The Quest

Your dedication here.

Copyright © Manolis 2018

Author photo: Bill Wolak

Published in 2018 by: Ekstasis Editions

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the publisher, with the exception of brief passages in reviews. Any request for photocopying or other reproduction of any part of this book should be directed in writing to the publisher or to ACCESS: The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, One Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, Ontario, Canada, M5E 1E5.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Manolis, 1947-, author

The quest / Manolis.

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-77171-283-5 (soft cover).--ISBN 978-1-77171-284-2 (ebook)

I. Title.

PS8626.A673Q47 2018 C813'.6 C2018-901322-2

C2018-901323-0

Ekstasis Editions acknowledges financial support for the publication of The Quest from the government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of British Columbia through the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Books by Manolis

The Medusa Glance, Ekstasis Editions, 2017

The Second Advent of Zeus, Ekstasis Editions, 2016

Chthonian Bodies, paintings by Ken Kirkby, Libros Libertad, 2016

Images of Absence, Ekstasis Editions, 2015

Autumn Leaves, poetry, Ekstasis Editions, 2014

Übermensch/Υπεράνθρωπος, poetry, Ekstasis Editions, 2013

Mythography, paintings and poetry, Libros Libertad, 2012

Nostos and Algos, poetry, Ekstasis Editions, 2012

Vortex, poetry, Libros Libertad, 2011

The Circle, novel, Libros Libertad, 2011

Vernal Equinox, poetry, Ekstasis Editions, 2011

Opera Bufa, poetry, Libros Libertad, 2010

Vespers, poetry by Manolis, paintings by Ken Kirkby, Libros Libertad, 2010

Triptych, poetry, Ekstasis Editions, 2010

Nuances, poetry, Ekstasis Editions, 2009

Rendition, poetry, Libros Libertad, 2009

Impulses, poetry, Libros Libertad, 2009

Troglodytes, poetry, Libros Libertad, 2008

Petros Spathis, novel, Libros Libertad, 2008

El Greco, poetry, Libros Libertad, 2007

Path of Thorns, poetry, Libros Libertad, 2006

Footprints in Sandstone, poetry, Authorhouse, 2006

The Orphans - an Anthology, poetry, Authorhouse, 2005

Romania — Early Years

From early childhood Pericles listened to the stories his grandfather told, stories of a far-away island called Crete and the heroic people and mythological beings that inhabited it.

He was influenced by his grandfather even before he went to the Hellenic Community School to learn Greek. Although his Greek-born parents sometimes spoke of Crete, it was his grandfather who undertook the role of tutor seriously. Pericles’ life in Romania was very different from the one his grandfather described, but as he grew older he began to love this other world and was determined that one day he would travel there.

Pericles’ grandfather was a huge man, almost two meters tall, with wide shoulders like the walls of a house and gigantic hairy arms and hands. He had jet-black hair and eyes that were equally dark but with an undying fire and a power that scared anyone who came near him. Every day he wore the traditional Cretan attire of dark blue breeches and black boots that went up almost to his knees. On his stubborn forehead, which one could think was made of steel, a springboard of thunder and lightning, he always displayed the traditional black scarf with fringes falling forward.

He was an inexhaustible source of information, a brook endlessly babbling, a wise owl always advising, a fresh spring flowing in the heart of summer. He was the old oak on the hillside, overlooking a vast valley of experience, telling the young boy stories of grandeur and everlasting pride.

When the old man talked, his voice, deep, almost subterranean, as if it came from the bowels of earth, seemed to shake the house to its foundations, as if the building was answering his grandfather’s call. They were like two beasts in a duel.

No one could stand up to this huge man, and everyone who knew him did their best to stay clear of the big man as they called him. Above all, they avoided arguing with him. Even Alexander, his son, was no exception. Every time he heard the old man yell, he would walk away like a dog with its tail between its legs.

Whenever his grandfather was angry, he would stay up all night and pace his room from one side to the other, with a regular stop by the window. Here he would focus on the south, where his Crete was located. He would stare into the void for a long time, as if in the darkness of the night he could discern his village, smell his roots, and see the relatives he had left behind when he emigrated to this forsaken place in Romania. He would stand at the window motionless, as if frozen by the cold he felt in his heart, unable to resist the power exerted over him by the image of his island, even though it existed only in his imagination.

Crete was like a scimitar outstretched, shaped like an eloquent eyebrow. Crete captivated him, filled him, made him feel immortal. He would maintain these nocturnal vigils until the morning star appeared, the sign he waited for, and then he would go downstairs. He would throw some cold water on his face and drink a glass of milk, then go to his regular chair on the porch and wait until everyone else was up and ready to face the day’s responsibilities. No matter what the weather was like, one would always find him there, sitting with his eyes focused towards the south. He was always found in that position, as if he was looking at his island, as if he was walking on its soil, as if he was drinking his Cretan wine in his backyard, as if he was living on his island, as if he was there.

No matter what day of the week it was, the old man was always there when his grandson woke and came to sit close to him. This made the old man feel reborn, as if graced with a new life. These were the times when he would tell Pericles story after story about his island, about his life that passed like fresh water from a mountain spring he could drink from and never feel quenched. He told stories about the blue sea, the olive groves and orchards of oranges and lemons, and about the boys who would go around all day long with slingshots in their hands and adventure on their minds. He would tell his grandson about the cicadas with their endless singing all summer long, about the sea that sometimes turned angry and rolled with waves as high as a house, ready to swallow anyone in its path. He would tell him about gods, lots of gods, not just one like they had these days but lots of gods and, above them all, Minos, the greatest, the wisest, and the most just of all. He would tell Pericles about the young men who ran and took part in sporting competitions, the boys who danced and jumped like eagles until it seemed the mountains were leaning down to admire them. He would tell him about the young women who eyed the boys and felt a slow burning fire in their bodies. He would tell him about the wars, all the many wars they fought until the day of liberation when they celebrated and partied for forty days and forty nights non-stop.

Pericles listened quietly, his childish mind filled with young men and women as beautiful as the gods, with well-mannered, simple people joyously going about their daily lives, and with high, snow-capped mountains that spoke like men and went down to the valleys and danced during the celebration of freedom. And the boy imagined Crete to be an orchard with flowers and fruit trees where gods walked and talked and joked with mortals and where it was always spring and summer, unlike the cold place where they lived.

One day, as they were sitting on the veranda overlooking the other side of the long street, his grandfather narrated to him the story of a brave young man, Diomedes, who in a single fight killed one hundred enemies. It was the time, he said, when the barbarians had come to Greece and abducted the beautiful Helen and the Cretans had put together an army of men and joined the war against the barbarians to take back the beautiful maiden. His grandfather told him how people were all good to each other in that time, and how they even challenged death together. This was the first time Pericles had heard the word death.

Pappou,¹ he asked, where do people go when they die?

The old man, unprepared for such a question, coughed not because he needed to clear his throat but to give himself time to come up with an answer. Then, turning to the boy, he said in a very quiet voice, Eh, they die, they go to the afterworld. They go to meet their family, their parents.

Pappou, how do children come to life?

From their parents, but leave that aside. When you grow up, you’ll understand these things. Let me finish the story.

Yes, the story, Pappou, the boy answered and tuned his ears to the voice of his grandfather.

But that same night, as Pericles sat with the dim light of the oil lamp on the wall, he pondered the two mysteries. He imagined a big valley, red in color, where men sprang from when the wind was blowing and the sun was rising. Then he imagined a snake at the edge of the valley. This meant death, and it came and took the old people when the time was right. But what was the role of God in all this, he asked himself. He couldn’t find an answer, so he decided to ask his teacher at school.

A few days later Pericles found his grandfather in his accustomed place at the veranda looking toward the south where his Crete lay. The old man, a motionless statue, was silent, enclosed in himself, solitary, as if living in a past time. As he sat with teary eyes, his expression was that of an angry man, an expression the boy remembered from many other times. But the boy also knew that only when he came close and sat beside him would his grandfather tell him his favorite stories.

Yet this time young Pericles preferred to sit on the other side of the veranda. The old man, as if a statue might regain motion and become alive, called to him without turning his head:

Come, Pericles, come sit with me, or are you afraid of me, eh? Pericles lowered his head and walked to his grandfather’s open arms. After hugging the boy, the old man caressed Pericles’ head and, still staring to the south, he let a long sigh leave his lips. Soon after, as if he regretted showing his sadness, he took his pipe from his pocket and got busy cleaning and wiping it with his kerchief, something he didn’t do often, as he rarely smoked unless he was alone on the veranda, never when Pericles was present.

Once upon a time there were two brothers. One was named Pericles, like you, and the other Menelaus. They had two other brothers, Themistocles and Euripides, but Pericles and Menelaus were special because they were twins. Just like the twins Mrs. Fourakis had a year ago, you remember?

Yes, Pappou the boy said.

"Endaxi...² So Pericles and Menelaus were very close, as if they were two halves of one rose, and even when they grew up they always did things together; they were inseparable, day and night. They were so close their parents used to say, those two are so close that when one dies, the other will die shortly after. The years went by, and as they grew up they started taking on the responsibilities of their household. Since their father was an old man by then, the sons took care of the animals and the orchards. Pericles and Menelaus were responsible for the family’s big flock of goats, which they took grazing up on the mountains, while the other two sons, Themistocles and Kostis, took care of the orchards. One day Pericles was on his way home when he met Irene, the most beautiful girl in the village, daughter of Homer Daskalogiannis, and from that day his life changed. He dreamed constantly of Irene and always talked of her. He sang the traditional folk songs of the area and always made sure Irene would hear him or learn about how he sang for her. The image of her body, slender and calligraphic, drove him mad, and he dreamed that someday he would marry her."

The old Cretan stopped to let a sigh float into the air of the veranda, as if to release him from a weight he carried deep inside his heart, as if he wished to become lighter than a bird and fly over the mountains and southward to Crete where his glance travelled, like all the other times when he wished he could see his island, his Crete. There with the fragrance of their jasmine plants rising from the flowerbed a few feet away, he searched in his mind to meet Irene again, like that time by the freshwater spring when she looked at him and smiled at him for the first time.

Cursed let it be, old age, he thought. Let fate be cursed for always bringing old age and death. That thought calmed him, and he turned toward his grandson again, caressed his head, and carried on with the story.

"Ah, I forgot to mention, the twins were in one way completely different from each other. Menelaus took from his mother her angelic heart. He was a timid church-going young man who prayed every day, always observed the religious holidays, and if he heard someone curse the holy icons or God he would get very upset and wouldn’t even talk to that person for a long time. He never worked on a Sunday or any other holy day. If he happened to be on the mountains with the goats on a Sunday, he always sat on a big boulder and gazed down toward the fertile plain, toward the village visible to his right and farther away to the left and north toward the glaucous, playful sea. At other times he would grab his knife with the black handle and busy himself carving a cross or an icon or the face of a saint on a piece of wood or the bark of a nearby cypress. Menelaus was a nature lover. He would never even step on an insect. There were times when he would make crumbs out of his bread and place them on his favorite boulder to attract ants, which would come and feast on them. If he was in the village on a Sunday, Menelaus never went to the orchards to help his brothers but instead he would get up very early and get ready to go to church. When he came back, he always read tracts and other religious works.

Pericles was the opposite. He took after his father and was wild, a rebel, always against every established idea, habit, or custom. He was strong-willed too and had an athletic body, strong muscles, and huge hands and arms. He was very tall, with a dark complexion, a brave man, generous, strong, and capable of lifting double the weight of things you load on a donkey. He was always wild and rebellious, a big drinker, a wonderful dancer, graceful, like an ancient god. Whenever there was a party or any other festivity, Pericles was always the first and the best who took part, and as the years went by, he became well-known to everyone in the area and in each and every village on that side of Crete. ‘A celebration without Pericles isn’t a celebration at all!’ people would say."

What did they mean by that, grandfather? the boy asked.

"They meant that everybody wanted him to be in their celebration, my boy, because Pericles was a firebrand. If someone asked him to go to church, he would always answer, ‘I’m not for churches, I’m not a saint…’ and he would stop the conversation from going any further. He didn’t like the priesthood, I mean to say. Those twins were truly two different characters.

They were on the mountain once, herding their goats, when something happened. Pericles, who hadn’t been able to sleep all night because of his love for Irene and was angry at himself, got up and walked outside their small shepherds’ hut to the big boulder that the brothers favored as a viewpoint facing the village down below. Above him was the starry sky, serene, asleep, quiet, immense, gleaming from luminous stars, and around him quietness, silence and only a pair of crickets arguing about their love affair. He sat there for a long time, mesmerized by the darkness of the world above him and sometimes looking below toward the village until he suddenly sprang up, pulled his knife from his waist, and cut into his arm. When he felt the blood flowing and falling to the ground, he swore, ‘God of the Oath, God of the Cretan men, to you I swear, no one will ever come between me and Irene!’ He thought nobody could hear him and that only the ears of the night and those of the God of the Oath were awake to hear his cry, but he was wrong. Menelaus, inside the hut, was also awake and heard his brother’s call and his cry, his threatening promise. He said no word, only turned to the other side of the cot and tried to sleep, and when Pericles came back into the room he pretended he was in deep slumber."

The young boy was shaken by the last part of the story and interrupted his grandfather. Pappou, who was the God of the Oath? Wasn’t Minos the highest god in Crete?

The old man smiled. Yes, of course Minos was the best. No, no, Minos wasn’t alive those days.

Minos was dead, grandfather?

Ah, yes, of course. He had died long before that.

But do the gods die, grandfather? The boy was surprised because he remembered what the priest of the local Greek church, father Aristotle, had said at Sunday school about Almighty God.

Eh, yes, they die sometimes, they get old like people. They get sick and they die…But leave this aside, you’ll understand better when you grow up. Let me finish the story, his grandfather said and stirred slowly in his chair but without letting his eyes leave the face of his grandson, whose attention was tuned to every word the old man said.

Yes grandfather, the story, the boy repeated, his interest aroused once again.

"That summer Pericles went with his father to the family of Irene and asked for her hand. Everything went well and they got engaged. Irene liked that huge man and dreamed of having children with him. Everyone was happy about the engagement and the upcoming wedding except Menelaus, Pericles’ twin, because he was also in love with Irene. He had never divulged his feelings to anyone because he remembered his brother’s oath that night up on the mountain and so he kept his feelings to himself.

One time, around the end of August, they had all gone for the Saint John’s celebration to a small church on the other side of the peninsula, where they went every year. It was an annual celebration that lasted three days. People from all the villages in that part of Crete would travel on foot or with their donkeys or mules to a site near the church, where they set up camp and spent the following three nights and days celebrating, eating, dancing, and having a good time. Every year when the dancing would start, Pericles was always first in line and would lead the dances for hours. Irene was there as well with her parents, and she blushed looking at Pericles doing his exquisite moves as if the musicians played their music to follow his dance steps. At one point Pericles’ eyes caught his beloveds’ and suddenly his legs seemed to grow wings and his feet scarcely touched the ground any longer. He was like an eagle, like an ancient god floating in the clouds. He asked the lyre player to quicken the rhythm, and as he danced he became the image of a young man fighting the elements and defying nature, becoming free. When that dance finished, he called for the one they called pidihtos, ‘the leaping one,’ a furiously fast dance that involved a lot of jumping. One had to have the best health and the strongest legs to dance it."

The old man took a deep breath. He let his glance travel from the boy’s face to the road, where a couple of men were walking and in loud voices debating something obviously very important to them. Then his glance fell back to the boy and, as if taking power from the child’s sweet eyes, he fixed his eyes to the south where his Crete was located and imagined he was there again at the Saint John’s festivities. He was again the leader, first in the line, dancing the pidihtos. One word would be enough for him to get up there on the veranda and start dancing like he did back then.

Ah, the ravaging of age, let it be cursed, he thought, and a faint smile appeared on his face as if he had already beaten the years that had passed and had already finished dancing his pidihtos.

The boy’s eyes flashed as he admired the bravery of the young men of Crete. He wanted nothing more than to do this too, to be in Crete at the Saint John’s celebration and take part in the pidihtos. He wanted to be as brave as the men of Crete, to show all others that he was Cretan too, like his grandfather. His desire, which the old man sensed, was reflected in the young boy’s eyes. A wistful smile appeared on the old man’s face, imagining how this young boy would one day be another great man of his lineage, another brave Cretan, and carry the family name with pride. He smiled a wide, happy smile at the thought that his grandson was receiving what he wanted him to receive.

"Yes, they all danced the same way until Menelaus got up and said he wanted to do the same. Pericles tried to talk him out of it, knowing that his health wasn’t good and that his heart might not take the stress, but Menelaus wanted only to do exactly what his twin brother had done. So he got up and joined the pidihtos against everyone’s best advice. And sure enough, he soon went into a paroxysm. His whole body shook as if a strong electric current ran through it. Then he collapsed. They took him to the closest hospital, but he was very sick. He lasted only four days, and then he died.

Before he took his last breath, Menelaus asked to talk to his brother Pericles alone. Everyone left them in the hospital room, and that is when Menelaus finally revealed to his brother that he had also been in love with Irene, that he had also wanted to marry her, but when he heard Pericles’ oath that night he vowed to kept his feelings to himself and never show any sign of his deep love for her. After this confession he died in the arms of his brother – together in birth, together in death. No one ever heard any word from Pericles as to what they had talked about in the room when they were alone. Pericles didn’t even say anything to his Irene, whom he married a few months later."

And Menelaus died, Pappou?

Yes he died, my boy

What happened after?

Pericles married Irene.

How many children did Pericles have, Pappou?

Just one.

What was his name?

Alexander, just like your dad.

Why did he name him Alexander, Pappou?

It’s traditional, my boy, for a son to give his firstborn the name of his own father.

Grandfather, do you have any brothers?

Why?

The boy shrugged his shoulders.

Yes, I have, but go now. Go play with your friends, and next time I’ll tell you another story. There, I see Demetrius coming this way. Go and play with him.

Although Pericles would have preferred to sit and hear another story from his grandfather, he said nothing but got up to welcome his friend Demetrius who, with a broad smile on his face, came through the front gate at that instant, twirling a soccer ball in his hands as if teasing his buddy. Pericles jumped to his feet and rushed from the veranda, and the two boys set up