The Belted Man (a story)

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…