Behind the Ivory Veil
15 Facing the Devil
Sunday, 31 July 1955, Kastraki, Greece
“I AM HAPPY that you chose to join me on this little jaunt, Brother John,” said Brother El.
“I go by Wesley. No one has called me John in many years.”
“Precisely why I chose to name you Brother John. Should anyone hear your name spoken, they will not relate it to the American explorers in the village. Are you doing all right?”
Wesley glanced down at the sheer cliff beside him and the narrow stairs cut into it. For a moment, he considered that he might have been better being hauled up the side of the cliff in a basket. That caused a second shudder.
“Fine. Just catching my breath,” he said as he continued to climb. It was only another seventy steep steps up the cliff face before they ducked through a low door into the entry of the monastery.
“Welcome to the Monastery of Agios Nikolaos Anapafsas,” Brother El said. Wesley caught his breath rather quickly since he had been climbing to the City of the Gods daily for the past month. But the climb was not finished. Inside, stairs continued to wind through the rock with occasional landings that opened onto candlelit rooms with paintings on nearly every surface. They paused in Brother El’s personal quarters where Wesley was handed a black robe and small hat.
“I take it my expedition clothing is inappropriate for church,” Wesley chuckled as he slipped the robe on. “Am I supposed to keep the hat on throughout the service?”
“Brother John, do you know anything of the art of spying?” Brother El asked, incongruously.
“Ah… no.”
“I am putting you in disguise as a monk. Monks and priests always have their heads covered. We are also bearded, at least with a mustache. Thank you for keeping the beard that has grown while you were on the mountain. I assure you that your hair is short enough to pass. Aside from that, just follow me in the service. I have no role to play other than as a respondent.”
“So, I’ll know when to stand up and when to sit down?”
“I assure you that you will have no difficulty with that. There are no seats.”
Wesley followed Brother El into the katholicon, the church of the monastery as opposed to the several little chapels and shrines. The room, Wesley estimated, was about thirty feet square, elaborately painted on every surface, including the breathtaking dome above them. Enough candles were lit in the room to see by, but as Brother El had said, there were no pews to sit on. The twenty or so men in the room simply stood silently and waited. Wesley also saw one woman, dressed in black with her head covered in a heavy shawl.
A priest entered the room, assisted by an acolyte who waved a censer. Once the priest had said a blessing, one of the monks began a chant. When he finished, the gathering responded with ‘Amen’. This continued. Wesley surreptitiously looked around the room to see what kind of program or hymnal people were using, but discovered none. They simply knew the forms of worship. Finally, Wesley gave up understanding what was happening in the service and simply bowed his head in prayer and let the prayers and chants wash over him. In his peaceful and receptive mind, he felt the similarities with the symbols on the rostrum, and felt the images and icons melt into a uniform language and spirit. It was uplifting.
The service was long. While Wesley had acquired a reasonable grasp of written New Testament Greek, he missed a lot of the spoken modern language. Nonetheless, he emerged from the service refreshed. Brother El fixed them both a plate of food in the refectory and they carried their plates to the rooftop garden of the monastery. Wesley had noticed how quickly the tower had cleared after the service. They saw only one other monk in the kitchen.
“Where did everyone go?” he asked.
“Home, mostly. There are only four of us who live here. Our priest comes here from Trikala. Next week he will conduct services at Roussanou. They have a larger residency, but we attract more locals and tourists for Sunday service because we are not as high and inaccessible as the other monasteries.”
“What brought you to Greece and led you to this solitary life?” Wesley asked. Doc had told him when they first arrived that Brother El had come from America to take up the life of a monk in the Metéora. By appearances, you couldn’t tell him from any of the other monks.
“That is part of what I wanted to talk to you about, Brother John. The Lord moves in mysterious ways. So does the United States Government. I was recruited as a student of theology. I had thought of becoming a minister—I wasn’t even Orthodox at the time—but I became caught up in the study of the Word and in other ancient texts. My theology studies rapidly morphed into comparative religions. As such, when I graduated, I decided to get firsthand experience with the texts of other religions. I scheduled a journey around the world. I was fascinated with the differences between Hinduism and Buddhism, for example, so I spent a lengthy time studying in monasteries in India and Tibet.”
“It must have felt strange as a Christian to participate in pagan practices,” Wesley mused, thinking of his own work and changing values in the City of the Gods.
“Indeed, but that came later. I could have made a lifetime study of the two religions, but I wanted to survey the world. That led me from India through Pakistan and into the Middle East where I studied Islam, Judaism, and the roots of Christianity. But I found much in each of the religions—commonly held beliefs and even scriptural passages—that came from other religions as they were absorbed and swept away by the dominant faith. Which brought me to Greece.”
“When did you come here?”
“I arrived at the same time Hitler came to power in 1933. It was easy to see war was coming. Italy had already made threatening gestures toward Greece by occupying Albania. That was when life changed for me. The allies needed information. As a student, I was traveling all over Greece. I was given a contact and began filtering out information on troop movements and the attitude of the populace. The Greeks repelled the Italian invasion but were overwhelmed by the Germans a month later. By that time, I had made my way here to the Metéora, directly in the path of the march. In November of 1942, an American in the path of the Nazi Army was a dead American. I joined the local resistance.”
Wesley was rapt. Had he been just a few years older, he might have been in this war himself, but he, too, was a theology student and intended to become a minister of music. By the time he changed his major to musicology, and his intent to become a college instructor, the war was over.
“Look there,” Brother El pointed east over the low wall around the rooftop garden. “The first rock is where the Church of Agios Giorgio is located. You have passed it going into Kastraki. Just over its shoulder is the Tower of Agia, the tallest of the peaks here in Metéora. It overlooks Kalapaka from 630 meters. It was our point of resistance. From the peak to its right, we snipers picked off those who would plant a Nazi flag over our town. The Germans found out exactly what the Ottomans did. It is impossible to assault the towers. So they bombed us. On fifteen of the peaks of Metéora, there are ruined and abandoned monasteries. A friend in the resistance brought me here to the monastery. I thought it was temporary shelter, but I have been chained to this rock for twelve years. I expect it will be ten more before I am able to extract myself and return to the United States.”
“It’s a fascinating story,” Wesley mused. He scratched at his beard. Now that he was down from the mountain and had fulfilled his obligation to come to the monastery for services, he was anxious to shave.
“It has a purpose,” Brother El said. “You are a man of faith, Brother John. Your faith is being challenged at every turning. You are seeing bits of religion that predates your Christianity—even predating Moses. What I have found is that doctrine is a fleeting and temporary truth. What may be true for one community at one time does not make it true for a different time and place. Your search for a universal musical language may leave you chained to your own rock of solitude, just as mine did. It is what is here that you must trust.” Brother El put his hand on Wesley’s chest. “Now let us go down from the mountain, Moses, and see what your companions are up to.”
Wesley and the crew rested and studied for five more days before returning to the mountain.
Saturday, 6 August 1955, Northern England
Lughnasad. Rebecca and Mrs. Weed had joined the circle in time to be there for the initial invocations and immediately became The Hart and The Water Maiden. They had driven down to Keswick in Mrs. Weed’s old car and checked into a small hotel earlier in the day. Rebecca wasn’t sure but what the bus that had made her so nauseous a few weeks earlier might have been a better choice. Mrs. Weed admitted that she didn’t usually drive the auto that had been her husband’s, but assured Rebecca that she did have a license to operate it.
With the uncertainty and focus on initiation of her first visit to the stone circle past, Rebecca was able to better appreciate the celebratory ritual of the Feast of Lugh, from the casting of the circle and invocations of the guardians to the dancing that soon ensued. She was caught up in the dancing circle around the fire, joining hands and going first left then right. She was greeted with a kiss by each member of the coven and after having shivered through a kiss from The Blade that confused her, she found herself back by The Water Maiden.
With a shout, the coveners raised their hands and all fell to the ground. The Hart was exhausted and long past her embarrassment. So far the coveners had all kept their red robes on, though she was certain there would come a time when those would fall to the side. The High Priestess arose and began chanting as she walked and danced around the fire inside the circle of seated coveners.
This is the wake of Lugh.
This is the Sun King’s funary.
The Corn King dies upon the stalk,
The Sun is fading to the South.
The winter winds are gathering—
Their attack is surely coming
And our harvest is not in.
And now we stand ‘twixt hope and fear,
In the waiting time.
Our labor stands, its fruits are ripe
But our rewards are not yet certain.
The days shorten.
The light goes out.
The summer passes.
The harvest calls forth sacrifice.
Requires sacrifice
To make the passage safe
To winter.
When the priestess had finished her chanting, a woman from the other side of the fire rose and brought a basket to her. Together they began the circuit of the coveners. To each person the priestess whispered a question. The answer was picked up immediately by the next person and was chanted around the circle like a wave. With the answer, each was given a small loaf of bread. The wave passed her and the whispered word “Failure” was taken up around the circle. Next, “Vanity.” At another covener, “Heights” was whispered and passed around the circle. At once, the priestess was before The Hart and held a small loaf shaped like a person.
“What do you fear most, Hart?” the priestess asked. Immediately thinking of the warning she had received, Rebecca answered.
“The night.”
The word was picked up by the next person and passed around the circle and The Hart could hear the haunting whispers until it reached her again and she was forced by the wave to repeat, “Night.”
Her heart rate accelerated as she looked at the breadman in her hands and saw Wesley singing on a mountaintop. “Yea, though I walk through the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,” she whispered. “I love you.”
Other words passed her with the wave of sound and then a chant was started. She followed the words and joined.
In this fire, may it pass, may it pass.
May it pass on the outflowing tide
And burn with the red winter sun.
As the year dies,
As everything fades,
As everything passes,
All fades away.
With the rest of the cildru, The Hart rose and threw her bread in the fire. Then silently they joined hands and wound around the fire, faster and faster. To her surprise, as she met the eyes of others around the fire, she found them also filled with tears. This time it was a long and mournful sigh that brought the group once again to the ground as the Priestess once again picked up the basket and began her rounds.
The wave of words began to circle the fire once again. Still shaken by the image that had first struck her about fear, The Hart carefully considered what the remedy would be. She was flooded with the images of her honeymoon and the nights spent with Wesley before they parted for the summer. When the priestess held out another bread figure, this one a star, she asked, “What do you hope to harvest, Hart?”
“Love.”
The word spun around the circle until she repeated it again. Her eyes were again filled with tears as she whispered, “Love.”
“May the star of hope be in us always!” shouted the priestess as she completed the circle. Then she ate her bread star and so did all the coveners. The bread was sweet.
The Blade leapt to his feet on the other side of the fire and suddenly stripped off his robe. His tumescent phallus bounced as he danced and jumped around the fire. The coveners began to clap a rhythm as he clowned and mimed in front of the bread basket. Finally, he drove his hands into the basket and brought out a much larger bread figure of a man. This, he held high over his head in one hand while the other drew forth a bottle of wine that he uncorked with his teeth.
“Behold the grain of life!” he shouted. “Eat of the life that ever dies and ever is reborn!” With that he took an obscene bite out of the center of the bread man and took a long drink from the bottle of wine. He shook his head and shouted, then began his own circuit around the witches who each broke bread from the loaf and drank of the wine. It was like a communion of sorts. But by the time The Blade had brought the bread and wine to The Hart, other food was being distributed as food appeared all around the circle. She realized how long it had been since she last ate and how hungry she was.
Other members of the coven had removed their robes, but not all. It was obvious that some were couples who kissed romantically as they ate their picnics. The Blade sprawled naked on the ground at The Hart’s side as if he would be her ‘date’ for the picnic. He thrust the remainder of the bread man out to her with the bottle of wine. In defiance of him, she bared her teeth and bit viciously into the head, then took a long swig of the strong wine.
He caught a chunk of cheese from a passing covener who stopped long enough to hug them both with a blessing. The Blade had produced a smaller knife than the ritual Athamé, from where she didn’t know. He busily sliced cheese and found a basket with dried meats in it.
“Join me for the feast, won’t you Hart?” He pushed more bread and cheese her way. “It is traditional to share food at a ritual.”
“Thank you.” The Hart looked quickly for The Water Maiden and saw her nearby, talking to the priestess. She pulled her robe more closely around her. The Blade’s erection was not so pronounced now, but she was having none of it. “Where is your daughter tonight?”
“Ah. The little hellcat,” he laughed. “She is not yet a full member of the circle. The women handle that kind of thing. Something about becoming a woman. As a novice, she is permitted two celebrations each year to attend. This year she has chosen the solstices.”
“You must be very proud of her.” She was searching for another topic to normalize the conversation. The naked man beside her had attacked her and her husband in Indianapolis. How could he be so calmly sharing food and wine with her in the circle?
He stabbed another piece of cheese and lifted it to The Hart’s lips. She opened automatically to receive the offered food. When the cheese was between her lips, he withdrew the knife only enough to extract it from the square. She thought she detected a soft glow in his eyes as if more than The Blade looked out from them. He casually let the flat of the knife touch her chin and dragged it intentionally down her throat and between her breasts. The Hart shook, knowing the gesture as one of intense intimacy. She would have screamed if enough air could have reached her terrified lungs.
“We could be very good together, Hart,” he whispered. “I can feel the power in you, begging to be released. Your guide has gotten you through the gates of hell, but I can show you the way across.”
“Time to leave, Hart,” The Water Keeper said as she pushed the knife casually away from her chest. “Blade, your attentions are neither desired nor appreciated. Depart.”
“We’ve unfinished business, you and I—Rebecca Allen,” he whispered. She caught her breath. Real names were never to be used in the circle. “I will be waiting for you. Together we will find the goddess.”
He rolled away from her and Rebecca found her teeth chattering as an intense cold swept over her.
Comments
Please feel free to send comments to the author at devon@devonlayne.com.
