Secrets of Santorini

by Patricia Wilson

  Angelo appeared from behind me. ‘Do not be late. We only have four hours and there’s a lot to get through.’ He exchanged a tense glance with Paula, before turning back to me. ‘We don’t want to work tomorrow.’ I wondered what was going on. Then his expression softened and his unique smile and frown appeared, transforming his face. ‘You did good. I thank you.’ He held my gaze for a moment and then marched away.

  Paula narrowed her eyes and watched him. I was reminded of the cats.

  I drove straight to the hospital, which was half an hour away, pleased to realise my driving skills were rapidly improving, but then disappointed to learn my mother was not.

  ‘There’s no change,’ the nurse told me. ‘Just go through.’

  At the bedside, I took her cool, limp hand.

  ‘Hi, Mam. Uncle Quinlan and Dad are coming over to see you. Isn’t that nice?’

  I watched her eyelids for the slightest twitch, hoping against hope, but there was nothing. Nevertheless, I felt a kind of togetherness and peace. As if she always knew I would be with her at the end, and even if I hadn’t read her notebooks, I’m sure I would have come to realise that, above all else, she loved me.

  ‘I’m not going to read your journal today. Instead, I’ll tell you about bits of my life that you missed. It’s not fair that you lost part of my growing up because of a shocking growth in your head, so I’ll fill you in on the best bits.’

  I had to swallow hard, because I knew by sharing my memories with her, I was helping her to let go. And the heartbreaking thing was, I didn’t want her to go anywhere. I wanted her to fight! I wanted a miracle. What was the point of serving God all my life if He couldn’t do me one little favour now?

  So angry and emotional, I sobbed, and as I tried to calm myself down, I felt the slightest tremor beneath my fingers. Movement so light that at first, I thought a hair had fallen on my hand. Staring at her fingers, which rested on my thumb, I whispered, ‘Did you hear me, Mam?’

  I held my breath, my senses electric. Did I imagine it?

  CHAPTER 21

  BRIDGET

  Santorini, 24 years ago.

  IN THE DARK, lying beside Tommy, I gradually emptied my head of thoughts and memories. My grand plan was to relax into physical inertia and mental receptiveness. I had to go back to Atlantis, save Oia and her mother from the terrible finale that awaited them at the end of the River Festival. After all, these were only dreams, the seeds of which were planted in my mind by Uncle Peter, decades ago, when my childish mind was most amenable to fantasy.

  With that knowledge, I clearly had the power to wake, yet I decided to stay in my dream to try and change it. Aware that the mind is a slippery fish, and getting a grip was unlikely to happen on my first attempt, I was determined to keep at it until I had control and could change the end.

  In my dream, Oia was in my arms, but for all the love and emotion that I felt, it may well have been my own child, Irini. With that thought, I realised the danger and knew I had to dissimilate. Irini had no place in this dream. I drifted on the threshold of sleep.

  The nightmare was happening again and, in the dream, I was crying. In that lucid state, I had to stay with the nightmare and control it, reach a time of tranquillity and happiness, because then I believed I would not be troubled again. Despite my fear, I drifted back, allowing myself to hear the jubilant crowds, see the shimmering festival, feel Oia’s hand in mine.

  I, Queen Thira, took long, steady breaths, opened my eyes, and saw the flamboyant flotilla parading towards the sea.

  *

  Decorated with flags and garlands of lilies, the royal galley heads downriver. A procession of our finest ships follows. I wish we were on our way to Crete, leading the exodus, my daughter beside me.

  The kings are sure that when Oia has gone to Poseidon, the island’s troubles will be over and we need not leave. Slowly as candles burn down, I also begin to accept their gospel. Could Hero be right? Oia was born to reach this day and save us all. Perhaps it was not my king that I slept with on the night of Oia’s conception, but a personification, the shapeshifting spirit of Poseidon, there to sire his future bride.

  My head feels hollow from lack of sleep. My world undulates like the surface of the river, nothing solid, nothing as it seems, everything slightly off-kilter.

  Oia has forgotten herself and is smiling at Dardanus in the second row. The young man grins back, pulling faces and trying to make her laugh.

  ‘Oia, decorum, please,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Sorry, my Queen. I’m so happy, it’s difficult not to show it.’ She removes the smile, lifts her chin a little, and adopts an aloof expression.

  ‘Dardanus appears pleased with himself too,’ I said.

  The river narrows and passes under a crowded bridge. The barge is showered with petals. Oia’s smile escapes again, her eyes sparkling and her face radiating pleasure. The populous cheer and whistle. At the head of the galley, musicians play their reedpipes as the bosun beats a rhythm for the oarsmen. I want to hold on to these last precious moments of my daughter’s life. Minute by minute, as the grand day passes, I seem to hollow out. I never take my eyes off Oia, and smile whenever the girl looks my way.

  I glance at the time candle. This tall beeswax cylinder, with twenty-four sparkling stones pressed into the side, is lit in the middle of the night. Another pebble falls to the marble floor, the sound almost inaudible, except to me. I recall the day of Oia’s birth, and the exploding joy when I first held my daughter. Three more pebbles, then I must take away the life I had given.

  There is no escape from the inevitable. I reach out and take my daughter’s hand.

  ‘Dearest Mother, my Queen, this is the best day of my life,’ she says.

  *

  Then the dream and reality became horribly confused. My plan fell apart. Irini was the beautiful princess. She appeared to be sleeping, her long, red hair flowing over her shoulders, her pale skin luminescent.

  ‘I have to sacrifice you, Irini, for the sake of everyone on this island.’ Then I saw myself raise the knife and lunge down at my daughter’s chest. Everything changed into slow motion, apart from my heartbeat.

  Stop the dream! Stop the dream before it’s too late!

  I could not change the dream! My scream seemed trapped inside my chest, coming out as hardly a grunt and my body so heavy, I could hardly move. In my heart, I knew the world depended on me to perform this vile act. Finally, in the moment between sleep and wakefulness, my scream broke free, alarming Tommy and terrifying three-year-old Irini.

  When I had calmed, and both Irini and Tommy were asleep again, I wrote down the nightmare, hoping by doing so I could exorcise the terrifying image and would never experience it again.

  *

  Time flew by. Irini, crawling, walking, constantly talking. An inquisitive child, she kept me busy from dawn until dusk. I seldom went to the site with Tommy, and although I loved Irini with all my heart, I did miss the archaeology. It seemed Tommy and I had nothing to talk about when we were together at home.

  Things got worse when Irini was almost four. I started sleepwalking. The problem came to a head one morning when I found the door locked. The big old key was in the pocket of Tommy’s shorts.

  ‘I was afraid you’d go outside and step off the patio in your sleep,’ he explained.

  ‘You mean . . . jump?’

  ‘No, of course not, but I couldn’t sleep for the worry,’ he said when I slipped back into bed. ‘So I locked the door.’

  He made light of it, but I realised how deeply concerned he was.

  ‘Go back to the doctor, Bridget. You look worn out. Ask her for sleeping pills, or perhaps there’s some kind of therapy.’

  ‘I’ll go, I swear,’ I said. ‘We can’t sleep with the door closed all through the summer.’

  ‘Good. I don’t want to handcuff you to the bed either,’ he quipped, trying to make light of the situation.

  I rested my head against his body and listened to his he
artbeat. This awful situation was my punishment for stealing the dragonfly necklace, yet that steady rhythm in his chest reminded me that my husband was alive because of my action.

  I wasn’t fooled by Tommy. He camouflaged his concern with humour, and I matched it.

  ‘You’re a devil, Tommy McGuire.’

  The pretence fell away. ‘Promise me you’ll go, Bridget. See if she can help. We can’t go on like this.’

  *

  Tommy was right, I had to find a way to stop the nightmares, put an end to the situation before I hurt Irini. Before I did something irreversible. I went in search of medical help.

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be anything physically wrong, Bridget,’ Kiriaki said as she ripped the blood pressure cuff from my arm.

  ‘What do you think’s causing the nightmares, Doctor? They’re truly awful.’

  Kiriaki glanced through my notes. ‘They started when you were pregnant, yes?’ I nodded. ‘A number of things can trigger nightmares: pregnancy, as I said, anxiety, post-traumatic stress, or depression. Is anything worrying you?’

  ‘Not at all. Apart from the nightmares, I’m very happy.’

  ‘Perhaps there’s been an incident in your life that caused deep distress. Something you’ve not acknowledged, or that you’re trying to deny or forget. Perhaps you’ve buried an unfortunate occurrence so deeply you don’t even remember it. You were disturbed to the extent that you refuse to admit it ever happened. Does any of that sound familiar? Is there anything in your childhood so appalling you were never able to talk about it, Bridget?’

  ‘No, I had a happy childhood. I was brought up by my aunt and uncle, and I know they loved me dearly.’

  ‘What happened to your parents? Why didn’t you live with them?’

  ‘There was a bomb . . . Ireland, you know?’

  She shook her head. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Ma had gone to meet Da after work. She’d just got her first week’s wages and she wanted to go shopping with him.’ As the memory of Ma returned, I realised I was smiling. ‘She was really proud of herself that morning. She wore lipstick and powder, and appeared more beautiful than I’d ever seen her before. I told her she looked like a film star and she laughed, dismissed it, but I knew the comment really pleased her.’

  ‘So, you remember it clearly?’ Kiriaki dropped her head to one side, sadness and sympathy in her eyes.

  I nodded. ‘A neighbour was keeping an eye on me after school. Some of us played marbles in the gutter.’ I stared at the desktop. ‘Mrs Doyle called me, told me to wash my hands and face, and sit in her best room. I remember feeling important. Whatever was going on, I liked it.’

  Kiriaki nodded. ‘Then they said your parents had been killed?’

  *

  Kiriaki prescribed sedatives, and from that day, I took them before bed. The pills helped, although my early mornings on the patio were spoiled by a groggy head and dull view of life. Irini started at the local school at Easter and soon she was home for the statutory three-month summer holidays. My daughter either came to the site with her dolls and colouring books, or she spent the day with the neighbour’s children. She was a pretty child and the locals regarded her as special because of her mass of tightly curled red hair.

  On one occasion, Yianni-One-Arm brought my repeat prescription as usual. I thanked the boy, gave him fifty lepta and a bag of homemade biscuits for his mother. That evening, I realised I had somebody else’s medicine. I called the surgery and left a message explaining I would return on Monday morning to collect the correct prescription.

  That night, I slept well and woke bright and full of life, and the following night the same. I considered giving up the pills, but then the worst nightmare struck, with more horror and violence than anything I had experienced before.

  In the lucid dream, I was Thira again, and even as I was dreaming, I knew I had been in this situation before, and I would be again and again, until I completed my destiny. My beautiful daughter Oia lay supine before me.

  ‘I have to do this!’ I cried, raising the sacrificial knife in both fists. ‘It’s the only way I can save our people from certain death! Forgive me! Forgive me!’ and I plunged the knife downward.

  A slap across my face woke me. The first thing I saw was the blood on Irini’s sheets and on my own hands. I dropped the knife and tried to pull the front door open, but it was locked. Overcome by the horror of my nightmare, I pushed myself into the corner of the room, trying to get away from the awful scene. My throat closed. Blackness rushed in from the corners of my eyes. I could not breathe for the terror that crushed me.

  ‘It’s a nightmare! It’s not real, Bridget!’ Tommy was shouting.

  Embracing the reality, I gasped and fell sobbing into his arms.

  ‘Oh my God! What have I done? Tommy, I’m going mad! I can’t take this anymore!’ I stared at the blood, my legs folding, my head spinning so wildly it unbalanced me.

  ‘It’s all right, you’re safe,’ Tommy said. ‘You were having a nightmare. Let me see your hand. You’ve cut yourself.’

  ‘Where’s Irini? Oh Tommy, Tommy! I was going to kill her . . . I was really going to stick that knife in her chest. It was all so real. In my mind, I had no choice. Why is this happening to me . . . to us?’

  ‘Irini’s on a sleepover, remember, with Maria and Nefeli? Perhaps that was a trigger – that you were concerned for her when you went to sleep.’

  ‘But what if she’d been here? What if you hadn’t woken up? Even if you had, imagine how terrified she’d have been to see her mother coming at her with a carving knife!’

  Tommy made me a mug of sweet tea and poured a little brandy into it. We sat at the table until dawn. He watched me write down the dream, encouraging me each time I stopped, and passing me tissues when I couldn’t see for the tears.

  ‘I was the woman in the fresco, Tommy. I was that woman who saved Irini’s life on the day she was born. I understand none of this makes sense, but I’m telling you, I was her.’

  *

  When I had recorded every detail, Tommy read through it and asked me questions until I broke down in tears again.

  ‘Let’s face it,’ I said. ‘There’s only one solution, Tommy. We have to send Irini back to Ireland for her schooling. She can go to the convent. She’ll be safe with the nuns. And I’ll have to find a psychiatrist and see if I can be cured of these awful hallucinations. We can’t continue like this. It’s impossible. Nobody’s safe.’

  I didn’t want to look into his eyes, to see his helplessness, that lingering despair. I buried my face in his chest and he wrapped his protective arms around me. The action was only role-playing on his part. I knew he felt as helpless as me, yet the strength of his hug helped me regather.

  ‘Look, first we’ll go and see Kiriaki together,’ Tommy said. ‘Get your hand seen to. It’s a deep cut and might need a stitch. While we’re there, I think you should have a tetanus, just in case. And let’s have another talk with her about the nightmares.’

  CHAPTER 22

  IRINI

  Crete, present day.

  A YOUNG NURSE RUSHED in and made me jump. I was still staring at my mother’s hand, sure that it twitched.

  The nurse caught my startled expression. ‘Ah, sorry. I’m late with the medication,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I need to . . . do the . . .’ She wrote on the clipboard at the bottom of the bed, then injected something into a capsule that was taped to my mother’s wrist. ‘I am sorry,’ she repeated with urgency, as if saying it louder conveyed her regret more clearly.

  I blinked at the nurse. There was an uncomfortable moment. She stared at my mother, then at me, then she left in a flurry before I had composed the question I wanted to ask. Even when she had gone, the words escaped me.

  *

  That afternoon, back on the quayside, I had to pose on a little blue and white boat. The caïque bobbed about violently whenever another vessel came in, or left the harbour. I clung to its stubby mast, hopi
ng my alarm didn’t show.

  For the first time in my life, I noticed how light changes through the day. At three o’clock, the sun was squintingly harsh, by four it had softened and at five, there was a golden tint rimming everything that wasn’t in the shade. Shadows themselves were longer, and the grey cement wharf turned the colour of pale toffee. I realised that people, too, seemed to change with the light. They became mellow and more relaxed in mood than before.

  I sat on the edge of the boat, my bare feet in the water and my head thrown back, terrified I would slip off, fall in and drown.

  ‘I can’t swim!’ I called out, just in case, imagining the newspaper headline: Dream come true turns into tragic death for Dublin religious teacher.

  ‘Keep your eyes closed and look as though you’re enjoying the sun on your face,’ Nick shouted over the water. ‘Soft smile, Irini!’

  I wanted to get this right, prove I could do the job. My desire to have a quiet life in Dublin, teach children, get married, and have a family had gone out of the window. Wearing beautiful, expensive clothes and being the centre of attention was so contrary to my former lifestyle it seemed deliciously naughty. But I was still terrified of the water that gently lapped at my feet.

  Recalling the Liffey, I wondered what was below me. How deep was the harbour? I swore I would get over this stupid fear and learn to swim. My holdall lay on the quayside and in a quiet moment, I heard my phone ringing. I guessed it was Quinlan calling from the airport.

  ‘Can somebody answer my phone, please? It’s important!’

  Angelo delved into my bag and pulled out the black Victoria’s Secret briefs, much to the amusement of the crew. Then came the matching bra. He draped both garments over his white plaster cast. His eyebrows went up, eyes half closed. The crew whistled and whooped, and I wanted to kill them all.

  ‘The phone!’ I yelled, my face burning. ‘It’s urgent!’

  Paula stomped up to Angelo and whacked him on his good arm. ‘Now look what you’ve done. Lobster-face isn’t exactly the fashion this year!’ She spun around and yelled at the crew, ‘Cut it out! Get the boat pulled in and fetch Sofia, somebody.’