Secrets of Santorini

by Patricia Wilson

  I am trembling, hardly able to stand as I consider his words. ‘So soon? Is there no escape?’

  ‘The River Festival will bring Oia more happiness than she has ever experienced. She will carry that elation to her watery grave, in peace, without grief or agony. We know too well, only the Gods of Olympus have an ageless and deathless existence. Take solace that Oia shall never experience the discomfort of old age. Your daughter is bound to walk the Elysian Fields, admired as the young and beautiful princess that she is, for eternity. Her children will be princes and princesses, blessed by Zeus and fathered by Poseidon.’

  *

  I woke, trembling. Just a dream, yet now I was terrified of the next one. Even to dream such a thing was too horrible to contemplate. What was in my subconscious to make me imagine this obscene thing? Bad enough to be given a leaflet on cot deaths at the clinic, without having the remnants of my nightmare lurking in the back of my mind. This was not how I imagined pregnancy to be.

  The headaches and nightmares marred my happiness. The ferocity of the migraines increased to the extent that I had to curl up in a dark corner, holding my head and whimpering until they faded. Then the nightmares continued to take over from the strange and wonderful fantasy of Atlantis.

  Before this change in events, I had welcomed the dreams. Since the days of Uncle Peter’s bedtime stories, I embraced the drift into this strange era in antiquity, where my knowledge and imagination mingled and ran wild. Now I dreaded going to sleep. Even in my waking hours, I could close my eyes and turn my head, and scenes of Atlantis loomed behind me, vivid and terrifying.

  Each night, before sleep, I found myself torn between going back into antiquity and trying to change the end of the dream, or taking myself away from the distressing episode altogether. I longed for the ordinary, jumbled, inexplicable meanderings that most people had, but there was no escape. Dragged by the ear through the rooms of life until I found myself in the body of Queen Thira, Goddess of the Marches. I stood there, regal and omnipotent in my colourful silks, hiding my dread of the future.

  My punishment was written. For my theft of the dragonfly necklace, my little girl must die by my own hand.

  I fought this awful idea with all my mental strength, yet below the solid and sensible floor of my mind wriggled a slow and carnivorous worm that whispered: Get it over with, pay the debt, and then you can move on.

  CHAPTER 14

  IRINI

  Crete, present day.

  THE DOCTOR AND NURSE left and I was alone with my mother again. I could see they were fed up with me. They said all the sympathetic things but the bottom line was: they wanted to turn the machines off. I could not dismiss my mother like she had no value, just because her brain was not fully functional and her body not seen to be working. The injustice of it! I guess I looked calm on the outside, but inside I howled with grief and my pain was almost unbearable.

  I had searched online about the right questions to ask, what to expect, and how to deal with the intensive care medical staff. Halfway through our discussion today, I sensed a new respect from the doctor, the outcome of which meant they had agreed to bring my mother out of the coma and see how she’d cope. Clearly, they didn’t think she had a chance of surviving, but if any positive signs appeared, they would transfer her to a hospital in Crete for a brain scan.

  My hopes rose. I felt my mother could hear me, and reading to her helped trigger something that I admit I didn’t completely understand myself, but there was, finally, a connection between us.

  *

  Back home, I opened a bottle of cheap wine, turned all the lights off, and sat outside. It was a stupid plan because I almost never drank alcohol, but you know what? Life’s just too damn short, and I needed a little help to relax. Staring across the caldera, I allowed my thoughts to drift, then quite suddenly, I found myself in total blackness. At the same moment, a unified groan went up from the town behind me.

  I turned and watched as, one by one, candles were lit on terrace walls and restaurant tables, giving the town a fairytale appearance. Living in the heart of Dublin, I had grown up under the blazing orange light of a street lamp. I turned my back on candle-lit Santorini and found myself staring into the black velvet night. Tilting my head to look at the sky, I gasped to see a million stars twinkling into infinity. Spellbound, I was still staring at the night sky when the lights came on and a cheer went up.

  Although my parents’ home was on the slopes of the tightly packed town, I enjoyed a wonderfully isolated corner of the patio, dark and secretive. From somewhere above me, I heard the touristy jangle of Greek music. A woman laughed, happy. Turning my attention away from the town, I noticed a bright light in the darkening sky over the caldera. A star or a satellite? It grew stronger, coming towards me, and I likened it to my mother’s mind. Then I realised it was a plane, heading for Santorini’s airport on the other side of the island. Three hundred people filled with holiday happiness, about to fly over my head. They had no notion of my misery and that, oddly, gave me hope.

  I poured another half of red and walked over to the edge of the patio. The town was both vibrant and romantic. Terraces were occupied by tourists eating their candle-lit dinners. I heard a loud splash and more laughter. Someone had jumped into one of the many infinity pools that shimmered pale turquoise from underlighting. A young couple came down the empty, narrow street and huddled in a doorway. They kissed passionately. I could hear their loving murmurings.

  Santorini was as beautiful by night as by day, but my shoulders slumped and I was overcome by wine and weariness. Would my mother really get better? Was I foolish to hope?

  ‘Iris! Iris!’ Spiro rushed onto the patio and held out a tinfoil-covered plate. ‘Good evening, Iris. How is Bridget? Is she better?’

  I smiled, shook my head and brushed away a tear. ‘Will you have a glass of wine, Spiro?’

  ‘I can’t, my wife would kill me. To drink with a beautiful woman at night is dangerous. It has happened before. My wife, Anna, will beat me black and bruises . . . for my own good, of course . . . so perhaps just a half.’ He grinned and bobbed his eyebrows. ‘A big half. Some things are worth the bruises, hey?! I am fearless Spiro. I live dangerously on the knife-edge of winning millions. Could you put a good word in to the Blessed Virgin? Here, my wife sends you some food. Village salad and pork casserole.’

  ‘You’re too kind. Thank Anna for me, please.’

  ‘Come, I will take you dancing, show you the towns. Let’s live it up, Iris. The life is tiny. I know everyone and all the best places, you see.’

  I shook my head. ‘Your wife wouldn’t be happy, Spiro.’ I fetched a glass, poured him some wine, and we sat at the tin table.

  ‘My wife is always too tired in the evening. I am a man of love, of passion, and I have needs!’ he boomed. ‘She never wants me anymore.’

  Laughing, I held my hands up. ‘Too much information. Don’t tell me another thing, okay?’

  The music above changed to a slow, heavy rhythm. Spiro held his arms up and clicked his fingers, then leaped into the patio space and spun on his heels. ‘Opa!’ He leaned forward, waved his arms like a seagrass in a gentle swell, and appeared to be sniffing his armpits. ‘Opa!’ he cried again, clearly showing off. I was reminded of strutting cock-pigeons under the O’Connell monument back home. When Spiro had finished leaping and spinning, I clapped and he grinned again, thrusting his chest out and swaggering back to the table.

  ‘Spiro!’ a woman shouted.

  Spiro cowered, then dived into the house. ‘Shhh!’ he called from behind the door. ‘Tell her I left!’

  A big woman appeared, her wide hips see-sawing as she stomped determinedly. ‘You see my Spiro? I kill him!’

  ‘Ah, he left already. Thank you for the wonderful food. It’s very kind of you,’ I said nervously.

  She ignored me and, to my embarrassment, marched straight into the house. A moment later, she dragged Spiro out by his ear, then whacked the taxi driver around the head w
ith alarming ferocity. He tried to escape, scuttling back the way he had come.

  Just before they disappeared behind a building, she glanced back. Our eyes met. She raised her chin, jerked her head upward, and threw me a smile. I recognised a look friendship, then she was gone.

  After my initial shock and embarrassment, I started to giggle and, once again, I suspected the entire fiasco was nothing more than a pantomime to lift my spirits.

  *

  The next morning, I slept late, probably because of the wine. I would have welcomed more time at the house to sit on the patio and drink in the view, but my mother was waiting. I sensed urgency in the day as I pulled on yesterday’s clothes and rushed to the hospital.

  Nothing had changed. My mother lay peacefully oblivious to the world about her.

  ‘Hi, Mam. It’s me, Irini. I have a nice cup of tea here and I was thinking about you when I bought it. Milk and one sugar, isn’t it? I bet you’re longing for a good strong brew. We’re alone right now so I’m just going to stick my finger in the tea and wet your lips. Would you like that?’

  I moved my tea-covered finger over her dry mouth, afraid she might choke if any dripped past the tube. The childhood scene, when she hugged me so fiercely, came back once again. How distraught she had been, kissing my cheeks and crying. Why couldn’t I remember what had caused it?

  I wondered if she understood what was happening now. Holding her hand, thinking, time passed in red heartbeat blips on the monitor. After a while, I picked up one of her books.

  ‘This is all new to me, Mam, the stories about your dreams. Some of it’s quite frightening; seems like you went through hell in your sleep.’

  I started reading.

  *

  Last night, I dreamed I had killed my daughter again. The nightmare was so awful I don’t even want to write it down. Then the dream almost came true!

  I was busy cleaning the house. Irini played with her dolls on a blanket outside. I made sure the gate was secure and she knew she must not go off the patio. The housework was therapeutic. I enjoy putting everything in its place and polishing the little furniture we have.

  Irini was quieter than usual, so I went outside with orange juice and biscuits to play with her for a while. When I stepped out of the house, I froze dead in my tracks. My little girl, with her arms out from her sides, walked along the top of the patio wall while singing a rhyme. She had taken off her shoes, pulled a chair to the wall, and climbed up. I lowered the biscuits and orange juice slowly, afraid of startling her. She sang a nursery rhyme, oblivious to the danger.

  ‘Ring a ring o’ roses, a pocket full of posies, a-tishoo, a-tishoo, we all fall . . .’

  My feet turned to lead. Everything moved in slow motion. I lunged forward, as if through deep water, but tripped on Irini’s sandal and staggered towards her with my arms out. Startled, she unbalanced and started to topple! I screamed. In blind panic I snatched some cloth – her skirt, top, I don’t know. I could feel her little body slipping through the fabric. Terrified, I clung on, clutched at a limb, scrabbling, dragging her towards me, over the wall . . . and then it was over. We were both safe on the patio.

  ‘Oh, thank God! Thank God!’ I wept, dropping to my knees and holding her tightly to my chest. Tears of fear and relief raged down my face. I’d almost pushed her over the wall. She would have plunged three hundred metres to the rocks below!

  Irini cried too, startled by my action. I should have talked to her, gently told her to climb down and come to me. Instead, I’d panicked, acted like a lunatic because of my dreams, and it almost cost my little girl her life.

  I can’t go on like this. I’m not fit to be a mother! I must talk to Tommy about sending Irini away. I can’t imagine life without my gorgeous girl, but she needs to be far from me in order to be safe. I am cursed because of all the wrongs I have done.

  *

  I realised what I was reading. This was the memory that kept replaying in my mind: my mother clutching me, crying. I felt so unbelievably sad, for my mother and for myself.

  ‘Oh, how frightened you must have been, Mam. I remember when this happened. It’s puzzled me all my life because I never understood why you were so upset.’

  I was sitting in silence, overwhelmed by the event, when the doctor came into the room.

  ‘Ah, Irini, I hoped to find you here.’ The nurse followed him and watched as he lifted my mother’s lids, shining the torch into her eyes. ‘We’ve decided to move Mrs McGuire to the University Hospital of Heraklion. It’s the largest hospital facility in Crete and one of the largest hospitals in Greece.’ His eyes were still on my mother, and he shook his head as he spoke. ‘I must warn you, the air ambulance and the MRI scan will be expensive, but it’s in your mother’s best interest.’

  My emotions soared. There appeared to be some hope.

  ‘The scan results will give us a more accurate picture of your mother’s injuries.’ He looked into my eyes. ‘When they have all the relevant information, the specialists in Crete will decide on the right course of action for Mrs McGuire.’

  I spent another hour with my mother, then thanked the staff for their care and paid the bill. Horrified by the expense, I realised almost all my ring money had gone, but at least we appeared to be moving forward. The air ambulance would leave tomorrow, so I packed up the notebooks and then held my mother’s hand for a while longer.

  The walk back to town was a slog uphill in the midday sun. At the halfway point – the bird’s-nest vineyard – Spiro pulled up.

  ‘Ela, Iris, where you go? Get in! You should not walk now. The sun is too hot. Tomorrow, you call me and I take you to the hospital to see Bridget.’

  I pulled open the passenger door and slid in, enjoying the cool blast of his air-con.

  ‘Thanks, Spiro, but tomorrow I sail to Crete. She’s going to the big hospital in Heraklion for more tests.’

  ‘Ah, Bridget will be happy – she likes Crete. She was there just a week ago. The day before her terrible accident.’

  ‘She was? Why did she go?’

  ‘How I know?’ He lifted both hands off the wheel, startling me. ‘Mrs Bridget went to meet somebody, something to do with her work, she said. She came back the same day. Very excited when I picked her up at the port. She said everything would be good now, good for Tommy, good for you, and she was very happy.’ He turned and grinned at me.

  We veered towards the kerb again. I pointed at the windscreen. ‘Look out!’ His driving terrified me.

  ‘Ah, you make me remember, Bridget was worried that evening too. She kept looking out of the back window, afraid someone was following us.’

  I frowned. ‘What? That’s odd. And were you being followed?’

  Spiro laughed and pulled his chin in. ‘But of course!’ he boomed.

  I stared, waiting for him to continue. ‘Spiro! Who was following you?’

  ‘Well, everyone who came in on the ferry, of course. They all come up the one road!’

  I did my best to smile at Spiro’s joke but I still felt unnerved. My mother had been worried someone was tailing her, and although I couldn’t put my finger on anything in particular, I had a strong feeling she had been afraid.

  *

  Back at the house, I made myself a coffee, sat on the patio, and tried to put Spiro’s words out of my mind, but I couldn’t. Why would she go to Crete? Who did she meet there? Why would she fear that someone followed her home? My unease grew until Dad’s words came back to me. I’d not thought about them since I left Dublin.

  ‘If you must go, Irini, be careful. There are bad people out there. Are you quite sure this was an accident?’

  His hints of foul play and fear for my safety unnerved me further. Could I be in some kind of danger too? I hadn’t taken him seriously. Stupid of me.

  *

  The next morning, I packed my few things, along with my mother’s books, and took the slow ferry to Crete. The big ship was much cheaper than the FastCat, and frugality had become a necessity. I
climbed to the top deck and clutched the back rail as we pulled away from Santorini. The town of Fira was clear to see, hanging on to the top of the cliff. I fancied I caught sight of a dash of orange that was my parents’ house.

  I recalled Quinlan ramping up my excitement when I was a girl – ‘The biggest volcano!’ – and I realised how little of the island I had seen. If only I had visited the archaeological site, perhaps I would have learned more.

  The ship slipped out of the caldera’s flat water and I wanted to slow it down, hang on to the view, keep a hold on all that had happened there. Feeling helpless, as though I was abandoning a part of my own life, I watched the island withdraw, taking my past and the secrets of my family with it.

  We pushed past Burnt Island and other crumbs of land that had once made this place a complete circle, then we sailed out into the open sea. Santorini receded towards the horizon, then disappeared in the heat haze. I wondered when I would return, and under what circumstances.

  The sea breeze refreshed me, and I realised I was not so afraid of the water. Nevertheless, I wandered over to the ship’s orange and white lifeboats. Their mechanisms were buried under thick layers of white paint. Would they work in an emergency? I read the neighbouring emergency poster: Take your shoes off with your hands behind your head. Leap onto the escape shoot.

  It seemed all of Greece was trying to make me smile.

  In the café-bar, I got myself a glass of water and a burger – the cheapest thing on the menu – and took a table next to the window. The view was nothing but miles of sea, but it was as far as I could get from the blaring TV, where a huddle of Greeks added to the noise by shouting at each other. I wondered if it was a convention for the hard of hearing.