The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 9
‘Oh God,’ said Newton, again, hoping there was one and that he was paying attention.
‘Oi! Oi! SAVALOY!’
The entire party of soccer slobs bundled their way noisily into the villa adjacent to their peaceful, safe house, leaving Newton with his head in his hands.
‘Just friggin’ magnificent,’ he cursed through his fingers.
‘Balls,’ concurred Viv, with feeling.
‘Wankers,’ said Gabby.
‘I need to get drunk,’ announced Newton, as the grim-faced driver departed in his brutalised minibus.
‘Can’t beat them, eh?’ asked Gabby.
‘If I could beat them, I probably would,’ replied Newton. ‘With a cattle prod.’
‘Oh hell,’ muttered Viv. ‘They’re heading this way.’
Sure enough, after obtaining their keys from the villa’s mortified owners, the six ‘gentlemen’ of England were weaving back towards the peaceful taverna, like a pack of barking prairie dogs.
‘Beer … Chips! CHHHIIIIPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPS!’
‘Oi, Pedro!’ bellowed the leader of the troupe, a bald-headed man with an art gallery’s worth of poorly executed nationalistic tattoos. ‘Twelve cod and chips for the boyyyyyyyysssss … poura favoura!’
‘Makes you proud, doesn’t it?’ said Viv, ironically.
The nightmare party crashed onto the table opposite, their blotchy faces like Eton Messes, a sharp contrast to the effortless olive tan of the waiters.
‘Beers! And Sambuca! And … more CHIPS!’
‘Sangria!’
‘Sangria is a Spanish drink,’ said Newton loudly. ‘You’re in Greece.’
‘Greece, Spain, Wopland,’ replied their alpha male. ‘Who gives a crap?’
‘HAHAHA!’ squealed a thin, spotty lad with teeth like a junk shop. ‘Terry mate, you effin’ crack me up!’
‘Are you here for the archaeology?’ asked Newton, channelling his inner Stephen Fry.
‘Newton, … leave it,’ whispered Viv, tugging his arm.
‘The archo what?’ asked Terry, jaw slackening.
‘The Minoan civilisation that once ruled this ancient island,’ continued Newton. ‘You strike me as a cultured crowd that might benefit from some history. Or perhaps it is the majestic scenery that draws you here from across the crystalline sea.’
‘Are you a poof?’ demanded Terry. ‘Cos you effin’ talk like wun.’
Viv kicked her partner under the table.
‘Sadly, no,’ continued Newton, moving his leg out of range. ‘I’m not a poof, no. However, if you ask the waiter nicely, I’m sure he can get you one.’
‘Better watch your maaaarrrrf, mate,’ said a short, spherical man with an inaccurate swastika on his forearm. ‘If you dun wanna get a smack in tha face.’
‘Yeah, you wunt some, geezer?’ parroted another, his fist balled up like a pack of budget sausages.
‘No, I don’t want “some”,’ replied Newton. ‘Thanks. Are you here long?’
‘Lads are here for two friggin’ weeks,’ answered Terrence proudly, and with that, he raised his newly arrived pint up in the air, provoking a sheep-like response from his troupe.
‘Wooaaahhhhhhhhhhaaaaarrggghhhhhhhhwwwoooaaaaaah. Awwriitteee! Faaaark.’
‘That sounds simply … delightful,’ answered Newton. ‘Now, … I’d love to learn more about your exciting itinerary, I really would. However, my family and I will be off to our accommodation now to begin packing. Bon appétit.’
‘Tosser,’ came the predictable response.
‘Tossssserrrrrr!!!’
‘TOSSSEEEERRRRRRR!’
Gabby stood up, then downed her drink.
‘Well, helllooooooo!’ said Terrence, eyeing her up like a lap dancer. ‘Fancy a bit of sausage in your bap, darlin’?’
‘Bugger off,’ said Gabby, smiling sweetly. ‘And die.’
‘Haaaaaaaa!’ squealed Terry. ‘Yer feisty, ain’tcha. Darlin’?’
‘Whatever, fat boy,’ replied Gabby, with the fearlessness only a teenage girl can display in the company of thugs.
Viv and Newton bustled her to the exit, less convinced, signalling the waiter their solidarity and national shame as they bolted for the villa.
‘Sorry,’ mouthed Viv.
*****
It was a long night, the sun rising before the animal screaming and bawdy cackling finally subsided. For eight long hours, their fellow Brits had serenaded the quiet seaside village with obscene ballads, sung at megaphone levels and catastrophically out of tune. Angered and outraged, the village dogs had joined in, gnashing and snarling at the bestial opera until those birds that had not migrated on the spot began the dawn chorus.
One day into his gardening leave, Newton Barlow was more strung out than ever, his mood darkening as the sky lightened.
*****
The dusty old Land Rover rolled into the mountain town of Spili, drove slowly through the winding high street, and then pulled to a halt beneath the trees beside the Venetian fountain. Climbing out slowly, his joints cracking, came a priest dressed head to toe in the distinctive black robes of the Greek Orthodox Church.
Here in the mountains, it was cooler than the coastal plain but still warm. The elderly abbot took a moment to drink from one of the twenty-five lions’ heads, pouring cold spring water into a trough, before checking his notebook for an address and walking away down the road to find his destination.
Nestling into the spine of Crete, Spili should have been a sleepy backwater, but history here, like so much of Crete, had other ideas. On the only road between the port of Rethymno to the north and the beach of Preveli to the south, Spili was destined to become a focal point for resistance to any invader foolish enough to think they could dominate the island. The Ottomans and the Germans were to come to dread the name of Spili, its tumbling streets seething with vengeful guerrillas.
Even the town's name, literally ‘cave’ in Greek, hints at a flair for insurgency.
During the Nazi occupation, Spili was in the thick of it, acting as a gateway to the partisan-rich valley of Armari. From here, the Cretan resistance pulled off one of the epics of the underground war, working with British special forces to capture the island’s German overlord, General Kreipe, and whisking him away to Egypt by submarine. Immortalised in the 1957 movie, Ill Met by Moonlight, the daring exploit brought down the full fury of the Nazi occupation, a wave of brutality that ravaged the beautiful Amari valley from one end to the other.
Spili was peaceful enough now, though. Now it saw little invasion beyond the occasional tourist bus heading south to the beaches or hikers using the town as a base to explore the Gorge of Kourtaliotiko to the south.
Early in the day and early in the season, the abbot was free to walk down the high street untroubled by traffic. Reaching a white and blue house beside a shuttered taverna, he paused, confirming the address a last time before pushing open the flaking iron gate and ringing the bell.
The door revealed a middle-aged woman, drying her hands on her apron.
‘Ah, Father Papadraylou,’ said the woman, crossing herself. ‘I’m Maria Kazantzakis, his great-grand-daughter. Thank you so much for coming. I’m so sorry you had to be called here.’
‘That is fine,’ replied the abbot. ‘I decided to come in person this time. My colleagues I know have been here several times over the years.’
‘They have,’ agreed the woman, showing him in. ‘Five times now. It keeps happening. We are so very embarrassed.’
‘There is no need for embarrassment. He is old; it must be very distressing for him. To have been such a man and now to be so confused. Old age is cruel, no?’
‘He’s a very proud man, my great-grandfather. Stubborn. If he says he’s seen something, then that is that. There’s no telling him.’
‘How is his eyesight?’ asked the abbot.
‘Oh, pin sharp, in fairness,’ answered the woman. ‘He may be 113, but he has the eyes of a teenager. His mind, though, is another thing. He seems to be losing it, I mean … seeing things like this. Is very sad. Distressing for him.’ She urged the abbot towards the kitchen, the big doors open to a garden alive with bougainvillea and morning glory. ‘He’s out the back.’ She added. ‘Go on out, and I’ll bring you both a lemonade.’
The abbot smiled, thanked her, then walked through the open French windows into the courtyard garden.
The old resistance fighter sat beneath a rambling, chaotic vine, rigidly perched on an impossibly fragile wooden chair, eyes looking into his memories beneath the tangled branches.
‘Mr Kazantzakis?' called the abbot softly, keen not to startle him. ‘Kaliméra.’
‘Kaliméra,’ replied the ancient partisan. ‘Welcome. I am glad you have come.’
‘I am Father Papadraylou,’ announced the visitor. ‘I know you have seen some of my colleagues before, but I thought it best I come in person this time.’
‘I expect you, too, will tell me I am seeing things. Well, I know what I saw, what I keep seeing.’
'And what would that have been then?’ asked Father Papadraylou, pointing to a chair. ‘May I?’
‘Be my guest,’ invited the partisan.
‘So what’s been going on?’
‘Didn’t they tell you?’
‘Creatures?’ asked the abbot. ‘Yes, they told me you saw creatures.’
‘I did. And not just any creatures. Mythological creatures they were.’ He raised his shaking arm and pointed, the yellowed finger showing the way to a hillside beyond. ‘Up there.’
‘I see.’
‘And not just once…,’ continued the old man. ‘Five times. Five times, I saw them moving around on the mountain trails. Once, I even saw one in the village drinking from the fountain in the dark. I couldn’t sleep, you see, and I went for a walk, and there he was, drinking.’
‘Who was drinking?’ asked the abbot.
‘A centaur. And he wasn't alone, he had an ape-man with him.’
‘My dear Kazantzakis,’ said the abbot, smiling kindly. ‘You are a man of greatness. I have heard so much of your work in the war. Your battles against the Germans are legendary, but ….’
‘Oh, here we go,’ sighed the partisan. ‘I’ve lost my mind, yes? Is that what you were going to say?’
‘Well, no,’ replied the abbot. ‘But a centaur, how can you have seen a centaur? These things don't exist.'
‘I speak the truth,’ replied the old man flatly. ‘You know, in the war, my job was to watch, to observe. We count the planes, we watch the troops. You need a keen eye, nerves of the steel. There was only truth. Only truth would do. I know what I saw.’
‘But you are …’’
‘Old?’ laughed the partisan. ‘Yes, I’m old. We Cretans live a long time, we are famous for it. But my mind has not aged. I am still the same man that fought for liberation.’
‘But it cannot have been a centaur, for such things are impossible. Heathen legends from thousands of years ago. It was dark, you were tired. Maybe it was a goat?’ suggested the abbot.
‘I am a goat herder,’ replied the man. ‘You think I can’t tell a goat in the dark?’
‘Well …’’
‘No, it was a centaur, like I say. And the other one, I can;t be sure, but I’d put my money on it being a small yeti.'’
‘Do you drink very much?’ asked the abbot rather abruptly.
‘As much as any man in Spili,’ answered the man. ‘And no, I was not drunk. I have two glasses of raki before bed, that is all. It helps my joint pain.’
‘It’s just that ….’
‘I was NOT drunk,’ insisted the partisan.
‘I see,’ replied Papadraylou. ‘And on the mountain, what did you see there?’
‘All sorts. Men with horns, men in green tights, with bows and arrows, little dragony things with red eyes, and lizards the size of dogs.’
‘It's a long way away,’ said the abbot, looking over his shoulder.
‘I have a pair of Zeiss 10 x 42 military-grade field glasses,’ the old resistance fighter replied, pointing to the binoculars beside the chair. ‘I was watching them the whole time. Clear as you are sitting there, I saw them. Sadly, they were gone by the time my great-grand-daughter came out.’
‘I see,’ said the abbot.’
‘I want something done about it,’ added the partisan. ‘These things could be worse than the Germans. I told Kornaris, our policeman here. He just laughed at me. The insolent pup, he’s only sixty-five.’
‘Who else have you told besides the police and the church?’ asked the abbot.
‘I’ve tried the newspaper down in Heraklion,’ replied the partisan.
‘And?’
‘They also laugh at me. But they did run the story. Then a lot more people, they laugh.’
‘I see,’ said the abbot. ‘Well, I suggest you tell no one else then. People can be very cruel. I don't want to see you hurt.’
‘I don'’ care what people say about me. But I do care about public safety. Who knows what these things might do. I should call the army. Maybe I’ll go hunting them myself; I still have Bren gun in the garage.’
‘No … please, no,’ urged the abbot. ‘Please, do not do that. You must leave these things to us. I am sure it was just some kind of optical illusion ….’
‘It was no illusion. …’
‘No, as you say,’ replied the abbot. ‘But I think it is best left to us in the church.’
‘The church?’ asked the partisan. ‘And what will you do?’
‘We will look for your beasts Mr Kazantzakis,’ answered the abbot. ‘I promise. Your town of Spili, it will be safe. Of that I swear. But I must ask of you that you now keep this matter to yourself. If you think you see such things again, then please,’ – Father Papadraylou handed the old man a card – ‘call me.
’
Chapter 9
The Fish
The death of Andronicus the Terrible was the fresh start the Byzantine Empire had needed. Without the debauchery, despotism and paranoia that had been such a feature of the late Emperor, trade flourished, the capital was given a fresh coat of paint, an ‘open for business’ sign nailed to the city gate.
Isaac Angelos, now crowned Emperor Isaac II Angelos, was soon inundated with emissaries. Diplomats came and went, each hell-bent on recruiting the refreshed Byzantines to their cause, for alliances to be struck at the expense of their enemies. Normans, Hungarians, and the Rus all came and went, each skilfully played off against the other, as was the Byzantine way.
Not all of these emissaries were Christian.
In 1187, Saladin, the triumphant Sultan of Egypt, ordered a ship to be made ready in Alexandria. On board were several high-ranking dignitaries, fine silks, mechanical novelties, spices, and cages full of exotic beasts, sweeteners to encourage an alliance between the resurgent Arabs under Saladin and the perfidious Byzantine Holy Romans. Centrepiece of this charm offensive was something a little special, something … holy. Captured from the Crusaders at the battle of Hattin earlier that year, it was nothing less than the relic of the True Cross itself, offered to the new Emperor in the hope that he would shun the Crusaders.
The relic never made it to Constantinople.
Intercepted by pirates off the island of Rhodes, the diplomatic vessel saw its crew murdered, its diplomatic passengers executed, and its treasures plundered. Despite the relatively lax attitude towards piracy at the time, the attack caused outrage. Diplomatic channels, considered sacrosanct by all, had been violated, and there was condemnation across the Mediterranean.
The pirates involved, a Genoese named Guglielmo Grasso and a Pisan named Fortis, soon realised they had a hot potato of epic proportions on their hands. In true pirate fashion, they immediately began squabbling over the relic. In the resulting fracas, the Pisan gained possession, sailing triumphantly away with the most sacred of relics to his stronghold in Bonifacio, on the island of Corsica. Lawless, unruly and infested with pirates, it is from the island’s name that we have the term Corsair, the French term for privateers. Wondering how, to whom, and for how much he could sell his hot potato, Fortis sat tight, waiting for the dust to settle.
Far from settling, wheels began to turn … pretty damn quickly as it happened. Outraged at the double-cross by Fortis, Grasso informed Genoa, sworn enemies of the rival Pisans. Their blood up, a Genoese task force began to assemble.
There was really only one man suitable to lead this expedition.
His name was Enrico Pescatore, ‘the fisherman’, though to his many admirers he was simply known as ‘The Fish’.
There were pirates, and then there was … Enrico Pescatore. The Fish was dashing, cunning, handsome, as skilled in the black, piratical arts as he was in off-the-cuff diplomacy. The Fish was as at home drinking in a harbourside tavern as he was wheeling and dealing around the city-states of Southern Europe, a rogue loved by deckhands and admired by princes. A Genoese of noble birth, Pescatore, like many of his class in the twelfth century, had been through rough times. Their fortunes squeezed by fickle economics, many a young blood had been forced to seek personal growth through maritime crime. Enrico, also known as Henry, duly swashbuckled his way around the Mediterranean in both a private and state-sponsored capacity. Debonair, heroic and downright sneaky, he targeted the ships of Pisa, Venice and Byzantium as they plied back and forth across the trade-rich sea.
Pescatore, it should be noted, was rather good at it.
Partly for his home city of Genoa, but much more for himself, Enrico robbed anyone unlucky enough to cross his bows, amassing quite a fortune as he did so. Gold, silver, precious stones, Pescatore had it all. The well-read pirate even amassed a formidable hoard of stolen books, a collection some said rivalled even the great library of Genoa. Malta, a tiny island that cast a massive shadow, became his home port, its large anchorage providing a perfect base from which to terrorise the sea lanes. Gifted a grand palatial villa above the harbour of Valencia, Pescatore was courted by dukes and merchants, bishops and troubadours, all drawn to his rugged good looks, ballooning wealth and action-hero lifestyle.
