Cretan Teat

‘Doing no harm, we hope.’

The door opened. The priest emerged, to stand there blinking benevolently at them, turning a blue-streaked rag over in his hands. He wore the customary black robes of the orthodox priest, and the customary round black hat. His face was wrinkled, its rich brown colouration setting off his white beard. He pursed his lips and raised his dark eyebrows in mute question.

‘We need your advice, sir,’ said Langstreet. ‘Do you speak English?’

‘What nationality have you?’ enquired the holy man, narrowing his eyes to scrutinise Langstreet. ‘English? German?’

‘We’re English,’ Kathi told him. ‘We have a religious question to ask you, if we may.’

He gestured largely, and began to walk slowly towards the garden at the side of the house. As they followed, he said, ‘You see, I decorate my house. I have some paint. Therefore I cannot ask you inside it. We shall sit in my garden. There you can speak.’

The side garden was untidily bright with pink and blue flowers, among which courgettes and peppers grew. In the garden, sheltered by vines, stood a ramshackle table and chairs. The faded blue cushions on the seats of the chairs had once borne a pattern, now all but obliterated by wear and weather. The priest gestured to them to sit down. He seated himself after they had done so. A small bell hung from a chain by his right hand. This he shook once or twice. It gave off musical notes. A small bird in a wooden cage nearby echoed the sound.

The priest asked courteously how he could assist them.

‘In the hills above Kyriotisa, I came across a painting in an old chapel which interests me greatly. It portrays the infant Christ being suckled by his aunt Anna,’ Langstreet began.

The priest raised his hand immediately. ‘Pardon. Agia Anna is not the aunt of Jesus Christ. She is his grannie.’

Kathi snorted with concealed laughter. ‘His grannie? On which side of the family?’

The priest, without relaxing his good-humoured expression, said, ‘Is not that rather a silly question, madam?’

Langstreet interposed hurriedly, saying that a monk had told him Anna was the aunt of Jesus.

‘The monks are poor men. They are good but they are countrymen, you understand. They have not much learning. Only a few scriptures by heart. They sometimes lack even Biblical knowledge.’

Langstreet remarked that he did not recall the legend of Anna giving the infant Jesus suck in the Bible.

‘You must look in the Protovangelium of James, in the second century. There it is clear. Grannie, no aunt. Saint Anna. Mother of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Her relics are preserved in a chapel in Rome, as I recall.’

‘Well, that makes that clear,’ said Kathi, regarding her husband with merriment in her eyes. Langstreet evaded her glance.

A sturdy old lady, with an apron over her black, ankle-length dress, appeared around the rear corner of the house, carrying a tray. She smiled graciously at her husband’s guests and set down the tray before them. Her brief journey had disturbed the arrangement of some biscuits on a patterned plate. She set them into a star pattern, smiling absently as she did so. With gestures of invitation, she then retreated.

Cups of coffee and small cakes lay before them, beside the biscuits in their neat pattern. The priest, whispering a word of grace, invited them to help themselves.

‘So this grannie still had breast milk when her daughter had run dry?’ Kathi said.

‘Such is the report of James,’ the holy man said. He then looked enquiringly at Langstreet, who asked why this legend was not better known.

‘Is no a legend, but history. Wait, I have it in a history book, which I will fetch. Please enjoy your coffee.’ He rose and disappeared around the corner of the house. Kathi chose a small cake, while Langstreet selected a biscuit.

‘Jesus’ grannie!’ Kathi exclaimed in a whisper. ‘Ask him if there’s an ikon. There must be!’

The priest returned, leafing industriously through a heavy volume bound in black leather. He had put on a pair of rickety spectacles and, having seated himself again, he stared at the pages through which he leafed, muttering to himself.

Finally, raising a finger, he looked up.

‘Here we have the details. This is an English History of Byzantium. I bought it during my stay at Oxford, some period of time before. It has been written by Doctor George Layton. Listen!’

He proceeded to read.

‘Mmm… “Two centuries and a half had almost passed away. The Byzantine Empire had been destroyed by the Crusaders – ” that is the Fourth Crusade, of course’ – and the Asiatic Greeks were endeavouring to expel the piratical Genoese from Crete. The Emperor Michael Paleologos was besieging Constantinople without success. Some Greek officers, wandering through the ruins of the church and monastery of the Sacred Family, admired the magnificence of the edifice, despite its ruinous condition. They could but lament that so splendid a monument to Byzantine piety should have been converted into a stable under the ruinous administration of the Ottoman conquerors.

‘ “In a corner of the building, a remarkable tomb which had recently been desecrated arrested their attention. Within the sarcophagus lay a well-preserved body of a woman, richly dressed. An inscription upon the broken lid of the tomb proclaimed these to be the mortal remains of Saint Anna, mother of the Blessed Virgin.

‘ “Later, the Emperor Michael VI visited the spot. He ordered that the body be preserved and removed to the Monastery of Our Saviour, since when it has been lost to human cognisance.” ’

‘No ikons were made of Saint Anna?’ Langstreet asked.

‘Justinian erected a church in her honour.’

‘But no ikons?’

The priest shook his head. ‘Why are you on this quest, sir? What happens to be your interest?’

‘I am a connoisseur of ikons, and am keen to acquire one of St Anna.’

‘I cannot help you there. Maybe there is no such ikon.’ His strong white teeth bit into one of the cakes.

‘Thank you for your help, sir.’ Langstreet extracted his business card from his wallet and handed it ceremoniously to the priest.

The quiet town of Paleohora exhibited signs of life when tourists, returning from the beaches, sought a midday meal. Still Langstreet’s hired yacht lay moored on the quayside of the main harbour. Along the eastern beach, where shops and tavernas grew more modest, stood a shop selling ethnic wares, including a number of ikons. Langstreet and his wife entered the crowded little room, to be greeted by numerous representations of the good and bearded.

A corpulent woman of middle age emerged from behind a counter at the rear and asked them if they would like to buy some local silverware. She clasped her hands before her, over a worn brown dress.

Langstreet was inspecting the ikons. All were modern reproductions, and garishly coloured.

He asked the woman where her ikons came from. She told him they were manufactured in Athens, at a workshop in the Plaka, a centre for tourist activities.

‘But a real ikon painter? Are there any in Crete?’

‘Not a real painter, no.’ She nodded her head, before adding, ‘But is old monk who does such things. He lives in the gorge.’

‘What gorge is that?’ Kathi asked. ‘The Samaria Gorge?’

‘No, no. I show you.’ She retreated to the rear of the shop, and they followed meekly behind her broad back.

The woman fished up a biro and a paper bag from under her counter. On the bag she drew a rough line to indicate the south coast of the island. Marking the position of Paleohora with a cross, she drew a ragged line to the east of it, from the coast inland.

‘Here is Gorge Mesovrahi.’ As she drew another cross halfway up the gorge, she said, ‘Here is Church of Agios Ioannis. Here you will find the Monaché Kostas. He will show his ikons. Is very old.’ She handed the bag to Kathi.

‘Can we get there by road?’

‘Is no road. Only by sea you get there.’

Langstreet and his wife exchanged glances. He asked the woman, ‘Are you sure this Kostas is still alive? There’s a village, is there?’