FIRST STORY | Where the road ends | PART ONE

In Greece, a young backpacker is intent on discovering why 

a remote village is interdicted to him on full moon nights

-- even at the cost of his own life.

FIRST STORY - Where the road ends - PART ONE

Screams. Just outside my door. In Greek, so that I don't understand a thing.

But I do recognize one of the voices. Her place at my bed is still warm, left vacant.

Was she trying to sneak out on me?

-I-

"How do you like Daniel?"

"It sounds okay..."

We should have considered names for the baby. But I do like my wife's only suggestion. What I don't like is the fact that she has resumed smoking, just one day after giving birth. She did quit during pregnancy, and I had hoped it was forever.

"I'm not breastfeeding the baby. Daniel, I mean."

She immediately sounds defensive, upon noticing my glare on her cigarette. She stands outside, on the small balcony, when she should be in bed. Resting, to restore her forces. But by the way she sucks intently on the lighted cylinder, she must believe that only her vice shall kindle her.

"I am not breastfeeding him." She states again, turning her back on me, so that I won't see as she pulls. But I can still watch the smoke rising. Worst, I obviously smell it. So shall the nurses, and the doctors. But it is not my problem, is it, that the chilly breeze arches the smoke into the room? For a moment I consider shutting the glass door, but won't do it. I realize she is barefoot on the cold tiles, but don't mention it. I know she'll sulk at my concern. She hates when I try to protect her from herself. It has happened so many times before that I recognize when I'm functioning on that impulse, and refrain from acting.

"Daniel." She repeats, and I wonder what she is thinking of our new situation, now that we have finally become a family.

I don't want her to come up with justifications for anything she wants to do. They sound awfully more like excuses for the things she doesn't want to do. For my part, I am ready to take on responsibilities. All of them - or as many as I can. As many as a man can.

Instead of starting an argument, I engage with that name. It's a happy day. My son is here, and he has a name. I don't have any friend or relative named Daniel. But there is something familiar in that name for me...

When I glance at the sofa where the layette is arranged in a neat pile, the soft white tricot decorated with royal blue ribbons around the neck, the sleeves and the feet, the bells of my memory start tolling.

Of course.

Daniela.

How long haven't I thought of her?

"Today no bus." The thin guy behind the tiny counter informs me. Smoothing his arched mustache, he eyes me with curiosity and doubt, a mix that I often find stamped on faces all over this country.

"No buses run on Wednesdays, then?" I am trying to understand. A heavy accent makes his basic English even harder to grasp. But I am not complaining.

"Yes, bus run We-dnes-day." It is a long, difficult word, and he stutters.

"Well, then? Isn't it today-" Supposing it is the abbreviation for the week's days written in Greek, I point at the calendar behind him, "Wednesday?"

"Today full moon."

"And?"

"Crazy village. No for tourists. You crazy?"

"I am." I smile, defiantly. "That's why I want to go there."

"Go tomorrow. No today. Full moon." With his free hand, the man taps the counter, following the melody on the radio. I then realize it to be no counter, but a wooden pulpit.

"Werewolves, I suppose?" I challenge the man, with a grimace, and glance around to be sure I haven't entered a chapel by mistake. Apart from one yellowed poster showing a Christ Pantokrator, there is nothing religious about the room. Nevertheless, I remove my cap.

"No understand." Of course he does not know the word. Werewolves do not exist in Greek mythology, do they? "No bus today. Full moon today. Crazy village." He insists. "Come tomorrow. Bus tomorrow. Go tomorrow."

I have seen Greeks lose their temper for less than that, and I decide to abuse from the man's good will. Maybe he is the chaplain, doubling as tourism agent.

"How much would a taxi charge, to take me there?"

"Taxi no go today. You no go today. Understand?" He points through the dusty windows of the small office. "My village beautiful. Stay here. I find pension."

He is reaching for the telephone. But I have no intention to stay. This village, at the bottom of the mountain, is charming indeed. Yet, from the sole postcard I have seen of the village I am headed to, my destination is no less than stunning.

"It is beautiful here." I don't want to make my rejection sound personal, and hurt the man that has been so patient and kind. "But I want to bathe in the sea tonight. Celebrate the full moon. Efkaristo poli." I thank him, and walk onto the street.

I do find two taxis at the main square, under the shade of a centennial oak. When I mention the name of the village I intend to go to, both drivers shake their heads.

"How much?" Since I am not sure they understand me, I take a crumpled bunch of drachmas out of the pocket of my shorts.

"Friend, you are not welcome there tonight." The younger of the drivers does speak good English. "I'll take you tomorrow." And he mentions the most exorbitant price for the drive. I could return to Athens on that money, I think - by plane.

"I want to go there today. I am missing the seaside, you see?"

"You can't." I realize the men have not looked at me once, their eyes fixed on the backgammon board.

I gasp. Of course I can, I think, and I will. "Are you going to tell me it is because of the full moon?" I inquire further.

"Yes." The man snorts. " Full moon. No one is welcome there on full moon."

"Why?"

"Tradition." The man replies, dismissing me with a wave of his hand, indicating his patience is through.

I could stay in town for lunch. There is a lovely tavern on the main square, the tables under a flamboyant red bougainvillea. But I've grown impatient, and instead, having bought the biggest bottle of water I could find, and the four last spanakopitas at the local bakery, I am on my way.

My backpack is not heavy, and I feel confident as I stride across the village towards the mountain in the back. I know the village I want to reach is on the other side of this huge wall. I won't need to escalate it. There is a road perfectly delineated against the gray rock, winding up to the ridge where it disappears from view - giving to the other side, where my destination lies.

If you want to know why I am so determined to reach this village - I don't have any particular reason to give you. I have seen a postcard, a single one of it, at a secondhand bookshop in Athens. I am guessing the picture was taken from the top of the mountain I have started to climb, depicting the little village of white houses and its port set on a dramatic peninsula cutting the light blue sea like a righteous sword. The faded postcard was from two decades ago, and perhaps because it was written in Greek, and I did not read a word, I left it behind. Now I regret not having bought it. Yet, I have kept the name of the village in mind.

Having seen my share of archaeological sites, I thought I'd choose a seaside town to chill out for a week or so. The village from the postcard.

That people are saying it is not a touristy place only arouses my desire to visit it. That they keep stating I cannot go there makes me want to go even more.

And be there for the full moon, for sure.

My boots hitting the asphalt remind me of my days in the Army. It was the only occasion I read a book on mythology, borrowed from a mate. It surely made me no specialist, and as I try to recall any Greek myths concerning the moon, I can't. Yet, I recall plenty of tales involving the sun - the scorching sun that now slows my pace.

And I wonder how is that the full moon could interdict a town. No, I don't just wonder. Since the villagers have nearly forbidden me, I am intent on discovering it.

The first car speeds by, without stopping.

The man behind the wheel waves at me, screams at me, horns at me - but I don't get what he means. Does the sign I use to hitchhike have a different meaning in Greece? Am I insulting anyone with my thumb sticking out? Is it because, trying to maintain my suntan, I have removed my shirt? How religious and prudish are people in this corner of the country? It is hard to say what is decent or not, away from the nudist beaches.

The man seemed mad at the sole sight of me, and for a moment I thought he was going to strike me off the road, aiming to hit me with the car, to send me tumbling down the slope. Yes, kill me.

Slowing down, he turns around on the seat and waves some more - clearly shooing me away. He points at the village below, back from where I came. Isn't he coming from that direction, too? And isn't he headed where I want to go? Then he makes the curve and I lose sight of him, behind the rocks above me.

An hour later, the second car speeds by, and then stops, tires screeching. Having heard it coming, I had time at least to put my shirt on. Keeping my thumb down, I just waved at him, and cried the name of the village on the other side of the mountain.

The man, dark haired and wearing mustache like most of them, leaves the car. I quit running in his direction when he shouts at me. I guess to have only misunderstood his intention of taking me with him. He is waving to send me away, and just like the other man, pointing to the village below. But I won't move, and drop my backpack. I do try my best, most captivating smile. The man responds sprinting, and when I realize it, he is chasing me. I run enough just to get away from him, who is already panting, and stop to put on my backpack. Despite being breathless, he chases me again, as if I were a mangy, stray dog, and I realize I have to pretend to be returning to the valley below, or he'll keep chasing me - until he dies of a heart attack.

It is a waste of precious energy, but I do run a hundred meters or so down the road, until we are cut off from view by huge boulders. I stop running, but stay alert until I hear the car starting again - only several minutes later; the driver having wanted to check and make sure I was not climbing back.

I might take a rest - drink the water, eat the spanakopitas, under the shade of the boulders. My heart is racing, and only after observing birds in flight and pretending I am free like them, do I quieten. Not so much from the sun, I am sweating - cold. What for an awful treatment have I received from those two men? I confirm that being met with rudeness or hospitality, xenophobia or xenophilia, is a lottery in Greece. And I seem to be on my loser's day.

I'm almost at the top, when I hear the third car coming.

Again, I put my shirt on. It is not a very fast process, since I have to remove my cap and backpack and then put them on again. But when I make out the car, I am sure to be looking pretty decent, like the average young backpacker you find all around the country. Or countries, for we are an international plague.

This car is slower than the two others, and when it is about to go by, I realize the driver is looking down at his own lap. He does notice me, though, when the side mirror hits my backpack with a thump. The unexpected attack makes me lose balance, and I drop to my knees to avoid tumbling down the slope. I observe, from under the angry tears that spring to my eyes, as the car finds the middle of the road again and stops ahead, just before the curve.

Unlike the others, this driver doesn't wave at me. He doesn't scream, he won't blow the horn. He won't leave the car, he won't chase me. He won't even look in my direction. As I see his head disappear, I guess he is reaching for something on the floor of the car.

There is no place I can run to. No boulders, not even the occasional rhododendron bush - the top of this mountain is perfectly bare. Unless I run down the road, there is no shelter. Hearing joyful classical music coming from it, I decide to approach the car carefully. To be honest, I fear the man is fumbling for a gun. A maniac that kills to Mozart symphonies? I take my backpack off and hold it before my chest, like a shield.

As his head reappears, I meet his eye reflected in the inside mirror.

It is not a man.

NEXT PART