A COMIC OPERA TOWN
It was about one o'clock in the afternoon when they arrived at the foot
of the tremendous rocky dam which they must scale to reach the village.
The sun was shining brilliantly, and the dozen or more rivulets that
were racing and leaping downward glittered like molten silver. From
the bed of the ravine not a house was visible. Lindbohm made a trumpet
of his hands, and, looking upward, shouted lustily, drawing out the
last syllable of the word as though it were a vocal telescope.
"Hillo! Hillo! Hillo!"
A girl came to the edge. She appeared to be standing on the top of a
wall. She was floating in sunlight; she was glorified. Tall,
straight, deep-bosomed, she wore a skirt of blue home-spun and a short
jacket of the same material, with sleeves that were white from the
elbows down. Her hair, that was in reality a soft brown, seemed of
gold; one massive strand fell over her bosom quite to her knees. Her
face was oval, the features as clearly cut as those of a goddess. Her
large brown eyes, wide apart beneath a low, broad forehead, beamed with
fearless innocence and wonder. On her left shoulder rested a huge
earthen water jug, two-handled, bulging near the top and dwindling at
each end. Her right hand held this in place, and her left rested on
her hip.
"What is it, strangers?" she called down, in a winning voice.
"Sphakiote," said Michali.
"What's sphakiote?" asked Lindbohm; "Greek for goddess?"
The Cretan shouted back a few words of explanation, and the maiden
disappeared. Ten minutes later the edge was lined with the citizens of
Ambellaki; tow-headed children, women, old and young, tall
_pallikaria_, boys and maidens. All the males, of whatever age, wore
high yellow boots, voluminous blue trousers and soft red fezzes, that
broke across the crown and fell backward, ending in a long black
tassel. The women and girls were for the most part attired like the
maiden who had first appeared, though several of them wore
handkerchiefs tied about their heads.
"Here's the demarch," shouted a chorus.
"And Papa-Maleko," cried the rest, as though in response.
A majestic old Cretan, with two silver-mounted pistols and a long
pearl-handled knife in his belt, took his place in the middle of the
line. He was soon joined by a priest in venerable robes and tall hat.
Curtis imagined that the inhabitants of some comic opera town had come
out on the walls to hold parley with himself and his two friends. He
wondered what character he was, but his foot hurt so that he was unable
to make up his mind.
[Illustration: ... imagined that the inhabitants of some comic opera
town had come out on the walls to hold parley]
"What is your business with us?" asked the demarch, pompously,
remembering that he was acting in official capacity in the presence of
his entire constituency.
Michali explained at length. His story threw the listening Cretans
into a state of great excitement. Several of them had lighted the
beacon for the guidance of the Holy Mary. Two or three youngsters,
letting themselves down from the edge of the natural battlement,
descended by means of shrubbery and jutting stones, sprawling in midair
like huge spiders. On reaching the bottom, they commenced an animated
conversation with Michali, the upshot of which was that they must all
go up as the youngsters had just come down, and that it was very easy
if you had courage. In proof of which, a boy of fifteen sprawled
skyward again, looking back every moment to laugh and shout "Enibros!"
"I can do it easily," said Michali, with pride. "All Cretans can
climb, if some of them cannot swim. Can you follow me?"
"I can certainly try," replied the Lieutenant.
Finally Michali and Lindbohm concluded to mount, and consult with the
citizens as to the best means of assisting Curtis to the top.
"There's some other way to get up," suggested the Cretan, "only they
are suspicious of us as yet, and will not tell."
Michali, true to his boast, climbed the face of the terrace with the
greatest ease. Lindbohm reminded Curtis of the frog and the well in
the mental arithmetic.
"How long will it take him to reach the top," he mused, "if he stops to
rest during every seventh minute?"
He was a genius at mental arithmetic and had nearly figured out the
proposition to submit it to Lindbohm, when he heard people shouting
above. Looking up, he perceived that they were letting down a long
rope, and that several young Cretans, accompanied by Michali, were
coming with it.
"Put it around your waist," explained the latter, "they will pull on
the other end, and so you will go up, slowly, slowly. You can use your
hands and the good foot to help and to keep yourself away from the
stones and bushes."
Several pairs of strong hands pulled Curtis safely up the wall, and he
found himself in the public square of a picturesque little village.
White, two-story houses surrounded an open space, in the midst of which
stood an immense platane tree. Under this latter were four rickety
tables and a dozen or so of chairs, for the accommodation of those who
chose to enjoy the beauties of nature in the open air and partake of
the mayor's coffee or masticha. The mayor, be it observed, was
proprietor of the only refectory the town was large enough to support.
The influence of the saloon in politics is felt even in the mountains
of Crete.
Lindbohm and the priest rushed forward and assisted the American to one
of the chairs. The mayor brought another and tenderly placed the lame
foot upon it, shouting, meanwhile, a storm of voluble orders, in a
good-natured, blustering voice. Michali arrived and interpreted, for
which Curtis was thankful, as he did not understand the mayor's
guttural, rapid Greek.
"He bids you welcome in the name of all Ambellaki! He has ordered you
a glass of _masticha_. Ah! Here it comes now. You are to stay in the
priest's house, who will say a prayer over your foot as soon as he gets
you home."
The group was by this time surrounded by the entire population of the
town, or as much of it as was not out in the vineyards, or on the hills
with the sheep and the goats. Curtis rose on one leg.
"Behold the human stork," he exclaimed in English, because he did not
know the Greek for "stork."
"What does he say?" asked the demarch. Michali explained the joke at
length. "He compares himself to a stork, because a stork usually
stands on one leg. He, being lame, and unable to stand on both legs,
rests his entire weight on one, like a stork."
"But he does not at all resemble a stork," objected several voices.
"They say you do not resemble a stork," explained the interpreter.
"O, thanks! But I was joking. Don't you Cretans understand a joke?"
"He says he is joking, and he fears we do not understand a joke."
"It is a joke, my children," cried the demarch, "an American joke, and
it is the part of hospitality and politeness to laugh," whereupon he
smote the table with his mighty palm and burst into a roar of Olympian
laughter. The constituency looked on in silent amazement.
"Laugh, you donkeys!" cried the demarch. "Laugh, I command you. Are
we uncivilized like the Turks?" And he strode threateningly toward the
group, which broke in all directions and darted for cover. They
laughed, however, long and conscientiously at first, but, ere they had
ceased, a genuine ring crept into their mirth. The priest and the
demarch assisted Curtis to his temporary residence. On the way
shockheaded boys looked out at him from over ruined walls of adobe and
cobblestones, and, pointing their fingers, cried, "There goes the
stork!" and girls peeping from behind doors or pushing their blooming
faces through screens of trellised vine, giggled, "How are you, Mr.
Stork?"
Curtis' name was seldom asked in the mountains of Crete. He was known
and is to this day, as Kyrios Pelargos--Mr. Stork. As soon as
opportunity presented he made a new head in his note book and entered
the following observation:
"Character of the modern Cretans. First: Extraordinary sense of humor."