The Devil Takes Half Read online

  The Devil Takes Half

  Leta Serafim

  Coffeetown Press

  PO Box 70515

  Seattle, WA 98127

  For more information go to: www.coffeetownpress.com

  www.letaserafim.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover design by Sabrina Sun

  The Devil Takes Half

  Copyright © 2014 by Leta Serafim

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-965-7 (Trade Paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-966-4 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014935756

  Produced in the United States of America

  * * *

  For Philip

  * * *

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The following people contributed to the writing of The Devil Takes Half: first and foremost, my husband, Philip Evangelos Serafim, and my children, Amalia Serafim, David Hartnagel and Annie and Yiannis Baltopoulos. Also my parents, John and Ethel Naugle. Without their encouragement and tireless support, this book never could have been written.

  Thanks also to my first readers: Artemis Gyftopoulos, Nancy-Nickles Dawson, Flora Kondylis, Linda Rosenberg Brown.

  My thanks to my agent, Jeannie Loiacono, and my wonderful friends at Coffeetown Press: Emily Hollingsworth, Jennifer McCord, and Catherine Treadgold.

  Chapter 1

  Under every stone, a scorpion sleeps.

  —Greek proverb

  The day was hot and the mules were stubborn. The trail ahead rose in a series of sharp curves up the scarred face of the hill. Sitting sidesaddle on the wooden frame, the American shifted his weight and looked down. He could see the village of Campos receding in the distance and beyond it, the narrow strait that separated the island of Chios from Turkey. The mule slipped on the gravel and the American grabbed the edge of the saddle and hung on. The saddle appeared to be built of orange crates and had proven to be a tortuous ride. A swallow dipped and soared over the empty expanse of rock. The sky was pale blue, slowly whitening as the sun rose higher. The American wiped his brow with his sleeve.

  “How much farther?” he asked Vassilis, the Greek in the lead. The man shrugged. “Half a kilometer. Maybe more.”

  As they neared the crest of the hill, the ground underneath shifted, the gravel littered with pieces of broken clay that crunched under the hooves of the mules. The American studied the ground as closely as he dared without losing his mount. “Shards,” he said. “She was right.” Though not about the mules, he thought ruefully. No, the mules had been a mistake.

  “You have to arrive on horseback,” she’d told him. “To get a sense of the site. How protected it is. The view’s amazing, you’ll see.” But there’d been no horses, only mules. Weary, irritable mules that drew clouds of flies that bit. He saw now that he could have driven most of the way and walked the rest. But driving was not Eleni’s way. She believed in total immersion. Live as the ancients had. She’d probably frolic with the Minotaur if a Minotaur was to be had.

  He and Vassilis climbed steadily upward. A few moments later, the Greek shouted at the mules and drove them hard across the silent terrain and up the far side of the hill. The path rose steeply here, traversing a narrow ridge that served as a bridge to another, more isolated crag. It was dominated by the massive walls of an old monastery. As they neared the entrance to the citadel, his mule whinnied and pawed the ground. The shards were heavier here, forming a thick layer that shifted uncertainly as they made their way forward. Towering above them, the gray basalt walls cast a long shadow over the landscape. “A fortress fast,” the American muttered, turning in his saddle to get a better look. The base of the monastery was made up of blocks of chiseled stone, two to three meters in length, of finer quality and workmanship than the upper reaches. It appeared to be built on a shaft of lava, part of the eroded crest of the mountain. The builders of the monastery had incorporated the lava into the construction of their citadel, outlining the jagged edges of the stone in white and dotting them with crosses. Another blackened wave of lava formed the ramp up to the entrance. The door was original—bronze, from the look of it—studded with intricate carvings and disintegrating metalwork made of copper. A round porthole was cut high in the metal near the top of the door.

  Holding the reins while the American slid off, the Greek climbed down from his mule and led the animals into a grove of eucalyptus trees, where he tethered them. Dusting himself off and quickly making his way to the door, the American ducked his head in the wind. It wasn’t locked, and they entered a stone passageway about four meters long.

  Beyond it was a vast courtyard, paved with black and white pebbles. The pebbles were arranged in crude patterns: dolphins and fish, boats and anchors. A small chapel stood at the center of the courtyard next to an ornate marble well. The frieze above the door of the church was unlike any the American had ever seen. Instead of Byzantine saints in postures of piety and devotion, this one was painted with crude images of demons setting humans aflame with burning torches. The well, too, was unusual. A low marble pool, it had a row of columns chiseled around the base. Each of these columns was surrounded with images of writhing snakes, their carved heads emerging from the rock, poised with their fangs bared as if to strike. Interspersed between the columns were hammered metal plates, etched with what looked like waves. On closer inspection, the American realized it wasn’t water he was seeing, but flames—flames consuming masses of naked men and women.

  The Greek removed the cover of the well and splashed some water on his face. Snakes and flames. Odd motifs for a monastery, the American told himself. Suffering without redemption. Hieronymus Bosch.

  “What’s the name of this place?” he asked.

  “Profitis Ilias. In Greece, they always build for him on the highest place.”

  “Profitis Ilias,” he repeated, remembering a conversation he’d had with Eleni Argentis. “Elias. Helios. The Greek word for sun.” Chances were good this place had once been a shrine to Apollo. In fact, Eleni had told him some of the older churches still had icons of the prophet driving a blazing chariot across the sky. It was her theory that what had been sacred ground in ancient times remained so, well into the Christian era. He’d argued with her, saying she had no proof.

  “It says in the Bible that Elijah rose to heaven in a flaming chariot. Perhaps the early Christians just copied that,” he’d said.

  “You don’t understand,” she’d replied. “They always built for him on mountaintops, exactly as they did for Apollo. It’s a continuation, a living link with the past. They exist all over Greece. Villages in the eastern islands have carnival celebrations that echo pagan Dionysian reveries. The funeral dirges the old women sing in Mani, the miralogia, predate Homer. They still hang blue stones on infants to ward off the matia, the evil eye, a custom that’s one of the oldest on the planet. It’s like your writer William Faulkner says: ‘The past is always with us. In fact, it isn’t even past’. Nowhere is this more true than in Greece.”

  The American smiled at the memory. “That’s what you think,” he’d answered. “You’ve never been in Mississippi.” But she had been right. In fact, they’d recently sent teams out to interview villagers in Crete to record their stories and legends in hopes of gaining new insight into the world of Theseus and the Minotaur.

  There was no sound.

  He looked around. “Where is she
?”

  “Down in the fields,” the Greek said. “Beyond the walls.”

  “Show me,” the American said.

  Vassilis shook his head. “First, we see the priest, Papa Michalis.”

  A group of buildings were constructed around the perimeter of the courtyard. The one behind the chapel had a cross carved on the stone lintel above the door. The Greek knocked twice there. “Papa Michalis?” he called.

  “Enter.”

  After the brightness of day, it took the American a few minutes to adjust to the darkness. A long stone table dominated the space, surrounded by benches hewn from the same pale limestone. Frescoes illustrating the life of Christ, the miracles of the loaves and the fishes, the raising of Lazarus, were painted on the walls. “An old refectory,” the American said to himself. “The monks’ dining hall.” The pale blue ceiling was very high and had gold stars painted across it. The walls were crumbling from age and water damage, and the air in the room smelled of mildew. An elderly priest was sitting at the far end of the table.

  He rose to greet them. “Vassilis,” he said, clasping the Greek on the shoulder. “How is your family?”

  “Praise God, we are well.”

  “Your journey was uneventful?”

  Vassilis gave a rueful laugh. “A mule is a mule, Father.”

  The priest motioned for them to join him at the table. “Well, you’re here now. Sit. Sit.” He was a small man, birdlike in his motions, neat and self-contained. His hair was white and looked to have been recently trimmed, his beard clipped to a point, like a Spaniard’s in the time of Goya. He was wearing a blue cassock and heavy orthopedic shoes. A ring of keys dangled from a ring on his leather belt and jangled as he moved. His watch was modern as was the Palm Pilot he’d been consulting when they came in. He shook hands with the American, his brown eyes watchful, wary even, and he gave the impression of total alertness, like a gazelle that had caught the scent of a predator.

  “How do you do,” he said in careful English. “Welcome to Profitis Ilias.”

  “Thank you, Father,” the American replied.

  “I believe you are our first American.”

  “I’m not surprised. This place is pretty well hidden.” He guessed the monk was well over 75 and foreign-educated. Strange to find such a man here, on a mountaintop within a stone’s throw of Turkey.

  The priest in turn studied his companion. The American was deeply tanned with a loud, avuncular manner. Athletic probably, judging by the muscles in his calves and forearms. American, yes, the perfection of his teeth and the faintly condescending manner were unmistakable. One of those who fancied himself an explorer, who’d climbed Mount Kilimanjaro and visited Patagonia. If they’re so worried about terrorists, these people, the priest thought, they need to lower their voices and lose this habit of theirs of taking everything they need with them and thinking they need so many things. Yes, only an American would think he needed mirrored wraparound sunglasses and khaki shorts with pockets inside pockets and a cellphone attached at the waist. Or a hat like an Australian soldier’s, pinned up on one side, a hat this man had yet to remove. The priest shook his head. An old man who thinks he’s boy.

  “Profitis Ilias is well disguised,” he said. “The mountains hide its secrets well.” He bowed slightly. “I am Papa Michalis, Professor Alcott. I am pleased to finally make your acquaintance.”

  The man gave him a sharp look. “How do you know my name?”

  “Eleni Argentis has talked of nothing but your visit for weeks.” He unhooked his ring of keys and gave them to Vassilis. “You will take him down to the site. She and Petros are usually there at this time of day. Go the back way.”

  Vassilis nodded. He opened the door and stepped back out into the sunlight. “Come,” he told the American.

  “Kyria Papoulis is here and she will prepare dinner for us,” the priest called after them. “Take as long as you need. You can eat whenever you like.”

  Vassilis led the American across the courtyard and down a set of stairs near the back wall of the monastery. He unlocked an iron gate and pushed it open. The door groaned eerily in the silence. “Shorter this way,” he said.

  The American followed him through a short tunnel cut in the rock. “When was this built?” he asked.

  “Eighteen twenty-two,” the Greek replied and drew a line across his throat.

  The American swore under his breath. Was there no place on this island the Turks hadn’t bloodied? In every church he’d visited, some old crone had paused in her sweeping to point out the scarred patches on the floor, claiming they were bloodstains, talking about the massacre as if it had happened yesterday. He’d heard the story on four separate occasions so far and he’d only been on the island two days. Thousands slaughtered or sold into slavery by marauding Turks in the spring of 1822. Stirred by the tragedy, Delacroix had even painted it. There was a reproduction at his hotel. It was a gruesome work. Genocide clothed in nineteenth-century dress, the Turks prancing around in velvet slippers and fezzes, the dead Chiots piled up at their feet. In spite of the stories, the American remained skeptical. Still, the evidence of the skulls stacked up in the corners of the churches was hard to deny, especially the small ones, the children’s, as were the ruined villages, abandoned on the hillsides.

  He touched the wall of the tunnel. The workmanship was impeccable. The square stones fit together seamlessly. Narrow openings at the top let in light, and the air was surprisingly fresh. Alcott doubted it had been built in the nineteenth century. More likely by the Romans, who’d used it as an aqueduct. Eleni had been right to look here. He hurried after Vassilis. They walked for a few minutes in silence. There was no door at the end of the tunnel, only a rough opening in the rock. The American looked back. The tunnel was well hidden, the entrance just a shadowy cleft in the lava.

  “Over there, they are digging.” The Greek pointed to a small plateau in the distance. The American could see the plastic tenting strung up over a grid of trenches dug in the earth. The Greek stood and watched from above as Alcott made his way down to the dig site. It was a treacherous climb. The loose gravel and debris made the ground slippery, and by the time he’d reached the clearing, a red powdery dust caked his shoes and hands. Cicadas buzzed in a forgotten olive tree and the air was hot and still.

  The view was astounding. From where he stood he could see deep into the interior of Turkey. Far below, boats crisscrossed the channel that divided the two countries, their wakes white in the dark water. Whoever had selected the site in ancient times had feared their neighbors and wanted to keep an eye on them. Bordered on all sides by a series of skeletal peaks, it was as well-hidden as Machu Picchu.

  He walked toward the plastic tenting, moving carefully between the trenches dug in the ground. He paused, fingering one or two of the shards left out in an open box. “Old, old,” he muttered. “Damn her.”

  “Eleni,” he called.

  There seemed to be a surprising number of flies everywhere, whining in the heat. “Eleni,” he called again.

  Where was her assistant, the village boy who was helping with the excavation? He jumped down and inspected the dirt on either side of one of the trenches. Layers of white material were interspersed throughout the clay. He pried out a piece. It appeared to be part of an amphora, the handle still in place. He ran his fingers over it tenderly before placing it back where he’d found it and climbing out of the trench. He looked around him again, disturbed now. About ten feet off, he could see the beginnings of a third trench and walked toward it. There were more flies there, and tubes of polymer filler and archeological equipment were scattered everywhere. “Eleni?”

  As he peered into the trench, he dropped to his knees. “Oh, God.”

  Choking, the American tried to rise and stumbled backward. “Vassilis,” he screamed. “Oh, God. Vassilis.”

  Chapter 2

  What man went to the Land of the Dead with more than one coin obolos?

  —Greek Drinking Song

&nb
sp; Night was falling as Yiannis Patronas, the chief officer of the Police, climbed into his old Citroen and set off for Profitis Ilias, the distant hills purple in the fading light. He cursed as he drove, honking and beating the steering wheel with his hand when the car in front of him stalled. He dreaded the trip up the mountain to that wasteland of a monastery, especially at this hour. The path would be treacherous in the dark, the wind threatening to pull him off the peak. Normally he would have ignored the call, but there had been something in the old man’s voice. The priest had sounded badly frightened.

  He could smell smoke billowing from the exhaust pipe of the Citroen, the engine burning oil by the bucketful. He desperately needed a new car and had repeatedly petitioned the authorities in Athens for one, but his supervisor had denied his request. “Don’t you read the papers? The Germans have bled us dry.” Two weeks later he’d received notice that his salary had been cut in half because of the crisis. Now, in addition to having no car, he was going to starve to death.

  He parked at the bottom of the hill and started up the path. Ahead the monastery was a menacing presence on the hill. The huge eucalyptus trees that surrounded it were bending in the wind, the leaves roaring like the sea. He kept one hand on the wall as he made his way to the summit. The path was built along the edge of a sharp precipice. Horses overburdened with supplies had plunged to their deaths on the rocks below, and he had no wish to join them.

  A cable strung with naked electric bulbs crisscrossed the courtyard of the monastery. Providing scant light, it made the space appear even more desolate, like a deserted carnival. The priest was standing in front of an open door. He had summoned Patronas by phone after the American had come stumbling back from the trench.