Secrets of Santorini

by Patricia Wilson

  Although I was practically brought up by nuns, through university years I lived with Uncle Quinlan, whom my parents had made my legal guardian. Quinlan was a man I loved dearly. We were both solitary people, and we both shared a great passion for fabric and design. Which reminded me – the fashion shoot outside the Shamrock should be interesting. I might pick up some tips on how to market my own creations online.

  Breaking into my thoughts, the waiter asked, ‘You want anything? I finish now.’ His eyes narrowed sexily and the corners of his mouth twitched.

  ‘Another pot of tea would be grand,’ I said, ignoring the come-on.

  He sighed, and I turned to gaze out over the sea.

  I thought about my mother and her dreams. Instead of trying to block them out, it seemed she was always trying to reverse time and change the end. How very alike we were, because that was what I longed to do: change the outcome of this difficult relationship with my parents.

  If I could turn back time, I would have gone to Santorini years ago and tried to understand my mother, instead of just resenting the way she abandoned me.

  Now, as the truth crept up on me, I realised her actions were out of love, not coldness. She believed it was the only way to keep me safe. I had always hoped that when I understood everything, when things were explained, I would feel cleansed in some way. Reborn. That moment when a light is turned on in a dark room and you see everything clearly. When you realise you are exactly where you want to be. That was how it should have felt learning the reasons behind my distanced childhood.

  I had read that page again, and knew I would go on reading it over and over until something changed in me. For now, it was too much to grasp, too many wrong beliefs to change into this new version of life.

  Suddenly, I was yearning to visit her. If only I had gone to see the archaeological site, explored my exact birthplace and the area that captured my parents’ hopes and dreams. Aaron also seemed interesting. He could have painted in many details of my parents’ lives. I wanted to know exactly what happened to cause my mother’s injuries. I recalled my father’s words: She should’ve let me die, then everyone would be safe. What was he talking about? Why wouldn’t he tell me?

  I decided to call the home and ask how he was.

  He didn’t answer for ages, then a voice said, ‘There you are, Tommy.’

  My father’s voice came next. ‘Where do I speak into?’

  ‘Nowhere, just hold it to your ear and speak normally.’

  ‘Hello?!’ he shouted.

  ‘Hi Dad. It’s me, Irini. How are you?’

  ‘I just forgot how this new-fangled contraption works. What’s the matter? How’s Bridget?’

  ‘There’s no change, Dad, she’s still in a coma. I just called to see if you’re feeling better?’

  ‘I am indeed, but they told me to get a flu jab before the winter.’

  ‘Good plan!’

  ‘That young man of yours came around here yesterday, brought me a bag of toffees. He apologised about the wedding and was asking about you. Said he’d made a mistake and was sorry.’

  ‘Jason? That was nice of him.’ I bit my lip to stop myself saying something nasty.

  ‘No it wasn’t, he’s trying to wheedle his way back in. Don’t you listen to him. He’s a knob!’

  ‘Dad!’ Shocked at my father’s choice of words, I started to laugh. ‘That’s not very kind.’

  ‘There’s plenty more fish, Irini, and you deserve better than that one.’

  ‘Aw, what a kind thing to say, but you don’t have to shout, I can hear you.’

  ‘When are you coming home?’

  ‘I . . . erm, soon, I think. Mam’s having an MRI this afternoon. I’ll call you again tomorrow, okay?’

  ‘Remind me, what’s an MRI?

  ‘A head x-ray, so they can see the extent of her injuries.’

  After a short silence, he sniffed and said gruffly, ‘Yes, all right then. Be careful, Irini. Bye.’ And before I had a chance to tell him I loved him, he ended the call.

  *

  Shortly after midday the road to Malia was quiet. Most tourists were sunning themselves on the beach, or dining in all-inclusive hotels. The locals took their siesta. I looked forward to a chat with Fergus and a peaceful afternoon in the Shamrock while my mother had her scan. I wondered what they would find. After a lot of soul-searching, I decided that if there was any chance of her brain repairing itself, I’d dedicate my life to getting her better.

  I had misjudged her all along.

  CHAPTER 17

  BRIDGET

  Crete, 29 years ago.

  TOMMY BOBBED UP FROM the other side of a rubble wall. ‘Bridget, did you shout? What is it?’

  I dropped the pottery and, seeing blood on my hands, realised I had cut across my breastbone with the shard of terracotta. ‘The baby’s coming, Tommy! Oh God, get help!’

  Another pain, fiercer than the first, forced me to cry out again. Sweat ran into my eyes, stinging and blurring my vision.

  Tommy raced to my side, the colour leaving his face as he fell to his knees. ‘Your chest’s bleeding. What happened?!’ Then, without waiting for an answer, ‘There’s a phone in the giftshop. I’ll call an ambulance.’

  But I sensed this was far from a normal birthing. ‘Don’t leave me,’ I cried. My head swam, reality pushing back into darkness. I screwed my eyes shut, fighting to stay conscious as the contraction climaxed with debilitating force. A vice-like grip crushed me tightly around the middle. I tried to pant, rebelled fiercely against the urge to push, but my control was shattered by another explosion of pain. Overbearing forces were wringing the life out of me. If our baby wasn’t expelled from my body at that moment, I sensed we would both die.

  Tommy attempted to get me to my feet, but my bulging eyes and knuckle-breaking clasp of his hands told him the effort was futile.

  ‘Help! Somebody, we need help, the baby’s coming!’ he yelled in the direction of the site entrance. Jangling bouzouki music and loud applause drowned his words.

  Another contraction rushed through me, every muscle and nerve in my body concentrating on my womb. The life inside me was forced towards the waiting world. Vaguely aware of Tommy tugging at my underwear, I swung a fist at him and swore like a sailor. Sanity and reason had gone. I pulled my knees to my shoulders, lifted my head and bore down with all I had.

  Although just as intense, the pain of the contraction changed and I felt our beloved baby inch down the birth canal. If the earth had exploded around me, it would not have dammed the urge to shift my daughter towards daylight. I pushed again and again, draining every ounce of effort from the contraction. Minutes passed, everything a blur. Panting and gasping each time, I wondered where I would find the energy for the next urge to push, but it came with glorious agony.

  Tommy glanced around wildly. Seeing no prospect of help, he ripped off his shirt.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I can see the top of her head!’ he cried, sounding both jubilant and afraid.

  I took a deep breath, knowing it was nearly over. Desperate for part of my own body to become an individual human being that I would love more than life itself. I gathered all my energy to deal with the looming contraction, far more intense than the last, yet somehow less painful. Filled with euphoria, the urge to push came upon me and then I was lost in the overwhelming need to bear down.

  Tommy gave a yelp. ‘Her head’s out! Bridget, Holy God and all the saints, she’s turning around all by herself. Shall I pull her out? I don’t know what to do. Bridget – tell me what to do!’

  And then it was over, pain subsiding, Tommy’s face awash with awe.

  ‘Oh, Bridget, look, our little girl, Irini.’ Tommy wiped the baby with his shirt and lifted her. ‘But she doesn’t seem to be breathing’ he said, terror in his voice. ‘Come on, baby! Take a breath!’ He placed her on my chest. ‘Why isn’t she breathing?’ He trembled violently, tears brimming as he swiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘I don’t know what to do!
’ he said again. Overcome by emotion, he sobbed. ‘Stay here, I’ll get help.’

  Our tiny baby, unnaturally dark in colour, appeared limp and lifeless. This couldn’t be happening! I lifted her and shook her gently.

  ‘Wait! Make her breathe, Tommy! Jesus Christ, she has to take her first breath.’ I exclaimed. ‘Please! Clear her mouth and nose, hold her upside down, and smack her bottom to make her cry. Quickly, do it now!’ Another gripping contraction stopped me from saying more.

  Tommy struggled with the slippery little body, which seemed to be turning darker by the second. Despite his efforts, he failed to get a reaction. ‘It’s not working. I’ll get help!’ he cried. He placed the baby in my arms, climbed out of the deep excavation, and raced towards the exit.

  I tapped Irini’s cheek. ‘Come on, baby, breathe.’ Overcome by exhaustion and fear, I shook her again and called on God for help.

  Out of the gloom, a woman approached. Clearly someone taking part in the culture exhibition outside the archaeological site. She wore the same clothes as the figure on the throne in the fresco, and likewise her raven hair was waxed and elaborately coiled.

  She lay the baby on my stomach and gently pressed her chest before breathing into her mouth. After repeating the action for a few moments, the infant shuddered into life and then cried.

  I cried too. Tears of joy. Irini, my beautiful child!

  The strange woman used the terracotta shard to cut the umbilical, and then she placed our baby girl in my arms. I stared at the tiny body, which turned a healthier shade of pink with each breath. I wiped Irini’s head and noticed the abundance of copper hair.

  My impromptu midwife smiled and nodded, then stepped back into the dim distance as Tommy appeared with help.

  *

  A week passed before I returned to the archaeological site with baby Irini in a carrycot. My neighbours disapproved. ‘You must keep the infant indoors for three weeks!’ they cried. ‘And you too, you are unclean until you stop bleeding. It’s not right. You’ll bring bad luck!’ But I feared I would go stir-crazy if I stayed home any longer. The pull of the archaeological site was irresistible.

  We wanted to send flowers to the strange woman who had saved Irini’s life, but neither the Department of Culture nor the dance troupe performing in the forecourt knew who she was.

  I lifted my baby and stood before the mural. ‘Where did you come from?’ I whispered, staring at the regal figure on the throne. ‘We owe you so much.’

  I felt myself drawn into the picture.

  *

  Baby Irini slept soundly after her first feed of the day. I placed her in the carrycot and returned to the patio. The mysterious piece of pottery lay on the table. I picked it up, recalling how my blood ran into the centre and settled in the indent of the star and the mysteriously embellished spear shapes, outlining them in red. The red star . . . the red star of morning . . . Where had I read that before? Perhaps the information came from a long-forgotten book?

  I peered at the sky, which graduated from periwinkle to ultramarine, then my eyes followed the crescent-shaped clifftop to the very end of the island, where the last town hung onto the point. A place of white cubist houses, windmills, vermilion bougainvillea, churches, and artists’ shops. The town of Oia. Then I recalled there was another Oia on the island, close to the remains of an archaeology site, Ancient Thira. This dig stood on the ridge of a four-hundred-metre-high mountain, Messavouno.

  Ancient Thira was discovered when they excavated volcanic rock for the Suez Canal construction. Below the ancient town, on the outer edge of Santorini, lay the Ancient Port of Oia, where ship-building had taken place and sailors lodged over a thousand years before Christ. Apart from a sprinkling of tourists, the site hardly interested anyone.

  Bits of information whirled around in my mind. The answer was close, teasing me, although I wasn’t even sure about the question. Then it exploded in my head. Oia . . . Oia, the red star of morning. Yes, years ago I had heard of that . . . I rushed indoors with the pot still in my hand.

  ‘Tommy! I have all these bits of ideas that are not making any sense at all, but I keep getting a weird feeling they’re connected.’

  ‘Do you want toast?’ Tommy mumbled, dropping four slices of yesterday’s bread into the toaster, ignoring my excitement.

  ‘No. Are you listening? Why is Oia called Oia? What does it mean?’

  He frowned. ‘No idea; it’s too early. Will you let me wake up, darling girl?’

  ‘Sorry. But what about a ritual concerning the red star of morning?’

  He raised his heavy eyelids and sighed. ‘No peace, is it? Wait, that rings a bell, let me think.’

  The smell of toast was making me hungry.

  ‘I did a paper once on human sacrifice,’ he said.

  My dreams rushed back and I slapped my hand over my heart. ‘Human sacrifice!’

  ‘Yes, but hang on. Ah, I’ve got it now: Oia means red morning star in one of the Pakistani languages.’

  ‘Pakistani?!’

  He grinned. ‘Not what you wanted to hear?’ The toast popped up.

  ‘And what made you connect it with human sacrifice, Tommy?’ I started buttering.

  ‘You won’t want to hear this either. The Pawnee tribes in Nebraska and Kansas are said to have sacrificed a pubescent girl to the red morning star every few years.’

  ‘Holy God!’ I crossed myself. ‘How?’

  ‘They strung her up, naked. One shot an arrow through her heart, then all the men fired arrows into her. The ritual was a fertility thing. Bound to bring generous crops and lots of babies, don’t you think?’

  I grimaced. ‘Not funny. When did this happen?’

  ‘Until quite recently – the early nineteenth century.’ He sat opposite me at the patio table. ‘Why all the questions, and why are you eating my toast?’

  ‘Hungry now. I’ll put some more in. That broken dish is driving me mad. Wait, I’ll get it.’ Moments later, I placed it on the table between us. ‘I wondered if it was connected to some kind of ritual. I’m trying not to get excited, but I keep finding connections.’

  ‘How do you mean? Connections to what?’ He spread marmalade.

  I swallowed hard and stared at Tommy, hardly daring to say what I was thinking.

  ‘Come on, Bridget, spit it out.’

  ‘Plato said there were ten kings of Atlantis, am I right?’

  Tommy’s butter knife clattered to the plate. ‘What . . . you’re not thinking . . . Plato?!’

  I nodded. ‘I know Plato was only a storyteller, many hundreds of years after this very island erupted. And like any author, he would have taken a few facts and distorted them into a romping good tale.’

  Tommy nodded, the toast poised halfway to his mouth.

  ‘Let me throw some ideas your way. Plato tells of ten kings, each with different responsibilities, and a goddess queen who rules above them, right? On this plate, there are ten arrowheads pointing to the star in the centre, and each has different markings on it. Then, between the circle of arrowheads, there’s one lily. I’m sure it’s a lily because it’s exactly the same as the lilies in the throne room frescoes at Knossos, the Cretan site. I’m thinking the lily represents the goddess – sacred flower and all.’

  Tommy pointed at the plate. ‘What’s this – another small lily?’

  ‘Indeed. I’ve thought hard about that. The small lily puzzled me for a while, but then I remembered my dreams and I wondered if the flower represented the goddess’s daughter. Perhaps she had a child. In my dreams, her daughter is Oia. You notice the two lilies are either side of the only complete arrowhead, a diamond shape. Perhaps that king was the girl’s father.’

  We both stared at the dish in silence.

  ‘So you think the diamond represents one of the kings, the lily is the Queen Goddess, and the small lily is their child? What makes you think it is some kind of religious vessel?’

  ‘I think it’s a blood sacrifice vessel, bec
ause on all the other pots we’ve found, the decoration is in relief, standing out. They often used a crudely indented stamp. But this has the pattern cut into it, quite deeply too. The symbols were not very clear at first, but after I cut myself on it, they seemed to be etched in blood . . . my blood, and later Irini’s blood when that strange woman used it to cut the cord.’

  ‘Mmm, interesting hypothesis.’

  *

  The next morning, I curled around Tommy’s back. After all our years together, I still loved to wake up with my body pressed against his. Recalling the tipsy ambience of him when we tumbled into bed brought forth a smile. We made love for the first time since before Irini’s birth and I recalled penetration being a little painful. Tommy was gentle, reining in his excitement. He caressed me, kissed my face and mouth, asking if he should stop.

  ‘By the mother of God, I believe I have my virginity back,’ I said.

  ‘It’s a miracle, it is,’ Tommy quipped. ‘I’ll be on my knees for a month.’

  I giggled. ‘I’m not sure I have the right picture in my mind. Would you care to be a little more descriptive?’

  ‘Teasing wench,’ he whispered.

  In the stuffy bedroom, I found myself grinning at my adventurous archaeology professor. Aware that Irini was awake, I turned away from him and lifted her from the cradle. Before venturing outside, I pulled a large veil of fine muslin over us both to protect us from mosquitoes. Barefoot, I stepped out into the cool dawn air.

  Above, stars faded in an insipid sky. On the horizon, a band of peach light silhouetted Burnt Island, which was nothing but a tower of black lava in the centre of the sea-filled crater. The magical light of Santorini gained strength by the second. I stood for a moment, rocking Irini as I gazed over the peaceful scene.

  CHAPTER 18

  IRINI

  Crete, present day.

  FERGUS, IT TURNED OUT, was friends with my father through his childhood and early teens. The old man abandoned his seat in the corner, hooked his walking stick on the end of the bar, and struggled onto a stool. I suspected I was about to learn things about my family.