Unconditional

A Tale Of A Tell — Tell Heart

The story I will share is a very old Karpathian Greek folktale, passed down to us through the oral traditions of our storytellers. I retell these stories to the little ones in my village, so that they not be forgotten. Newly augmented and embellished.

Circa — Damned if I know!

Sifi (short for Joseph) was the one and only child of Marianthi and Dimitri. They were obscure peasants, amongst the many peasants that made their homes on the unrelenting hillside of Mt. Parnassus.

They were as unrelenting as the volcanic earth they tilled, daily breaking their backs for a meager satchel of wheat, barely enough to sustain them. They had never given up on the earth but they had given up on Marianthi’s, aging womb — in ever having a child of their own. Maybe it was for best they thought, that they never had a child, another mouth to feed would be another soul that hungered.

So, as the story goes, one scorching afternoon, when Marianthi, was racked with pain and took to her bed, the village buzzed that Marianthi, would not be amongst the living for much longer. Her painfilled screams could be heard from one end of the village to the other side of only hell only knows where…

It was of course a surprise to everyone when they realized that Marianthis’ extended belly wasn’t filled with gaseous fermentation (that hadn’t found an escape route) but a child. A child cleared up all the confusion and all the congestion, with one final push, both child and any blockage escaped through the rustic portals of antiquity.

Sifi, came into the world suddenly, without warning, a robust baby boy, with cornflower blue eyes and a smile that lit up the dreary lives of his parents and all the villagers in kind. Sifi, was everyone’s child…

His parents well past midlife were at the least astounded and at the most puzzled. How could this have happened. Was Sifi, a gift from the god’s? He must be they thought, because relations between the couple were sparse and in between plantings. They ‘related’ every once in a blue moon, just to reaffirm they were still amongst the living — a fumble in the dark much like putting a square peg in a round hole. They knew better then to insult the god’s, which of the twelve they didn’t know, so they accepted their fate and reared Sifi, with the care they believed afforded his birthright.

Marianthi and Dimitri, didn’t have much in the way of wealth, just a few decrepit hectares of aging land that was passed on to them by their parents on the day of their wedding and cow as old as them, if not older. What little milk Elysia (not to be confused with Elsie the Cow) produced daily, supplemented the even less milk his poor mother could spring forth from the geysers of nepenthe.

What they did have though was an abundance of love. They loved Sifi, with all their hearts, he had brought joy into their otherwise mundane lives. This love that they so freely shared, sustained and fed Sifis’ soul. He grew up to be a strapping young man, filled with the confidence his parents reinforced daily. He loved his parents equally back, which was a blessing to them as he matured like a fine wine and they aged like well, like cheese. He loved a fine kefalograviera, along with his wine.

When Sifi was on the precipice of young adulthood, his father fell ill and Sifi and his mother compassionately tended to his needs, till the day he finally left this world peacefully. The last smile on his fathers lips was all the only blessing Sifi needed. He was the epitome of a good son.

Sifi and his mother, continued on in their struggle to yield from the earth what it seemed it so freely gave to others. Without his fathers knowledge, Sifi would read every evening, quenching his voracious appetite to learn, to succeed where his parents had not.

Sifi, wanted to purchase a flock of sheep, so that he could add to his resources, but for that to happen he needed buying power, in which he knew they were strapped for. He was stumped on how he would obtain the monies needed for his endeavors. Mortgaging their land was out of the question, it was all they had and it would be needed for him to tend his, as of the moment still elusive flock, the one he counted ZZZ’s with every night.

One, late evening as he and his mother sat around the dyeing embers in their hearth, his mother always watchful noticed the frown that had of late permanently made a home on Sifis’ youthful brow. She asked him what had him so worried and she listened attentively as Sifi opened up to his mother about his hopes for their future.

Marianthi, mulled over in her mind what her only child had so surprisingly sprung upon her. She wanted to help him fulfill his dream because she was confident that he could and would succeed.

Marianthi, silently rose from her seating, unbending her unbendable rickety frame, as far as its age allowed her to and walked painfully to the fireplace. There on the mantle sat a just as ancient wooden box. It had always sat there as far back as Sifi could remember. It was his mothers only prized possession. It was the only gift her parents had gifted her other then the parcel of land their home sat upon. Her mother had given her the box on her wedding day, it was passed down from mother to daughter for generations. Unless there was a break in the generational line, with the birth of a son, the son would then pass the box to the daughter he would then name after his mother and so on and so forth — and there forth — by the grace of god go they.

The box wasn’t much to look at on the outside it was made from some sort of ebonized wood (petrified more like) but on the inside it was shiny and new, it was lined with the most precious mother-of pearl, just as Marianthis’ heart was lined with love for her son.

Marianthi, carefully opens the box, rustling through her meager possessions. Her hand stilled when it came into contact with what she was searching for. On the bottom of the box safely tucked away was her only wealth, a gold sovereign. She had been saving it for the day Sifi would chose to marry. She removes it from the box and places it tenderly into her sons trembling hands.

“What is this mother”, Sifi asks, not daring to hope, but he did anyway.

“Sifi, my son I was saving this for your wedding one day, hopefully soon but since you have a dream, I am confident that you will succeed. What is one measly gold sovereign next to the memory of dream. Here take it along with my blessing and make your dream a reality”.

Sifi, overcome by his mothers generosity pulls her dearly to his chest holding her close to him he places his hand over her frail heart and promises her he would succeed and give her the comforts she so deserved.

Sifi, went on and about with his plan. He purchased a flock of sheep and began to amass a fortune by selling the wool that was sheared, the leather pelts that were tendered and the dairy products he and his mother worked day in and day out to produce.

When Sifi had earned his first gold sovereign he had it hung on a chain and wore it around his neck religiously like a crucifix where it nestled near his heart, a daily reminder of the sacrifice his mother made for him.

As time is wont to pass — busy, busy, busy as a buzzing bee in his head— Sifi, used his great fortune and with it he helped others who were also in need. He kept his mother in comfort, she had grown too frail to work by his side any longer.

One blistery evening as Sifi tucked a warm blanket around his mother’s knocking knees, she says to him what had been on her mind for a while now, and then some.

“Sifi, my child you’ve made your dream and the dreams of others come true. You’ve earned every bit of your wealth through perseverance and hard labor, but what is wealth worth without a family of your own. Is there not a young lady in the village you would like to marry?”, she was growing older by the minute and she wanted for him a family of his own, preferably before she became a dustbowl.

Sifi, agreed with his mother, that the only thing missing in his life was a companion who he could love and love him in return. He spoke to his mother about a young girl he’d met named Melpo, from a neighboring village (across the tracks) where he had conducted business. His eyes lit up with happiness when he spoke of her, that was enough for his mother to give him her blessing. If Melpo agreed to their union, of course (she was a bit of the confederate sort).

The next morning, bright and early Sifi, taking care of his appearance put on his Sunday best. He wanted to make a fine presentation when he arrived at Melpo’s home to ask for her hand in marriage. His mother tucking a dewy white rosebud in his lapel and brushing away any imaginary lint — a final touch as she gave him her blessing and rushed him out the swinging door.

When he reached Melpos’ home he knocks rigorously on the front door, where he was invited into the parlor (said the spider…). He was served tea and biscuits, and there he made his intentions known to the parents of the young lady he intended to make his wife. Melpo’s parents were delighted that their only daughter would make such a fine match. They agreed right there on the spot. Their breaths wheezing from the exertion it took at not showing their excitement. They’d been wanting to get rid of her for sometime now…

Sifi and Melpo were wed quietly right there in her parents parlour one overcast Autumn day, with a select few friends and distant relatives as witnesses (and the spider over the open flame). Sifi’s mother crossed herself three times as she stared worriedly out the parlour window at the turbulent atmosphere that was hovering over the nuptials.

After a quaint reception and a short stay in town Sifi, bundled his new bride along with his mother into the new carriage he had purchased (just for their wedding) and returned to his home. There he settled into married life with his young wife. He worked hard daily (and he was happy too) to fulfill his wife’s every wish. After all, as they say, “A happy wife, a happy home”.

The year flew by and up, right out of the chimney flute (a quick exit plan)…

Marianthi, grew even frailer still and finally took to her bed for good. And Melpo grew discontented with every passing moment. Sifi, well poor Sifi, did everything he could to comfort his mother and she was grateful but no matter what he did for Melpo, she was never satisfied. She grew ugly with every word she spewed forth. Why hadn’t he ever noticed how ugly she was before? He’d have to work harder to put the prettiness of joy into her now blank eyes, he thought to himself.

On what was to be one of the longest nights of Sifis’ life as they prepared for bed, he asks his wife the question he dreaded to ask, but he did, anyway,

“Melpo darling, why are you so unhappy, aren’t you content with our lives, don’t I go out of my way to give you all the finer things in life”

Melpo, stares blankly at him, through him, he noticed that something was missing from her eyes, as she asks him, “Do you love me Sifi?”

Sifi, was stunned to say the least, as he replied vehemently,

“What sort of question is that, of course I do (he wasn’t convincing me), don’t I show it to you everyday?”, he felt something eerie cross his undug grave but he swatted it away with a draught of denial.

“Prove it to me, prove to me how much you love me above all others”, she hisses

“Which others (I think she sees dead people), how do you propose I do that? I’ve given you everything I hold dear, I have nothing else to give”, he says, questioning his own sanity (rightfully so).

“No you haven’t given me everything”, she slyly coos

“What haven’t I given you, if its something I can give you, if it will make you happy I will”, he states

“Are you sure”, there suddenly he saw a spark of life hidden beneath her sooty lashes

“If I can”, he repeats like a broken record, (maybe not a record, they didn’t exist then), like a discus then, round and round we go…

“I want your mothers heart, bring to me your mothers heart”, she states matter-of-factly

“Which heart are you speaking about, hush, don’t speak of such things, that is anathema”, Sifi, prayed the gods did not hear such foolishness.

“If you love me as you say, you will bring me your mothers heart, isn’t your mother’s measly heart worth my love?” she asks, turning her back on him, she falls fast asleep, the sleep that comes to the guilty who believe in their innocence.

Sifi, tossed and turned all night, thinking who is this person lying next to him. Who was she and what did she do with the wife he thought he knew?

The next evening and the evening after the next, next and next. His wife would ask him for his mothers heart every chance she could. It became a recurring nightmare for Sifi. She would ask, for his mothers heart, with an over abundant share of unfair theatrics and he would state an obstinate emphatic, “NO!”

But Melpo, was relentless and Sifi, after a long run of arguments, was growing weary (he needed to borrow the pair of balls she was fiddling). One evening after helping his mother take care of her needs he safely tucked her to bed. He then feeling lonely sat by the hearth where he stoked (he should have taken a toke) the embers to life, as if the sparks and spitting flames would give him the answer as he contemplated his misfortune.

His mother was old, he thought, she wouldn’t make it through the winter (now how the f***, does he know that). What if he took his mothers heart, she was dying anyway, it would solve all his problems, wouldn’t it (for sure)?

As the fire in the hearth died down to ashes, so did Sifis’ soul. He walks quietly to the mantle and takes down the wooden box, the only time he had ever touched his mothers prized possession. He stealthly walks into his mothers bedroom. There by the candle light he watched the shallow rise and fall of her chest, his loving mother was peacefully at sleep. He walks quietly to her bedside and places the wooden box carefully on the nightstand so as not to awaken her.

He pulls from his waistcoat a double edged dagger, its deadly blade shadowing death as it glistened in the candlelight. With a horrified scream he raises his arm and with one merciful blow plunges it deeply into his mothers chest, piercing her heart and stealing her life from this world forever.

With the precision and the skills of a shepherd he carves his mothers still beating heart out of her body. He places it with deference into the wooden box and closes the lid just as he had shut his eyes to the truth. Quickly he rushes off to take the heart of his mother, to the greedy hands of his waiting wife.

As he is running, box in hand, he trips and falls (ooops). The box drops from his hands, lid crashes open and his mothers heart spills out and onto the cold ground with a loud and commanding thud.

Quickly Sifi, rises, brushing the dust off of him with his blood laced hands. He picks up his mothers still warm heart, holding it before him, the heart spoke clearly, it spoke in the universal language of love…

“My son, you’ve fallen, are you hurt, how can I help you” he hears his mothers worried heart ask him.

He had no reply, his mother even after death still believed in him…

Sifi, confronted with what he had done, realized at that moment of all moments, what he’d always known (but had a lapse of memory) to be true in his own heart. That his mothers love was unconditional, his mothers love was greater than all the land he surveyed, of all the riches in the world and of any women he may borrow for a time.

Borrowing comes with conditions, a true mothers heart never takes out a loan…

Around his neck Sifi, still wears his first gold sovereign, it is nestled in the gaping hole where his misplaced heart once thrived. A reminder of all he had lost.

Sifi’s true heart rests in the wooden box on the mantle, his most prized possession.

‘