The Island of Missing Trees(50)

Meryem is an odd one, full of contradictions. She seeks help from trees all the time, although she doesn’t seem to be aware of this. If she is scared or lonely, or wants to dispel evil spirits, she knocks on wood – an ancient ritual dating back to the days when we were regarded as sacred. Every time she has a wish she doesn’t dare speak aloud, she hangs rags and ribbons on our boughs. If she is looking for something – buried treasure or some trivial item she has lost – she roves about holding a forked branch, which she calls a divining rod. Personally, I don’t mind such superstitions. Some can even be helpful for us plants. The rusty nails she sticks inside flowerpots to chase away the djinn make soil alkaline. Similarly, the wood ash left from the fires she burns to remove a hex contains potassium, which can be nourishing. And as for the eggshells she spreads around in the hope of attracting good fortune, they, too, are an enriching compost. I just wonder how she continues to carry out these old rituals without realizing that they originate from a deep reverence for us trees.

There is a seven-hundred-year-old oak in the Marathasa Valley, in the Tro?dos Mountains. The Greeks will tell you how a group of peasants hid under it in fear as they were running away from the Ottoman Turks in the sixteenth century, barely escaping with their lives.

And there is a Ficus carica in Ayios Georgios Alamanos that Turks will tell you grew out of the body of a dead man, after a fig in his stomach, the last thing he ate that evening, grew into a tree. He had been taken into a cave with two others and killed with dynamite.

I listen carefully, and I find it astounding that trees, just through their presence, become a saviour for the downtrodden and a symbol of suffering for people on opposite sides.

Across history we have been a refuge to a great many. A sanctuary not only for mortal humans, but also for gods and goddesses. There is a reason why Gaia, the mother goddess of earth, turned her son into a fig tree to save him from Jupiter’s thunderbolts. In various parts of the world, women thought to be cursed are married to a Ficus carica before they can pledge their troth to the one they truly love. Bizarre though I find all these customs, I understand where they come from. Superstitions are the shadows of fears unknown.

So when Meryem came into the garden, surprising me with her presence, and began to walk this way and that, oblivious to the cold and the storm, I had an inkling she was hatching up a plan to help Ada. And I knew she would, once again, resort to her endless reservoir of myths and beliefs.





Definition of Love


Cyprus, July 1974


The courtyard was dimly lit by the waning moon, the warm wind that had been whistling through the treetops all day long had finally exhausted itself and fallen quiet, and the night felt gentle and cool. The tang of jasmine, winding around the wrought-iron balustrade like a golden thread through homespun cloth, perfumed the air, mingling with the smells of burnt metal and gunpowder.

Defne sat on her own in the far corner of the courtyard in her house, still up at so late an hour. She huddled by the wall, where her parents would not be able to see her should they look out of the window. Pulling her knees to her chest, she rested her head on the palm of one hand. In her other hand, she held a letter, which she had read several times by now, although the words still swam impenetrably before her eyes.

Her gaze fell on the tomato vine that her sister was growing in a large clay pot. Over the past year, it had become her ally, this plant. Whenever she sneaked out at night to meet Kostas, she would secretly climb down the mulberry tree in front of her balcony, and then back up the way she came, carefully hoisting herself up and down using the pot as a step.

She hadn’t seen Kostas since the night of the explosion at The Happy Fig. It had been almost impossible to go out and walk around. Every day the news had turned darker, scarier. The rumours that the military junta in Greece were plotting ways to oust the president of Cyprus, Archbishop Makarios, had now hardened into fact. The day before, the Cypriot National Guard and EOKA-B had launched a coup to overthrow the democratically elected Archbishop. The Presidential Palace in Nicosia was bombed and burned by armed forces loyal to the junta. Fights had erupted on the streets between supporters of the Archbishop and supporters of the military regime in Athens. The state radio announced that Makarios was dead. But just as people were mourning him, the Archbishop had broadcast from a makeshift radio station: ‘Greek Cypriots! You know this voice. I am Makarios. I am the one you chose to be your leader. I am not dead. I am alive.’ He had miraculously escaped, and no one knew his whereabouts.

Amidst the chaos, intercommunal violence had flared. Defne’s parents had forbidden her to leave the house, even for basic provisions. The streets were not safe. Turks had to stick with Turks, Greeks with Greeks. Confined to the house, she had spent hours reflecting, worrying, trying to find a way to talk to Kostas.

Finally, today, when her mother had left the house to attend a neighbourhood meeting and her father had fallen asleep in his room as usual after taking his daily medication, she slipped out, despite her sister’s protests. She ran all the way to The Happy Fig, looking for Yusuf and Yiorgos. Thankfully, they were both there.

Since the night of the bomb the two men had worked hard to restore the place and managed to repair most of the damage. The front wall and the door had been rebuilt, but now, though ready to reopen, they had been forced to close down due to the ongoing unrest on the island. Defne found them stacking up chairs and tables in front of the tavern, wrapping padding around the kitchen equipment before stowing it in crates and boxes. When they saw her, their eyes brimmed with a warmth that was swiftly replaced with concern.