His Mysterious Ways

By Milton Johanides

In this the first part of The Cypriot's Treasure, Artie must make his way alone through Europe. He finds himself in Paris at the time of Picasso and later London during the suffragette movement. But his restless personality and his loyalty to the priceless locket, given to him by the woman he loves, lead him to dangerous circumstances with lethal consequences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9780244571030

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His Mysterious Ways

HIS MYSTERIOUS WAYS

PART ONE OF THE CYPRIOT’S TREASURE

copyright ©2020 Milton Johanides

This ebook is copyrighted with all rights reserved by the author Milton Johanides. No reproduction for commercial or creative purposes of any part of this book is allowed anywhere in the world without the express permission of the author.

Cover design by Milton Johanides

ISBN 978-0-244-57103-0

Prologue

My name is Yuri Aristopoulos. My mother was Olympia, a Papayiannis who married an Aristopoulos and daughter of Artemios Papayiannis who was the first in our family to take possession of the famous El Greco locket. The other day I came across the earliest recorded mention of the locket…

…now MY locket.

It was sent to me by the National Museum of Athens, who, following on from my recent enquiries, discovered it in their archives. The locket is the reason why everything that happened to my family happened the way it did, and the reason why my illustrious, but often misguided, grandfather did the things he did. The transcript is officially dated to the time of the Siege of Famagusta, in 1571, when Cyprus fell to the Ottoman. I felt both exhilarated and despondent reading this letter, contrasting emotions fully justified by the fact that the locket has brought my family both good fortune and the most miserable misfortune. That I am now aware of the locket’s provenance makes neither of these states easier to bear, though I must say it has considerably increased its value. There is no mention of magical powers and no mention of lives lost as a result of its existence unless we include those poor souls who perished during that awful siege (and perhaps we should!). However, something wonderful, created by a master of his art, was rescued from oblivion that fateful day, to be handed on to grateful generations in the future. I don’t doubt, the awful outcomes it produced had nothing to do with the locket itself, but with mismanagement on the part of its possessors... 

Famagusta, August 1571

"I burrow into the earth to escape the dogs. For the dogs want their meat. Bragadin has met his grisly end. Oh Bragadin. Bragadin and Baglione, men sent by the gods to defeat the invaders. But the dogs were too strong. Lala Mustafa, too harsh, a man with no conscience, no hint of Christian kindness, but only dark ambition and fierce revenge his guides. They call him Sultan, but Satan would be more apt. He took out his anger on Bragadin, who once stood strong on the ramparts of Famagusta, defying the dogs, but now stands only in his suit of straw, skin flayed from his living body and stuffed, a prize for the Turk, a balm for the eyes of Turkish sailors who cheered his end. How Bragadin, my great master, must have wished, in those final moments of his agony, that he had never left pleasant Venetian shores to come to wretched Cyprus - once so favoured by God but now abandoned - but stayed safe inside that saintly kingdom. Men of action know not the meaning of comfort and safety, but rush toward danger and risk all for good, destined to fight to the end for the love of Christendom.

"And so he met his end. Now all his efforts have come to nothing. Famagusta lies in ruins. Its sweet population, once innocent and happy, where are they now? Their bodies strewn across bloody streets. Their children slaughtered. Their women disgraced. What is there left to fight for? Nothing.

"But I have my prize. It glows inside my shirt. I fear its light might give me away. I must hide it, treasure it. Such a piece can buy a hundred ships, and praise be to Bragadin who gave me this gift, together with the rest of his Ottoman booty.

My sweet Pelona will never want for anything. If I can get out of this spot alive, if I can escape the dogs, I shall return to Crete, back to her arms. She will call me saint, hero, when she sees what fortune I bring her. I will build a fleet so ferocious the Turks will shudder at the sight of it, toss away their spears, learn to speak Greek and say Our Father" before daring to face us again.

"This gem is the key. Christ be my guide. I vow, on my Saviour’s sweet name, my descendants, long centuries of them, will never know the horrors I have witnessed but will live all their days easy and free, basking in Cretan sunshine.

May God praise us all and this, His holy relic...

1.

The Gulf of Corinth, 1903

Once, not so long ago, a young man headed for Greece in a fishing boat belonging to an old drunk from Paphos. The night before they were due to arrive, a storm came down and thrashed the vessel with glittering shards of rain. The captain was passed out drunk in his cabin, slumped over the helm. As the sea rose and fell, a gale snatched up stray artefacts and flung them overboard. The boy, Artemios Papayiannis, trembling in the face of Cruel Nature, clutched a raggedy sack of clothes in one hand, and in the other the buttoned-up pocket of his soaking shirt where the silver locket was hidden. In this way, bent around a rusty old anchor chain, he held on, and, though doubting the benefits of Old Religion, prayed.

The prow tilted every which way, staring up at airy heaven one minute, down to watery hell the next, as though in a dilemma as to which way to go. Finally, the old wooden mast snapped and the sail ripped. As Artie prepared for his liquid afterlife, he couldn’t stop shivering from top to bottom.

Then the air warmed and light illuminated the cavernous gloom. The gem came alive! He unbuttoned his shirt pocket, took out the luminous locket and, holding it up, marvelled at how strange it was that he should now own such a thing, an ancient marvel, wondrous treasure that seemed to possess magic, and how ironic that both, after such a short association, should end up at the bottom of the sea. But as the winds grew, the gem increased its glow, blasting out light like the aftermath of an explosion, forcefully pushing back the black deluge, and whether an unexplained miracle or unknown science, or the product of a deranged mind (which matters have long since been the subject of debate in our family) it is accepted by all (even among those who scoff at such things) that when Artie flipped open the little latch to gaze upon the photograph of the fair Efthimia gracing one side of the locket, and the painting of the Great Redeemer, Christ Himself, on the other, the Holy Lips of the Saviour, tiny inside the frame, began to move.

Words were spoken which rolled like distant thunder.

Artemi, the voice said, your people have stopped believing. Their fields are parched and their nets empty. The earth groans beneath their feet. They wring their hands and cry out to me. Meanwhile, the old enemy gathers once more at the gates. You are being called...

Artie, for a long while unable to speak, found his voice and asked: Am I to die in this storm?

Aren´t you listening? I am calling you. You must reach out to these poor sinners, this ruined race, who cannot see that they are the authors of their own destruction. The children of illustrious Odysseas, once so favoured by Athena, have forgotten their past, lost sight of their special mission. Someone must remind them.

Me?

Who else is within earshot? Do you expect me to address that good-for-nothing sop of a sailor who charged your father double what he should have for your passage over, and who has drunk so much raki that to him breathing and drowning come to the same thing?

Me then?

Yes, you.

But I’m nobody.

Everyone is Somebody, came the wise reply and Artie nodded at the unarguable logic

What must I do?

It is written on your heart. When you see, you will know.

But this old wreck is about to fall apart and head for a sea-bed grave. That seems unavoidable for all you say! Is this my punishment for defaming beautiful Efthimia, the fairest girl I ever saw?

Reward and punishment in your case are equally merited. But fear nothing for I am with you.

At that, the winds subsided, the sea became flat and tiny lights flickered on in the distance, the welcome approach of land. There was silence but for the occasional slap of wave against hull. The water which a moment before had been lapping around Artie´s knees now drained and left the deck dry, the wooden mast mysteriously repaired, the sail restored. The old drunk fisherman farted and turned over in his sleep.   

H-how did you do that?

A tiny smile from inside the locket for a moment blinded Artie and he heard the voice say: Just know that I can.

"And how will I know this is not a dream? Artie demanded, shielding his eyes. When daybreak comes everything that happens in the night always seems like a dream."

Angels shall seek you out.

"Angels? Really? Do such beings exist? I always took those stories with a pinch of salt."

Then the light dimmed and went out and the little painting reverted back to its original, inanimate, yet perfect, condition.

Artie, breathing hard, stunned by what he had seen and heard, put the gem back inside his shirt pocket, carefully buttoned it up, tightened his hold on the sack stitched by his mother, and fell asleep.

In the morning, he forgot his dream and the trawler arrived safely at the harbour of Paliochori.

Paliochori, Greece, 1903

Paliochori was a peaceful and prosperous village of hardworking folk no more than a three-hour mule-trek from Athens. The ramshackle collection of ochre-coloured houses, constructed an eon ago from local stone by primitive yet skilled masons, nestled among the foothills of a mountain beneath three creaking windmills. It was typical of villages everywhere but, though much of the population of Greece starved in those days, the happy Paliochorites knew no such deprivation. They lived next to a turquoise lagoon which happily and on a daily basis gave up its fishy abundance, and worked golden fields which always produced healthy harvests.

The usual custom of this friendly village was to welcome new arrivals with a celebration, a procession of the locals led by the priest sprinkling holy water, but on this occasion it was a thin reception which greeted the vessel. Up early that day and having spotted the chugging trawler from the ancient Ottoman lookout tower, Andoni Papayiannis ran down to the quay and stood watching nervously as it made its way round the other vessels of the fishermen of the region, including the distinguished (if a little battered) Aphrodite, which belonged to the handsome sailor Levendi, who in his prime had toured all the islands of the Aegean in search of happiness. On the way, Andoni called out to the other villagers, but none of them followed him. He saw the priest and shouted to him, My boy arrives! but the priest only muttered a blessing under his breath before hurrying away.

Alone on the quayside, Andoni wasn’t sure what to expect. Family for him held mixed blessings. He often dwelt on his own origins, for example, with a large dose of painful regret. His mother was from Cyprus and produced six other children before him, and on the day he was born donated him to her sister who had moved to Greece to marry the man she had fallen in love with, a Greek to the core, but who had been unable herself to conceive. It had been an act of goodwill but to Andoni, growing up so far from home, it had always felt like betrayal.

Nevertheless, as the sun rose and a youth with strikingly handsome features appeared on deck, hands on the rail, watching out with wide-eyed curiosity and with long hair fluttering in the wind, he was filled with pride.

"Oikoyenia, Andoni mused, - family - never fails to move the heart, no matter what."

The anxious look the boy wore, as if he was afraid, only served to endear him further to his uncle, who could sympathise with his predicament and, when the boy stepped off the boat, Andoni greeted him with open arms and a smile, but as they embraced, Artie couldn’t help but notice the absence of a welcome party, and sure enough, on his first Sunday in church, the congregation, normally so attentive to xenous, the tourists who occasionally passed through, stood away from him and eyed him with suspicion. He boldly fended off their glares, but the next day a meeting was called by the mukhtari to address the matter on everyone´s mind, whether the clever schoolmaster, a man who had always acted so wisely in the past, had done the right thing in accepting this lad into his care.

The leaders of the village, successful men and educated ecclesiasts, men with unimpeachable reputations, met in the back room of the kafeneion, where civic meetings were held and where over little cups of black coffee, and perhaps a dessert of pastries dusted with sugar and, on the side, a glass of Paliochori’s finest sherry, matters of great importance were discussed. The sheriff of the village called the meeting to order and announced the subject for discussion, following which there was a maelstrom of speeches and haggling, of agreement and disagreement, of hostility and friendly alliance, men following their allotted paths airing views about politics, religion, and social engineering. One thing they could all agree on was that nothing should stand between a man and his family, but the fact that these were exceptional circumstances, as the mukhtari pointed out, was borne up by a letter written by the boy´s father, Michali, in which he wrote:

"Forgive my sinful son, caught in an unfortunate clinch with the daughter of our priest, the details of which I am too embarrassed to elucidate. Please, agabitos adelphi, my beloved brother, accept this poor shamed boy into your care. Teach him well and help him alter his ways, for no one is more adept than you at reading the soul, listening to the heart and educating the mind. You know what it is to be snatched away from the bosom of your family. When you were just a baby, my poor brother, no more than six months old, our mother, worn out by the rest of us, her unruly brood, sent you to live in Greece with her sister who could not conceive. Now my Artemi follows you, though in his case he needs guidance not sympathy, a stern hand not pity, for, I warn you, he is likely to be more of a hindrance than a help..."

The letter was read by one of Andoni’s former pupils, the slow-witted Manolo, and moved Andoni to tears as not only did it remind him of his old Cypriot family, whom he barely knew, and his old home in Thavma, which he rarely visited, but also swelled his heart as his former pupil, Manolo, who once struggled with the alphabet, now read so well. But the disconsolate officials were disturbed by the letter’s contents. Is it wise to invite such infamy into our pure and honest haven? they asked themselves, carefully weighing up Michali´s words.

Andoni was invited to respond and having listened to their concerns stood up to speak. He ran a hand through greying hair, which due to the labours of his thinking had greyed early, and scratched his head as though trying to solve an insoluble riddle. He had always had to speak up for himself, this Cypriot migrant, himself a foreigner to all intents and purposes, so this was nothing new. He was respected by all for his cleverness and his good reputation was unblemished. He was further bolstered by a noble connection: the grandfather of his adopted aunt´s husband had once exchanged pleasantries with Lord Byron himself in a cafe at Missolonghi, and the honour of that meeting shone down on them from the past; this same grandfather, not long after Byron died and just before the fall of Missolonghi, escaped with a sack of gold and travelled a great distance before finding refuge in the church of an isolated village. He was so impressed by the air of that place and by the gentle manners of the inhabitants who made him welcome that he decided to settle. That was Paliochori. He donated much of his treasure to the local monastery, leaving more than an enough for himself, and attracted the hand of a young girl. They married and had a hoard of children and grandchildren, leading a blessed life by any measure. One of his grandsons, in answer to prayer, met a visiting angel from Cyprus and under a lemon tree in a golden field on a sunny spring day asked for her hand in marriage. A letter arrived from Thavma shortly afterwards granting consent. The couple’s wedding was favoured by a thin shower of rain which everyone hailed as a fine omen and they lived happily for many years