*****
The old man examined Lucky through rheumy, ouzo-shot eyes. "Saint Paul sat at this very table," he said in Greek, rattling the dishes as he shifted in his seat.
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.
*****
Here's where you can buy it worldwide in both paperback and Kindle editions:
United Kingdom ...........................Spain
Also: NOOK BOOK. Plus ALL E-BOOK FLAVORS.
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:
REMEMBER - IT'S FREE!
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