To Heal a Heart

by Anthea Lawson

  “My boat. Oh, my little boat.” Manolis circled it, shaking his head, then looked to the choppy surface of the sea. “We do not have long, iatros.”

  “Turn the boat on its side. I don’t suppose you have a hammer and nails?”

  “No. Fishing line, some hooks. That is all.”

  “We can pound the boards back in, but…” Alex glanced about the shore, then back to the ruined canvas. “Give me the sails.”

  Manolis handed him the tattered bundle of canvas. “What is your plan?”

  “A sling, a tourniquet. I’m going to doctor your boat. We’ll winch the cloth tight to keep the boards together.”

  Caroline watched, lower lip caught between her teeth. The rising breeze gusted strands of her hair across her face. “Manolis, give me the fishing line and hooks. Alex, save me some of the sail if you can.”

  At least he had a pocketknife. He spread the sail out and half cut, half ripped several long strips of the tough canvas. The rest of the mutilated sail went to Caroline. Together, he and Manolis wrapped the canvas tightly around the keel, binding the boards into place.

  “It won’t hold long,” Alex said. “I hope you have a bailer or two onboard.”

  “Of course,” Manolis said. “This boat was built by my grandfather.”

  A sudden gust kicked up the sand. Squinting, Alex turned to where the women were bent over the remains of the sail. “We have to go.”

  Caroline drew her fishhook through the canvas and tied a final knot. Her fingers were pricked, a drop of blood staining the canvas as he watched. “Here.” She and Pen held up the partial sail, the worst rents sewn hastily closed with fishing line.

  “Good work. We’ll have the wind at our backs. Now, into the boat,” Alex said.

  The women hurried to take their places. Manolis ran up the ragged scrap of sail as Alex pushed the boat into the waves. The repair seemed to be holding—but once beyond the shelter of the islet, the waves grew rough. The bottom of the skiff was soon covered in water.

  Alex bent hard over the oars. Fear lent him extra strength. Not fear for himself, but for the women. Pen. Caroline. He dared not lift his head to look at her, only rowed with all his might, lending his strength to the wind in the makeshift sail. They were making progress, but too slowly. The bend and slosh as the women bailed, the rising waves that tipped water over the side—it was a desperate race.

  Could they make it to shore before the boat capsized? The salvaged sail belled wide, the edge of the storm driving them hard before it.

  There was no hope of rescue—none of the villagers would venture out into the teeth of the souroko. He shot a quick glance at the shore ahead. They might be able to swim for it, though the bay was whipped into a furious froth. He did not like their chances if it came to the boat sinking. If they could only reach the calmer waters ahead. His heart sent his blood pounding in his ears, his hands raw against the oars.

  The wind carried a sting now, the first granules of dust overtaking them. Dust from the African desert—carried hundreds of miles by the rough hand of the souroko to scour whatever it could find.

  “Bail!” Manolis cried.

  Everything about them was in motion: the air, the waves, the oars trying to find purchase against the heavy sea, the sail straining, the water taking flight as spray the instant it was tossed from the bailers. Alex’s breath rasped in his throat as the world narrowed.

  Pull. Breathe, through air thick with dust. The women were both coughing, with their sleeves held over their mouths as they frantically threw water overboard. It made no difference. The boat wallowed low in the water, hungry waves now sloshing over the sides. Even the sail could not pull them forward against the growing weight of the sea.

  Though he knew it was hopeless, he kept rowing. Every foot they gained now would be one less length to swim.

  “Take off your shoes!” he shouted to the women. Caroline glanced up and he lifted his foot. “Your shoes!”

  She nodded and, still bailing with one hand, bent to the laces of her boots. The heavy skirts would be a serious problem, hampering the women once they were forced into the water. But by God he would see them to shore. The alternative was unthinkable. He exchanged a glance with Manolis as another wave spilled over the side.

  Voices calling, thin and reedy as the cry of gulls. Alex looked up, blinked in disbelief.

  A scattering of boats on the water ahead, and behind them, the shore. He could not believe it. The villagers were coming, despite the risk.

  Old Georgios was in the forefront, his son at his side. “A rope!” the lad called, flinging the end straight for them.

  Manolis caught it, quickly making it fast to the painter ring, and soon the sinking skiff was in the heart of the flotilla. Safety, just ahead, and willing hands to help them out of the sea the instant the boat surrendered. Alex’s heart lifted.

  Caroline was still bailing valiantly, a fierce look on her face, but Pen seemed spent. The girl was clutching the side of the boat, white knuckled, her face tight with fear and exhaustion.

  “Almost there,” he called. The words whipped away in the wind. Almost there.

  And suddenly, they were there, the damaged boat scraping bottom at the very moment of its sinking. Alex could barely unclench his hands from the oars. Salt stung his raw palms, but they had made it to shore.

  Thank God for the villagers.

  The wind howled around them now, whirling the beach into a gritty plume. Alex caught Pen by the waist and lifted her out, into the waiting hands of Old Georgios. Caroline stood and Alex took her arm, then the two of them clambered over the side straight into the water. It made no difference—they were wet through.

  Around them the fishermen quickly pulled their boats to shore and made them fast. Even the wreck of Manolis’s skiff was salvaged from the waves.

  “The taverna,” Alex called. They needed a fire, shelter. Pen was shaking and Caroline’s face was tense as they stumbled up the main street.

  The taverna door shut behind them, the shock of being out of the wind making Alex’s ears ring. Then hearing returned, the babble of conversation, the commiserations over Manolis’s boat.

  “But what happened?” Young Georgios asked. “Why was your sail torn and your boat wrapped up?”

  Manolis began explaining as Alex stepped up to the rough bar. “Ouzo. For everyone.” He took the first two tumblers, pressed one into Pen’s hands and the other into Caroline’s. “Drink.”

  Caroline took a sip, then gamely drained the glass, coughing as she handed it back. Her hair was a wild tangle, her fingers cold from the sea. He took the tumbler from her, then sheltered her hands between his own, willing his warmth into her.

  “I didn’t think….” she began, then glanced at Pen. He knew what she had been about to say; he had not been sure himself they would survive that journey. She gave the girl a strained smile. “Drink it, love. It will stop your shivering.”

  Pen nodded mutely and took a small swallow, then another. He was glad to see some color seep back into her face.

  Reluctantly, he released Caroline’s hands and turned to the men. “Simms, the fisherman. Did anyone see him?”

  “He did not come back in.” Old Georgios quaffed his drink. “And now it is too late.”

  “Gone,” one of the men said. “He took his things away in the boat. His rooms are empty.”

  Old Georgios nodded. “Gone for good if he stays out on the sea. We will look for wreckage on the coast after the wind dies.”

  “And send word to the authorities in Agia Galini,” Alex said. “I don’t want him leaving the island. But for now there’s nothing we can do.”

  “Nothing,” Caroline said, “except be grateful we are alive and on dry land.”

  “The Nereid,” Manolis said. “It was our offering on the island that brought us home safe.”

  Pen looked up, some animation returned to her expression. “But what about the wind? It started rising soon after we finished.”

 
“Hmm.” Manolis creased his brow. “I do not think she likes English songs. Only Greek. Next time I will sing the songs myself.”

  “And I will stay at home,” the girl said. She made a face. “I have heard your singing.”

  The laughter that followed warmed them, despite the angry wind circling outside.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The souroko had blown out the day before and temperate spring was restored to the village. Caroline leaned on the balcony railing and tried not to let England wedge its way into her thoughts. Departure was just days away. She and Pen had tickets on the steamship to Malta, and the girl, in her excitement, had already started packing. Soon enough Caroline would be home, but she wanted to taste every last drop of her time on Crete. Strange how it had become so sweet when at first she had wanted nothing more than to leave the island. Yet even then there had been something indefinable that had drawn her to Alex.

  Alex.

  Her heart curled around his name. Even now she was watching for him to ride down out of the hills. Today would be their last adventure. Although, to be fair, the last outing had been adventure enough.

  But she could not turn down an excursion to the Cave of Zeus, the one place she had wanted to see. This was her last chance—and another day to share with Alex, before the inevitable parting.

  She had hoped he would offer to come with them, back to London. Surely his exile must have an end. Yet every time she mentioned England he stiffened, and if she pressed, the haunted look would return to his eyes. She had learned not to speak of it, tried to bury the hope that he would pack his bags, give up his cottage, and come with her back to London.

  Whatever lay between the two of them, she could not name it. Only that it was new, and fleeting, and glorious in its brief burning.

  And afterward?

  The world would be flavored with ashes—but she could not stay. Alex had made her no promises, and what did this quiet village in Crete offer her? A life as a restless foreigner? She thought of the children at the school in London. She knew many of them by name. They needed her. Crete would be a life wasted when she could be helping others.

  She shook her head. There was today, tomorrow, the last handfuls of her time here, and she would not taint those days by thinking on what might have been. On what was impossible.

  There he was.

  She leaned forward and could not help the easing of her heart, the smile that opened like a flower inside her as she watched him ride down the track, sitting easily on his chestnut horse.

  “Mr. Trentham is coming,” she called behind her, to where Pen was packing away the contents of the desk. Still, she lingered on the balcony. This would be the last time she would see him riding into the village, the last time she would feel that curious rush of nerves and joy at the sight of him coming ever closer.

  “Good,” Pen said. “Let’s get ready to meet him.” After a long moment she added, “Are you coming in, Caro?”

  “Yes.” Caroline watched Alex a heartbeat longer and then, trailing her fingers along the railing, went to join Pen inside.

  Her room. Her cell, her haven. She would miss it, she realized with a sudden pang. The bed with its bright blankets, the soft wool rug that greeted her feet each day, the windows open wide to the blue Mediterranean morning.

  Her companion turned from the wardrobe. “Pelisse. Bonnet. Do you need anything more?”

  “You seem eager to be off.” Caroline fastened the bonnet beneath her chin. What a pleasure that was, to be able to dress herself. How quickly one took such things for granted.

  “Two days of being shut up inside, listening to the wind blow and the landlady bicker with her husband—aren’t you eager, too?” Pen swept up her own bonnet and hurried to the door.

  “When you put it that way…”

  They stepped out of the villa to find Alex in conversation with two young fishermen, each leading a pair of horses. He glanced up to greet the ladies, and it seemed to Caroline that the expression in his eyes deepened when he looked at her, though his face remained somber.

  “I have news from Agia Galini. An Englishman matching Simms’s description hired a trawler to take him to Italy. We have sent word to the authorities there.”

  Caroline was glad to hear that the sportsman was off the island—and even gladder that Alex would not be going after the man. The danger had gone.

  “Good riddance,” Pen said, swinging up on her horse and glancing at the others. “I see Caro gets a real mount today.”

  “It’s a long ride. Agalma would not be up to it. Niko and Young Georgios are coming, too.” He nodded to where the two men waited, now mounted on their sturdy horses. The shorter of the two men gave an enthusiastic wave.

  “Young Georgios?” Pen groaned. “The most attentive young man on the coast. Once he even offered me his best fish.”

  The corner of Alex’s mouth twitched up. “None of the older men could be enticed from their work today. There is too much to repair after the wind’s damage. These two see it as an adventure—and a chance to avoid the extra labor.”

  The girl sighed but lifted her hand in reply to the young man’s salute. “There. Greetings completed. Now can we go? Caro, I expect you to ride beside me and keep Young Georgios at bay.”

  Despite Pen’s predictions, it seemed the young man was content to make eyes at her from afar. As they rode out of the village, Alex bent his head in conversation with the two young men. They nodded, and then the escort split, Niko riding ahead while Young Georgios took the rear, throwing Pen a lovelorn glance as he passed.

  She smothered her giggles. “Really, I know it’s not funny, but I can’t help it.”

  “Smitten swains—yes, what can one do?” Caroline smiled, letting Pen draw her into conversation about London. It was impossible to withstand the girl’s enthusiasm, despite her own resolve not to think of England.

  The sun was well into the sky by the time Alex called a halt. The rough path had taken them from the Mediterranean up through folded hills and at last onto a windy plateau presided over by a mountain dusted with white. As they rode closer it began to loom over them. They passed into the shadow of the mountain and Caroline felt anticipation prick her skin.

  Alex glanced at her. “The Cave of Zeus is just ahead.”

  “Yes,” Pen said, her voice hushed, “we’re approaching the birthplace of gods. Perhaps we’ll hear their voices speaking to us from ages past.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it.” Caroline drew in a deep breath. “It’s so quiet here—as though our human lives make very little difference.”

  Another few minutes of riding brought them to a rough cliff face where a huge cleft in the base beckoned, full of shadows and mystery.

  “Here we are.” Pen slid off her mount and handed the reins to the ever-attentive Young Georgios. “Oh, hurry and come see.”

  “We have all afternoon to explore,” Alex said, a smile in his voice. “Care to dismount, Miss Huntington?”

  Caroline blinked at him, abruptly aware she had been sitting her horse and staring, transfixed, at the cavern mouth.

  “Yes, of course.” She took his offered hand and let him catch her as she slid off the horse. A fleeting sense of rightness as he steadied her. She tried not to lean into his warmth, his solidity.

  He stepped back but kept her hand in his. “The going’s rough. Shall we catch up to Pen?”

  She nodded and they ventured forward. Loose stones shifted under their feet and cool air brushed her cheek, the shadowy exhalation of the cave. The arch of the entrance rose above them until they could peer into the dimness of a huge cavern disappearing into the depths of shadow. The silvery walls shone faintly where moisture trickled, and farther back, just where the light faded, there seemed to be fantastical rock shapes, formed in natural homage to the place a young god was reared.

  Alex’s hand was warm in hers. “The floor of the main cavern is level, once we get down.” He turned and beckoned to one of the lads. “Bring the lanterns. A
nd Pen, wait for Nikos before you go any farther. No exploring on your own.”

  The girl raised her brows. “What about Young Georgios?”

  “He’s staying with the horses—and preparing our lunch.” Alex accepted one of the lanterns, the warm glow making the cave’s interior seem even darker, and they began the descent.

  It was a scramble down into another world. The light began to close away from them, like a door swinging shut on an empty room. At the bottom Caroline turned to see Pen and Nikos silhouetted at the entrance, the sky a fierce blue behind them. For a moment she could not quite believe she was here, in the Cave of Zeus. She let go of Alex’s hand and took a few careful steps deeper in. Darkness pushed back against the daylight, the shadows nearly tangible, thicker than the questing light.

  “It’s amazing,” she said, voice hushed. “So vast.”

  It was impossible not to feel as though they were in a great cathedral. In place of votive figures of saints were rock formations, sinuously formed of water and time. The filtered light falling from above did not pass through bits of colored glass, but still there was something holy about it, a sense of quiet presence rooted deep in the earth.

  As they stood there, it was easy to imagine countless ages of worship—the uncomfortable powers of nature wrapped in the myths of generations. Here the untamed god Zeus had sprung up, in story if not in fact. Caroline shivered and stepped closer to Alex.

  Pen’s voice echoed eerily as the girl clambered down. Her words were hushed as she spoke to her escort, the syllables stretched and unintelligible.

  “Oh!” Caroline started as a rush of wings eddied overhead, the sound amplified into a flurry of feathered beating.

  “Wild pigeons,” Alex said, “frightened from their nests. But come, the inner sanctum is a little farther.”

  The lamp thrust handfuls of light into the darkness as they went, illuminating scattered dark hollows along the walls of the gallery they now traversed.

  “Are there more caves opening from this larger chamber?” Caroline kept her voice low, as one would in a church.