1 The Assassins' Village (23 page)

Chapter 32.

Thou art the best o’th’cut-throats.

Macbeth. Act 3 Scene 4.

A perfect morning dawned. A hint of a frost during the night left the air crisp and clear. The winter had been unusually bitter for the hill villages of Cyprus, so a morning that dawned sunny and warm was very welcome. April would herald the change to spring, the winds would lose their vicious bite and rising temperatures would be immediately tangible. A warming earth, brought welcome splashes of colour from a profusion of wild orchids, anemones, fruit blossom and spring greens. The sky would be alive with passing migratory flocks of birds on their way north after overwintering in Africa.

For now, the villagers welcomed this gentle winter’s day. The women threw open the window shutters and scoured their houses, balconies and courtyards clean from the never-ending dust.

Antigone had spent a restless night, wretched with backache and heartburn. No matter how she lay in her bed, she couldn’t rid herself of the nagging pain in her lower back. Overall, she had put on very little weight during her first and second trimesters. She was therefore able to conceal her pregnancy. When visiting her father’s house she relied on an old baggy coat. The garment hid her stomach and she was careful in not removing it in company, pleading cold and aching joints.

She knew that before long she would have to make a plan. She had been burying her problem, convinced that something would come along to help her resolve it.

Today, she left her house as soon as the sun crept over the hilltop casting its warming golden rays on her wall. She took her shepherd’s stick and packed some bread and cheese in a leather bag. After tucking her long dark hair under a woolly hat, Antigone donned her shapeless coat and completed her outdoor garb with stout black boots.

Her small flock of goats wandered down the lane, scattering over the adjoining slope and eagerly seeking out new shoots on the bushes all around. With the dog as company, she followed them, herding them into a manageable group as they trotted further from the village’s confines and deeper into the countryside. After about a mile she came to a favourite rock. It was large and rounded on one side giving protection from the prevailing wind, whilst the main body of the rock made a platform flat enough to lie on. Giving the goats a final check she settled herself down, thankful to rest her aching back.

Antigone cast a look at the land spread before her. Despite her discomfort, she felt a glow of pleasure as she thought about her secret. She knew her family would be furious when they eventually found out. They’d shout and storm, and declare she was ruined with no chance of marrying into a good respectable family.

With youthful optimism, Antigone thought she could win them round. She cared not about marrying anyway. Already proving she could provide for herself, a small baby would take little extra resources. What did she want with a husband to bully her?

Shifting her weight on the rock, she moved into a more comfortable position. After a while she leant over and opened her bag removing a bottle of water and a small package of food. With bread, cucumber and a few olives she broke her fast. Her
full belly and the warm sunshine made her sleepy. There was not another soul to be seen. Her rock was hidden and away from the lane. It wouldn’t hurt to remove her coat and use it as a pillow whilst taking a short nap. An occasional early bee buzzed in the fragrant herbs nearby, and somewhere a chukar was cackling and clucking in the scrub. That plump bird would make a fine stew she thought drowsily. She dreamt she was walking down by the river, the heavy scent of crushed thyme against her legs. She thought she heard a bird give a rapid ‘cack-cack-cack’ harsh alarm and still she dreamed of falling stones and of a shadow passing over the sun.

~~~

Antigone woke, stiff and cold. The sun had disappeared behind a bank of dark clouds gathering from the northeast. The bees and the little game bird were silent. She cast a quick look around giving an involuntarily shiver. There was no one in sight, yet, she had the uncomfortable feeling that someone was spying on her. Scrambling to her feet she gave the coat a good shake and put it on. The coat’s warmth stole over her and she gave another shiver. The dog was nowhere to be seen, until she whistled and within a few seconds it came bounding up from the valley below. The goats jostled and ran before it, their little musical bells tinkling a merry sound. It was time to return home.

~~~

The twisted and misshapen roots of vines scattered throughout the disused vineyards made good burning logs. Best of all, they were free. Yanoulla hummed as she searched the ground, gathering the best of the old dead roots. They burnt hot on a small hearth and would keep her house nice and cosy. Her bag nearly full, she thought it time to turn towards home. She paused, noticing a bank of dark clouds gathering in the distance and hanging over the Troodos mountain range. They would soon blot out the sun and the temperature would plummet. 

It had been a beautiful day, and she stood taking in the scene before her. She loved the village but sometimes it stifled her. She wondered what life would be like in another place.  Perhaps she ought to take Alexis up on his offer of marriage and go to England with him. She could live a bit; have some adventure. She wasn’t getting anywhere with Kristiakis. He thought her too old for him and openly scoffed at her tentative overtures of romance with barely concealed ridicule. She grimaced. He could be a pig at times and she felt sorry for herself. It was time she got hitched and had children of her own. She realised she wasn’t a beauty, but she knew she possessed some good qualities.

She carried on, picking her way carefully through the wicked little thorn bushes. In the distance, she could hear bells tinkling as goats moved over the bondu. Nearby a game bird was cacking and clucking in the thick scrub. Too bad Kristiakis wasn’t here, he was a crack shot with his gun and the chukar would have been perfect for the pot.

Yanoulla had learned a wealth of folklore from her grandmother that she carried in her head. It was never written down, but faithfully passed between the females of the family. Bending down, Yanoulla picked locally grown herbs of wild sage, cistus and camomile, well-known for their healing powers, carefully taking a sprig or two, tucking them away into her bag. Come the spring, the
hort
a, the iron-rich mountain greens would burst forth proper, their new buds and shoots providing the families with tasty additions to their bland diet.

She saw a small herd of goats at the end of the bluff to her left. The sound of their bells carried on the clear crisp air. Following a small path well-worn by many
hundreds of little hooves over the years, Yanoulla began the gentle uphill climb back onto the main track.

An outcrop of white boulders lay ahead with a small copse of two or three cedar trees. She knew that if she was lucky she might find some additional fresh herbs sprouting in the sunny protected spot.

A bird whirled into sight calling its alarm. The game bird took fright frantically working its wings, and clacking its way down the hillside. Yanoulla gave a start. She watched its erratic flight of panic taking it into the distance. Something must have scared it away from the warm rocks. Curious, she decided to go around the rock formation and see for herself. The ground sloped upwards at this point and she puffed a little as she made the climb. Near the top, pausing to catch her breath, Yanoulla stopped and gazed at the sight in front of her. She froze in amazement.

Lying on her back was a sleeping Antigone. She had obviously stripped off her thick winter coat to lie on. What grabbed Yanoulla’s attention was the girl’s physical state. Her skirt was as tight as could be and the waistband sat well below her navel. Yanoulla felt her face flame and hissed to herself in anger. The significance was apparent. There was absolutely no doubt about it. Antigone was pregnant.

A flood of emotions raced through Yanoulla. She felt anger; anger because of the shame Antigone would bring to her family and herself. She felt vindictive because she had ammunition with which to harm this girl, who annoyed her intensely. But mostly, she felt a wave of envy. The man Yanoulla loved would never look at her, and her one and only proposal of marriage was from a man a lot older than she. She resented and hated the young girl sprawled in front of her. And now she learned she was pregnant, the little slut.

That
was the reason why the common little baggage wanted to live alone. So she could carry and give birth to her brat before anyone realised. Kristiakis had to know and quickly, if he was to discover who the father was and what could be done about it. He would get the secret out of her. With luck, a wedding could take place before she was showing her swelling stomach to all and sundry. That solution would be best for everyone concerned. Antigone would have a husband and father to her child, and the family would not be shamed too much. She shrugged. It happened.

Quietly, Yanoulla retraced her footsteps. A small smile of satisfaction glimmered on her face. Kristiakis would be pleased she’d discovered Antigone’s secret. He might take notice of her after this. She hurried home, her thoughts in turmoil. Once again she was to be the harbinger of bad tidings.

Chapter 33. Winter
             

The least a death to nature.

Macbeth. Act 3 Scene 4.

Antigone felt deathly tired. The nagging ache in her back was relentless, making her working day seem tediously long as she coped with the pain. She was in truth, finding it difficult to handle. Would she manage when the baby came? 

Having no friends, she’d shunned those her own age, aware of the whispered comments behind their hands whenever she walked past. She knew that in the cool dark recesses of the houses, women in black stared after her passing figure, before turning to each other and speaking in a rapid torrent, voicing their blatant curiosity. She had always been different that one.

Shrugging their black-clad shoulders they’d turn their thoughts to other things, an impending wedding or the demise of old Maria due to the dreaded cancer. God rest her. Funeral garments would be taken from their drawers, given a good shake to dislodge the moths, and Maria’s daughters would join the other older women to be dressed permanently, forever, in black.

~~~

The crisp sunny day had disappeared and been replaced by a weak winter sun dipping behind the western hills. The encroaching shadows were deep slate-grey and maroon in the valley clefts; night would soon fall.

Antigone gave a shiver as she threw another log onto the fire. The dry brittle wood caught almost immediately and the new blaze threw warm golden shadows to dance on the cottage stonewalls. The little house felt cold and damp. When Antigone had returned home and finished her chores she felt a lassitude fall upon her. The animals were all carefully penned up for the night. The chickens safe behind their wire and away from the marauding fox bandits.

Weary, Antigone needed a good long sleep to restore her energy. Her usual evening task would have to wait until tomorrow after she’d rested. Her lamps were not bright enough for the tiny little stitches she was working on anyway.

Her evening meal of stew had been tasty. Rinsing her plate and cutlery, Antigone put them away on the shelf before sorting out a chunky log for the fire. Just this once, she’d keep it going overnight. It would be good to rise tomorrow without feeling that deep inner chill she’d noticed lately.

A clatter outside the house made her jump, and she swung round in the direction of the noise. Opening the door she was startled by her brother and father standing just inside the courtyard gate. As she watched her father swaying unsteadily on his feet, she realised with dismay that he was very drunk. A chill came over her; she knew their visit boded no good.

‘Papa, Kristiakis? What do you want at this late hour? I was just about to go to bed,’ she said and trying hard not to stammer as she noticed their glowering dark looks. What had she done wrong now?

‘This is not a social call,’ Kristiakis growled between his clenched teeth.

‘No it’s not. This is another matter. You tell her Kristiakis.’ Her spineless father agreed with his son after giving a loud belch and lurching into the house wall.

Antigone guessed what was coming. She felt a wave of nausea sweep over her and her stomach did an involuntary flip. She willed herself not to faint with fear. She
had so hoped to keep her condition secret for another month or two. She thought that once she had grown big and unable to conceal it, they would be safe.

Unable to say a word, Antigone began to quiver with trepidation. It was Kristiakis who spelled out what he had been told that day.

Yanoulla! That interfering, frustrated bitch of an old maid! Why hadn’t she just minded her own business for once? 

‘Is it true?’ his voice was low.

She had no choice. She whispered. ‘Yes.’

‘And just who is the father? Whose little bastard is it? Is it that silver-tongued Yiannis?’  Antigone recoiled away from the look on his face.

‘Yes.’ Her father reeled in the doorway. ‘Whose is it? I need to know, so we can get him to put a ring on your finger. His family can help pay for his dirty little ways. There will be a wedding to fork out for, the church, guests, food and drink. Don’t think you’re having an expensive fancy dress though, girl.’

Antigone gaped in astonishment at this bombshell. Of course they would expect her to marry!  If there was no marriage, a family vendetta would develop – they would believe their own propaganda, making up a story to suit themselves. They were capable of picking an innocent hapless victim as the father. Poor handsome Yiannis! He’d never be able to stand up to their bullying. Unless she told the truth there would be blood. The last thing she wanted was to have a blameless family brought into this. She felt as if she was in a void. Their voices and faces receded. For a few seconds she heard nothing.

What
could
she tell her father?

Her silence was telling. She stood there, her mind reeling. Kristiakis roughly swung her round to face him. He bruised her shoulder with his heavy hand and shook her so violently her head snapped back.

‘Well?’ He spat in her face with a globule of phlegm hitting her cheek. His breath was hot and smelling of raw onions, unlike her father’s which she knew would be sour and lethal from the alcohol he’d drunk that day.

‘Whose is it? You’d better tell us. How many months are you anyway?’ Both men took up positions on either side of her. Terrified, Antigone felt as if she was cornered by two snarling beasts. She looked at her brother.

Kristiakis eyes opened wide with shock as he suddenly understood and realised who the father of her bastard brat was. The swift look that passed between them determined they could never disclose the truth. The horrified look on his face was replaced by one of cunning. ‘That bastard Britisher I should have guessed!’

Her father looked on incredulous. ‘What? Not Yiannis? Who are you talking about?’ Catching hold of his son’s sleeve he shook him. ‘Tell me,’ he demanded.

Kristiakis ignoring the hand on his jacket couldn’t take his black eyes from his sister.

‘That damned English army officer! The smarmy one who ordered us all around last summer, that’s who.’

Antigone stood shock-still. Her father had never known about Leslie. Kristiakis had never told him.

‘You stupid little whore, you little bitch! You’re as bad as your mother was.’ Alexandros took a swing sending him off balance and stumbling in the doorway. Once he’d recovered, he straightened up and turned back to have another go at her. ‘We’re going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.’

Antigone tried to dart away from them, but Kristiakis was too quick for her. Grabbing her by the wrist he slammed her into the stone-wall. Winded, Antigone gasped for breath as both men approached her, belts ready in their hands.

As the leather snaked across her, she at last found her voice and screamed. When   Kristiakis’ blows drew lower; she felt a bolt of terror shoot through her. She tried to fend them off, but fell at their feet with the blows raining down upon her.

Deep within her she felt the first quickening of her unborn.

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