Goddess of The Rainbow

By Patrick Brigham

Goddess of The Rainbow is a very Greek story involving the rain, and how flooding changes us, moves the finger of fate, and causes us to reflect on our lives. A series of short stories, they all happen in the Greek town of Orestiada. Stories which simultaneously interlink and become a part of the whole, center around Iris – the local DHL courier – who in Greek mythology is not only Goddess of The Rainbow, but also the Messenger of The Gods, thereby connecting the individual tales of this sixteen chapter book.

In it there is a murderous estate agent, and his equally murderous wife, an aspiring artist looking for recognition in Athens, an estranged couple separated by time who rekindle their love, a Greek- Australian who is from Melbourne, and a visiting bus load of Russian women from Moscow. They have been invited by the mayor, in order that some of the winging local bachelors might find a suitable wife. There is an illegal Syrian immigrant, a disgruntled typically Greek mother who doesn’t want her son to marry at all, and a Greek Orthodox Priest who has lost his faith. All that and more; stories which come so beautifully together in the last chapter –fascinating and enchanting – which can be read and enjoyed individually, but put together, serve to make the whole novel greater than its component parts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrick Brigham
• Release date: Jul 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463014059

Patrick Brigham

Born in Berkshire, England to an old Reading family, after attending an English Public School and a stint at college, the author Patrick Brigham went into real estate. After the economic crash of 1989, he licked his wounds, wrote two books and in 1993 decided to finally abandon London, the UK's casino economy and moved to Sofia, Bulgaria. The natural home of political intrigue, Communism and the conspiracy theory, Bulgaria proved to be quite a challenge, but for many of its citizens, the transition was also very painful. Despite this, Patrick Brigham personally managed to survive these political changes and now lives peacefully in Northern Greece, writing mystery novels. A writer for many years, he has recently written four 'good' crime fiction books, including, Herodotus: The Gnome of Sofia, Judas Goat: The Kennet Narrow Boat Mystery, Abduction: An Angel over Rimini, and finally The Dance of Dimitrios. Confirming that the truth is very often stranger than fiction, Eastern Europe has proved to be Patrick Brigham’s inspiration for writing good mystery books. Much of his writing has been influenced by 20 years spent in the Balkans and the plethora of characters in his writing, are redolent of many past communist intrigues in Bulgaria. Recently Patrick has delved into literary fiction, with his new book, Goddess of The Rainbow, a very Greek story involving a rain deluge, and how flooding changes people, moves the finger of fate, and causes us to reflect on our lives. A series of short stories, they all happen in the Greek town of Orestiada. Stories which simultaneously interlink and become a part of the whole, centre around Iris – the local DHL courier – who in Greek mythology is not only Goddess of The Rainbow, but also the Messenger of The Gods, thereby connecting the individual tales of this sixteen chapter book. All that and more; stories which come so beautifully together in the last chapter –fascinating and enchanting – which can be read and enjoyed individually, but put together, serve to make the whole novel greater than its component parts. This year's novel is a stand-alone tale called The London Property Boy. Based on twenty years in the London property business, Patrick brings to life the excitement and intrigue of property dealing. With the fast buck and living high on the wing, comes disaster and the 80s draws to a close with another property crash.

Book preview

Goddess of The Rainbow

By Patrick Brigham

Evros Editions

Copyright 2018 Patrick Brigham

Cover Design: Louisa P Brigham

Except for review purposes, this document shall

not be transmitted, copied, modified, duplicated

or reproduced, in full or in part, or in any manner

without the written authorisation of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Other publications by Patrick Brigham:

The Dance of Dimitrios

Abduction: An Angel Over Rimini

Judas Goat: The Kennet Narrow Boat Mystery

Herodotus: The Gnome of Sofia

Judicial Review: A Play

Dedication

Sally Brigham

From

www.pukkaproofreading.co.uk

And

Louisa P Brigham

From

https://louisaBrigham.wordpress.com

IRIS was the Goddess of The Rainbow

As the messenger of the Olympian gods, she was also described as the handmaiden and personal messenger of Hera. Iris was a goddess of sea and sky; her father, Thomas the Wondrous, was a marine god, and her mother, Elektra the Amber, was a cloud-nymph.

For the coastal-dwelling Greeks, the rainbow's arc was most often seen spanning the distance between cloud and sea, and so the goddess was believed to replenish the rain-clouds with water from the sea.

Iris had no distinctive mythology of her own. In myth she appears only as an errand-running messenger and was usually described as a Virgin Goddess. Her name contains a double meaning, being connected with both the Greek word IRIS "the rainbow and EIRIS the messenger".

Iris is depicted in ancient Greek vase painting as a beautiful young woman with golden wings, a herald's rod (kerykeion) and sometimes a water pitcher (oinochoe) in her hand. She was usually depicted standing beside Zeus or Hera and serving nectar from her jug. 

CHAPTER 1 – The Author

It was a time of great need in Greece. Austerity had begun to bite and almost everyone Friedman knew was suffering the consequences. The winter had been long and very cold, especially in the north of Greece, where most people had been huddled around their log stoves for more than four long dreary months, worrying about their future.

Wondering why the Greek climate had changed so drastically, many now prayed that their precious fuel would last just that little bit longer. Cut from falling trees and carefully collected during the summer months, these life-preserving logs – piled high around most people's balconies – became fewer and fewer each day.

David Friedman lived in Zenia, a small village in Evros in the eastern region of Greek Macedonia, close to the borders of both Turkey and Bulgaria. Evros is also the name of the river bordering Turkey, which runs down south into the Aegean Sea.

Many people speculated as to why he lived there, and he would tell them that it was because it was quiet, a cheap place to live and that the locals, although very friendly, tended to leave him alone, which was fine by him as it left him time to think and write in peace, that being the master plan.

The Greeks are noble people and value academics, teachers – even writers of murder mystery novels – more than in many other parts of Europe. This was especially true of England, where he was born. As a Londoner, he greatly respected the hospitable Greeks for what they were – well-educated, and often bilingual – and despite the prevailing economic conditions, the doom and gloom, many of the local people had learned to speak English, even in the village supermarket.

‘Good morning, Mr David; how are you today?’ they usually asked him.

‘Great,’ he always replied, even if he was fed up or frustrated.

As a struggling writer, his dream was that one day he would finally become recognised and sell more books, because as the winter passed he too was feeling the pinch.

Whilst looking through his balcony window at the inhospitable landscape and the ominous grey skies above, David Friedman also wondered if he could survive the winter without a little financial assistance from back home. But then, quite suddenly, the weather changed, and the sun miraculously appeared in the sky, spreading a warm pink glow over the village.

Quite subtly, it also changed his view across the valley, especially the meandering River Ardas, which now gave him something new to look at and wonder about. Spring had finally arrived and soon the storks, swallows and swifts would reappear as if from nowhere, transforming this hardly known part of the Balkans – which he now called home – into a secret paradise.

Shifting from the previously bleak and foreboding winter landscape, in his mind's eye he could imagine his surroundings changing, returning once more to the warm and enchanting agricultural community of busy farmers. Zenia was the home he had learned to love during five short years of Greek village life; he loved the silence and the seclusion.

As summer began, all was fine for a while, but then the sun decided to hide behind great billowing clouds, winds from the north began to blow, lightning flashed and thunder boomed overhead. The storm, which seemed to go on forever, circled around the Rhodope Mountains to the north, to the east and across the river to the looming Turkish city of Edirne. That summer, the cruel rain began in earnest and never seemed to stop.

The farmers didn’t complain at first because the rain meant that they didn’t have to struggle with their antiquated water pipes; by now the smart self-propelled watering systems were too expensive to hire. But in any case, it gave them time to repair their old farm machinery that they’d recently taken out of hibernation.

Cash was in short supply in the Greek farming villages and, savings spent, credit was even more scarce, causing the local agricultural contractors to worry about their futures, as well as the farmers’. Many in the agricultural community were in financial turmoil.

After a week of storms, the rivers began to swell and the dykes and ditches came under stress; the constant rain caused them to overflow across some roads and even some minor bridges as well.

The underwater WW2 German-built concrete river crossings, in Zenia and Kastanies, usually passable by tractor or by jeep, were now closed, the River Ardas having risen sharply.

The local Greek water authority, which had a pathological dread of flooding, was once again becoming suspicious of its Bulgarian neighbours. The Bulgarians had a habit of opening up their paddles and floodgates whenever the level of the River Maritza rose, knowing full well that Greece would take the brunt of the onslaught.

Old animosities hadn’t been completely quenched by the European Union, and the Bulgarian thirst for victims, often delved back to earlier times and to Communism. In the past it had been almost a sacred duty for Bulgarians to punish the Greeks, for nothing in particular, whenever they could.

In Didymoteicho, the River Evros had now risen so high that the town itself was under siege from the rising waters. Flooding the surrounding fields and lapping around the edges of the newly built industrial estate, local workers were advised to stay home. Worse still, it had become clear to the local emergency services – with only a few small rubber boats at their disposal – that proper rib boats and dinghies would soon be needed and that they would need to be manned by experienced boatmen.

Under some emergency ordinance, the army had been ordered to ferry municipal workers, warehouse staff, and even local farmers, to and fro through the flooded areas. Many of these local farmers were very worried about their livestock, and special large-wheeled army lorries had been requisitioned from the local barracks to move the animals to higher ground.

Some of the low-lying Turkish and Gypsy villages had quite recently been fully evacuated and special local emergency provisions made. Temporary accommodation was provided by the municipality, with water, food and clothing, and evacuees were being housed in sports halls and leisure centres in the town.

After a week of constant rain, the government was becoming increasingly alarmed, finally issuing a red alert for the whole of Northern Evros, with constant announcements on the many Greek TV and radio channels informing citizens to take special precautions. Advising them to stock up with essential household goods, should they choose to remain in their homes, they were also told to keep calm.

Emphasis was put on heating and cooking gas, bottled water, emergency lighting, electric torch batteries and various sanitary items. According to the Greek government’s meteorological experts, it was believed that the inclement weather could last for many more days.

Looking through his sitting room window, David Friedman could see the ornamental garden pond overflowing into the garden. Donning his waxed Barbour jacket, he walked out into the lane, which overlooked the River Ardas, and noticed that the river had widened considerably. When he returned indoors, he made sure that all the phones were properly charged up and that there were spare buckets of water available, should the water mains be affected.

His little terrier Snezhka and his cat Tiger were now sitting next to one another by the balcony door, looking a little bedraggled and clearly wanting to be let in. He simply didn’t allow animals indoors in the normal course of events, but whilst things were clearly getting worse – although the water was still nowhere close to the house – he made an exception on this occasion. He was not a cruel man, and they both seemed very frightened.

At the village post office, the local postmistress told him that many of the minor roads were now impassable and that some of the smaller villages were cut off altogether and could only be reached by dinghy or by military vehicle. She told him that the river had now burst its banks, that the two local riverside cafes were both underwater and that the river was slowly moving up the hill towards the village itself. She advised him to go home, but first visit the local supermarket to stock up on provisions. Whilst there, he raided the tinned food section, bought three loaves of bread, five litres of fresh milk, and then, pushing past the nervous gossiping locals, he went home.

Home felt very safe, even though the electricity had just crashed, and lighting up a little gas stove in order to heat the coffee percolator he also prepared the gas lamps for the trials ahead. Feeling more like an adventure than a disaster, he was now ready for the worst. This was when Iris, the local messenger for DHL, arrived with a parcel.

David had been expecting the delivery of ten copies of his latest novel. His London publisher always paid a bit extra to use a reliable courier service, as the Greek postal service was not very efficient.

Having recently accepted the proofs of his newest murder mystery, he wanted to see, like most novelists inevitably do, a little row of glossy books on his bookshelf; it made him feel good about himself.

‘Kalispera, Mr David,’ Iris said as she handed over quite a heavy parcel. ‘These must be the books you are expecting,’ she said in passable English. ‘They have come all the way from London.’

Iris and David often chatted. Iris once told him that she lived in a small nearby hamlet, that she had a son called Porthos, who was a policeman in Athens, and an elderly father who was a farmer and, due to diabetes, was gradually going blind. With increasing problems farming his land, she had told him once that without her help he would probably have to sell the farm. This seemed, under the present economic conditions, to be very unlikely.

‘What are the roads like today, Iris?’ The Londoner was looking for even more excuses not to go out.

She showed him the palms of both hands and shrugged. ‘So far, I have had no problems with my deliveries, Mr David; especially for the motor trade, because they are the ones who always complain if spare parts are late.’ In Greece, everything came from Athens: the standard solution to almost anything needed urgently.

‘How is your father? He must be worried about all this rain. I know he’s recently been ill.’

‘Don’t ask; he is driving me mad,’ she said. ‘He says that we will go bankrupt if the rain doesn’t stop soon, although,’ she smiled, ‘at least he doesn’t have to water the bloody fields. But the cows and goats, they are my problem,’ and then as an afterthought, ‘and the chickens,’ she laughed, ‘but they can look after themselves!’

In her early fifties, Iris was still an attractive woman. The provincial Greeks were a hardy lot, nothing like the self-indulgent city girls. In the countryside, women were expected to help out on the farm and in the fields. Iris appeared to be very hardworking – you could tell by her rough and muscular hands.

She smiled. ‘First, I have to milk the cows and goats each morning before I start my deliveries. Then I have to do things for my old father – feed him and help him find things. My mother used to do all that, before she passed away. He is always losing things because he can’t see very well.’

It seemed that, with no noticeable husband around, and her son far away in Athens, there was little hope for change. ‘How do you manage to cope with all your different activities?’ the writer asked.

She smiled. ‘I am the most senior courier working at DHL in Orestiada, and I get all the easy deliveries – including official government notices and instructions from Athens – so I don’t complain. At the office they often refer to me as the Messenger of the Gods, but I think they are just jealous!’

He waved goodbye, and as he did so the electricity returned once more, the router coming alive again and the computer automatically switching itself back on, announcing an unread message from Facebook. He thought to himself, However the outside world is coping with this bloody storm, at least I’ll be able to stay here and write in peace.

He took the little hissing Greek aluminium coffee pot off the camping stove and poured the thick black coffee into a waiting cup. A sugar cube, a glass of cold water from the water dispenser, and the wet and windy world outside could simply go to Hell.

***

Iris liked the Englishman. He was considerate and seemed genuinely interested in who she was and how her life had unfolded. Perhaps that was because he was a writer, and inquisitive. Perhaps he looked at the world with contempt, or maybe he had been injured in the past and carried his demons around with him wherever he went, needing reassurance and courage to go on.

In any case, he wasn’t likely to be more than just a casual friend, because he was from a different world and she hadn’t read a book in years. Her family home only had magazines and seed catalogues to read, or instructions on how to operate various bits of farm machinery. These days she was forced to read many of these documents out loud to her father, who could hardly distinguish the writing, let alone follow the complicated diagrams.

It frightened her when she thought about what might happen next now that he was becoming so isolated and infirm. She could hardly imagine herself driving a tractor around the fields, or dealing with all the paperwork, which more and more often was left to their accountant in Orestiada. She thanked God for this accountant and for her own good health and cheerful disposition.

Iris was seldom miserable and made a point of being clear-headed and optimistic. And her son Porthos? He was an enigma to most and born out of wedlock; she had been stigmatised from the very moment he was born. But her father had been adamant.

‘You will not marry that labourer: he is a fool and a drunk. He will never darken my door, not as long as I live. I will bring little Porthos up as my own son, and he will become the most important part of this family, just you wait and see.’

But these were just words, and by the time Porthos was a teenager the two seemed to be at loggerheads daily over most things.

‘He will take after his useless father if you are not careful, Iris,’ she was frequently informed, ‘and he will turn out to be a bad lot, you mark my words!’ But he didn’t.

One day Porthos told his mother that he was leaving home to join the Greek merchant navy in Piraeus. He claimed to have been offered a job as a deckhand, although he finally ended up working in the galley, serving up pork and cabbage stew. But at least it had got him away from his grandfather, the arguments about almost anything and the permanent feeling of angst.

He did it for his mother as much as for anybody, and now, living as far away from Evros as possible, he thought of her each day with tenderness and love when he travelled the high seas, or now, when navigating the streets of Athens in his police car. As for his natural father, Soteris, he had been in tears when Porthos told him he was leaving the village and going to sea.

But as Porthos rightly realised, this was because he would no longer be around to be questioned about his mother. Clearly his father still loved Iris – even after years of enforced separation – which was one more reason for him to hate his tyrannical grandfather. Now, living in Athens, he rarely saw his mother, but phoned her regularly on a Sunday and frequently promised one day to spend Christmas with her in the village. But he never had, because old animosities would never let him share one moment more anywhere near his detested and aggressive grandfather.

***

The mayor of Orestiada was truly a man of the people, but Thanos Liroydis had recently become sick of some of his complaining constituents and was especially so of certain middle-aged bachelors. They were always moaning about the lack of local marriage prospects – mainly because they had either missed the boat when they were young, or had initially decided not to marry at all – and Thanos knew there were few prospects remaining.

There were a few ancient widows of course, the odd eccentric or alcoholic, but that was not the only difficulty, nor was it the real problem. The real problem was the relationship these bachelors had with their mothers, because these middle-aged men had never really left home, and Greek mothers always ruled the roost.

Thanos was a kindly man and fondly imagined that he had found an easy solution. He decided to put an advert in the Russian press, inviting unmarried Russian women to take a trip to Greece – at the expense of the municipality – with a view to getting married to single Greek men who were looking for wives. The Greek Embassy in Moscow was very helpful; it acted as a go-between for the Russian women and the mayor of Orestiada and sent daily information about each new Russian applicant.

Most days, a packet would arrive in Orestiada, via the DHL office in Moscow, and it was Iris’s job to deliver it to Thanos. She had known the mayor for many years.

‘What do these girls look like, Thanos, and what exactly do they expect?’

‘You can see for yourself, Iris: some of them are stunning, some very plain and some seem very sincere. Whether they look like their photos when they arrive in Greece is another matter, as will be their reaction to a room full of randy potbellied Greeks!’

‘How are you arranging this matrimonial tryst?!’ Iris was in stitches because she actually knew some of the bachelors in question and was sure that they would never agree to leave their maternal home, nor give up their mother’s dreadful cooking. ‘You don’t actually think they’ll get married, do you?’

‘Well, I look at it this way,’ the mayor said, reclining in his mayoral office chair and lighting a cigarette, ‘if they don’t, they can shut up forever, and if they do, it will shut them up anyway!’

‘You mean the punishment will be quite enough? But what are the odds, Thanos? And what are your instincts telling you about this new and expensive municipal programme?’ The reclining mayor thought for a moment.

‘I reckon there will be a twenty percent success rate, Iris, and in