فصل 25

XXV

The eve of that first of May I shall never forget as long as I live. The cable railway was ready; the pylons, cable and pulleys gleamed in the morning sun. Huge pine trunks lay heaped at the top of the mountain, and workmen stood there waiting for the signal to attach them to the cable and send them down to the sea.

A large Greek flag was flapping at the top of the pole up at the point of departure on the mountainside and a similar one down below by the sea. In front of the hut Zorba had set up a small barrel of wine. Next to it was a workman roasting a good fat sheep on a spit. After the benediction ceremony and the inauguration, the guests were to have wine and wish us success.

Zorba had taken the parrot’s cage, too, and placed it on a high rock near the first pylon.

“It’s as if I could see his mistress,” he murmured, looking fondly at the bird. He took a handful of peanuts from his pocket and gave them to the parrot.

Zorba was wearing his best clothes: unbuttoned white shirt, green jacket, grey trousers and good elastic-sided shoes. Moreover, he had waxed his moustache, which was beginning to lose its dye.

Like a great noble doing the honours to his peers, he hastened to welcome the village worthies as they arrived, and explained to them what a cable railway was, and what a benefit it would be to the countryside, and that the Holy Virgin—in her infinite grace had helped him with her wisdom in the perfect execution of this project.

“It is a great piece of engineering,” he said. “You’ve got to find the exact slope, and that takes some working out! I racked my brains for months, but to no purpose. It’s obvious that for great works like this the mind of man is inadequate; we need God’s aid… Well, the Holy Virgin saw me hard at it, and she had pity on me: ‘Poor Zorba,’ she said, ‘he’s not a bad fellow, he’s doing all that for the good of the village, I think I’ll go and give him a hand.’ And then, O miracle of God!” Zorba stopped to cross himself three times in succession.

“O miracle! One night in my sleep a woman in black came to me—it was the Holy Virgin. In her hand she held a small model line, no bigger than that. ‘Zorba,’ she said, ‘I’ve brought you your plans; they come from heaven. Here is the slope you need, and here is my blessing!’ And she disappeared! I woke up with a start, ran to the place where I was testing at the time and what did I see? The wire was set at the right angle, all by itself. And it smelled of benjamin, too, which proved that the hand of the Holy Virgin had touched it!” Kondomanolio was opening his mouth to ask a question when five monks mounted on mules appeared along the stony mountain pathway. A sixth, carrying a large wooden cross on his shoulders, ran shouting in front of them. We strained to know what he was shouting but we could not make it out.

We could hear chanting. The monks were waving their arms in the air, crossing themselves, and the hooves of their mules struck sparks from the stones.

The monk who was on foot came up to us, his face streaming with sweat. He raised the cross on high.

“Christians! A miracle!” he cried. “Christians! A miracle! The fathers are bringing the Most Holy Virgin herself! On your knees and worship her!” The villagers, notables and workmen ran up excitedly, surrounded the monk and crossed themselves. I stood apart. Zorba glanced at me, his eyes twinkling.

“You go closer, too, boss,” he said. “Go and hear about the Most Holy Virgin’s miracle!” The monk, breathless and in haste, began his story.

“Down on your knees, Christians, and listen to the divine miracle! Listen, Christians! The devil had seized upon the soul of the accursed Zaharia and two days ago led him to sprinkle the holy monastery with paraffin. We noticed the fire at midnight. We got out of bed in all haste; the priory, the galleries and the cells were all in flames. We rang the monastery bell and cried: ‘Help! Help! Holy Virgin of Revenge!’ And we rushed to the fire with pitchers and buckets of water! By early morning the flames were out, praise be to her Holy Grace!” “We went to the chapel and sank to our knees before her miraculous icon, crying: ‘Holy Virgin of Revenge! Take up your lance and strike the culprit!’ Then we gathered together in the courtyard and noticed that Zaharia, our Judas, was absent. ‘He is the one who set us on fire! He must be the one!’ we cried and rushed after him. We searched the whole day long but found nothing; then the whole night, but still nothing. But today at dawn, we went once more to the chapel and what did we see, brothers? A terrible miracle! Zaharia was lying dead at the foot of the sacred icon and the virgin’s lance had a large spot of blood on its point!” “Kyrie eleison! Kyrie eleison!” murmured the villagers in terror.

“That’s not all,” added the monk, swallowing his spittle. “When we bent down to lift up the accursed Zaharia we stood aghast: for the Virgin had shaved off his hair, moustache and beard—like a catholic priest!” Controlling my laughter with the greatest difficulty, I turned to Zorba.

“Scoundrel!” I said in a low voice.

But he was watching the monk, his eyes wide open in surprise, and was crossing himself with deep emotion all the time, to show his utter amazement.

“You are great, O Lord! You are great, O Lord! And your works are wonderful!” he murmured.

At this moment the other monks arrived and dismounted. The hospitaller held the icon in his arms; he climbed up a rock, and all rushed and scrambled to prostrate themselves before the miraculous Virgin. Last came the fat Demetrios, carrying a plate, making the collection and sprinkling the peasants’ hard heads with rose-water. Three monks stood round him chanting hymns, with their hands folded together over their stomachs, their faces covered with great beads of sweat.

“We are going to take her in procession round the villages of Crete,” said the fat Demetrios, “so that the believers can kneel to Her Holiness and bring their offerings. We need money, lots of money, to restore the holy monastery…” “The fat hogs!” grumbled Zorba. “They’re even going to make something out of this!” He went up to the abbot.

“Holy father, everything is ready for the ceremony. May the Holy Virgin bless our work!” The sun was already high, it was very hot, and there was not a breath of wind. The monks placed themselves round the pylon bearing the flag. They wiped their foreheads with their broad sleeves and began chanting the prayer for “the foundations of buildings.” “Lord, O Lord, found this contrivance on solid rock that neither wind nor water may shake it….” They dipped the aspergillum in the copper bowl and sprinkled objects and people—the pylon, the cable, the pulleys, Zorba and me, and, finally, the peasants, workmen and the sea itself.

Then, with great care, as if they were handling a sick woman, they lifted the icon, set it close to the parrot, and surrounded it. On the other side were the elders, in the centre Zorba. I myself had withdrawn slightly towards the sea and was waiting.

The line was to be given a trial with three trees: a holy trinity. Nevertheless a fourth was added as a sign of recognition towards the Holy Virgin of Revenge.

Monks, villagers, and workmen crossed themselves.

“In the name of the Holy Trinity and the Holy Virgin!” they murmured.

In a single bound Zorba was at the first pylon, pulled the cord and down came the flag. It was the signal for which the men at the top of the mountain had been waiting. All the spectators stepped back and looked towards the summit.

“In the name of the Father!” cried the abbot.

Impossible to describe what happened then. The catastrophe burst upon us like a thunderbolt. We had scarcely time to run away. The entire structure swayed. The pine tree, which the workmen had attached to the cable, assumed a demoniac impetus. Sparks flew, large splinters of wood shot through the air, and when the tree arrived at the bottom a few seconds later it was no more than a charred log.

Zorba gave me a hang-dog look. The monks and villagers retreated prudently and the tethered mules began rearing. Big Demetrios collapsed, panting.

“Lord have mercy on me!” he murmured, terror-stricken.

Zorba raised his hand.

“It’s nothing,” he said with assurance. “It’s always the same with the first trunk. Now the machine will be run in… Look!” He sent the flag up, gave the signal again, and then ran away.

“And the Son!” cried the abbot in a rather trembling voice.

The second tree-trunk was released. The pylons shivered, the trunk gained speed, leaping about like a porpoise, and rushed headlong towards us. But it did not get far, it was pulverised half-way down the slope.

“The devil take it!” muttered Zorba, biting into his moustache. “The blasted slope isn’t right yet!” He leaped to the pylon and signalled with the flag once more, furiously, for the third attempt. The monks were by now standing behind their mules, and they crossed themselves. The village worthies waited with one foot raised, ready to take flight.

“And the Holy Ghost!” the abbot stammered, holding up his robe in readiness.

The third tree-trunk was enormous. It had hardly been released from the summit when a tremendous noise was heard.

“Lie flat, for God’s sake!” shouted Zorba, as he scurried away.

The monks threw themselves to the ground and the villagers ran away as fast as their legs would carry them.

The trunk made one leap, fell back on the cable, threw out a shower of sparks and, before we could see what was happening, sped down the mountainside, over the beach and dived far into the sea, throwing up a great spout of foam.

The pylons were vibrating in a most terrifying fashion, several of them were leaning over already. The mules broke their tethers and ran off.

“That’s nothing! Nothing to worry about!” cried Zorba, beside himself. “Now the machine’s really run in, so we can make a proper start!” He sent the flag up once again. We felt how desperate he was, and anxious to see the end of it all.

“And the Holy Virgin of Revenge!” stammered out the abbot as he raced towards the rocks.

The fourth trunk was released. A tremendous splintering noise resounded twice through the air and all the pylons fell down, one after the other, like a pack of cards.

“Kyrie eleison! Kyrie eleison!” yelped the villagers, workmen and monks, as they stampeded.

A flying splinter wounded Demetrios in the thigh and another was within a hair’s breadth of taking out the abbot’s eye. The villagers had disappeared. The Virgin alone was erect on her rock, lance in hand, looking at the men below with a cold and severe eye. Next to her, more dead than alive, was a trembling parrot, his green feathers standing out from his body.

The monks seized the Virgin, clasped her in their arms, helped up Demetrios, who was groaning with pain, collected their mules together, mounted them and beat a retreat. Scared to death, the workman who had been turning the spit had abandoned the sheep and the meat was beginning to burn.

“The sheep will be burnt to a cinder!” shouted Zorba anxiously, as he ran to the spit.

I sat down beside him. There was no one else left on the beach, we were quite alone. He turned to me and cast me a dubious, hesitant glance. He did not know how I was going to take the catastrophe, or how this adventure was likely to end.

He took a knife, bent over the sheep once more, tasted it and immediately took the beast off the fire and stood it up on the spit against a tree.

“Just right,” he said, “just right, boss! Would you like a piece, as well?” “Bring the bread and the wine, too,” I said. “I’m hungry.”

Zorba hurried to the barrel, rolled it close to the sheep, brought a loaf of white bread and two glasses. We each took a knife, carved off two slices of meat, cut some bread and began to eat.

“See how good it is, boss? It melts in your mouth! Here there are no rich pastures, the animals eat dry grass all the time, that’s why their meat’s so tasty. I can only remember once in my life eating meat as succulent as this. It was that time I embroidered the Saint Sophia with some of my hair and wore it as a charm… an old story…” “Go on, tell me!”

“An old story, I tell you, boss! A crazy Greek’s idea!”

“Go on, Zorba, I’d like to hear you spin the yarn.”

“Well, it was like this. The Bulgars had surrounded us, it was evening, we could see them all round us lighting fires on the slopes of the mountains. To frighten us they’d started banging cymbals and howling like a lot of wolves. There must have been a good three hundred of ‘em. We were twenty-eight, and Rouvas was our chief—God save his soul if he’s dead, he was a fine fellow! ‘Come on, Zorba,’ he said, ‘put the sheep on the spit!’ ‘It’s much more tasty cooked in a hole in the ground, captain,’ I said. ‘Do it anyway you like, but get on with it, we’re ravenous,’ he said. So we dug a hole, stuffed the sheep in it, piled a layer of coal on top and lit it; then we took the bread from our packs and sat down round the fire. ‘It may well be the last one we eat!’ said our chief. ‘Any of you got cold feet?’ We all laughed. No one deigned to answer him. We took our gourds and said: ‘Your health, chief. They’d better be good shots if they want to hit us!’ We drank, drank again, then pulled the sheep out of the hole. Oh, boss, what mutton! When I think of it my mouth still waters! It melted, like loukoum! We all sank our teeth in it without delay. ‘I’ve never had tastier meat in my life!’ said the chief. ‘God save us all!’ And though he’d never drunk before, he quaffed his glass of wine in one go. ‘Sing a Klepht song!’ he commanded. ‘Those chaps over there are howling like wolves: we’ll sing like men. Let’s begin with Old Dimos.’ We drank up quickly, filled and drank again. Then we started the song. It grew louder and louder, resounding and echoing through the ravines: And I’ve been a Klepht brigand for forty years, boys!… We sang loud and with a will. ‘Well, God help us!’ said the captain. ‘That’s the spirit! Now, Alexis, look at the sheep’s back there… What does it say?’ I bent over the fire and began scraping the sheep’s back with my knife.

“’I can’t see any graves, captain,’ I cried. ‘Nor any dead. We shall get away with it once again, boys!’ ‘May God have heard you!’ said our chief, who had not long been married. ‘Just let me have a son! I don’t care what happens after that.’” Zorba cut himself a large piece from round the kidneys.

“That sheep was wonderful,” he said, “but this one doesn’t give a point away; it’s a little beauty!” “Pour out some wine, Zorba,” I said. “Fill the glasses to the brim and we’ll drain them.” We clinked glasses and tasted the wine, an exquisite Cretan wine, a rich red colour, like hare’s blood. When you drank it, you felt as if you were in communion with the blood of the earth itself and you became a sort of ogre. Your veins overflowed with strength, your heart with goodness! If you were a lamb you turned into a lion. You forgot the pettiness of life, constraints all fell away. United to man, beast and God, you felt that you were one with the universe.

“Look at this sheep’s back and read what it says,” I cried. “Go on, Zorba.” He very carefully sucked the pieces off the back, scraped it with his knife, held it up to the light and gazed at it attentively.

“Everything’s fine,” he said. “We shall live a thousand years, boss; we’ve hearts of steel!” He bent down, examining the back again in the light from the fire.

“I see a journey,” he said, “a long journey. At the end of it a large house with a lot of doors. It must be the capital of some kingdom, boss… or the monastery where I shall be doorkeeper, and where I’ll do the smuggling, as we said?” “Pour some wine, Zorba, and leave your prophecies. I’ll tell you what the large house with all those doors really is: it’s the earth and all its graves, Zorba. That’s the end of the long voyage. Good health, you rascal!” “Good health, boss! Luck is blind, they say. It can’t see where it’s going and keeps running into people… and the people it knocks into we call lucky! Well, to hell with luck if it’s like that, I say! We don’t want it, do we, boss?” “We don’t, Zorba! Good health!”

We drank, finished off the sheep, and the world was somehow lighter—the sea looked happy, the earth swayed like the deck of a ship, two gulls walked across the pebbles chattering together like human beings.

I stood up.

“Come on, Zorba,” I cried, “teach me to dance!”

Zorba leaped to his feet, his face sparkling.

“To dance, boss? To dance? Fine! Come on!”

“Off we go, then, Zorba! My life has changed! Let’s have it!”

“To start with I’ll teach you the Zeimbekiko. It’s a wild, military dance; we always danced it when I was a comitadji, before going into battle.” He took off his shoes and purple socks and kept on only his shirt. But he was still too hot and removed that as well.

“Watch my feet, boss,” he enjoined me. “Watch!”

He put out his foot, touched the ground lightly with his toes, then pointed the other foot; the steps were mingled violently, joyously, the ground reverberated like a drum.

He shook me by the shoulder.

“Now then, my boy,” he said. “Both together!”

We threw ourselves into the dance. Zorba instructed me, corrected me gravely, patiently, and with great gentleness. I grew bold and felt my heart on the wing like a bird.

“Bravo! You’re a wonder!” cried Zorba, clapping his hands to mark the beat. “Bravo, youngster! To hell with paper and ink! To hell with goods and profits! To hell with mines and workmen and monasteries! And now that you, my boy, can dance as well and have learnt my language, what shan’t we be able to tell each other!” He pounded on the pebbles with his bare feet and clapped his hands.

“Boss,” he said, “I’ve dozens of things to say to you. I’ve never loved anyone as much before. I’ve hundreds of things to say, but my tongue just can’t manage them. So I’ll dance them for you! Here goes!” He leaped into the air and his feet and arms seemed to sprout wings. As he threw himself straight in the air against that background of sea and sky, he looked like an old archangel in rebellion. For Zorba’s dance was full of defiance and obstinacy. He seemed to be shouting to the sky: “What can you do to me, Almighty? You can do nothing to me except kill me. Well, kill me, I don’t care! I’ve vented my spleen, I’ve said all I want to say; I’ve had time to dance… and I don’t need you any more!” Watching Zorba dance, I understood for the first time the fantastic efforts of man to overcome his weight. I admired Zorba’s endurance, his agility and proud bearing. His clever and impetuous steps were writing on the sand the demoniac history of mankind.

He stopped, contemplated the shattered cableline and its series of heaps. The sun was declining, shadows were growing longer. Zorba turned to me and with a gesture common to him, covered his mouth with his palm.

“I say, boss,” he said, “did you see the showers of sparks the thing threw out?” We burst out laughing.

Zorba threw himself on me, embraced and kissed me.

“Does it make you laugh, too?” he said tenderly. “Are you laughing, too? Eh, boss? Good!” Rocking with laughter, we wrestled playfully with one another for some time. Then, falling to the ground, we stretched out on the pebbles and fell asleep in one another’s arms.

I woke at dawn and walked rapidly along the beach towards the village; my heart was leaping in my breast. I had rarely felt so full of joy in my life. It was no ordinary joy, it was a sublime, absurd and unjustifiable gladness. Not only unjustifiable, contrary to all justification. This time I had lost everything—my money, my men, the line, the trucks; we had constructed a small port and now we had nothing to export. It was all lost.

Well, it was precisely at that moment that I felt an unexpected sense of deliverance. As if in the hard, sombre labyrinth of necessity I had discovered liberty herself playing happily in a corner. And I played with her.

When everything goes wrong, what a joy to test your soul and see if it has endurance and courage! An invisible and all-powerful enemy—some call him God, others the Devil, seems to rush upon us to destroy us; but we are not destroyed.

Each time that within ourselves we are the conquerors, although externally utterly defeated, we human beings feel an indescribable pride and joy. Outward calamity is transformed into a supreme and unshakable felicity.

I remember something Zorba told me once:

“One night on a snow-covered Macedonian mountain a terrible wind arose. It shook the little hut where I had sheltered and tried to tip it over. But I had shored it up and strengthened it. I was sitting alone by the fire, laughing at and taunting the wind. ‘You won’t get into my little hut, brother; I shan’t open the door to you. You won’t put my fire out; you won’t tip my hut over!’” In these few words of Zorba’s I had understood how men should behave and what tone they should adopt when addressing powerful but blind necessity.

I walked rapidly along the beach, talking with the invisible enemy. I cried: “You won’t get into my soul! I shan’t open the door to you! You won’t put my fire out; you won’t tip me over!” The sun had not yet peeped over the mountain. Colours played in the sky over the water—blues, greens, pinks, and mother-of-pearl; inland, among the olive-trees, small birds were waking and chirping, intoxicated by the morning light.

I walked along the edge of the water to say goodbye to this solitary beach, to engrave it upon my mind and carry it away with me.

I had known much joy and many pleasures on that beach. My life with Zorba had enlarged my heart; some of his words had calmed my soul. This man with his infallible instinct and his primitive eagle-like look had taken confident short-cuts and, without even losing his breath, had reached the peak of effort and had even gone further.

A group of men and women went by carrying baskets full of food and big bottles of wine. They were going to the gardens to celebrate the first of May. A girl sang and her voice was as clear as spring water. A little girl, her young breast already swelling, passed by me out of breath, and clambered on to a high rock. A pale and angry man with a black beard was chasing her.

“Come down, come down…” he cried hoarsely. But the girl, her cheeks aflame, raised her arms, folded them behind her head and, gently swaying her perspiring body, sang: “Tell me with a laugh, tell me with a cry. Tell me you do not love me, What care I?” “Come down, come down…!” the bearded man was shouting, his hoarse voice begging and threatening by turns. All at once he leaped up and caught her by the foot, gripping it fiercely. She burst into tears as if only waiting for this brutal gesture to relieve her feelings.

I hurried on. All these sudden manifestations of joy stirred my heart. The old siren came into my mind. I could see her—fat and perfumed and sated with kisses. She was lying beneath the earth. She must already have swollen and turned green. Her skin must have split, her body fluids must have oozed out and the maggots must be crawling over her now.

I shook my head with horror. Sometimes the earth becomes transparent and we see our ultimate ruler, the grub, working night and day in his underground workshops. But we quickly turn our eyes away, because man can endure everything except the sight of that small white maggot.

As I entered the village I met the postman preparing to blow his trumpet.

“A letter, boss!” he said, holding out a blue envelope.

I leaped for joy as I recognised the delicate handwriting. I hurried through the foliage, emerged by the olive grove, and impatiently opened the letter. It was brief and written in haste. I read it straight through.

“We have reached the frontiers of Georgia; we have escaped the Kurds and all’s well. I at last know what happiness really is. Because it’s only now that I have real experience of the old maxim: Happiness is doing your duty, and the harder the duty the greater the happiness.

“In a few days these hounded, dying creatures will be at Batum, and I have just had a telegram which reads: ‘The first ships are in sight!’

“These thousands of hard-working, intelligent Greeks, with their broad-hipped wives and fiery-eyed children, will soon be transported into Macedonia and Thrace. We are going to infuse a new and valiant blood into the old veins of Greece.

“I have exhausted myself somewhat, I admit, but what does it matter? We have fought, my dear sir, and won. I am happy.” I hid the letter and hastened along. I too was happy. I took the steep track up the mountainside, rubbing a sweet-smelling sprig of thyme between my fingers. It was nearly noon and my dark shadow was concentrated about my feet. A kestrel was hovering, its wings beating so fast that it looked quite motionless. A partridge heard my steps, hurtled out of the brush and whirred into the air in its mechanical flight.

I was happy. Had I been able I would have sung out loud to relieve my feelings, but I could only make inarticulate cries. Whatever’s happening to you? I asked myself mockingly. Were you as patriotic as that then, and never knew? Or do you love your friend so much? You ought to be ashamed! Control yourself and quieten down!

But I was transported with joy and continued along the track, shouting as I went. I heard a tinkling of goat-bells. Black, brown and grey goats appeared on the rocks, in the full sun. The he-goat was in front, holding his neck rigid. The stench of him infected the air.

“Hallo, brother! Where are you off to? Who’re you chasing?”

A goat-herd had jumped up on to a rock and was whistling after me with his fingers in his mouth.

“I’ve got something urgent to do!” I answered, and continued climbing.

“Stop a minute. Come and have a drink of goat’s milk to refresh yourself!” shouted the goat-herd, leaping from rock to rock.

“I told you I’ve got something urgent to do!” I shouted back. I did not want to cut short my joy by stopping to talk.

“D’you mean you despise my milk?” said the goat-herd in a hurt tone. “Go on, then, and good luck to you!” He put his fingers in his mouth again, whistled, and goats, dogs and goat-herd disappeared behind the rocks.

I soon reached the summit of the mountain. Immediately, as though this had been my objective I became calm. I stretched out on a rock in the shade, and looked at the distant plain and sea. I breathed in deeply; the air was redolent with sage and thyme.

I stood up, gathered some sage, made a pillow and lay down again. I was tired. I closed my eyes.

For a moment my mind took flight to those far-off high plateaux covered with snow. I tried to imagine the little band of men, women and cattle making their way towards the north, and my friend walking ahead, like the ram at the head of the flock. But very soon my mind grew confused and I felt an invincible desire to sleep.

I wanted to resist. I did not wish to give way to sleep. I opened my eyes. A species of crow, an alpine chough, had settled on a rock directly in front of me, on the mountaintop. Its blue-black feathers shone in the sun and I made out very distinctly its large curved yellow beak. I was cross; this bird seemed to be a bad omen. I seized a stone and threw it at him. The chough calmly and slowly opened its wings.

I closed my eyes once more, unable to resist any longer, and sleep immediately overwhelmed me.

I could not have been asleep more than a few seconds when I uttered a cry and sat up with a start. The chough was passing at that very second above my head. I leaned against the rock, trembling all over. A violent dream had cut through my mind like a sword.

I saw myself in Athens, walking along Hermes Street, alone. The sun was burning hot, the street was deserted, the shops all shut, the solitude was complete. As I passed the church of Kapni-karea[31] I saw my friend, pale and breathless, running up to me from the direction of Constitution Square. He was following a very tall, thin man, who was walking with giant strides. My friend was in full diplomatic uniform. He noticed me and shouted from some distance, in breathless tone: [31] Eleventh-century Byzantine.

“Hello, what are you doing nowadays? I haven’t seen you for ages. Come and see me tonight; we’ll have a chat.” “Where?” I shouted in my turn, very loud, as if my friend were a long way off and I had to use all the strength in my voice to reach him.

“Concord Square,[32] this evening, six o’clock. The Fountain of Paradise Cafe!” [32] Or Omonia Square.

“Good!” I answered. I’ll be there!”

“You say you will,” he said in a tone of reproach, “but you won’t!”

“I will, for certain!” I cried. “Here’s my hand on it!”

“I’m in a hurry.”

“Why are you in a hurry? Give me your hand!”

He held out his hand and suddenly his arm came off from his shoulder and sailed through the air to seize my hand.

I was horrified by his icy grasp and woke with a start and a cry.

That was the moment when I discovered the chough hovering above my head. My lips seemed to be exuding poison.

I turned towards the east, riveting my eyes on the horizon as though wishing to penetrate the distance and see… I was sure my friend was in danger. I shouted his name three times: “Stavridaki! Stavridaki! Stavridaki!”

As if I wanted to give him courage. But my voice was lost a few yards in front of me and faded into the atmosphere.

I rushed headlong down the mountainside track, trying to deaden my sorrow by fatigue. My brain struggled in vain to piece together those mysterious messages which sometimes manage to pierce the body and reach the soul. In the depths of my being, a strange certainty, deeper than reason, entirely animal in quality, filled me with terror. The same certainty which some beasts—sheep and rats—feel before an earthquake. Awakening in me was the soul of the first men on earth, such as it was before it became totally detached from the universe, when it still felt the truth directly, without the distorting influence of reason.

“He is in danger! He is in danger!” I murmured. “He is going to die! Perhaps he doesn’t realise it yet himself, but I know it, I’m sure of it…” I ran down the mountain path, stumbled over a pile of stones and fell to the ground, scattering the stones. I jumped up again with grazed and bleeding hands and legs.

“He is going to die! He is going to die!” I said, and felt a lump rise in my throat.

Luckless man has raised what he thinks is an impassable barrier round his poor little existence. He takes refuge there and tries to bring a little order and security into his life. A little happiness. Everything must follow the beaten track, the sacrosanct routine, and comply with safe and simple rules. Inside this enclosure, fortified against the fierce attacks of the unknown, his petty certainties, crawling about like centipedes, go unchallenged. There is only one formidable enemy, mortally feared and hated: the Great Certainty. Now, this Great Certainty had penetrated the outer walls of my existence and was ready to pounce upon my soul.

When I reached our beach, I stopped to take breath for a moment. It was as though I had reached the second line of my defences and I pulled myself together. All these messages, I thought, are born of our own inner anxiety, and in our sleep assume the brilliant garb of a symbol. But we ourselves are the ones who create them… I grew calmer. Reason was calling my heart to order, clipping the wings of that strange palpitating bat, and clipping and clipping until it could fly no more.

When I arrived at the hut, I was smiling at my own simplicity. I was ashamed that my mind had been so quickly overcome by panic. I dropped back into everyday reality. I was hungry and thirsty, I felt exhausted, and the cuts made by the stones on my limbs were smarting. My heart felt reassured: the terrible enemy who had penetrated the outer walls had been held in check by the second line of defence round my soul.