by Celia Scott
Athena's friend from the ferry crossing had turned up again. The girl's family had rented a house in a village just outside Chania. Athena spent a lot of time with them, so Philippa had a chance to explore on her own. She wandered through tiny villages perched high on the cliffside, she clambered over ancient ruins and daydreamed over their timeworn secrets. She discovered orange groves, where smiling labourers offered her bags full of the juicy fruit, gifts to the blonde stranger in their midst. She spent lazy afternoons swimming from deserted beaches, and tanned herself to a lovely golden brown.
After one such afternoon she returned to the villa to find Damon seated by the pool drinking coffee, his lean body stretched out on one of the gaily striped lounge chairs. As usual when she met him unexpectedly her heart gave a jolt, and her hands became unsteady.
'You're home early,' she said brightly, hoping her smile looked impersonal and did not give away the tumultuous joy she felt at seeing him.
'Mmm. Things seem pretty much under control for the next few days. Nothing for me to do until the official opening,' he told her. 'How's the reception coming along?'
Philippa told him the food she planned to serve, and the flower arrangements. It felt strange, sitting overlooking the aquamarine sea of Crete, cypresses stabbing into the incredibly blue sky, discussing menus with him just as she had months ago in London. Only then she had not held her hands together tightly so that he wouldn't notice them tremble, nor kept her long-lashed eyes down because to look too long into his deep blue ones could lead her to giving away her precious, painful secret.
'It all sounds most professional, Pippa,' he said. 'And now I propose we take a short holiday—what do you say?'
She reached for one of the sweet biscuits on the coffee tray. 'A holiday? I feel as if I've been having nothing but a holiday since I arrived.'
'While I've been slaving!' His eyes twinkled with amusement. 'Then I shall pull rank and request that you spend the next twenty-four hours as my companion, since Athena seems to have deserted you.'
She nodded coolly, and bit into the biscuit, hoping to hide the flush of pleasure that warmed her cheek.
'Have you visited the Gorge of Samara yet, Pippa?' he asked. She hadn't, although she'd heard about the world famous gorge, with its subterranean river and long narrow path to the sea. 'Then tomorrow let's hike down the gorge together. Would you like that?' She nodded. 'It's eighteen kilometres of rough terrain. Think you're up to it?'
She rose to the bait. 'Certainly! I'm probably in better shape than you.'
He laughed. 'Don't tempt fate, Pippa. Hubris is a dangerous thing to call down on yourself. We'll take the early bus to Omalos and backpack to Roumeli—do it properly, like tourists. We can take the last boat back to the mainland.'
That evening Philippa organised food for them to take next day. She checked her walking shoes. Damon had warned her that they would be fording the river in some places, and an extra pair of sneakers was essential.
Athena declined to go with them, as she had seen the gorge before, and her friend's older brother had promised to take them sailing tomorrow—a far more attractive prospect to a teenager than slogging for eighteen kilometres with relatives. Guiltily Philippa was overjoyed by her refusal. She loved Athena, but tomorrow the old axiom 'two's company, three's a crowd!' seemed particularly apt.
She rose at four the following morning, and crept into the dark kitchen to make coffee. She found Damon there, and they talked in whispers so as not to disturb the sleeping household. She felt like a child on Christmas morning, full of excitement at the promise of the day to come. Damon routed around in the fridge looking for extra lemons to take, organising the backpack. He seemed like a boy at the prospect of their day.
As they were leaving he looked at her outfit critically and sent her back to fetch a warmer sweater, warning her that it was cold in the mountains before the sun was high. He was wearing faded jeans, a disreputable old denim shirt, and battered sneakers. For warmth he wore his elegant fawn suede jacket over this shabby get-up, which struck an incongruous note.
She hastily pulled on a thick scarlet sweater and at four-thirty a.m. they were off.
They drove in Philippa's little car to the bus station in Chania, left it there and climbed into the shabby bus with a few other intrepid tourists. It was still pitch dark outside, but when they had been climbing for a while the first streaks of dawn, like bronze metal in the early morning sky, sent warm pencils of light on to the lush, fertile scenery around them. The sun grew stronger. They reached a picturesque village of red-roofed houses with white walls, which seemed to tumble down the mountainside. The road wound in a crazy zig-zag high into the snow-capped peaks beyond. Sometimes the bus would stop in the middle of nowhere and a shepherd would climb aboard, usually dressed in the old-fashioned Cretan garb of loose breeches tucked into high leather boots, a cummerbund wound round his waist, and a black silk headscarf with small tassles that swung on his forehead, and set off to perfection the wrinkled brown skin of his handsome face.
The bus started to fill up—more shepherds, some carrying lambs, a few goatherds, and another passenger with a crate of chickens. The bus driver put on the tape-deck at full blast, and bouzouki music vied with the bleating and the clucking, and the various conversations in rapid Greek, all carried on at full volume.
Damon slumped in the aisle seat, seemingly asleep. But once Philippa turned to look at him and his eyes were open. He was regarding her intently.
'Do you like it so far, Pippa?'
'Yes—oh yes!'
'Good.' He closed his eyes and seemed to doze.
The bus drove through bleak stony uplands with stunted fir trees to an enclosed pass, then made a short steep descent to where the plain lay spread out below.
Omalos—one of the most impressive of Crete's upland plains. It looked to Philippa like a vast drained lake. There was no village in this barren place, merely a couple of tumbledown cottages that leaned precariously into the wind. The bus drove steadily across this vast wasteland to the far end, where it drew up with a flourish outside the Tourist Pavilion and the entrance to the gorge.
Damon picked up the backpack and helped Philippa climb down, for she was stiff after two hours cramped in the bus. The air struck her face like crystal, sharp and cold.
'Before we have breakfast, Pippa, come and look at this,' he said, leading her to the wooden staircase that led down to the gorge below.
The golden sun glanced over dark green fir trees that clung to the thin skin of soil covering the towering crags. At the bottom of the gorge she could see the tops of cypress and pine trees waving in the breeze like a deep green sea. A spume of water thundered a thousand feet down into the unseen river below. On three sides the breathtaking view of the White Mountains spread as far as the eye could see.
The splendour made her catch her breath. 'Oh, Damon, it's… it's fantastic.' She was mesmerised by the strange brooding beauty of the place.
He chucked with satisfaction. 'Come on Pippa, breakfast—get a move on!' he said, and guided her, reluctantly, to the Tourist Pavilion.
They ate a peasant breakfast of crusty rolls, goats butter, and Nescafe, then he shouldered the pack and they set off.
It took half an hour to climb the one kilometre down the wooden steps to the footpath which followed the shallow river, crossing it at times, where it bubbled up from its underground bed. On all sides shrubs and sweet herbs grew. The scent of dittany and thyme mixed with wild honeysuckle and aromatic rock plants was overpowering.
At noon they stopped to rest and eat their picnic. Damon chose a small sandy bay shaded with pines. The sun was now blazing down, they had long since discarded sweaters and jackets, and Philippa lay thankfully in the dappled shadows. They ate the lunch she had prepared the previous night, tomatoes and cheeses, hardboiled eggs and juicy oranges. Damon filled two thermos mugs with the sweet mountain water and squeezed lemons into it, then handed her one.
'Here, Pippa, I think this i
s the best drink in the world. Try it.'
She sipped the tart water, it was so icy it seemed to bubble against her lips. She was hot and pleasantly tired, and this special kind of lemonade tasted better than any wine would have done.
'It's wonderful,' she said. 'So is all this,' she gestured to the surrounding mountains, the tumbling water, the blue sky arching high above them.
'I thought you'd like it.' He sounded happy. 'And now I suggest an hour's rest before we tackle the rest of our journey.'
Philippa lay back on the silvery sand, listening to the rapid torrent, feeling the soft mountain breeze cool on her face.
'Put your head on this.' Damon rolled up his suede jacket and tucked it under her head, then he stretched his long body out several feet away from her. 'Whoever wakes first wakes the other. O.K?'
She lay, her cheek pillowed on the soft leather of his jacket which gave off a faint aroma of his special cologne, aromatic, subtle. She fought against sleep, for she wanted to store every minute of this special day with him in her memory—a special memory for the empty years ahead. But sleep overcame her at last, and when she woke an hour later she was glad of it, for she felt as refreshed as if she had slept a full eight hours.
The river grew broader, and the path crossed and re-crossed it crazily, sometimes by a series of slippery stepping-stones. But more often they would plunge through the knee-high, cold green water, laughing, splashing, childishly enjoying the sensation of squelching around in wet running shoes.
The last part of their walk took them through the sidheroportes, or 'iron gates', the narrowest part of the gorge. The cliffs rose sheer nearly a thousand feet, and the walls of the gorge were only a few feet wide. The river had disappeared underground now, and they climbed over immense boulders that choked the dry bed. No sunlight reached here, the only brightness was the narrow slice of blue sky above. Philippa was glad when they left that part behind and reached the plain. The river bubbled forth again, and magenta-coloured rhododendrons bloomed on each side of the path.
Turning a corner, they saw their first glimpse of the sea and within minutes they were sitting at the primitive taverna on the beach, drinking coffee and congratulating themselves on their good timing.
'We've three hours before the boat comes,' Damon said. 'Did you bring a swimsuit?'
'Naturally. I wouldn't dream of moving in Crete without one.'
'The beach is stony, but the swimming's good. We can change in the caves at the end of the bay. Are you game?'
Philippa changed into her white one-piece, and met him by the shore. It was not the first time she had seen him in swim trunks, and she admired again his taut muscular body, the crisp hair curling on his broad chest. His powerful shoulders gleamed dark brown in the sunshine like polished wood.
'A lot of local people think early May too soon for swimming, Pippa,' he said, 'they only go in when the water's steaming. I imagine you're made of sterner stuff?' He cocked his eyebrow quizzically.
'I'll have you know I've bathed in the English Channel in early May,' she replied, pinning up her hair while she looked up at him.
'Then a spartan like you will have no problem going in.' He grabbed her hand and started pulling her towards the water. It felt chill on her legs at first.
She yelped, 'No! Damon… no… let's go in gradually …' but he kept pulling her, laughing, protesting, into the deeper water. Then he gave her a sudden push and she fell in with a splash. She surfaced, spluttering, pushing her wet hair out of her eyes.
'Damon, you rat… just you wait!' She swam to where he floated a few feet away, then dived and grasped his ankles, dunking him unceremoniously. They played like carefree children, splashing each other, trying to pull each other down into the translucent depths. Then they rested, floating on their backs, admiring the mountains in the distance, capped in winter white. Eventually they struck out for the shore. Philippa had no difficulty keeping pace with him, for she was a strong swimmer. But she hated to leave this world of water and sky where she and Damon seemed to lose the inhibitions of grown-ups and could clown like a couple of kids.
Back on the beach she shook out her dripping hair, wrapped a towel round her head, then lay down on her stomach to finish drying off.
'That's a nice tan you've acquired, Pippa,' said Damon, 'but don't be fooled by the afternoon sun. It's still strong. Better put some oil on if you don't want to burn.'
She reached for their pack and pulled out a tube of protective cream.
'Here, let me.' He took the tube from her and knelt beside her. 'Pull your straps down so I can get to your shoulders.' Silently she undid the narrow shoestring straps and tied them in front of her suit. He began massaging the oily cream on to her back with slow firm strokes, his hands caressing her supple skin.
Philippa lay rigid on the hot pebbles. The touch of his hand awoke feelings in her she didn't know she possessed. She felt as if her whole body, lying defenceless under his ministrations, told him with every pulse-beat of her longing for him. She buried her flushed face in her arms and lay absolutely still, praying her treacherous flesh would not betray her.
He toyed with a tendril of her damp hair, tucked it up into her towel-turban, then abruptly turned away, replaced the cap on the tube of cream and carelessly threw it on to the pack.
'You're done,' he said, opening a magazine and turning his back on her. Philippa lay still, trying to control the trembling of her body. When she could finally trust herself to speak she asked him:
'What's that ruin at the top of the cliff?'
'An old Venetian fort. I climbed up there once. There's nothing much to see, apart from the view, and you've had plenty of views today.'
'I'd like to look at it just the same,' she said, gathering her clothes, 'I've got time before the boat, haven't I?'
She had to remove herself from him for a while. His presence, so masculine lying beside her on this stony beach, tormented her to distraction. She needed to put distance between them.
'I don't recommend it, Philippa.' He turned over on his side to look at her, his eyes vivid with disapproval. 'You've been walking all day.'
She started towards the cave. 'I'm going to do it just the same,' she threw over her shoulder at him,' who knows if I'll ever get a chance again?'
Hurriedly she dressed and braided her damp hair into a single plait. When she returned to the beach Damon was dressed himself, and she wondered if he intended to come with her.
'While you tire yourself out climbing I mean to sit in the taverna and enjoy a drink,' he said. 'I think you're crazy, but I suppose, apart from physically restraining you, I can't stop you. You won't reconsider this particular piece of idiocy?'
'Nope! I'll be as quick as I can,' she replied lightly.
She left him at the taverna and started up the narrow path to the clifftop. The heat was like an arrow, and soon her light shirt was sticking to her back. The cool swim with Damon seemed an age away. Halfway up she nearly gave up this project and turned back, for the path disappeared, and she had to climb up the baked side of the rocks hand over hand. At times a ribbon-thin goat track would emerge, but this was so powdery and dangerous she was forced to crawl up it on her hands and knees.
By the time she reached the summit she was cursing herself. Putting distance between herself and Damon hadn't worked anyway. The memory of those few minutes when he had touched her, and her body had melted under his careless caress was as vivid as ever.
She looked round the small ruin, which wasn't worth the climb, then turned her attention to the view. This was spectacular! The gorge was to her left, a savage ravine in the cliffs, mountains stretched to the right, and before her was the sea. Below she could see the roof of the little taverna, and outside a blue dot was sitting at a table, that was Damon enjoying his drink. A little boat was pulling into the harbour… a boat... the boat back to the mainland!
Philippa jumped to her feet and hastily started to climb down the cliff path, slipping and sliding on the loose shin
gle. She reached the part where the path disintegrated without mishap, tried to gain a grip on the steep sun-baked rock, when her ankle gave way, and she fell, tumbling down the cliff face for about twenty feet, scratching her arms and legs, grasping desperately until finally she came to rest against a small shrub which grew tenaciously out of the parched earth.
Hanging on to the plant for grim death, she regained her breath, and waited for her shattered nerves to calm. Still holding fast to her shrub, she stretched out her long legs to search for a foothold. A stab of pain shot through her right ankle, and with dismay she realised she had twisted it. She pushed with her good foot until she'd managed to get into a more secure position on the narrow ledge. She was desperately trying not to panic, and wondered if she could slide down the rest of the way on her bottom, but her nerve had failed her, and the thought of leaving the security of the ledge was too much.
Looking down at the hamlet, still so far beneath her, made her dizzy. She noticed that the blue dot that was Damon had disappeared. Perhaps he was already sitting in the boat, waiting impatiently for her to join him. What would he do when she didn't turn up? How long would she be forced to sit here before she was missed?
She knew now she had been mad to attempt such a climb after a long day's hike… mad and stubborn. But the need to escape him had driven her, and now she was stuck on this wretched cliff for the Lord knew how long, with a rapidly swelling right ankle that was starting to throb painfully.
'Pippa… Pippa, are you all right?'
Damon's voice! He wasn't sitting waiting on the boat after all. Gingerly she leaned forward and peered down. The top of his dark head was several feet below her.
'Da—Damon, I'm here—on a ledge.' Her eyes filled with tears of relief. 'I… I can't move.'