I CLUTCH MY baby to me as I walk to the church, the church where the miracles happen, where people are cured, the blind see, the crippled throw away their canes and walk. I grew up in a world of miracles, on my island of Tinos, and now I have had a miracle happen to me. I could not get pregnant for twelve years, and now I have a baby girl. Panayia, the Virgin Maria, has answered my prayers. Now it is time to bring the baby to the Virgin, and my mother-in-law, my pethera, hurries me along. I must do as I vowed, throw my baby from the bell tower of the church, and, if my faith is strong, the Panayia will not let the baby be harmed. Many women do this; the baby lives if the mother has faith, but dies if the mother hesitates. I do not want to take the chance now. I have waited too long for this child, and I do not believe that the Panayia would want me to sacrifice the baby. She was also a mother. Would she have thrown her son away? I do not think so.
As we draw near the church, I stop. My pethera prods me. “What are you doing? Do not lose faith. See what the Panayia has done for you.” I cannot go in, I start to scream and hold my baby, I must save the child, I will not throw her from the tower. My pethera begins to cry and moan, begging me to continue. “It will be bad luck if you don’t. It will be bad luck for us all, the whole family.”
I start to run away. Suddenly I hear an evil, adult giggle from my baby’s mouth. I look at the child in my arms and see only a large, wriggling snake. I drop it and scream, start to faint. It is the stringlos, the evil demon who takes the shape of a baby. I will die now. But the priest is there, he utters the protective chant, and I say it with him. I live.
But where is my baby? Where is my baby? I get up and start to run, a crowd of people following me. When I reach the house, I hear a cry. She is in there, she is all right, only hungry. I lock the door against the crowd, even against my mother-in-law, and put the baby to my breast. I am relieved. The Panayia does not want my baby after all.
My pethera bangs on the door and shouts, “We must hurry to the church.”
“No, no, she does not want the baby.”
“Oh, yes, she does. An evil demon tried to prevent it, to tempt you. We must go now, and hurry.”
“Soon,” I say. “Soon.”
I rock the baby and croon lullabies.
I wake up. How long have I been sleeping? The baby! The baby is gone. “Pethera! Pethera!” She is gone, too. I run, pushing through the crowds, trying to reach the bell tower in time. I push aside mothers and babies, and just as I reach the tower, I see something falling from above, it is falling on me. I hold out my arms, and my little daughter drops into them and looks at me, comforted. I hold her to me and the tears stream down my face. It is a miracle. She is saved. When Pethera reaches me, she is appeased. The baby is saved, the Panayia has made this happen. We walk home, slowly now, surrounded by people crossing themselves. I turn my back as another baby falls down, to the stones this time. I do not look to see if he is alive.
When we arrive home, I hurry to my icon of Panayia to give thanks. She looks at me with sadness, her eyes filled with tears.
I was named Maria for the Virgin, who made my birth possible. My mother had promised me to the Virgin, but when my grandmother threw me from the bell tower of the church as vowed, I fell into my mother’s waiting arms. This was called a miracle.
I have to get away from this island, this family, these people who believe in such terrible things, and who would throw a baby from a tower. The church is filled with gold, silver, precious jewels, while people on the streets starve. The priests are rich and fat, while we go hungry. The Virgin has such treasures; she does not need someone’s baby. I will do anything to leave all this. If my mother were here, perhaps it would be better, but she died soon after the miracle.
One evening I see a man watching me, a man of about forty. He follows me. I am frightened, but curious. He talks to me. He says he knows I am unhappy here, and he will marry me and take me away, to a place where there is no church of the Panayia, no miracles. I say yes.
My husband is an odd man. I only see him at night. In the morning he is gone, sometimes he is missing for days. But he is kind to me, and we now have two fine children. We live on a small island with few inhabitants, and I do not have to follow superstitions.
One day two strangers come to my door, a woman dressed in black and a priest. They ask me about my husband. The woman has a picture of him. She says, “He was my husband, too. Some people here recognized him and sent for me.” I am frightened, for myself and for my children. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”
“He died four years ago,” the woman whispers.
I do not believe it, but the priest says that we will find out. He will hide, and when my husband comes in at night, he will perform the ceremony that puts the living dead to sleep.
My husband comes. He is afraid. The priest quickly chants and throws oil on him. My husband disappears. Now I am alone . . . except for my children. But when I go to their beds, they are gone, only their rumpled clothes remain.
I curse the Virgin Maria for saving my life.
I live alone in a tiny hut on the side of a mountain on the island of Tinos. There is no smooth place left on my skin. I can feel the wrinkles whirling around each other, the indentations pocking my face. But I do not own a mirror, it would be bad luck.
Every day I gather herbs and mix them with sheep’s dung, oils, and animal flesh. People come to me for cures, and I sell them my mixtures and chant for them. As a widow who was never really married, a mother of children who were never really born, this is the only way I can make a living.
Sometimes when I see a happy woman with a fine husband and happy children frisking about her skirts, I cast the evil eye on the children. They become very ill, and when the mother comes to me for a cure, I tell her that I have lost my power for the day.
I do not go to church, and I keep no icons. The curse of the Virgin Maria has been on me since my birth. I despise her for allowing me to live. Every morning when I wake up alive, I curse the Panayia.
One day, while seeking herbs, I see something partially buried in the dirt. I dig it out, and it is an icon — the Panayia holding her child sadly, a tear stained with dirt resting on her cheek. I bury again the face that I detest so much and return home.
The next day I try to stay inside my house. My feet itch and my hands burn until I go out, and I am drawn to that spot, where I must dig up the Virgin again. The tear is still on her face, and she seems to accuse me. “Why do you hate me so much?” I say to her. “What do you want from me now?”
I take the icon home with me, place it near my herbs and foul-smelling mixtures, and talk to her. Every day and night now I complain to her and curse her.
One night something wakes me up. Something inside my brain is talking to me. I sit up. The icon is lighted up, and I go to it. The Virgin is crying. “My baby is dead,” she seems to be saying as she holds the infant. “Why are you alive? You who curse me day and night.”
“I lost my children, too,” I scream at her.
“Your children were never alive.”
I know now that I was not meant to live. It was an accident that my mother caught me that day. It was not a miracle at all.
“I am sorry,” I say and leave the house. I walk to the tower. I climb the steps, slowly, one at a time. I reach the top and look down at the hard pavement, then out at the sky. Gleams of light are just beginning to streak across the darkness. I jump, fall quickly, smash on the cobblestone.
As I walk away from my broken body, I see a woman holding a baby; she bends over my body, crying. As she turns away from the body and looks at me, I see that she is the Panayia of my icon. She is crying for me. “Poor Maria,” she mutters and shakes her head, clutching her baby tightly, as if she is afraid she will lose him.
I walk away, feeling her sad eyes following me forever.