Friday, May 9, 2014

The Christening And Noah's Flood

The Deluge - Gustave Dore

In the village of Kykko, high in the Troodos where the cool breezes blow and in some places there were patches of snow even though it was coming on to June, the old Plymouth sputtered to a halt at the edge of a fresh-mown field of emerald green. Kykko was just beyond.

"This is the village of my birth," Jim said, looking the happiest Lucky had ever seen him.

The Plymouth coughed, then moved onward  and Lucky could see that the village was set around an old church that looked in ruins at first, but as they neared, it became apparent that serious reconstruction was going on. Scaffolding climbed along the two sides within view, with ladders shooting up to the belfry.

"Kykko was once very poor," Jim said, "and the church wasn’t good for anything except to pen up goats. But as you can see, things are better now."

Lucky saw that long wooden tables and benches had been set up outside the church and colorful banners and paper decorations festooned the lower reaches of the scaffolding. Scores of people swarmed around the tables, all wearing their best clothes. Women carried covered pots and baskets of food while the men congregated in the shade, gossiping, smoking cigarettes and sneaking occasional nips from bottles hidden in their coats. Children were dashing around, squealing and generally getting underfoot, while a dozen or so adolescent boys and girls flirted within the stern view of yah-yahs in black dresses and shawls.

When Jim pulled up, everyone hurried to meet him, laughing happily and shouting greetings. Lucky stood shyly by while Jim’s hand was shaken by the men and his cheeks kissed by the women. Then he introduced Lucky and they made him feel like quite the important visitor, praising his looks and urging him to come refresh himself.

Soon he and Jim were seated at a table shaded by a striped awning, with cool drinks in their hands and plates of sweets before them. People hovered over Jim while he told them the news in Nicosia and they all chattered about mutual friends. Lucky remained silent, drinking it all in. Although he was very happy and curious about his surroundings, he was a little overwhelmed by everything he’d already experienced and wasn’t quite up to deciphering the joyous Greek babble going on all around him.

What impressed him most were the enormous preparations that had been made for the Christening. Lucky was well aware that peasant families in Cyprus suffered from many infant deaths. Athena told him that among the poorest villagers few of the babies born reached the first year of life. And so it was traditional in Cyprus to delay the Christening, and the official naming of a child, until it was a year old. This made the baptismal ceremony an especially important occasion and it was treated like a grand feast day, or a wedding.

Lucky wasn’t totally inexperienced with events of this kind. He’d attended several Irish Catholic baptisms in Philadelphia which were quite elaborate and featured doting parents, anxious godparents and teary relations by the score. First communions and confirmations were also celebrated with much ceremony. But they paled by comparison to what was happening now.

Musicians were striding up and down the village green, tuning their stringed instruments and some of the village youths had dressed up for a dance. The dancers-to-be were all decked out in traditional Cypriot costumes: Doupletti for the women – a pleated white skirt, with a blue cape that crisscrossed over either shoulder like a cape and a high collar embroidered in white and set off with colorful beads.

Thea, the junior maid of the Cole household, told him later that the outfit was usually constructed out of old bridal costumes. The men’s costumes were similarly constructed from groom’s wear – a vra’ka worn with a striped silk shirt and a kerchief tied about his neck of the same material. The shirt sleeves were voluminous and were set off with a black, embroidered vest, a fancy black cummerbund and baggy black trousers that tucked into high black boots. With glittering stones set here and there, Lucky thought the men were almost as flashy as the women.

When Lucky murmured to Jim, "You do all this for a baptism?" Jim whispered back, "Sure, Lucky, but there’s a double reason for this festival. Today is also in remembrance of the end of the flood."

"Flood?" Lucky asked, voice rising. "What flood?"

"Noah’s flood, Lucky," Jim said. He grinned, "You’ve heard of Noah, haven’t you?"

Feeling a bit silly, Lucky shrugged, "Sure," he said. But he was no wiser.

A young priest in vestments of white and gold stepped out of the church, with robed altar boys on either side. Someone rang the church bells and the whole crowd came to attention. The musicians played a stirring song while the crowd lined up in twin rows to make an aisle into the church. This was all done with a minimum of confusion - as if much rehearsed.

Lucky saw the proud mother and father – a young couple dressed in their Sunday best, the mother carrying a bundle wrapped in a fabulous blanket of white silk woven with gold threads. Lucky thought the mother looked as radiant as a bride, her cheeks flushed, her lips slightly parted, bowing over the little bundle like a portrait of the Madonna and Child. The father stood proud, his neck stiff, his eyes staring straight ahead – only a swift look down at his child and a trembling of his hands gave away his nervousness.

A regal woman of middle age stepped up to the couple, ostentatiously kissing the father, then the mother and then bending low – a beatific smile on her lips – kissing the child. The godmother, Lucky surmised. There were fervent whispers… his ears perked up… his Greek was working now… the godmother, it seemed, had a certain familiarity with the father of the child. There were giggles. It was an older woman teaching a young man.

Then, to his complete surprise, Jim broke away and hurried to join the small procession. The church bells pealed and the musicians came together to strike up a lovely melody, Jim kissed the mother, the father and then paused as he came to the godmother. More giggles. More whispers… was Jim a former favorite of this grand-looking woman? Jim embraced her, delivered a quick kiss, then leaned over the child – murmuring endearments and giving the baby such a sweet kiss, accompanied with a smile so loving that everyone applauded and people cried out that this was the luckiest baptism in village history.

The church was ablaze with flickering candlelight which had the odd effect of making the statues of the holy figures seem as if they were alive. At the altar, the priest and two young assistants waited where a baptismal stand had been set up – a baby size urn full of water, anointing oil in glass containers. One of the boys had a censer filled with burning incense and when the priest signaled him, the boy swung it gently on its chain, letting perfumed smoke drift over the procession. The baby sneezed and people murmured that this was a lucky sign.

Finally, the ceremony commenced – the baby dipped into water, anointed with oil, prayed over and named – Sofia. Jim and the older woman solemnly swore that as godparents they would see to the child’s welfare and religious education. When it was over, everyone babbled their congratulations at once and crowded in to kiss the parents and coo at the baby. Then the musicians started playing and they all trooped out of the church.

Lucky thought the feast was about to start – he was starving. But instead, from up the road, he heard drums banging, horns blowing and the distinctive music of violins and laouto - lutes with four double strings that were played with the point of a quill.

More villagers were  marching toward them, all decked out in traditional costumes and dancing along in time of the music. Several brawny lads carried a large, replica of Noah’s ark, complete with a painted zoo of animals and the faces of Noah and his family. Everyone joined the parade, including Jim and Lucky – who’d momentarily forgotten his hunger – and they trooped through the village, picking up more people as they went.

Soon they came to a swift creek that rushed down the mountainside past the village and they followed the creek until they came to its source: a large cave, whose mouth was barred with thick iron grates. Lucky bent back as far as he could, looking up the steep mountainside that housed the cave. The village was so high in the Troodos that the mountains above them were mostly gray stone, with a few stunted trees and spindly bushes. Lucky could see the peaks, not that far overhead, still lightly crusted with snow. He looked back at the cave, then knelt by the creek and scooped up some water.

He drank – the water was freezing cold and had just a bit of salty taste. Even so, it was delicious. Meanwhile, the parade had broken up and people were singing and dancing and splashing each other with water. Children ran around with buckets, hurling water at each other. Jim, standing along downstream, was watching with much amusement. He waved for Lucky to join him and when he did, Jim pointed out some rocks in the creek, then used them to jump to the other side. Lucky did the same.

Jim started down a narrow goat track that paralleled the creek, Lucky followed. Soon they came to an outcropping of rock. Jim jumped up on it, pushed through some spindly bushes and disappeared along another trail. Lucky hurried to follow. It was quiet among the trees, the ground littered with pine needles and cones. The trail was steep and winding and Lucky lost sight of Jim for a moment. He hurried to catch up, his legs straining, his breath short in the thin air.

When he finally found Jim, he nearly ran into him. He stumbled and Jim caught his arm. "Steady," he said.

Suddenly Lucky realized he and Jim were standing at the edge of a cliff. The boy peered down, saw nothing but sheer rock for hundreds upon hundreds of feet, with distant waves breaking over boulders far below. He gave a start and stepped back.

"It’s okay," Jim said, "I won’t let you fall."

Mustering his nerve, Lucky moved forward again, looking out over the blue, blue Mediterranean. The festival music was now very faint, stirring the air no more than the natural music of the breeze and the swift-rushing creek.

Jim pointed. "Do you see that shadow over there?" he asked. "Just on the horizon."

Lucky immediately saw the purple haze humping up on the horizon’s edge. At first he thought it was nothing more than low-hanging clouds, but the closer he looked, the more they seemed to take on substance and shape.

"Those are the mountains of Turkey," Jim said. "About sixty sea miles away." Lucky nodded. He knew Turkey was close, but not this close. "That creek we just came from," Jim said, "the one whose waters you tasted… originated in those mountains."

The boy goggled. How could that be?

Jim said, "The scientists tell us that the water melting from those mountains so far away travel in an underground river beneath the sea, then – because of the pressure – the water comes up through a fault in the Troodos mountains and gushes out through that cave you saw. I suppose that thousands of years ago it was just a trickle coming through a crack in the rocks. As time passed, the water made a bigger opening – a cave."

Lucky nodded. He could see how that could be so.

"But that’s not the important thing to people in this village, Lucky," Jim said. "They don’t care about the science. It isn’t the science they are celebrating today – but the myth. The magic."

"You mean about the flood?" Lucky said. "Noah’s flood?"

"Exactly, Lucky," Jim said. "The story is that when the flood ended – and waters receded – that Noah and ark came to rest on those mountains that you see. Those Turkish mountains. And the first thing Mr. Noah did, after thanking God and releasing the animals, and so forth, was to plant a grape vine. Well, as the myth goes, that vine was so blessed by God that it broke through the very rock and made a course all the way into the bed of the sea. And the roots then bored through the ocean’s bottom until they rose again until they came to Cyprus. There, the holy grapes flourished, just as they did in far off Turkey."

"I didn’t see any grapes in the village," Lucky said. "It’s probably too high up, right?"

Jim laughed. "Ever the skeptic," he said. "But you are quite correct. There are no grapes growing in the this village. But if you followed the stream to Paphos you would see some of the finest vines in the world. Before the British took us, Cyprus was renowned for its wines. Of course, the Turks kept it all for themselves, so the news didn’t travel far."

Lucky looked out at the distant headlands of Turkey. "Do you really think there was a great flood, like it says in the bible, or do you think it’s just a story?"

Jim shrugged and said, "I’m not a scientist, of course, but my professors in Athens taught us that the story of the great flood is common all over the world. Native people as far away as Asia and Australia all have stories about a flood that destroyed everyone. And most also have tales about a man in a boat, or a big canoe, or something like that, taking his family and livestock and seeds from his farm to a new place."

Lucky was astounded. "Really?" he asked. "All over the world?"

Jim ginned, saying, "That’s what my professors told us and they had no reason to lie. One or two were even atheists – communists with no belief in God. It was a biblical puzzle that troubled their non-believing views."

"What do you think?" Lucky asked.

Jim thought a minute, then crouched down and dug into the grit between two boulders. He must have found what he was looking for because he suddenly smiled and scooped something out of the grit.

"I think life is more difficult to understand now, Lucky," he said. "In the old days no one would question that the gods did this or that or the other thing. If a god wanted to flood the world, so be it. If another wanted to punish Prometheus for blessing mankind with fire, science, and music, why it must be so. But these days we insist on evidence of some kind. Evidence you can see with your own eyes."

And with that he opened his hand, showing Lucky three perfect sea shells.

"How else do you account for seashells in the mountains of Troodos, Lucky?" Jim asked with a dazzling smile. "Maybe God did it. Maybe the ice caps melted and the seas rose. But here we are with seashells, so we know that at one time everything here was under water. And so, maybe someplace, some intelligent people built a damned big boat and carried off their family and livestock. Or perhaps, like it says in the Old Testament, God warned Noah and he built an ark and carried away his family and all the beasts of the forest and the field. However you look at it, the stories are the same. God willed the flood. Or Nature did. I suppose clever men can quarrel about the difference forever – for all that it matters."

Jim handed Lucky two of the shells, but kept back one – smooth and glossy and shaped like a football. He said, "My little cousin Sofia was Christened today – they made her already innocent soul even more innocent."

Lucky said, "Yeah, washing away original sin."

"Yes, original sin," Jim said. "The curse of mankind. The curse of Prometheus, if you trace the idea back.

"But let us remain with the question of the lovely soul of my sweet little cousin. In time, Sofia will grow to be the darling of the village, stealing the hearts of many boys. She will marry, become a mother, then a grandmother. She will have happiness and suffering – to be human is to suffer. And she will grow old and she will die like all of us. But what about her soul? Your church, my church – everybody’s church – claims that the soul is immortal."

He held up the polished shell between two fingers. "Possibly the soul is like this shell, which held a living thing thousands and thousands of years ago."

Lucky jumped – startled - as Jim suddenly squeezed his fingers together and turned the shell into dust. Jim dramatically held out his hand and blew the particles away.

"Is this what happens to the soul?" Jim asked. "Dust into dust, even for holy spirits? Or, is there even such a thing as a soul? When life ends, does the creature who contained it – man or ant – end forever? On the other hand, is the soul the sturdy, immortal spirit of life-giving energy that religions claim it is?"

He waited for Lucky’s answer. After a time, the boy shook his head. "I don’t know," he said.

Jim laughed. "Neither do I, my Lucky old sun. And if you should ever find the answer, I pray you tell your old teacher what you think. Now, come, the music is fading. We’d better hurry before they eat all the food."

Lucky’s hunger returned and he rushed after Jim back to the square by the church. The priest was just putting some final blessings on the scene, swinging his clattering censer and sending out thick clouds of smoke across the empty banquet tables. Then there were shouts, a wild wail of music and everybody ran to find a seat. One of Jim’s cousins, a giggling country girl, showed him where to sit – at the head of one table with Lucky at his side.

Then the heavy scent of incense was suddenly overcome by food smells, and Lucky’s belly groaned in anticipation. Women and girls came pouring out from every direction, carrying platters and trays of food. The entire village had contributed to the feast, with each household competing with the next for the deliciousness of its sacred family recipes.

First were the appetizers, delectables like the creamy cucumber Tsatsiki; or Tahini, where you dipped your bread into a paste of smoky sesame seeds, olive oil and garlic. Then there was Spanachopita, wild spinach from the fields wrapped in thin pastry; and of course, Manitaria, which was mushrooms cooked in garlic, onions, peppers and the fat red tomatoes bursting on the vine that grew up one of the legs of the church scaffolding.

As always, there were several varieties of humus, each family proudly presenting its version of the savory paste made from chick peas, olive oil, garlic and lemon. Then out of the big clay ovens came the main courses – roasts of mutton and lamb, pork and beef and fish and fowl of every variety. All accompanied with the blankets of the fresh vegetables that had smothered the various cuts of meat during their long cooking – potatoes and yams and carrots and onions and squashes and greens of every kind. Accompanied by pots of steaming savory rice cooked Cypriot style in a lemony chicken broth spiced with spring onions and pine nuts.

Wine and cognac flowed along with this stream of food, although under Jim’s watchful eye Lucky only had a little retsina, but mostly drank lemon squash made with bottled water. Pastries and sweets were next, with some of the pastries made of dough baked into cloud light delicacies that were so lemony that they were more delicious then the fillings could ever be. Coffee was served, thick and sweet and hot in copper imbrikas straight from the hot sand beds they were brewed in.

People from other villages joined the feast, carrying jugs of wine and spirits and baskets of food. "Kopiaste! Kopiaste!" everyone shouted. Welcome! Welcome! And when they drank the fabulous Cypriot coffee, sometimes laced with cognac, they cried "Stin’evan’sas!" - to your good health.

The party started in earnest and everybody began to dance. The Syrtaki was Lucky’s favorite – he’d practiced it often with Athena. A village girl on either side of him, and urged on by the crowd, he began – stepping forward with the left foot, tapping the heel of his right then kicking it forward. And then reverse – right foot back, left heel tapping, left foot kicking back.

The music went faster and faster until everything was a happy blur.

Much later, as they drove home – winding down out of the Troodos with the cool evening breeze blowing through the open windows – Lucky sat quietly next to Jim, sifting through the day’s events.

It had started with Saint Paul, then Aphrodite, the ancient Mother Goddess, the christening, the festival of Noah’s flood, the river that came all the way under the sea from Turkey, and then the feasting and dancing. He sighed.

What a marvelous day it had been. Then the moon rose over the broad central plain.

And far, far away he could see the ancient walls of Nicosia climbing above the horizon.

Jim said, "You should sleep, Lucky."

Lucky closed his eyes, listening to someone singing a sweet Greek ballad on the car radio.

The translation came to him effortlessly.

It was as if his mind had been unlocked and the words came tumbling out:

"…Old songs that sang themselves to me,
Sweet through a boy's day dream,
While trout below the blossom'd tree
Plashed in the golden stream…"

And soon he slept.

NEXT: THE SAGA OF KEROSENE ERIC


*****
*****
LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!



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Friday, May 2, 2014

Saint Paul And The Mother Goddess


With an unsteady finger he pointed down the street at a ramshackle building that was at the triangular point of two intersecting streets. "And that place is where he and Saint Barnabas lived when they were in Paphos."

The old man indicated the road in front of the taverna – a narrow lane paved with pebbles laid over an old Roman road. "Saint Paul used to walk down that very street every day to get his breakfast here at the taverna," the old man said. "Sometimes Barnabas was with him. Sometimes not. They weren’t getting along so well at that time, you know, and didn’t always speak to one another."

"What nonsense are you telling the American boy, Stephanos?" protested one of the other old men at the table. "It was during Saint Paul’s second trip to Cyprus that they quarreled. At first they were the best of friends – like brothers!"

Lucky glanced at Jim, who only shrugged, but his eyes were twinkling. On the way to Jim’s home village high in the Troodos Mountains, they had stopped in Paphos for refreshment. The usual group of old men playing tavali under a shade tree had taken an interest in Lucky and when they learned that Jim was the boy’s teacher, they decided to get into the act themselves – instructing Lucky about Saint Paul and Barnabas, the patron saint of Cyprus.

Stephanos took offense at being corrected by his table mate. He thumped his chest and demanded, "Who are you to teach me about Barnabas? Was he not a cousin of my family in Salamis?" He leaned close to Lucky, his ouzo breath practically singeing the boy’s eyebrows. "We used to be Jews like Barnabas," he said, "but then the Romans started killing all the Jews so we became pagans. After that the Empress of Constantinople said we had to be Christians, so we agreed that we must be Christians after all."

"But what about St. Paul?" Lucky asked, trying to steer the conversation back to its starting point. "Did he really live in that house? And did he really take his meals here? At this table?"

"Of course he did," Stephanos said. "Since before the Romans Paphos has always been Paphos. And there has always been a place for travelers to stay at that very spot. And this taverna – there has always been a taverna here. See how the road goes."

He nodded at the Roman road that ran through the town. Just beyond were farms that without a doubt went back to antiquity. Then he indicated how the road went past the boarding house to the harbor, where the stench of the smoky charcoal pits competed with the smell of the resin factories. "Always we make the charcoal here. Always the resin from the Troodos pine forests. Always this road goes this way, and always people are thirsty and hungry and sleepy, so you have the taverna and the hotel."

He displayed open palms to Lucky as if to ask how could this logic be anything but irrefutable.

"But, you said Saint Paul ate at this very table," Lucky persisted. "This very table!" Lucky pressed a finger against the table, rocking it back and forth. It was very old and rickety, but nearly two thousand years old he did not believe.

Stephanos gave a tired sigh, then he reached down and picked up a stone that was bracing one side of the table. He handed it to Lucky, who gaped, because the stone was actually a finger from a marble statue.

"And over there," the old man said, pointing. Lucky was startled to see a dirty marble arm, propping open the back door of the café. Stephanos pounded the table. "What do you make of that, American boy?" he demanded. "Is Stephanos a teller of false stories?"

Lucky shook his head - no, it didn’t seem so – and Stephanos grinned in toothless victory at his friends.

Jim said it was time to go and Lucky shyly thanked his new friends and left a few shillings on the table to buy a round of drinks. They drove for awhile, not saying anything. Lucky looked at the passing landscape with new eyes. He saw the remnants of ancient Rome everywhere. Torsos and limbs of old statues lying in the fields, Roman columns half-supporting houses and even goat sheds.

He saw a black-cloaked priest coming down the road, a long staff with a crook to support him, a boy running by his side, carrying his sacramental purse. The priest had a tall hat and a thick black beard that reached his waist. Long wooden beads hung at his side, and as they passed and Jim smiled a hello, Lucky could hear the beads clacking.

Through half-closed eyes Lucky imagined that the priest was Paul, come to Cyprus at the urging of Barnabas, to convert the people to Christianity. It took no trouble at all – one minute he was in the car with Jim, the next in 46 A.D., running by Paul’s side, bearing the sacrament – the holy host - to some poor, dying person.

"It’s like it all happened only yesterday," Lucky murmured.

Jim looked at him with a crooked grin and said, "In Cyprus the past is always close. The old man, Stephanos, spoke as if he had seen Saint Paul only yesterday. Well, in the minds of Stephanos and his friends, that’s exactly what happened. And Barnabas – oh – he’s even closer, because he one of us. A Cypriot, a cousin, possibly even a brother or an uncle."

Jim curled his fingers together into a fist. "That’s how close Stephanos feels to Barnabas." Jim tossed the hand outward, uncurling the fingers, as if throwing something. "You should know that what Stephanos didn’t tell you – was ashamed to say – was that Barnabas was stoned to death in that very square. And quite possibly an ancestor of Stephanos threw the stone that made a martyr and a saint of Barnabas."

Jim chuckled and shook his head. "We are an island of living ghosts, Lucky," he said. "Phoenician ghosts. Egyptian ghosts. Persian ghosts. Athenian ghosts. Roman and Turkish and Venetian and now British ghosts." He reached out and rubbed Lucky’s head affectionately. "And now I have my young American ghost," he said.

"I’m no ghost," Lucky said. Then he thought about who he really was – the son of a spy; a spook – and laughed, saying, "Okay, you’re right. I’m a ghost."

Jim laughed as well, although he didn’t really know what Lucky’s joke was.

They were winding their way up into the mountains now and as they came to a dirt track, Jim pulled the car over, saying, "I want to show you a very special ghost, Lucky. The most important ghost in Paphos, and maybe in all of Cyprus and beyond."

They got out of the car, which was the old black Plymouth borrowed from Kyriakos, and walked down a narrow goat trail that ran through a grove of tall pines. The only sound was the distant whisper of the breeze tickling the very top branches and the soft passage of their feet over the nettled path. As they walked, the scent of the crushed nettles rose up, so sharp, it made Lucky’s eyes tear. Small lizards and insects froze in their presence, then scuttled away, sometimes practically dashing under their feet. Lucky and Jim had to walk carefully so they didn’t hurt the little creatures.

As always, there were long lines of ants bisecting the path and Lucky took professional note of their species and habits. He saw one group dragging a still-living centipede into a nest.

Then Lucky heard faint sounds overhead – a scrape of something hard against wood. A shiver ran down his back. He had the strangest feeling that something – or someone -was watching him. He paused, looking up, peering through the branches which were only partially illuminated by the sun’s dappling light. Then, gradually, he saw a pair of huge yellow eyes peering down at him and their pupils were strangely slanted.

He jumped, old superstitions crawling up as he momentarily thought he was looking into the eyes of Satan.

Then he laughed, a little weakly, when he realized it was not Satan, but a goat. And from the look in its eye and the heavy horns on its head, it was an angry billy goat at that. Lucky stepped hastily to the side as the goat let go a load of urine and feces. It bleated, rubbed its horns against the branches and started eating again. Lucky sighed with relief. Then he saw other goats in the trees, casually walking along the branches and feeding on the pine needles. He had no idea goats could climb trees, but there they were, not only bigger than life, but trying to shit on him as well.

Jim told him later that it was a mouflon, a kind of wild goat, thought to be the ancestor of all modern domestic breeds.

He heard Demetrakis call his name and Lucky left the goat to move onward, pushing through a stand of soft, fragrant fern and he soon he came into a small grotto set into a mossy hillside that dripped with moisture.

"Here, Lucky," Jim said, pointing at what at first appeared to be an oddly-shaped hunk of gray stone, about the size of a small child.

Lucky frowned. Set around the stone were the melted remains of candles and what seemed to be food set on leaf platters. Ants and other insects were streaming across the platters, carrying the remains away.

"Look closer," Jim said.

Lucky leaned down and saw that the stone was actually an extremely worn carving of a woman – she was quite fat with a bulging belly, pendulous breasts and exaggerated private parts. She seemed to be seated on a sort of a chair with long arms that had faint cat-like faces at the ends. What he could make out of the woman’s features was a simple oval with marks for the mouth and nose and wide-gaping stone eyes.

"This is Aphrodite," Jim said. He waved a hand, indicating the candles and the remains of the food. "And this is a temple where people worship her in secret. They burn candles and make offerings, praying for her help."

Lucky was amazed. All the pictures he’d seen of Aphrodite were from the Greeks and Romans, displaying fabulously beautiful women who could be modern film stars. "She’s kind of, you know…" the boy broke off, about to say that she was fat and ugly. He didn’t want to offend the goddess, even if she was just an old hunk of stone.

"This is a very primitive form of the goddess," Jim said. "Before she was even known as Aphrodite. Before Ishtar, or Inanna, or even Isis. Some scholars say she is the Mother Goddess, worshipped by people all over the Mediterranean before the time of Noah and the flood."

Jim shrugged. "It’s possible she goes back even before that to the stone age. Even so, it was from this ancient goddess that the legend of Aphrodite grew – and from there to Mary, the mother of Jesus. The old mother goddess is usually depicted so – seated on a throne of two leopards as she is about to give birth to a holy child."

He pointed and Lucky saw a baby’s head emerging from between her thighs.

Puzzled, Lucky asked, "But that was so long ago and people still come here to worship?"

Jim said, "People in trouble look for help where they can find it. Down in Paphos you can visit the bath of Aphrodite, where there is a replica of the goddess as she was idealized by the Athenians. Very beautiful. The original mosaic is in Nicosia. Aphrodite, of course, was supposedly born in Paphos and it is more than likely that the myth of the goddess of love was inspired by early worshippers who visited places like this."

Lucky thought a minute, then said, "So we have, St. Paul and St. Barnabas and the Mother Goddess and Aphrodite, the Goddess Of Love, all in one place?"

Jim smiled. "Yes, Lucky," he said. "All in one place."

He started to turn away, hesitated and almost blessed himself, then he grinned ruefully at the superstition and led Lucky out of the grove.

‘Now, we’ll go see the beginning of things, the result of love," he told Lucky. "The baptism of my cousin’s little girl."

NEXT: THE CHRISTENING AND NOAH’S FLOOD


*****
*****
LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!



Here's where to get the paperback & Kindle editions worldwide: 


Here's what readers say about Lucky In Cyprus:
  • "Bravo, Allan! When I finished Lucky In Cyprus I wept." - Julie Mitchell, Hot Springs, Texas
  • "Lucky In Cyprus brought back many memories... A wonderful book. So many shadows blown away!" - Freddy & Maureen Smart, Episkopi,Cyprus. 
  • "... (Reading) Lucky In Cyprus has been a humbling, haunting, sobering and enlightening experience..." - J.A. Locke, Bookloons.com
*****
NEW: THE AUDIOBOOK VERSION OF

THE HATE PARALLAX

THE HATE PARALLAX: What if the Cold War never ended -- but continued for a thousand years? Best-selling authors Allan Cole (an American) and Nick Perumov (a Russian) spin a mesmerizing "what if?" tale set a thousand years in the future, as an American and a Russian super-soldier -- together with a beautiful American detective working for the United Worlds Police -- must combine forces to defeat a secret cabal ... and prevent a galactic disaster! This is the first - and only - collaboration between American and Russian novelists. Narrated by John Hough. Click the title links below for the trade paperback and kindle editions. (Also available at iTunes.)

*****


THE SPYMASTER'S DAUGHTER:


A new novel by Allan and his daughter, Susan


After laboring as a Doctors Without Borders physician in the teaming refugee camps and minefields of South Asia, Dr. Ann Donovan thought she'd seen Hell as close up as you can get. And as a fifth generation CIA brat, she thought she knew all there was to know about corruption and betrayal. But then her father - a legendary spymaster - shows up, with a ten-year-old boy in tow. A brother she never knew existed. Then in a few violent hours, her whole world is shattered, her father killed and she and her kid brother are one the run with hell hounds on their heels. They finally corner her in a clinic in Hawaii and then all the lies and treachery are revealed on one terrible, bloody storm ravaged night.



BASED ON THE CLASSIC STEN SERIES by Allan Cole & Chris Bunch: Fresh from their mission to pacify the Wolf Worlds, Sten and his Mantis Team encounter a mysterious ship that has been lost among the stars for thousands of years. At first, everyone aboard appears to be long dead. Then a strange Being beckons, pleading for help. More disturbing: the presence of AM2, a strategically vital fuel tightly controlled by their boss - The Eternal Emperor. They are ordered to retrieve the remaining AM2 "at all costs." But once Sten and his heavy worlder sidekick, Alex Kilgour, board the ship they must dare an out of control defense system that attacks without warning as they move through dark warrens filled with unimaginable horrors. When they reach their goal they find that in the midst of all that death are the "seeds" of a lost civilization. 
*****



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U.S. .............................................France
United Kingdom ...........................Spain
Canada ........................................ Italy
Germany ..................................... Japan
Brazil .......................................... India

TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
NOW AN AUDIOBOOK!

Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969
In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with  a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is  "The Blue Meanie,"  a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself. 
***** 
STEN #1: NOW IN SPANISH!


Diaspar Magazine - the best SF magazine in South America - is publishing the first novel in the Sten series in four  episodes. Here are the links: 

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