In my son's Athenian flat on the evening of 5 January things were as expected when two small children are part of a household: a goodly amount of clutter, a high level of noise. But certain different sounds were suddenly heard in the outside corridor, and my daughter-in-law leaped into action: rugs were straightened, cushions plumped, and toys magicked away.
The children and I awaited developments: very soon the doorbell rang, and a genial, white-whiskered priest in full regalia entered. And then I remembered that the next day was Epiphany, a very old feast day, celebrated even before Christmas was established as a holy day, and ranked third in importance after Easter and Pentecost.
The priest was accompanied by an acolyte bearing a bowl of blessed water; the priest himself was carrying a cross in his right hand and in his left a bunch of basil, the royal herb, which he regularly dipped into the water. We were immediately sprinkled to the accompaniment of chanting, and thus blessed, house and all. We kissed the cross, the children received a tiny paper icon, and the priest went on to the next flat.
Epiphany is a many-layered feast day. Whereas the Western Church emphasises the visit of the Magi to the Christ-Child, Eastern Orthodoxy stresses the significance of Christ's baptism in the river Jordan, a happening heavily symbolic of cleansing by water and light, and one that gave evidence of the Holy Trinity. It is no accident that 7 January is the feast day of John the Baptist, who in Orthodoxy is called the Fore-runner.
Another reason for the importance of Epiphany is the belief that the 12 days of Christmas is a period during which the world is threatened by various wicked spirits, most particularly the ones known as kallikantzaroi, hobgoblins, the spirits of the dead: at this time they emerge from Hades (via a cave not too far from where I live) and roam the Earth. Legend has it that they have red eyes, cloven hooves and monkeys' arms, and that they live on a diet of snakes, frogs, and worms.
During the year their main aim is to wreck the Tree of Life, which supports the Earth. Every Christmas finds them mad with rage because the ineffable good of Christ's birth thwarts their evil intent, and so they leap to Earth in order to vent their spleen on human households by polluting food and water. They can also force people to dance their way to exhaustion and death.
The kallikantzaroi are darkness, evil, the shadow side of the human soul. The weapons against them are all-cleansing fire and all-seeing light. The belief is fading these days, but when I was first in the village my pupils instructed me: many said their grandparents kept a log burning continuously on their hearths for the whole 12 days, and despite some street lighting most old people never ventured out at night without a torch or a candle. But Epiphany defeats hobgoblin evil.
"Such was his belief in protective powers that he was not surprised that the jar stayed in position for years, despite the vagaries of the weather."
Ideally, the Orthodox attend church, taking containers with them. They receive a measure of holy water, and then carry it carefully home. One neighbour, I remember, was in the process of acquiring a new roof for his house, and made sure his jar of blessed water was somehow cemented in to the highest point of the structure: such was his belief in protective powers that he was not surprised that the jar stayed in position for years, despite the vagaries of the weather.
After church many people then go to the Blessing of the Waters, which is always a test, given the winter weather. (Things are easier for the Southern Hemisphere diaspora.) Still, shivering young men usually line up in substantial numbers and dive into the water the moment the garlanded cross is flung as far as the Bishop's strength permits. The winner seizes the cross and holds it aloft.
In Constantinople, Patriarch Bartholomew rewards the victor with a necklet of chain and cross. And throughout the Orthodox world the victor can expect good luck during the coming year.
As for the rest of us, we are reminded yet again of the continuing struggle between the forces of good and evil.
Gillian Bouras is an expatriate Australian writer who has written several books, stories and articles, many of them dealing with her experiences as an Australian woman in Greece.