Her own home had been stripped nearly bare. As the wealthiest family and landowners in the village, they had been the first target of the guerrillas. The bearded men had fallen like furies upon the house, the cellar, the fields, taking livestock, grain, bread and wine. They had not looked like heroes, these gaunt ghosts wrapped in their grey overcoats that had become rags after the long winter in the mountains. Some of the men wore pants and coats they had stripped from dead Germans. Lucia and her Michaelis had cursed the guerrillas but Maritha had let them take what they wanted, watching them silently as they searched the cottage. She had been born in a room with no floors, only the dirt cold ground. Her whole family had slept in one bed. She did not fear poverty for herself. God had graced her with many years. The only words she spoke to the guerrillas were to implore them to leave enough rations for her grandson. Look, she had pleaded with the leader of the men, pointing to her daughter-in-law’s distended belly. We have another child coming. He had been kind, that man, for he had indeed ordered his men to return some of the provisions. Maritha doubted that he would be as kind if they returned this winter. If he were still alive.
She tended the fire, then crossed the courtyard and entered Michaelis’ house. Maritha shivered and rubbed her hands together even though a fire blazed in the kitchen hearth. She went into the bedroom and found Lucia sitting on the bed, the boy large and obscene in her arms, suckling at her plump breast. On the bed the baby was crying, her bedclothes soiled. Maritha picked up her granddaughter.
—The baby is dirty.
Lucia laughed. She threw an old cloth at Maritha.
—Wipe her arse, then. She turned back to her son, touched his dark thick hair, and began to sing. They were words of love. Maritha carefully scrubbed at Reveka’s tender red arse. She then held the baby close to her chest and the crying subsided. She looked across at her daughter-in-law, whose eyes were closed, who held her son tight into her chest. The demon was wrapped tight around Lucia’s feet, his grey dead cheek brushing against her legs.
—Flee, Devil, Maritha snapped.
Lucia opened her eyes.
—Who are you talking to?
Maritha said nothing.
Lucia laughed.
—You are going mad, Mother.
—I am tired.
—Has that bastard Kyriakos died yet?
The old woman slapped Lucia harshly and the child in her arms awoke from his sleep and began to howl.
—Look what you’ve done, you’ve woken him.
—Lucia, leave Christo be. He’s too old now to be always suckling at your tit. Leave him be.
Lucia ignored her mother-in-law, and instead, she returned her son’s mouth to her nipple. Maritha turned away. She dressed the baby, and ignoring Lucia, she took Reveka into the kitchen. She turned in the doorway and looked back. The fiend was still asleep at Lucia’s feet. Every night his spirit raged across the village, but every morning he came to rest with Lucia. Maritha raised her eyes and saw that her daughter-in-law was looking straight at her. Christos was still suckling; his mother was stroking his fat long body. Lucia’s eyes were shining, afire with insolence, and as Maritha watched her, Lucia’s long slender arm dropped and began to softly play with the hair of the ghoul stretched at her feet. The demon sprite stirred, smiled, and wrapped itself tighter around her feet.
—We need to begin preparations for Christmas night, Mother.
Maritha slammed the door behind her.
She bundled the baby tight in a small blanket, and took her into the village. She found her son getting drunk, alone at a table, the old men ridiculing him.
—What do you want, old woman? he roared.
—I am going to church, she whispered, ashamed that all the men’s eyes were on her.
—You should have left Reveka with her mother.
The old woman looked at him, and Michaelis dropped his head. He watched as his mother, holding tight to his child, walked under the thin iron arches and into the church courtyard. The men had all fallen silent and when the old woman had disappeared into the church, they began to mumble and whisper to one another. When Michaelis looked up not one of them caught his eyes.
—Go to the Devil, all of you. He rose and spilt his drink across the wooden table.
—It’s you who will get to Hell first, cried out a voice.
—It won’t be him, it’ll be his sow of a wife.
—Then it’s his mother’s turn.
The men started cackling, like geese. Michaelis staggered after his mother into the church.
He crossed himself and stayed by the last pew, watching his mother pray. She had placed the baby at her side and was on her knees before the altar, was almost chanting her lamentations. Michaelis had never learnt her tongue. His father had forbidden her use of it but she had staunchly continued to pray with the words her own mother had taught her. The Old Man had relented: it was only in her prayers and in her dreams that his mother could speak freely. But my father was a kind man, Michaelis reminded himself, and he crossed himself once more on thinking of the dead. And my mother, she is a good woman.
Not like my wife, that whore, the whore of the Devil himself. In his stupor he had spoken aloud. His mother swiftly raised herself and looked around. On seeing him she started to wail and shake her head. Out, out, she admonished him, how dare you come in that drunken state to God’s house. Flee, flee. You should be ashamed.
—God’s is the only house that welcomes me.
Maritha swooped the baby into her arms. She grabbed her son’s hand and led him out into the courtyard.
—You should be ashamed of yourself.
—Mother, how is Stavros’ boy?
Her silence confirmed his fears.
—What can you do for him?
His mother’s face seemed to age before his very eyes. The sadness wept from her eyes and seemed to seep across her ravaged face.
—There’s nothing I can do for them. She looked up in the darkening swirling grey and black sky. Only God can help us now.
Michaelis glanced over her shoulder to the graveyard that lay beyond the church. In the last year, seven boys had been buried in the cemetery. None had reached the age of four. Another three, who had not been baptised in time, lay in unconsecrated ground. The whole village had learnt from their neighbours’ misfortunes. Now, on the birth of a son, the baptism was arranged immediately.
—It’s a demon who is taking them. I have seen it.
Michaelis groaned.
—What is it, son? Maritha took him by the arm and led him to the cemetery. Son, tell me what you know, she demanded. She was convinced that Lucia had created this pestilence. It was as if her own grandson was growing fat and healthy on the misfortune and tragedy of the village. She remembered her daughter-in-law’s vengeful, gloating face when she’d asked after the young Kyriakos.
—Son, what do you know?
—Nothing, Mama.
He pulled away from her and clumsily fell onto the wet grass. He lay there, dribbling. He is killing himself, thought the old woman, God save him, he is killing himself. Slowly he staggered onto his feet.
—You do know something. She indicated out across the graveyard. She could smell death all around. Do you want more little souls crowding this forsaken clump of earth?
He did not answer. She turned away from him.
—Your wife is behind this. And maybe you are as well. Maybe both of you have cursed us.
—It’s her, he blurted out. Her.
—What has she done?
—She sheltered a betrayer of Christ.
—What are you talking about?
—The boy’s corpse we buried three summers past, he was a Hebrew. Lucia was protecting him.
Maritha glanced swiftly across the burial yard. They had buried him on Christian earth. They had desecrated the holy ground.
—Why did she do this?
—For money.
—Where is the money now?
—It is all spent.
>
—What happened to the boy?
Michaelis was silent. He shook his head.
—I don’t know. I was fearful, because of the Germans. Lucia told him to flee. That’s when the wolves must have taken him. It serves him right. Her son was now shouting. He was a betrayer, a Judas—his spirit is doing this. He’s a demon, like all his filthy kind.
—Was she given anything else?
—No. Her son was adamant. He was shaking his head back and forth, like an imbecile. Maritha placed the baby into his arms. Don’t drop her, she scolded.
—Where are you going?
His mother did not answer.
She was going to see Papa Nicholas. The priest had to be told of what she had heard. It had crossed her mind when she had heard that a stranger had been mauled by wolves that this could explain the terror that had visited the village. It was an obscenity in the eyes of the Lord for a hound of the Devil to partake of human blood, her mother had taught her this. But the boys who had died had not been taken by hounds, or even attacked by the spirit of such a hound. Maritha knew, however, that the Hebrews had their own spirits and their own magic. There had been Hebrews on her mother’s mountains and she had been taught to be as wary of them as she was of gypsies. Their demons do not speak our tongue, her grandmother had taught her, so they aren’t frightened of our prayers. Like the gypsies, the Hebrews kept to themselves. But unlike the gypsies, they had their own Church and, again, unlike the gyspies, they worked. They too were tillers of land. Maritha herself had never spoken to one, but her father, who knew the Turkman’s tongue, knew something about their ways. She remembered he had told her that for a Hebrew to even be touched by the skin of someone who was not of their kind was a defilement. It must certainly be an abomination for the soul of a Hebrew child to lie in eternity next to Christians. As for her own God, she could only imagine His fury that one of his murderers was lying in ground consecrated to His name.
Her knock was answered by Angela, the priest’s wife, whose welcome was cool and distant. He’s busy, she said, when Maritha inquired after her husband. Maritha bit her tongue. Now was not a time to insult this fool woman. Angela had been a plump, attractive girl when the adolescent Nicholas had been betrothed to her. But when he returned from the seminary he found her to have become a fat and ugly woman who allowed him little peace. In turn, Angela begrudged her misfortune in marrying a priest who was indeed a good Christian. Papa Nicholas’ simple cottage had not been extended in over twenty years, even though he had sired seven children. All I need, he was heard to remark, is a shelf for the Good Book, and a fireplace in winter. As a younger man, his disappointment in his wife had led him to often commit indiscretions with many of the young girls of the village. It was the one thing that had made people hesitate in proclaiming the priest a saint. But now, an old man, wrinkled and slow on his feet, the last temptation of lust had also been largely conquered. Papa Nicholas was one of the few men in the village who had welcomed Maritha as a young foreign bride, and he condemned any evil talk he heard about her.
—I can wait.
Angela snorted and slammed the door in her face. It was soon opened by the beaming, wrinkled face of the priest.
—Welcome Kyria Panagis, come in, come in.
Maritha hesitated.
—I would like to speak alone.
—Is it a confession, my dear?
—No.
Maritha did not want Angela eavesdropping. The news would travel the village by the morning if that sow heard. The priest suddenly nodded and winked. Come, he said, taking hold of Maritha’s arm, I need to stretch my legs.
As soon as they had walked out of the courtyard, Maritha told her tale. The priest listened to her without interruption. When she had finished, he asked, What is it you wish for me to do?
—Raise him. It is a sin he is in the churchyard.
—And how are you sure that he is a Hebrew?
Maritha had not involved her own son or her daughter-in-law in what she had told the priest. One loose word from the man’s lips and the whole village would know her family had brought a Judas into their homes. The tragedies of the last few years would be certainly laid at their feet. She did not want this burden for her grandchildren.
—I tell you, Father, my son has heard the men talk. Maritha was blushing, for the lie she had constructed involved a suggestion of such shame that she did not even have the words for it. There was evidence, Father, by the boy’s body. She drew her headscarf over her face to hide herself from the priest’s face, and she chortled loudly into it. By his thing, Father, his little zucchini was not eaten by the wolves. They knew by his thing that he was a Hebrew. The priest walked silently beside her until her giggling had stopped.
—He could have been a Mohammedan.
Maritha let out an exasperated cry.
—Father, what does it matter? We have to exhume the body. It does not belong in a Christian burial ground. This is why our sons are dying. She raised her eyes to the sky. It would soon darken. She had to reach home and then make her way up the mountain. Stavros and Yiannoula could not be left alone with the demon.
—And we must hurry, Father. Kyriakos is dying.
The priest was suddenly angry.
—This is a blasphemy, Kyria Maritha. Our children are dying of hunger and of war. When this damn war is over, then we will have an end to calamity.
—Will you exhume the grave, Father?
Slowly, hesitantly, the priest nodded.
The demon was still at Lucia’s feet when she entered the cottage. Michaelis had left his baby daughter by the hearth and she was screaming. Lucia was oblivious to the screams. Christos was suckling at her breasts.
—For God’s sake, Daughter, your baby is hungry.
—Let her drunkard of a father feed her.
Maritha grabbed the boy from his mother’s arms. He immediately set to wailing but she planted him by the hearth, grabbed little Reveka and forced her onto her Lucia’s teat. The demon was snarling and scratching at Maritha, but the old woman kicked at him. We’ll be soon rid of you, she said to herself, and the demon flashed her a look of fear and bewilderment. Maritha stared back at the ghoul’s face and she trembled. His thick-lidded almond eyes. She turned back to look at her grandson, at his eyes. It cannot be, she prayed, Lord, it cannot be. I am just a frightened old woman. Christos is Michaelis’ son. Christos must be Michaelis’ son.
—Are you going to minister to that bastard of Yiannoula’s?
Without daring to glance again at her grandson, the old woman tightened her shawl around her shoulders and walked out of the cottage.
On her way up the path to Stavros’ house she came across Baba Grigoris’ grandson making his way down the mountain.
—Greeting Giagia Panagis, the boy chimed. Two large bronze hooped rings dangled from his ears and his hair was sheafed in a girl’s headscarf. The villagers had taken to dressing their young sons as girls, hoping in this way to escape Charos, death. But Stavros and Yiannoula had done the same with Kyriakos and Charos had not been fooled.
—Rush home, counselled Maritha, escape the dark.
—I will, promised the child, and he began to run down the mountain.
She was awoken in the middle of the night by the whimpering of the child, by Yiannoula’s tears, and the stench of sulphur and burning flesh.
—Can you smell that?
The young woman shook her head. Maritha could smell nothing else. The priest must have found the body. The demon was nowhere to be seen and she felt a great relief and joy. Lord, you have saved us, murmured the old woman. But when she had opened her eyes again the demon was crouched over the dying boy and a gleaming triumphant grin was on his face. You mock me, Devil. You are mocking me.
The next morning, on entering her own home, she found the priest waiting for her. Lucia was brewing coffee and when it was done, the priest and the old woman sat in the courtyard and sipped slowly from their cups. The skies above were dark and streaked with as
hen wisps of clouds.
—You raised the body?
—Yes, answered the priest.
—He was as he had been buried, intact?
The priest shuddered. The Hebrew youth had not rotted at all. His savaged body was repulsive; the gashes ripped in it by the wolves were still clearly visible. The gravedigger had immediately fallen to his knees and crossed himself.
—There was not even a stench to it, Kyria Panagis.
—And you burnt the body last night? All of it?
The priest nodded and his weariness and sadness made the old woman’s chest ache. How do you comfort a man? she wondered. She grabbed his hand and kissed it.
—Thank your daughter-in-law for the coffee, said the priest quietly, and he limped through the courtyard gate. Maritha knew his fatigue was due to the exertions of the previous night. What she was not to know was that for a man who all his life had attempted to live the simplicity and love of the Gospels, the fantastic rituals in the night had shaken his beliefs to the core. He had been terrified on seeing the stranger’s undecomposed corpse. He now could not trust that faith and prayer were enough. Burn it, burn it, he had screamed at Stellios Leptoulis. The gravedigger had become almost insensible from his own fear. The priest had to sit with him throughout the long night as they watched the burning body. The smell had been abominable and it still clung to the priest. He had breathed it in, and he feared that it would forever be a part of him, that he would never be able to escape the satanic odour. For eternity. Lord, prayed the priest, may our village be delivered from evil.
But the following night, Charos entered the village and the young Kyriakos died. His body was wasted, his bones nearly pushing through the translucent scarred skin. Maritha sat silent as the boy’s parents bashed their own exhausted bodies on the cold stone floor. The old woman looked at the satisfied face of the grinning demon. She understood now what she alone must do.