In the shadow of Saint Sigfrid “Lord, forgive sins of seeing.” In the shadow of Saint Sigfrid Thanos Kal amida s Thanos Kalamidas An Ovi eBooks Publication 2024 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book In the shadow of Saint Sigfrid in the shadow of Saint Sigfrid Thanos Kalamidas Thanos Kalamidas All the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. An Ovi eBooks Publication 2024 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C In the shadow of Saint Sigfrid A lice Margareta Lundgren lay in her bed, the thin sheets cool against her fevered skin. The young priest’s touch on her eyelids felt distant, muffled by the cotton wool of approaching oblivion. her breaths came in shallow gasps, each one a battle against the encroaching darkness. her frail body, etched with the lines of a life etched in struggle, felt as though it were made of brittle twigs, barely clinging to existence. as the young priest whispered, “Lord, forgive sins of seeing,” memories began to flood her mind, bring- ing her back to a time when life was different. she saw arvid, her older brother, a hulking silhouette against the golden light of the setting sun that spilled onto the family patio. a heavy beer mug perpetually clung to his hand, its condensation staining his cal- Thanos Kalamidas loused fingers. a cigarette, perpetually smouldering, dangled from his lips, casting wisps of acrid smoke that stung her young eyes. arvid was a man consumed by bitterness, his an- ger a roiling storm that seemed forever on the verge of unleashing its fury. his words, like shards of glass, cut deep, leaving wounds that never fully healed. The target of his rage was often frida, his wife, a woman as delicate as a porcelain doll. fear, a constant com- panion, haunted her eyes. alice could still picture her peering from behind the worn lace curtains, her gaze a silent plea for respite, a desperate attempt to ensure her husband’s beer glass remained perpetually full, a misguided attempt to appease the tempest within him. frida, a canvas marred by bruises – both the visible testament to arvid’s cruelty and the invisible scars etched upon her soul – was a tragic figure in the Lundgren family portrait. In stark contrast to arvid’s imposing presence was Gunnar, alice’s younger brother. he was her partner- in-crime, a co-conspirator in their childish rebellion against the stifling atmosphere that permeated their home. together, they were laughter personified, their joy a beacon in the otherwise bleak landscape of their childhood. They found amusement in sto- In the shadow of Saint Sigfrid len moments – chasing butterflies in the meadows that bordered their village, weaving elaborate stories under the watchful gaze of the ancient oak tree that stood sentinel in their backyard, or simply giggling uncontrollably at their own silly jokes. Their playful antics often drew their mother’s exasperated scold- ing: “show some respect, the two of you! You behave like infants!” But Gunnar, with his trademark imp- ish grin, would always have a witty retort ready, “But Mama, we are infants! almost toddlers, even!” alice, never one to miss a beat, would chime in, “or brats!” Their playful banter was a shield against the weight of their father’s stern demeanour and the suffocating lack of warmth that permeated their childhood. Matteo Lundgren, their father, was a man carved from granite – stoic, hardworking, and a firm be- liever in discipline. affection was a rare commodity in his world, words of encouragement even scarcer. sundays were marked by a solemn procession to the austere church building, a place of hushed reverence and rigid rituals. Yet, within the hallowed confines of the churchyard, alice found an unexpected source of solace in father Lucas, the kindly priest with twin- kling eyes and a gentle smile. Unlike her parents, who disapproved of their boisterous nature, father Lucas found their laughter music to his ears. “when Thanos Kalamidas you two laugh, I hear the melody of angels,” he would proclaim, his words a balm to their young hearts, a fleeting moment of warmth in their otherwise emo- tionally frigid existence. another constant companion in their childhood was stig, Gunnar’s inseparable friend. stig was a quiet shadow that followed them around, his small frame seeming to shrink further into the background when surrounded by others. he was a stark contrast to the boisterous Lundgren siblings – a silent observer to their whirlwind of laughter and mischief. stig’s home life, shrouded in a veil of secrecy, was a stark contrast to the Lundgren household, even with its own share of hardships. It was a world of violence and neglect, a place where love was a foreign concept and fear a constant companion. despite her reservations about stig’s background, alice’s mother, a woman with a heart as wide as the sky, always ensured he was fed whenever he was around. “If you don’t have food on the table, there is no life,” she’d declare with unwavering conviction. for her, the dinner table wasn’t just a place where meals were consumed; it was a sacred space for re- solving conflicts, planning for the future, and forging the unbreakable bonds of family. It was the only place In the shadow of Saint Sigfrid where Matteo would speak, offering pronouncements and pronouncements on the way things ought to be. and for her, it was the essence of family life, a bea- con of unity amidst the shadows that threatened to consume them all. stig an outsider, was brought into this fold out of a sense of Christian duty. he joined them for sunday meals, witnessing a semblance of the family life he lacked at home. Thanos Kalamidas 02. alice’s memories of arvid were a tangled tapes- try woven with threads of fear, anger, and a deep, sorrowful pity. he had once been a beacon of pride for their small town, a local hero striding across the football field. a golden boy with a future as bright as the championship trophy everyone expected him to bring home. But fate, a cruel and capricious jest- er, had intervened. a devastating injury during his senior year had shattered not just his knee, but his entire world. The bitterness from that loss, a festering wound that refused to heal, had curdled into a toxic cocktail of self-pity and rage. frida, arvid’s wife, bore the brunt of his shattered dreams. alice vividly recalled a night etched into her memory with the sharp precision of a shard of glass. a night when frida had stumbled into her room, tears carving glistening tracks through the dust on her cheeks. her voice, a mere tremor in the stillness of the night, whispered, “I don’t know what to do an- ymore, alice. he wasn’t always like this.” In the shadow of Saint Sigfrid alice had gathered frida into a comforting embrace that night, the weight of her sister-in-law’s despair a heavy stone in her own chest. frida had married ar- vid when he was still bathed in the golden light of his potential, a charming young man overflowing with promise. The relentless march of time, however, had transformed him into a stranger, a man consumed by the shadows that danced at the edges of his mind. The family, a unit struggling to maintain a sem- blance of normalcy, pretended not to see the bruises that blossomed on frida’s skin like unwelcome flow- ers, or the splintered remains of furniture, casualties of arvid’s rage. Theirs was a life shrouded in a suffo- cating silence, a heavy cloak that stifled their laugh- ter and forced them to walk on eggshells. Gunnar, in stark contrast to the oppressive gloom that had settled over alice’s life, was a sunbeam that pierced through the darkness. Theirs was a bond forged in shared laughter and whispered secrets, an unbreakable tether that defied the storms raging around them. They revelled in the simple pleasures, transforming mundane chores into grand adven- tures. alice’s mind drifted back to the lazy summer af- ternoons spent in the sprawling embrace of their Thanos Kalamidas orchard, a cathedral of verdant green leaves and branches heavy with the promise of juicy apples. Their laughter, a symphony of pure joy, echoed through the trees, a melody that stood in stark con- trast to the sombre symphony that played out within the confines of their home. “Remember that time we nearly got caught red-handed by father?” Gunnar’s voice, laced with a hint of mischief, would often serve as the opening line of their shared reminiscences. a mischievous glint would light up his eyes as he continued, “he was livid! But we were too quick for him!” Those moments of unbridled joy were their sanctu- ary, a temporary escape from the harsh realities that gnawed at the edges of their existence. Their mother, though a woman with a firm hand, couldn’t help but melt under the warmth of Gunnar’s infectious play- fulness. she would shake her head in mock exaspera- tion, a faint smile betraying the fondness she held for her son’s antics. “You two are going to be the death of me,” she would murmur, her voice laced with a hint of amusement. But their father, remained unmoved. he viewed Gunnar’s playful spirit as a weakness, a character flaw that needed to be stamped out. his pronounce- In the shadow of Saint Sigfrid ments were delivered in a voice as cold and hard as the winter wind, pronouncements that invariably be- gan with, “Life is hard, boy. You need to toughen up.” Gunnar would nod dutifully, but the moment their father’s back was turned, he would contort his face into a comical expression, eliciting a stifled giggle from alice. It was a silent rebellion, a small act of de- fiance against the rigid expectations that threatened to suffocate their spirits. Theirs was a childhood teetering between the suf- focating darkness and the vibrant sunlit moments they carved out for themselves. It was a tapestry wo- ven with threads of fear, love, sorrow, and the un- wavering hope that bloomed in the shared laughter between alice and Gunnar. Thanos Kalamidas 03. and then it was father Lucas, a real source of com- fort for alice and Gunnar. Unlike the stern priests who presided over their church services, father Lu- cas had a warmth about him that was rare. he would often find alice and Gunnar hiding in the church- yard after mass, sharing stories and laughter. “father, do angels really laugh?” alice had asked him once, her eyes wide with curiosity. “of course they do, alice,” he had replied, his eyes twinkling. “They laugh every time you and Gunnar do. It’s a sound that reaches the heavens.” “do they have favourite jokes?” Gunnar chimed in, grinning. father Lucas chuckled, “oh, I bet they do. angels must have the best jokes. Probably the ones that make you laugh the hardest.” In the shadow of Saint Sigfrid alice and Gunnar giggled, feeling a sense of ease they rarely experienced at home. father Lucas’s kindness extended beyond just words. he would often sneak them sweets and small trinkets, things that brought a sparkle to their eyes. he was the only adult who seemed to understand that children need- ed more than discipline and hard work. They needed love and laughter. one sunday, after mass, father Lucas found them again in their usual spot under the old oak tree. “I have something for you two,” he said, producing a small, intricately carved wooden box from his robe. “It’s a music box. I thought you might like it.” alice opened it carefully, her eyes lighting up as a sweet, delicate melody filled the air. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, mesmerized. “Thank you, father,” Gunnar added, his face break- ing into a broad smile. “we don’t have anything like this at home.” father Lucas sat down with them, his expression soft. “You both deserve to have beautiful things. and remember, whenever you hear this music, think of the angels laughing with you.” Thanos Kalamidas They spent the next hour talking and laughing, father Lucas sharing stories of his own childhood, making them laugh with tales of his mischievous ad- ventures. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “when I was your age, I got into all sorts of trouble. once, I accidentally let a flock of chickens loose into our village church. My father was furious, but my mother just laughed and said it was divine comedy.” alice and Gunnar laughed so hard they nearly cried. “I wish our father would laugh like that,” alice said quietly, a hint of sadness in her voice. father Lucas’s face grew serious. “Your father loves you in his own way, even if it’s hard to see sometimes. But always remember, it’s okay to laugh and find joy. It’s what makes life beautiful.” he was the opposite of their father, a man who could laugh and smile, say good words and even en- courage their passions. Coming from a house like the one alice and Gunnar had come from, with all the rules and their father’s strict behaviour, father Lucas was like an oasis for the two youngsters. one afternoon, as they sat in the shade of the oak In the shadow of Saint Sigfrid tree, Gunnar asked, “father Lucas, do you think our father will ever understand us like you do?” father Lucas looked at him thoughtfully. “I believe people can change, Gunnar. sometimes, it just takes time and a little bit of faith. Your father may come to understand you better someday. Until then, you have each other, and you have friends like me.” alice nodded, feeling a surge of hope. “we’ll keep believing, father.” “That’s the spirit,” father Lucas said with a smile. “and remember, no matter what, you both have a light inside you that no one can dim. Let it shine, al- ways.” as the sun began to set, casting a warm golden glow over the churchyard, father Lucas stood up and ruffled their hair. “now, off you go. and if you ever need anything, you know where to find me.” Thanos Kalamidas 04. stig was a constant presence in alice and Gunnar’s lives, yet he was always in the background, almost invisible. his home life was a stark contrast to the Lundgrens’. while Matteo was stern, stig’s father was violent and unpredictable. The bruises on stig’s arms and the hollow look in his eyes spoke volumes, though he never uttered a word about his suffering. alice’s mother, took it upon herself to ensure stig had at least one proper meal each day. “no child should go hungry,” she would say, her voice firm with conviction. “we can’t turn a blind eye, no mat- ter what.” she often prepared extra portions of food, knowing that stig would appear at their doorstep around dinnertime. one evening, as stig quietly slipped into his usual chair at the dinner table, Ingrid served a hearty stew. “eat up, stig. You need to keep your strength up,” she said, placing a generous portion in front of him. In the shadow of Saint Sigfrid “Thank you, Mrs. Lundgren,” stig mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re welcome, dear. how was school today?” she asked, attempting to draw him into conversation. stig shrugged, avoiding eye contact. “It was okay.” Gunnar, sensing the tension, decided to lighten the mood. “hey, stig, guess what happened in gym class today?” he said, his eyes sparkling with mischief. stig looked up, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. “what?” “I tried to do a backflip off the high bar and ended up landing flat on my face,” Gunnar announced with exaggerated drama, his hands flailing as he reenacted the scene. alice couldn’t help but giggle. “You should’ve seen him, stig. he looked like a pancake!” for the first time that evening, a small smile tugged at the corners of stig’s mouth. “did it hurt?” he asked, a spark of interest in his voice. “only my pride,” Gunnar replied with a grin. “But it was worth it to see Coach Peterson’s face. he looked like he swallowed a lemon.” Thanos Kalamidas everyone laughed, the warmth of the moment spreading through the room. even stig seemed to relax, his shoulders losing some of their perpetual tension. after dinner, as the children helped clear the table, Ingrid pulled alice aside. “I worry about stig,” she whispered, glancing over at the boy who was now laughing softly at one of Gunnar’s jokes. “his father... I fear for his safety.” alice nodded, her expression serious. “I know, Mama. But what can we do?” Ingrid sighed, her face lined with concern. “we do what we can. we feed him, we give him a safe place to be, and we let him know he’s not alone.” That night, after stig had left, Gunnar sat with his parents in the living room. “why doesn’t stig just tell someone about his dad?” he asked, his voice a mix of confusion and frustration. “why does he keep it a secret?” Matteo, who had been quietly listening, spoke up. “It’s not that simple, son. fear can be a powerful thing. stig might be scared of what his father will do if he finds out he’s told someone. or he might think no one will believe him.”