CHAPTER 1:

The First Meeting with the Black Dressed Priest

The wind keeps whistling through the tree leaves in an unusual, steady intensity; it neither strengthens nor weakens. The scenery remains unchanged. So familiar, yet so unworldly.

The Swamp. This scene of dark palms on white sand would better suit an exotic beach rather than this spooky landscape, where the darkness, the fog and moon penumbra compose the same old broody ambience. The man reluctantly crosses the unusually glistening stone path through The Swamp, always wearing the same dark cape and black hood, resembling a Catholic monk.

Suddenly, radio interference is heard everywhere in the loudest volume possible.

Nightmare! he thinks, waking and jumping out of bed to turn off the irritating radio alarm clock. The time is 06:30 and he has to swiftly get ready, before the memories of the nightmare he just saw fade, and the daily soul-slaying thoughts start to flood.

The man's name is Telemachus Andronicus. Even if his name is an ancient, majestic Greek one, taken from the Homeric Epics, the man himself is not so majestic, since he is only an overweight, thirty-three-year-old, petty bourgeois working as a bank clerk. A job that he despises, that feels like an intestine-eating disease.

He never seemed to realise how time flew by. How could a youngster, with dreams and a passion for life, end up an isolated, grouchy, balding, almost middle-aged looking man who now weighs 133 kilos and looks in far worse shape than his own dad?

Now he is in the bathroom, needing to wake up, dousing his face with cold water. His image in the mirror feels like that of a stranger. It looks like someone who vaguely resembles him, only uglier. The sole detail he recognizes as his own is his black-eyed gaze. Although darker, as time goes by, it remains the same. It hides something deeper and undistinguished, but it is there.

He wearily heads to work. He almost unnoticeably finds himself seated behind the cashier's desk, using the bill counter, with a queue lining up, while his mind is lost in thought. Like what would have happened if he had made the right choices in the right moments. Suddenly, sharp pain strikes his head and chest. Everything fades out while he realises his body is falling, helpless, to the floor.

After confusing images of spikes, swords and deserts, the scene clears. The Swamp! The bushy, nightmarish ground, surrounded by moving fog, feels scary to him, yet fascinating too. The figure of some kind of dark monk, marching on the white path, can be seen this time in the distance.

"Mr. Andronicus, are you alright?"

Telemachus opens his eyes, brought back to reality by short, stabbing pains in the chest and head. A doctor and a nurse standing over him make Telemachus realise he is in hospital.

"What's happening?" he asks.

"You fainted and were brought here in an ambulance. I'm afraid I have bad news," the doctor says. He asks Telemachus to calm down and join him in his office.

The news is bad indeed: intestinal cancer. It leaves him with six months to live, or two years at best, provided he gets top treatment. The doctor makes a half-hearted prompt for courage.

"Don't worry. With today's pace of medical advancements, miracles can happen. In my twenty-five year career I have even seen full recoveries against all the odds".

What a half-assed consolation. Thanks for nothing, Telemachus muses, but decides to keeps the thought to himself, instead of saying it out loud. The hospital exiting procedure is in order, and painfully boring. It includes medication, and schedules dates for further examination and chemotherapy. The standard procedures and contacting of relatives fly by.

Telemachus is now at home on his own, scoffing pizza and drinking whisky against his doctor's orders, while mindlessly watching a dull, outdated, repetitive Hollywood movie on television. It is strange that he hasn't cried yet about what's happening. Who knows if it's either confusing denial, or a fervent wish for a miracle. Strangely though, he doesn't feel sick; on the contrary, he feels healthy, with a strong appetite, and an urge to down whisky like it is New Year's Eve.

He tries to imagine his funeral, and expects his family to be truly hurt. The acquaintances who will simply have to be there and pay their respects will be troubling themselves about having to cancel their upcoming night out. If his remaining months are indeed only six, he will still be thirty-three years old. The age of Jesus!

"How fatal," he exclaims, with a bitter smile curling his lips. He does not believe in the Christian religion, or any other one, as a matter of fact; he believes in nothing, neither Signs. He considers ridiculous all kind of Signs, prophecies, religious suggestions, or dogmas. He never understands how these medieval, dark-aged remnants of global thinking have not been wiped out yet; they are able to adapt and survive like cerebral viruses. These negative beliefs and value systems nestle in our brain like parasites. But no-one seems to realise it.

He exhales deeply in an attempt to escape frustration. He tries to think of his good moments in life and only a few come to mind. He was never happy or lucky. He remembers living a rather abnormal, lonely adolescent existence. He was alienated and considered bitter, keeping a low profile, almost invisible. As expected, his love life was a tragedy, though with him being so much more uninteresting than Oedipus, or any other ancient tragic figure, he could also star in a comedy, perhaps even a farce - a thought that makes him smile.

While lost in thought his eyes feel heavy; upon opening them, he finds himself in a castle, possibly in Renaissance times. He holds a tray and serves noblemen who look like they jumped out of a Versailles painting, while plate-armoured, weapon-bearing guards stand in the background. He can feel his nostrils suffocating from the smell of mould, while his back is jumpy from the humidity. Just before regaining his space perception, the voices that speak in something like outdated French accents start to blur, not making any sense. Everything goes dark. A sudden thunder cuts through the dark, and The Swamp appears, always familiar and exocosmic.

He immediately wakes up in front of the TV screen. He is under the impression of just experiencing something powerful, substantial and prodigious. However, he is not capable of clarifying what he dreamt of. He has the urge to remember, but cannot.

"Why can't I remember?" he wonders aloud, as if he wasn't alone, while pressing his temples with his fingers. It's not the first time he's wanted to remember his dreams, and through the years that desire has grown.

His eye catches a turned-over photograph. He becomes distracted from the urge to remember the dream, and forgetful now, starts to mope. No need to pick up the picture to see it; he was the one who put it face down. It's Penelope, his ex. Three years of separation followed their seven year engagement. He was in love.

He remembers joking about the fact his name was Telemachus, while hers was Penelope. Unlike the Odyssey epic, they weren't mother and son, but a couple. His Penelope though was so different to Odysseus'.

Instead of weaving the Shroud, faithful to her missing husband, she preferred to expand her sexual experience through new companions, he reminisces, with his characteristic, bitter smile. He can't help recalling the pain of all those affairs of hers after they got engaged. Back then, he had a fit body, hair on his head, and a lust for life. More importantly, he smiled often.

Penelope not only broke his heart, but the rest of him, too. He started eating relentlessly, drinking even more heavily, and withdrew from everyone. His once thick hair dropped like autumn leaves and his face grew older, rougher. He can remember her telling him: "I will love you forever" with convincing, misty eyes.

"You will love me indeed. Me plus fifty more," Telemachus whispers to the still upended picture with almost smiling lips.

He checks his watch; it's five in the morning. He storms out. There are always crowds in the main streets of Thessaloniki, but Telemachus needs to be alone. To not be beleaguered by moving cars, people and noise. He crosses Egnatias Ave. and turns at the Ministry of Macedonia, entering the upper town. He passes through the old neighbourhood alleys of poor Turkish and Muslim immigrants. The greying colours of the dawn sky are witnessed by none but him, in this emptiness. He smiles. Exactly what he needed.

He forgets how he got there. He empties his mind of thoughts of sickness or lost youth, and feels like enacting one of his dreams that he never seems to remember, yet knows inside mean a great deal. His thoughts are...