Behind the Ivory Veil
24 Death Awaits
Friday, 19 August 1955, Kastraki, Greece
POL MET REBECCA and Wesley at the gate when they returned from their walk late in the afternoon. Even after the exertions of their open air lovemaking, they had continued on up between the two highest of Metéora’s monasteries and then followed the road back past yet another. Tourists had begun to arrive for the weekend in Kalambaka to tour the open monasteries on Saturday or attend Divine Liturgy on Sunday.
“Have you been waiting for us, Pol?” Wesley asked. The boy nodded and uncharacteristically gave Wesley a hug. He turned uncertainly to Rebecca but she opened her arms to him as well.
“Mother Rebecca, my grandfather is asking for you. Can you come to him?” Rebecca was thrown at what she assumed was an honorific she would only have thought of in a Catholic sense. Nonetheless, she nodded.
“He is back from his daily walk?” she asked.
“He lay down after breakfast and has not left his bed since. Grandmother is worried. Father Wesley, he will wish to see you as well, but asks for a few minutes with Mother Rebecca first, if you do not object.”
“Of course. Perhaps you and I can talk for a few minutes, son.” Rebecca noticed, now, the bond that had developed between Wesley and Pol. The titles had not merely been honorifics, Pol considered himself, in a way, a son to the young couple.
“Please do not be angry, Mother, but I told him of our… adventure coming down from the mountain. He has asked to see the stone.”
“Pol, I’m not angry. I would never be angry with you for obeying your grandfather.” She reached her arms around the boy again and gave him a big hug, which he returned enthusiastically. “My son, I will hurry to your grandfather’s side.” She turned and kissed Wesley once again and rushed to the old man.
Pol and Wesley watched her go and then turned to sit on a bench. Pol picked up three stones and began to juggle them, changing patterns as he went. Wesley watched until one of the stones slipped from the boy’s hand and he turned suddenly to face his friend.
“You set her free,” Pol said. “Truly? She is free now to seek me out? Will the promise of the gods be fulfilled?”
“Pol, I’m not a wise old man like your grandfather. Or even Doc or your father. I’m like a newborn when it comes to the stories your family has been raised with for centuries.” Wesley picked up a few pebbles and tossed them one at a time toward a larger rock near the well. “All I’ve learned is that I can’t predict how the powers fulfill their promises. Think. Ryan McGuire believes there is some kind of stone or golden statue that would bring him wealth, fame, or power. You believe in a goddess who will be the love of your life. I admit that I think of the love of my life as a goddess as well.”
“May I come to visit you in America?”
“As soon as your parents will allow you to travel to be with us.”
The two sat companionably silent for a few minutes. Wesley turned again to Pol.
“There is something else you should know, Pol. I have taken a vow to love and protect her. Them. If I must lay down my life to ensure their safety, I will do that without hesitating.”
“Greater love hath no man,” Pol recited.
“Faith… Well, we all have it. A lot of people misunderstand it, though. Faith is believing in something for which you have no evidence but the promise. You have a promise and you must have faith, no matter how long it takes, that it will be fulfilled. You will recognize it when it is. Where people go wrong is in having faith in which the evidence is all against them. It is like believing the promise of one who is known to break his promises. Placing faith in that promise is foolishness. But you have seen that the gods are faithful in keeping their promise. Just remember that it has taken them centuries to fulfill this one. Do not be surprised if it takes a few… at least eighteen, I hope… years to fulfill this one.”
Pol looked at Wesley curiously and then his mouth dropped open as he looked toward the door of his grandfather’s house where Rebecca had entered.
Rebecca entered the patriarch’s home and was invited to sit by his bed. She did not remember him to be so old when she met him just a few days ago. In fact, he seemed to have aged at an alarming rate since breakfast. He seemed withered and frail as if he had been bedridden for weeks. She held his hands between hers. She imagined he might be her own grandfather. Perhaps it was just because she had so much love inside her that she could not help but reach out to him. If he had been a total stranger, she would have loved him and wanted to help make him well and young.
“Rebecca Allen, you are a wonderful sight to my old eyes,” he said. “My grandson has told me tales and I want to hear them from you, as well.”
For a moment Rebecca found herself absorbed in the aches and pains of the old man’s body. She could feel the arthritis that had weakened his hands and swollen his joints. Deep inside, her bones cried out for the pain.
Then it was gone—more quickly than it had come—and she looked at the old man again from the bedside.
“No, goddess. I will not give you my dying,” he said. “That is my final special gift. I thank you for easing my pain, but the time is right for my passing. Your promise has kept me alive long since others would have passed.”
“You looked no older than my own grandfather just a few days ago. What has happened?” Rebecca asked.
“When I was a boy, I took my journey to the City of the Gods as all in my family had. Each person who goes has his own personal experience with the powers and with the goddess. I was promised that I would live to see her release. That was nearly a hundred years ago. I lost my first family in the Unfortunate War in 1897. Two sons ran off to fight the Turks at Larissa and both fell in battle. Supplies to this area of Thessaly were cut off by war on all sides. A plague carried away my wife, daughter, and mother. I was already 50 years old and looked as young as if I were twenty. My father was also a great believer and looked young. He married a woman much younger than me and soon my brother Leo and sister Demi were born. They have known me only as their older brother, but neither knows how much older. Thea is no older than my little sister, but I waited patiently, knowing that I had been promised the sight of the goddess. I feared for my second family when the Great War embroiled all Europe and I lost my youngest son. But I have never given up hope.”
“But why now, Andrew? Why give up hope now?”
“Give up? Oh, no! I have not given up. I have seen the fulfillment of the promise. Show me. Please show me the dark stone that my Pol says cut a void in the mists and gave you firm ground beneath your feet. So glorious was the dark brightness of this jewel that when it appeared all would be lost, you were transported by the stone to land on your feet beneath the holy slopes.”
“Pol!” Rebecca snorted. “I think it was not quite as dramatic as that.” The old man laughed.
“He does have a slight tendency to exaggerate magical events. Perhaps you merely stumbled down from the mountain of your own accord. It will be a wonderful dream when I sleep tonight.” The old man squeezed her hand. “Please, Rebecca. Would you favor an old man’s whim and show me this fabled jewel? Perhaps I, too, will find guidance down from my mountain to the netherworlds to which I must travel.”
Rebecca fished the stone from her pocket and held it out to the old man. He stared at it for a long while, but it was her hand that held his attention.
“Is this not the hand that was red and blistered when we met?”
“Yes, it healed quickly.”
“Gods of thunder!” whispered the old man. “It is indeed the key to the ivory veil.” He reached out a bony finger and touched the stone. “Thank you, my goddess.” Rebecca placed a hand over her womb, imagining she felt an impossible response from the hours-old fetus. The events of that night were so like a fantasy, yet so real. The images. The lovemaking… The goddess within her.
“She is free,” Rebecca answered.
The old man reached out to place his hand over hers.
“Serepte,” he whispered. He closed his eyes for a moment and smiled. “I have seen the goddess within you. All is complete. My life is full. It would do no good for me to cling to it longer than Lachesis has measured it. Give me a silver coin for the ferryman and a biscuit for the dog. I will pass the river unafraid, uncomplaining.”
They sat a while longer in silence.
“Thea?” Andrew called weakly. His wife hurried in. She must have been just outside the door listening, Rebecca thought. “Send someone for Father Dimitri. It is time for an old man to confess his sins. And my precious wife, please come back with Wesley so we may bless them.” Thea bent and kissed her husband before she hurried outside. She returned a few moments later with Wesley hurrying behind her.
“Leo and Demi are waiting outside to see you as well,” Thea said. “They say they just stopped by.”
“A family knows,” Andrew said. He reached for Wesley’s hand and joined it to Rebecca’s. His wife smiled and placed her hands over her husband’s as they held the young couple. “Your family is already blessed. You have been married together but have spent much of that time apart. I pray that you will be blessed and that the fruit of your union will bring joy to your lives and to the world she graces. Love and live. Our blessings abide with you.”
“Amen,” Thea said.
Once Wesley and Rebecca emerged from the tiny house, Leo and Demi rushed inside to visit their older brother. Rebecca wondered if they had any idea how much older he was. Why did he trust her with the story of waiting for the goddess? She found it too hard to believe and wrote it off as an old man’s meanderings. Yet, so much was unbelievable in her life. Why not this one thing as well?
By evening, other people in the village had come to pay their respects to Andrew Pariskovopolis before he passed beyond. Each visitor brought food so that Rebecca joined Sophia, Helen, and Sophia’s sixteen-year-old daughter Anna in putting out the food and seeing that everyone had eaten. Wesley sat in a corner behind the buffet and strummed his guitar. Pol joined him and the two sang quietly. The music tugged at Rebecca’s heart. While it was not particularly sad, it had a peaceful calming effect on the family and friends who gathered.
The priest, Father Dimitri, arrived shortly after sundown and once he had a full plate of food, he joined Wesley and Pol. It seemed an odd combination on the bench. Her husband, having been encouraged not to shave his beard until they were ready to leave Metéora, was a Methodist from birth who now espoused a special commitment to the goddess. Pol had been raised in the combined culture and teaching of Greek Orthodoxy and ancient mythology. A heavily-bearded priest, Dimitri took large swallows of wine to wash down each bite of the plentiful food. And herself. She’d changed to a long skirt and blouse out of respect for the local customs, but knew she would be more comfortable dancing naked around a fire to raise the power of her own pagan coven. Yet, here they all were, celebrating the life and awaiting the death of the old man.
Eventually, the crowd drifted off to their homes and beds. The priest staggered home. Wesley put away his guitar and led his wife to bed where they celebrated the life of the old man by making gentle love and fell asleep in each other’s arms.
At some time in her dreams, or at some other level of consciousness, she was aware of the presence of the old man bidding a last farewell to his family, his dreams, and his beloved Metéora. She felt a feather touch on her womb as he blessed her child and left a message of hope and fulfillment.
Saturday, 20 August 1955, Kastraki, Greece
In America, a professional embalmer would be called, the body carted away and made up to ‘look natural’ for two or three days while friends and relatives traveled hundreds of miles across the country to pay their respects. In this little village, a runner was sent out to tell everyone in Kastraki, Kalambaka, and at the monasteries of the passing of Andrew Pariskovopolis. Breakfast had scarcely been finished when three old women dressed in black arrived to help Thea bathe and dress her husband for burial. The activity took the rest of the morning with other women arriving to prepare food, take care of children, and to clean—not just Andrew and Thea’s house, but all four of the cottages around the courtyard.
There had been a minor dispute when Father Dimitri arrived, a bit hung over, about the same time the women went in to prepare the body. He had attempted to take charge and have the body interred in the churchyard with the ritual to take place on Monday. Leo, now the titular head of the family, had put his foot down.
“Andrew lived in the presence of the old ones and he shall pass to Hades as one of their own,” Leo declared. Had it not been for Dimitri’s headache and the volume of Leo’s voice, the argument may have lasted longer. But Dimitri won a small concession in that the body would not lie in state over the sabbath. Therefore, it was agreed that the funerary would be concluded yet that night.
Brother El arrived with three other monks. He persuaded Leo to let them carry the bier to its final resting place on the top of the Tower of Agia. The name was whispered and Sophia told Rebecca that neither the priest nor the regional magistrate in Kalambaka knew the destination for the bier. But in their own way, the monks of the monasteries on the pinnacles of Metéora guarded the heights. The brothers would be sure the way was clear. Andrew had been a benefactor to several of the orders over the years.
Rebecca was given a black skirt and shawl to wear over her clothes. Brother El pulled Wesley aside and handed him a dark robe and hat. “During the circling of the body, slip this on and join me at the bier, Brother John,” the monk suggested. “You will carry the pall with us as Andrew would have wished.” He glanced over at Rebecca. “You may walk with the women.” Rebecca shook her head and resolved not to join the two-mile march and climb to the Tower of Agia. She was tired and would simply wait for Wesley to return, sans habit. He would certainly fit in with the rows of men in black pillbox hats and long straight robes.
The monks erected a platform beside the well. People brought flowers to scatter on and around the platform. Others brought gifts of food, oil, wine, and spices which were appropriately displayed before the homes around the courtyard. Since the cremation would not take place until sunset, the food was kept indoors and would be brought out when the crowd returned about ten or eleven o’clock. Rebecca had joined the fast for the day and was not sure she could wait that late to eat again.
Late in the afternoon, Rebecca and Wesley went into their cottage and she dressed him in his robe.
“You’re wearing slacks under the habit? Is that allowed?” she giggled.
“I think they all wear pants,” Wesley spluttered. “Do you think not?”
“I thought perhaps the monk’s robe was like a Scottish kilt.”
“They don’t wear anything under those?”
“If they wore underwear, apparently, it would be called a skirt.”
“I don’t know…”
“Wesley, I’m teasing,” she said.
“I know, darling. I’m an easy mark. It makes me nervous to impersonate a monk. At least it’s not the first time. And I won’t be the only one.”
“You are my anchor in a storm of trouble,” Rebecca sighed. “I’ve been exposed to so many new things this summer that I am exhausted.”
“I have as well, and I’m sorry to say that I’m not looking forward to the two-mile hike, but we’ve done worse this summer. Listen.” The buzz from the courtyard suddenly hushed and they went to the window. Everyone had risen and was facing the door of Andrew’s house. Father Dimitri, still posing some semblance of control, emerged first with a censer waving in front of him. Then Marcos, Sophia, Thea, Leo, and Demi followed. Four monks squeezed out of the opening bearing a pallet with the body stretched out upon it. At the sight of the body, the crowded courtyard broke into mournful chants. The monks circled the well three times counterclockwise as dust filled the air. People tossed the dust into the air and onto the body, but as the parade passed beneath the window again, they could see and smell that mixed with the dust were spices that scented the air—cinnamon, basil, tarragon, clove, and others she could not readily identify.
At last the parade came to a halt and the pallet was set on the stand near the well. No makeup had been applied to Andrew’s face and he looked every bit the 110 years he professed to be. Still, he looked calm and peaceful. A coin sealed his lips and a flower was held in his hand.
“I think that’s my cue,” Wesley whispered. He kissed his wife, settled his hat firmly on his head, and slipped out to blend in with the other monks. Rebecca smiled as she watched him go.
Father Dimitri chanted a prayer that was responded to by the crowd, and then retreated. The monks sang hymns and choruses, chanted prayers, and responded. Somehow, Rebecca did not think all the chants were strictly approved by the Orthodox Church. She did not understand Greek, but observing the actions of the monks reminded her more of her own pagan celebrations than of church ritual. She arranged her sacred tools on the bed and began her own invocation of the powers to watch over the funeral, her husband, and the old man’s spirit.
Her suspicions were confirmed some time later, as Pol’s voice rose out of the music and the rest fell silent. She looked out the window again and saw the boy at the head of the bier. His voice was sharp and clear, resonating within the houses and the yard. He slipped into the ancient musical language she had heard Wesley studying for so long. And then she recognized Wesley’s voice joining Pol’s. The crowd in the courtyard bowed their heads as the music washed over them and Rebecca realized she was witnessing the funeral of megalos kai kalos—a great and good man. In the impromptu duet by Pol and Wesley, she saw the respect of the ancients for the old man of Metéora as they bore him to his place among the stars.
The music was soft and gentle, then rose to heart-throbbing heights. It rippled like the stream in which they had bathed. The images brought by that ancient tongue spoke to each hearer differently. But each image was overwrought with the boy’s grief and loss. It was deeper than just the loss of a grandfather, but spoke of the end of an era, of a dream. It wove about them, speaking of tragedies and sorrows just beginning.
Rebecca could not stay within the cottage for this ritual. Wesley and Pol were not alone and she would not let them stand alone. As Pol’s voice grew softer, a new voice sang as if borne on the wind. Even though it came from Rebecca’s mouth, even she felt it originated on another plane. It was gentle and loving, so completely other-worldly that, for an instant, no one recognized it as a voice at all. It tugged at their ears and drew their eyes toward the heavens. The stars were brighter and more fiery than they had ever seen them. But the music did not come from the stars or the sliver of moonlight rising above them.
Rebecca emerged as a shadow in the gathering dusk, moving toward Pol and Wesley, yet it did not seem like Rebecca at all. She bore an other-worldly presence that matched her voice as she sang in answer to Pol and Wesley. They responded and the blending of their voices rose to a height of beautiful music, without words and without melody.
The mourners shielded their eyes against looking at the intimacy of this cluster of voices. The song brought them all their own images of love and beauty and hope. It rose to a climactic height and as if orchestrated by a great conductor, suddenly ceased. Rebecca smiled at Pol and pulled his hand to her womb. Then she slipped back into the shadows.
Torches were lit. The monks, including Wesley, lifted the pallet and placed it on a cart that moved slowly forward. The priest had disappeared during the music, but the monks and mourners filed out of the courtyard following the cart. The family followed first, then the other mourners, including Doc and Margaret. They stretched out in a column singing hymns as they walked through the village to the foot of the Tower of Agia. Rebecca watched the torches as they ascended the steep trail to the peak. Rebecca brought her sacred tools out to the well, placing them beside her as she looked out toward the peak and saw the sudden flare of fire that indicated the pyre had been lit.
“The price of a rite of passage is to leave a bit of yourself behind,” she whispered the words that the goddess had used on the mountain and wondered what she had left behind. The old man would leave his ashes as he made his way to the netherworld.
She filled her cup with water from the well and shed her own silent tear for the departed hero. Already the events of the past few days were being reduced to dreams in her mind. The fantasy and terror dissolving into loneliness and lovemaking; the magic changed to accident and coincidence. She faded in and out of sleep as she sat at the well, losing track of time in the dance of her dreams.
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