People would call him crazy,

wanting to dance on burning charcoal like his grandfather did.

It was παππούς (pappous) who taught him. Those summers back in the village they were preparing for the great spring rituals. Every year they were training. To become an Αναστενάρης (Anastenaris) was not only a matter of training and discipline. It took a lot more than strengthening your flesh. To become an Αναστενάρης (Anastenaris) meant to train your soul. Dedication, commitment, prayer and faith would lead you to an ecstatic stage where your body would overcome its mortal and perishable nature, where the strength of your soul had the power to shield your skin and make it... unburnt.

For years he tried, for years he failed to have the honor and walk on the burning coal. Others would walk and he was so jealous. What was it that these men had but he couldn't be favored? His grandpa had done it, he had taught him, he had built him to become one of them, but his time would never come.

He never gave up, though. Every year he would attend the three-day celebrations in memory of Saint Helen and Saint Constantine. On their day, right after the Service would finish, he would piously hold the sacred picture and walk across the village with the rest of the crowd behind him and the priest and the chanters in front of him. The children holding the εξαπτέρυγα (hexapteryga) would patiently remain silent and remind him of his younger self, when his παππούς (pappous) was a respected man among them and his greatest teacher into the mysterious world of fire-walking.

There, in the village square the Αναστενάρηδες (Anastenarides) would prepare their burning dance floor. With spastic moves, resembling a maniac puppet, the fearless dancers would walk on the scorching coals with their feet bare in a trance of music, faith and fire. Their hands would not leave the holy pictures down. It's the sign that years ago the saints favored them for saving their pictures from a burning church. It's an honor to become an Αναστενάρης (Anastenaris), an old tradition, an honor and a duty.

Memories.

Here he is now, on a summer afternoon, chilling with a cold coffee in his summerhouse garden. Under the vine, on the wooden chair with the straw-weaved seat and flower pots all around. Suddenly his nose picks up smoke. Something is burning.

- Ποιος μαλάκας καίει χόρτα τέτοια εποχή. (What asshole is burning weeds in the summer.)

Yelling, sirens, turmoil...

He ditches his coffee and runs to see what happens. As soon as he gets out of the garden he sees flames in the distance. They are already eating up parts of the forest and getting closer to the first houses.

- Τασίααααα, φωτιά! Τρέξε! (Tasiaaaa, fire! Run!)

He tells his wife not to leave the house unless the fire comes their way. He gives her his car keys, a quick kiss on the forehead and runs towards the disaster. He finds the fire engines. Only two. Two? Are you kidding me? This thing has been spreading rapidly, the wind is blowing like crazy now.

Houses, it's getting closer to the houses.

Too late, the first ones are already burnt to the ground.

Cars, nothing but gray chunks of metal now.

They need to back down. People are gathered outside a flaming house. Kids are trapped in there. Their parents were in the nearby town to the supermarket and the kids were sleeping. You could now make out their voices crying for help. The mother is screaming and the father trying to stop her from barging into the flames that are now blocking the entrance.

He didn't pay much thought to it. He was trained, he had trained his body, he had trained his soul, what if he wasn't called to dance on the burning coals this spring. He could clearly recognize this call today.

A quick prayer while he was running towards the house and then he disappeared behind curtains of flames and smoke.

The three children got out through the small kitchen window. When he was about to leave, the wooden ceiling fell on his back.

He had trained his soul and now he would rest it.

A story smelling like Greece, dedicated to the people lost in the tragedy of the forest fires. Not that it would make a difference now...

Greek words translation:

* παππούς = pappous; grandpa
* Αναστενάρης, Αναστενάρηδες = Anastenaris, Anastenarides; people performing the ritual of fire-walking in memories of Saint Helen and Saint Constantine (an orthodox tradition)
* εξαπτέρυγα = hexapteryga; flabella

*All images and original story by @ruth-girl - Steemit, 2018
(Images taken with Nikon D3400 - AF-P NIKORR 18-55 mm)

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