Psychro Killer: Chapter 8 - The Festival of Madness

The festival had begun with a solemn procession to a small local chapel, a scene of profound beauty as the villagers made their way through the narrow paths, holding candles and flowers. The air was thick with the scent of wild herbs and the sound of soft, rhythmic chanting, creating an atmosphere of reverence. Niko followed along, feeling a strange mix of belonging and otherness, his steps matching the slow, deliberate pace of those around him.

After the procession, they moved out into the fields to bless the crops. The priest sprinkled holy water, while the villagers murmured prayers. But by this point, Niko began to feel strange. The ground beneath his feet seemed to pulse, as if it were alive, breathing in sync with the chants. A sensation of overwhelming elation welled up inside him, an emotion he hadn’t felt since before Zoe’s death. He looked around, noticing that others were also acting oddly - some were crying openly, others were laughing uncontrollably, while a few had dropped to their hands and knees, pressing their faces close to the earth. Niko couldn’t tell if this was normal for a festival like this, but it felt incredibly surreal.

A warm, tingling sensation crept up the back of his neck, and he was suddenly overcome with an uncontrollable desire to connect with everyone around him. It was as though a barrier had been lifted, and all the grief, fear, and isolation he had carried for so long melted away, leaving only a raw, unfiltered joy. 

Bells rang, their sound warping and echoing strangely in Niko’s ears, as if the air itself was bending with the vibrations.

An old man, his face flushed with delight, suddenly broke from the crowd and began to crawl on all fours through the dirt, his laughter echoing eerily as he weaved between the legs of those still standing. A few others followed suit, dropping to the ground like children, pawing at the earth with their hands. Behind them, someone screamed—joyful, liberated—before shedding their clothes and running into a nearby olive grove, their bare skin shimmering under the sun. A chorus of howls erupted as others followed, climbing trees, waving their arms like strange wild creatures.

Niko blinked, the colours around him swirling and vibrating with an intensity he could hardly bear. The scent of thyme and wildflowers hung heavy in the air, mingling with the sound of footsteps, shouts, and the ringing of unseen church bells. He had lost track of where the procession was heading, caught in the madness. Somehow, the group staggered through the fields, hands brushing over the crops in a half-hearted attempt to bless the harvest. By the time they stumbled back to the main square, the once orderly procession had turned into a full-blown bacchanal.

Psychedelic flamenco-style guitar music filled the square, the haunting, echoing strum of strings twisting through the atmosphere like a spell. Niko could hardly tell where the music ended and his thoughts began. The villagers swayed in a mass of movement, spinning and laughing, some still muttering blessings while others fell to the ground in fits of uncontrollable giggling. One of the older men raised a rifle to the sky and fired a shot. The sound cracked through the music, followed by another. A loud cheer erupted as one bullet hit the bell of the chapel at just the right moment, the reverberation mixing with the guitar’s twang in perfect harmony. The crowd exploded in applause, delighted at the accidental synchronicity.

Niko’s head spun as he searched the crowd for Elena, his heart racing. Everywhere he looked, bodies undulated in time with the music—shirts torn, dresses discarded, limbs outstretched to the heavens. Someone clung to the side of the chapel, attempting to climb it like a mountain, their clothes hanging from their outstretched arms like wings. Another man fired a few more rounds into the sky, laughing as birds scattered in panic.

He finally spotted Elena near the edge of the square, barefoot and laughing with a group of women, their dresses flowing like water as they danced in a circle. Her laughter felt like a beacon amidst the chaos, pulling him toward her. She looked different now, not the quiet girl he had dismissed before. There was something electric in her—wild and free, completely untethered from the world.

Before he could reach her, Yannis grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him out of the chaotic flow. “Enjoy yourself,” Yannis grinned, his eyes wide and slightly unfocused. “But don’t do anything stupid, Niko. The Kykeon can take you far... too far, if you let it.” He gave a stern look before dissolving back into the crowd, but Niko could hear the warning even in his fogged state.

The guitarists plucked faster, the rhythm swirling around the square like a whirlwind. Niko, breathless and lost in the strangeness, continued toward Elena, knowing that somewhere amidst the madness, he would find her... and maybe, if he was lucky, himself.

As he approached, she turned and met his gaze, her smile warm and welcoming. Her movements were fluid, almost otherworldly, like she was dancing in time with the rhythm of the universe itself. The connection between them was instantaneous and electric.

They began to dance, and for Niko, time lost all meaning. The village became a living, breathing harmony of colour and sound, every face glowing with the same ecstatic joy. The ground beneath his feet pulsed in sync with the music, with the beating of his heart, and even the stars above seemed to flicker in time with the energy that flowed through him. He could feel the villagers around him, not just as individuals but as extensions of himself, all of them bound together in this singular, divine moment.

Elena’s presence was intoxicating - her beauty magnified by the strange light of the night, her laughter ringing in his ears like music. They spun together, their movements effortless, as though they had danced like this for eternity. There was no separation between them, no hesitation - only connection, only the sense that everything in the world was as it should be.

The evening continued to swirl around them, a kaleidoscope of sound, light, and movement. Niko felt connected to everyone and everything - the people, the earth, the stars above. For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t just a spectator in his own life. He was part of the great, divine whole.

As the effects of the drink began to wear off, Niko observed himself grounding back into reality. The wild energy that had gripped him loosened, though the vivid memories of the day lingered, shimmering just beneath the surface of his thoughts. He was relieved - relieved that he hadn’t acted recklessly, that he hadn’t tried to kiss Elena, though the temptation had been strong. The desire had tugged at him, but somehow, he had kept himself in check.

Around him, the villagers were slowly returning to their senses, the chaotic celebration giving way to a more subdued, contented atmosphere. But not everyone had exercised the same control.

As Niko scanned the crowd, he noticed a man - completely naked - climbing a tree, his limbs stretched out like a wild animal as he reached for the branches, lucky not to have caught a random bullet. A few villagers stood below, either laughing or calling up to him in a mix of amusement and concern, unsure whether to intervene. Niko blinked in disbelief, the surreal image almost too much to process after the day’s euphoric haze.

Not far from the tree, a couple had succumbed to their urges, locked in an explicit embrace, oblivious to the world around them. Their movements were raw, passionate, without restraint, as if the boundaries of decorum had evaporated with the effects of the drink. Niko quickly averted his gaze, embarrassed by the scene and thankful that he hadn’t been swept away in a similar way.

The weight of the day’s experiences clung to him, but he took a deep breath, relieved to feel the world settling into something more familiar. He hadn’t lost himself, not completely. That knowledge, that sense of control, gave him a quiet satisfaction.

The wild edges of the celebration softened, and the villagers began gathering for a feast. Long tables, laden with local dishes, stretched out beneath the fading light. Niko and Elena joined them, grateful for some nourishment after all the dancing and chaos. The scent of grilled lamb and charred herbs filled the air, thick and intoxicating in its own right. It clung to the warm breeze that flowed through the village square, mixing with the sharp tang of lemon and the earthiness of oregano. Fires crackled, casting a golden light over the communal tables, where platters of food were already waiting.

Elena pointed toward the centre of the feast, where a whole lamb turned slowly on a spit. Its skin, crackling and crisp, glistened with the sheen of roasted fat. Beside it, a skewer of kokoretsi—the lamb’s innards tightly wrapped in caul and intestine—was slowly spinning, releasing its meaty, savoury perfume into the night air.

“See that?” Elena said, her voice soft but laced with pride. “It’s not just for us. Roasting lamb like this goes back to long before Christianity. The Ancient Greeks did this every spring to honour the gods, to celebrate the renewal of life. It’s the most important celebration of the year, and Dionysius—the god of wine and pleasure—watched over the feast.”

She gave Niko a sidelong glance. “They believed that offering a lamb, the highest sacrifice, would make the feast all the more sacred. It’s no different now, even if we pretend it’s just tradition.”

Niko absorbed her words as they found seats at one of the long, communal tables. The villagers were already digging in, hands and forks tearing into the succulent lamb, passing plates of food across the table. Niko’s stomach growled as he grabbed a slice of lamb, the crisp outer skin giving way to the tender, juicy meat beneath. The flavour hit his tongue like an explosion—rich and smoky, with the deep flavour of charred rosemary and thyme coating his lips.

He bit into a piece of kokoretsi, the organ meat tender and packed with layers of intense, earthy flavour. The slightly gamy taste of liver melted into the delicate sweetness of the roasted caul, and the savoury kick of garlic teased his senses. Niko’s fingers glistened with oil and juice as he grabbed a hunk of olive-encrusted bread, using it to sop up the salad dressing of honey, lemon, and olive oil that was pooled in the bowl next to him.

Each bite was a reminder of where he was—deep in the heart of Crete, where history and myth intertwined, where life was celebrated in its purest, most primal form. He caught Elena’s eye across the table, her cheeks flushed from the feast and the remnants of the Kykeon still dancing in her veins.

Around them, the villagers laughed and spoke with the ease of old friends, filling the air with chatter and the clink of glasses. There was no pretence, no careful conversation—just the simple pleasure of shared food and drink under the stars. For the first time since arriving, Niko felt a sense of belonging, even if it was fleeting.

He took a sip of the local wine, its deep, fruity richness coating his throat. The warmth of it settled in his chest as he leaned back in his chair, savouring the moment, the food, and the wild rhythms of the evening.

 

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After the meal, Niko found himself talking with one of the older villagers who placed his gun on the table with a kind of pride that was both unsettling and fascinating. The old rifle, weathered and scarred, had clearly seen better days, but to the man, it was still as significant as it had been in its prime. Niko found himself drawn to it, intrigued by the island’s strange relationship with firearms.

“Nice piece,” Niko said, admiring the craftsmanship and how out of place it looked next to the half-eaten plate of olives and bread.

The old man’s eyes lit up. He smiled wide, his face crinkling with the weight of decades. “Ah, you’ve got a good eye. Not many young ones like you take interest in these things anymore,” he said, patting the barrel as if it were an old friend. “I only bring it out for celebrations these days—festivals, weddings, baptisms. You know how it is.”

Niko smiled politely, though he had no idea. The man took a swig from his glass of raki and then leaned forward, as if ready to share a secret. His voice lowered a little, but there was still a hint of amusement in his tone.

“You may not believe this, but during the war… we'd never seen an aeroplane before. Not one.” He gestured upwards with his hand, mimicking something soaring in the sky. “Then these big metal birds came out of nowhere, making this terrible sound that shook the mountains. Everyone was frightened at first—we all ran, but not to hide.”

Niko leaned in closer, already captivated by the old man’s storytelling.

“No, no. We ran to get our guns!” the old man chuckled, slapping the table with satisfaction. “We started shooting at those planes. I don’t know what we were thinking. But when we saw them bleed fire and fall from the sky, we just shot more. Bullets ricocheting everywhere.” He laughed again, eyes twinkling with the memory of the chaos.

Niko could almost see it—the wild desperation of villagers shooting at something they’d never even conceived of before, and then, impossibly, watching as these metal beasts fell.

“You actually brought one down?” Niko asked, partly out of disbelief, partly out of awe.

“Oh, more than one! Don’t let anyone tell you the Cretans can’t shoot!” The old man’s chest puffed with pride. “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there are a lot of German tourists here these days. They’re not just here because they like the sunshine and beaches, you know,” he said, his voice lowering conspiratorially.

Niko frowned. “What do you mean?”

“They’ve come to visit the places where their pilots met their end,” the man said with a satisfied nod. “This ground, this village—they’re standing on graves. Unmarked, maybe, but graves all the same. They say that the plains of Lasithi are so bountiful because of all the blood that’s been spilt into the soil.”

Niko let the words hang in the air, feeling the weight of history settle over them. The old man raised his glass again and gestured for Niko to join him.

“Come, drink with me, why don’t you?” he offered, sliding a second glass toward him. Then he gave the gun a light pat, adding with a wink, “But be careful. This thing is still loaded.”

Niko couldn’t help but laugh, though a small part of him wondered if this was actually a vague threat. He lifted the glass to his lips, feeling the heat of the raki burn through his throat, and for a moment, the boundaries between past and present seemed to blur. He really was starting to feel a great affection for this place. 

 

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Later he walked back to the house with a few of the new friends he had made during the dancing. They chatted amiably, and Niko found himself appreciating the flower wreaths that adorned the doorways and windows, their simple beauty a stark contrast to the intensity of the day. He marvelled at the idea that this festival would continue for a week, filled with games, competitions, and storytelling sessions where the elders would recount local myths and legends. It was a far cry from the weekend festivals he was used to back in England, with their temporary campsites and fleeting sense of community.

Back at the house, Niko saw Yannis standing by the doorway, looking contemplative. Yannis caught Niko’s eye and beckoned him over. “Those bottles were wild and fun for today,” Yannis said, his tone serious, “but it could be dangerous to have a repeat of this. Someone could fall into a well or worse. I’m going to hide them.”

As Niko lay on his bed, staring out the open window. The night air was cool, the faint sounds of the village festival still drifting through the breeze. He was tired, but sleep felt far away. His mind was still swirling with thoughts of the day, of Zoe, Elena and Yannis, and of the strange, quiet tension that seemed to simmer beneath the surface of this family.