view over the valley, and accordingly he laid down his quarterstaff, unslung his water flagon, and sat down on the step, between the porticos of the temple tomb. On the pediment above was inscribed in the as yet undeciphered Lycianscript “Philiste, daughter of Demetrius, built this for Moschus, whom she loved.” Underneath were written details of the fine for violation, and at the apex was carved in bas-relief a pair of open hands, the Lycian symbol for unnatural, violent and untimely death.
The Dog looked at the children for the first time, and smiled.
So horrifying was that smile that the children screamed, and ran, tumbling helter-skelter over the rocks, cutting themselves on thorns. Drosoula, Philothei, Karatavuk, Mehmetçik, Ibrahim and Gerasimos would remember that appalling sight as long as they lived, and it would haunt their nightmares forever, sometimes coming back to them at moments when they should have been at peace.
That evening, the priest, Father Kristoforos, and the imam, Abdulhamid Hodja, encountered each other before the tomb, coincidentally but for identical reasons. Both men wished to know whether or not the newcomer was a member of his flock, and both were just as curious as the children had been, if not more so, now that the latter had told everyone about the Dog’s disfigurement.
Abdulhamid Hodja reined in the spirited and exquisite Nilufer, and was tying her somewhat insecurely to an oleander bush, when Father Kristoforos came from another direction, having perspired his way up the slope in a route more direct, but steeper, than that followed by the imam and his horse.
Abdulhamid touched his right hand to his chest, to his lips, and to his forehead, saying, “Ah, Imansiz Efendi, iyi akşamlar.”
The priest smiled, returned the flowery gesture, and replied, “And good evening to you, Apistos Efendi.” The two men had for many years enjoyed the pleasantry of greeting each other as “Infidel Efendi,” the one in Turkish and the other in Greek, and had struck up a cordial relationship based upon mutual respect, somewhat tempered by an awareness that there were many of both faiths who would look askance at such a friendship. They visited each other’s houses only when it was dark, and were much inclined to waste entire nights in long and occasionally heated theological discussions that enervated their families, who were trying to sleep, and always ended with one or other of them saying, “Well, after all, we are both peoples of the Book.”
The two men presented an alarming sight to the Dog, appearing like that, both at once, at the entrance to his new accommodation. It was not often that a Christian priest, in his capacious black robes, bosky beard and lofty headdress, poked his head round one’s door at the same time as animam with his white turban, well-combed beard and green cloak. The Dog cowered, placed his arms across his forehead and eyes, as if to protect his face, and shrunk into the corner where he had been sitting, until then, in the perfect stillness of contemplation.
Abdulhamid Hodja and Father Kristoforos exchanged glances, and the latter said “Merhaba” in the hope that such an informal and friendly greeting would reassure the trembling man. “Salaam aleikum,” said the imam, wishing to emphasise by his greeting that they had come in peace.
“We have come to find out who you are, and whether you want anything,” he continued, subduing his voice in a spirit of gentleness.
The man lowered his arms and looked at them. Suddenly he wiped soot off the wall with one finger, and on the bench he wrote something in swirling Arabic characters that the priest did not understand. Abdulhamid Hodja noticed the priest’s puzzlement, and said, “It means ‘The Dog.’ Perhaps he is telling us that he is unclean.”
“From where do you come?” asked Abdulhamid, and the Dog dipped his finger in the soot, and wrote again. Once more the imam read it for the priest: “It says
The Dog looked at the children for the first time, and smiled.
So horrifying was that smile that the children screamed, and ran, tumbling helter-skelter over the rocks, cutting themselves on thorns. Drosoula, Philothei, Karatavuk, Mehmetçik, Ibrahim and Gerasimos would remember that appalling sight as long as they lived, and it would haunt their nightmares forever, sometimes coming back to them at moments when they should have been at peace.
That evening, the priest, Father Kristoforos, and the imam, Abdulhamid Hodja, encountered each other before the tomb, coincidentally but for identical reasons. Both men wished to know whether or not the newcomer was a member of his flock, and both were just as curious as the children had been, if not more so, now that the latter had told everyone about the Dog’s disfigurement.
Abdulhamid Hodja reined in the spirited and exquisite Nilufer, and was tying her somewhat insecurely to an oleander bush, when Father Kristoforos came from another direction, having perspired his way up the slope in a route more direct, but steeper, than that followed by the imam and his horse.
Abdulhamid touched his right hand to his chest, to his lips, and to his forehead, saying, “Ah, Imansiz Efendi, iyi akşamlar.”
The priest smiled, returned the flowery gesture, and replied, “And good evening to you, Apistos Efendi.” The two men had for many years enjoyed the pleasantry of greeting each other as “Infidel Efendi,” the one in Turkish and the other in Greek, and had struck up a cordial relationship based upon mutual respect, somewhat tempered by an awareness that there were many of both faiths who would look askance at such a friendship. They visited each other’s houses only when it was dark, and were much inclined to waste entire nights in long and occasionally heated theological discussions that enervated their families, who were trying to sleep, and always ended with one or other of them saying, “Well, after all, we are both peoples of the Book.”
The two men presented an alarming sight to the Dog, appearing like that, both at once, at the entrance to his new accommodation. It was not often that a Christian priest, in his capacious black robes, bosky beard and lofty headdress, poked his head round one’s door at the same time as animam with his white turban, well-combed beard and green cloak. The Dog cowered, placed his arms across his forehead and eyes, as if to protect his face, and shrunk into the corner where he had been sitting, until then, in the perfect stillness of contemplation.
Abdulhamid Hodja and Father Kristoforos exchanged glances, and the latter said “Merhaba” in the hope that such an informal and friendly greeting would reassure the trembling man. “Salaam aleikum,” said the imam, wishing to emphasise by his greeting that they had come in peace.
“We have come to find out who you are, and whether you want anything,” he continued, subduing his voice in a spirit of gentleness.
The man lowered his arms and looked at them. Suddenly he wiped soot off the wall with one finger, and on the bench he wrote something in swirling Arabic characters that the priest did not understand. Abdulhamid Hodja noticed the priest’s puzzlement, and said, “It means ‘The Dog.’ Perhaps he is telling us that he is unclean.”
“From where do you come?” asked Abdulhamid, and the Dog dipped his finger in the soot, and wrote again. Once more the imam read it for the priest: “It says
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