Read Online 1 The Assassins' Village by Faith Mortimer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Faith Mortimer
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shower of rain. It was sweet and succulent, especially delicious for a young buck hare. It relaxed a bit more; stretching its long neck towards a particularly tasty morsel.
There was an explosion followed by a squeal. The hare lay outstretched on the path. A petal: a blossoming of bright arterial blood, a torn throat, eyes open but already glazing over, a body still soft and warm.
Kristiakis lowered his shotgun from his shoulder grunting in satisfaction. He was convinced of a hit; a clean kill. For long he had carried a gun, well over forty years. He first learned to shoot as a youngster, before his teens, accompanying his father and fierce uncles on their long forays up into the wild deserted hills. Wrapped in thick jackets over black shirts and the skirt-like trousers or vraka they walked miles stalking their prey. Overnight, camping in the mean shepherd huts, Kristiakis had relished lying curled up around the blazing fire, drooping body and heavy-eyed with fatigue, as he listened to the heroic deeds and tales of their kinfolk. Years ago, his family had been founder members of the EOKA groups. These armed gangs of EOKA or to give them their full title; the National Organisation of Cypriot Combatants, had an old aim. They used terror to provoke the ruling British into acts of oppression, that they hoped would turn world opinion against the Colonial power forcing it to withdraw from the island. The later version of EOKA had a revised plan to rid the island of the ruling Archbishop Makarios. The leaders denounced Makarios for seeking a feasible settlement of independence rather than a full union or Eonosis with Greece. At any time, they could have instigated conflict to allow the Greek junta to ‘restore order’ and tighten its grip on the island.
The young Kristiakis had been involved from a young age in sabotaging police stations and other installations, delivering literature into the isolated villages and assisting in killing British troops. Brainwashed by his elders, he learned to loathe the Colonial powers and later this hatred turned to include his Turkish Cypriot neighbours. For a long time after the separation of Cyprus into North and South territories, he remained bitter and twisted, hotly denying any help from relation or friends. He still vividly remembered past skirmishes with the police, the British Army and later between the private armies of the Greek Cypriots. These assassins had long memories. It had taken a lengthy time for him to begin to come to terms with life as it was now. He was one of the few who still bore a grudge against colonists despite Yanoulla’s soft touch with him.
Making sure his gun was safe, Kristiakis picked up his belongings, a scuffed and old leather satchel-type bag and a water bottle. He swung into his familiar loose-limbed step down towards where his hare lie. It was not the season for hunting and he was taking a gamble that the aging Mukhtar or village mayor would not seek him out for punishment. He loathed authority, and although one spell in goal long ago had been enough, he still did not much care for rules and regulations.
~~~
Above, on a small rocky outcrop camouflaged by spiny bushes, Antigone watched her brother searching for the dead hare. She had been sitting there for some time, alone but for her two tethered donkeys munching illegally on some neighbours’ grape vines. Oblivious to her donkeys’ bad behaviour she leant back against a flat yellow rock and blended into the landscape. Hidden from view, she became lost in her thoughts.
Antigone was younger than her brother and led a strange and somewhat sad life. She lived alone in a tiny ill-built house on the edge of the village. Kristiakis had no idea whether she was happy or not. A single woman past her prime, she had missed the opportunity to get married and have children. Antigone was elusive and shy, and as she spoke no more than a few words to anyone, many ignorant people thought her simple. But, it was
There was an explosion followed by a squeal. The hare lay outstretched on the path. A petal: a blossoming of bright arterial blood, a torn throat, eyes open but already glazing over, a body still soft and warm.
Kristiakis lowered his shotgun from his shoulder grunting in satisfaction. He was convinced of a hit; a clean kill. For long he had carried a gun, well over forty years. He first learned to shoot as a youngster, before his teens, accompanying his father and fierce uncles on their long forays up into the wild deserted hills. Wrapped in thick jackets over black shirts and the skirt-like trousers or vraka they walked miles stalking their prey. Overnight, camping in the mean shepherd huts, Kristiakis had relished lying curled up around the blazing fire, drooping body and heavy-eyed with fatigue, as he listened to the heroic deeds and tales of their kinfolk. Years ago, his family had been founder members of the EOKA groups. These armed gangs of EOKA or to give them their full title; the National Organisation of Cypriot Combatants, had an old aim. They used terror to provoke the ruling British into acts of oppression, that they hoped would turn world opinion against the Colonial power forcing it to withdraw from the island. The later version of EOKA had a revised plan to rid the island of the ruling Archbishop Makarios. The leaders denounced Makarios for seeking a feasible settlement of independence rather than a full union or Eonosis with Greece. At any time, they could have instigated conflict to allow the Greek junta to ‘restore order’ and tighten its grip on the island.
The young Kristiakis had been involved from a young age in sabotaging police stations and other installations, delivering literature into the isolated villages and assisting in killing British troops. Brainwashed by his elders, he learned to loathe the Colonial powers and later this hatred turned to include his Turkish Cypriot neighbours. For a long time after the separation of Cyprus into North and South territories, he remained bitter and twisted, hotly denying any help from relation or friends. He still vividly remembered past skirmishes with the police, the British Army and later between the private armies of the Greek Cypriots. These assassins had long memories. It had taken a lengthy time for him to begin to come to terms with life as it was now. He was one of the few who still bore a grudge against colonists despite Yanoulla’s soft touch with him.
Making sure his gun was safe, Kristiakis picked up his belongings, a scuffed and old leather satchel-type bag and a water bottle. He swung into his familiar loose-limbed step down towards where his hare lie. It was not the season for hunting and he was taking a gamble that the aging Mukhtar or village mayor would not seek him out for punishment. He loathed authority, and although one spell in goal long ago had been enough, he still did not much care for rules and regulations.
~~~
Above, on a small rocky outcrop camouflaged by spiny bushes, Antigone watched her brother searching for the dead hare. She had been sitting there for some time, alone but for her two tethered donkeys munching illegally on some neighbours’ grape vines. Oblivious to her donkeys’ bad behaviour she leant back against a flat yellow rock and blended into the landscape. Hidden from view, she became lost in her thoughts.
Antigone was younger than her brother and led a strange and somewhat sad life. She lived alone in a tiny ill-built house on the edge of the village. Kristiakis had no idea whether she was happy or not. A single woman past her prime, she had missed the opportunity to get married and have children. Antigone was elusive and shy, and as she spoke no more than a few words to anyone, many ignorant people thought her simple. But, it was
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