by Sara Alexi
The wicks became infinitesimally thicker as the woman continued to turn the ring and fill and pour the jug. The only sound was the slow chinking of the chains the ring was supported on as they become twisted with the turning, and the dripping of the wax as it ran down the end of each wick and rejoined the melting pot.
When she had completed the circle she allowed the chains to unwind. Some of the tails of the forming candles caught on each other and she separated them with her fingers before taking a fresh jug of wax and beginning the cycle again.
Marina looked more closely around the room. Behind the cauldron was a wooden table on which stood an unlit oil lamp, a cloth, a flat tin and a cake of something. Behind this, against the wall, were stacked candles a metre or more tall, tapering to a fluff of wick at their tops. Down the side of the walls were rows and rows of open-topped boxes of church candles.
The woman finished another cycle and allowed the ring to spin back again, and when it came to rest she put down the jug, and deliberately and slowly took off her apron. She turned to Marina, looped the apron over her head, picked up the jug and handed it to her, smiling. Marina remembers the excitement and just a touch of fear. What if she did it wrong, what if the old woman laughed at her attempts? The woman had smiled broadly at her hesitation, her paper-thin skin creasing at the corners of her mouth, and her cheeks pulled smooth.
Marina paused before dipping the jug and then took courage and began. The old woman took a big flat stick from behind the door and stirred the wax whilst Marina was pouring. Once happy with the consistency, the woman hung the paddle on a hook protruding from the bare stone wall and dragged a wooden box from under the table, from which she took out a wax honeycomb, dark brown, almost black, in the dim light.
Marina positioned herself slightly at an angle to watch what the woman was doing, whilst she continued to pour the wax. Down on the floor in the corner, completely unnoticed until now, Marina could see a pan of boiling water on top of a primitive stove. The woman dropped the wax into the water and returned to the table. She picked up the cake of what Marina now realised must be wax. The bottom of the cake was black. From amongst her skirts she took a knife and began to scrape the black off the cake into the flat tin.
They continued working together like this for some time, the candles growing slowly thicker, until the woman put down the cake of clean wax and went over to the primitive stove. From another hook in the wall she took a sieve and began to scoop the scum off the surface of the pan of simmering water and melted honeycomb. From under the table, with her free hand, she pulled out a newspaper and unfolded it, and onto this she upturned the sieve to tap it clean.
‘The cocoons.’ She spoke slowly. ‘The chickens love them.’ She smiled when she had finished speaking. She hung the sieve back on its hook and slowly made her way over to Marina. The woman had looked right in her eyes then, and Marina felt such kindness. The woman took the jug and put it on the floor, which relieved Marina as her arm was aching by now with the effort of repeatedly holding it up, full of wax. Then, carefully, gently, the woman lifted the apron over Marina’s head and replaced it around her own neck. She picked up the jug and began her work again.
Marina took one last look around the room before slipping out of the door into blinding sunshine, as quietly as she had entered. Her last thought was to wonder how the woman got in when there is no door handle or key hole.
She runs her hand across the door as she passes, the memory precious. She only met that kind woman on one other occasion.
Marina inhales deeply to bring herself back into the present. She turns right on a path of large, flat flagstones. Further up, the stone path gives way to a rough, narrow, cobbled lane between the whitewashed houses. Cats sprawl on doorsteps here and there. Some doors are open, revealing dark sitting rooms or steps straight up to the first floor or, in the grander houses, courtyards large and small.
Eventually the cobbles give way to bare earth, the stones sticking through where the winter rain has washed the soil from around them, baked rivulets of brown surrounding islands of pebbles. The larger stones have creases of earth above them and trailing wakes of disturbed soil below, all baked beneath the Mediterranean sun to a hard dry path.
The pine trees are close, their shade beckoning, beyond the last of the houses. The path now twists and turns on itself, down three steps to go up six, under an arch between two buildings, round the corner, too narrow for more than one person at a time. Round the next corner is the unexpected pleasure of an old woman in black, sitting on a doorstep, happy to wish Marina a good walk. A donkey to pass, some cats to stroke, some geese in someone’s garden.
The houses thin out and give way to rough ground but Marina has remembered the path, and as it advances onto open ground, too high to build, too rocky to grow things, it suddenly becomes cobbles again and then flags and finally she is under the shade of the pine trees.
She is impressed with how well she is doing. The island is steep but the path smooth, and Marina begins to wonder what she will say to Yanni, or his mother. It is hard to imagine Yanni as a cute baby, and Marina conjures up an image of a baby with a scowl. Maybe his mother scowls too? How could a mother scowl at her child? Marina takes a deep breath. She wipes a tear away. She should have loved him more. How was she to know?
When you are just married to someone you don’t really like, and you are only fifteen, you want to escape. It is only natural, she tells herself. Well, she escaped by playing with her friends. She would forget everything for hours at a time. She was a young fifteen and she loved to play hopscotch, tag, and a game called poison, using a length of rope. Her friends ranged from four-year-olds to sixteen-year-old girls, the boys away on the farms by that age.
The baby came very soon after they had been married. It had made hopscotch difficult near the end of her time. The baby was just beautiful. A boy. She called him Dimitri, but Manolis said he should be named after his grandfather, Socrates. But no baby has an official name until it is baptised in the Greek Orthodox church. So it was just ‘baby’ at first.
Marina’s mother helped with the baby right from the start, and as the days passed she helped more and more, until she took over altogether. Her mum understood Marina’s need to be with her peers. The baby cried a lot and would never settle down. Marina would play outside as much as she could, avoiding her domestic responsibilities. She loved her baby, but once she was outside she would forget she even had a son. It’s hard when you are fifteen, your mind’s not ready. She thought about today’s fifteen-year-olds. Girls that age don’t play hopscotch these days, they play video games and dress like pop stars. But that was then. She was young for her age and there were no video games or pop stars.
Her mother would call her in when he needed feeding and Marina would coo and cluck like any other mother. She would spend time playing with him and making him laugh, but after a while she felt cooped up and wanted to be out playing again, and besides, he looked like Manolis, which didn’t help.
But if she had known, she would have loved him more. Her mother said she had expected it, he had been a weak thing from the start. Marina felt it was her fault. If she had loved him more, if she had fed him more … Her mother tried to calm her, and insisted there was nothing she could have done, sometimes that’s just how life is.
Manolis was quiet when he was in the house for a while after that, and he didn’t come near Marina, which suited her very well. She moved into the second bedroom and stayed there. Six years later Eleni was born, the product of a drunken night for Manolis. Artemis, five years after Eleni, was the result of a drunken night for Marina who desperately wanted another child.
With all her thoughts crowding in on her Marina suddenly realises she has reached the top and the pine forest is petering out. An unexpected sign tells her that the monastery is to her right, and the ridge at the top of the island to her left.
Chapter 7
Marina sits on the flat-top rock she has claimed as her picnic chair
and brushes the cheese pie crumbs from her blouse. She holds her arms out to the side to allow her underarms to dry in the breeze. She feels somewhat revived by the food but really needs a good meal. That will have to wait. She adjusts her feet and stands. She is tired, but at least going back will be all downhill. But there is no point in being up here at all unless she talks to Yanni, or his parents, and besides, she really needs a drink of water.
She pushes past the last of the trees and the ridge opens out before her. A couple of cypress trees stretch to the blue sky a short distance away, with bushes at their feet, indicating the presence of people. It is unlikely that they would have self-seeded and stayed alive up here without some nurturing in their early years. Through the bushes there is a hint of orange. Marina wonders if it is a tiled roof. As she gets closer she can see it is a single-storey shepherd’s cottage. Marina runs her hand across the whitewashed stone, large boulders at the base supporting smaller and smaller stones towards the roof. Layers of thick whitewash defuse the contours, softening the whole into an organic mound.
Goat bells can be heard behind the building and Marina rounds the windowless dwelling, past the bushes, to see two donkeys munching placidly from their nosebags. A little distance away a woman sits on a barrel, and in the hammock of her skirt stands a tiny kid that she is bottle-feeding. It sucks hungrily, pushing vigorously at the bottle, and the woman’s stout arms brace in resistance. Her free hand helps the kid keep its balance, its little hooves tap-dancing in excitement, the woman’s skirt being tested for strength.
‘Hello, how are things?’ Marina, up here so far from anything, leaves ceremony behind.
‘Kalimera! Come help me feed the goat!’ The woman, not startled, beams happily and greets Marina as if she has known her all her life. There is no space for formality in these surroundings. It is a survival existence, everyone pulls together.
‘I think I am more thirsty than your goats!’ Marina sits on a box next to the lady and takes the bottle and the baby goat, which bleats furiously at the interruption to its meal. The lady disappears into the dark of the hut. Marina puts her arm around the kid to stop it falling off her knee. The goat’s odour is pungent and not unpleasant. The woman reappears with a tin mug and a bottle of water, which she puts on the ground next to Marina, who is now struggling with the kid thrusting at the bottle, its spiky little hooves bruising her thighs.
The bottle empties and the baby goat pushes and noses with even greater energy, its upright tail wiggling backwards and forwards at a frantic pace. Marina pulls the bottle from its reluctant mouth to stop the little mite gulping air. It bleats in protest. Marina lowers it to the ground and it skips and jumps about until the woman lifts it into a square pen with three other kids. They happily head-butt each other.
‘Done!’ she announces, and slaps both thighs as she sits back on her barrel.
Marina is on her second mug of water.
‘So, are you out for a walk?’
Marina finishes drinking and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand.
‘Yes, I felt the need to be away from people.’
‘Naturally! I spend the winter months down there.’ The woman jerks her thumb towards the path down to the main town. ‘That’s enough for me. Trouble is, when I come up here my husband and son follow. There’s no peace!’ She chuckles.
‘Now how would they be surviving without you?’
‘Exactly! But I tell Yanni, my son, he should stay down in the summer. He won’t get any trade up here.’ As if on cue one of the donkeys bursts into a yodelling bray, drawing its call out at the end, thinning to nothing. The sound echoes down the hill.
A man strides from the hut, tucking in his shirt.
‘Hello,’ Marina says. It takes her a minute to recognise Yanni from the port, with his hair all over his face.
‘Eh?’ He pushes his hair back, and walks to one of the donkeys and strokes its nose before striding over to the wooden saddles behind them, and lifting one onto the larger donkey’s back.
‘Well, he can have a little trade now if he’s going back down. I am exhausted. What do you say, Yanni? Give an old woman a lift down the hill?’ Marina giggles.
‘Sure he will!’ A man hobbles out of the hut, pulling up his braces. ‘He’s a good lad, a bit moody, but good to his mother and me. Are you not, Yanni?’
‘Nai, Baba.’ Yes, Dad. He saddles the second donkey and makes to leave. Marina sees an opportunity to ask him a few questions along the way if she accompanies him, but shies from his gruff attitude. She hopes it is not him that she is looking for.
He walks towards the path, leading the first donkey, the second roped behind.
‘Yanni, give the lady a ride?’ The woman stands up from her barrel and puts a friendly hand on Marina’s shoulder.
‘I’ll walk with you a little first, and when I can walk no more I’ll hop on!’ Marina addresses Yanni, and finds the mental picture of herself hopping onto a donkey amusing and giggles. Yanni sees no humour in the situation.
‘As you like.’ He doesn’t look at her as he replies.
‘Goodbye, then. Thank you for the water.’ Marina shakes the woman’s hand.
‘Thank you for feeding the goat. Come again next time the people are too much!’ The woman slaps her heartily on the shoulder.
‘Yanni, get me some razors, I look like a wild man,’ his father calls.
They set off on the path along the ridge, heading down towards the pine forest, Yanni on one side of the lead donkey, Marina on the other, the haunches of the donkeys dipping and rising as they find their feet down the rocky slope. Marina is thankful she has worn her old shoes again. They make slow progress at first, down the top slope of the ridge.
Marina tries to think of the most subtle way to phrase the questions she wants to ask. ‘Very remote up here.’ She wishes she hadn’t said that, it’s too vague. Yanni does not reply.
‘How long have you lived up here in the summer?’ Better.
‘All my life.’ He keeps his eyes on the path.
‘Even when you were a boy?’ Marina wishes she was naturally sly.
‘All my life.’ He twists his moustache with his fingers.
‘Surely as a boy you preferred to be with other boys down in the town, playing football and so on?’ Marina thinks this is a good question.
‘No.’
‘What about as a baby? Perhaps it was a bit hot up there in the summer for you as a baby?’ Marina turns her face away to hide her embarrassment, aware of what a ridiculous question this is. When she turns back Yanni gives her a look of contempt, but does not reply. Marina cannot think of anything else to say. Yanni offers nothing. He moves his hand further up the rope he is leading the donkey by.
‘And surely your grandmother would not be happy with you being so far from her. She was in the town?’ Marina’s cheeks colour. It does not come naturally to her to pry.
Yanni takes a single cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lights it with a lighter from his jeans. He takes a long drag before putting the lighter away. Marina waits, feeling sure he is about to say something.
‘Grandma Sophia was up there until she died. She was born up here, and delivered me. Born and died there. I will do the same.’ He flicks the loose end of the rope at the donkey to make it walk faster.
‘Ah. No girlfriends beckoning you into the town then?’ Yanni casts a sour look and clicks his disdain with his tongue on the roof of his mouth, an emphatic Greek no.
‘You ride now.’ It is not a question. Yanni has stopped the donkeys and adjusts the saddle on the rear animal before beckoning Marina round. He offers his hands, fingers locked together, as a step-up. Marina pulls hard on the donkey’s saddle and Yanni hoists her up as if she weighs nothing. She sits traditionally, side-saddle.
‘My, you are strong,’ Marina chuckles. Yanni, grim faced, pulls the saddle straight before he returns to the lead animal and takes up the rope rein. He gives it length, using it like a leash, seemingly to create as much d
istance as he can from Marina. She understands the message and doesn’t mind. She has the information she wants, and she is very happy he is not with Eleni – or anyone else, for that matter! Let him be grumpy, she will focus on her beautiful surroundings. They have an hour. Less maybe, before sunset, the island peaceful.
They enter the pine forest and the sounds of the hooves are muffled, everything else silent. Marina enjoys the sway of the motion and looks up at the hues of the pale blue sky through the treetops, towards the town, until under the tree branches, down by the water, the sky glows softly pink and orange as the sun drops into the sea.
Marina thinks she may have even drifted off a little with the gentle sway of her mild animal. The journey down seems even quicker than she expected. As they leave the pine trees Marina realises that Yanni might be going down to the right, to the area Zoe had pointed out as being the vicinity of the store that kept her order. A more direct route back for Marina will be to the left.
‘Hey?’ she calls.
Yanni stops the train and turns his head, an unlit cigarette dangling under his moustache, lighter poised.
‘I’ll jump down here and go left, quicker for me.’
‘As you wish.’ He offers her no assistance for her descent, so Marina just slides, a very dignified dismount. She smiles at her ability.
‘OK, how much do I owe you?’ Marina scrabbles in her bag for her purse as she walks towards him.
‘Nothing.’ He is looking down at the port.
‘But I must, it is work.’
‘I was coming down anyway.’ He takes up the reins, holding close in to the donkey’s mouth.
‘I insist.’
‘Insist all you like.’ He clicks with his tongue to signal the animals on and begins his steady walk, away to the right. Marina finds a two euro piece and runs to catch him up. He falters, and she tucks the two euros in his chest pocket.