“If it were not for you, Sophia, I would have never left Patrida. I would have never learned about myself or been able to see things differently. I would not be standing here right now. You helped me understand that freedom can only begin in here,” Thura said, pointing to her chest.
“Yes,” Sophia said, “but this freedom is not for you alone, Thura.”
“What does that mean? Everyone here is free,” Thura asked.
“But Patrida is not,” Sophia responded. “What about the young girls and young women who are enslaved through their servanthood and forced marriages? What about those walking the Monon each day imprisoned by the religious and political systems in Patrida? What about everyone pushed to the margins of the town and treated as lower-class citizens? How will these heavy chains of Patrida ever be broken if you only sit in your room and light candles from above, Thura?”
The young woman looked down at the ground.
“Thura, look at me,” Sophia said, lifting the young woman’s chin with her hand. “What about your mother? What about your brother? What about your uncle? Do not forget everything you have learned. No one is ever too far gone, Thura. No one. I never gave up on your father. I walked with him patiently as he continued his journey. Look how far he has traveled, Thura. You have the same opportunity with those in Patrida.”
CHAPTER 20
Two teenage girls with dark, flowing hair began to place torches in a circle in Salome’s welcoming soil. Each flame danced and illuminated the front of a single corresponding hut while attempting to hold on to dusk and push back the night. Excitement and anticipation had been building as the town gathered around their respective tables for the evening’s festivities.
As Ochi and Edo returned, walking into the circle of huts, everyone began to cheer immediately. Knowing the applause was for Ochi, Edo stopped and began to clap and whistle himself. The people cheered even louder as Ochi stood at his table next to Thura, waiting for the applause to subside.
Although the smallest children only knew Sophia through stories, and Ochi only as Sophia’s son, they ran up to him at his table with giggles and delight. They asked if he would sit with them at their table during the meal. With a smile crossing his face, Ochi told them regretfully that he had already committed to sitting with his family.
“Such sweet kids,” Ochi said. “They don’t know me, yet they invite me to their table. You should be very proud of them.”
“We are,” said Tora with a smile, turning to look at the children sitting at the smaller table. “Since first arriving in Salome, we’ve had seventeen children born here. Of course, Odigo was the first, as I was early in my pregnancy then. But these children only know of this place. They know nothing of Patrida.”
“I hope one day they will know more of this island, even a transformed Patrida,” Ochi replied. “Not the way it is now, but maybe the way it will be one day. At least, that is my hope for all of our children. What you have here is special. If the people of Patrida could experience it, they would understand.”
“Maybe one day, brother,” Edo said. “We may not live to see it in our lifetime, but maybe our children will.”
“Thura, have you seen the other guest of honor?” Ochi asked.
“I have not,” Thura replied. “I gave her a hug earlier, and we chatted for a few minutes, but then I got in line to get my food.”
“She probably had somewhere she needed to be,” added Odigo with a laugh. “That seems to be her thing.”
Ochi and Thura laughed as the seat in between them remained empty.
“She was with Odigo and me one morning when she abruptly left us without any explanation,” Thura explained to Edo and Tora, who laughed at Sophia’s quirkiness.
“That’s when she found me wandering through the forest,” Ochi said. “Anyway, I’m sure she will be here shortly. Edo and Tora, what I’ve tasted of the food so far is fantastic. Compliments to the hands that prepared it. And Edo, the wine is really something special, if I haven’t told you already.”
“Thank you, brother,” Edo replied. “I’m honored to be able to share a cup with you and your daughter in celebration of your return. What you’re drinking now has been aged longer than the cup you had at the vineyard. I saved the best for last.”
“Speaking of the vineyard,” Tora said. “What did you think about Edo’s little project, Ochi?”
“Well first, that view,” he responded. “Wow. It was breathtaking. If we have time tomorrow, Thura, I will have to take you there if you haven’t already seen it. But to answer your question, the vineyard was perfect in so many ways. You can tell it’s a real labor of love for my brother. Not just in working the vine but also his wisdom in making the wine. The way he understands what he’s doing really opened my eyes.”
“How so, Ochi?” Tora asked.
“Well, Edo shared a beautiful metaphor with me about the wine- making process,” Ochi began.
“It was far from perfect,” Edo added.
“No, no. You’re being modest. It was excellent,” Ochi countered. “At least I understood exactly what you meant by it.”
“Well we are dying to hear what it is,” Thura announced, looking over to Odigo with wide eyes, hoping to move the story along.
“No, it’s just that I’ve been holding on to a lot of stuff for a long time,” Ochi said. “Everything with my mom and dad and you guys. And it has consumed me.”
While the other tables buzzed with life and laughter and conversation in the village’s low light, everyone at Ochi’s table grew quiet. But their silence did not convey awkwardness in response to his honesty. Instead, it was an acknowledgment that they each understood how far he had traveled to be with them in Salome.
“Death, even death caused by my own hands, does not have to be the end of the story,” Ochi said, as everyone at his table appeared to lean in more. “That’s what he taught me. I could let my guilt and shame continue to add misery upon misery in my life and the lives of others. Edo could let those crushed grapes rot in the vat if he wanted to, but it would all be in vain.
He showed me that his patient work transforms crushed grapes into a choice wine that blesses people. His perspective made me rethink everything. How do I not make my father’s death something that happened in vain, but something that can ultimately bless others? That’s the question I’ve been asking myself since our conversation in the vineyard.”
“What do you think that means for you now, Ochi?” Tora asked with tears filling the corners of her eyes.
“I want to live as he did,” Ochi said, staring intently at the water flowing from the spring and into the labyrinth. “I not only want to experience his peace, but I also want to use my life as a blessing for others as he did. I may have poured out his blood in death, but I promise you this, I will one day raise a cup in his honor to bless this community and this entire island when we all, at last, drink it together.”
Reaching over the space where Sophia should have been sitting, Thura grabbed her father’s hand and squeezed it. While looking at his hand, she remembered her conversation in the pines with Sophia about the resin-stained fingers. It is not what we see, but how we see it, she thought.
More than ever, Thura realized her father had never been permanently stained. He was not beyond changing. Her grandmother was right. Despite not always seeing, or trusting, that there could be something below the surface working for the healing and restoration of a person, Thura could finally see what she could not see before in her father. He was a man who had been desperately searching. As she thought about the letter she had written to him and how she had accused him of being the central problem of Patrida and someone who would never change, Thura leaned over and whispered in her father’s ear.
“I owe you an apology first,” Thura said. “Why’s that, Thura?” Ochi responded.
“I have been prideful and arrogant. I not only ran from Patrida because I believed no one there would ever get it, but I also abandoned you as someone I believe
d was irredeemable. All I could see was your dark stains. I refused to believe there was anything good in you. I could never have imagined you were searching and struggling the whole time. I am sorry for giving up on you.”
Ochi squeezed his daughter’s hand.
“Thank you, Thura,” he said. “I’m sorry for having never thought about your feelings or what you were going through, either. I could only see the system we were in. It blinded me. I honestly thought I was working for the good of everyone. While Prodido said we were making Patrida a holy community, we had been creating a prison for all of us. But I couldn’t see it at the time. Was it your grandmother who first opened your eyes to it?”
“It was,” Thura said. “So many times over the years, she guided me in her wisdom. She never once tried to force me into anything. She knew one day I would see it on my own, and I eventually did. But on my way here, Odigo helped me see things from an entirely different perspective as well.”
Thura and Ochi looked over at the young man, who was standing at the back table filling his plate with seconds and laughed simultaneously at him.
“But seriously,” Thura continued, “Odigo took me to a place here on the island that made me rethink everything. Everything I have ever known. It was a place that made me change how I see everyone on the island. I see them in an entirely different light now. I see myself in an entirely different light now.”
“What is this place called, Thura?” Ochi asked. “I would like to go there myself.”
“He called it the waters of Alethes,” Thura responded. “It is the most powerful and spiritual imaginable. I was going to take you there later, but I think we need to go now before the celebration begins.”
As rapidly as they set the tables, the people of Salome began to move them in preparation for the night’s festivities. As Ochi and Thura stood from their seats, a man and a woman walked out of their hut, carrying a goblet drum and tamburello. No sooner than they began to play, the people started to clap in rhythm and sing.
Ochi followed Thura’s footsteps past the right side of the labyrinth, exiting the circle of homes. The drums’ deep, hypnotic resonance in the distance beneath the powerful cadence of voices singing and chanting accompanied each step the daughter and father took away from the village. The flame from Thura’s torch twirled in slow motion, appearing as two dancers moving as one.
Step by step, Ochi placed his feet where Thura’s had already traveled. As the two stopped before a steep, rocky mound, the drums and chanting faded, leaving them with only the crackling of Thura’s torch. The moment, however, felt no less hypnotic for Ochi.
“The path goes up a bit before we drop back down into the cave,” Thura said.
“Okay,” Ochi said. “Sorry for being so quiet on the way here. I have your grandmother on my mind.”
“I do, too,” Thura said. “But I am sure she is fine.”
“You’re right,” Ochi said. “She will probably be waiting for us when we return.”
Ochi had not noticed until Thura began up the hill that there were steps carved into the stone as if this was a place the people of Salome regularly visited. In his daughter’s light, he saw what looked like etchings on each step. But he could not see it enough to read it.
Thura remained silently meditative as they climbed, which kept Ochi from asking any questions. She had not prepared him for this part of the journey, and he was not clear on her expectations. So Ochi continued to quietly follow his daughter’s lead.
From below, Thura and Ochi could vaguely see the top steps and a darkened opening somewhat smaller than the average height of a person. Thura climbed the last few steps and turned with her torch so her father could see his remaining steps. Joining her at the top, Ochi turned and looked down at the stairs.
“I’m good with distance, but climbing straight up always gets me,” Ochi laughed, attempting to catch his breath. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”
“Wait until we go inside. It will really take your breath away,” Thura said as she turned and ducked into the opening.
As Ochi followed Thura and crouched into the opening himself, he noticed perfectly carved steps into the milky, bronze rock. The stairs did not go straight down but had a slight curve leading to a flat embankment hugging opaquely placid waters. Ochi stepped down onto the embankment, set down his satchel, and walked slowly to the edge, while Thura used her torch to light the other torches attached to the steep walls. Gazing at the light reflecting on the waters, Ochi stood silently.
“These are the waters of Alethes,” Thura said, walking up from behind and joining her father. “The water source is a freshwater aquifer.”
Ochi did not immediately respond, as he contemplated exactly what Thura’s words meant.
“For the entire island or just for this village?” Ochi finally asked.
“For the entire island,” Thura responded.
“The same source for both springs in Patrida and Salome,” Ochi whispered under his breath, staring deeply at the body of water without saying another word.
“Did Odigo happen to tell you what the name is supposed to mean?” Ochi asked.
“He said Alethes means undeniable reality or a truth that cannot be hidden,” Thura said.
Ochi got down on his knees in front of the still water and began to shake his head without breaking his gaze.
“The same source gives life to everyone on the island,” Ochi said, continuing to shake his head in astonishment. “It breaks through for each of us to drink. It sustains every one of us. We didn’t get it, Thura. How have we missed this? How have I missed this?”
“I thought the same thing when Odigo first brought me here,” Thura said. “I had the same reaction as you. We tried so hard to contain it and decorate it. We even manipulated and coerced people by misunderstanding it.”
“We fought over it!” Ochi raised his voice. “It divided us against each other and then against Salome! It’s only for our tribe, we said! We only saw our little stream and tried to control who could drink from it, while an infinite abundance remained hidden the entire time. Yet, we couldn’t see it. We didn’t want to see it.”
Ochi cupped his hand and dipped it below the surface of the water.
“While we only thought the righteous were worthy of the sacred waters at the sacrarium,” he continued, “the people we called infidels and heretics were drinking water from the same source the entire time.”
“It makes me think about Sophia’s words all the more,” Thura said. “She taught me that our first impulse is to always judge and label things as bad and good. But when we spend so much time judging and labeling everything, we can miss seeing what truly lies beneath the surface. She had to know.”
Ochi closed his eyes and silently meditated on Sophia’s words.
“I grew up hearing everyone in Patrida talk about how freedom is not free,” Thura continued after her father opened his eyes. “But Sophia taught me that freedom is always free and the only thing that can take it away is our fear.”
Thura approached her father and knelt next to him.
“We were always afraid someone was going to take it away,” she whispered, “but we were mistaken. Sophia said divine love gives us freedom and drives out fear no matter who we face or what situation we find ourselves in. That was what finally opened my eyes.”
“It’s continuing to open my eyes as well, Thura,” Ochi whispered back. “I used to believe peace was something that came from the outside. And if I could get rid of those who threatened that peace, we would experience it. But it never came. All those years, and I never felt peace inside. I was always discontent, and you saw that in me.”
Thura put her arm around her father.
“But in the last few days, your grandmother began to open my eyes and soften my hardened heart. She told me peace never comes through strength, Thura. That was another lie we believed. She said that peace flows from the divine love that’s within each of us. But in my case, years of guilt and
shame buried that divine love.”
Ochi looked down at the glassy, placid surface of the water and saw only his reflection dimly illuminated.
“Do you remember the painting in the council room of the older man in the boat with the young girl, Thura?” Ochi asked.
“Of course,” Thura said. “I was always mesmerized by it when I would set up for the council meetings.”
“It’s a painting of you and your grandfather. He painted it when you weren’t quite three years old,” Ochi said.
“I do not remember him, nor did I ever remember Sophia being my grandmother,” Thura replied.
“You wouldn’t,” Ochi said. “You were too young to remember. And after he died, his house was off-limits. But I eventually went into his house and got the painting and put it in the council room. Maybe it was my guilt that made me get it. But after I hung it up, I would occasionally catch myself staring at it. I tried to imagine it was me in the boat. I would look into the man’s eyes and see a peaceful contentment. I wanted the same thing for myself. But even as I tried to pretend I was the one sitting in the boat, I never had what he had. My eyes were always set to the horizon where I believed I would find peace.”
Staring even more deeply into the water, Ochi saw what appeared to be the eyes of his father looking up at him.
“When I last looked down on my father as he was dying,” he continued. “I saw that same peaceful contentment in his eyes as he looked at me. He wasn’t angry, Thura. And that disarmed me. He just said, ‘My son, I love you and forgive you. Now find the peace you so desperately desire.’ I couldn’t understand it then. But I do now.”
A single tear from Ochi’s eye ran along the ridge of his nose and fell, rippling the water.
“I’m sorry for what I did to you, father,” Ochi whispered. “Although I took a different path with my pain and regret, I have finally found my peace.”
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