledge to hear Kyriákos bet-ter; he leaned forward and cleared a path with his elbows to pass and enter the church. He knew Kyriákos was somewhat off. But then, Her Grace did perform miracles. Perhaps She felt that Her village was in danger and She wept for it.
“Make room, make room,” he shouted, “why are you growling and looking goggle-eyed? She’s a mother and She pains for Her children, so She cries. Make room!”
“We want to see!” “To see!” the villagers shrieked. “We want to touch!”
And Chrystal, the old woman, threw off her black kerchief. “Virgin Mother,” she screamed, “You’re a mother, I’m a mother, too; let me drink your tears so I can be refreshed!”
She screamed at the top of her lungs and fainted. The other old womenher friends Kyra Marigo, Christina, Despina, Zafirograbbed her and they, too, began to scream.
By now, Father Yánaros had reached the threshold of the church; he spread out his arms and stopped the people.
“Wait,” he ordered, “no one will enter; you’ll break my pews, the Bier, the candelabra! Wait, I will go and bring her!”
“The miracle!” “The miracle!” “We want to see the miracle!”
Father Yánaros turned and threw his hands up in the air. “What miracle?” he shouted. “It is no miracle, stop shouting! It would be a miracle if the Virgin saw our pain and hunger and misery and did not cry! Wait, I say, don’t shove; eh, Andreas, stand at the door and don’t let anyone in!”
Father Yánaros entered; his heart was beating wildly; it was not the first time he had seen a miracle, but he still could not get used to it. He trembled; he would rather see a lion before himit would have been a thousand times better. Because God stands behind the miracle; God descends from heaven within the miracle, and Father Yánaros had never been able to endure His frightening breath.
He went on, but his knees weakened; now I will see the Vir-gin, he thought, She will have descended from her icon and She will be standing on the floor, before the iconostas, weeping … How should he approach Her, how should he lift Her holy body and take it to the people?
The light flowed through the small window of the sanctuary; the golden Bier gleamed peacefully, and the wildflowers which decorated it smelled with breathtaking sweetness. Out in the courtyard, the crowd rumbled and roared, and stormed in waves to break through Andreas and spill over into the church.
The wild voices gave Father Yánaros courage, and he walked slowly, hesitatingly, with his eyes fixed on the iconostas. Suddenly he stopped, his breath caught; within the sanctuary, a blue flash cut into the darkness. Father Yánaros’ knees buckled; his voice came, choked and stuttering, from his tight, dry lips.
“Mercy, Virgin Mother, mercy! Do not blind me!”
But in a moment, he added, “Let me see you! Let me see you, then let me lose my sight!”
The Fratricides Page 24