Page 103 of Dagger in the Sea

“Yes, he was half god, half man. Zeus’s jealous wife engineered a brutal attack on him by the Titans and they killed him. They tore him up and ate him, but his heart survived and he was resurrected somehow. I don’t remember the details.”

“Half god, half man,” I murmured, running my fingers across the smooth ancient stone, hot under the sun’s glare. “He experienced death and came back to party hard. Who doesn’t admire the god of wine and good times?” I cupped my hand under the cold water and drank.

“He was a vicious god as well, you know,” she said. “It wasn’t all wine and carnal delights. With such indulgences come the consequences.”

“Drunkenness.”

“Which leads to criminal behavior, atrocities.”

“True, but the pleasures and intense experiences his wine provided—that euphoria offers a momentary sense of rapture, power even. It’s freeing, inspiring.”

“Yes, a piece of the divine for us mere mortals,” she agreed. “A gift of fearlessness, confidence, joy. He wandered the world teaching the art of wine making. His ceremonies and celebrations were controversial even then. Wild celebrations in the mountains, the forests, reveling in the beauty of the world.”

The cold spring water poured over my palm like a tiny waterfall. “He’s the Liberator,” I said.

“He is the Benefactor and Destroyer. He offers ecstasy as well as madness.” Her gaze darted to me once more. “The ancient Greeks understood that duality very well, in all their gods.”

“Dangerous, if you don’t understand.”

“Absolutely,” she agreed.

I took her wet hand in mine. “Thank you for showing this to me.”

“You’re welcome.” She smiled, a sweet smile full of satisfaction in having given me pleasure. A small gift she’d given me, and I wanted to save the ribbon and the ripped wrapping paper. I squeezed her hand.

We got back into the jeep and headed for Chóra on the opposite shore of the island, not too far from where we were. After fifteen minutes, we entered the town, the capital of Andros, and we slowed down in the sudden stream of traffic.

“We’ll park here and walk,” Adri said, backing into a tight space. “The main road is closed off to vehicles, and that’s where the house is.”

I took our two small suitcases out of the back, and we followed the wide lane of smooth, curved cobblestones. Adri’s pace was quick, her body rigid, focused. She wanted to get to the house.

Adri explained that the town was built on a bluff of a long, thin peninsula with two coves on either side. From in between whitewashed buildings on either side of the commercial main street, pieces of bright blue sea flashed at me as we walked.

This was no ordinary island village. Some buildings were the traditional, simple whitewashed stucco with blue trim, others were neoclassical mansions of old with archways, terra-cotta roof tiles, massive coffered wooden doors with vintage brass knockers in the form of a hand or a lion’s head. We passed a museum library housed in one mansion. Small white balconies with curled wrought iron banisters peered over us as we walked farther down the main road. The blue painted shutters and doors on almost every building reflected that rich Aegean sapphire, but a good number had a more turquoise color or a pale grayish blue tone as well.

The color of Adri’s eyes.

Colorful potted flowers punctuated doorways on the whitened curbs. Old fashioned black iron street lamps, much like gas lamps of a bygone age were on every corner. Shop after shop with their old fashioned signage beckoned. Bakeries, pastry shops, cafés, souvenirs, jewelry, handmade ceramics. Outdoor cafés were everywhere.

Welcome to the Mediterranean.

She stopped at a tall, neoclassical mansion on a corner. Italian Renaissance style archways and columned terraces wrapped around the second floor. A carved marble lintel above the main entrance heralded another age. The wood shutters on all the windows were painted that beautiful pale ultramarine, and worn terra-cotta tiles shaped as great acanthus leaves dotted the eaves of the roof. The stucco covering the house was peeling in spots.

“This is my grandparents’ house,” she said. “The original house was farther down almost to the end of the town on the water by the castle.”

“Castle?”

“Yes. The Venetian Lord who came and conquered built himself a castle fort on the end of the peninsula, but the Germans blew it up during the war. The family salvaged whatever it could and bought this house and restored it.”

Adri put a key in the lock, turned several times and pushed open the double main doors which looked like they belonged to a medieval estate. We stepped inside and entered another age. A Victorian style ornate brass lamp hung from a high ceiling. A delicate hand-painted mural of acanthus leaves swirled over the walls of the foyer. Black and white patterned ceramic tile brought us into the house, and a tall, stately, wood credenza with white marble details towered before us in the foyer.

Adri dropped the keys to the jeep and the house on the credenza, and I brought in our bags, pulling the heavy door closed behind us. She pushed open two tall, wood paneled doors painted in that same pale blue revealing a living room with antique upholstered chairs, settees, and carved heavy wooden chairs. Draperies hung over floor to ceiling windows, a large terra-cotta and blue antique rug lay in the center of the tiled floor.

The shutters had been opened and the light poured through the room revealing faded painted leaf motifs on the walls and along the ceiling. Although worn by time, time had stopped here in this house, and we were the gentle intruders.

A wooden model of a clipper ship in a glass case took pride of place on a small pedestal table in the center of the room. A very old portrait painting of an eighteenth or nineteenth century mustachioed man with an attitude hung on the pale yellow walls.

Adri stood motionless in the room, held captive by memories, by sounds, a grandfather’s embrace, conversations. Meaningful and heartfelt words, castoff sentiments uttered years and years ago. Were they whispering to her now?

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