Theodora Vasils - Hold Fast the Mountain Pass: A Work of Historical Fiction about the Life and World of Nikos Kazantzakis

Hold Fast the
Mountain Pass

A Work of Historical Fiction
about the Life and World
of Nikos Kazantzakis

Theodora Vasils

Hamilton Books

A member of

The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group

Lanham Boulder New York Toronto Plymouth, UK

Copyright 2011 by

Hamilton Books

4501 Forbes Boulevard

Suite 200

Lanham, Maryland 20706

Hamilton Books Acquisitions Department (301) 459-3366

Estover Road

Plymouth PL6 7PY

United Kingdom

All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America

British Library Cataloging in Publication Information Available

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010929435

ISBN: 978-0-7618-5252-0 (paperback : alk. paper)

eISBN: 978-0-7618-5253-7

` T he paper used in this publication meets the minimum

requirements of American National Standard for Information

SciencesPermanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials,

ANSI Z39.48-1992

To my sister, who followed
the creation of this work from the start,
and remained my most persistent
and perceptive critic.

I follow the voice of the Unknown One that roars inside my head... hold fast the mountain pass that Ive entrusted to you. I am His battleground, His comrade-in-arms. I will fight alongside Him as long as I have breath.

Nikos Kazantzakis

Out in the wine-dark sea there lies a land

called Crete, a rich and lovely land, washed by the

waves on every side, densely peopled and boasting

ninety cities... One of the ninety is a great city called

Knossos, where King Minos, friend of mighty Zeus,

ruled for many years.

The Odyssey, xix

Searing winds were rolling into Crete from the African furnace across the Lybian Sea. Dawn had long since heightened into morning and the rooftops and minarets of Megalo Kastro shimmered under the blazing light.

In her courtyard near the foothills of the Idaian mountains, Marghi was drawing water. She stood at the well beneath the shade of the vine arbor, lowering and raising the bucket slowly, taking pleasure in the chill sensation of the water splashing on her skin. It was early, but already earth and air were crackling under the blue-white heat. The wimple covering her head was pulled low over her forehead to shade her face, ending short at the back where tendrils from a thick dark braid clung damply against her neck. Her skin had the rich coloring of the women of her race, and her eyes, too, were the eyes of the Greek woman, velvety and black. They were resting, as she worked, on the snow-capped peak of Psiloritis, her slight body moving rhythmically with the lowering and raising of the bucket. She drew comfort from the morning quiet in her garden, gazing at the distant coolness of the mountain she had known all her lifethrough all the wars and turbulence that were the Cretans lot... through all the centuries of insurrections and upheavals that could upturn a Cretans world overnight, the mountain always stood, eternal and unchanging. It was as old as Crete herself, having birthed and sheltered a mighty god when the world was newly born.

A spicy fragrance hung over the courtyard where jasmine and acacia were baking in the strip of earth that ended at the barn where Mihalis kept his horse, a sleek white Arabian mare that was the envy of the neighborhood. In the center of the courtyard stood a sprawling cherry tree, heavy with fruit. Beneath it, a scattering of thyme and basil zigzagged along a cobblestone path leading to the house where a small boy was emerging rubbing the sleep from his eyes. At sight of the boy, a quiet sigh escaped the woman, and pausing to give a bit of water to the garden herbs along the path, she hurried to the child and together they disappeared inside.

The house had once belonged to a wealthy Moslem, a remnant of the Turkish gentry who used to occupy the neighborhooda proud two stories high, the century-old stone structure still bore the markings of its Anatolian nobility. Near the entry, a row of ancient earthen storage vessels lined the wall, huge amphorae like those found at nearby Knossos that reached almost to Marghis shoulders. A glance at the hearth where a pot had been left to simmer brought a frown to her lips, and flinging off her wimple, she grasped the poker and deftly coaxed the dying embers until sparks began to crackle and the blaze revived. Young Nikos, who was never far from his mothers side, stared at the mesmerizing flames... his eyes were of a curious roundness, dark and intense like his fathers.

In the strengthening glow, the rooms sparse furnishings came into view. A heavy table, flanked on either end by two straight-backed chairs, was against a wall beneath a window looking out into the courtyard. Across the room, a staircase was barely visible leading to the sleeping rooms on the upper floor. Sharing a common wall with the staircase was a tall cupboard that reached almost to the beams of the ceiling. On the floor beside it was a curious green box all studded with round brass nails and secured with an enormous lock like an ancient treasure chest. In the recess at the far corner of the kitchen was a tiny crib where an infant was beginning to stir.

Keeping an eye on the crib, Marghi hurried to the cupboard and took out plates and a pitcher of wine which she brought to the table. A gust of wind had caught the filmy curtain over the window and was billowing it into the room like a frothy white sail. Setting the plates down, she went back to the cupboard and brought out a thick wedge of cheese that suffused every corner of the room with a pungent aroma.

She worked quickly, pausing at the window now and then to squint at the sky. From the position of the sun, Mihalis would be home soon. She could predict almost to the minute the sound of his stride in the courtyard. Mihalis was not given to loitering. The short walk home from his shop in the business district would be direct. A taciturn man, with the giant frame and dark forbidding features of the Kazantzakis lineage, he disdained socializing. Harsh and proud, this clan of her husband had no equal in obstinacy. They claimed roots in the village of Barbari as far back as thirty generations, back to the time when Nikephoros Phokas liberated the island from the Arabs.

The pot was bubbling hard now over the flame, setting the lid to rattling. The infant, too, was complaining loudly from the crib across the room. With an eye on Nikos still mesmerized at the hearth, Marghi hurried to the crib and picked up the child. Her heart ached for this little one. Mihalis never looked at itfor a man like Mihalis, a female child was offensive... a waste of good sperm. His only paternal acknowledgmentthe dutiful recording of her birth in the family bible directly below that of his son Nikolaos:

Anastasia, born October 6, 1884

Marghi had long ago despaired of sharing with Mihalis anything but the tersest conversations. He rarely spoke at home, and when he did, he said only what sufficed to communicate his needs. When they were newly married she remembered a moment or two of tenderness from him, but mostly he kept a hard shell about him that did not allow for tenderness. Whatever it was that passed for sentiment in Mihalis guarded Cretan heart was reserved for his marehis mare and his small son Nikos upon whom he placed his future hopes for Crete.

Nikos world was a garden with the sun, moon and wind for his toys. It was a world of red and yellow birds, of heady scents, plants, and flowers, and a sprawling cherry tree filled with crimson berries. Each morning when the sun would beam its rays through his window and waken him, he would climb out of bed and hurry to the garden to greet the days surprise. There, all the Divine Creators gifts awaited himbirds, trees, insects, stones, colors, windplaymates, all.