The Collectors Book Two: Full Circle (The Collectors Series 2)

by Sewell, Ron

  Takis stretched his arms in the air and yawned.

  Antonis grinned; the light of his past shone from his eyes. “I have blankets and the girl can use my bed. Washing will be in cold water. Won’t do you any harm.” He indicated a wood-fired stone oven. “My stove is heating and I’ll wake you when the meal is ready.”

  Bear licked his lips. “Food! What are you cooking?”

  Takis interpreted. “A traditional dish, kleftico. Goat cooked with potatoes and herbs in its own juices.”

  “How long before it’s ready, Takis?”

  “Five hours give or take half an hour.”

  “Don’t forget to call me. My stomach’s shrunk two inches.”

  Antonis looked at Maria and pointed to the bed. “Go and sleep, girl, before you drop. Undress under the covers and I’ll dry your clothing by the fire.”

  * * *

  Not surprisingly, everyone became aware of their exhaustion. Maria collapsed onto the bed, slid beneath the rough wool blanket and removed her clothes, and holding the coarse cloth to her breast she hastily dumped them on the floor. Antonis wandered over, picked them up and smiled.

  “If my bra and panties turn you on, you need to go into Limassol on a Saturday night.”

  He chuckled. “Girl, I may be old but I’ve no need to give good money to those women. Many who wear black are grateful for my company on a winter’s night. Now rest.”

  She smiled, wrapped the blanket around her and let sleep overtake her.

  The men, relieved to be alive, settled and rested. Petros grinned as Bear snored. He sat back with a sigh, his whole body aching more than he could ever remember, then closed his eyes and drifted into a restless sleep.

  Antonis sat in his chair and puffed his pipe while those around him slept. He thought of the old days when friends and colleagues filled his home. Young men and girls had given their lives – for what? A divided island whose people were scattered throughout the world. At peace, he dozed as the meal simmered.

  * * *

  The clanging of metal against metal woke Petros and his team. The aroma of cooked meat filled the cavern, tormenting their taste buds.

  “Ella, eat.”

  A solid pine table stretched from one end of a recess to the other. On it six metal plates, full of steaming food waited. Everybody hurried to the table, sat on the log benches and ate heartily, the goat meat so tender it fell off the bones. Two bottles of rough red wine filled pewter tankards.

  “Yah mas,” roared Takis.

  “Yah mas,” shouted everyone in unison.

  Petros glanced at his watch. “Time for us to finish our journey.”

  Kyriacos interrupted. “What do we owe you, Antonis, for saving our lives?”

  “Nothing, but can I set my old eyes on the icons? God sent me to find lost goats and I found lost sheep.”

  Maria grabbed Petros’s hand. “Show him the icons. He believes in our God.”

  Petros beckoned to Takis. Together they removed the crude wrappings and in the half-light placed them in a row alongside each other.

  Antonis wandered over to the first icon, gave the sign of the cross and dropped to his knees. In what became an endless ceremony he repeated the same devotion forty times.

  “Thank you,” he said. “They are worth much money. Wrap them well and may God go with you.”

  Petros and Bear replaced the coverings.

  “Time to leave,” said Petros.

  Maria hugged and kissed Antonis.

  “This way, and stay close.” The old man pointed. “These mountains are a maze of passages. In the rainy season, most fill with fast-flowing water which disappears into crevasses and vast underground caverns.”

  They followed him through a labyrinth of tunnels and caverns of varying dimensions. Ice-cold water dripped from the high ceilings, soaking them. With a long slog through a narrow tunnel they came to a heavy canvas curtain. Antonis pulled it aside to open a wooden door built into the rock wall. They entered the kitchen of a small croft-like dwelling. It consisted of one large room with tiny windows.

  “My winter home; it’s easier to keep warm when the snows come.” He strode to the main door and opened it. Petros followed him onto a wide terrace carved out of the hillside. Low, hand-built natural stone walls bordered the perimeter. “Over there,” he pointed, “in the distance you can see the lights of Kykkos monastery. It’s the largest in Cyprus. They chose its position perfectly for isolation and meditation. Unfortunately, these days tourists by the coach load arrive every hour or so. By the way, they have a museum full of religious artefacts collected by the monks. They will relieve you of your burdens and organise transport.”

  Maria, followed by Bear, Takis and Kyriacos, walked out of the cottage, stood side by side and stared at the twinkling lights in the distance. Not a breath of wind disturbed the leaves. A dark blue sky lit by the gibbous moon created a peaceful ambiance. For the briefest of moments, everything in the world gave the impression of being wonderful.

  The men shook Antonis’s hand and thanked him once again.

  Petros turned and beckoned. “Come on, let’s finish the job.”

  In a line, they followed the narrow track. When Petros glanced back, Antonis was gone and the small croft-like building blended into the hillside.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Petros led his weary team towards the monastery. The pine trees came to an end and they walked through well-tended vineyards.

  Bear and the brothers scrambled over a hand-built rock wall followed by Petros, who stopped to help Maria. They continued, until with a sigh they trudged wearily onto a tarmac road.

  “The monastery’s approximately four kilometres,” said Petros. “I’m off for a jimmy riddle.”

  “A what?” asked Maria.

  Bear turned to face her. “Interesting you should ask. Men stand and ladies sit, when they do it.”

  She shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket. “So he’s going for a pee. Why didn’t he say so?”

  Everyone laughed. In single file, they approached the monastery. Petros reached the wooden entrance door first. His eyes searched for a bell or a knocker. From the ground, he lifted a large stone and banged hard on the dark wood. In the silence, the sound echoed around them.

  A tiny slot opened. In village Cypriot a man’s voice said, “Who is there?”

  “Friends,” said Kyriacos. “We have items of value for the Archbishop.”

  “Come back tomorrow morning,” said the voice.

  Takis thumped the door. “Priest, let us in or I’ll smash it open.”

  “Contact Bishop Protopapas. He will vouch for us,” said Maria.

  Three bolts scraped across metal, followed by the creak of well-worn hinges as the heavy door swung open. A black-robed monk stood before them. He sniffed the air, then with a withered hand that shook, he lifted a lantern.

  From his white face with sunken cheeks, two sparkling eyes peered at them. “You dress as soldiers, except for the woman, and you smell as if you’ve slept with pigs. Go away and come back at a decent hour.”

  “We mean no harm,” said Maria. “We’ve recovered many icons; one in particular is the Icon of Miracles, lost to the church when the Turks invaded.”

  The man shivered. “Let me look.”

  Petros removed the icons from his back and placed them with reverence against the wall. “We do not lie.”

  The monk fell to the ground, lay prostrate, and muttered a prayer.

  “Come.” Takis hoisted the monk by the scruff of his habit. “We can’t stand out here for the rest of the night.”

  The man shook himself free and let them pass into the main courtyard, pausing for a moment to bolt the door. He led them to a large room.

  “Please wait here. I will be back in a few minutes.”

  In the light of ornate paraffin lamps, they stared at each other, their combat uniforms caked in mud, hair matted and faces covered in dirt.

  The monk returned with the archbi
shop; a fat man with a round chubby face, his arrival in his night robes theatrical. He beckoned them to follow with the icons and led them through a small door and descended a stone stairway into a crypt. The priest lit lamps along the passage. The archbishop stopped and opened a door and they followed him into a room containing hundreds of icons, woodcarvings, vestments, bound manuscripts, and religious artefacts.

  “Aladdin’s cave,” said Petros.

  “Please, what have you brought us?” said the archbishop in perfect English.

  The four men placed their bundles on a table. The monk returned with a large leather-bound ledger.

  The archbishop examined the icons individually, and when satisfied handed them over to the monk who recorded each one in the ledger.

  “Thirty-six intact and more or less perfect icons from the Church of St Paul and Barnabas. These are a living testament to our faith.” The archbishop gave the sign of the cross and muttered a prayer before continuing. “This is proof the ravages of time and war can be defeated by faith.”

  Maria turned towards Petros. His face was covered in stubble, the exhaustion in his eyes pronounced.

  Petros smiled and leaned against the edge of the table; every muscle in his body ached. For a mili-second he tumbled into a whirlpool of darkness.

  Takis noticed the movement, charged and caught Petros before he hit the floor.

  Maria rushed across and checked his pulse. “What’s wrong with him? His heart is racing and his skin feels on fire.”

  “I don’t know, sis.”

  The archbishop pointed to Takis, “Carry your friend and we will attend to his needs in the infirmary. One of our brothers has a medical degree.”

  Maria went to follow. “Young woman, let our specialist examine him in private. A brother will let you know if you are needed.”

  “Archbishop, I’m his wife.”

  “That may be so. Someone will come and get you later. What you require is a bath and sleep.”

  He turned to the others. “Forgive me. Beds will be prepared for you and hot water for bathing.”

  * * *

  Maria glanced at the new day out of her cell window. The sky was cloudless and the morning sun cast shadows across the courtyard. Having woken from a fitful sleep, she thought of her husband. She splashed ice-cold water from a stone sink onto her face, dried herself then examined a clean black cotton dress supplied by the monks. The outfit hung like a loose potato sack over her trim frame. She pulled her hair off her face and tied it in a knot. From the curtains she removed a cord and wound it around her waist. The dry mud on her trainers made undoing the laces impossible. With difficulty, she pulled them on. These were all that remained of the clothes in which she had arrived. When she was ready she asked directions and found her way to the sick room.

  Petros lay in the small bed wondering how long he had been there. On seeing Maria he sat up. She rushed and hugged him, forcing the air out of his lungs.

  “How are you?”

  He rubbed his chin. “Could do with a shave.”

  At that moment a monk entered and Maria slid off the bed.

  He took a thermometer from a cupboard and shoved it into Petros’s mouth.

  “Is he well enough to travel?” said Maria.

  Removing the thermometer the monk studied it. “By car, yes.”

  “Where are my clothes?” said Petros.

  “The Archbishop ordered them burnt because they were unfit to be worn.” He pointed. “You will find suitable clothing in that cupboard. Young woman, I ask you to leave while this man dresses.”

  Maria blushed. “I am his wife.”

  He gave her a penetrating stare.

  “Okay, as you wish, I’ll leave. Have you any idea why my husband collapsed?”

  “Exhaustion primarily, and a fever,” said the monk. “It appeared malarial but has passed.”

  “I need to contact my uncle. Is there a telephone I can use?”

  “There’s a payphone near the entrance you came in this morning. Here are a few coins. It should be enough. The clothes are from our charity shop. The Archbishop has ordered that you may have them at no cost.”

  Petros lay in the huge, cast-iron bath with the hot water covering him. The ache in his muscles eased with the heat. He stared around the sparse room; a bath, a sink and one wooden chair. No fineries like carpets or heating. The water cooled. He shivered, got out, dried himself and dressed in the clothes provided. The rough fabric of the cords and the heavy cotton shirt made his skin itch, but at least they were fresh and clean.

  A young monk gathered the visitors together and took them to a private room. He pointed to a wooden table and said in Greek, “Your breakfast,” and promptly scurried away.

  Bread, cheese, a whole ham, melon, and local yogurt and honey, awaited them. From a large white-enamelled pot, the aroma of fresh coffee filled the room.

  “These monks eat well,” said Bear, carving a chunk of bread.

  “In truth they don’t,” said Maria.

  “Thanks a bunch, that makes me feel good,” said Bear.

  “Bear, eat. We are honoured guests. Just don’t make a pig of yourself”

  They ate their fill, leaving much untouched.

  * * *

  Photis Hadjipetrou arrived when the midday bells chimed the hour. Petros and his team were waiting with the archbishop and several monks. With no bags or trappings, they gave their thanks and said goodbye.

  The monks disappeared and Photis turned to Petros.

  “When George and Andreas arrived back without you we feared the worst but what could we do?”

  “Photis, you did the right thing, nothing. Anyway, if the Turks had caught us do you think they would have admitted it? No chance.” He laughed.

  “Please turn the truck round, go along the road for roughly four kilometres and when you see a bent and twisted pine tree, stop.”

  Photis started to say something but shrugged, completed the worst u-turn in history, gunned the engine and drove up the road. At the gnarled pine he stopped.

  Petros alighted from the truck and strolled through the pines. He studied the terrain until he found the huge, overhanging sandstone outcrop. He walked around the rock keeping his eyes to the ground. Five stones in a row pointed the way. He removed two sizeable rocks revealing a large, dry, hollow space. With his right arm at full stretch, he removed the four wrapped icons. Carrying his package, and at a fast pace, he returned to the truck.

  Bear opened the door and smiled. “Sometimes, PK, you’re too devious for me. I didn’t notice when you hid those.”

  “Going for a pee in the dark can be a lengthy procedure, especially when you don’t know where you are.”

  “Don’t you trust anybody?” asked Maria.

  “Yes, lots of people,” said Petros. “But I always know who not to trust. In this game it pays dividends.”

  “So you don’t trust me?” she said.

  “I didn’t say that. But sometimes it’s better not to know. That way you don’t give the game away. Okay, so you’re annoyed but do you think the Archbishop would have handed over four icons if I’d asked? I don’t think so.”

  “Get in,” shouted Photis. “There’s a chill wind blowing off the mountains and I want to go home.”

  Petros clambered in, passing the package to Maria. “They’re ours.”

  “That’s not fair. The Archbishop thinks he has them all.”

  “Nothing’s fair in this world. If you expect it to be, you’re a fool.”

  He could see her confusion. Her hands trembled and her eyes blazed.

  She placed the icons in front of her on the floor of the cab. “Sorry, I’m a spoilt brat.”

  Petros squeezed her hand but remained quiet for the rest of the journey.

  * * *

  With a squeal of brakes, Photis came to a halt outside his house. In seconds everyone from inside ran out and together asked a million questions.

  “I’m tired,” said Petros. “A hot cup of
coffee would be welcome.”

  “Where’s my baby?” said Maria. Elini handed Alysa to her mother.

  Photis grabbed Petros and dragged him into the house. “Sit and tell us what happened. You’re mama was grief-stricken when Andreas and George returned without you. Thank God for Jack. He managed to calm her.”

  “Takis,” said Petros, “you tell them.”

  Everyone listened to Takis, while Maria made coffee laced with a good measure of Cyprus Brandy.

  Petros sat between Maria and his mother, smiling often at Takis’s highly-crafted storyline.

  “I’m going to write a book,” said Takis. “But then, who would believe me?”

  “No one,” said Petros. “Tomorrow, I must tell Bishop Protopapas where his precious icons are and decide what to do with the four I have.”

  The room went quiet.

  “Ella, ella,” said Elini. “It’s time to eat and celebrate.” Everyone got drunk and the party finished late.

  Maria leaned heavily against Petros when they climbed the stairs and fully clothed tumbled onto the bed.

  Petros woke and noted the time from the bedside clock; it was well past two in the morning. Maria breathed lightly, murmured something, and rolled over, her arms searching.

  Petros’s head ached and his mouth tasted of stale brandy as he made his way quietly to the bathroom. He tip-toed along the passage and noticed a light on downstairs. He began to descend but stopped.

  “We can’t have them in the house,” said Elini, “it’ll bring bad luck.”

  “But they are not ours,” said Photis. “We have no right.”

  Petros jumped when Maria sat beside him. “What are they discussing?”

  “Most unusual, Aunt Elini and Uncle Photis are arguing.”

  “Leave them be and come back to bed.”

  He straightened up and silently descended the stairs. Maria followed.

  Other voices joined the heated discussion.

  Petros eased the kitchen door open. He turned to Maria and placed a finger on his lips.