Chapter 7: Elena

Early on his first morning in Psychro, Niko was jolted awake by the sound of insistent knocking on his bedroom door. The pounding was firm, relentless, and definitely not the gentle awakening he was used to. He groaned, pulling the thin blanket over his head, but Yannis' voice boomed through the door, leaving no room for hesitation.

"Niko! Get up! I've made coffee. We have work to do!" Yannis' tone was commanding, not leaving any room for Niko to resist.

Bleary-eyed and still heavy with the weight of grief, Niko sat up, trying to gather his thoughts. The previous night had been overwhelming, with so many faces, names, and emotions. He hadn’t had much time to process it all, and now he was being dragged into the thick of things. His mother would never have done this—she’d been tiptoeing around him, treating him like fragile glass. But Yannis was different, a force of nature, insistent that the way to heal was through action, through hard work, and through service to others.

Reluctantly, Niko dressed and left his room, the scent of strong coffee drawing him to the courtyard. The morning light was just beginning to filter through the trees, casting long shadows on the stone pathways. At the table outside, he saw her—a stunning woman with striking features and an air of confidence that was both intimidating and alluring. She looked up as he approached, a warm smile spreading across her face.

"Hi, I'm your cousin, Elena. Pleased to meet you," she said, her voice smooth and inviting as she poured him a cup of steaming coffee.

Niko nodded, feeling an unexpected twinge of discomfort. Elena’s beauty was undeniable, but it was more than that—there was a strength in her presence that made him feel slightly off-balance. He struggled to find words, his mind still foggy from sleep and grief.

“Nice to meet you,” he finally managed, wrapping his hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into his fingers. “What are you up to today?”

Elena smiled, seeming to sense his unease but not letting it show. "I’ll be out collecting flowers to make wreaths for the festival. We’ll place them at the church and on our doors. It’s a tradition that goes back generations, a way to welcome the spring and honour the new life it brings.”

Niko was moved by the simplicity and charm of such a tradition. The idea of creating something beautiful and symbolic felt like a balm to his weary soul, something pure and untainted by the complexities of life.

Before he could say more, Yannis appeared, a bundle of energy as always and addressed Niko. "Drink up, boy. We’ve got to set up the stands in the village centre, and after that, we’re off to collect something special—a treasure, you could say.”

Niko raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. "A treasure?"

Yannis grinned, his eyes twinkling with excitement. "A stash of liquor, found in the mountains. Who knows how long it's been hidden there? A gift from the gods themselves, if you ask me.”

Niko’s curiosity piqued as he took a sip of the strong, bitter coffee. The liquid jolted him awake, his senses sharpening. He could feel the weight of the day ahead, the tasks Yannis had planned, but something else as well - a sense of purpose, maybe, a connection to this place and these people who were, after all, his family.

"Let’s get to it, then," Niko said, setting the cup down and standing up, ready to face the day, no matter how unprepared he felt. The grief would always be there, a constant shadow, but maybe, just maybe, this work, this connection to his roots, could offer a way to keep moving forward.

As they walked through the village, Yannis couldn’t help but glance at Niko with a mix of pride and curiosity. The younger man, despite his obvious grief, carried himself with a certain dignity - a poise that was unmistakably cultivated through years of discipline and dedication to his craft. 

“You know,” Yannis began, breaking the comfortable silence between them as they strolled along the uneven stone path, “it’s not every day we get a classical musician let alone a conductor for a grand opera in our little village. 

“Yes, I’ve been lucky to work with some incredible people and in some amazing places. Music… it’s been my life.”

Yannis gave a thoughtful nod, clearly impressed. “It’s not just luck, Niko. It takes talent, hard work, and a lot of heart. I don’t know much about classical music, but I know it’s something special to be able to conduct an opera. It’s like being a leader, right? Bringing everyone together, making sure they’re all in harmony?”

“In a way, yes,” Niko agreed, appreciating Yannis’ attempt to understand. “It’s about creating something bigger than yourself, something that speaks to people, even if they don’t know the words.”

Yannis laughed, a warm, rolling laugh that echoed through the village. “Speaking of words, you know the lyre is a big deal around here. Maybe you could play something for us. I’m sure the family would love to hear you.”

Niko hesitated, caught off guard by the request. “I’ve never played the lyre, Yannis. My training has been mostly on the piano, and the violin - Western instruments, mostly. I’m afraid I wouldn’t know where to begin with a lyre.”

“Nonsense,” Yannis waved a hand dismissively. “Music is in your blood, isn’t it? A musician like you could figure it out. Besides, it’s not about perfection. It’s about sharing what you have with those around you. That’s the spirit of the festival, of this place.”

Niko couldn’t help but feel a bit daunted. The lyre was so different from the instruments he knew - smaller, more delicate, yet somehow more ancient, with a sound that seemed to carry the weight of centuries. But Yannis’ enthusiasm was infectious, and Niko found himself nodding. “Maybe I’ll give it a try. But don’t expect too much.”

“That’s the spirit!” Yannis clapped him on the back, a gesture so full of warmth and encouragement that Niko felt something close to hope. “We’ll make a Cretan out of you yet.”

As they continued toward the village centre, the conversation shifted to the festival preparations, but the thought of playing the lyre lingered in Niko’s mind. It was strange, being here, in a place so far removed from the world he knew, and yet feeling a connection - a thread that tied him to these people, this land, in a way he hadn’t expected. 

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 a 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 enjoyed the meal. The sun was high in the sky, casting a warm golden light over everything, and the scent of grilled lamb and herbs filled the air.

As they sat down to eat, Niko noticed Elena across the table. She was even more striking in than before, her dark hair catching the light as she moved. When their eyes met, she smiled.

“Good day so far?” she asked, her voice warm and inviting.

Niko nodded, feeling a twinge of discomfort. Her beauty unsettled him, stirring something inside that he thought had died with Zoe. He tried to push the feeling away, but it lingered, nagging at him. “Very busy,” he managed, his voice stiff.

Elena smiled. “The wreaths are looking beautiful. You can see one of them here, look.” She said pointing to the door closest to them

“Wow, really …nice,” he said, knowing the words felt wrong, stupid.

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 over quickly, and before Niko knew it, they were heading to the village centre, where the preparations were 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.