Psychro Killer: Chapter 7 - Treasure

Niko woke early, the morning light creeping through the shutters of his mother’s old bedroom. The room was simple—bare wooden furniture, pale linens, and the faint scent of lavender that had probably lingered here for years. He could picture his mother as a girl, waking to the same sound of birds, goats, and the distant clanging of church bells. For a moment, he almost felt at peace, but that was quickly shattered by a heavy banging on the door.

“Niko! Coffee’s ready! We’ve got work to do!” Yannis’ voice boomed through the house, yanking him back into the present.

Niko sighed and rose, his muscles still heavy with the remnants of sleep. As he dressed, the suspicion that had been quietly gnawing at him the whole journey reawakened. He glanced around the room, wondering what secrets might be hidden within its simplicity. A quick rummage through the drawers yielded nothing—just old clothes, a few stray papers. But there was a drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe, locked. No key in sight. He’d come back for that later.

With that thought, he left the room, the scent of strong coffee guiding him toward the courtyard.

Outside, the air was cool, the kind that came with early mornings in the mountains. As Niko approached the table, he saw a plain-looking woman sitting there, her posture relaxed but her presence commanding. There was something unspoken about her—a quiet authority that made him pause. She looked up as he came closer, her smile warm but measured.

“Hi, I’m your cousin, Elena,” she said, her voice calm as she poured him a cup of coffee.

“Nice to meet you,” Niko muttered, wrapping his hands around the mug. “What are you up to today?”

Elena gestured casually toward the fields. “Collecting flowers for wreaths. It’s for the festival—a way to welcome spring.”

Niko nodded, sipping his coffee and noting the sense of ritual in her voice. Before he could say more, Yannis appeared, already full of energy. “Drink up, boy! We’ve got work to do in the village, and later, we’ve got something special to collect. A treasure.”

Niko raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. “Treasure?”

Yannis grinned, eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and excitement. “A stash of liquor hidden in the mountains. Been there for years. A gift from the gods, if you ask me.”

As Niko drank the last of his coffee, he realised Yannis’ talk of treasures and secrets ran deeper than just a bottle of hidden booze. There were layers here, ones he would have to peel back carefully. But Yannis wasn’t going to make that easy.

As they began their walk toward the village, the tension between them was palpable. Yannis, ever the entertainer, filled the silence with talk of the festival, the village, the family. But underneath the words, Niko could sense the careful steps of two men measuring each other up.

“You know,” Yannis said at one point, his tone almost too casual, “we don’t get many conductors of grand operas in our little village.”

Niko shrugged, his eyes scanning the quiet, ancient streets. “I’ve been lucky to work with some great people.”

“Luck? No, Niko,” Yannis countered, his voice dropping into something more serious. “It’s not luck. It takes heart, skill… leadership. You’re leading an orchestra, aren’t you? Like a shepherd with his flock.”

Niko smirked. “Maybe. But I walked away from all that.”

Yannis’ eyes flickered with interest. “Walked away?”

Niko nodded, the weight of his decision suddenly pressing down on him again. “After Zoe… I just couldn’t do it anymore. It felt like nothing meant anything without her. So here I am.”

Yannis gave a slow, thoughtful nod, his gaze drifting out toward the hills as they walked. “Sometimes we need to go back to the beginning, find our roots. Things will reveal themselves in time, Niko. Just be patient.”

Niko’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “This better not take longer than a week.”

Yannis chuckled, but there was something in his laugh that made Niko uneasy—like he was playing a game that only he knew the rules to.

As they approached the bustling heart of the village, where the preparations for the festival were in full swing, Yannis pointed out various tasks that needed attention. 

Niko helped where he could, arranging tables and tying colourful bunting over walls and between buildings. There were flowers everywhere. Then Yannis approached him. “I think it’s time we went to see about those bottles”.

As Niko and Yannis made their way up the winding roads into the mountains, the landscape grew more rugged and wild. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and the distant brine of the sea. The conversation between them was sparse, punctuated by Yannis’ occasional remarks about the land, its history, and the old customs they were preserving with the festival. Niko, still groggy from his early wake-up, let the rhythm of the road lull him into quiet contemplation, though the weight of his grief was never far from his thoughts.

When they finally arrived at Petros’ place, Niko was struck by the remoteness of it all. Petros, an old friend of Yannis, lived in a stone hut that seemed almost swallowed by the landscape, its weathered stones blending into the surrounding hills. Petros himself was a tall, wiry man with skin like leather, his face etched with deep lines, each one a testament to a life lived in harmony with the unforgiving land. He greeted them with a nod and a quick exchange of words in Cretan, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous light.

Yannis patted Petros on the back and said, "Show us the treasure, my friend."

Petros led them to the back of the hut, where the air was cooler and damp. In the dim light, Niko could just make out the shape of three old wooden boxes, caked in dried mud and flecked with rust where metal clasps once held firm. The wood was slightly rotten in places, giving off a musty smell that mixed with the scent of earth and stone.

“There they are,” Petros said, gesturing with a sweep of his hand. “Been buried for who knows how long.”

Yannis nodded approvingly. “Help me load them into the van, Niko.”

As Niko bent down to lift one of the boxes, he felt the rough texture of the wood against his palms, the grain biting into his skin. It was heavier than he expected, and his back strained as he heaved it up. The bottles inside clinked together softly, the sound muffled by years of dirt and decay. He carefully placed the box into the back of the van, then reached for another.

Once they were loaded up, Yannis pulled out one of the bottles and handed it to Niko. The glass was cloudy with age, and as Niko held it up to the light, he could see bits of something bobbing about inside - a sediment that swirled lazily in the thick liquid.

“What is this?” Niko asked, intrigued.

Yannis smiled, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “Most likely Kykeon, an ancient drink. Barley, honey, wine, cheese, and herbs. It’s powerful stuff, or at least it should be after all these years. We’ll find out soon enough.”

They drove back to Yannis’ place for lunch, where the family was gathered in the garden. The atmosphere was lively, with everyone chatting and laughing as they set the table.Niko and Yannis joined them and before long Niko’s fingers were glistening with olive oil as he tore into the meal before him. 

A pungent aroma of garlic hung in the air, mixed with the sweet smokiness of roasted peppers that dripped oil onto the plate. He marvelled at the way the charred skins slipped from the peppers as he bit into one, the rich flavours blooming in his mouth. Sardines, freshly grilled, lay on a bed of ripe tomatoes and red onions. Each bite into the fish was an explosion of rich fruitiness, the flesh melting away, flavoured perfectly with a hint of sea salt and lemon.

Pickled artichokes, plucked from a jar glistening in the midday sun, found their way onto his plate, their tartness cutting through the richness. Niko gorged himself on them, his fingers slippery as he reached for olive-encrusted bread, warm and crisp. He daubed it into a salad dressing of honey, lemon, thyme, and olive oil, each flavour soaking into the porous bread. As he chewed, the sweetness of the honey danced with the tang of the lemon and the earthy thyme, creating a balance so satisfying that he found himself eagerly wiping the plate clean to savour every drop.

Yannis laughed, watching him eat with such vigour. “You eat like you’re one of us already,” he said, grinning as he took a hearty swig of wine.

Niko barely paused, his hunger both for the food and for the connection to this land finally finding an outlet.

As they ate, Niko glanced across the table at Elena. She wasn’t the type of woman who demanded attention with her looks. She moved with a quiet efficiency, her dark hair tied back, the day’s work reflected in her composed expression. But there was something about the way she carried herself that drew his gaze - something beyond appearance.

When their eyes met, she offered a small, tight smile.

“Busy day?” she asked, her voice steady, without the warmth that usually came with such a question.

Niko nodded, feeling a twinge of discomfort - not from her, but from his growing awareness of her. There was a gravity to her, a strength beneath the surface that unsettled him. He tried to push the feeling away, focusing instead on the glass in front of him.

“Very busy,” he managed, his voice stiff.

Elena reached for the wreath of flowers she had spent the last hour assembling, her movements quick but graceful. “What do you think?” she asked, lifting it slightly, her tone almost dismissive, as if the answer didn’t really matter.

Niko stared at the wreath, trying to form the right words. He hadn’t paid much attention to her work - he’d been too distracted by everything else. “It’s... nice,” he muttered, the words awkward and forced. He could feel the heat rising in his chest, a nervousness he hadn’t expected.

Elena’s eyebrows shot up, her lips pressing into a tight line. “Nice?” she repeated, her voice sharper now, an edge of disbelief creeping in. She shifted the wreath in her hands, her eyes flickering with a frustration that went beyond his half-hearted compliment. Of course, she thought, it’s just another meaningless tradition to him.

“It’s not something I’m really into, you know,” she added quickly, the words spilling out before she could stop them. She glanced toward the kitchen where her father was busy with the dishes. “But it’s what’s expected.” Her voice lowered, taking on a tone of defiance. “I could be doing something more... more worthwhile than making flower wreaths for some folky festival. But my father insists.”

Niko, caught between his awkward attraction to her and the surprise at her outburst, opened his mouth to respond, but the words failed him. Before he could say anything, Yannis appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a dishcloth.

“Elena, you’ve done a beautiful job with the flowers,” Yannis said warmly, smiling at her with pride. But his tone quickly shifted to one of expectation. “But there’s still more to do. Glasses to fill, for one.” He nodded at her, then turned his attention to Niko. “And don’t think you’re getting off easy. There’s more work for you after this.”

Elena’s eyes looked down, her hands clenching slightly around the wreath. She shot Niko a quick, frustrated glance, careful to mask her reaction before her father turned back. But Niko caught it - there was more in her look than just irritation. Something unspoken, something that hinted at a deeper frustration with her life and the role she was expected to play.

Her eyes lingered on his for a moment longer before she stood to refill the carafe, her movements smooth and purposeful. As she walked away, there was something in the air between them - a silent invitation, a connection that neither of them had fully acknowledged yet.

Yannis’ wife, Maria, sat across from Niko watching their exchange with amusement. Then she changed the subject to release them from their awkwardness. Her eyes twinkled with quiet pride as she spoke about her husband and the village festival. 

"You know, this festival was nothing before Yannis took charge of it five years ago," she said, her voice soft but sure. "It was just a small gathering, something people would attend out of habit more than joy. But Yannis... he made it what it is now. It’s the heartbeat of this village because of him."

Niko glanced at Yannis, who was quietly cutting bread, his shoulders tensing slightly at the praise.

“Maria, enough,” Yannis muttered, shaking his head. “It’s the people who make the festival what it is, not me.”

But Maria pressed on, undeterred by her husband’s modesty. "It’s true, Yanni. The people follow you because they believe in you. They trust you to bring us all together, to remind us what’s important. Without you, none of this would exist."

Yannis shrugged, his face softening with a humble smile, though the hint of pride that glimmered in his eyes was undeniable. "It’s not much," he said. "I just wanted to give the village something to celebrate. To keep the old ways alive. That’s all."

Maria leaned forward, her eyes locking with Niko’s. "He won't say it, but he has a gift, Niko. A passion for this place, for its history, its soul. That’s why people respect him. He takes a trickle of tradition and turns it into a river."

Lunch was soon over, and before Niko knew it, they were heading to the village centre, where the preparations were almost complete. The air was filled with the sounds of chatter, laughter, and the clattering of tools as the villagers set up booths and decorations. Niko felt a strange mix of emotions - excitement, anxiety, and an undercurrent of sorrow that never quite left him.

At the centre of it all was a long table, its surface covered with glasses filled to the brim with the mysterious Kykeon. The liquid inside was a deep amber, almost glowing in the afternoon light. As the villagers gathered around, Yannis climbed up onto a small stand with a microphone in front of him. He raised his arms in the air.

“Friends, family, welcome to the Panagia tis Anoixis!” he declared, his voice booming over the crowd. “The festival is officially begun!”

A cheer went up, and everyone raised their glasses in the air. Niko found himself doing the same, caught up in the moment. As he brought the glass to his lips, he hesitated, feeling a pang of guilt as he thought of Zoe. But the atmosphere was infectious, and before he could stop himself, he took a sip.

The taste was sweet and earthy, with a strange, almost intoxicating warmth that spread through his body. The world seemed to shift slightly. He felt a spark of something - life, perhaps - for the first time since Zoe’s death.

The crowd erupted in celebration, and as Niko looked around, he felt a strange connection to these people, this land. But beneath it all, there was a whisper of something darker, a shadow lurking just out of sight.