I had been opening the graves of the prehistoric inhabitants of the island of Antiparos for some days, and was getting weary of this sexton-like kind of life; accordingly, when St. Simeon’s Day broke fine and cloudless, as February days will do in these parts, and when my grave-diggers refused to work, it being a saint’s day, I determined to spend my compulsory holiday on the sea.

A day’s fishing here amongst the Greek islands has many novel charms; new species of fish, new methods of catching them. And then the mongrel companion of my sport was exceedingly novel, too. Zeppo was his name, and Zeppo had a wonderful story to tell, the substance of which I already knew, but my friends told me to get Zeppo to tell it himself, and they assured me that I should never forget it.

He was a handsome man, somewhat over fifty, with grizzled hair, and wore the wide, blue, baggy trousers of the Greek islanders, which wabble between their legs like the stomach of a goose; he wore on his head a red fez with a long blue tassel, and as he sat at the stern, holding the sail in one hand and the rudder in the other, I wished I had been a portrait painter, his appearance was so quaint. I knew his character well, for he had been our factotum for days past, knowing, as he did, every inch of the island. He had guided us to the graveyards where treasures were to be found; he had carried a pick and probed the ground for the gravestones, but when these were removed he invariably decamped, for he admitted to a dread of skulls and bones. Then he would light a fire of brushwood at a respectful distance and smoke a cigarette; nothing would induce him to come near the grave again. Zeppo was essentially lazy, highly superstitious, and not ashamed to admit his fear. He told me his father had been a pirate, but when the profession grew precarious he had wisely given it up, and settled at Antiparos as a vendor of foreign goods (principally smuggled) at exorbitant prices to the peasants, which trade his son and heir carried on with equal success. On his mother’s side Zeppo boasted of Turkish extraction; his name is Italian, as is often the case with the Greek islanders, so Zeppo is in every sense of the word a mongrel — a cringing coward, very cunning, and highly amusing. His great forte is fishing, and in his capacity of fisherman he is looked up to and consulted by all his neighbours.

To understand the following narrative it will be necessary to look at the map to see exactly the lay of the land, or rather the water, in these parts. Antiparos is the small island to the west of Paros, from which it is separated only by a narrow strait. It is a wild, barren island which knows no law. Even now, if the profession of piracy is virtually extinct, marauding is not, as the goatherds know full well, to their cost.

On the opposite side of the island to the village of Antiparos, about two hours on muleback over the mountains, are a few scattered houses gathered round the calamine mines. Here we were staying, close to our graveyard, and here Zeppo has his store and dispenses his goods to the miners. Separated from Antiparos by another narrow strait, which swells out into an excellent harbour just below these houses, is another island, Despotiko by name. This is four miles across, very hilly, and covered with brushwood, being let to two herdsmen for eighty okes of cheese and one kid apiece per annum, that is to say, about £8 sterling. Beyond this island of Despotiko yet again there is another small round island, called Strongylo (Stróngylo ^gr) separated again by a narrow strait, and only visited in the summer by a stray goatherd in search of pasturage for his flocks. We sailed past it one day with Zeppo, who trembled like an aspen leaf at the sight of it, for his recollections of it were gruesome. Thus we have a chain of islands before us — Paros, Antiparos, Despotiko, and Strongylo. The two latter islands are fair specimens of the numerous rocks in the Aegean Sea which nowadays are never visited except by shepherds. Yet Despotiko had its inhabitants in ancient days, for there are tombs thereon, and I excavated the foundations of a temple on the north-east corner.

On Despotiko live two brothers, Andronico and Stefano; they have a mandra or hut, where they look after their flocks. They are the sole occupants of this island, and the only other building besides their hut is a little Byzantine church, the remains of a monastery which at one time was kept up by the women of Antiparos, who went across in turns to sweep and garnish it; but since Zeppo’s adventure a year ago none will go near it, and it is fast falling into ruins.

Zeppo had now lowered the sail and was eager for the fray. We were to begin by catching an octopus or two, at which sport Zeppo is unusually clever. He stood in the bow of the boat in a round hole prepared for the purpose, with a tin can with a glass bottom in his hand; this he inserted into the sea, so as to be just below the ripple, and thereby got an excellent view of all that was going on at the bottom. He knew well the haunts, or houses, as he called them, of the octopodia ^note, and as soon as he saw one through his glass he lowered his bait, and induced the monster to leave his lair. When it was sufficiently clear of the bottom not to be able to make use of its feelers, Zeppo let it have the bait, and soon the wriggling, writhing creature was landed in the boat. Zeppo was delighted. He took his prize in his hands, bit it on the neck, and out gushed a black stream of disgusting matter like that which comes from the cuttlefish, and gets for it its Italian name of the ‘inkpot.’

The octopus writhed and wriggled for hours at the bottom of the boat; it changed colour, like a chameleon, from brown to red, and red to blue, and died exceedingly hard.

‘Panagía mou!’ ^{note gr} said Zeppo when he saw my surprise, ‘if you put a dried octopus into water a year after its death the muscles would wriggle again.’

In Lent everyone eats octopodia in the Greek islands. It would be Lent soon, and as we drew octopus after octopus into the boat Zeppo’s spirits grew high.

I thought my time for probing him about his story was come; like his octopus, I had got him clear away from the bottom, so I held out to him a bait.

‘Zeppo mou ^gr good thing there are no pirates here nowadays,’ I began.

Zeppo whistled a little, and then broke off into the favourite boatman’s song in these parts about a wounded partridge, as if he had not heard me. So I repeated my remark. Zeppo was now busily preparing an iron ring to fix at the end of his trident (kámax ^gr) for pinna-fishing; he looked up stealthily, and remarked slowly and with emphasis:—

‘Don’t believe them if they say there are no pirates now.’

I laughed him to scorn, and suggested how the British ship ‘Cygnet’ had cleared these waters of such vermin ten years ago, and thereby I made him clench the bait.

‘Efféndi,’ ^note he exclaimed eagerly, ‘I’ll tell you what happened to me last year over there in Strongylo, and then tell me if you think our shores are free.’

Zeppo was now wriggling at the end of my line.

‘Let’s catch a few pinnas first,’ I said, not wishing to appear too eager. So Zeppo rowed us to a shallow part he knew of as a good arena for this sport, and after scraping the bottom with his iron ring at the end of the trident he soon brought up several of the long, red pinna shells, the contents of which made us an excellent scallop that evening for dinner.

‘Well,’ said Zeppo, now volunteering his story, ‘last year, about this time, I went across to Despotiko to shoot a few partridges, and I walked up the hill yonder with my gun. After some sport I met the herdsman Andronico, and had a chat with him, so that it was getting late when I returned to the shore, and, as bad luck would have it, a heavy northern gale had set in, and I dare not cross to Antiparos that night.’

I laughed a little, and assured Zeppo that if there was a ripple on the water he would be alarmed, and then I hoped that he passed a good night in Andronico’s mandra.

‘No,’ said Zeppo, ‘unluckily I didn’t; the mandra is small enough, and both the brothers were at home that night. So I thought I would pass the night in the church by the sea yonder’ — with this he pointed to the church I mentioned above, and I applauded his choice, for certainly the interior of Andronico’s mandra is anything but an inviting resting-place. There is a bed in the corner, consisting of a cloak, or goat’s skin chlamys, thrown over some sticks; the floor is mud, there is no door or window, the wind whistles through the stones, and you cannot stand up straight for fear of getting mixed up with the articles of husbandry that are concealed in the roof. Outside is an oval enclosure for the flocks, and the stench is insupportable. I have been threatened with a night in a Greek mandra myself, but, like Zeppo, I have preferred a church. The church in question is close to the shore, and is surrounded by ruined cells from which the monks have long been driven; inside it is very mean, having a mud floor, no seats, and a wooden screen covered with a few sacred pictures of the Greek ritual, behind which is the bema, or holy of holies, where the priest celebrates those mysteries which must be veiled from the eye of the people.

‘It was growing dark,’ continued Zeppo, ‘when I entered the church. I lit a light in the oil lamp before St. Michael’s picture, I said a prayer to the archangel to protect me, and then lay down to rest.’

Zeppo, huddled up in a corner, with a stone for his pillow, could sleep very well, I knew, so as yet I felt no pity for him.

‘Not long after sunset,’ continued Zeppo, now warming to his subject, glowing with excitement, and using his hands and arms to express his earnestness when words failed him — ‘not long after sunset I heard men’s voices from the seashore,’ and he pointed to the spot, which was not twenty yards from the church, ‘and I became aware that a boat was being drawn up on the beach; then I distinctly heard men coming towards the church, laughing and talking loudly, for they little thought anyone was within earshot. I began now to wonder what sort of men could be coming to deserted Despotiko at this time of night, and, fearing their object could not be a good one, I extinguished the light and crept behind the wooden screen, so as to be out of sight. Presently three men entered the church; they were Naxiotes — I could tell by their accent — and all the world knows that the men of Naxos are thieves. A horrible dread seized me. “They have come to steal some of Andronico’s goats; if they find me I am lost.”’

Here poor Zeppo manifested such great agitation at the recollection of his terror that he trembled from head to foot, crossed himself violently, and lit a cigarette. My companion had all the cunning of a periodical about him, which doles out its stories in instalments by the month and leaves its readers in suspense.

‘We must fish a bit now; I will tell you the rest afterwards,’ he said. ‘Let us try dynamite.’

I involuntarily started at this suggestion; but knowing the habits of these lawless Antipariotes I merely suggested —

‘Dynamite indeed! Why, what would the demarch say?’

‘The demarch is miles away, effendi; and if he was here would enjoy the sport as much as ourselves.’

I afterwards found this was true enough, and, being curious, I allowed Zeppo to continue his nefarious sport. We rowed quietly into a little bay with steep cliffs rising sheer out of the water. Zeppo landed; he cautiously watched his opportunity for some time, and then threw in his dynamite cartridge, which forthwith exploded, and the sea glittered with the corpses of small fish. We gathered them in with our appliances — Zeppo’s was merely a piece of brushwood at the end of a long reed, mine was a hand net fixed on to a forked vine-tendril. With these we soon collected a basketful of small fry, like whitebait, and Zeppo chewed some of them and threw the bits into the sea, promising to return in the evening and kill larger fish with dynamite, which would then have collected to feast on the remains of their lesser brethren.

‘Well, Zeppo, how about your friends in the church?’ I now suggested. ‘I suppose your fears were groundless?’

‘Efféndi ^gr !’ cried my companion with vehemence; ‘that night was nearly the death of me; there I sat shivering in a corner of the bema, and listened to their plans. As soon as it was dawn they were going to dress themselves in long black coats, black masks, and horns on their heads. Thus disguised they were going to terrify Andronico or his brother — whoever was tending the flocks — seize as many of their goats as they could, and sail back to Naxos. Meanwhile they lay down to sleep, and I peered out from my retreat, hoping to make my escape and warn Andronico, for no one knew better than I how easily terrified he would be by this device — there is not a goatherd in all the islands who sees more Nereids and hobgoblins than he; but my courage failed me, and I thought it best to remain where I was, and then they might go without observing me. But oh, what a night I spent! No sleep, no rest, nothing but a vague dread of the morning and the coming light. The three men slept for some hours, and I prayed hard to the Panagia, and St. Michael, and all the saints to protect me. At length they awoke, and prepared to put on their disguise. I heard in the distance the tinkling of the bells on the goats, and I heard, too, Andronico playing his bagpipe, which sounded prophetically mournful this morning. Yet still I hoped that my danger would soon be over; whilst they were stealing the goats I would hurry to my boat and be off. Imagine my horror, effendi, when one of the men suggested looking behind the tempelon to see if the priest had left anything worth stealing. I crouched down to look as if I was a bundle of clothes. I buried my head in my knees, but all in vain; the fellows saw me, and dragged me out more dead than alive into the body of the church, and sat down to decide on what to do with me. I swore by all that was holy not to betray them — I even swore in my terror to aid them if they would only spare my life; but the wretches merely laughed and kicked me, calling me a spy, a traitor, and horrible names which made my blood run cold. Two of them voted for despatching me at once, saying that “dead men tell no tales,” but the third, a more humane man, opposed them, and said that “murdered men brought fellows to the gallows.” So they quarrelled for a while, and

I-----' here Zeppo’s voice forsook him, and he fell to trembling again, and found it necessary to light another cigarette.

We felt hungry by this, so suggested that we should land and have our meal, and then I would hear the rest afterwards. Meanwhile I got my valiant companion to spear me with his trident some specimens of the sponges which cover the bottom of the sea here; they are like lumps of coal adhering to the rocks, and oh, how they stink! We felt as if we could never again wash with one; slimy horrid things, out of the pores of which oozes a putrid-smelling liquid. The sponge-fishers jump on them on the rocks to rid them of this horrid substance, and then cleanse them thoroughly before drying them and sending them off to Europe. Zeppo is an excellent hand at spearing sponges with his kámax ^gr, and sea urchins, too, with a long split reed, which he fixes with great precision into the animal and brings him up. Fishing in Greek waters requires great practice and skill; fly fishing, I thought, would be tame after it.

Armed with sea urchins, whitebait, and a basket of provisions, we put into a little cove, where the volcanic rocks had formed fantastic arches, and where we were sheltered from the wind. Zeppo lit a fire with sticks, threaded a lot of whitebait on to a bit of reed, and proceeded to fry them on the ashes; but when fried he insisted on dipping them into the sea to cool them and give them a relish, of which we did not approve. We ate, drank, and smoked well, and thus fortified, I thought Zeppo would be better able to continue his story.

‘So they did not kill you after all?’ I remarked.

‘Kill me, effendi! better that than what they did.’

‘Good gracious, Zeppo! I should have thought they could not have treated you worse than to cut your throat.’

‘Listen, effendi,’ rejoined he with eagerness; ‘they bound my hands and feet so that I could not move, and then went out of the church to consult on my fate.’ The recollection of the suspense of this moment nearly overcame Zeppo again, but after a moment or two of silence and the formation of another cigarette he recovered himself and continued:—

‘They came back very soon, and two of them leisurely put on their horns’ — Zeppo shuddered as he recollected this horrible fact — ‘and the third, pistol in hand, was left to guard me in the church. “If you utter a sound I will blow your brains out,” he said, and you may be sure I was quiet enough. Presently I heard a shriek of wild terror, and I knew well that Andronico had rushed away from the horrible phantasms. Then there came the piteous cry of kids being carried from their mothers by the ruffians down to the boat. They were half an hour away at least, and then, having got as many animals as they could carry, they returned to the church, and I fell to trembling again, believing that now certainly my last moments had come. The diabolical fellows with their horns seemed to me to have come up straight from Hades. I am sure when I see Charon himself I shall feel less terrified. I could not answer them when they asked me from whence I was and how I had come here. I simply indicated where my boat was with a nod of my head, and they had already appropriated my gun. Naturally they were in a hurry to be off, and so they dragged me after them in an agony of terror. They drank a glass of raki all round, and then threw me into the boat. Of course I now felt sure they were going to drown me out at sea, where my body would tell no tales, and I hardly noticed them as they tied my poor little boat behind their caïque. I never saw it again after that day,’ he sighed, ‘and it was twice as smart a boat as this one,’ and he looked disparagingly at the clumsy tub which was riding quietly at the end of the painter a few yards from us.

‘On reaching the caïque they threw me down amongst the kids, and there I lay for a couple of hours, hardly aware that we were sailing rapidly through the water. I thought of all my misdeeds, and I prayed the Panagia to intercede for me. I thought of my old wife, and how she would tear her hair and beat her breast at the lamentations that she would hold to commemorate my decease.’

This was too much for Zeppo; he wept copiously at the recollection of his peril. Though sorry for the man, I could hardly restrain a smile, but wishing to hear him to the end I refrained, and suggested a temporary diversion in favour of fishing. We gathered up our crumbs and got into the boat, this time directing our course to a deep cave or grotto, up which the sea runs nearly 100 feet deep into the volcanic rock. The passage was very narrow, only just room for the boat to pass. The colouring was lovely, reminding me of the blue grotto at Capri, and just below the water line the rocks were covered with gaudy sea lichens, red sponges, and corals of rich beauty. Presently we heard a noise from the upper end of the cave, and Zeppo whispered, ‘Seals.’ He stood in the bows with a dynamite cartridge in his hand ready for execution, but the seals heard us too soon and came snorting and dashing past us before Zeppo had time to ignite the fuse. We went up to the end of the grotto and found their bed on the shingle still warm, and the smell horrible. I could not help thinking how kind that goddess must have been who brought Menelaus and his men ‘sweet smelling ambrosia’ and put it under their noses when they were lying in ambush in fresh seal-skins.

Zeppo’s equilibrium was again restored. So I ventured to question him further about his terrible sail with the kids, in momentary expectation of being thrown overboard.

‘It must have been over two hours,’ he continued, ‘before we ran under a cliff, and they hauled me out of the bottom of the caïque, trembling and more scared than ever. They undid my cords and lowered a boat, into which two of them jumped, calling upon me to follow; but, what with being tied so tight and what with fear, my legs refused to carry me, and the captain gave me a kick behind, which hurt me very much, but had the effect of sending me into the boat; then they rowed me to shore, and I soon discovered that they were taking me to Strongylo. “By the holy Panagia!” thought I, “what are they going to do with me here? kill me and leave my remains on the shore, where, perhaps, nobody will find them for months? I may never get buried at all,” I thought, “and my spirit will wander about and drive my wife out of her wits,”’ and here Zeppo again shed tears at the prospect he once had of becoming a ghost.

‘But no, this was not their intention. They almost threw me on shore in their hurry to be off, and hurled a loaf of bread after me, saying, as they did so, “Good day, brother! we shall be far enough before anyone comes to release you from Strongylo.”’

‘I sat down on the beach, dazed and bewildered; I saw the caïque unfurl her sails and round the corner of Despotiko, with my boat in tow, and through thankfulness at being rid of my tyrants I did not realise that my position was anything but an enviable one. I was alone on Strongylo, without a boat, without a gun, without any means of communication with a human being. It was winter still; Andronico might not come with his flocks for weeks. I could not swim across to Despotiko — it was too far, and I knew the current was very rapid here. I knew every inch of Strongylo well, and knew that it was exceedingly barren, and at that time of the year scarcely any herbs worth eating grew there. Moreover there is not a mandra or a church on the island, and I vowed there and then to try and get a church erected to the Panagia if she would relieve me from this plight.

‘I don’t know how long I sat in this reverie — it might have been hours. But at length I was aroused from it by a downpour of rain; the north wind had given place to a Grego Levante ^note; and my only consolation was that my pirate friends would experience great difficulty in getting back to Naxos with their ill-gotten gains. I picked up my loaf and retired to a cave I knew of, where I had often rested when in search of quails at the season of the quail flight — in fact, I had often spent nights in Strongylo. But then it was August, and I knew that my boat was waiting for me on the shore.’

‘I remained a week on Strongylo without anything of importance occurring; every day I ate a bit of my bread, and found sea urchins, limpets, and other shell fish amongst the rocks, enough to stave off hunger, and, furthermore, it was the great Forty Days ^note then, so I could not wish for more. I knew, too, of a spring up on the side of the mountain, so I did not feel any discomfort on this point, and hoped now to be able to support myself till spring came and Andronico should come to my release. Every night when it was dry I lit a fire of brushwood, striking a light with two flintstones on the highest point of Strongylo, hoping to attract attention by it; but I had little hopes of this, as Strongylo is much lower than Despotiko, and Andronico’s mandra was on the other side.

‘Well, the days went by slowly enough; some bitterly cold, some wet, and none warm, and, as you see, effendi, I am not so young as I was. Twenty years ago I could have slept all night through in that cave and taken no harm; but now I began to feel suspicious pains in my limbs, and shivering fits came over me. No one can ever know how sad I felt at these times. I felt sure my wife would consider that I had been drowned; my boat would be missing, and Andronico would suggest that I had tried to cross over on that stormy night and been lost in the attempt, or else he would tell them that I had fallen a victim to those demons who had scared him so and robbed him of his kids. Each shivering fit left me weaker and more miserable; I felt sure now that I should die before rescue could come. Next day my fever grew worse; I had no bread left; I had not even strength to drag myself to the rocks to look for shell fish; and then followed a time about which my memory is hazy, and about which I would rather not speak.’

Thus Zeppo ended abruptly, and looked terribly solemn. He did not cry this time or light a cigarette; he seemed too much overcome for emotions of any kind. I felt now truly sorry for the man, and had not the heart to question him further on the subject.

‘Let us do some more fishing,’ I suggested after a long pause, trying to rouse him from his reverie; and mechanically he gathered himself together to prepare his line, a plummet at the end, with three hooks for bait about a foot above one another. With these we caught some red mullet and other brilliant-scaled fish common to these parts, and with the effort Zeppo’s spirits somewhat returned: he told me how expert he was in fishing for the scaros, and described the same method in use now that Oppian sang of in his poem on fishing ^note. The scaros is a most affectionate fish, and will risk anything to save a female friend. Consequently the expert Zeppo, when he can secure a female specimen, dead or alive, of this species, fastens her to a line, and, if dead, artfully bobs her up and down so as to assume the appearance of life. The male scari rush in shoals to the rescue, and Zeppo’s companion catches these gallant fish in a net. Zeppo promised me that next time he got hold of a female scaros he would preserve her for my special benefit, but the time never came. In the mysteries of tunny fishing, as carried on in Greece, Zeppo likewise enlightened me. May is the month for this sport, hence they are called magiatiká ^gr, and they use for it nets with large openings and thick string. They choose a bay, and a convenient promontory, from a post on which they fasten their nets while they row out to a rock in the sea, leave a man on this rock, and return to shore by a roundabout route, carrying a string with them, by which they can pull in their net as soon as the man on the rock announces the arrival of the fish; this is the plan alluded to by Aristotle (perí zóon ^gr). If the market is overstocked they drive the fish into a creek by stones, and fasten up this creek with brambles, where they remain ten or fifteen days, till they are wanted.

It was too late now to go and try the dynamite again, so Zeppo just set his nets for the morrow — long ones fastened on to corks to float them, and gourds to mark their whereabouts, and we returned home.

That very evening I walked on quickly whilst Zeppo was attending to his boat, and found his wife alone. She told me the sequel to his story: delirium had come on with the fever — fearful visions of horrid monsters and horrible deaths haunted his dreams. How long this lasted no one knew, but Andronico found him one day, more dead than alive, and brought him home to his sorrowing wife, who had, as she told me, indulged in the poignant grief of a Greek widow.

Mrs. Zeppo had gone through a lamentation ceremony in honour of her husband’s memory, a fearful, heartrending exodiós thrínos ^gr, and it had all been in vain.