Patras, Greece 1912 (Deleted prologue of EOC)

The rare coral, and the mysterious orange jewel he could only describe from his memory, were luxuries the fisherman could not afford. He traded his caique – a traditional wooden boat – and his only means of catching fish from the Gulf of Patras, for fifty-eight roughly hewn polyps of Sciacca coral, and twelve carats of the orange jewel.

Mined from one known deposit in the world, the coral was discovered in 1875 by local fishermen in the Strait of Sicily, near the coastal town of Sciacca. When the bark of the coral was broken, the fossilized stone within was found to have a distinct color – never seen before in marine coral – similar in appearance and texture to the peel of a navel orange. Many sought the coral for its eccentric color, and its finite supply made it even more valuable.

The weathered fisherman knew nothing of shaping coral and stones, but he knew that the oars on his boat, and the planks on his small cottage were worn by the saltwater and the wind. Time and repetition wear at the things of this world but refine a man. He placed the pieces of brilliant orange coral into a wineskin, added saltwater and sand, and closed the bag tight, binding it with a leather strap. He shook the wineskin in his hands – back and forth, up and down – and after only a few minutes, his shoulders burned and the muscles in his forearms ached. But he was told to do it this way, so until late morning, he continued the monotonous and painful process.

Now without a boat, the man must leave his humble cottage on the green seaside hill, and travel to the town market where he will purchase for many drachmai what the sea gave him for free – just a day in the sun, on the water, is all it asked for its fish.

The town center and the market of Patras were in the Kato Poli, the lower section of the city. The fisherman harnessed his only mule and hitched it to his only cart. The cart was too small, and the mule was too old to carry him, so he tied the wineskin filled with coral to the axle of the cart, and walking beside his mule, the man trudged the long rocky trail into town.

The coral rattling in the rapidly spinning wineskin was like a gentle rainstorm pattering the clay tiles on the roof of his old cottage. He smiled. Normally, the rough trail would have upset his mood, but he knew that with each bump, and with each rotation of the cart’s single axle, it made the coral pieces within the wineskin more refined.

He traversed the ridgeline, the sea to his right, and passing through the Ano Poli – the upper section of the city – he descended hammer-hewed blocks of limestone into the Kato Poli. The craggy trails and streets turned to cobblestone, and after passing the City Hall and the historic Apollon Theatre, the man, his cart, and his mule, arrived at the town market in Georgiou I Square.

The town of Patras had changed since he was a boy. Paved roads were eating up the broken cobblestone. Electric streetlights replaced the oil lamps. Where horse-carriages and handcarts once rolled, Greece's first electrified tramway was being constructed. He sighed and shook his head.

The fisherman’s elbows and shoulders throbbed. The coral sack was shaken enough. It was evening, he lit the oil lamp that hung above the modest table where he dined alone, sat, and untied the leather strap that secured the opening of the bag. He peered into the murky water, salt and ground stone burned in his nostrils. His eyes widened as the floating sediment began to clear and he could see that the unworked pieces of coral had turned into smooth, opaque marbles. He smiled, siphoned the coral orbs and brackish water into a wooden bowl, plucked out each piece of coral, and rinsed them in freshwater. The man patted them dry with a towel and inspected his work. Fifty-three beads the size of a pea. Five were larger, the size of a blueberry. All the beads were perfectly round and symmetrical. All contained the most mesmerizing shade of orange.

Fueled by anticipation and without rest, the man removed imperfections from the beads with the sanding stones used to plane and smooth his boat. Then, using a leather strap, he rubbed the beads until his fingers blistered, and his nails split and bled. Lastly, the man polished each bead with cotton wool and olive oil.

Such tedious and cumbersome work. His large, calloused hands were designed for working mooring ropes and ripping heavy fishing nets from the sea, not crafting delicate artifacts. He cleaned the grime from his hands and peered into the small wooden bowl containing the fifty-eight coral beads, and gasped. The fiery glow of the oil lamp danced upon the bead’s glossy veneer like heat waves, revealing a shimmering luster––saffron droplets of molten rock. Most pleased, the man rested.

He was called to create a gemmed flower, a pendant in the shape of what he could best describe as an orange blossom. Five diamond petals set in gold, forming a corolla around a glowing orange pistil. Why must I toil––give up everything for this? Greece had emerged victorious from the Balkan Wars with her territory almost doubled but found herself in an unfavorable economic and international situation. Rumblings of a new war to the north were whispered amongst the townsfolk of Patras. Even if he could afford the gold and diamonds, how would he procure them?

His wife died long ago and their only child, a daughter, was married young and moved with her husband to America. It was not long after when his parents died and left him alone in the cottage on the hill. The only thing left of value from his family was his father’s fishing boat, gone, and his mother’s diamond brooch and earrings.

Southeast of Patras, beyond Corinth, and to the south of the Saronic Islands, stands Methana, a volcanic island last erupted 258 years before Christ walked the earth. The five diamonds from his mother’s brooch and earrings were mined from the mountain’s base and held an unrivaled clarity. Their sparkle hypnotized the eye.

The gold used to form his mother’s heirlooms came from northern Greece, unearthed from placer deposits in a Macedonian mine, it contained a shine so pure the gold appeared translucent in the sunlight. He melted the gold from his mother’s jewelry and re-formed it.

To complete the orange blossom pendant, the man chose one of the twelve, single-carat orange jewels he later found to be called citrine, and set it as the pistil in the middle of the five diamond petals. He covered his mouth, surely this creation did not come from my hands.

The fisherman took the remaining eleven, one-carat stones of citrine, formed them into the shape of the cross, and bound them in gold. He fashioned delicate rings and clasps, heating and bending fine gold wire around a steel punch to form the robust but bijou jewelry fittings. Finally, using the gold rings, he joined the pieces – one greater coral bead followed by ten lesser beads. He repeated this pattern five times and joined the two ends of the strand together, forming one large ring of beads. From the bottom of this coral ring, underneath one of the greater beads, he hung three lesser beads, the orange blossom pendant, and finally, the holy cross made of gold and citrine.

Despite his threadbare skin, worn by life on the sea, the man’s dark hair and the size of his nose and ears––not yet enlarged by old age––showed that he was only middle-aged. This time, without his mule and cart, he descended the stony trail into town. The salty breeze from the Gulf of Patras burned his eyes, so he turned away and faced south, Mount Panachaikon loomed in the distance. He walked to the Kato Poli, over the black volcanic cobblestones, past the Apollon Theatre, and through Georgiou I Square.

His soggy leather boots, soaked by the dew of the field, thumped heavily on the wooden planks as he walked along the docks of Ayios Nikolaos. In the distance, at the end of Trion Navarchon Street, the replica of the old Patras Lighthouse was hard to ignore. He shook his head at the symbol of Patras’s rich merchant shipping heritage, now lost. The temple of Saint Andreas is just ahead.

“I made it for my great-grandson,” the fisherman said in his native Greek tongue. “I was hoping to have it blessed.”

The priest nodded. In this holy place, the golden-orange stone of the holy cross seemed to glow. Its radiance ebbed and flowed like the flame of a lamp reflecting off the rolling sea in the darkness of the night. “Theotokos.” The priest’s gaze shifted from the holy cross to the orange blossom pendant. “She must intercede for the bearer.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The orange blossom. It represents her. How did you know to make it as such?” The priest motioned to touch the pendant but withdrew his hand. “The colors of the coral, the shapes they bear… the stones.”

Puddles formed around the man’s sopping boots. “The Lord told me to do it.” The priest prompted the man to step into the sanctuary of the ancient cathedral.

The glow of the dancing candles, their smoke, and the incense intermingled as they drifted to the heavens. Both men bowed in the direction of the tabernacle and sat in the front pew. “I did not hear a voice,” the man said, “but it came to me clearly. Like I was… reading a book. When you read a book, you don't hear a voice, but you still… hear.”

            The priest’s face brightened, “Sir, you are truly blessed to have had this encounter with our Lord. But I must say, you appear to be entirely too young to have a grandson, let alone a great-grandson.”

“He is not yet.”

“I'm sorry…”

“I was here with our Lord, in front of the most blessed sacrament, when He spoke to me. He told me to make it for my great-grandson… not yet born. The shape, the materials, even the colors… it is meant to protect him.”

The priest inhaled through his nose, and then out through pursed lips, “The Lord is kind and merciful. Let us proceed with the blessing.”