Possibly my own desire for a daughter had transferred itself into my dreams of Queen Thira, Goddess of the Marches, Supreme Ruler of Atlantis, and her beautiful red-haired child, Oia.
I drifted in the borderland of sleep, my thoughts leading me back in time to 1500 BC. The worry about Tommy must have carried over into my dream that night because, for the first time, I had a strong feeling of foreboding.
*
I, Queen Thira, stand alone on the palace terrace, moments before dawn. I pluck a sprig of night-scented jasmine and hold it to my nose, hoping its heady perfume will block the malevolence in the air from entering my mind. If only my anxiety would fade with the night. I touch the sacred necklace at my throat. A row of dragonflies that represent transition, prosperity and justice, and symbolise an understanding of the deepest meanings of life that they say are only realised at the moment of death.
‘Gaia, mother of all, help us in our hour of need,’ I whisper. ‘I am committed to keeping my people safe and I’ll do anything, give anything, to ensure that outcome.’
A sliver of dawn light cracks open a divide between the sea and sky as Helios, the Sun God, awakes. What catastrophe will this day bring? We have not experienced an earth tremor since the last moon-cycle, yet every day I fear another shake.
If the earthquakes continue, and the mountain awakes, my people will suffer a terrible end.
I cry over the water, ‘Poseidon, Great God of the Sea, leave us in peace!’
The sky pales from grey to pink. Droplets of night rain bead the silver-green olive leaves and purple iris with dawn’s jewellery. The earth is quenched after a hot, dusty season. Bamboo stands motionless in the groves. Feathery fronds that sparkle with dew top the sturdy canes like giant candles lit in homage to me, Supreme Ruler of this land.
Perhaps the earthquakes are over and the great mountain will sleep, will not kill every living soul, will not destroy Atlantis.
Poseidon answers my thoughts with a seismic boom that forces me to clasp my hands over my ears. The noise thunders from below the earth and roars across the land. Not a bird in the sky nor a dog barking. I spin around and stare at the distant mountain.
The world holds its breath. Then the earth shivers beneath my feet. Is this the beginning of the end? The ground shifts and shakes. Ripe dates rain down like bronze hail from tall Egyptian palms in the palace garden. Gold leaf and marble dust float on the air as cracks snap open in ornate columns around the terrace. A distant vineyard, lush with grapevines, slides down the hillside like dirt off a shovel. Clouds of earth billow in its wake, leaving a wide, clean scar of pale rock. I turn to the sea. A mountainous swell is heading for shore. Foam roars into the air before waves crash along the coastline in a thunderous round of applause.
I imagine Poseidon’s smile as he takes a bow in the fathoms. Everything shifts. The ground ripples and heaves. My heart bangs against my ribs and my heavily embroidered robe swirls around my body like flimsy gauze.
Atlantis undulates, lifting then lowering me as if it changed its mind. I fear the ground will rent apart and take me down to Hades’ domain. I see that very thing happen to a row of ancient olive trees. Sturdy limbs snap into splinters, leaves fly in the air, and the grove is swallowed whole as the earth’s crust rips open like a grinning, toothless mouth.
Suddenly, the earth stills. Bamboo stands motionless and the sea calms.
My beautiful daughter, Oia, comes running onto the terrace, her red hair flying behind her. The girl flings her arms around my waist.
‘My Queen!’
I hold her for a moment before she steps back and bows.
‘Forgive me, your highness, I was concerned.’
‘It’s over now, Oia.’ I stroke her silken locks, a constant reminder of her father’s unique red hair. ‘Go back to your chamber. It’s too early and you need your sleep, child.’ I watch her leave, then return to my own bed, close my eyes, and contemplate the day ahead.
*
The soft light of Santorini filtered through cracks in the shutters as dawn broke. I wandered outside, sat on the patio wall, and stared across the caldera. Perhaps because I was alone, with Tommy in hospital, I recalled every detail of my vivid dream and decided to write it down while it was fresh in my head. Queen Thira was a wonderful leader who always seemed to do the right thing. I drew comfort from that. If I modelled myself on this strong, wise woman, I too could surmount all problems.
CHAPTER 4
IRINI
Seat 11A, somewhere over Europe, present day.
I STARED OUT OF THE AEROPLANE WINDOW. White billowing clouds were rimmed with gold, reminding me of my cancelled wedding. My ring was back in the shop, and my wedding dress had pride of place on my Facebook fashion page: Rags to Riches – exclusive designs by Irini McGuire. That gorgeous gown was the most beautiful thing I had ever produced.
The slinky, Gatsby-influenced dress of heavy white lace over cross-cut silver satin could have come straight out of a silent movie. A scooped, off-the-shoulder neckline topped the body-hugging front, while a dangerously low-cut back flowed out into a long cathedral-train. As I walked, the dress flowed like liquid mercury. Conscious that the congregation would be looking at the back more than the front, I had fastened the gown with two hundred white pearls that ran from below my shoulder blades to the spill of the train’s hemline. I slid my thumb across my fingertips, remembering the blisters and the pain – and with the last few pearls, the blood that I feared would stain my fabulous frock. My wounds had healed, but would my heart? Soon, my wonderful wedding dress would be cherished by another, a bride-to-be with no notion of the blood, sweat and tears that had gone into its creation.
I had a massive price tag on the dress, mostly because I didn’t want to sell. An image of Miss Havisham came to mind. Me, an old woman draped in cobwebs, still in my wedding gown awaiting the man of my dreams.
Mam’s last words played on a loop in my mind. We had stood on my doorstep after a week of disgruntlement. Her suitcases were already in the airport cab. Divided by awkwardness, neither of us could find the right things to say.
She reached behind her neck and unclasped her little gold crucifix. ‘I’d like you to have this.’ She fastened it around my neck. ‘It’s not worth anything, only nine carat, but it’s my confirmation cross from Uncle Peter and Aunty Agnes, and I value it highly.’ She smiled sadly, then gave me a hug. I recalled the toilet soap scent of her skin, and how badly I didn’t want her to go.
‘I’m very proud of you, Irini.’ She placed her hand on my cheek for a second. ‘I’ve left that piece of pottery for your father to work on. I’m getting nowhere with the symbols and it’ll give him something to do. Make sure he doesn’t lose it, will you?’
I nodded. ‘I wish you could stay. There’re so many things I want to ask you, but we never seem able to talk. I’m sorry I’ve been . . . well, you know.’
‘It’s been a difficult week for us all. Let’s put it behind us and when I come back, we can start afresh.’
She was coming back? My heart lifted. We would have another chance to sort things out. I would be nicer. Before I could stop myself, I took her in my arms and squeezed hard.
‘I’m so glad you’re coming back. Honestly, I wanted it to work so badly. I’m truly sorry, Mam.’
She stepped out of my embrace, took me by the shoulders and sighed, the tomato soup we had for lunch still fresh on her breath. Her green eyes, sad for a moment, reflected my own heartbreak.
‘Nothing to be sorry about; it’s not your fault, Irini. I’m the one who should apologise, landing on you the way we did. I wish with all my heart things had been different, but I can’t help who I am. It’s impossible for me to fall into the devoted wife and parent role after all these years. There are reasons – things I have to put right – and I can’t explain them yet, but I will soon.’
She bit her lip, glanced at the sky, and I sensed she was calling on God for guidance. ‘I’d tell you, Irini, but part of me’s jus
t too ashamed. It’s like a penance. I’ll put these things right, once and for all, then I’ll explain everything. I know it’s hard, but I respect you and your father enough not to pretend.’ Shivering, she rubbed her arms, her slim figure stiff with tension. ‘It’s so cold here.’ She glanced at the sky again and turned her mouth down, yet I sensed her deep excitement at returning to Greece.
‘I do love you, Irini. You must always believe that because it’s the truth. I know I haven’t been much of a mother.’ She tilted her head to one side and placed her hand on my cheek again. ‘It’s as if I’ve no control over my destiny. I had to marry your father, I had to save his life, and I had to keep you safe, no matter what the cost.’
What was she saying? I found myself lost in the enormity of her words and before I could string a question together Mam shook her head and shrugged, appearing as perplexed as I felt. ‘I guess it’s God’s plan,’ she said. ‘Though I don’t understand where it’s leading. It’s out of my hands. No threats, or promises, or family ties can keep me away from Greece and the archaeology. It’s bigger than me, Irini, and the pull of it grows stronger each day. I simply have to return and sort things out.’ She looked over my shoulder and lowered her voice. ‘Anyway, Tommy will be happier with me out of the way. Poor man.’ She pushed my red hair away and kissed my cheeks. ‘I know you’ll take good care of your father. Thank you for that.’ Her face crumpled, and my heart ached as I realised she was fighting to keep her emotions in check. ‘Goodbye, darling,’ she managed to whisper.
She took one step back and looked at me, as if taking a mental photo. Shocked to see tears well in her eyes, I had a fierce urge to pull her back inside and lock the door. She seemed so lost and alone.
My mind was screaming: Stay! Stay and love me and I’ll be anything you want me to be!
We hugged stiffly, our guards up, bottling our emotions. I was reminded of a hug filled with passion and pain from long ago, my very first childhood memory. Mam had snatched me up and held me so tight it hurt. I cried and so did she, kissing my wet face and saying ‘sorry’ over and over. I can never quite recall what it was about.
After that last embrace on my Dublin doorstep, Bridget McGuire turned swiftly, got into the taxi and waved through the window. Tears spilled down her face, then she was gone from my life.
With that memory came the weirdest feeling that somehow, we both knew we might never meet again.
Let me be wrong!
Could I have said or done something to make her stay? To make her want me near her? To make her love me with the unconditional love of a mother? I wanted to fold my arms and stamp my foot with the shallow resentment of a spoiled child. It’s not fair! Yet I knew if I had found the power to keep her in Dublin, something inside Bridget McGuire would have died. I wouldn’t want that because, underneath my regret for all that had happened, I did love my mother very deeply.
*
I woke with a start. Why was this journey taking so long? A three-hour delay in Dublin and now we appeared to be making no progress. I had to get to my mother, and my constant recollections seemed to slow everything down. The cabin staff wheeled a trolley down the aisle. My chicken salad and a pudding of flaky pastry filled with nuts and honey was passed to me. Why didn’t the food smell of anything?
Although I tried to block thoughts of the past, while I ate I recalled Santorini. When I was fourteen, Uncle Quinlan had taken me to visit my parents. That dense cobalt sky, crystal turquoise water and the unbearably hot black-sand beaches. A town of sizzling colours and pristine white walls. Windmills with canvas sails reaching the ground, blue-domed churches, tiered bell towers resembling ornate wedding cakes and, above all, the warm sunlight on my bare shoulders.
That fortnight was a rare occasion, the four of us together. A real family. I wished so hard it could stay that way.
The scene returned with startling clarity. My parents’ compact, traditional house slotted into a jigsaw of similar buildings on the high cliff face. A cube of tangerine stucco with arched royal-blue shutters and door. A terracotta urn that overflowed with salmon geraniums on the patio. The terrace looked out over Santorini’s caldera, which was almost a complete circle. The inside of the island, a thirty-two-kilometre skirt of steep rock around flat water. From this high waistband, the land flounced down to the sea on the outer perimeter. Centred in the shimmering caldera, the black lava of Burnt Island stared unblinkingly at a sky the colour of glazed Greek pottery.
Only the largest cruise ships had an anchor chain long enough to secure them in the endless depths of the caldera. They appeared toy-like from my high viewpoint. The vessels glided into the circle of calm sea and then the shuttle boats ferried two thousand guests to the quaint fishing port. From my parents’ patio, I had watched donkeys plod wearily under the weight of camera-waving passengers, ascending the three-hundred-metre cliff. Then they trotted back down for another fare.
Many tourists were lifted by cable cars, while a surprising number of brave souls decided to walk, bare shoulders burning before they reached the top. The trek up six hundred steps led them to the postcard-picturesque town of Fira, teetering on the edge of the caldera. From a distance, the closely knitted buildings resembled a white towel carelessly flung over a rich-brown balcony rail.
I recalled sitting on my parents’ patio, talking to Quinlan while my mother and father were at work.
‘You’re telling me we’re actually on the rim of a volcano, Uncle Quinlan?’
‘Absolutely. Look around – all you see is an enormous mountain peak that once stood in the centre of a huge and wealthy island.’ His eyes twinkled in his pale, effeminate face, and his bow tie twitched as he talked. ‘This volcano was easily the largest eruption ever known. Several historians say that before it exploded, this very island was at the centre of Atlantis.’
‘Atlantis? Wow! Is that why Mammy and Daddy are so obsessed with the place?’
He nodded, a tendril of sandy hair falling over his forehead. ‘It is indeed, Irini. They’re looking for clues to prove that very thing.’ He raked back a wayward curl and flashed a wide smile, eager to offer snippets of information that thrilled, making me want to know more.
Far below the plane, the sea appeared crumpled and silver in the light of a full moon. I had to face it, I would not get to Santorini and my mother’s bedside as planned. The connecting flight had long gone. The captain apologised again for the delay at Dublin. He reminded us of the local time: 11 p.m.
I wanted to knock on the cockpit door and complain. My mother was dying, my journey urgent, yet time stood still.
We descended into Heraklion airport on the island of Crete. What if Mam died before I got to Santorini? In the whole scheme of things, it made no difference when that moment came. Yet it mattered to me, and I knew it would matter to my Dad too. I had to be there.
Wait for me, Mam! Allow me to hold your hand once more.
I recalled that flight to Santorini with Uncle Quinlan, excited to re-visit my birthplace and my parents. This time I was alone and tense. Once again, I searched my memory for clues as to why I received that crushing hug from my mother so long ago, and why she packed me off to Dublin. Could the two incidents be connected?
The cabin lights dimmed and the crew strapped themselves in. Thank God we were landing! I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing. When I looked out again, the sea was so close I could see every wave. The water drew me, while at the same time repulsing me. I imagined crashing into it. Palpitations hammered at my ribs. I glanced around the cabin and wondered how you got out of a plane under water, wishing I had paid more attention to the emergency drill. At the last moment, runway lights fled past the window and a clunk, bump, screech, and roar told me we were safe on the ground. I unclenched my fists.
Passengers traipsed through passport control. Like a sheep, I followed. My head woolly, and my body light, as if my feet were not quite on the ground. Eventually, I stood by the luggage carousel in my red cotton jersey dress that had
been so simple to make. A tube of calf-length fabric that clung to my body and moved with me. I fancied the rolled boat-neck and long, hugging sleeves looked sophisticated, yet the dress was also quite comfy for travelling.
The airport could have been anywhere in the world. It smelled of bleach and coffee, and noises echoed. I found the scrap of paper with the hospital’s number, called them, and explained about the flight. I would be there tomorrow, and how was my mother? No change. Such was my relief, I felt my body relax and realised how tense I’d been. My eyes were hot with held-back tears. I closed them for a moment and pinched my nose, but when I looked up, Dad’s old suitcase had passed out of reach.
‘My bag, the brown one!’
‘I’ve got it,’ a manly voice called from crowd ahead.
I rounded the jostling passengers and found a tall, slim, bearded man wearing well-worn clothes that gave him a comfortable look. He had my bag. I didn’t know why my heart started racing, perhaps subconsciously, I thought he was going to steal it.
‘Thanks. I thought I’d lost it for a moment. Half asleep.’ I stiffened my jaw to stifle a yawn.
His eyebrows bunched and his smile, which was slightly mocking, transformed his face into a thing of beauty. ‘It would come around again . . . It’s your first flight?’
‘More or less.’ Our eyes met and, bang, my heartrate went into overdrive again.
He laughed. ‘Wait, here’s mine.’ He hefted a bulging rucksack onto his trolley and threw me another grin. ‘Just one case?’ His accent was heavy and rounded, as if he had chocolate in his mouth. I guessed he was Greek.
‘Yes, thanks. You were wonderful, being so quick and all.’
Secrets of Santorini Page 4