The twelve days of Christmas seemed to pass very quickly this time, despite the rigours and monotony of pandemic restrictions.
But it’s always an ambiguous period, at least in Greece, for here the Christian belief in the Birth is complicated by a layer of folk-lore involving the Kallikantzaroi, the souls of the dead who haunt the earth at this time, with the express aim of wrecking the Tree of Life, which supports the Earth. Every Christmas these creatures, who have red eyes, cloven hoofs and monkeys’ arms and live on a diet of snakes and worms, become livid with rage because the Birth thwarts their evil intent.
The Kallikantzaroi are darkness and evil, the shadow side of the human soul. They occupy themselves by polluting food and water, and otherwise tormenting people, but are always fought with the weapons of all-cleansing fire and all-seeing light. They are finally ousted on the 6th of January, the Feast of the Epiphany, which commemorates St John’s baptism of Christ in the river Jordan, and the manifestation of God in the form of a dove. God’s voice is heard, and both light and water are present.
Epiphany is a major feast in Orthodoxy, the day on which the Blessing of the Waters takes place, and when the faithful take little containers of holy water home from church. The sprinkling of each room ensures the defeat of the Kallikantzaroi. But churches were closed this year because of the pandemic, and young men were unable to compete in icy waters for the prize of a flower-bedecked cross.
I try to have a fairly long walk every day, as regulations permit, and on the 6th I went along the beach road. It was all very quiet, and the waterfront was practically deserted. But I suddenly noticed a sole woman right at the water’s edge. She had her back to me, but I saw her lift what was clearly an icon, which she then venerated. I couldn’t hear her precise words, but it seemed obvious she was repeating the forms of the liturgy to herself. Then she produced a long ribbon, on the end of which was a small cross, which she drew back and forth through the shallow sea, so engaging in her own individual Blessing of the Waters.
Screened by some convenient trees, I stood there for quite some time, just watching. She was barefoot, and suddenly walked a few steps into the water, which must have been very cold. But she was not deterred, and continued her ritual. I left a few minutes later, not wanting to intrude on her private devotions any further. I was impressed that she wanted to engage in the little ceremony, doing what she thought was right, though alone.
'The woman on the Greek beach that morning faced no danger, but like her, Goodman acted alone and did what he thought was right.'
Later that evening, I was watching the news in my usual ambivalent mood, and asking myself whatever was going to happen next in these very troubled times. I soon learned: the BBC predictably suspended other reporting while the surreal drama of the Capitol invasion unfolded in Washington. There was something symbolic to see this happening on this particular day. At least that’s the way it seemed to me, even though the prolonged episode hardly seemed credible, a kind of apocalyptic scene of battle between the forces of reason and those of anarchy.
It was some time later that I saw film of a police officer. He was by himself, did not appear to be carrying any arms apart from a truncheon-like weapon, and had been chased by a mob of protesters to the top of a flight of stairs. In a tense moment, he was able to direct the rioters away from a particular doorway.
Several details came to light later. Eugene Goodman had served in Iraq, so presumably had been in tight spots before. The doorway led to the Senate chamber, where the Senators had been engaged, only moments before, in the business of certifying Joe Biden’s electoral victory. Thus Goodman had managed to avert almost certain danger to the nation’s lawmakers.
Goodman is now in line to receive the Congressional Gold Medal in recognition of his actions. The woman on the Greek beach that morning faced no danger, but like her, Goodman acted alone and did what he thought was right.
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.
Main image: Capitol Police officer Eugene Goodman (Getty Pool)