Thursday, July 24, 2014

Journey Into Magic - And Sorrow

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St. Andreas Monastary

In early September, Jim took Lucky on an extended weekend trip to see "the place where the world ends."

Intrigued, Lucky pressed Jim to explain, but no matter how many times he asked, Jim wouldn't give him the smallest hint. The refusal fired Lucky's imagination even more and he began to wonder what the ancients might have called "world's end." He thought of beautiful Sirens trying to entice the cunning Odysseus to the rocky shoals, or maybe it was the mountain that Sisyphus was eternally climbing, pushing the great boulder that was the world before him.

Of course, he didn't really think Jim would introduce him to any Sirens, much less Sisyphus, but in Cyprus you were very likely to get a damned good representation of them - a beautiful woman who said she was descended from the Sirens; or a strong man who claimed to be a descendant of one of Sisyphus' human sons. One would no doubt do nothing more than sing and play the lyre, while the other would bend iron nails between thumb and forefinger, rather than push a big rock. Even so, the prospects were intriguing.

They traveled with Jim's friend Kyriakos, who drove his faithful black Plymouth. They took a bundle of old British Army blankets with them, because, Jim said, at one point there would be nowhere to sleep but on sandy dunes by the sea. A jug of Cypriot insect repellent was also stowed away with their gear – apparently the mosquitoes and sand fleas were notorious in this section.

Their destination was Cape Andreas, the eastern tip of the island. With many miles of some roughest roads in Cyprus ahead of them, they took off Friday evening. They spent the night just outside Larnaca with a stone cutter’s family – a relation of Jim’s. They were poor people, with little to spare, but they immediately ran to their cupboards to empty them for their guests. Jim had wisely stopped on the way to fill a basket from the market in Larnaca, so he replaced much more than they gave.

Poor as the people were, the dinner was delicious – grape leaves stuffed with rice and vegetables; a delicious tomato and green onion salad with fetah sprinkled liberally on top; a huge bowl of lentils and wild greens picked from the field adjacent to the stone quarry, with tomatoes chopped up in it; chicken and dumpling stew with thick gravy; and finally, a big platter of pastries filled with cheese and olives and spiced yogurt made from goat’s milk.

Lucky was treated with elaborate courtesy – no one in the family had ever seen an American before. The children were especially shy, hiding in the only other room of the adobe cottage and peering at him from around corners with huge black eyes. But he’d encountered this sort of thing before and had a few tricks up his sleeve to relieve the tension. He whispered to Jim, who beamed and clapped his hands and announced in Greek that “Mr. Lucky” was going to perform a bit of magic. Everyone was intrigued.

Lucky rolled up his sleeves and bared his hands and arms for all to see. The children crept out while he kept up a little patter he’d concocted. He’d worked the whole thing out in Greek, had Jim correct his grammar, and then committed his little act to memory.

“A long time ago,” he intoned, “my famous cousin, Hopalong Cassidy, rescued an Indian witch doctor.”

Everyone murmured at this. Even in Cyprus, Hopalong Cassidy was known to one and all. The children’s eyes grew huge when he invoked the legendary name.

“In gratitude, this old Indian wizard taught Hoppy the secret of controlling water. Like Moses, he could command water to do his bidding. To rise, or to fall.”

During all this Jim – ever the willing magician’s assistant – laid out Lucky’s props. A plate. A candle. Some matches. And a glass of water. Lucky lit the candle, tipped it down so wax spilled on the center of the plate, then fixed the candle into the quickly cooling wax so that it would stand upright.

“It was my good fortune,” Lucky said, “that Hopalong Cassidy is not only my cousin, but my Godfather. And so, when I came of age, he showed me the witch doctor’s secret. A secret I will demonstrate to you now.”

Lucky emptied the water glass into the plate, so that there was a miniature sea around the blazing candle.

“Watch!” Lucky barked, making the children jump – and even a few of the adults. He held the glass out with both hands and intoned: “Hocus-pocus-dominocus!”

And he placed the glass over the burning candle. Jim had trimmed the bottom for him so that there was plenty of room between the burning wick and the top of the glass.

Lucky waved his hands over the makeshift lamp, intoning once again – “Hocus-pocus-dominocus!”

He could see the little kids mouthing the words as he said them. Their eyes fixed firmly on the glass. Then everyone gasped as the water in the plate suddenly started disappearing. Very quickly, the water vanished from the plate – and was transferred into the glass as if by some mysterious force. The water level in the glass climbed higher and higher and Lucky kept waving his hands like a great sorcerer, muttering hocus-pocus all the while. Finally all the water from the plate was gone and was now inside the glass.

Just before the oxygen-starved flame went out – Lucky had this trick timed to the split second – Lucky shouted: “Be done!” The kids nearly jumped out of their skin at his shout, and then the candle fluttered, as if obeying his command, and blinked off.

For a long moment the kids and the adults stared at him as if he were some sort of fabulous wizard. Then he grinned and the moment broke and the adults laughed and the kids all started shouting, “How did you do it, how did you do it?” And now came Lucky’s favorite part – his ultimate ice breaker. He told the kids that it was not magic at all but a trick of science. A trick they could do themselves and amaze all their friends.

He told them that actually the Greeks had discovered the secret in ancient times – way before the Indian witch doctor. (He didn’t say the Indian had been made up by him, because it would have spoiled the little drama.) He explained that it was based on something they had already learned in school. That fire requires oxygen. And that air has weight. So, if the candle is burning in an enclosed glass, it will use up all the air – the oxygen – creating a vacuum. And that the glass will suck up the water surrounding it until the pressure – the weight – inside the glass equals the pressure outside.

Some of the adults frowned, but every kid in the house got it. They might have been poor, but they had good teachers. They all jumped up and down and yelled for him to do it again. So he did – twice more. Which was just enough for them to memorize not just how the trick was done, but the all important Hopalong Cassidy, Indian witch doctor preface. Lucky got a kick out of that as he remembered what Jim had told him after the first he’d performed the trick.

“The way they’ll tell the story,” he said, “is that they learned this magical transfiguration from a mysterious American lad, named Mr. Lucky, who was the cousin of the great cowboy hero, Hopalong Cassidy. Who saved the life of the medicine man, etc… The point being, it will be their personal connection to you that will be most important.

“And so, my young scholar, in the end you will become a Cypriot myth. A small one, perhaps, but a myth just the same. And you know how myths are in Cyprus – they last forever.”

Lucky shrugged. He’d seen too many worn out statues to trust myths. “I’d rather write my own book about Cyprus,” he said. “It might not live forever, but it will around as long as the there is a Library Of Congress.”

Jim smiled a rather sad smile and put a hand on Lucky’s shoulder. “I know you won’t forget us,” he said. “But a book takes dedication. Forbearance. And complete belief in yourself and your subject. These are qualities I wanted to impart to you, Lucky. I hope I have partly succeeded and pray that another teacher will take up my task in the future. If not, you must learn to believe in yourself, Lucky.

“If you want to write – to truly write – then you must make that the only goal in your life. Everything else must be pushed aside.”

He looked at Lucky, his eyes boring in. “Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

Lucky shook his head. “No, I don’t,” he said. “But I think I’ll figure it out as I go along.”

In the morning they had roasted eggs and olives and strong, hot coffee, heavily sweetened with Cypriot honey, with bits of cinnamon bark floating in it. Sufficiently fueled for the day’s journey, they were off very early, climbing down from the stone quarry to be greeted by the sun rising over the sea. They were heading east, after all, the direction where everything begins. So, of course, Lucky had to ask Jim if they were going to see the place where the world ended, why were they traveling east, instead of west, where the sun goes to die?

Jim grinned, saying, “You can decide that question for yourself when you see it.” He laughed and would say no more.

They drove most of the day on winding roads that were so pot-holed and rough in some places that it would have been faster to get out and walk. Despite the wear and tear on his car Kyriakos pressed on, saying he had just installed new springs and wanted to break them in, so the bad roads were actually doing him a favor. Several times they hit bumps so hard that the Plymouth bottomed out and Lucky winced, remember how his father had scraped the oil pan off their old Dodge many years ago.

After a time, the whole coastline became desolate and dreary, seared orange and black by the hot sun. Kyriakos rolled down the front windows and he and Jim tied strips of wet cloth in the gaps so the rushing wind would cool them as they drove. Just when Lucky thought he had left civilization forever, they came upon a small fishing village, shaded by ancient cypress and fig trees.

The adobe homes and shops were startling white under the blazing sun, with the backdrop of the Mediterranean. Except here, the sea wasn’t only blue. There were many colors – gray and green and even red, before the waters blended into the familiar crystalline blue. Jim said it was because of the different minerals in the silted-up harbor – apparently the village had once been a great Roman port, but had been deserted as the river that flowed into the harbor deposited more silt than the Romans had money or patience to dredge.

But even as a small, almost afterthought-of-a- village, Lucky found the place charming and welcome. At the taverna he drank gallons of iced lemonade while nibbling on a tray of honeyed fruits – sliced pears, apples, peaches and oranges and lemons. The whole area, it turned out, was noted for its orchards and the plump fruit they produced. A river arched down from the mountains through a miniature desert to reach this point and the fruit trees grew in great profusion. The villagers also grew peanuts in the sandy soil and these they toasted and salted with countless varieties of hot spices. While Jim was organizing food for the night’s campout dinner, Lucky bought several big paper sacks of different peanuts.

Lucky noticed that the villagers had a different look than other Cypriots. Their skin and hair was generally lighter and some even had blue eyes. Jim said there was a legend that a group of soldiers from the last Crusade were driven ashore during a storm and settled here, instead of joining their brothers in the bloody battles in Jerusalem. And these people were their descendents.

Jim said if they continued along the beach – following what amounted to a goat track, they would come upon a ruined city – with nothing but broken monuments and shattered pieces of pottery to mark its presence. He said the Romans had maintained a ship-building area there, with long stone docks that ran out into the sea. They weren’t visible now, but at low tide a man could make his way across them and look like he was walking on water.

“Do you think that might have been Jesus’ secret, Lucky?” he teased. “When our Savior walked on the waters of the Sea Of Galilee, was he actually walking on the rocks of a sunken Roman dock?” Lucky brushed it aside. He wanted to know more about the mysterious city. “Why don’t we drive along the road a little  more and see what we find,” Jim advised.

And so they drove on, but it wasn’t the short expedition that Jim had hinted at. Instead, the road meandered inland for awhile and they crossed fertile valleys full of tobacco and wheat. The fields were empty – it was mid-day, when only mad dogs and Englishmen would be about. Later the road once again took them to the sea, but by now it was late and everyone was getting tired.

They pulled off the road near a grassy knoll where an ancient oak stood guard over an empty shore. At least it looked empty at first, then Lucky saw a man and his wife – both Turks, from their dress – wading through the surf with a mother camel and its foal. They had large push brooms and were scrubbing mother and child down, to the delight of the camels, who turned this way and that, offering different parts of their hides to be itched.

Lucky was feeling so hot and dirty that he stripped off his clothes and ran straight into the water, where he dipped and dived and rolled and snorkeled like a young seal. Jim and Kyriakos took off their shoes and rolled up their cuffs and padded down to the shore, cooling their feet in the water and chatting with the Turks while Lucky played in the water.

When Lucky finally came out, thirsty and ravenous, Jim called, “Come and have some camel’s milk, Lucky. It’s good and cool now.”

Not knowing what to expect, Lucky waded over to the group. The woman was tossing buckets of cool sea water on the mother camel’s teats. When she stopped, her husband slipped a large gourd beneath the animal and squirted milk into it. The baby camel tried to push in and get some, but the woman laughed and shoved it away, teasing the animal, but at the same time making soothing noises. Lucky had noticed that although Greek Cypriots had a poor opinion of Turks,  that they were among the kindest people he’d ever met when it came to dealing with animals. When an oxen grew old, they put it out on a field to graze and die on its own, instead of killing it and selling its gristly meat to a butcher. The same with dogs and cats. They were cared for until they died a natural death.

Lucky drank the milk, which was very strong and made him cough at the first taste. But after he got used to the flavor he found that he quite liked it. The milk was refreshing, with a hint of sea salt in it, and he emptied the gourd and politely asked for more. When he was done, he stepped aside and the young camel rushed in to clap its lips on its mother’s teats. While it sucked away – giving Lucky the milk thief dirty looks  – they chatted with the couple and learned that they were from a family that had been forced to convert to the Muslim faith long ago, during the Turkish reign. Now, although the man was content to praise Allah, his wife had started visiting a local Greek Orthodox Catholic church to learn what she called “the old ways.”

Her husband said he didn’t mind – he’d never been that religious at any rate. And he was quite willing to be convinced by his wife, if she decided to convert back again. “I don’t pray the required five times daily as it is,” he confessed. “So, if I stay with Allah I’ll be condemned as a sinner. But if I convert, I’ll only have to attend church once a week to find a place in heaven. This is a much better bargain in my view.”

Afterward, the couple led their charges away and Lucky and his companions settled down on the dunes to watch the seas darken as – behind them - the sun slipped over the western mountains.

Lucky saw a stone jetty hundreds of yards out to sea and asked Jim about it.

“This was once a grand city with a wonderful harbor,” Jim said. “It was noted the world over.” His hand swept the area. “I suppose thirty or forty thousand people made their homes and their living here.”

At that moment Kyriakos called them and they rose to see what he wanted. They climbed the grassy dune to an old oak tree, where Kyriakos was waiting, squatting over a shallow hole he’d dug. He was grinning up at Lucky – obviously this was something he and Jim had planned.

“I was going to make a fire, here, Lucky,” he said, “but look what I found instead.”

He held up several shards of pottery, one of which was as big as his broad palm and it had the faint figure of a naked woman on it – posing a goddess.

“Aphrodite?” Lucky guessed.

Kyriakos shook his head. “No, no, not the goddess of love, but a good imitation just the same.” He laughed, enjoying some joke of his own. “Tell him, Demetrakis, or the boy will drive us crazy with his questions.”

And so Jim told him the tale of Pygmalion, the Cypriot king who had founded the city of Karpasia whose ruins they were resting upon.

“He was not just a king, but a king with a talent for creating beauty,” Jim said, “and so the city of Karpasia was known all over the world for its gracious buildings, landscaped parks and wide boulevards. It’s said that the harbor rivaled anything the Persian engineers of Xerxes ever created. And he was also a sculptor of great renown, so the city and parks were decorated with his creations, which were said to be wondrous. According to legend, King Pygmalion was obsessed with finding the perfect woman. He searched the world over, but it was no good, Lucky. Nothing could be as physically perfect as what he saw in his mind.

“And so he determined if he couldn’t find a living woman that equaled his standards, he would make one of his own. He decided to sculpt the most perfectly formed woman the world had ever seen from a piece of the purest ivory. When he was done, he was so astounded by the perfection he had accomplished that he fell deeply and tragically in love with the statue. Of course, the statue was not alive and could not return his love. So he prayed to Aphrodite, whom he worshipped as the perfect goddess, and in the end she took pity on him and the next time Pygmalion kissed the cold ivory she became a warm and living woman – Queen Galatea. They married and in nine months time they had a son, Prince Paphos.”

He saw Lucky’s look of recognition and nodded, saying, “Now you know where the village we visited got its name. Anyway, when Pygmalion and Galatea ruled it was the golden age of Cyprus and there were many fabulous creations, both in art and the sciences and in engineering – which included the port of Karpasia, where the treasure of the world came pouring into the harbor.”

“What happened?” Lucky asked, looking out over the barren sands, where there was not even a cow shed to mark the desolate landscape.

“Allah happened,” Jim said. “The Muslim revolution. You saw the camel man and his wife – whose families were forced to convert. Well, that was only the last group of Muslims – from the days of the Turks and the Ottoman Empire a mere four hundred years ago. The city resisted its besiegers, so they burned it to the ground and ploughed the remains under the sands, like the Romans did to Carthage.”

He picked up the large pot shard, with the figure of the woman on it. “Queen Galatea,” he said. “A woman whose beauty rivaled Helen Of Troy’s. And yet here is all that is left of King Pygmalion’s dream. A broken piece of pottery buried and forgotten in the sand.”

They all sat in silence for a time. Finally, Kyriakos snorted, saying, “We’ll all be dust soon enough. At least Galatea has a bit of dried clay to rest on.”

He lifted a burlap sack and said, “Here, let’s drink to Galatea and Pygmalion. I declare this night their feast day. And long may they stay dead!”

Kyriakos tossed the sack to Jim. It contained cognac, which Jim swigged with great delight and passed back to his friend. The trucker took a drink and handed the bottle to Lucky – “Just a little,” he advised, “to help keep the insects away.”

Then they all trooped down to the sea, where Kyriakos had stashed a sack of beer and sodas to cool. He’d also laid out half-a-dozen fish traps. They were simple things – a bowl with a piece of cloth tied over the top, with a hole piercing the cloth. Little sardines had sought a hiding place through the holes, then couldn’t find their way out again. Kyriakos had captured several score or more. Which was a good thing, because they were very small.

He had Lucky track down and empty the fish traps while he sat on a rock in the dying sunlight, waving a decaying chicken head tied to a string over a shallow pool. Crabs leaped up for the smelly head and Kyriakos scooped them into his net, which he emptied into an old petrol can.

Then the mosquitoes and sand fleas made themselves known and the little beach party wisely retreated to the knoll, which was high enough to discourage the bugs and besides, the fire was rather smoky. To be sure, they lathered themselves with the locally produced insect propellant, which they all made jokes about because it smelled so bad.

Jim stripped some twigs from a nearby willow and wove them into a grill. The cleaned sardines – doused with olive oil and some spices from a pouch - were placed on the grill and Jim set the sardines to sizzle over the fire. Kyriakos, meanwhile, had got the petrol can of crabs to boil. At first, the sounds of the poor things scrabbling to get away from the heat upset Lucky, but before long the sound ceased and the smells that wafted out of that old jerry can made his stomach groan with anticipation.

The cookout was something that Lucky would remember forever. The crispy little sardines on black bread and cheese, the white meat of crabs spilled out onto spinach leaves that had been marinated in lemon and garlic. And the beer, of course – good, yeasty Cypriot beer that had been cooled in the Mediterranean Sea. And later, some cognac and Greek coffee from a recipe Kyriakos claimed had been passed down from his ancestors.

He told Lucky, “It’s said in my family, that long, long ago some of us came from old Arabia – in an area where coffee was first discovered.”

“Discovered?’ Lucky said. “Like gold or diamonds are discovered?”

“Exactly so,” Kyriakos replied. “And in those days coffee was even more valuable than gold and diamonds. I’ll tell you what my grandmother told me, because she said that a cousin of one of our Arab ancestors was the very man who first found coffee. And it happened like this… He was a goat herder, just a lad, you know. And one day when he went to collect his goats he couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw them dancing and prancing and playing in the meadow. He investigated and noticed that they had been eating berries from a strange bush. So he ate some as well – a few at first, in case they were poison, but then more. Soon he was dancing and prancing among his goats. He felt so alive, so wonderful, his brain so big he was thinking thoughts that he had never thought before.

“He went home to his village, his pockets full of berries. But he told no one about his discovery. He ate one berry every morning, another a midday and another still at night. And he found himself overcome with energy and intelligence and the desire to learn all he could. He read books every night, all night, until the early hours. And in the tavernas, everybody noticed how smart this goat herder had suddenly become. They were so impressed they made him the village teacher, so now he didn’t have to take care of goats anymore, but young students – which can be just as troublesom, as Jim will tell you.”

Jim laughed sardonically at this and poured them all some more coffee laced with cognac.

Kyriakos continued his story: “These students I’m speaking of were so lazy that they slept while our former goat herder was teaching, learning nothing. The goat herder, however, had a solution for that and he started feeding his students coffee berries every morning. And soon they were full of the desire to learn and gobbled up all he could teach them. In not too long the intelligence and diligence of his students became known all over the Arabic world and the Sultan sent his best physician, Dr. Rhazes, to investigate.

“For a long time the goat herder would not reveal his secret, but finally the famous Dr. Razes saved the life of the teacher’s mother with his medicine and the teacher revealed all – taking him to the bushes where the berries grew. And so Dr. Razes returned to his sultan with not only the secret, but the seeds to grow more coffee and in not many years his praises were sung all over the world.”

Astounded by this story, Lucky turned to Jim, wanting to ask if any of it was true. But he hesitated, not wanting to insult Kyriakos.

Jim caught what he was after however, and said, “There’s no written record of the dancing goats. But it is a story that has been handed down over the ages. As far Dr. Razes is concerned, he was a real man and produced the world’s first account of coffee and its effects.”

Lucky didn’t know what to say, so he just nodded and settled back on his blanket, nestling into the sandy dune that made up his bed. After a time Kyriakos got a homemade Bouzoukis – a sort of a mandolin – from his pack and started plucking away on the strings, singing old folk songs in a soft, raspy voice.

Lucky stared up at the starry night, listening to the songs and the sound of the softly breaking seas. And soon he fell asleep, dreaming of Pygmalion and statues that turned into Athena and Donna, who were dancing with goats around a strange kind of maypole made of green branches loaded down with purple coffee berries.

The next day, they washed in the sea then breakfasted on boiled eggs, olives, bread and cheese. With more of Kyriakos’ famous coffee, of course… sans cognac.

They continued their journey, bumping over rough, winding roads. For a long time the road was as empty as the countryside. Not even a goat made itself evident, much less a man. As far as the eye could see there was nothing but sun-blackened rocks – with an occasional lizard stretching out a tongue to capture an insect meal. Lucky could tell they were nearing the sea again, because he could smell the clean salt air.

Then suddenly, they rounded a bend and came upon a traffic-jammed crossroads. Scores of wagons, cars, bicycles, and people on foot, were milling around a battered sign that pointed toward a patch of blue, gleaming between towering palm trees. Lucky had no idea where all the people came from, but it was a mixed group – all dressed in their best, whether a rich businessman and his wife, or a brawny carpenter with his family. Among the group were a great number of people who were handicapped in some way – lame children riding on donkeys or carried by their fathers, or brothers. Blind people. Deformed people, some from birth defects, others from accidents.

“They are pilgrims to the monastery of St. Andreas,” Jim explained. “It’s said that the waters there have healing powers.”

Lucky looked doubtful. “But is it true? Or just a made up story?”

Kyriakos caught Lucky’s look of skepticism. “Of course the waters are holy,” he exclaimed in Greek. “Did not my grandfather’s cousin come here to be cured of her blindness? And didn’t the saint grant her that wish, so that now she is an old woman who delights in her grandchildren with eyes as good as yours or mine.”

Lucky looked at Jim who only shrugged. He sat back to study his surroundings as Kyriakos pushed the Plymouth through the traffic. After a time, the road broke out into the clear and Lucky saw they were now at the very end of the peninsula. Nothing but blue skies and blue seas stretched out before them.

On a broad rocky spit of land there was an old harbor, with piers of broken stone and a jumble of buildings, some new and some quite ancient. A few fishing boats plied the waters and a little distance out, Lucky could see what appeared to be a few small islands. Rising above the harbor was St. Andreas Monastery, constructed on two levels of hills, with several steps of worn stairs leading from one level to the next. The buildings on the lower level appeared to be older and Lucky learned these were the partially reconstructed ruins of the original church. There were several wells inside that purportedly contained holy water and lines of people carrying babies were being escorted to the wells.

Jim said this was the most popular place for baptisms on the island – perhaps even the world. The waters were said to be especially holy because of St. Andreas.

As they drew closer Lucky saw many ponds scattered around the monastery. Ducks occupied some, but in others priests were dipping up water in shells and pouring it over the heads of the infirm. Lucky could hear the constant murmur of prayers as people begged the saint to cure their loved ones.

Jim said, “The story goes that St. Andreas – who, I’m sure you know, was the first apostle called to the faith by Jesus – came ashore at this point. Wherever the holy man walked, pools of water sprang up in his footsteps.”

Guessing what Jim was saying, Kyriakos nodded firmly, muttering, “Ahyos... Ahyos…” Holy man, holy man.

They toured the main church, which was by far the richest one Lucky had seen in Cyprus. The statues glittered, the vestments of the priests were of the finest material and some of the candles were as large as a full grown man. Jim explained that people donated the gigantic candles to plead for special blessings for their families, or themselves. There were brass bowls of sweet oil set up here and there and the faithful smeared the holy oil on the faces and limbs of crippled people, hoping to make the prayed-for cure more certain.

Jim introduced Lucky to a young priest – a cousin, naturally - who at first looked forbidding in his long black beard and black Greek Orthodox priestly uniform.  But when he learned Lucky was an American he positively beamed and spoke to him in flawless American slang.

“Hey there, you’re a Yankee doodle dandy like me,” he said. “I love Americans. Nat King Cole. Frankie Lane. John Wayne, bang, bang!” The last was accompanied by pistoled fingers that he blew on as if dispersing gunsmoke.

It turned out the priest had spent his childhood in San Diego – where his father owned a bar that catered to sailors. He’d returned home to Cyprus after a few years of college to take up the priesthood like his grandfather, the abbot of St. Andreas. Even so, he’d remained devoted to all things American – music, movies, books, and especially American girls. He said when he was promoted to his own parish he was going to try to find an American tourist girl to marry and settle down to make babies and put together a large record collection of American music.

Lucky listened patiently, then asked the question that had been burning in him from the beginning. “Did you ever actually see anyone being cured, father?”

The young priest turned serious, then nodded. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “Americans want to hear it from the horse’s mouth. And yeah, I can tell you straight that I saw a kid cured just a couple of months ago. I nearly fell over, I tell you.” He blessed himself. “But God love me, it happened. It actually did. Here, I’ll tell you the details and you can make up your own mind.

“A family brought this little boy to us. He couldn’t move his legs. Now, this was a good kid. A happy kid. He got good grades in school and used to play soccer every day after school. But then we had the earthquake – the seesmos. The boy’s grandmother was killed when the house fell in on her and the kid tried to go in after her, to dig her out. Then the second seesmos came and he got hit – and wham! The boy was crippled. Okay, so what happened is my grandfather listened to the whole story – I was there with him. And then he prayed for the boy – calling on old Andy to help out. And then he called for some blankets and put the boy in a room next to Andy’s statue.”

He gestured at the grand statue near the altar. “Then my grandfather got all the priests together, and the holy water, which we poured all over the boy, and we prayed and we prayed all night long. Just before sunlight, my grandfather calls us out of the room and shuts the door. We prayed some more. Well, actually, I’m ashamed to say that I fell asleep. And then I hear this great shout and I look up and see the kid come busting out of the room. Shouting and yelling that he could walk again. And who could deny it, because he was running on two perfectly good legs.”

He paused, then looked down at Lucky, his eyes glowing with conviction. “So my answer is, I really have seen a miracle. I tell you, when it happened I couldn’t speak, or move, or do anything, I was so surprised. Some of the older priests told me that they had witnessed similar things over the years.” He shrugged. “I shouldn’t have been so surprised. Jesus Christ our savior walked on water, didn’t he? And he raised Lazarus from the dead. In Cyprus we know this for a fact, because didn’t Lazarus come here to settle and live a second, much longer life, before he died again? This time for good?”

Lucky didn’t reply directly –he was taking all this in and churning it around. Instead he asked the priest if the monastery had always been known for its miracles.

The young priest said, “Of course you have your St. Andrea story, with the pools of holy water forming where he walked. But that was pretty much wrecked when the Turks came along. It was a fighting monastery, then, with canons and monks charging out dressed up in armor over their robes. But the Turks did us in and destroyed the place. Then about sixty years ago a rich Greek woman whose baby son was stolen by Turkish pirates came here to pray. It was winter and cold and there were only a dozen or so monks – and all of them were starving on lentils and bread. Anyway, this rich woman – we even know her name… it was Maria Georgiou, from Cilica. But that doesn’t matter, whether she was rich or poor, or even a Turk – we get a lot of Turks here who beg the healing blessing of St. Andrea.

“The thing was, this woman was tormented by the loss of her child, which had been ripped from her breast by the Turkish captain. She couldn’t rest and mourned for years until she had a sign to seek out the aid of St. Andreas. So she came here, she stayed for three days, she prayed and made offerings. Until finally, she promised St. Andreas and God that if she should ever be rejoined to her son, she would bestow half her wealth on the monastery. Well, at first nothing happened. She became discouraged and hired a boat to take her to Limassol, where her family waited. But when she was on the boat, people were curious why such a wealthy woman would be embarking from such desolate place as St. Andreas. Well, the woman wept and she cried. And she poured out her troubles about the pirates and the stolen baby.

“As it happened, one of the sailors – a Turkish kid – overheard her and asked if she had some way of identifying her boy. She said sure, he had birthmarks on his chest and his shoulder. The young sailor almost collapsed, he was so surprised by her answer. Then he took off his shirt and threw it on the deck. And showed the woman the very same birthmarks she was talking about. It was, indeed, her son. Stolen long ago and sold into bondage in Istanbul, where he was forced to worship Islam. But now mother and son were reunited. She ordered the ship back to St. Andreas, where her son was converted, and she made good her promise of blessing our order and monastery with riches enough to carry on our holy mission.”

He gestured at the crowds moving through the chapel, filling its collection boxes with coins. “Now we give away more money to the poor than even the big churches in Athens,” he said with undisguised pride.

Instead of questioning him more closely about the miracles, Lucky asked, “Are you ever sorry you left America?”

The young priest was taken aback at first, then gave Lucky a thoughtful look, as if he were considering how his little patter had gone down. This his grin lit up like the proverbial Cheshire cat’s – bursting with light through his black beard. “I miss my father’s bacon and lettuce and tomato sandwiches,” he confessed. “And also his French fries. They were the best in the world. Also I miss his juke box. He had everybody on it… All the greats.”

He thought a minute, then continued. “But when I was in San Diego, I missed Cyprus so much that sometimes I used to cry at night.” he said. “The only thing that made it bearable is that San Diego is a little bit like Cyprus. The sand and the sea and the mountains – quite familiar. And the plant life is exactly the same. Mediterranean chaparral, it’s called. It exists only in California, the coast of Spain and in the Middle East.” He shrugged. “Even so, my heart and soul belong to Cyprus, second only to Jesus Christ our Savior and Lord.”

After making their polite goodbyes and putting money in a nearby collection box, Lucky and Jim continued on, exploring the remainder of the peninsula on foot.

They left Kyriakos behind to take care of some family errands. When everybody learned his destination, he been given firm instructions from his wife, his mother, and a horde of other relatives to make special prayers and offerings at the monastery. He groused about it, but with much good humor, pouring coins into buckets and snatching up perfumed tapers to light his way from one icon and the next.

Jim and Lucky walked to the end of the peninsula,  passing cottages - which were probably for the priests and their families – then clumps of piled up boulders, surrounded by bushes of flowering purple sage that filled the air with their scent. They went by a broken down chapel, whose roof apparently covered a well of healing waters, because there was a line of people posted before it, and a brawny young monk was hauling up buckets of holy water to hurl upon the crowd. The monk had his job perfected - hitting ten or more people at once, then dousing them again to make sure no one was left out. There was a second bucket next to the well filled with coins tossed by the crowd in payment for the blessing.

“Wait a minute,” Lucky said to Jim.

He jumped into a short line, threw a half-crown’s worth of coins into the bucket and stood there, eyes closed, waiting for some miracle, until the priest doused him with a full bucket.

Lucky opened his eyes, wiped the water from his face, then stuck a finger in his mouth to taste it. “I don’t feel any different,” he told Jim. “But maybe it takes awhile, like the lady on the ship who was looking for her son.”

Then they came to the end of the Peninsula, where two broken marble columns were driven into the earth. Pieces of marble were lying all around.

Jim said, “The legend is that the most beautiful, the most holy, temple of Aphrodite stood here.” He indicated the broken columns, which were about fifteen feet apart. “The image of the goddess, it is said, stood between these columns.” Jim gestured overhead. “Apparently there was a curving slab of marble for a roof - like a sail. But triangular, in the style of ancient vessels.”

Lucky nodded, he’d seen the drawings of the graceful ships of Grecian yore.

Jim’s hand swept around, taking in the dunes of sand heaped around the point of the peninsula. “And here Aphrodite’s acolytes would have made their sacrifices, begging the lady to protect this island.”

Now he pointed out to sea, to the islands Lucky had noticed before. “Those are called the great reefs of Aphrodite,” he said. “They wrecked nearly every sailor who tried to come this way. Including the ship that carried St. Andrea. Fortunately for him and for us, he made it to shore and was taken in by the people who lived here.”

Motioning for Lucky to follow, Jim scrambled up a mound of boulders that marked the end of the promontory. The sea was bleak, now, iron gray in color. The sun was a golden chariot riding off to the northwest behind them; the moon, huge and full, but pale in the fading light.

Jim had an odd look on his face as he gazed at the islands – and beyond. He’d been in an odd mood the whole trip – cheery on the outside, but Lucky had sensed that he was troubled by something. He’d wondered all along if Jim would tell him what the trouble was, and now he had a sudden sickening feeling that the moment was near.

Jim pointed out to sea – indicating things far beyond. “Look, Lucky,” he said, “It’s such a clear day. We can see Turkey and Syria and Lebanon.”

Lucky said dully, “So this is where the world ends?”

Jim turned to him, forcing a smile. “Well, haven’t I taught you that an island is a world of its own?” he asked. Lucky nodded. “So for a Cypriot, this is very much the end of the world.” He waved at the distant lands shimmering on the edge of the horizon. “But of course, in every ending there is a beginning. You can see so for yourself.”

He sighed and sat down on the boulder. Lucky sat next to him, waiting for what was going to come next.

Jim sat in silence for a long time, then he turned to Lucky, his eyes moist. “I can’t be your teacher any longer,” he said.

Lucky felt like he’d been struck. He struggled to speak, but could get nothing out.

Jim said, “I’ve already told your mother and father and I’ve helped them find another school for you, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

“But why?” Lucky finally managed. “What did I do?” He became desperate. “I’ll study harder, I promise,” he pleaded. “And I won’t argue with you all the time. I’ll do better, just give me a chance, Jim. Please.”

“Oh, Lucky,” Jim said, “you didn’t do anything wrong. You’re the best student a teacher could dream of. It isn’t your fault. If anything, it is my doing.”

“What do you mean?” the boy asked, fighting hard to hold back tears.

“My work with the Mayor’s Council has earned me some pretty bad enemies,” he said.

Lucky nodded. “Sure, the communists,” Lucky said. “But what’s that got to do with me?”

“They say that I am against Enosis,” Jim said. “And that my teaching you – an American – only proves that I have sold out to the other side.”

“But I’m all for Enosis!” Lucky protested. “Everybody knows that. Heck, I have more Cypriot friends than American or British. Sometimes I go days, and the only time I speak English is in class with you.”

“That’s not how they see it,” Jim said. “They claim that you learned our language to mock us. That you prefer Cypriot company because you feel superior to us.”

Lucky was astounded. “It’s not true, Jim,” he said. “You know it’s not.”

“Of course, I do, Lucky,” Jim said.

“Well, tell them to go to hell,” Lucky said. “Say you’ll teach me anyway. I’ll prove they’re wrong.”

Jim put an arm on Lucky’s shoulder. “You don’t understand, Lucky,” he said. “They told me in no uncertain terms that if I can continue to be your teacher, they will hurt you. Maybe even kill you. It was you they were threatening, not me.”

“They don’t scare me,” Lucky said. “Besides, they wouldn’t touch me. I’m an American kid. They’d never get away with it.”

He was thinking that if anything happened to him, the CIA had people who would surely revenge him. But he couldn’t tell Jim that.

“These aren’t the kind of people who fear retaliation,” Jim said. “These aren’t taverna Communists. Arguing politics over coffee and cognac. These are terrorists. Crazy idealists. With no fear of dying.”

“I don’t care,” Lucky said stubbornly. “I don’t.”

Jim pulled him close for a minute, giving him a brotherly embrace. Then he released the boy.

“I care, Lucky,” he said. “And so do your mother and father. I’m afraid the decision has been made. We had no choice, really, Lucky. No choice at all.”

NEXT: THE BOY WHOSE FATHER WAS A BRITISH SPY

*****
 LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!



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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. 





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