We do not have a priest yet to bless this event. Father Nectarios would certainly not have done so. His widow, Eftihia, stands beside the church, watching the celebration. She hangs her head and walks away. She has not entered the church since the death of her husband. Perhaps she knows that he was a murderer, that he had committed the unpardonable sin of suicide.
I grow older. Yiannis and I spend all our days and nights together. Some people still come to me for my herbs and spells. I worry that my work and my life are coming to an end. I am cooking over my fire when a woman comes to my door. Behind her is a young child, a girl. “Yiasou,” she calls. I look closely. My sight is weakening now. “I am Maria. Remember me?”
“Ah, yes, please come in.” They enter my dark house and sniff my potions and herbs.
“It smells wonderful in here. Fresh. Natural.”
“I am so sorry about your husband.”
“How did you know?”
“I knew.”
“I heard the bad news about my cousin Stavros. Do you know who killed him?”
“The gods. But he won, anyway.”
Maria smiled. “No, he didn’t win.”
She turned to her daughter. “Meet my daughter Demetra. Demie, this is Kyria Katina. She has much to teach us.”
Demetra’s smile is angelic. She asks me, in Greek, for a drink of water. “It is hot,” she says.
“Yes. It will cool down now. The sun is about to set.”
I reach over the table and pull the string attached to my one light bulb. Yellow light makes a circle on the table.
Maria reaches up and pulls the string again, leaving us in dusk. “Do you still have your oil lamp?”
I smile and go to the hearth, pick up the lamp, bring it to the table, and light it.
“Have you met the new priest?” Maria says. “He is my cousin. His name is Dionysus.”
I hear Yiannis working outside. He will not disturb us. Three women, with eyes so sharp they can pierce the darkness.
Paved
the day they paved the agora I stayed inside my house I smelled the cement heard dirt calling out earth trapped underneath prison bars coming down machines rolled through streets dirt will not choke us in the heat or in the wind we are told people will not get muddy in the rain
the mayor left his television show to walk to the edge of the square a monument will be built to the war dead so many names my father my grandfather my brother a tribute I don’t need it they are always with me the dead call out from the earth that is trapped now underneath cement
the owner of the grocery store is building a new house up the mountain with air conditioning now there are telephones in every home televisions in some of them my grandfather had a bagpipe made of a goat’s bladder he would play it in the old dirt square and we would dance we would sing the old songs now our children sing American songs and leave our village as soon as they can they want the new American music the clubs even the drugs
I heard the machines paving our village our customs our music our laughter turning them to concrete
but I am still here people still come to me the living and the dead visit me the old ones will never forget sleeping on the roofs of our small houses in the summer heat catching the breeze eating almonds from the tree watching the chickens walk along the streets free as we once were coming home to eat children running through the streets up and down the hills always safe
the day they paved the agora people gathered in excitement children pointed to the men in hard hats and to their big machines from a dirt courtyard we could hear old folksongs played on a record player Kyrios Angeletakis came home from milking his goats up the mountain stopped to stare carefully carried the warm milk around the vehicles toward his house where his wife and children were waiting the widow Psihoyiou sang at her window a song about a man drowned at sea a baby was crying down the road the rooster crowed over and over again for a dawn that would never come
the door to the taverna was blocked by the paving men climbed into the back window to sit inside and drink ouzo old Barba Yiannis needed someone to lift him up and someone else to drag him inside he limped to the chair and swallowed his first ouzo in one thirsty gulp I did not see this but Lefteris told me when he came to my bed that night Lefteris had seen it all the paving the drinking the laughter the old men in the taverna hiding their fear in glasses of ouzo the paving so ugly and white and hard they even paved the entrance to the priest’s outhouse the Pater worries about urine dripped on concrete smelling not absorbed into the earth he tells his wife she must wash the concrete every day everyone must wipe with strips of newspaper before leaving the outhouse
cats gathered to watch the men working birds flew overhead seeing their breakfast worms disappear under hardness children could not wait wanted to make their marks with hand or foot in the soft surface they were shooed away by the men in the hats a lonely dog looked for a cool spot to lie down in the heat
a temporary fence was erected around the cemented areas Kyria Dimopoulou’s lamb broke through and became trapped in gluey substance was rescued by laughing neighbours who washed the bleating animal as clean as was possible the frightened lamb went running to find its mother tied behind the Dimopoulos house
the large cyprus tree that gave shade to the agora was cut down before the paving the concrete will burn our bare feet the old men will sit in the harsh sun playing tavli as long as they can before going home for their afternoon naps
the village oven is gone the fourno people have their own stoves now make their bread at home the taste is not the same my day at the fourno was thursday a little girl followed me home one day asked me for a piece of the newly baked bread I gave it to her gladly
a dirt path still leads to my house hidden behind a jumble of others people who come to me will leave their prints in the dirt their names their memories their secrets held by the dirt absorbed into and under our village lasting
they will bury me someday in dirt they will try to harden my bones mix them with chemicals make everyone think I was a myth a poem I am both myth and poem they are true things visions coming from the spirit inside the earth the body they cannot pave my body my softness does not harden into something white something that repels moisture I will be here
they have paved my village and the roads leading to my village they have paved many of the streets but some they have missed dirt paths still wind their ways into our soft hearts
and I am still here
The Secret Temple
ON A GREEK island, just behind this village, along a path through woods and over rocks, is a small chapel — a new one, brightly whitewashed, standing proudly on this ancient ground as if claiming its victory over the past. The Bishop ordered the villagers to build it in this spot — so they did.
Beside the chapel, lying on its side, is an ancient column, its capital curving in the Ionic style. Yorgos points to it in embarrassment. We found that when we were digging to build the chapel, he says. We had to build the chapel here, the Bishop said so. But if we report our find, we will be put in jail.
I look in awe at the column but I do not touch it or even photograph it. I, too, fear that he will go to jail— or the villagers will be fined, and they have little money.
The Bishop told you to build the church. Shouldn’t he go to jail?
Ah, bishops and priests —they never go to jail. Just us.
Near the church, and the column, is an ancient platanos, or plane tree. Yorgos points out that the thick trunk is the width of five men. I take photographs of the tree and the chapel, but not of the column.
We continue our walk along the path. I stumble over the rocks that almost block our route, picking my way slowly. We pass behind a row of gardens, many of them no longer cultivated, and pastures where people keep their sheep and donkeys, though only a few animals bleat and bray as we pass. Until this year Yorgos’ garden was almost magical in the size and taste of its fruit and vegetables. Now he is ill and cannot garden; his land is o
vergrown, wild.
Yorgos picks a fig from one of the many fig trees along the way, opens it, and offers it to me. The sweet fruit drips down my chin. He tells us that these figs will rot on the trees, for they cannot afford to pick them. Prices on the market are too low to make it worthwhile.
We come back into the village near one of the three tavernas and stop for an ouzo. The owner brings us lamb chops, horiatiki salad with large chunks of feta cheese on top, gigante beans, and fried potatoes. The village is peaceful; as the sun sets, we hear children laughing and singing as they run through these safe streets.
This is a village that has survived, that clings to its traditions just as it clings to the mountains surrounding it. Families still live here and milk their flocks of sheep in the early morning and early evening. There are signs, though, of change: houses left empty by families who have moved to cities or to other countries; houses collapsing because owners cannot pay to maintain them; modern buildings on what was once open ground for grazing goats and sheep.
There are still women who know how to avert the evil eye and how to make medicinal potions. That is changing, too. Years ago when I first came here, I was struggling with a cough I had had for months. I had grown very thin and weak. Women came to me in a dark room, dropped oil into water, looked at the result, and spoke mysterious words I did not understand. The next day my cough was gone.
Several years later, I came back. Again, I had a cough. I was confident that the women would cure me. But when I mentioned my cough to the woman who had previously healed me, she looked puzzled — as if she almost remembered something but couldn’t quite think what it was. She made no offer to help me, uttered no words of power. But, for a moment, she hesitated.
When we return to the house, Yorgos shows me an old book with information about ancient civilizations that existed on this island. The location in which this village sits is listed as a place that was occupied in those distant times.
He is filled with anxiety about his decision to keep the discovery secret. On the one hand, he and the other villagers who helped build the church were acting on the instructions of a Bishop. On the other hand, Greek law states that all discoveries of ancient artifacts must be reported. He thinks of the probability that old gods were worshipped where the chapel is now, of the importance to Greece, and to architects everywhere, of those signs of classical civilizations.
I am torn, as well: caught between my desire that the ruins be excavated, so that I, and everyone, can see what is hidden underground — and my fear that Yorgos and other villagers will be fined or imprisoned.
I imagine the possibilities:
Scenario 1: The discovery of the column is reported. Underneath the chapel is an ancient temple. Archaeologists have the chapel moved to a different location and excavate the site. Slowly they discover something beautiful and find relics from the ancient past that will explain much more of that civilization than we have known before. These archaeologists will need places to live and places to eat. The taverna owners will make money. The people will rent out rooms in their houses. They will be able to repair broken walls, renovate buildings, build new houses. Then tourists will come. A hotel will be built, along with new restaurants and clubs, all probably owned by people from Athens. Souvenir shops will open. Though the village will be fined, the money coming in from the archaeologists and tourists will make up for the money lost and will benefit the people. Though the peace and safety of this place will be destroyed, something magnificent will arise from beneath the ground, something smooth and cool to the touch, so old that it will make my fingers tingle.
Will they let us touch it, walk into it? Or will ropes surround it, keeping us back, making us admire it from a distance?
Years ago, there was no electricity: we used oil lamps in the house and when we went outside at night we walked slowly, holding hands, hoping not to trip on the cobblestones. We would spend the evening swinging on one large swing hanging from a tree — taking turns, with everyone singing old folk songs as the swing was pushed back and forth. Before us the smooth surface of the cliff rose up and turned into a dark ghost as night fell. If the village becomes famous — a place for scholars and tourists to visit — the silent darkness, the soft creaking of a swing, young voices singing those haunting traditional melodies, will belong to the past.
Scenario 2: The discovery is reported. The villagers are fined but there is no money for excavations for years to come. The village will go on in its peaceful state, as it always has. But times are changing. People will move away. Children will grow up and leave. There is, after all, no high school here, only a small village school for young children. Already there is a scarcity of donkeys. A vegetable truck comes once a week with fresh produce, since fruits and vegetables are no longer grown here. Most of the people with gardens and livestock are old, their children gone to Germany or Canada or America or Australia, visiting once a year, if that. These people can no longer spend hours doing physical work. Already the land is becoming neglected. Reporting the find will not change anything.
Scenario 3: The villagers do not alert the authorities. The column remains, perhaps to be discovered someday by a traveller who takes a photograph and sends it to a friend. The friend puts it on his website. Eventually, someone notices the photograph and seeks out the location of this column. The authorities arrive with a team of archaeologists. No one is fined since no one knows any longer who built the chapel, who found the column, who kept its existence silent.
Scenario 4: The column is never reported; the ancient temple is never discovered. An entire city lies underground, sleeping quietly.
For now, the column sits there beside the chapel. I wonder what god was worshipped here. I wonder if Sappho climbed to this village, to this temple, to worship. I long to see that glorious temple hidden underneath the chapel, buried below layers of earth.
I wish I had touched the fluted column. I wish I had taken one secret photograph.
I will tell no one.
One Hundred Eyes
EATING GRASS. I am eating grass. I don’t know why. I remember only his whispering to me, that buzzing in my ear. I chew slowly. My jaw circles around the tough blades. They slip down into my stomach. Why am I so heavy? I try to lift my arms. I lift up one — not an arm, it is a leg, I see a hoof, not the lovely nails my sister painted for me yesterday. Yesterday? Was it all a dream? Am I dreaming now? I still hear the whispering, telling me I am beautiful — and luscious.
This grass is delicious and green. I try to stand up but cannot. I am on all fours, I have four legs, I lie down, legs underneath me, I look at my body. I am not wearing clothing. My skin is rough but white. I am so thirsty. I get up slowly — so difficult — move clumsily to the water. This is the same spring where I always sit, bathe, cool my feet. Looking at myself in the water, I see not a young girl with long golden hair, but some sort of animal. I look more closely. It is a cow. I look behind me, but only I am here. I shake my head from side to side, and the cow shakes its head, too. I try to protest, to cry for help. All that comes out is a low mmmmmmoooo.
Zeus whispered. I fled. I knew that his wife would be watching. I hoped she would protect me. I am innocent, love to bathe in the fountain, dance under waterfalls, do not want old men to watch or touch me. No one should touch me, for my father is Inachus, King of Argos. He is a river-god, and my mother is a nymph. I am something between god and nymph. I am human.
But Zeus’s rough hand caressed my shoulder, reached down. I fled into the woods. I thought I could outrun him— but I forgot his magic, his power. He reached me, held me down on the ground.
Then we heard her, Hera, shouting. What are you doing, Zeus? Are you after a young virgin again? Clouds hid us, but they soon evaporated. How I wished I could fly.
Now here I am. Eating grass. Tied to a tree. A creature with one hundred eyes watching me. In the morning he lets me graze further away. I hear voices, familiar ones, my sisters, how I miss them, I should be with them. I was wi
th them yesterday — or a few days ago — I don’t know how long ago it was. We were sitting in the shade of a huge plane tree discussing our future plans. I wanted to travel all over the world, to get an education, to move to the city. I did not want to get married yet. My sisters laughed at me. “You’ll never get away with it,” they said. “You may be Father’s favourite but he already has a man picked out for you.” Then the sky grew dark, and I could no longer see my sisters. Something, someone, whispered, chased me, snatched me away.
How I miss my sisters. I hear them calling me. Io. Io. They run to a man, my father, he is weeping. My daughter, my daughter, she must be dead. She should have come home last night. What has happened to her? I move closer to him, to my sisters. The youngest one reaches out to me, pets my back with her soft hand. Hello, little heifer. You are beautiful. She looks into my eyes.
Her eyes are like Io’s, Father, and look, she seems so sad.
There is rustling in the woods and the bush behind me begins to sway. Come, heifer. The large creature with many eyes is coming for me. My father and sisters start to run away, but I call them. Mmmmmmooo. They look back. With my hoof, I make marks on the dirt path — straight line and circle: IO.
My youngest sister looks down. Father, she cries. Come see. Come all of you. It is Io.
They form a circle around me, look down at my name. My father cries even harder. My lovely daughter. I had a husband all picked out for you. Now you must marry some rough-skinned bull. They are crying for me, and I am crying inside. They try to protect me from Argus but he is howling as he tramples down the grass coming for me. He throws a halter around my neck and leads me off. I try to resist but he is too strong.
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