On the day the sea turned purple, Mayor Rigas stepped onto his front porch oblivious to the eerie silence shrouding the fishing village of Lipsoneri. All he could think about was his wife.

My poor Maritsa. Who dies of appendicitis in this day and age?

A whole year had passed since that dreadful night. With no doctor on the island, he had sat beside her, wiped her brow, while the woman who raised his sons writhed. By the time the coastguard arrived, she was gone.

He had written to the Health Ministry countless times without reply. Some bitter nights, he conjured images of bureaucrats in cheap suits chuckling over his letters.

One hand wrapped around the garden door, he regarded his home with hollow eyes and slanted eyebrows. Four generations of Rigases had lived and died between the white plinth walls and the terracotta roof. With Maritsa gone, Yanni had left for trade school in Athens and Pavlo was sure to follow once finished with military service.

He shook his head, inspected his shirt for creases, and stepped over the cracked flagstone with a cringe. If Maritsa was alive, she’d be on my case to fix that. In the past year, he had dispensed with the formalities of jacket and tie. None of his constituents seemed to care. They did snicker about his belly when they thought he was out of earshot, though.

Down the narrow street, he braced for old Magda’s scowl round the corner. Each morning, the widow’s shriveled figure sat on her stoop, black clad, black eyes, hair wrapped in a black shawl. All she did was stare at him with those beady eyes, while the liturgy blared out of her radio in the kitchen.

Today, she was absent.

Is she dead? He tallied a sorrowful count. Two hundred thirty-one. Thirty more years and the only Lipsonerians left on the island will be goats and feral cats.

He poked his head into the house, called out her name, rushed inside. “Where are you hiding, crazy bat?” he muttered. No sign of her. A solitary dish lay on the drying rack and the kitchen smelled of lemons. The radio was off as well.

Maybe she’s at the pharmacy, although Kyr Giorgo always brings her meds up to the house. Armed with kind words and a smile, the apothecary took everyone’s blood pressure and prescribed ointments and painkillers. He was flirting with seventy, though, and huffed a little harder up the hill.

The Mayor cleared the village maze, gained sight of the port, and gasped. The entire village had gathered by the moorings, including Magda and Kyr Giorgo. Beyond the pier, the Lipsonerian fishing fleet of twelve lantern boats bobbed atop a purple sea. Not a drab, bleached purple that might get the fingers wagging at the unscrupulous captains of oil tankers; the water shone a vibrant, luminous hue that rivaled the village’s bougainvilleas.

“I’ll be damned!” said the apothecary the moment he spotted the Mayor. Every other day, Kyr Giorgo’s eyes exuded the grey serenity of an autumn sky behind thin-rimmed spectacles. Today, they bulged, hurried, while his forehead glistened. “Have you ever seen anything like that?”

“It’s God’s punishment!” Magda crackled above the susurrus and raised a bony finger. “The Day of Reckoning is coming, I tell you! Prepare yourselves!”

“Calm down, Mrs. Magda, I’m sure there’s another explanation,” said the Mayor, unsure whether she heard him. “What do you think, Father?”

Father Iakovos turned to face the Mayor and his footlong, cottony beard followed. “God is mysterious, my son,” he said in his slow, deep voice, his downward lips trapped in an always-mournful crescent. “But one thing is certain. What we’re witnessing here is not of the natural world. And on Pentecost of all days.”

The Mayor stopped himself from rolling his eyes. Fifty days since Easter already. His heart throbbed. Yanni had promised to return at the end of his semester. “Come now, Father, you really think this is Divine Intervention? In Lipsoneri, of all places?”

“Why wouldn’t God present Himself on our little island? Are we less worthy?”

“Bah, it’s pollution, I tell you. Another tanker washed its ballast. That’s why we get so many jellyfish,” said Kyr Giorgos, eliciting a dozen nods.

The Mayor scanned the crowd. Lipsonerians would rather kiss a fish than admit fear, but their spines were rigid as they gazed at the purple sea. He sent a stern glance toward the Father. “I’m sure we’ll find an explanation.” The priest clasped his hands behind his back and veered off, an inkblot amidst the crowd of white shirts, patterned skirts, and denim overalls.

For the next half hour, the Mayor observed his people loiter, scanning the water and the heavens for any sign of change. No more revelations forthcoming—or boils, locusts, and horsemen upon fiery beasts—they dispersed to the coffee shop, their homes, their olive groves. Yes, pollution, they muttered, or maybe a mineral crack underwater like on those TV documentaries. None of the fishermen stepped onto their boats, though.

“Mayor!”

The Zonaris twins approached in matching dungarees and two-day stubbles. Maritsa’s older sister, God rest her soul, had christened them; their cries during the service had rattled the church windows. But that was twenty-four years ago, when he was a freshly anointed civil servant.

He gave them a quick nod. “Maki, Costa.”

“It’s not pollution, Mayor. And it’s not everywhere,” said Makis, the oldest by two minutes.

“What do you mean?”

Makis wiped his palms on his thighs. Any other day, he would have smelled of bait and brine. Instead, he reeked of fear. “We got up early this morning to prep the boat ...,”

“... and saw the sea ... you know ... like this,” said Costas.

“But we cast off nonetheless and went to investigate.”

“And?” The Mayor struggled to keep his voice level.

“Out in the open, the sea turns back to blue, all normal,” said Makis.

“But ...” added Costas.

The Mayor motioned them with his hands. “Oh, out with it already!”

Makis nodded at Costas, who heaved a deep breath. “Well, here’s the thing. We followed the edge of the hue to see where it ends. The color started getting brighter along the shoreline east of the port.” He gulped. “And then it got really intense by the old Corsair cave.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I swear to God! Mayor, there’s something in that cave turning the sea purple.”

“What did you find?” interjected Kyr Giorgos.

Another exchange of sheepish looks. “We motored back here, Mayor. We thought ... we thought you’d know what to do.”

The Mayor crossed his arms, turned to Kyr Giorgos. “Well, only one thing to it.”

*     *     *
Mayor Rigas felt the apothecary’s breath on his neck as they crouched on the bow of the rickety fishing boat. The twins manned the rudder at the stern, the engine whine drowning out their chatter. It had taken some cajoling to convince Kyr Giorgo to join the expedition. In the end, the plea to his scientific nous “for the good of the island” had tipped the balance.

Yesterday, the Mayor would have found the vista picturesque. The seagulls squawked while they fished, and the wind whistled from the north, soothing. But his pulse drummed as the water around the boat turned purpler and the oblong mouth of the cave loomed closer.

“God the Almighty help us,” muttered Kyr Giorgo and pushed his glasses up his nose.

The Mayor rested his palm on the apothecary’s shoulder. “It’ll be fine, you’ll see.” He cracked a smile. “You never know, maybe we’ll find the fabled treasure of the corsair pirates. Chests filled with bullions!”

His bravado was met with glazed faces. If anything, the old cave was laced with tales of grisly acts, the ghosts of which none of his co-adventurers seemed keen to stir.

The engine revved down and they coasted inside. Even in the dim light, the water shone a radiant purple.

“There! There! Do you see it?” Kyr Giorgos pointed to the far end of the grotto.

The Mayor squinted. In the distance, a faint white light shimmered. As the boat travelled another thirty feet, the sailors issued a collective gasp.

“Heaven protect us!” cried Makis, crossed himself, and thrust his gaze down to the deck, as if the sight might boil his eyeballs. Costas just cowered, hands over his head. Kyr Giorgos stared, mouth open.

A youth lay against the rock draped in a white tunic with his eyes closed. His legs were ankle-deep in the sea, while his hands lay limp on his sides, palms upturned. His oval face was pale and smooth, framed by bangs of straight blond hair that covered most of his forehead. He pulsated a muted glow, as if lit by invisible candles. Over his shoulders rose a pair of dove-white wings. The left one arched behind his ear, while the right one jutted from behind his ribs, its tip bobbing on the water.

“Calm. Stay calm,” whispered the Mayor. “Whatever this is, we must find out.”

“You crazy? That’s an angel. There’s an angel on the rocks! Oh, Mary, Mother of God, have mercy!” whimpered Makis.

The twins scrambled to turn the boat, but the Mayor stopped them with a firm voice, even though his own pulse thumped in his ears. “If this is really an angel, what do we have to fear? Besides, he looks injured. We ought to help him, no?”

“We need to find Father Iakovos,” said Makis, no longer bothering to hide his shaking hands.

The Mayor nodded. “Of course. But first, let’s understand what’s going on. For all we know, this is some tourist in fancy dress.”

His proposition elicited furrowed brows.

“Why don’t you boys stay on the boat? Kyr Giorgos and I will go see.”

Before the apothecary had a chance to object, Mayor Rigas climbed onto the lichen-covered rock, steadied himself, and stretched out his hand.

Ten steps on, the two of them flanked the angel.

The apothecary pointed to the gash on the creature’s arm. “Look!” From the crusted wound, a rivulet of blood had travelled down his delicate fingers. Where it had dripped to the water below, the color was at its brightest.

“This is no drunken tourist,” muttered Kyr Giorgos.

“You think he’s dead?”

“How should I know? Do angels even breathe?” Kyr Giorgos frowned. “His wing looks broken. If he’s alive, he’s not going anywhere.” The apothecary took a deep breath. He reached out his hand and touched the angel’s wrist, recoiled with a grimace.

“What?”

“His skin is cold. But I think I felt a pulse.”

“Check again.”

“No!”

“Hm. Maybe we should carry him back to town.”

“You mad?” Kyr Giorgos’ head jerked so hard his glasses almost fell off. “Can you imagine the terror? Besides, without a gurney, we might cause him more damage. Or pain.”

“Well, what do you propose we do?”

*     *     *
Mayor Rigas glanced around the sanctuary of Agios Sotirios. The windowless room at the back of the church was musky, hints of fir tree resin and charcoal lingering from the censer in the corner. Father Iakovos used to procure rose and frankincense, but who had money for such luxuries nowadays? Like the iconography on the walls, the priest looked haggard atop his stoop, shoulders hunched and head so low his beard tip passed his waist. Between him and the processional cross stood Kyr Giorgos, his arms crossed and his face likewise broody, while the Zonaris twins shuffled their feet at the opposite corner, their furtive glances traveling between the priest and the frescoes.

The Mayor shifted his weight. “So. What do you think, Father?”

The priest lifted his head. “Well ... this is a day of days, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but what do we do about it?”

“We have to tell the others!” said Makis to Costas’ vigorous nod, before shriveling under the Mayor’s glower.

“And then what? Turn Lipsoneri into a circus like Tinos? They built a church over that ‘miraculous’ icon and flooded the island with trash and lunatics. Imagine the kafuffle here!” He turned his gaze to the priest. “Besides, we’ll have the archbishop on the next boat, clamoring to tell the world. They’ll take the angel back to Athens and we’ll be left to clean the mess.”

Kyr Giorgos crossed his arms over his chest. “Doesn’t feel right, this.”

“I know,” said the Mayor in a more somber voice. “Then again, Giorgo, what if it’s not an angel but a trick? Or worse, a demon in disguise?”

“That’s ridiculous!” said the chorus.

The Mayor fought past the knots in his stomach. “Why? Would you put such a masquerade past Satan? Have you seen a real angel, Father?” His gaze swept the group. “Have any of you?” He sighed. “Let’s face it. Right now, we know too little.”

Kyr Giorgos shoulders slumped. “What do you propose?”

The Mayor opened his palms. “We leave him in the cave, monitor him for the next day or two, see what happens. I mean ... angels are supposed to be immortal, right?”

*     *     *
Three days after the discovery, the Mayor stared out of the dock at the rusty hull of the Agios Nektarios. The ferry boat’s horn chimed twice as it approached the concrete landing. The harbor not deep enough to accommodate the keel of modern vessels, Lipsoneri had to endure the relic every other Saturday.

“Good morning, Mayor,” called out Captain Andronikos from the foredeck. He pointed to the purple sea around him. “What in the Heavens happened here?”

If only you knew. “Mineral crack, somewhere underwater. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

The Captain bobbed his chin. “Been sailing fifty years, never seen anything like it.” He paused. “You ought to tell someone.”

A rush of panic gripped the Mayor. So far, the sanctuary pact had endured. Meanwhile, the apothecary’s ointments, readings from the Bible (Old and New Testament), pouring holy water on his wound, and wafting incense had failed to alter the creature’s trance-like state.

Mayor Rigas waived a dismissive hand. “Whatever it is, it’ll go away. Anyway, see you in two weeks.”

Two days later, the apothecary burst into the Mayor’s home. “Turn on the TV.”

“What?”

“Now! Channel Three.”

The Mayor fumbled for the remote. Past a moment of hissing static, a map of Lipsoneri and Andronikos’ sea-eaten face filled the screen. He was wrapping up his recount of the miracle of the purple sea, while a petite blonde held a microphone across from him and nodded. “Trust bloody Andronikos to seek the limelight.”

“Maybe they won’t take him seriously ...” Kyr Giorgos said.

“And if they come poking around? What then?”

The apothecary pursed his lips. “We’ve got to move him.”

“You’re serious?” The Mayor’s stare was met with a steely silence. “Where to? We can’t bring him into town, we’ve talked about this.”

“The old silver mine. Where else?”

An hour later, the Mayor’s living room was full of commotion. The Zonaris twins stood with their backs against the wall, while Father Iakovos sat on the sofa, lighting a cigarette with the embers from the previous one.

“How are we gonna do this?” asked Makis.

“Easy,” said Kyr Giorgos. “We fetch the gurney from the old medical center. I have keys. We then carry him by boat to Anastasi beach and up the old trail to the mine. We set him up with an oil lamp, a table ...”

“And a Bible ...” chimed Father Iakovos between puffs.

“And a Bible,” said Kyr Giorgos. “We take turns checking on him every day. If something changes, we deal with it.”

*     *     *
The evening was clear, filled with the heady scent of jasmine. On nights like this, the Mayor used to take Yanni and Pavlo for long walks, point out the stars to them. Now, the widower lumbered down the slope, his hair stuck on his forehead. He ducked into the village and let himself exhale at the front entrance of his home. Kyr Giorgo had left with the twins to return the gurney. Father Iakovos hadn’t come, claiming a sore hip, but had assured them he would pray with all his strength.

“I know what you’re doing!”

The Mayor yelped. From the long shadows behind the streetlamp emerged old Magda.

“Jesus! Mrs. Magda, you’re trying to give me a heart attack?” He wiped his forehead. “What are you doing up so late?”

“The angel visited me, woke me up, told me to come find you.”

“What?”

“He told me why the sea is purple. Don’t treat me like a child, Rigas. I know your ilk.” Her face hardened as she took two steps forward. “The angel Zadkiel, archangel of mercy, visited me in my sleep. He told me one of his soldiers fell here. Said he was trapped and injured.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“As serious as you are, all dusty and disheveled.” She looked him over. “Where were you tonight? You have the air of a grave digger about you.”

“I think you’d better see Father Iakovos.”

“That fool? He wouldn’t know the path of God if you drew it on his altar.”

The Mayor crossed his arms. “So, does this angel have a name?” He tried to put on a scornful face. “Or a purpose for his ... visitation?”

“He just fell, Rigas, don’t look for omens. You know better!” Magda grabbed the Mayor’s shirt, tugged with a strength that surprised him. “Where did you put him, Rigas, what did you do with him?”

He took a step back, only to find himself trapped against the stucco wall. A thorn from the bougainvillea dug into his side. “What do you want from me, wretched woman? You’ve been looking down on me for years. What is it that I’ve done to you this time, huh?”

“I want to see the angel!”

He wrangled free of both the plant and the octogenarian, swung the garden gate open, and slammed it as fast behind him as he could. “You stayed out in the sun too long, that’s what!” He ran across his garden, past the cracked flagstone, and into the house.

*     *     *
Mayor Rigas struggled to open his eyes as the banging from the front door reverberated through the house. Between the creaking of the windowsills and the shadows on the ceiling transmuting into vengeful angels, he had gotten little sleep.

When he opened the door, he was confronted by the cherry face of Father Iakovos.

“Magda, she knows,” said the cleric and stomped into the house.

The Mayor followed. “She came to see you?”

“She spoke to crazy old Thomas.”

“Where did she find him? He hardly comes to town.”

The priest ran his finger down his beard. “That’s the point! Apparently, that mule of his, Velzevul, ran off yesterday and Thomas found the beast near the silver mine. He spotted Magda snooping around. She told him about an angel hidden nearby. Some vision. The crazy man burst into the church half an hour later, flinging his arms about.”

“Damn that beast with the Devil’s name. And damn the old crow, why is she so persistent?”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Father Iakovos grabbed the Mayor’s forearm. “It would mean her Dimitri and the baby are in Heaven.”

The Mayor slumped his shoulders. Dimitri. Her late husband. The old gossip also claimed she had a stillborn; no children for them after that. “I see.”

“We have no choice, Theo, we have to tell her.”

“Why don’t you take a seat, I’ll make some coffee.”

The priest nodded and reached for his cigarettes.

*     *     *
When the Agios Nektarios moored two weeks later, it delivered two surprises. The first was lanky Yannis Rigas, decked out in jeans and square sunglasses. The Mayor hugged him, kissed both his cheeks and held his face. “I missed you!” he said and fought the tears.

Yanni pointed at the purple sea. “So, it’s true.”

The Mayor wrapped his arm around his son’s shoulders. “Let’s go home. Lots to catch up on.”

As he turned to leave, though, he caught a glimpse of the second surprise. The petite blonde from the TV had just stepped off the ladder, followed by two men., two women, and a haberdashery of boxes with Fragile labels.

“Why don’t you go on ahead, I’ll catch up,” he told Yanni and headed to intercept the strangers.

“Ah, Mayor Rigas, I presume.” She beamed a perfect set of white teeth at him and extended a manicured hand. “Anna Stamatiou, Channel Three News.”

“I know who you are, of course, Ms. Stamatiou.” The Mayor put on his cordial face with voice to match. “I’m just surprised to see you all the way out here.”

She swiped the vista with her palm. “This is sensational! People can’t stop talking about it! Everyone’s curious.”

“Some freak geological event, we’re told.” He looked down at the cracked concrete, then caught himself and carried on with his smile.

“Oh, but this is so much more! We sent the segment with Captain Andronikos to news outlets all over Europe. The university in Athens is also asking ... everyone is, really. You’re famous!” Her eyes veered past the Mayor. “Hey!”

“Hey!” the Mayor heard, turned, and found his son grinning behind him.

“We met on the boat.” Her smirk formed a dimple on her cheek. “Yanni told me all about you and your lovely town.” She took a deep breath. “You know, with all this, I’m sure the mainland won’t ignore you anymore.”

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

“Oh, simple. I’d love to interview you, on camera.” She pointed to the boxes stacked behind her. “I want to hear your story, your island’s story, all of it. I want to learn about the purple sea, of course, but there’s so much more.”

“I don’t know Ms. Stamatiou ...”

“Dad, it’ll be great,” chimed Yanni. His eyes weren’t looking at his father.

Ms. Stamatiou and crew stayed at the inn. They laughed a lot, stayed up late, bought everyone drinks, tipped handsomely. She spent the week chatting with the Mayor, who then watched from afar as she interviewed his son, the apothecary, others. The twins fidgeted, but stayed true with the geological storyline.

The Mayor swallowed his chuckle when she interviewed Father Iakovos. The fat man was bursting to peddle Lipsoneri as God’s chosen destination. But he kept glancing across at the Mayor during the interview and managed to behave.

The reporters boarded the Agios Nektarios the following week, seen off with hugs and kisses.

“When are you heading back?” the Mayor asked Yanni as the silhouette of the old boat receded.

“I thought I’d stay for a while.” He pointed at the purple sea. “I’m curious.”

The Mayor beamed a smile, patted his son’s back. “Wonderful. Just wonderful.”

That night, after everyone had gone to sleep, the Mayor headed to the silver mine.

Up the hill, he pulled apart the dead branches concealing the entrance. Past the lip, a tunnel sloped downward for a hundred feet, filled with the musky smell of earth and roots. Most of the side tunnels had collapsed, except for one.

He climbed down the stone steps and looked across the chamber, its chiseled walls still covered by the crumbling skeleton of a scaffold. “How is he doing?”

“Same as always,” said Magda in a soft voice that echoed in the cavern, and caressed the angel’s face with a damp cloth. He lay on a cot, covered in a cotton sheet.

“But he’s alive?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Did you speak to the reporters?”

“Pfft, they wouldn’t want to talk to me.”

“And if they did?”

“Oh, relax, Rigas. Why would I want them to know about our angel?”

“Have you had more, ahh, visitations from ... what was his name?”

“Zadkiel.” She shook her head. “No need, not anymore. I know what I need to do and that suits me fine.”

*     *     *
The Mayor should have guessed Yanni would stay in touch with Ms. Stamatiou. After a whispering phone call, his son had darted out and didn’t return until hours later. He beckoned the Mayor to follow him to the square.

Under the hundred-year-old fig tree, the entire village jostled for a seat near the TV. They yelped when they recognized themselves, thrusted elbows at one another when they spotted their neighbors on the screen. After the show finished, they treated each other to cold beer, young wine, and—as the night dragged on—fiery raki to accompany the songs and rowdy laughter.

For the next few days, the buoyancy was palpable. People grinned when they crossed his path, spoke a little chirpier. From what conversations he caught, they hardly mentioned the purple sea.

“Look at that,” he told Kyr Giorgo on their evening strolls by the water’s edge. He pointed to the lanterns that flickered in the water, luring dorado and seabream.

The apothecary nodded. “Nobody’s scared of the sea anymore, are they?”

“Why should they be? Only good things have happened since.”

“If you exclude how full of air the Father’s head has become. Did you notice how packed the church was for Sunday service?”

“Ha. Yes. But come on, even old Magda has simmered down. You know, she actually smiled at me the other night when I went to check on the angel.”

Kyr Giorgo’s eyes widened. “A miracle indeed.”

“And look at this!” The Mayor pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket.

Kyr Giorgo read the letter, slowly at first. “For real?”

“Check the signature. It’s from the Minister himself! Not just a doctor, but a budget for a Health Center. Surgical room and X-ray machine to boot!”

“Nobody wants to look bad to a reporter, huh,” said Kyr Giorgos with a wry smile.

“Who cares?”

“Didn’t Pavlo want to try to be a medical technician?” Kyr Giorgo slapped the Mayor’s back. “So, now you’ll have both your sons back on the island, eh?”

The Mayor thrusted his hands in his pockets and carried on walking.

The following morning, however, Makis Zonaris showed up at the Mayor’s doorstep. His face was tense.

“Maki, what is it?”

“The sea, Mayor.”

“What about it?”

“It’s losing its color.”

“What?”

“The purple from the grotto! It’s going away!”

The Mayor glared at Maki.

“We went inside, Mayor, my brother and I. With the angel moved up to the mine, I guess his blood ... it’s getting diluted and the color’s petering out.”

*     *     *
The Mayor’s living room was once more filled with a blue haze that watered his eyes and scratched his throat. He told himself it was the priest’s chain smoking that bothered him.

“So? What if the sea turns back to blue?” said the apothecary.

The Mayor glared at him. “You can’t be serious!”

“Why not? Everything would just go back to normal and that would be that,” said Makis to his brother’s nod. “What do you think Father?”

Father Iakovos took a deep puff, making the tip of his cigarette sizzle. “Hard to believe God would be so cruel, send us an angel, only to take his blessing away.”

“Hogwash,” croaked Magda from the far corner. “The angel is still here. It’s your fancy promises washing out.”

The Mayor watched Yanni step into the middle of the room. I had to let him in on this, what choice did I have?

“Please calm down,” the youth said and paused. It was a trick the Mayor had taught him. Take a moment, use silence to gather everyone’s attention. “The purple sea, it’s going to bring changes. Money to fix our homes and churches. Safety. A future.” He cast a sideways glance toward his father. “Better healthcare. If we let this go, we go back to what we were. A dot of nothing.”

“Wait. Who are you to have a say in this?” snapped Makis from the couch. “You left, you’re now Athenian.”

“Calm down, everyone,” said the Mayor. “Mrs. Magda, how’s the angel?”

She crossed her arms. “About the same.”

“And you? Any more visions?”

She glanced across at the priest and shook her head, while Yanni turned to his father.

“What Yanni’s trying to get to,” said the Mayor, “is that it wouldn’t hurt if we drew a little blood from him.”

“What?”

“Outrageous!”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Blasphemy!”

The Mayor fended off the wall of shouts with his hands. “Please! All I’m saying is we draw a little blood. Come on, you’ve all been through this! It’s but a pinprick!”

“And drop a little in the water, see what happens,” added Yanni.

“I swear to my Maritsa’s memory. First sign of distress from the angel, or any other untoward sign, and we stop immediately.”

The room filled with glares.

“Well, there’s nothing in scripture against it,” said Father Iakovos three puffs later.

“What if he doesn’t have veins?” asked Kyr Giorgos.

“He must,” said the Mayor. “You saw the blood. Besides, we’re all created in His image, people and angels, right Father?”

The priest nodded, reluctantly.

“Mrs. Magda. You are the closest to him. The Archangel Zadkiel has surely heard our proposal. If it’s a bad idea, he’d send us a message ...”

The old woman took three steps to the middle. “Have you all lost your minds?” She extended a callused finger toward the Mayor. “Don’t you dare lay your filthy claws on my angel, Rigas, hear?” She turned to the priest. “Why don’t you burn your vestments and go slither to the coffeeshop. And as for you lot ...” her voice trailed as she turned to the twins, “You know better, so go on, scuttle along before this lot turns whatever brains you got left into stupid soup.”

“Mrs. Magda, be reasonable,” said the Mayor.

“Yes,” said the apothecary. “Think of the village, the island, our future.”

The rest stared at the floor.

“You listen here, the lot of you. You take one step into the mine, and I’ll go to the newspapers. And if you think I don’t have the gall, try me! I might be old but I’m not stupid.”

She grabbed her walking stick and tapped her way out of the house without throwing a single glance behind her.

*     *     *
Kyr Giorgos and the Mayor huddled over the blue metal table in the main square’s coffee shop.

“It’s a calamity,” said Kyr Giorgos.

Mayor Rigas took a sip from his bitter coffee, looked at the tree crowning the square. A line of ants struggled to climb up its gnarly bark. In the foliage, the cicadas mocked them in fine voice. Beyond, the tips of the waves looked bluer. “You tried again last night.”

“I did,” said the apothecary. “But the old bat stood guard by the mine. I swear, soon enough she’ll grow fur and start howling.”

“You could slip her a pill or something.”

Kyr Giorgos’ nostrils flared. “You mad? At her age, she might die!”

The Mayor took another slow sip.

“Theo!”

“I know ... I know ...”

“Maybe we ought to tell the world about the angel after all. The island would still be an attraction. It doesn’t have to be like the scourge of Tinos. I mean ... look at Patmos. Pilgrims still visit the cave of St. John, no?”

“Bah. People go to Patmos for the beaches.” The Mayor leaned closer. “Another year, maybe two, we’ll be a footnote.”

“Dad! Dad!”

Yanni was sprinting past the pier and into the square, with muddy jeans and wild eyes. Father Iakovos huffed behind him, bunching his robe up in his hand. From the commotion, the cicadas stopped singing.

Mayor Rigas stood up. “What’s wrong?”

Yanni stooped against the tree, panting. “It’s Magda, she had an accident,” he said between gulps of air.

The Mayor looked at his son, at the apothecary, at Father Iakovos who had joined them.

“It’s true, I’m afraid,” the priest said, wheezing.

“What happened?” asked Kyr Giorgos.

Yanni wiped sweat off his brow. “I was heading up to the mine to check on the angel ... you know. Next thing I knew, Velzevul was there, flailing about. I thought he might have been bitten by a snake or something and I reached to grab him. I must have spooked him. He kicked his hooves and broke into a gallop.”

“And?” asked the Mayor with a voice filled with dread.

Yanni shook his head. “He ran straight at Magda, knocked her off. She tumbled down the hill. By the time I reached her, she had a nasty gash on her head and wasn’t breathing.”

“No!”

“Afraid so,” said the priest. “A terrible tragedy.”

The Mayor narrowed his eyes. “You were there too?”

“Why, yes, the boy called me.”

“We should go to her! Now!” said the apothecary, but the priest’s hand stopped him.

“Kyr Giorgo, she’s gone.”

“The stupid mule killed Mrs. Magda?” said the Mayor and stared at Yanni.

His son’s gaze focused on the root of the tree, except for the brief glance he threw toward the priest. “Yes, dad, that’s what happened.”

“Never seen Velzevul trot, let alone run,” said the apothecary. “Have you, Theo?”

“No.” The Mayor glared at his son, at the priest, at the ants crawling around the tree. “But Yanni’s right, he might have been bitten by a snake or something.”

“She’s with the Lord and her husband now,” said Father Iakovos. He crossed himself and furrowed his brow until the rest of them emulated him.

*     *     *
The church bells rang their mournful sound and the two hundred and twenty Lipsonerians shuffled toward the cemetery exit, steeped in incense and soft whispers. Even Thomas had come down from his farm, dragging Velzevul with him. The Mayor had fought to have the animal put down, but not too vociferously.

“Poor Magda,” said the farmer.

“Yes,” the Mayor replied. “Tragic. But she was old, had a full life.”

Thomas shook his head. “What was she thinking, climbing up that hill?”

The Mayor adjusted his black jacket. “Who knows? Lost her mind, obviously. Did you know she claimed to have visions?”

“Yeah, I did hear something about that,” said Thomas. He reached for Velzevul’s reins and mounted the beast. The mule glared at its rider, whipped his tail, and scratched his hoof into the ground. A firm rib jab later, he brayed and took slow steps in the direction of the hills.

The Mayor turned his face toward the dispersing congregation.

The apothecary followed his gaze. “No Yanni?” he asked.

The Mayor wiped his face to hide the blush. “Not feeling well since Magda’s accident. I suggested he stay home.”

“Not heading back to Athens, then?”

The Mayor picked at his fingernails. “Thought he might hang around, help out ... at least for the summer.”

“Ah.”

The two old men stepped off the cemetery gate and down the thistle-covered hill toward the harbor. Beyond, the sea shone a radiant purple.