Chapter 2: The Metéora

Saturday, 25 September 1954, near Kastraki, Greece

The staff in his hand was still alive, though it had never again burst into flames. Doc felt it vibrate with each step through the canyons of the Metéora, the fire of the Mediterranean sun beating on his back. He’d been back every summer since the war. Though the staff had never again called fire, Doc had found other uses for it and felt it resonate with the land around him.

The goat track that locals called a road was as dusty as the foothills had been. A preternatural awareness of his surroundings prickled at his senses. Turks, communists, still a few Nazi sympathizers, and local city chiefs all vied for the privilege of being the most feared threat. A lack of vigilance could be fatal.

As he stepped through the narrow passage, hands grabbed at him from either side. Doc responded automatically. If it no longer spit fire, the walking stick still moved with a mind of its own. His right hand worked as a fulcrum as he swung the top of the stick down with his left. Its ironclad heel struck one assailant in the groin. Not stopping, Doc spun on the other attacker and struck out with the butt of the stick. A quickly raised hand deflected the blow, but Doc won his freedom.

He turned on his attackers and slipped the pack from his back, the staff grasped firmly in both hands. What he saw made him sick. Children, not more than fourteen or fifteen years old. One already had a knife in his hand. The other gathered up a rock to throw. God damn this land of misery! Maybe he already had.

The boy threw his rock and Doc no longer felt sorry for them. He picked it out of the air wielding the staff as a bat and crashed down on the charging knife hand in the same move. The bigger youth screamed in pain but dropped the knife into his other hand and attacked again. Doc parried the knife neatly but failed to dodge the next rock. The missile struck him squarely in the chest. He staggered back a step, tripped over his discarded pack and fell.

The knife-wielding youth yelled in triumph and leapt to a rock above Doc. He brandished his knife ready for the kill. His accomplice shouted above the noise. Doc watched the boy’s focus shift as silence fell in the wake of the echo. The boy backed off the rock and joined his companion. Then both ran back the way Doc had come.

The sudden change in behavior piqued Doc to alertness for new danger. A predator abandons prey when faced with a superior predator. Struggling to regain his lost wind, he rolled, planted his staff and pulled himself upright to face whatever challenge might now appear.

A monk.

And an old man leaning on a short cane. Doc breathed a sigh of relief. A coarsely woven robe and pillbox hat identified the religious as a monk of one of the monasteries gracing the pinnacles of Metéora. It was he who spoke first.

“Are you injured, sir?”

“Bruised but not broken,” Doc answered in nearly flawless Greek. “Nothing serious.”

“An American,” laughed the older man, identifying the accent in spite of Doc’s facility with the language. “Didn’t I tell you, El?”

“Yes, yes,” answered the monk. “How you know these things...” Turning his attention back to Doc he continued. “May we help you, sir? We will escort you to the village if that is your destination; or gladly offer hospitality among the brethren if you are not afraid of heights.”

The monk raised his hand and pointed to the top of one of the sheer cliffs nearby. It towered at five hundred feet above them. About halfway up, a net swung at the end of a long rope. An unfortunate but long-standing joke restrained Doc from accepting the invitation: “How often do you change the ropes?” asked the tourist. “Whenever they break,” answered the monk.

“Thank you. I was on my way to Kalambaka,” Doc answered. The monk held Doc’s eye for a moment flicking back to his staff.

“Is that not the staff of the Vagabond Poet?” the monk asked in English, so softly that Doc barely heard him.

“Merry meet,” Doc whispered.

“Merry part, and merry meet again,” the monk intoned. He glanced at the old man and nodded slightly.

What were the odds? He was in the middle of the Plains of Thessaly talking to an old man and a monk and greeted with words from an English cult. A sign of recognition Doc had not heard outside The Lake District. And this monk was not Greek.

“May I offer my home, Doctor?” the old man broke the silence between Doc and the monk. “It is not so highly exalted as the monastery.”

“How did you know I was a doctor?” he asked immediately. In thirty-plus years of not strictly academic work, enough scavengers dogged his footsteps to keep Doc suspicious of any familiarity. First the monk and then the old man.

“Don’t ask Andrew how he knows anything,” interrupted the monk. “He will probably tell you that he has been expecting you all day.”

“All week,” the old man confessed.

“You have the advantage of me,” Doc said skeptically. “I’ve only expected to be here for the past three or four hours.”

“I have reached that age where I am always expecting a visitor,” the old man smiled. “I’m Andrew Pariskovopolis,” he said, extending a hand. “You looked like a scholar to me.”

“Phillip Heinrich,” Doc replied, returning the handshake. “Professor of archaeology at Farrington University. Most folks call me Doc.”

“Well then, Doc. My invitation is genuine. If you would share bread with my family this evening, my home is open to you.”

“I feel that I already owe you for rescuing me from those young hoodlums.” Doc winced as he rubbed the sore spot on his chest and retrieved his pack.

“It’s a sad thing,” broke in the monk. “They are refugees from their own homes, forced to steal in order to live. The communists raid the villages and kidnap the children they find. To escape, some flee into the hills. They become hungry enough to attack travelers. Finally, they will give themselves up to the communists for the offer of a good meal. We will never see them again.”

“You seem to have influence over them, Father,” said Doc. “Is there nothing that can be done?”

“Just ‘Brother’,” the monk corrected him. “Is it a good thing that children should fear the church? I must leave you now, but I leave you in good care, Doctor.” The monk turned off down the path after a parting word with the old man. Doc and Andrew were left alone to make a short climb up the edge of the canyon.

“Brother El has tried many times to help our children. He is one of the few monks who do not stay on their mountain tops,” the old man told Doc. “But the children fear the monks as much as they do the communists. Nothing is here but confusion these days.”

“I must thank you again for your offer of hospitality, then,” Doc responded. “It must be dangerous to invite unknown guests into your home.”

“Sometimes there is danger,” the old man answered looking at Doc carefully. “But Zeus commands and he protects.”

Doc’s suspicions melted into curiosity. A dozen images swept through his mind. Embodied in that phrase was the heritage of Dionysian sects predating civilization. In Zeus’s name, the wayfarer seeking lodging could not be refused. Doc added up the possibilities of such a sect surviving in the relative isolation of Metéora, even among the Christian monasteries. They equaled a treasure. The title for the paper that he would write after this visit was already forming in his mind.

“You keep the ancient ways?” Doc asked tentatively.

“They keep us,” the old man affirmed.

They came upon four small dwellings surrounded by a low wall. Here the old man stopped. As soon as he opened the courtyard gate, several children and two yapping dogs descended on them.

“My grandchildren. All except those two,” the old man laughed, pointing at the dogs. “Children, tell yiayia we have a guest for dinner.” The two walked on into the courtyard and the old man drew water from the central well. This is my home, Doctor. Welcome. My wife and I live in the little house. My children and grandchildren occupy the other three. We change places from time to time as our families grow and change.”

“All your family lives right here?” Doc asked, trying to tabulate quickly how many people might form the cult he was sure existed here.

“No. I am sorry to say.” Andrew paused and drew a pained breath. “I lost my youngest son in the war. It was very hard. My eldest son and his wife moved to Athens some years ago. Where others talk, he charges in to see what will happen. They could not have been happy here. But their son is visiting for the summer. Maybe longer.”

A little woman emerged from the first house and bustled across the yard toward them. “He’s come?” she asked Andrew with her eyes questioningly intent on Doc. “You found him?”

“And this is my wife, Thea,” laughed the old man. “Thea, this is Doctor Heinrich, our guest,” he said gently to her.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said, critically surveying her guest. Whatever the old man’s generosity, Doc was not what she expected. She glanced at her husband and he nodded. “I beg your pardon,” she sighed heavily. “I thought ... well! I’ll put dinner on the table. You will join us.”

“Thank you,” Doc answered to her back as she retreated.

He joined his host and followed the woman into the house which rapidly filled with the rest of the clan. The dinner was shared in common with all the families. Doc couldn’t separate one household from another. They noisily fell to their meal and told stories around the table. Doc was not the expected guest, it seemed, but was certainly not unwelcome. He spun yarns about his travels and adventures, sticking to the ones of his younger years when he adventured as far as China, South America, and Africa.

The meal ended and the storytelling grew more spirited. Doc sensed a subtle shift. As he told of an adventure, the old man would turn it into a lesson in the ancient myths. Finally, one of the children was asked to tell a story.

The child was well-versed in mythology, apparently the fruit of his grandfather’s teaching, but the story was all his own woven into the fabric of a classical myth. It was a romantic story, though some of the romance was lost in an over-exuberant description of Apollo’s glory and in the child’s enthusiasm for the magical qualities that the gods exhibited. The boy was especially enthused in his description of the muses.