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Short Story Winning Entry

Judas at Their Table

by Elizabeth Pappas

 

     Our villa rattles and groans. Shutters break free from their latches cracking like whips against grey walls. Roof tiles shift as the night storm weighs down upon our home. Frightened by the intensity of the gale, I snuggle in bed beneath my blankets. A branch taps at my window. Its eerie appearance resembles the long arthritic finger of a timeworn witch. From the light of crashing thunder bolts, sheltering on my windowsill, sits a koukouviya (owl). I spring from under the blankets to retrieve it from the storm. Flinging wide the window, a mighty gust blows the bird fluttering onto my dressing table. There it sits wide eyed; trembling.

     Closing the window, I realise what I have done. I have let in a koukouviya. According to the villagers on Corfu, someone dies when a koukouviya enters a home. Why, I curse, are the Greeks so superstitious? The bird continues to perch on my dressing table, blinking. As the storm rages, I sink into a fitful sleep.

     A long ray of sunshine falls across my face warming my cheek like the touch of a gentle kiss. I open my eyes and recall the shivering wide eyed bird. I look across the room; there is the bird. It's still wide eyed and shivering on my dressing table. Trying not to frighten the bird, I get out of bed and pick it up. Flinging open the window I discharge it from its overnight shelter. It ascends into a clear blue-sky hooting as it departs.

     At breakfast the news breaks that a life was stolen in the night. Our neighbours Yiayia (Grandmother) died. Her transparent soul winged its way through the stormy night to the mysterious sorting yard where all lifeless souls wait.

     “I knew it, I knew it,” I say to myself. “It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have rescued the koukouviya.”

     I decide not to mention the owl. Later I join villagers and visit Yiayia’s family. At her villa I’m invited to join the mourners. We perch on assembled chairs set around the lifeless woman’s body where she lies flat on her bed.

     Before I or others arrived, Yiayia’s body was prepared and laid out. Special moirologia (mourners) had embarked on a sequence of bereavement rituals. The women washed her body with vinegar, then dressed her. They placed candles at the head and foot of the old woman’s brass bed. The icon of her name saint, her treasure, rests on a now still heart. The women placed two gleaming gold sovereigns in her eye sockets. These will pay the ferryman. Even in this Christian community, her passage to Hades is considered. Is it God, or do the Gods throw the dice? An evil eye on a white ribbon entwined with garlic hangs from a bed knob close to her head. More pagan measures against evil forces.

     Now in the halo of the wavering light of candles and lanterns, I experience the ancient phenomena of moirologia. I’d never seen this ritual. The tradition heralds back to the Iliad: The Odyssey, the 8th century BC. Yiayia’s female friends embody the skills of expert mourners. When the principal moirologia begins her lament, the other women, one by one follow suit, and wail. Their voices flow into a continuous chorus of crying. Their voices move beyond our world to the mysterious secret, sacred places where mere mortals cannot go until their time is ripe. As moirologia voices ascend, the sounds enter conditionally, a world beyond our own, the afterlife. During the lament, wearing no makeup, the women loosen their long hair allowing it to fall. It hangs wild and at liberty around their shoulders. Frequently yanking at their tresses, they chant and the pitch increases. Rocking and swaying back and forth, the women move in tempo with each other. Grief moves outward and into the spectators.

     Amid subdued trembling light, Yiayia looks beautiful. Her braided hair frames her face in a decorative bun. Threaded beneath her white headdress, white ribbons entwine her braided hair in traditional Corfiot style. Her headdress falls in a short cascade over her shoulders. Only one ear, her right ear boasts a large gold earring. Bursts of colour emanate from blooms that negotiate her head dress. Yiayia’s white blouse sits beneath a black velvet bolero jacket. Hand stitched gold eagles mount its delicate front. An eagle perches on each breast symbolising Christian Byzantium. A gold Christian Orthodox cross hangs on a chain around her neck.

     I recall how she wore this outfit on festival days; her black skirt ballooning from the many petticoats beneath. Now the outfit makes her shoulders and face appear tiny. An ethereal Mona Lisa smile traces her lips. The pale landscape of her skin is as wrinkleless as plump gardenia blossoms. Wearing tiny polished black shoes, it is as if she is a maiden off to a celebration in the village.

     Friends bearing autumn flowers place them around her body. A generous bouquet of perfumed basil and lemon blossoms garnish her touching fingers. She’s attended with unhurried love and care. Her hand embroidered linen is on show around the room. They are a barometer of her life’s effort embodied in fine stitches. Her daughter-in-law, hair hanging around her face, shows each masterpiece with pride. They are hers now.

     Later, the smell of ouzo and brandy served on a small tray mingles with damp clothing and moth balls. Spirits are accompanied by Greek coffee in demitasse cups. A sheet of incense rests at head height as frankincense wafts unencumbered from Yiayia’s crowded bedside shrine. Her much loved icons sending out a final tribute to her from the light of her grandmothers crackling oil lamp. From time to time friends and family, overcome with grief, fling themselves over her still body. They wail loudly. It is as if they are endeavouring to call her back from where she has gone but they fail. White starched handkerchiefs pass along the row of chairs. Old bodies, once young, bend with effort touching her face with rough gentleness. Farmers hands gnarled and purple from olive picking. Even in the milling, a melancholic final caress from a once ardent lover. Past passions left to yesterday. Tears drop from above.

     “The funeral, the funeral, we must speak of this.” Comes the voice of the daughter-in-law. It’s time I left them to their arrangements.

     During the night I have a dream about an icon I’d seen in a church in Corfu town. It depicts the dead plucked off heavens ladder. Devils pull at those ascending it by using every conceivable temptation. At the bottom of the icon, the dead scream in torment as the fires of hell engulf them. The Orthodox believe the soul of the deceased wanders the earth for 40 days after death. Yiayia’s soul is on a journey through aerial toll houses. During this time Yiayia will reappear in places she frequented before her soul departs. If her soul fails its trials, demons will drag her to hell with tempting lures. I wonder if this will be my soul’s destiny. A burrowing and unsettling malevolence hovers in the shadows of my dream and I awaken to wild pounding in my chest.

     A few days later I join the solemn procession on its way from Yiayia’s house to the church. We make our way with the coffin held aloft through the olive groves. Upon entering the church, the familiar smell of incense; the flickering of icons. Tempered by the sound of chanting, before me is a scene of gold and silver. Juxtaposed against dark huddled bodies, sagging shoulders, the coffin lies unmoved. The mood echoing an image reminiscent of a gloomy El Greco painting. We pause before a now open coffin. It faces east in front of the alter. The priests voice rings in my head.

     “She is only sleeping; she will rise again.”

     I panic. Will she rise again and punish me for saving the Koukouviya?

     Later, walking behind the coffin, the solemn congregation make their way to the graveyard. I walk with her family and I am cloaked in guilt. Golden autumn leaves rustle and swirl around our feet. Their colour contrasting with the blue sky. It is a serious scene as the sun emits rays warming us from the bite of the wind. Next to Yiayia’s prepared grave, I see the remains of the former occupant. Not mere morsels of mortal remains, these discarded body parts are recognisable. Legs, spine and scull. They attend by protruding through clumps of sodden soil. They send shivers down my spine. I avert my eyes and whisper to Maria my neighbour,

     “Whose bones are by the grave side?”

     Shuddering, she wraps her black shawl closer to her body. She explains,

     “I don't know. The family to whom the bones belong must collect them. They wash the mortal remains and place them in an ossuary. This act of desecration allows Yiayia a place to rest until she's lifted out of the earth; placed into an ossuary.”

     Keeping her voice low Maria continues,

     “In Greece cremation is illegal. It is not a Greek Orthodox tradition. We believe we will ascend again when Jesus returns. As most of the population in Greece is Greek Orthodox, it’s hard to find a space to bury the dead. Plots are leased for three years. When this period ends, relatives are notified to witness the removal of the skeleton from the ground. If they want to keep the remains in the grave, they need to continue paying rent.”

     Pausing to cross herself Maria reflects,

     “If no one pays the rent on the grave or removes the bones from the grave, what remains is moved by the authorities. Then it will be dissolved in chemicals. The remnants get placed in a common burial plot. The Clergy believe incineration violates the mortal body.”

     I bow my head at this disclosure and turn my collar to the cold wind. Hesitating at Yiayia’s grave site, the priest shakes his head as he sizes up the coffin. He decides the grave is too small. After much conversation among the men, they exchange bitter words. The women discover what will occur next. They release primal howls. Appearing feeble and helpless, their rage sits in the air. Informed, the grave diggers cannot dig a longer hole. If they do, her coffin will encroach into the sacred lot of another’s grave. More debate and the priest insist the end of the coffin is to be shortened so it can fit into the ground. We stand waiting as one of the altar boys races back to the priests house. He returns with an axe.

     Pulled from the ranks of pallbearers, the priest commandeers a strong male. With shaking head, the recruit takes up his assignment. He must chop off the end of the coffin without damaging Yiayia’s body. He fumbles for his gold crucifix. Finding it beneath his coat and jumper, he raises it to his lips, looks to heaven and kisses it. He prays out loud seeking absolution for what he is about to do. The lid of the coffin opens so the executioner may see where to aim his blade. Howling begins. Black arms haul women back in horror from the grave side. The blade of the axe shines in the sunlight. It strikes the end of coffin again and again. This desecration continues until the length of the coffin is the correct size. The priest, after assessing the scene, remains stoic. Yet, his steadfast face yields tears. But he must follow church rules even if it distresses his parishioner’s.

 

     When the task is completed, the priest signals the coffin to be lowered into the ground. With prayers, the priest pours olive oil over the coffin. Soil lands with a thud on the coffin lid. Yiayia lies beneath the earth. The scene before me is heartbreaking and I am to blame. I don’t go to the makari (mercy) meal that follows. They wouldn’t want Judas at their table.