Jeffrey Siger - An Aegean Prophecy

They had no television, no Internet, no telephone, and barely communicated with the outside world. The only way to make contact was by mail or to show up on their doorstep and literally pray for them to let you in. Kouros sighed. He saw a pilgrimage in his future.

Kouros decided to take a crack at something more within his control and ran a check on the Patmos police captain. It came back clean except for a number of citizen complaints that his personality bordered on asshole — coming from the dark side. No surprise there. But an otherwise clean record didn’t necessarily mean anything more than he was careful. Some of the dirtiest cops he knew looked terrific on paper. They’d pull more quality arrests than any other cops in their jurisdiction. Of course they did, because they were paid by their bad-guy partners not just to protect them, but to shut down their competitors through tip-offs. It was a double hit for crooked cops: glory for the collar, cash for the protection. Still, there was nothing to suggest this Patmos cop was dirty. It would require an undercover operation in the middle of nowhere. He’d leave that call to his chief.

Stealing evidence wasn’t his proudest moment, but Andreas saw no choice. He had to study it in detail, and if he did so in front of Patmos cops there was no doubt his interest in the cross would get back to anyone on the island with an interest in his investigation. Vassilis died protecting whatever secret it held and Andreas wasn’t about to help give it away.

Switching crosses wasn’t all that difficult, even though he’d relied more on improvisation and luck than practised skill. He’d casually slid his left hand into his left front pant pocket and gripped the duplicate cross as the cop went behind the captain’s desk. The instant the cop turned to open the shutters, Andreas grabbed the evidence from the table with his right hand, and with his left, yanked the replacement out of his pocket and thrust it up in front of him. By the time the cop looked back, Andreas was slowly twisting the duplicate in the light, drawing the cop’s eyes to it while slipping the original into his right front pant pocket.

The only real downside he saw to what he’d done was that unless something truly nasty turned up in the Patmos captain’s file that Andreas could not overlook, a potentially crooked cop was home free. Andreas knew if he pushed for an investigation that ultimately led to prosecution the rookies would tell their captain everything, and his visit would become a key element in any defense. That one incontrovertible fact would be partnered with a lot of made-up ones to yield stories and headlines along the lines of ‘Chief Cop Plants Evidence on Local Cop.’ It was just that sort of take-no-prisoners media approach that broke his father. He wouldn’t risk subjecting Lila and the baby to the craziness. No reason to revive the bad memories for his mother either. No smoke, no investigation. Make that no roaring fire, no investigation.

Andreas sat in his rented car outside the police station and pressed his hand against his pocket. Still there, he thought. He didn’t dare take it out here; one of the cops inside might get suspicious. After all, why would he leave their captain’s office to sit in the parking lot staring at something unless he’d taken evidence? No, he’d find some other place to study it.

This must be what it felt like to be a thief, he thought. No, make that a novice thief who thinks everyone is watching him. Truth was, no one probably cared, but he couldn’t take the chance. He had to find the right place to study the cross and think. But where? He drove up the mountain toward Chora.

The Patmian School was halfway between Skala and Chora. Begun in 1713, it was among the world’s most renowned schools of Greek language and Orthodox theology, and now served as a seminary. Surely, a man sitting outside contemplating a cross would not be out of place.

He was almost at the school when he noticed a long line of buses idling along the roadside. They were just sitting there; doors closed, passengers inside, waiting for something. Then Andreas realized where he was, made a quick U-turn, and pulled up next to a pair of black wrought-iron gates hung on broad stone walls. This was the place to do his thinking. He got out and walked toward the entrance. A handwritten sign in five languages casually hung by a string tied to one of the gates, and two boys in the uniform of the Patmian School sat next to it. They were courteously telling the more aggressive visitors that the sign meant what it said: CLOSED FOR FUNERAL UNTIL 11 A.M. It seemed every place and person that mattered to Vassilis in life was honoring his funeral.

Andreas stopped in front of the boys, and one of them said, ‘Sorry, sir, we’re closed for another half hour.’

Andreas showed them his badge. ‘Official business.’

The boys jumped up and opened the gate. ‘Yes, sir,’ said one.

‘God bless you, and welcome to the Holy Cave of the Apocalypse,’ said the other.

It was the abbot’s duty to say the words that must be said when a monk goes to sleep with the Lord. But it was not his duty to prepare him. That was a job for others: to sponge — not bathe — him with warm water in the sign of the cross upon his forehead, chest, hands, knees, and feet; dress him without gazing upon his nakedness in socks, pants, and necessary vestments; cross and tie his hands, and place a prayer rope within them as his spiritual sword for defeating the devil; cover his head with his cap and his face with his hood formed in the shape of a cross; put on his shoes and belt; place him on a bed of straw; cover him with his cassock and sew it closed about his body with black thread, and with white thread sew three crosses, one at his head, one at his breast, and one at his feet; and as he was a priest, not just a monk, place the stole showing his rank upon him.

Kalogeros Vassilis’ body had rested on a wooden bier in the entrance to the main church, beside a burning candle, in the continuing presence of those with whom he’d shared his life who were now taking turns reciting from the Book of Psalms. The monk lay in the middle of the church, his icon on his chest, his fellows holding candles. This service would be a long one, in keeping with a departed monk’s long service to God. When it was over, his body and a procession led by acolytes bearing lanterns would follow on a journey, filled with prayers and stops along the way, to his final resting place within the monastery’s walls. Only his body, no casket or bier, would go into his grave, and once his body was blessed by a priest with the sign of the cross made by thrown earth and holy oil, the gathered monks would complete their thousand prayers for his soul and the Thrice Holy Hymn recited.

Only then it would be the abbot’s time to speak: to praise the virtues and spiritual struggles of the monk who had died.

The abbot was wrestling throughout the service with how to describe Vassilis’ struggles without addressing those tempests of the church that haunted every moment of his final days. They might even hold the answer to the reason for his death. How could he not speak out? But would it truly honor one who had built such a magnificent and meaningful life on earth to point out imperfections in the material he’d chosen for its construction? No, that would honor neither the man nor his life’s work. He would speak only of how Kalogeros Vassilis honored his church, how he labored to make life better for so many in keeping with its teachings, and how his reward was now to be with God in heaven. After all, why should my words praising the man do less for his church?

Besides, the abbot knew one did not advance in the church by being impolitic.

Bringing a stolen cross, even a just ‘sort of’ stolen one, to this holy, sanctified site might seem wrong to some, but to Andreas, it was the only place to come. He took his time walking along the wide stone path, lined on its sea view edge by stone benches, pines, and a low wall. A hundred yards dead ahead of the gate stood the gray, natural boulder steps and simple entrance to the centuries-old Monastery of the Apocalypse, and the beginning of Andreas’ descent to the Holy Cave enclosed within its whitewashed walls. A few steps down to a gift shop and a quick left back outside had Andreas in an inner courtyard. From there, steps twisting down brought him to the shared entrance of the Church of Saint Anna and the Holy Cave of the Apocalypse.