Secrets of Santorini

by Patricia Wilson

  Angelo was still grinning at me.

  ‘I’m sure he just does it to cheer me up. He’s a kind man,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, you understand the Greek mentality already . . . Iris?’

  ‘Stop it,’ I said, but it made me laugh.

  CHAPTER 23

  BRIDGET

  Santorini, 24 years ago.

  I COULDN’T STAND THINKING of Irini going to the convent. I imagined her looking out of the aeroplane window, excited, with no notion that we were about to abandon her. How would her tender young mind deal with the situation? I could not explain the reason for our action; she was too young to understand her mother’s madness. That she was safe was all that mattered, but I still had time to change the dream.

  Emotionally drained and longing for a good night’s sleep, I sat on the patio and wrote down my last nightmare. My heart thudded, and my eyes were raw from tears. I told myself the incident I dreamed about had not really happened, yet that knowledge made it nonetheless real. Fell asleep with complete determination to change the outcome of my fiendish nightmares. If I could do that, then Irini need not go to Dublin. I was sure of it.

  How many times had I tried and failed? How many times did I have to go through this before I found a way to stop it? The dreams were driving me mad with worry. Was I destined to continue on this hellish, pointless errand like a hamster in a wheel? The pen trembled as I started logging the account of my darkest hours.

  Before I went to sleep, I wondered if my torment was some kind of hex connected to the archaeological site. Such curses were common myth, but I had never believed in them. However, if anything was jinxed, it had to be the dish or the necklace. I drew my finger along the scar over my heart and recalled the day Irini was born. I still suspected the pottery was the base of a vessel used to catch the blood of young virgins when they had their heels pricked, as depicted in the frescoes. The other thought terrified me. Was it the dish used to catch Oia’s blood when I . . . no . . . when Queen Thira sacrificed her?

  If only I could make sense of it all, or at least change the end of the dream. In one last, desperate measure, the day before our flight, I asked Tommy to take Irini to the beach so I could catch up on my sleep. I made them a picnic and, once they had gone, I lay on the bed and tried to take my mind back to the day of the River Festival.

  I willed myself to the dawn of that day, the awful day that would end with the sacrifice of my daughter. The outcome of that chilling finale had to change. After all, it was only happening in my imagination – wasn’t it?

  The scenario that tormented me was not a vision of the past. Those events did not actually take place. So if they were only in my mind and I was in control, I could change them. I emptied my head and relaxed into my pillow, waiting for sleep.

  My mind slid back four millennia to a place in history long forgotten where snippets, distorted over time, became romanticised and glorified for the sake of entertainment and gaming. Atlantis. My return to that era deposited me before the altar. Oia, almost unconscious, was held in the last minutes of her young life.

  *

  Looking more beautiful than ever before in her glorious festival gown, Oia swoons. The opiates in her drink were so strong that now my girl’s heart is barely beating. Her glazed eyes close and her long red hair flows over the edge of the altar.

  Perspiration runs down my back. I am forced by protocol to keep my emotions hidden, but my heart is exploding with grief. I gaze down at my only daughter, taking in the loveliness of her. Our time together has been wondrous with never a cross word. I, Queen Thira, have been blessed to have such a child. Oia’s destiny was written before her conception and I accept that this day has been her sole purpose on earth.

  I raise the sacrificial knife and call to the Gods of Olympus: ‘May Oia’s spirit be reborn far into the future. May her heart be pierced, not by the sacrificial blade, but by the force of love. May her destiny be as a life saver, not a life taker. And when the time is right, may she join me in the Elysian Fields.’

  I close my eyes and plunge the sacrificial knife downward with such force it snaps in two when the point meets the stone altar beneath. I must have swooned at that moment, my spirit racing through the ether, arms outstretched to gather and hold the essence of Oia and pull her to my breast one last time, before she goes to Poseidon.

  Oia, my darling child, I love you more than my own life. Be happy. Come to me if you need me, but if you don’t, then forget this earthly existence and rule the seas at the side of Poseidon forever. Permit me to hold you for a moment, sweet child of mine, and then I will let you go, until one day your spirit will be reborn, here on earth. I will wait for that day, no matter how long, even until the stars fade. For now, goodbye sweet bride of Poseidon. Take my love with you and keep it safe in your heart, until we meet again.

  *

  The next day, Tommy and I took Irini to Dublin. Like Thira, I had lost my daughter, albeit to the nuns. Leaving Irini at the convent was the hardest thing I had ever done. Quinlan agreed to become Irini’s legal guardian, and indeed, he loved her like she was his own child. Everyone agreed that when I stopped having the bad dreams Irini could come home.

  My little girl had cried, then screeched over her shoulder, ‘Mammy! Don’t let them take me away!’ as the sisters took her to meet her new friends. Her cuddly toy, Rabbs, lay on the floor at my feet. I picked him up, rubbed the satin-lined ear between my fingers as my daughter did when she was tired, and then I pressed it against my face. The little pink rabbit smelled of Irini. I cried. Tommy sat next to me, his hands limp over his knees, his head hanging. Two minutes later one of the nuns came rushing back.

  ‘Rabbs?’ she asked, staring at the threadbare toy held to my cheek.

  I nodded and handed it over.

  I was losing everything.

  How could I even up the balance of things? If I found the dragonfly necklace and gave it to the museum, would this terrible punishment leave me? But where would I start? Perhaps if I could find Splotskey.

  Back in Santorini, I remembered that our early years as a family had been almost perfect. Both Tommy and I loved our beautiful daughter, but everything changed when we returned to the Greek island without her.

  At first, although my heart was broken, the knowledge that Irini was safe consoled me a little. I had done the right thing. I no longer went to bed with the horrible fear I would wake to a bigger nightmare. However, with the absence of our daughter, something changed between Tommy and me. Irini had become the foundation of our love and, without our little girl, the very fabric of our marriage crumbled.

  I constantly reminded myself of the amazing love we had felt for each other when we came to Santorini; the excitement of finding the archaeological site; Tommy brought back from the brink of death; the birth of Irini – all those things kept me sane and for that I was grateful. No matter what happened, I would keep the memory of that time safe in my heart.

  Over the next four years, I felt Tommy’s love slipping away, and although I still invested my time and energy into making his life as comfortable as possible, and he continued to be nice, it was all an act. Then, one fateful day, our love reached rock bottom. That moment will stay with me until the day I die.

  Tommy found hate and didn’t try to hide it. My fault, I can’t deny that. I should never have deceived him. The only thing we agreed on was that we were not fit parents for Irini.

  The day started like any other. The bluest sky, a shimmering caldera, Santorini, postcard-picturesque.

  *

  I thrust a bag of sandwiches and a couple of bottles of frozen water into Tommy’s bag and took it out to the patio. ‘Aaron not here yet?’

  Tommy shook his head. ‘He worked late last night, probably overslept. I can’t wait to see what he’s so excited about.’ He took a breath and smiled. ‘Something to do with the frescoes, I’ll bet.’

  Aaron had been right: we discovered another floor below the one we were working on. Over the
years, many frescoes were revealed. Each discovery was important in its own way, painting a greater picture of the ancient city and helping us to understand more about the Bronze Age.

  ‘How’s your paper on the Minoan Crete–Santorini link going?’ I asked Tommy.

  He rubbed his forehead and sighed. ‘Just when I think I understand, something else comes along and everything’s up in the air again. The frescoes tell us so much, and yes, they could be mistaken for pictures relating to Plato’s stories of Atlantis, right? But the carbon dating tells us they were painted many hundreds of years before Plato was even born.’

  ‘What if Plato saw the frescoes and made up a story to go with them?’

  What would have been a smile in his eyes long ago was now a glint of irritation. ‘You’re not thinking it through, darling girl. How could Plato see them? Since the eruption of Santorini, they’ve been buried under pumice.’ He glanced around as if he’d mislaid something.

  ‘And we were the next people to see them! Hell, that’s exciting, don’t you think?’ I said, trying to lift his mood.

  His head snapped up and the smile I longed for broke through.

  Desperate for a conversation, even if it was about archaeology, I continued, ‘Then have you thought: perhaps they were mapped out on some kind of media before being painted into the wet plaster? If the initial drawings were records of the way people lived, and they found their way to Athens, say, couldn’t they have fallen into the hands of other philosophers? Then at a later date, perhaps, become the inspiration for Plato’s stories about Atlantis.’

  ‘It’s an idea, but to prove it’s a record and not just artistic decoration, we need to find an actual artefact that is reproduced in one of the frescoes, and so far we’ve had no luck at all, have we? All the hundreds of pots and urns, each with their individual patterns that you have recorded so carefully, not one is seen in the frescoes. But every day I go down to the site full of hope. Every artefact, every inch of fresco uncovered, I wonder: is this it, that vital link?’

  His words triggered my guilt. I should have told him about the necklace, I know it, but I never could find the words, so I tried to forget the past and erase the memory of my wrongdoing.

  With nothing left to say, Tommy walked to the patio wall and stared across the caldera. ‘It’s wonderful living here, Bridget. Just look out at the view; it never ceases to amaze me.’

  I recognised his attempt to cheer me, yet it was as if a sheet of glass separated us. Our special closeness had gone, and although we both tried to be one again, we had become two separate people.

  ‘We’re so lucky, you know, to have all this,’ Tommy continued, stretching out his arm towards the sea, then he pulled me towards him. We both clung to the good things, overly bright in our conversation, humour forced, optimistic that our unique relationship would return.

  A cloak of bright happiness hid the bare bones of our grief.

  ‘To think I nearly lost it all, and also you and Irini.’ He thought for a moment and in a rare moment of honesty said, ‘I know you miss her terribly, Bridget. Me too. I’m heartbroken, but things will work out in the end. Irini hasn’t gone forever.’ His sad smile turned to a grin as he grabbed my bottom and pulled me against his hips. ‘I’ll see you this evening, you gorgeous creature. I do love you.’

  Life had become a cover-up. Both of us trying to hide our pain while simultaneously easing the other’s broken heart.

  ‘I love you too, but I’m crushing your butties, you great lump!’ My laughter sounded brittle and false, and I wished I could do better. I wriggled from his grasp. ‘I hope I can trust you not to work too hard, Tommy McGuire, or I’ll have to keep you home for a week.’

  ‘I’ll take it easy, promise.’ His grin fell. ‘I know it’s difficult, Bridget, and I appreciate you putting on a brave face.’

  The pretence abandoned us.

  ‘Why can’t I be a normal mother, Tommy? I miss her so much. Do you think we could go back to Dublin for Christmas again?’ My heart cracked open. Tears and sobs threatened to break free. I could hardly bear his kindness and struggled to replace my armour before I hurt him with my unbridled emotion.

  ‘Of course we can.’ The concern was clear on his face, then he seemed to throw the switch. Grinning, he made a grab for me again. The performance continued, his way of dealing with the loss of Irini.

  ‘Behave!’ I cried. ‘Aaron will be here any minute! You’re very frisky this morning.’ Suddenly, I wished he could stay home. We never spent time together like the tourists that surrounded us. I was at home three days a week, writing for magazines. Tommy was at the site six days a week.

  ‘Can we go down to the beach on Sunday, after mass? Have a picnic and a paddle?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure we can. Nice idea.’

  Our eyes met and there was no further need for words. He took me gently into his arms, and we stood motionless for a moment, thinking about our daughter and silently sharing our sadness.

  Arron arrived and took Tommy down to the site in his old pick-up.

  Feeling groggy from the sleeping pills, I walked up to the main road. I had tried going without the medication once Irini had gone, but the nightmares had returned, stronger and more vivid than ever. I came to suspect my visions were connected to the site and was glad of an excuse to stay away from the place. My bad dreams were always of the same theme. Either I was going to kill little Irini here and now, or I was a queen in antiquity, in the city we were excavating, and was destined to kill my daughter on the sacrificial altar.

  On the day that changed our lives forever, I was not going to the site. For me it was just a normal day, but when Tommy, a man of routine, had not returned home by four o’clock, I started to worry. At five, I phoned Aaron.

  ‘Hi, I’m looking for Tommy. He hasn’t come home yet.’

  ‘That’s odd. He left early today. Have you checked the kafenio?’

  Tommy was not a big drinker and seldom went to the local kafenio, but nevertheless, I went in search of him. Tommy was drunk, more drunk than I had ever seen him. I found him slumped in a corner of the dim kafenio. His mood was clearly morose and, as he stood, I realised he could not even walk without help.

  ‘Tommy! What’s brought this on? Come on home,’ I said kindly.

  He lifted his eyes and stared at me with a look of utter defeat. A couple of the men hooked their arms through his and walked him back. I had never seen him in such a state.

  Late in the night, through the fog of my medication, I heard Tommy throw up in the bathroom. Later, when I was able to drag myself out of bed, I found he had missed the toilet and left a sour mess all over the floor. Although revolted, I cleaned up the vomit and wondered if I should persuade him to visit the doctor.

  ‘Are you feeling better now, Tommy?’ I asked when he eventually woke. ‘Can I get you some breakfast, or some aspirin? How’s your head?’

  ‘I don’t want anything from you,’ he said bitterly, and for the first time in my life, I saw real anger in his eyes. His behaviour was so out of character, I racked my brains to think what had caused his terrible mood. Years ago, I remembered he had wrongly suspected me of an affair, but I couldn’t believe he was thinking along those lines again. The problem with Tommy was his inability to discuss his personal feelings. He always clammed up; whatever he worried about would fester and grow in his head. Anyway, that episode was long ago, and surely forgotten.

  ‘Will you tell me what’s the matter, Tommy? I’m worried about you. Don’t keep it bottled up, please.’

  He glared at me for a moment, then showered, dressed, and left without a word.

  *

  By midday, I could not stand the worry, and despite the blazing sun, I cycled down to the archaeological site.

  ‘Hi, Aaron, where’s Tommy working?’ I asked when I saw no sign of him.

  ‘Tommy? He didn’t come to work today. I dropped him in town this morning. He told me he had things to do.’

  ‘I wonder what’s going
on?’ I tried to keep the alarm out of my voice but my concern was building.

  Aaron appeared excited and bright-eyed.

  ‘You look pleased with yourself,’ I said, glancing around the site, looking for clues that made sense of Tommy’s behaviour.

  ‘Didn’t Tommy tell you? That surprises me.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘Ha! Come with me. You’re going to love this.’ He led me through a maze of rubble walls until we reached the place where Irini was born. ‘Look at that!’ He raised his hand towards the fresco of the goddess on her throne. ‘I’ve recovered all the missing pieces. It’s complete.’

  I stared, my hand over my mouth, darkness creeping in, breath leaving my body. The missing pieces of fresco were in place and the reason for Tommy’s behaviour became startlingly clear. Around the goddess’s neck hung the dragonfly necklace.

  The vital link that proved the frescoes were actual portraits, not fantasy. I had to find Tommy, explain, and ask his forgiveness.

  *

  Aaron threw my bike into the back of the pick-up and gave me a lift home. Tommy was waiting, staring out over the caldera. He hardly acknowledged Aaron or me.

  ‘Are you wanting a lift back to the site, Tommy?’ I could hear the concern in Aaron’s voice.

  ‘No, I’m just fine here,’ Tommy replied sullenly.

  ‘Look, I can explain,’ I said when Aaron had gone.

  ‘I don’t want your explanations! There’s no excuse. Twenty-five years I’ve been searching, every day hoping. Every day desperate to find that elusive link. Every bloody day, Bridget! How many things have you secreted away behind my back? Stolen . . . or . . . sold?! I feel sick!’

  ‘No, Tommy, listen—’

  ‘I’m not going to listen to excuses. You lied to me. You lied. After all these years. No wonder you can’t sleep at night. You’re no more fit to call yourself an archaeologist than a mother!’

  He knew how that piercing shard of viciousness would hurt. Deliberately wounding me in my most vulnerable spot. Aiming for the heart.