He reached out for support to avoid falling, but he did not catch the pew in time. The roaring crowd had pushed through, trampling Andreas, and spilled into the church. The Bier was crushed beneath their feet; Christ fell to the floorKyriákos bent over to pick Him up, but one of the two wooden candelabra fell on him. The blood spurted from Kyriákos’ head and dripped from his long, dirty hair, but he felt no pain. He raised his hands toward the iconostas and shouted, “Look, brothers, look; her tears are falling!”
All necks strained; the Virgin had entered everyone’s eyes and was crying through them.
All at once the crowd fell to their knees; the slate floor thundered from the weight; and suddenly the light faded. Thunder roared; clouds filled the sky; in the dim light of the church shone the yellow faces of peasantry, with sunken cheeks and huge eyes opened wide; they were not faces, they were skulls; the flesh had melted, showing only the bones.
For a long while there was deep silence; one could hear their hearts beating; and suddenly, a loud indistinguishable noise rosethe people were crying; some rolled on the floor, screaming; others raised their throats in chant, out of tune, hoarse, with mania: “Save your people, Lord …”
Kyriákos, his face and neck spattered with blood, burst into wild laughter, then into tears, as though his mind had snapped.
Father Yánaros stood wide-eyed, silently looking at the icon. His heart tightened, his throat clogged, he could not breathe. He took another step forward, closer to the Virgin, stood on tiptoe, pressed his lips on Her eyes and prayed. But immediately he drew back, discouraged; his lips were not wet. I am faithless, he thought. I am an unbeliever and I cannot see. Everyone sees, but I do not.
The grieving mothers untied their black headkerchiefs and rushed toward the icon. As they scrambled before the iconostas, they fought to be the first to stand before the Virgin. Chrystal, the old woman, beat her fists and shrieked at the other women as she went ahead. She wiped the eyes of the Virgin with her kerchief. Then she tied the tears in a knot and hid the kerchief in her bosom.
“Her eyes are filled with tears again!” one of the other old women screamed, and spread her kerchief out to wipe the Vir-gin’s eyes. “Your tears are inexhaustible, Virgin Mother; don’t shout, women, don’t push, there are tears for everyone.”
It was hot; everyone felt they were burning; sweat poured from their necks. The delicately carved iconostas rocked from the people who had fallen against it; already it began to creak. Father Yánaros was afraid it would collapse; he stood on a bench, unhooked the icon and took it in his arms.
“My children,” he shouted, “the hour has come. In the name of God, let us go!”
“Let the Virgin go first,” the voices shouted. “Let Her go ahead and we will go wherever She takes us!”
“Open, make room, my children, let me pass!” Father Ydna-ros shouted, and raised the heavy icon as high as he could. “I sense that She is in a hurry!”
“Where are we going, Father?” several old men asked; they had just come to their senses from the holy intoxication; they could hear the bugle sounding from the barracks and they were frightened.
“I’m not taking Her anywhere, my children,” the priest replied as he staggered beneath the weight of the icon. “I’m not taking Her anywhere; She’s taking me. I swear that She is taking me! Follow!”
He walked out the door; the sun had slipped from the peak of the sky, and black clouds gathered again. Heavy drops of warm rain fell on the face of the Madonna; the tears blended with the raindropsthe Virgin wept steadily now.
Father Yánaros leaned the icon against the door frame; he leaned toward the Virgin’s eyes and prayed; his lips and his beard were wet. He no longer asked if these were tears or rain, or if this were a dream. He asked nothing; he felt a great strength flowing from the icon into his arms, his chest, his knees, all of his body. What strength this was, what youth, what flame! He made the sign of the cross. “God forgive me,” he murmured, “but if I should open my robe at this moment, I would sprout wings and fly. Who cares about the barracks and the captain and the soldiers and the rebels? Onward!”
He took the Virgin in his arms again and turned his face to-ward the barracks; behind him stormed the screaming crowd. The icon trembled in the old man’s arms; a group of young men rushed at him, grabbed it from his hands, and went ahead. They ran; indeed, they were not carrying the icon, it was carrying them. Soon others rushed up and snatched the icon from the young men’s hands. They pushed them aside and ran ahead. And the rain-soaked Virgin, with the deep wound on her face, smiled and labored like a storm-tossed galleon over the rough waves of men. The human sea rushed on, carrying its mistress.
Doors opened, women with disheveled hair appeared; they would look at the tear-soaked Madonna, scream, and join the crowd, moving along with it, crying along with it. The children, swollenwith green bellies, and reedlike legsrushed along, too, following the crowd, beating their crutches against the rocks.
18
IT WAS A WARM April night; the metal of the sky had melted. Gold had been poured over the rocks and thorns and the earthslowly the shadows fell over the hill. The cloud-burst which had broken out for a moment had scattered and passed. It had fallen on the dry grasses, and the earth smelled sweet.
The Virgin shone in the arms of the men; it seemed that the disappearing daylight had found a refuge in the golden halo around Her head and in Her pale, wrinkled cheeks. Beside Her was Father Yánaros, hatless, with his heavy boots and his robe gathered about him, and behind him was a roaring seathe people.
At a crossroad just before the barracks, Father Yánaros turned and raised his hand; the warlike procession paused.
“My children,” he cried, “listen to my voice. We have set out in friendship and in lovenot for war. Keep your hands cleanenough of this bloodshed. We have no braggart captain for a leader, we have the Virgin Mary. I lift up my hands and shout: ‘Virgin Mother, bring peace and warmth to our hearts! Bring peace and warmth to the hearts of our enemies! Bring peace and warmth to the hearts of the world! It was for this Your Son was crucified.’”
He had not quite finished his words when a wild cry was heard.
“Traitor, bolshevik! I’ll kill you!”
The army captain jumped before them with fury on his face; his mustache drooped, he was skin and bones, and his eyes were filled with hate. Behind him came the soldiers, and further back was old Mandras with his men. The other three eldersold Stamatis, Uncle Tassos and Hadjisleaned against the wall of the barracks, biting their tongues, wide-eyed and trembling.
The captain cracked his whip in the air; he took two strides and stood before the crowd; his mouth spat foam.
“What do you dirty villagers want? Where are you going?”
No one replied; only the mothers removed the black kerchiefs from their heads and waved them in the air.
“What do you want?” the captain shouted again. “I’m ask-ing youanswer me! Father Yánaros, are you dumbstruck, you rebel mouthpiece?”
A wild, heavy silence followed; all that was heard was the work toolsthe scythes, the hoes, the picksbeing lowered from the shoulders of the people.
The sergeant and the soldiers knelt down with raised rifles; they were ready.
Old Mandras’ voice rang out. “What are you saving them for, Captain? Shoot! Listen to mekill the priest, kill him, and the others will scatter to the winds within minutes. Crush the head of the snake, and the rest will die.”
“Love, brotherhood!” Father Yánaros tore away from the crowd and shouted. “Love, my children; we do not come for evil, we come in friendship. Do not resist; we are all brothers; spill no more blood; show some respect before the Virgin Mother!”
A pale soldier wearing glasses appeared at the door of the barracks and stood there, confused. Damn this art, he thought, hav-ing no heart to step over the threshold, damn the art of killing! The picture of a long, wide field came to his minda field on Zante, his islan
d, far, far away, at the other end of the world. It was April, the trees had blossomed, and he sat beneath them with a guitar. But suddenly, the blossoming trees and the guitar disappeared; the angry voice of the sergeant rang out.
“Eh, Nionios! Eh, four-eyes, where’s your mind? Get the hell out herewe have work to do!”
“Love, love!” shouted Father Yánaros, and walked toward the
captain, hatless, unarmed, his arms extended as though he were asking for help.
The captain raised his hand. “Fire!” he shouted.
The bullets flew over the heads of the villagers; shame prevented the soldiers from hitting unarmed men. The captain raged with fury.
“Hit themfire into them!” he screamed again. Then he took out his pistol and emptied it at the crowd.
Stelianos the weaver, who was in front with Father Yánaros, caught a bullet in the forehead and fell over, face down. He had had a hard, tormented lifenow he was free. He was pallid and effeminate, with soft hands and a greasy, priestlike voice. His wife, God rest her soul (Lemoni was her name), was the pret-tiest girl in the village and the best weaver. But she loved to play around, God forgive her, and all the strong, handsome young lads of Castello and of the neighboring villages chased after her. One day Stelianos’ friend could hold back no longer; he went to him. “Eh, Stelianos,” he said, “all the males of Castello and the surrounding villages are after your wife; she’s made a fool of youthrow her out!”
“You think I’m crazy?” he answered. “Everyone’s after her and I, who have her, should throw her out?”
But one morning, as she stood combing her hair and singing in front of the window, she fell to the floordead! So her husband took over the loom; he began to weave towels, sheets, and nightshirts; then he would load them on his back and go through the villages selling them. No one ever knew why this placid, soft little man suddenly felt that the world was unjust and that it must be destroyedno one knew how the seed got into him. And if you asked him, he would shrug his shoulders and say, “I don’t know … exactly how … it’s just that as I sat weaving all day I fell into thought; and slowly, gradually, I became a bolshevik.”
And now the bullet had entered his forehead and the shirts on his loom had remained half finished.
“Aim for the chest!” echoed the voice of the sergeant.
The naďve Roumeliote was kind and gentle, never meaning harm to any man; but when he saw blood, he went wild; perhaps it was from fear.
“Damn this miserable art of killing,” murmured Nionios again, as the rifle trembled in his hands. “I was made for guitars, not rifles, God damn it!”
But the rest of the soldiers fired as ordered; Mandras and his sons had grabbed rifles from the barracks and joined the ranks.
Moans and groans came from the crowdfive or six bodies fell to the ground. As Kyriákos the town crier opened his mouth to cry out the words that Father Yánaros ordered him to say “Harmony, understanding! Peace!”a bullet hit his throat. The blood spurted up, gurgling, and covered his white shirthis new Easter shirt. And poor Kyriákos opened his arms and fell on the women who were lamenting behind him. He was fat, flabby, his eyes were egg-shaped and his mouth was so large it went from ear to ear. His hair fell dirty and uncombed over his shoulders; since he had made up his mind to become a priest he never washed it, because he had heard that dirt speeded the growth of hair. And now all that dirt was in vain.
Dimitri, the caretaker of the fields in Prastova, groaned like a bull when he saw Kyriákos dead. Kyriákos was his cousin, and he had promised that when he became a priest, he would make Dimitri a sexton in the church, because his work in the fields was tiring, and his feet swelled. And now he lost both his cousin and the comfortable job of church sexton. Fury swept over him; he pulled out the pistol hidden in his belt and aimed at Mandras’ sons, who appeared before him, killing young Paul. It was so fast he did not utter a soundhe merely fell, slowly, quietly, to the ground. Just recently he had bought a horsea black mare with a white spot on its forehead. Paul loved a girl Uncle Stamatis’ granddaughter, Chryssoulaand he would ride back and forth in front of her house. His hair was coal-black and curly, and he let it fall over his forehead and his eyebrows. And just this morning, as he passed by on his horse, she was at the window. The street was deserted, and she threw him a carnation; they had brought it to her from Prastova to decorate the Bier. He caught it in the air and put it behind his ear. It was still there as he lay, sideways, looking at the ground with glassy eyes.
Darkness had fallen; the last light of day which was hiding on the peak of the hill disappeared into the dark blue sky. The wild eyes of peasantry were the only things that shone in the dark wind.
Father Yánaros’ eyes filled with tears; he would run pleading to the soldiers, then to his own men: Please, no bloodshed! no bloodshed! But the demons had been let loose, the spilled blood moaned and cried for more blood; soldiers and villagers now fought hand to hand, and the women, too, leaped, with rocks in their hands, which they brought down on the heads of the enemy.
“Fire!” the captain ordered again, and pointed to Father Yánaros, who had been hit on the chin with a rock; blood dripped down his beard.
The captain’s rifle was against Father Yánaros’ chest, but he did not get a chance to pull the trigger. Andreas seized him, and they both fell to the ground.
“Butcher!” the coppersmith growled as he pulled him down and fell over him. “It’s our turn now! We won’t always be the sheep; I’ll slaughter you!”
The captain mustered all his strength and leaped up, but Andreas still held him by the neck and was now raising his knife.
A heart-rending cry was heard, and a woman wearing a red ribbon on her hair fell on the captain, embracing him.
“Sophocles, my Sophocles,” she purred, and began to cry.
Andreas was not able to stop his knife in mid-air; it pierced the woman’s heart. She fell to the ground, at the captain’s feet, wriggled for a moment, moved her lips, wrapped her arms around the captain’s boots, and died.
“The captain’s been killed!” The cry rang among the soldiers. “Throw down your arms, men!”
It was Stratis; he threw his rifle away.
But the sergeant leaped to untangle the captain from Andreas. Blood ran from the captain’s face and arms; a boulder had hit him in the knee and he could not stand up. Father Yánaros ran and took him in his arms.
“He’s mine!” he shouted, and shielded him with his own body.
A loud noise rose up, a wild river broke the dam and overflowed; the hoes and scythes and sickles and picks encircled the few remaining soldiers who resisted; they surrounded Mandras and his group and pinned them against the wall, not letting them move.
The Virgin had stopped at the threshold of the barracks; two
old men were holding her; she had her face turned toward the men who were fighting and in the half-light her eyes shone as though they were really filled with tears.
The sergeant and his few men tried to resist, but they were smothered by the villagers; the captain, his head cracked open, rolled on the ground, biting his lips to keep from screaming.
Old Mandras still resisted, jumping against the wall where they had pinned him.
“Surrender, Mandras,” Father Yánaros called to him. “Enough of this bloodshed! As God is my witness, I did not want this.”
“You killed my son Paul, you scoundrel!” groaned the old man, and wiped the tears that ran from his eyes.
He could control himself no longer and broke out into sobs and laments.
A huge wave fell over them, gathering and rounding them up together, both soldiers and elders, in the large yard of the barracks. Father Yánaros carried in the captain, brought water, washed his wounds and placed him gently in a corner of the yard.
“Don’t worry, Captain,” he told him, “everything will end well, with the grace of God; whatever happened is over; the evil has come to an end now.”
&n
bsp; He turned to his own men. “Bring ropes so we can tie them; don’t hit them; they’re our brothers. They do not know it, but we do; let’s tie them up so they will not resist the armistice. And then, tonight, by the soul which I will turn over to God, all of them will be freed. Everyoneevery one of them, I swear it!”
The captain raised his bloodied head. “Traitor!” he growled and spat at the priest.
“Since you refuse to be set free peacefully, we’ll set you free by force!” the coppersmith said, and tied the ropes around the elders and the soldiers.
19
FATHER YÁNAROS entered the church; his heart fluttered; everything he had hoped for, for so long, was beginning to take form. The estranged brothers would reunite in Castello, and Christ would be resurrected in the way He chose within the hearts of men. Father Yánaros decided he would wake up early tomorrow morning and run through the hills and valleys and the villages, to tell the priests, the elders, all the peo-ple, the story of what they had accomplished in Castello, how everything had been resolved peacefully, and how much better and easier was the road of Love. I will become a herald of God, he thought, and shout like St. John the Forerunner in the wilderness. He had shouted and shouted until gradually the stones developed ears, heard him, moved, became friends, and embraced one another; and Christ’s church was built.
A sweet turmoil swelled within him; he could see the road opening ahead; he could feel new wings sprouting on his back. Father Yánaros felt rejuvenated; he became twenty years old again. He bowed and worshiped the crucified Saviour on the altar.
“My Lord,” he said to Him, “You know that I have never asked a reprieve from death before, but now I ask one favor of You; let me live until I fulfill my task. Then let anything kill mea sparrow, a pebble, anything!” He floated with joy as he paused before the Holy Gate.
“My children,” he said, “be patient; at this very hour, our
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