This is another story which I wrote earlier in 2015. I decided to blend a few of my interests, including the Balkans, wrestling and old stories... as well as... something else...
The Belted Man
“You
must admit,” said Carlisle, “that when I
promised you the finest goat’s cheese and plum brandy, I wasn’t joking!” Dundee
nodded contentedly. He did have to admit that Carlisle’s gastronomic selling
point, which had finally persuaded him to accompany his friend on the trip, had
been proved a satisfying reality.
It had been over three weeks previously, when the term
had finished and Dundee was pondering how to spend his summer, that Carlisle
had suggested he accompany him on an expedition into the Balkans. Carlisle had
a desire to combine his interests in Slavonic studies and Divinity, by
exploring a number of ancient monasteries located in the lower regions of Serbia
and Bulgaria. Whilst Dundee was, naturally, rather perturbed at the thought of fleece
clad, heavily bearded bandits bedecked with swords and bandoliers, he allowed
himself to be partially persuaded with descriptions of the superb frescoes and
architecture which were to be found in the cave churches and monasteries of
those remote regions. He was already on the point of agreeing when Carlisle
mentioned the local delicacies. At which point, Dundee allowed himself to be
recruited into his friend’s plan.
“Better
feta’d in the mountains than fettered to your desk!” Carlisle declared and,
even in the face of such dubious attempts at humour, Dundee began to pack.
The trip had gone fairly well, proceeding as planned.
A pleasant sea voyage to Greece to meet one of Dundee’s demanded concessions,
allowed them a few days to browse the antiquities before heading north to
pursue more Vulgar pleasures in the land of Alexander. Stopping in the vicinity
of Salonika, Carlisle managed to recruit a guide, a local Vlach whose knowledge
of several Slavic and Turkish dialects was to prove invaluable in their
travels. As well as this, his own
Latinate tongue and reasonably good Greek, allowed for more than passable
communication between himself and Dundee.
Mihail was an experienced guide and knew not only the
local region but how to deal with people. As such, he was also aware of how to
treat these strange anglichani who
occasionally came. While they may be good men, they often had an air of
superiority and considered the locals as uncultured primitives. Mihail was
skilled in showing just the right amount of servility and loyalty to satisfy
them and to gain their gratitude and money. That said, he also provided a first
class service as a matter of pride.
The trio headed north to the great lake and ancient
monasteries of Ohrid, where, as Carlisle kept reminding his friend, the
Cyrillic alphabet was said to have been created. After a few days admiring the
venerable venues, they headed into more mountainous regions to search for some
small but intriguing churches they had learned of in conversations with monks
and inn-keepers. These churches, as well as the nature and company they
encountered en route, were well worth the extra effort and the discomfort of
the mountain roads. However, as they also had consider the time required for
their homeward passage, the two academics reluctantly agreed to turn around and
head back to Salonika. They decided to spend their last night in a small
roadside inn, entertaining some locals and gathering a few folk-stories to take
home and entertain their colleagues with upon their return. It was during this
highly agreeable evening that Carlisle reminded Dundee of the cheese and
brandy.
Smiling at his friend, Dundee, already well acquainted
with the charms of the golden mistress who had oft caressed his lips that
evening, rose and, calling for another bottle, began to wax lyrical in Greek
about the local tipple. As he finished, one of the locals made some comment in
the local Slavic dialect, whereupon the innkeeper began shouting and roundly
cursing the speaker. As the argument grew louder the two travelers gazed in
dumbfounded enquiry at Mihail.
“Ah,
it is typical of these ignorant mountain villagers! You spoke finely about the slivovitz… then the man spoke to say that
while it did its job, it wasn’t fit to wash a cow’s feet when next to the rakija from his village!”
“It
must be fair stuff, then!”commented Carlisle, well aware that his current quaff
was of impeccable quality. Mihail shrugged,
“It
may be, it may not be… but this one we drink now is made by the landlord… he is
calling the other man a liar and challenging him to a duel over the honour of
his brandy!” Both Britons raised their eyebrows in amazement, “Ah, it is usual
amongst these uncultured mountain folk, good sirs!” Mihail sneered, apparently
forgetting his own home in a small goat-herding village in the mountains back
south.
“Oh Sirs, this might be of interest to you… he now
says that men already fight over his village’s brandy… indeed there is some
kind of festival this very week where men will wrestle for it!”
“Wrestling?” asked Carlisle, “Good lord, I’d like to
see that… did a spot myself when I was younger… Ever try it, Dundee?”
Dundee grimaced, “Indeed I did. Never liked it. Used
to have a teacher at school who made all the lads have a go. Not being the
biggest of boys, I used to get regularly trounced… the old chap even used to
make us wrestle with him if he thought us slacking at lessons… Best of three
falls and two of the best per fall! Still, this festival sounds as if it might
be worth seeing. Shame we have to go home tomorrow.”
“Oh home be jiggered, old boy! This sounds too good to
miss… Mihail, ask these chaps how far the village is and when the festival is…
hurry before they carve each other up!”
The amiable Mihail interrupted the martial mouthings
of the landlord and his bane to enquire about the details.
“They say it started
today, Sirs and lasts three days… we should reach the place by midday if we
start early tomorrow. This man says it would be his honour to provide you with
somewhere to stay, although I can only wonder what kind of donkey shed he will
try to house you in!”
“Three days?”hummed Dundee… “A bit long, still,
perhaps we can see a day of it”.
“He says the third day is most important, Sir.
Something about the monks coming down to wrestle. It seems the monastery there
is famous for wrestling in this area!”
“Wrestling monks?”exclaimed Carlisle, “By George,
can’t say I’ve ever heard of such a thing, have you, Dundee?” Dundee shook his
head. “Well, I think the trip home can wait, don’t you?” Carlisle declared. His
friend had to agree.
*
They reached the village to find the festival in full
swing. The small streets were crowded and the roads were lined with stalls and
pedlars. Dundee was quick to note a number of churches, quite a few, he
thought, for one village. Having made their way to the house of their host,
they deposited their belongings, ate a small meal as tradition dictated and
headed for the village green where the wrestling was taking place.
The green lay at the foot of a mountain which towered
steeply above the village. Sitting high above the village, on either side of a
wide crevasse were a monastery and another building which bore some resemblance
to a mosque. Dundee guessed there was some kind of route between the two
buildings and that either one would not be easy to reach. He also assumed that one of these buildings
would be from where the “wrestling monks” would come from. As of yet, they had
not seen anyone they might indentify as such, however, there was more than
enough activity to keep them amused.
The green was thronging with people; observers,
sellers, buyers, screaming, excited children, shouting men and women, gathered
around the edge of the field. The central area was where the wrestling and
other sports of strength were taking place. Dozens of pairs of men and youths
were locked in contest, attempting to throw the
other to the ground. Here and there groups of males stood around
together, talking, laughing and cheering on their comrades or heaping curses on
a more successful opponent. More than a few, Dundee noticed, were swigging
enthusiastically from earthenware jugs. While some of the wrestlers, who he
presumed were Turkish, wrestled bare-chested and soaked in oil, he also noted
that a number of the other men wore heavy, wide leather belts, the kind he
associated with foresters and timber-workers.
He watched a particular pair of young men as they were
called to their bout. An older man hailed
each wrestler and motioned to them to approach. He then clasped his
hands on each one’s shoulder and said something to them, which Dundee assumed
were some kind of rules. The wrestlers then shook hands and leant forward,
grabbing their opponent’s belt and moving closer until their chins were on each
other’s left shoulder. They stood like this for a few seconds, their eyes
closed. To Dundee they looked peaceful, almost asleep, like siblings or lovers
in an embrace of friendship. Then the old man shouted and they exploded into
motion.
Scarcely had the call to begin left the old man’s lips
than the seemingly relaxed arms tensioned, tugging at the opponent’s belt,
pulling the other to the left or right in an attempt to unbalance them. At
times the wrestlers came together, chest to chest as one or both would try to
raise the other off his feet using the belt as a lifting device. Their legs,
each seeking a trip, intertwined and avoided their partners, like dancers,
moving in rhythm, breaking the step and counter attacking. Suddenly the pair
began to twirl. The second wrestler wrenched up on the first’s belt, raised his
knee higher and, looking over his left shoulder, raised his luckless opponent
off the ground and carried him up and over so that as they crashed to the
ground he landed heavily atop of the winded adversary. A loud roar of approval
came from the surrounding crowd as the second wrestler rose to receive his
applause.
At this moment, Carlisle appeared at Dundee’s
shoulder,
“What do you think, pretty amazing, hey?” Dundee
nodded and agreed that it was indeed worth taking a day or two to see. Carlisle
continued, his voice high with excitement, “It reminds me a little of some of
the fayres back home when I was growing up. Mind you, nothing as big as this…
Might have a go myself!”Dundee laughed, pointing out that while he, Carlisle,
was certainly not unfit, these men would probably eat him for breakfast.
“I mean, look at the legs on these chaps, Carlisle…
They’d probably snap yours like a twig!” he smiled. Carlisle feigned insult for
all of twenty seconds before dragging Dundee to another part of the green to
meet some locals who had some songs and stories which they would tell for a
portion of roast lamb and a jug of wine…
*
After a couple of hours in the company of the
garrulous locals, Dundee had felt the need to escape and find somewhere a
little quieter. He lacked Carlisle’s constitution for the physical and the
gastronomic and lacked his command of Slavonic languages, making it harder and
more tiring to keep up with the conversation. Eventually, he made his way to
one of the small churches, hoping to take in some of the local architecture and
perhaps sketch a little.
Entering quietly, Dundee noticed one or two old women
engaged in prayer and felt his presence wouldn’t disturb them. He began to walk
slowly around the interior of the building, looking at the once colourful
frescoes, now dimmed with the blackening of centuries of candle smoke. As with
many of the Eastern churches he had seen, the frescoes showed tales of the
Bible, with the more dubious characters portrayed as Mohammedans: Turks or Tatars.
It was also of little surprise to him to find scenes of Jacob wrestling the
angel. What did pique his interest was a section which appeared to depict
locals wrestling but within a series of pictures which seemed to tell a story.
At the top of the group was a larger image of two wrestlers locked in combat
but while one was dressed in white, the other was in darker colours and, although
human, bore a horrid countenance and wore an ornate belt, different to the
plain ones of the other wrestlers. Strangely, this figure was also at the
bottom of the scene, holding his belt aloft. Dundee puzzled as to why,
appearing defeated at the bottom, the figure would be holding his belt high as
if in victory.
At that moment, Dundee became aware of a small figure
by his elbow. A wizened old man stood smiling toothlessly, pointing at the
picture,
“Opashan” he
said, nodding his head. Dundee, not understanding the language, smiled back,
desperately trying to remember what a nodding head meant in this part of the
world, head gestures differing across several regions. The old man repeated the
words and made a face of mock horror before pointing up as if gesturing to the
mountains. Dundee smiled again and thanked his informant, before placing a coin
in his hand. The old man smiled and bowed his head in thanks, kissing the coin
and making a cross-sign over Dundee, who, smiling again, walked from the church.
*
“We’ve been looking everywhere for you, Old Chap!”
declared Carlisle, “Mihail was getting a little worried, says you can’t trust
these mountain savages. Anyway, the wrestling has finished for the day. Perhaps
we should head back to our host and get some rest before tomorrow. What with
all the travelling and excitement, not to mention the old brandy, I’m feeling a
little drowsy. How about you?” Dundee agreed, as was his wont, feeling not a
little weary himself. So it was, with the night drawing in, that the three of them walked back to the
Villager’s house to find his daughter waiting with a meal and an invitation to
the table.
“Our host wishes to show you real hospitality. He is
afraid that the festivities will make such civilized men as yourselves will
think we are all rakija soaked savages.” Mihail pointed out. The two Englishmen
shook their heads in protest and assured their host otherwise.
Later, when the bulk of the eating had finished, the
men sat with their hosts at the table as the women retired to the side of the
room. The Villager called to his wife, and giving his guests a sly smile,
brought forth yet another jug of the local brew. Dundee silently winced inside,
although he knew that refusal would offend. Having filled their cups, the men
sat around to another round of conversation and stories, as well as the
occasional song from the Villager’s daughters. Dundee had to admit that
whatever they would end up paying this gentleman for their room and board, it
would be well worth it.
The Villager began to outline the plan of events for
the morning. They would have to be up early as everyone would attend church at
dawn. This was because the monks would be travelling down from the monastery
and the entire village would be at the field to greet them, along with the
dervishes from the neighbouring lodge. At this, Dundee looked questioningly at
Mihail, who enquired of more details. Eventually he nodded,
“This is what he meant about people fighting for the
brandy!” the Vlach smiled, “ In the morning the monks from the monastery and
the dervishes from the lodge will come to the village meadow and wrestle. They
bring with them food and drink which they have prepared and which they will
trade or give to the poor. Whichever of them wins most at the wrestling, their
produce is always the most favoured. This rakija we are drinking now is from
the monastery and was the victors’ produce five years ago”.
“Sounds like it will be quite a party tomorrow then!”
exclaimed Carlisle. “I wouldn’t mind meeting some of these monks.” At this
Mihail shook his head,
“It seems it is not possible. After the bouts, they
return to their monastery and strangers are not allowed to visit them.” He
said. “Anyway, the monastery is hard to reach, the way is long and the mountain
paths are treacherous. He says even the villagers rarely do there.”
Carlisle pouted in disappointment but Dundee suddenly
remembered his encounter in the church. The memory of picture of the man with
the belt seemed to excite a part of him. Turning to Mihail, he asked,
“Do you know, or could you ask him, what is Opashan?” At the mention of the word the
host grew quiet and his expression serious, he and his family crossed
themselves and he muttered something to Mihail.
“Our host asks where you heard that name? He is
surprised as few speak it.” He said. Realising the atmosphere had changed,
Dundee explained his experience in the
church with the frescoes and the old man, who had said the word and pointed to
what it seemed was the direction of the monastery. The Villager nodded as
Mihail translated and eventually replied.
“He says something about a “belted one”, which is what
the name means. He doesn’t wish to speak of it, and says few will. Something to
do with a curse but he will say no more. He advises us not to ask or speak
further about it under his roof or in the village.” The Vlach explained.
The two travelers looked at each other awkwardly.
Dundee could see Carlise’s interest was awakened, as was his own. Still,
courtesy silenced them. The atmosphere assumed a denseness for a second until, unbeckoned, the daughter
of the house began a slow, romantic air which turned into a comic song and the
conversation took a different direction.
*
The village meadow was throbbing with excitement the
next day. Having attended the church service along with their host, Carlisle
and Dundee accompanied them to the field. The crowd was buzzing, chattering
with excitement when suddenly a distant ringing of a bell could be heard. The
crowd began to hush and the droning call of a reed pipe came from the other
side of the meadow. The eager spectators fell silent and some dropped to their
knees in prayer. Both sounds became louder and two voices of song could be
heard, echoing through the mountains. Eventually, two lines of men could be
made out in the distance, slowly walking, chanting some kinds of religious
song. Dundee guessed that one group were the dervishes he had heard of. Each
group was followed by carts laden with earthenware bottles and food produce.
As the two lines came onto the field from opposite
sides, they approached each other and stood in a line facing their
counterparts. Both groups wore belts, like those of the previous day but Dundee
could not help but be reminded of the fresco. The music and chanting stopped
and silence reigned across the meadow. Then each line took a step forward and
embraced the other in greeting. The crowd cheered and applauded, many of them
embracing a neighbour in greeting as well. Then the groups moved back and formed
a wide semicircle, facing the spectators.
The holy-men each chose an opponent and began
wrestling. These bouts seemed to be a mixture of both styles, the belt style
and the oiled one. Mihail pointed out that when the holy-men wrestled against
each other they used a hybrid style of both traditions as a mark of respect. Dundee
was a little disappointed as the contests appeared to be more of a kind of
exhibition rather than serious combat. The crowd however, applauded each one
enthusiastically. Finally, the exhibitors drew back and the crowd fell once
more into silence. The palpable tension in the air increased as a single monk
and a single dervish stepped forward in to the centre. Turning to the crowd,
they both knelt and touched the ground. The dervish touched the ground, his
heart and then his forehead before gesturing to the heavens. The monk touched
the ground, rose and crossed himself in the Orthodox style. Both wrestlers then
stood opposite each other and shook hands. The referee, a leather-faced old
man, stepped forward and instructed them to take hold… silence reigned… the old
man gave the call to wrestle. The crowd went wild.
The two wrestlers had taken hold of each other belts
but soon began swapping holds and techniques, diving in with attacking moves,
sidestepping, grabbing heads and legs… The bout wore on, longer than the
average contests on the previous day. Dundee had heard it was not unusual for
matches to last longer than an hour. The tension in the crowd was mounting, the
wrestlers were too evenly matched for a decisive, winning technique to come
quickly. Suddenly, the dervish wrestler moved in low to grab the monk, who
anticipated the move and countered, unbalancing them both so they hit the
ground together. The crowd roared fiercely in favour of their preferred
champion. The referee bade the men to come together again. As they squared off,
the monk suddenly raised both hands and stepped forward. The crowd was in
uproar. The dervish stood for a moment and then raised his own hands. The monk
put his arms around his waist and lifted him up, taking two steps before
putting him down. The act was then reciprocated by the dervish. The crowd was a
deafening roar of cheers, applause and disbelieving curses. Mihail was at
Dundee’s side, shouting in his ear.
“He knew there wouldn’t be a clean victory… he forced
a draw!” he yelled, “If a wrestler carries another three steps, he wins… by
offering his body that way the dervish had to do likewise, it’s a matter of
honour… and no decent wrestler would take advantage of a man who offers no
defence. They each carry each other two steps to show they could defeat the
other but restrain themselves! This is unbelievable… we must buy the rakija
before it is all sold!” And with that, Mihail plunged into the throbbing crowd
which was surrounding the two produce carts. Dundee looked around, bewildered,
to see Carlisle grinning.
“Seems the idea is that whichever chap wins, his
monastery’s tipple is the blessed one for the year! Mind you, I dare say the
loser’s stuff isn’t to be sniffed at either! Should keep our host happy to
receive one.”
Eventually, a torn and bloodied Mihail returned
triumphantly with several small flagons, a several rounds of cheese. Securing
the prizes, the group joined in the general merriment, which was broken only
for the departure of the monks and dervishes. During the carousing, Dundee noticed
the old man from the church. Seizing Mihail’s arm, he dragged him in pursuit of
the old man, whom they eventually found sitting on bank of earth by a food
stall. Dundee, through his guide, asked whether the old man desired some food,
an offer which was eagerly accepted.
As the old man finished the stew which had been
bought, Dundee whispered to Mihail,
“Ask him about about Opashan, the belted one!” Mihail looked startled at Dundee’s
request.
“But Sir, our host told us nobody would talk of it!”
“This man told me the name in the church! Ask him!”
Dundee explained. With a shrug, Mihail asked. The old man was reticent and
muttered something. Mihail sighed,
“He says it is just an old story but he does not know
it. He’s just a stupid old man who thought he could get something from you,
Sir.” Dundee looked at the old man. His evasiveness seemed something other than
mere ignorance. Slowly, he reached inside his bag and took out one of the small
flasks of rakija. The old man’s eyes were fixed on the flagon, shining with
excitement.
“Ask him again…”
“Ask him!” This time the old man knew more and received his
reward.
As they walked back to find Carlisle, Mihail retold
the story.
“This ‘belted one’, it seems was some legendary
wrestler who wore a belt of gold or jewels. Somehow it was his downfall, he
didn’t say how, but local legend tells of his grave in the mountains and the
belt being with him but some kind of curse. He wasn’t clear, Sir… and I still
do not believe you gave him that flagon for such a pitiful, garbled tale” he
sighed, wistfully.
“Did he say where the grave was?” Dundee queried.
Mihail shook his head.
“No Sir, he didn’t know and if he did he probably
would have tried for more from you. It will just be a local piece of nonsense,
Sir… These mountains are full of sleeping heroes and hidden treasures. If you
were to find half of them, Sir, you would be a very rich, very old man!” At
this, Dundee laughed.
They returned to the crowd to find a huddle of people
around a groaning Carlisle. Fired up by the sport and the local spirits,
Carlisle had attempted to relive his youth and had offered an open challenge to
some locals to wrestle in the belted style. People said they had heard the
snapping sound of his leg from some distance away.
Back at the Villager’s house, a local healer had been
called to set Carlisle’s leg, something which most of the village heard from
even further away. While their host was
enquiring of transport to take the injured man to the nearest large town, it
was clear Carlisle would not be able to undertake the journey for some days, a
fact which would delay their homeward journey for at least a couple of weeks. Mihail inwardly cursed these foolhardy
foreigners, their infernal sense of superiority only seemed to make them more stupid
at times!
“Damned sorry, Dundee, old boy! Was a bit of an ass to
try those young bucks… all that damned brandy went to my head!” apologized
Carlisle. Dundee assured him that it was no problem and admitted that he was
secretly pleased that his friend was hurt as it would allow him time to explore
the local countryside. Carlisle snorted, “If you wanted to explore a bit more,
you could have just said, old chap, not waited for me to get crocked!”
*
Over the next few days, Dundee spent much of his time
walking and sketching in the nearby area whilst trying to get a local guide to
take him further into the mountains. The thought of the monastery was more
becoming dominant in his mind and somehow he felt there was a link to Opashan’s
grave. However, even with the best efforts of Mihail, none could be found. Part
of the problem, according to their host, was that everyone knew that the two
visitors were in the village and there was a question as to whether it would be
safe to take an “Angliski” into the mountains, not least because it was also
well known that foreigners tended to have money. Another problem was that
Dundee had made it clear that he would like to visit the monastery but, as
Mihail explained, even the locals were not allowed entry except on official
business. A curious visitor would certainly not be allowed inside the walls.
Any attempt could bring shame on the local who took him. Their host also
pointed out that as the two visitors were lodged within his house, it would be
a great dishonor to him if anything untoward were to happen… a broken leg could
be excused, a kidnapped guest could not. Eventually, with some effort, Dundee
convinced the Villager that he simply wished to sketch the village from a safe
distance above. Would he, therefore, at least be prepared to draw a small map
of a simple, safe route which Dundee could take? At last, the Villager agreed,
if only to shut this mad Angliski up.
Armed with a small pack containing some food, water
and his sketching equipment, Dundee set off early the next morning. Carlisle
had been told he could travel within the following few days and so his friend
felt it was the last chance he had of trying to reach the area around the
monastery. Carlisle had suspected Dundee’s motives for some time and had not
been slow in saying how ludicrous his search for the grave of the ‘belted one’
was. It was, no doubt, said Carlisle, some unsubstantiated legend and local
superstition which a man of Dundee’s learning would have laughed at if a
student had mentioned it. Much better to sit with his friend and sip the local
brew, Carlisle had attempted to convince him. But to no heed. Dundee,
protesting he simply wanted to sketch, set forth with his plan.
At first he did actually follow the map and even
managed a few passable sketches, partly because he felt there were likely to be
some locals secreted in the area to keep a safe watch on him but also so he
would have some proof of his activities to show his host. However, as the day
drew on, Dundee implemented the second phase of his plan and began to explore
alternative routes up the mountain. An experienced hill and mountain walker,
Dundee had developed what many of his friends felt was an uncanny eye for
gauging possible routes. So it was that after a few hours, he found himself
within sight of the towering walls of the monastery. Thoughts of his friend and
hosts seemed to have slipped from his mind and a determination to reach…
something was driving him.
Skilled as Dundee was at finding routes, this was no
guarantee of being able to gauge the distance and he soon found the path to the
monastery was both extremely treacherous and deceptively long. He realized with
awe how long it must have taken the monks to walk down and to return, unless,
of course, they knew a shorter route. His own descent would now take much
longer than he had anticipated and he would have to tackle it in growing
darkness, which was not something he fancied. He also realized with horror that
the sky had become overcast and a storm was approaching. His options were
limited; either he take shelter and wait out the storm, which was not really
feasible given the lack of cover, or he turn around and attempt his descent.
This option did not suit him either, given the difficulty of the climb in fair
weather and daylight. The third choice was to continue and attempt to seek
shelter at the monastery, something which even a mountain walker as experienced
as himself would find a trial. So it came to pass that around one and a half
hours later, the exhausted and drenched figure of Dundee banged feebly on the
mighty gates of the monastery, howling with what was left of his voice, to be
allowed in.
*
The abbot thanked the young novice and dismissed him.
He sat patiently whilst Dundee, still shivering but at least in dry clothes,
tried to sip hot rakija from a cup held in his shaking hands. At last the abbot
spoke. Dundee’s uncomprehending stare at the Slavonic language made him stop.
“Perhaps Greek?” he asked. Dundee smiled thankfully
and nodded. The abbot continued.”I apologise, I knew one of you spoke our local
tongue. I now know it is your friend the wrestler.” He smiled, although not
with great warmth.
“You know of us?” Dundee asked, surprised. At this the
abbot’s smile grew a little friendlier.
“You would be surprised, my friend, exactly how much
news reaches us here from the local area. Naturally, the coming of two
Englishmen to this area caused much gossip amongst the villagers and not a
little amongst my fellows here. And how is your friend? I believe you are soon
to travel.”
Dundee nodded and explained how he and Carlisle were
due to depart for Salonika within the next few days. The abbot nodded and
replied sternly,
“You are lucky that you might still be able to do
that, Mr Dundee, I don’t think I need tell you it was not the wisest thing to
try to reach this place in a storm…”
“I never intended to get stuck in a storm, Abbot…”
Dundee protested but realized the abbot already knew better.
“Whilst the storm was unexpected, I agree, please, do
not shame yourself or insult me by trying to pretend you were not attempting to
reach the monastery, my friend. It was already well known in the village but for
anyone to manage to reach us under good weather along the route you used, they
would have to be both very experienced and very determined.” The abbot paused,
and chuckled, “ I must say, whilst I question your wisdom, I do have much
respect for your ability in the mountains.”
Dundee stayed silent, unsure of what he was expected
to do or say. The abbot’s face softened and he broke the silence, “So, as you
are here, Mr Dundee, let us make the most of it. It is not often I meet
outsiders these days and as you are our guest, albeit perhaps not initially the
most welcome, I shall answer some of your questions and tomorrow I shall let
you see some of the monastery before having one of the brothers escort you back
to the village. If God has seen fit to let you arrive here, then the least I
can do is make it worth his effort.” At which he smiled widely and poured
another cup of hot rakija.
Taken aback by the abbot’s change of temperament,
Dundee blurted out his last question first,
“Who is Opashan?” he asked, to the obvious surprise of
the abbot. The older man’s eyes widened slightly and he fixed Dundee with a
long, serious look before replying.
“I must say, I am a little surprised to hear you ask
that, as the villagers do not talk of him, as you probably found. However, now
I have heard this, it makes things a lot clearer. I see you are a searcher, Mr
Dundee. Would I be right in thinking you have heard of the belt?” Dundee
nodded, as did the abbot.
“I saw the picture, the fresco…”
“Ah yes, in the Church of the Wrestlers; a wonderful
piece of work and one which a man of your obvious learning and curiosity would
find fascinating, no doubt.”
“It was an astounding piece…”
“Well, it is easier to explain about Opashan if I tell
you the legend of the monastery and its founding. You already know that this
monastery is famed for its wrestlers, do you know we use wrestling as a form of
teaching and spiritual development?”
“I had heard. I was surprised”
“I believe in some places in the east, there are
similar things. And the crusaders were warrior monks, were they not? But yes,
it is unusual to many but it comes from the foundation of the monastery. The
story began centuries ago, as all the best stories do, of course,” and the
abbot started to relate the tale.
There were,
according to legend, once two brothers, both great wrestlers. Having proved
unbeaten at all the local tournaments, they travelled together around the
country, from town to town and city to city, wrestling and winning. Eventually
they decided to separate and, agreeing to meet again after a few years, each
would travel alone for some years, and seek their fortune with their wrestling
skills. Wherever they went, they became champions of the games. Their skills
developed and their fame spread.
One day, the older brother came to a city where there
was to be a great wrestling tournament. The prize was a great pot of gold. He
easily won his early bouts and was widely expected to win the championship
match the following day. That evening, finding himself unable to rest, he went
to the church to pray for victory the next day. Being famed as the great,
unbeaten champion, he went in disguise, so as to avoid both well-wishers and
enemies. So it was that as he knelt in prayer, he heard a young man nearby,
asking The Lord for help and guidance the following day… He was to wrestle with
the mighty champion, who was sure to win. However, the young man asked for
victory, not for himself but for his sick mother and his younger sisters who
needed money for their dowries which, if they had none, they would have to
raise by selling themselves. Upon hearing the young man’s prayer, the Older
Brother left the church unseen. The next day, he wrestled hard, pushing the
young man to his limits. Just as the young man was about to fail with fatigue,
the Brother stepped forward with a technique which left him open for a counter,
deliberately letting the young man throw him and win the match. As his back hit
the ground, the Brother felt a glow of enlightenment as he finally knew the
feeling of defeat. He left the city and walked straight to a monastery and
became a monk, renouncing all the glory of his former career.
The second brother, Adam, also travelled widely, winning
all his bouts. Eventually, he had no equal apart from the great Pahlavan Ali,
the Sultan’s champion. Adam’s fame had spread to the Sultan’s palace and he was
summoned to wrestle against Pahlavan Ali, the prize being a belt, lined with
silver and precious stones and filled with golden coins. Before the match, Adam
had spied on the great Pahlavan and saw that his skill was even greater than
his own. Knowing he could not win, Adam sent the Champion a bottle of fine
wine. Unknown to Ali, the wine was poisoned. During the match the two wrestlers
were locked together, each trying to match the other’s strength. Suddenly Ali
felt all his power leaving him and he became as weak as a baby. Realising this,
Adam raised his opponent high above his head and, with a mighty cry, brought
him crashing to the ground, smashing his head on the marble floor so hard that
his blood and brains splashed onto the Sultan’s golden slippers. So it was that Adam won the Sultan’s belt and
returned home in glory.
While travelling home, Adam met with his Older Brother,
now a monk, who was returning home to meet him. Adam mocked his brother for his
monk’s clothes and poverty. However, as they passed through the mountains,
there was a great storm and the road fell away. Adam’s wagon plummeted over the
edge of the ravine. Jumping from his vehicle, Adam grasped at the edge of the
path. His brother reached out for him and took his hand, attempting to pull him
back up. Although both men were wrestlers and had strong grips, their hands
were wet and Adam was weighed down by his champion’s belt. Slowly their grip
began to slip. In vain, his brother cried to Adam to throw off his belt but he
would not and soon neither could hold on. Adam plunged into the cold river of
the ravine where he was dragged down by the weight of his gold filled belt and
drowned.
Finding his body a few days later, the elder brother
buried Adam in a cave near the top of the mountain. He buried him in his
champion’s belt but cursed the thing which he felt had caused his brother to
slip from his hands. He then founded a skete, a small religious community, in
the mountains and used his wrestling skills as a way of teaching his novices,
it grew into a cenobium, a monastery.
As the abbot finished the story, Dundee asked,
“But why wrestling? How is this to do with religion?” The
abbot smiled at his question.
“You would be surprised, my son. There is much
wrestling can teach us. For one thing, it teaches us humility, as your friend
found out.” At this Dundee had to nod in agreement. The abbot continued, “One
of the concepts of life in a cenobium like this is a smoothing out of the sharp
edges of a man… wrestling does that. One must learn control and discipline. However,
there is also the physical and mental effort of the training which leads to the
spiritual… ah, yes, you wonder at my description of “intellect”… let me
explain, many think wrestling is purely about matching strength, but as you saw
today, strength against strength does not always achieve results… no, Mr
Dundee, wrestling is about deception.”
“Deception, I don’t see how…”
“Exactly, that is why. What happens when two men are
of equal strength or one is obviously weaker? One must use tricks but, of
course, the other may also know the tricks. Therefore, a good wrestler will
disguise his tricks… but a better wrestler will understand the deception and
see through it. Just as training teaches one wrestler to see through the
deception of another, it also teaches us to see through the disguises of the
Evil One… or through the deception of ourselves.”
"Ourselves?"
“Of course… a man may think he is better or lesser
than he is, but until he is tested, he may not realize his true self or he may
be forced to discard his own self-deceit. I think your friend found that out
when he thought he could match the young men in the village” Once more, Dundee
smiled in agreement. The abbot looked theatrically around and lowered his
voice, “And I think you also saw a little of it at the festival…” At this
Dundee looked puzzled.
“You mean the bout between your monk and the Sufi?”
“Indeed, why do you think he forced the draw?”
“Because he knew he couldn’t win?”
“Perhaps, or because he knew he could lose… or perhaps
it was decided that this year both ourselves and our friends in the Sufi lodge
would share the victory and sell more rakija!” The abbot whispered, his eyes
twinkling.
“Your friends… the Sufis?”
“Oh yes, Mr Dundee, we have friendly relationships. We
let politicians and generals fight wars, we here serve God; the Sufis in their
way, and we in the Lord’s way,” he joked.
“So the bout… the result was… arranged?”
“I truly don’t know, my son, which makes the
deception, if indeed it was a deception, all the more masterful!” and he
laughed in a way which surprised Dundee.
“I am surprised that you are telling me this, Abbot”
he admitted. The abbot quietened and looked long into his face with an air of
concern and friendliness.
“I tell you this to try to help you, my son. You are a
seeker of the truth, so I give you some insight into the truth… but the truth
is often matched with deception. As I said, a man may deceive himself and not
know it. In your case your desire for the truth may deceive you and lead you
into danger, as we have seen. You tried to pretend you came here by accident,
yet it was a desire of your heart… just as you desire to find the belt of
Opashan…” Once more, Dundee started but the abbot smiled gently. “My son, my
friend… it is a useless task which will put you in more danger”.
“But what danger… I don’t even know the whole story.”
“You know enough, but I may as well satisfy your curiosity
as I know it is what will drive you to danger. The grave of Adam, Opashan is
said to be above this monastery at the mountain top. It is also said that those
who venture in search of the belt must face him in combat… yes, you see, a
children’s tale to scare people away.”
“And what does lie above this monastery?”
“Who knows? There are some ruins, perhaps of an
earlier monastery, and a small cemetery of people who have fallen to their
deaths attempting to find the belt. That is the curse, the curse of pride and
greed which led to the downfall of Opashan. It is to save you from this, Mr
Dundee, I advise you not to venture further.”
“So is the story of Opashan true?”
“Again, who knows? Is it not a little like the story
of Cain and Abel? Or perhaps the fall of Lucifer… in our language Opashan means
“the belted one” but that does not have to be a wrestler’s belt… it can also
mean the one restrained, as in a harness or perhaps fetters.”
“Or restrained by his sin?” Dundee ventured. The abbot
nodded.
“Exactly… and another meaning of ‘Opashan’ could be
‘The One with a Tail’…”
“Like a devil?”
“Like a devil, exactly. Interestingly, our Sufi
brothers have a similar tale and they refer to ‘Kemerli Adam’, ‘The Belted Man’.
“So do you think the story is true? I mean the
monastery, your order… the wrestling?”
“These are ancient mountains, Mr Dundee… many people
and many stories have passed through here. Stories grow with the years… These
are also violent lands, as you know… perhaps the monks of old learned to
wrestle to protect themselves… perhaps to protect pilgrims… I imagine our
brothers in the Lodge started in a similar way…”
“But the local traditions?”
“Where there are men, there is wrestling, my son…
doubtless many a hotheaded young man was sent to the monastery to learn
humility, to calm him down and stop him causing trouble. The stories grew with
time.”
“So you don’t believe there is a belt or there was an
Opashan?”
“I believe men need to search for something and to
prove themselves… if they can’t prove themselves against God, they try against
each other. Here we learn wrestling God is pointless… so we learn humility. We
learn when something is better left. I hope you, Mr Dundee can accept that too.
I ask you that you accept our hospitality for the night and then go with one of
the brothers back to the village in the morning. You have already seen more
than most men see of our monastery. Let it suffice.”
“And the area above here? Have you been?”
“I have, usually to bury those who have fallen.
Please, my son, let it rest… All that is there for you are stones and graves.”
*
The abbot had taken his leave soon after and summoned
a monk to show Dundee to a cell where he was able to sleep for a few hours.
Shortly before daybreak, he rose and quietly opened the door. Silently made his
way along the cloisters to the outer reaches of the walls. Here he climbed down
the steep sides of the wall, having decided that the abbot would have left
strict instructions that the Englishman was not to be allowed to leave
unaccompanied. Despite his attempts to dissuade Dundee, the abbot had
encouraged him more. Sunrise saw him nearing the mountaintop. The belt would be
his. He would have the fame of finding it.
The abbot had been right about the climb, it was
probably the hardest Dundee had ever encountered, yet he was determined to see
for himself. All the abbot’s talk of concealment and deceit had revealed his
true intention that there was something he did not wish Dundee to find. So
much, he thought, for all the learning from wrestling. Now nobody could stop
him.
Nearing the summit, Dundee could make out the remains
of a small building. Probably the original skete, he surmised, before the growing
community had moved down to a more suitable area. He also found the graveyard
of which the abbot had spoken, a few dozen graves scattered around. He felt no
emotion, no solemnity, just a burning sense of satisfaction that he would
succeed where they had failed. He would find the grave, he would seize the
belt! For a moment he pondered the layout of the cemetery. There seemed little
order to the graves. Rather than being set out in a pattern they looked more
like the dead had been buried where they had fallen… fallen. Looking up, he saw
the faint outline of a cave, almost hidden by brush. Although it sat above a
sheer face, it looked as if it might be possible to scale, although the
cemetery sat as proof that others had thought so too. Slowly, he found a
handhold and pulled himself up…
Reaching the ledge, Dundee pulled himself over and lay
panting, trying to regain his strength. His arms were aching from the exertion.
The climb had been arduous and he had several times, thought he would be
joining those below him. Even having made the ascent, he did not wish to consider
how he would manage to descend again. Standing up, he shook his head as if to
clear the question from his mind. It would wait until he had found that which
he sought.
Pushing the branches aside, Dundee cautiously squeezed
his way into the cave. Around the opening he could make out faded wall
paintings and writing in what he assumed was some form of Old Church Slavonic.
As he moved a few yards in, the light began to lessen. The darkness meant he
had to wait some time to allow his eyes to adjust and he could see the chamber
went further back into the mountain. He returned to the opening and, tearing
some loose, dry branches from the brush, he fashioned a torch and lit it with
some matches which he had in his pack. The torch smouldered and slowly began to
give off a small flame, sufficient to light his path into the back of the cave.
The air was dry and strangely stale, considering how
close it was to the cave mouth, but around 50 feet into the cave, he saw the
sarcophagus. It was hewn from stone and
stood below a painting similar to that he had seen in the church, Opashan
holding his belt. Once more, there was writing but in some form of script which
he couldn’t read. The lid of the tomb was dusty, but not as bad as he would
have expected. There were signs of the lid having been interfered with;
doubtless the monks came to attend to the grave periodically. This cheered
Dundee, who decided it might be possible to shift the heavy stone slab on his
own without much trouble. Putting his hands under the edge of the lid, he
strained and tried to lift. To his surprise, it rose slightly. He began to
slide it from its resting place until, with huge surge of effort, he managed to
tilt it and send it crashing to the floor. Without pausing for breath, he
looked into the sarcophagus.
The corpse was withered but still intact. Dundee was
surprised for a moment that after so long the flesh had not rotted away but he
considered that the atmosphere inside the cave had somehow allowed a form of
natural mummification to occur. He had also heard tales of uncorrupted relics
of saints in these parts of the world. While not a saint, perhaps something had
been done to the body of the dead wrestler to preserve it, for it was indeed
Opashan, as Dundee could see by the belt around the corpse’s waist.
Even coated in the dust of centuries, the splendour of
the belt was obvious. The gold medals lay against the silver edging and within
the engraved silver buckle were precious stones of various sorts; rubies,
emeralds and pearls, if Dundee was any judge of these things. It was no wonder
that centuries later, men were still prepared to risk their lives to find such
a prize, a prize which Dundee himself had now found. He chuckled, he would not
need to wrestle Opashan himself, he had wrestled against the mountain and won.
The prize was his for the taking. Gently stroking the buckle, he slid his
fingers underneath to attempt to undo it. It was at this moment the hand of
Opashan seized him by the wrist.
The speed of the movement made him gasp but the
strength of the grip made him wince. Trying feebly to pull his hand from that
of the dead man, Dundee looked in horror as the eyes of the corpse snapped open
and the face twisted into a cruel, hideous grin. Transfixed by the hateful
visage, Dundee squirmed as the eyes of Opashan burned into his own and the
withered wight began to sit up, still holding Dundee in an unbreakable grip.
The twisted, grinning mouth opened more and a harsh, hissing sound of hellish laughter
came from within, forcing stagnant, putrid breath into the face of the
terrified scholar.
Opashan’s second hand snaked out and seized Dundee’s
shoulder. With his prey in a firm hold, the fiend pulled himself upwards and
out of the coffin, allowing Dundee’s futile attempts to flee to enhance its own
motion. With a sudden leap, the wraith was standing face to face with the man,
grinning and hissing its hideous laughter. Dundee tried to pull back but the
withered figure held him fast, slowly, painfully forcing him in whichever direction it chose. Each
movement of Dundee was either neutralized by a counter or else Opashan
manipulated him into a different position, increasing his control over the helpless
man. Dundee felt himself being forced towards the cave mouth… towards the
ledge. It was then he recalled the random pattern of the graves below and
understood. Opashan meant to throw him to his death onto the rocks below.
Energised by his revelation, Dundee began to struggle
more, trying to break the wight’s hold or to unbalance him to a point where he
might be able to break free. The dead wrestler merely hissed his amusement at
Dundee’s futile attempts and forced him closer to the ledge. As they crossed
the mouth of the cave, Opashan’s arms slid under Dundee’s and he heaved his
luckless foe upwards. At that moment, Dundee felt a distant memory of his own wrestling
days and interpreted Opashan’s intention. He dropped his body weight
momentarily, pushing down, and felt the wraith start to swing him. Dundee
sprang upwards, with Opashan’s move, creating an exaggerated motion that took
the wrestler by surprise and transfered the control of the movement from
Opashan to himself. Dundee landed firmly on his feet and it was Opashan who
became the object of the swing. Feeling the wrestlers weight move from the
ground, Dundee thrust out his leg, wrapping it around the withered thigh and
calf whilst twisting his upper body. The wraith gave a hacking shout of
surprise as, unbalanced by the move, he relinquished his grip and was lifted
through the air and slammed into the hard, stony floor of the cave. There he
lay on his back, glaring up at a panting Dundee, who stared down defiantly at
the thrown Opashan who he now straddled on the ground. A moment of silence and
uncertainty hung in the air until the withered face broke into a ghastly smile
and then another hacking laugh. The burning eyes changed from a glare of hatred
to one of victory he gasped out a single word,
“O…pash..an!”
Dundee stood up, moving back, tensed, ready to attack
if the wraith rose again. Instead, the wrestler slipped his fingers under the
buckle of the belt and unclasped it. As the belt slid open the withered head
fell back and the cackling breath once more gasped the word. “O…pash…an!” Where
upon, to Dundee’s astonishment, the corpse began to disintegrate into a pile of
flaky, brown powder in the centre of which sat the champion’s belt.
Dundee stood, panting, staring at the dust, waiting to
see if the fiend returned… but nothing. A breeze blew lightly into the cave and
caressed his face while the dust slowly began to scatter. A throb of relief and
triumph went through his body and Dundee strode over to the pile and slowly
bent to pick up the belt. Upon touching it, the throb of triumph turned into a
blast of energy radiating through him… victory, pride! He had beaten the
Sultan’s champion, the champion of champions… He, Dundee, had beaten Opashan
and won the Sultan’s belt… Lifting the belt above his head, with both hands, he
gave a bellow of triumph and began to kick the powdered remains of his
vanquished foe to the winds. Once more, he lifted the belt and roared in
triumph,
“I beat him… I beat the mighty one! Now it is I… I am
‘Opashan’! I wear the belt!” upon which he wrapped the jeweled prize around his
waist and fastened the clasp. “It is mine, I won it… I am the belted one!” Then
he laughed, a guttural, primal guffaw of relief and pride before sitting down
to rest. Overcome by the strains of all his effort, Dundee slipped into a deep
sleep.
*
Gathering up his pack, Dundee walked to the cave mouth. He reckoned he
would at least make the monastery before sunset. He smiled at the thought of
their faces when they saw him with the belt. Probably someone would try to take
it from him… but it was his. He had won it.
Approaching the mouth of the cave, he felt a strange sensation in this
legs. The closer he got to the mouth, the heavier they became. As he crossed
the threshold to the ledge, he found he could not move… his legs simply refused
to obey him. As much as he tried to push his body forward, it was as if he was
pushing against a wall. Surprised, he stepped backwards and was puzzled to find
no resistance. Turning, he walked easily into the depths of the cave and then
returned to the cave mouth only to find that, as before, his body refused to
move. He repeated this several times, even running to the ledge, but each time
his muscles seized up refusing to let him cross the threshold. As the day drew
to a close and the sun began to disappear,
the belt seemed to tighten, squeezing uncomfortably and burning as if
embedding itself into his skin. He slipped his hands under the buckle to
unclasp it but found it solid, immoveable.
Wrenching angrily at the belt, Dundee cursed. What was happening… how
could he not leave the cave? He had climbed the mountain. He had walked into
the cave without problem. What was different about walking out? After all, he
had the belt now, he was the champion. He was invincible… surely he could walk
out of a cave… he was Opashan… the belted champion. He had beaten the previous
owner of the belt…Adam, Kemerli Adam… the cursed one. The cursed holder of the
belt… the one who had died because he had refused to relinquish the belt… but,
Dundee gasped, he had been unable to die, hadn’t he? He was only able to die
when he had been beaten and had been relieved of the belt, relieved of the
curse, by Dundee.
Now he was Opashan… the belted one… the harnessed man… and he too must
wait…
