Icon of Gold

by Teresa Crane

  Finally, late in the afternoon, she dozed at last, falling into a heavy, exhausted sleep from which she was awoken by the opening of the door.

  She narrowed her eyes against the evening gloom; fear started within her. ‘Leon?’

  Her husband did not answer. He closed the door behind him, walked to the bed, stood for a moment looking down at her. Then, very deliberately, his eyes hard and steady on hers, he began to undress.

  She turned her head away. ‘Leon — no. Please.’ The words were barely a breath on the warm and dusty air.

  Still he did not speak. She closed her eyes, hearing his movements, the rustle of his clothing as he dropped it at his feet. She felt his weight, the deliberately cruel strength of his hands about her wrists and on her breasts, smelled the wine on his breath as his mouth covered hers, not kissing, but biting, inflicting pain. He took her brusquely and in anger; an exercise in brute force, in humiliation. Quickly spent, he rolled from her, panting. A moment later he stood, naked in the dim light, the massive torso with its mat of greying hair sheened with sweat. He bent to pick up his clothes. Straightened.

  She watched him, pale as death except where the blood stood on her lip.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, the words heavy and even, ‘you will get up. You will resume your duties in the house. You will prepare for the festival. You will not, however, leave the house. Send Anna on any errands that may be necessary. You will make amends, Kati, for what you have done. You will ensure, above all things, that no one ever knows what happened between you and my son. One word —’ he held up his huge hand, put his finger and thumb together with barely a space between ‘— one small word — and I will kill you with my bare hands. And Nikos with you, if I have to hunt him to the ends of the world to do it. I promise you. Adam comes the day after tomorrow. You will by then have everything ready. You will act as if nothing has happened. We will attend the procession and we will celebrate, as planned, the feast of the fallen woman.’ The words were ironically emphasised. ‘Afterwards you will return to London with me. Is that understood?’

  Her pale eyelids drooped. He leaned to her, grasping her chin, forcing her face to his. ‘Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes.’

  He walked, naked, to the door, left without looking back, padding up the warm stone of the staircase softly as a stalking animal.

  Cathy stared, unblinking, at the planked wooden ceiling, heart, mind and aching body empty of all but pain.

  *

  Such is the resilience of the human spirit that, against all her expectations, Cathy slept deeply that night, and woke if not refreshed at least ready to bear the burdens of the day as best as she might. Leon went down into the village early and did not return until evening, having spent the best part of the day in the taverna, drinking and playing dominoes. Cathy supervised the preparations for the coming festival with an empty mind and an aching heart. She and Leon ate the evening meal in a heavy silence. The meal finished, Cathy cleared away the dishes and came back to the table on the terrace. Leon’s eyes brooded upon the distant skyline; smoke from his cigarette drifted lazily in the still air.

  ‘I’ll go to bed if you don’t mind,’ Cathy said, quietly.

  He grunted, without looking at her.

  She took it for assent, and turned.

  ‘Wait,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’ As calmly as she could she turned back to face him.

  ‘Adam comes tomorrow on the evening boat. I shall meet him and bring him home. I shall tell him that Nikos has been called away, and will not be here for the festival. You will do nothing and say nothing to make him suspect that anything is wrong. You understand?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her mind sheered away from the question of what Leon might do if he ever discovered that Adam already knew what had been going on.

  His expressionless eyes studied her face for a moment, then, ‘Go,’ he said, and reached for the wine bottle.

  Unusually — in fact extraordinarily — Anna was late the next morning. She arrived at last, flushed and out of breath from running. ‘I’m sorry, Kiria — my little brother is sick — I had to go for the doctor —’

  ‘That’s all right, Anna. Nothing serious, I hope?’

  ‘I don’t know, Kiria — he has a very high temperature and a bad cough. Please — may I go home for an hour a little later to see how he is?’

  ‘Of course. There isn’t a lot to do. I can manage.’ She was actually relieved when, at lunchtime, she packed the girl off with a small bag of cakes and sweetmeats for the sick child. She needed time on her own, time to collect herself, time to think. She poured herself a glass of wine and wandered on to the terrace. How had everything gone so wrong? How could she face the future, day after long day, week after long week, living like this? ‘Nikos,’ she said aloud. ‘Nikos!’ and for a moment concentrated every ounce of will and energy into the name, as if she could force him to hear her, force him to understand. Would the pain ever ease? She supposed it would in time; she supposed it must, or surely neither of them would be able to bear it? Would Leon ever forgive? Doubtful; and who could blame him? A movement in the bushes drew her eye. A small black and white cat detached itself from the shadows, leapt on to the parapet and sat regarding her with lambent eyes. They watched each other in silence for a moment. Then, ‘Lucky cat,’ Cathy said. ‘No past, no future, no heart, no memories.’ She tilted her head and drained her glass. ‘Lucky little cat.’ She turned and went into the kitchen to prepare the vegetables.

  The cat looked after her, unmoved and unblinking, before lifting a delicate paw and proceeding to wash it with a neat pink tongue.

  *

  Any fear that Adam might sense or notice the strained atmosphere between his mother and her husband was dispelled almost as soon as he arrived. It was with sinking heart that Cathy recognised the symptoms of an intolerably bad mood. Morose and monosyllabic, he ate little and matched Leon glass for glass of the strong red wine.

  Cathy studied him. ‘Adam? is something wrong?‘

  He lifted his head. ‘What? Oh — no. Of course not. I’ve just had a bitch of a week, that’s all. And the flight was late. I’m bushed, that’s all.’ He did indeed look tired, and his face was drawn.

  ‘Get to bed, boy,’ Leon said. ‘A good night’s sleep will sort you out.’

  Adam hesitated.

  ‘Tomorrow we stroll down into the village, to the taverna,’ Leon said. ‘A game of dominoes, a glass or two, you’ll be a new man.‘

  Adam half smiled, but his eyes stayed sombre. ‘Yes,’ he said, and stood up, stretching. ‘Perhaps I will turn in. I’ll see you in the morning.’ He bent to peck a kiss upon his mother’s cheek. She covered his hand in hers and was surprised at the tension she felt in it.

  After he had left Cathy glanced at Leon. For the past couple of nights he had slept in Nikos’ abandoned bed; to do so with Adam in the house would certainly not go unnoticed, however self-absorbed Adam might be. Desperately she hoped he might leave her alone, but instinct told her it was unlikely. She had to know. ‘Leon?’ she asked, directly. ‘Where will you sleep tonight?’

  He bent a dark, oppressive gaze upon her. ‘You are my wife,’ he said. ‘Where else would I sleep but in your bed?’

  She lowered her eyes and tried to suppress the rebellious stab of anger that the words unexpectedly triggered. She would not quarrel with him. Not until she was certain that Nikos was well away and out of his reach. Quietly she stood and began to clear the table.

  *

  The following morning was an especially glorious one. The sun flooded the mountainside in golden light, the vaulted, forget-me-not sky was cloudless. The faintest of breezes, in from the sea, stirred the leaves of the trees and touched the petals of the bright mountain flowers. A shepherd called and whistled to his flock and on a far hillside a man tended to his beehives. The little, fast-running stream that dashed past the house from the spring rippled and sang in its deep and rocky gully and the scent of bougainv
illea hung on the air.

  Mid morning the two men set off for the village below. Cathy, standing on the terrace and watching them tramp off down the steep path that followed the stream down the mountain, and then lifting her eyes to the distant, shimmering, sunlit hills, wondered if her heavy heart would ever allow her to appreciate such beauty again. It was, she thought, as if she saw everything — what was that evocative biblical phrase? — through a glass, darkly; the light, the peace, the colour, all that she had loved, all were marred. She drew a long, sighing breath, unaware that the stamp of her unhappiness was clear upon her face.

  ‘Kiria?’ The soft voice beside her made her jump. ‘Shall I put the fish in to soak before I sweep the steps?’ Anna’s eyes, huge and dark, held a look of gentle enquiry, and of unexpected sympathy.

  ‘What?’ Cathy shook herself from her reverie. ‘Oh, yes, Anna. Please. I should have done it earlier —’ She cast one last look at the lovely view, then turned to the house and her domestic chores.

  She was resting in the darkened bedroom in the oppressive heat of mid afternoon when she heard a hammering on the gate upstairs and the sound of a man’s voice, shouting. She sat up, startled. It was rare indeed to receive an uninvited visitor, let alone one who made so much racket. She swung her feet to the floor, groped in the gloom for her sandals.

  Beyond the open door a shadow flitted, a footfall sounded. Her heart jumped, then, ‘Anna?’ she called. ‘Is that you?’

  There was no reply.

  The peremptory hammering on the door came again.

  ‘Anna! There’s someone at the door —’ The words were sharper, a little nervy.

  Again the shadow flickered, hovering beyond sight.

  Cathy shoved her feet into her sandals and stood up, screwing her eyes against the glaring sunshine beyond the door. ‘Who is it?’

  A tall, broad figure loomed against the light for a moment, then slid into the shadows of the room. Adam leaned against the wall, his head back. Even in this light she could see the bloodless pallor of his face. She took a hesitant step towards him. ‘Adam? What is it? What’s wrong?’

  He bowed his head and passed a hand over his face.

  ‘Adam — please — what is it?’ She moved to him, putting out a hand to touch the broad chest. Catching her breath in horror at what she touched. ‘Adam! You’re hurt!’

  On the terrace above Anna spoke and a man’s voice answered, quickly, vehemently and at some length.

  Adam took her by the shoulders, his fingers biting deep. When he spoke his voice was low, and desperately urgent. ‘No. Not me. I’m OK. Ma, listen to me. Don’t let anyone know I’m here. Please! I didn’t mean it. I swear it. It was an accident. But no one will ever believe it. Help me. Help me!’

  ‘What have you done?’ Her voice was a breath of dawning terror. ‘Adam, what have you done?’

  He was crying now, suddenly and helplessly, the tears running unchecked down his face. ‘I didn’t mean to,’ he said again, ‘I didn’t! It was an accident, I swear it — he drew that bloody knife of his — I don’t know how it happened — Ma, it was an accident —’

  Upstairs, Anna let out a small, shrill scream.

  Adam’s tear-bright, distraught eyes held hers, his hands still holding her agonisingly tightly; a support without which she might have fallen. ‘Don’t tell them I’m here, Ma. Please don’t. Give me a chance. To get away —’

  ‘Kiria Kati! Kiria Kati! ‘ Anna’s voice held the fraught edge of hysteria. She was coming down the steps, stumbling awkwardly. Adam slipped away from his mother into the deeper shadows of the room.

  Cathy rubbed her hand frantically upon her skirt before she ran from the door into the sunshine.

  Anna was standing halfway down the steep stairs, her hands wringing in her apron, her face distorted. When she saw Cathy she shrieked again, buried her face in her apron. ‘Kiria Kati! ‘

  ‘What is it? What’s happened?’ Cathy raced up the steps, caught at the girl’s arm. ‘Anna! Tell me!’

  By way of answer the girl gestured mutely up towards the terrace. Cathy pushed past her and took the rest of the steps two at a time. At the top she stopped. The man who stood there, a shepherd from the look of him, thick-set, grim-faced, unshaven, took off his cap. Dark eyes were intent upon her. ‘What is it?’ Cathy asked. Behind her, Anna was sobbing.

  He spoke in Greek, thickly accented, gesturing towards the path that ran beside the garden and on down the mountainside. Cathy understood not a word.

  ‘Help me, Anna. I don’t know what he’s saying.’ She was astounded at the calm of her own voice. Resolutely she put from her mind the picture of the bright, fresh stains on her son’s shirt front.

  Her breath catching in her throat Anna said, ‘Is Kirios Leon. He says — he says -’

  ‘What?’ Anna turned on the girl, took her by the shoulders and shook her. ‘What does he say? Tell me!’

  ‘He says he is on the path below. In the stream. He says he is — dead! Murdered! He says — oh —’ The words ended in a wail. Anna once more threw her apron over her head and resumed her frightened sobbing.

  Shock had rendered Cathy unnaturally calm. ‘No,’ she said, evenly. ‘That isn’t possible.’

  The shepherd spoke again. Cathy looked at Anna. The girl struggled to control herself. ‘He says there is blood. And a knife. Oh, Kiria!’

  Cathy closed her eyes for a long moment. For one, awful instant she thought she would never move again. Then she found herself saying, still calm, still perfectly contained: ‘Ask him to take us there, please, Anna. It has to be a mistake. I must see for myself.’

  The girl shook her head, pleadingly.

  ‘Please, Anna.’ Cathy realised that she had begun to tremble, and that in the warmth of the sun her skin was ice-cold. ‘I must see for myself,’ she said again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Leon was lying, face down, beside the stream, where the shepherd had left him after he had pulled him from the water. Even lying so there could be no mistaking the huge frame, the leonine head with its springing shock of grey hair. Anna took one terrified look, shrieked and hid her face in her hands, sobbing hysterically. The rocky path widened here, and was edged with thorny brush. Bloodstains, already blackened in the sun, marked the stones where Leon had apparently crawled or dragged himself across them. An area of vegetation had been trampled down. A few yards from the body lay a knife — Leon’s own; Cathy recognised it from the barbecue at Easter, the very one with which he had carved the kid. She had once questioned him about his reason for carrying it in a sheath on his belt whilst here in the house and he had laughed, and given the answer he had given so often before: ‘Once a peasant always a peasant, my Kati. You don’t survive long in these mountains without a means to hunt and a means to eat.’

  She dropped to her knees beside him, laid light fingers upon the broad, hirsute wrist. Nothing. Looking at the way he lay she had expected nothing. She stood up, put a hand to her forehead, rubbing at the pain that suddenly hammered there. ‘Anna, please, stop it. Anna!’

  Anna’s frightened sobs subsided a little. Cathy forced her mind to work, quelled the sickness that was roiling in her stomach with an effort of will that seemed to drain the blood from her veins and the marrow from her bones. ‘We must get the police,’ she said. ‘Anna - ask him if he’d be willing to go back down into the village and call them. Tell them what has happened and say we need someone up here, quickly. The taverna has a telephone.’

  Anna backed away from the body, keeping her eyes on the shepherd’s face. After she had spoken the man grunted and nodded.

  The shock that had held Cathy calm was wearing off. Somewhere not far from the surface hysteria hovered. Grimly she fought it off. Whatever happened she must keep her head. Anna had started to wail again. Cathy somehow resisted the urge to slap her. ‘Anna, go find the priest. Ask him to come.’ Anything to get the girl away.

  Helplessly Anna shook her head. ‘Kiria — I can’t leave you here —
alone —’ She glanced towards Leon’s still form and the great sobs started again.

  ‘Bring the priest,’ Cathy said. ‘I’ll stay with him. Go.’

  The girl and the man left, scrambling and sliding down the path. As the sound of their departure faded Cathy stood very still, the heat of the sun hammering mercilessly on her unprotected head. A fly buzzed. She bent to brush it away. ‘Leon. Oh, Leon!’ She sank to her knees beside him, her hand resting on his still one, and as she bowed her head above him the tears came in an irresistible and shocking onslaught. She heard a cry so primevally animal-like that she did not recognise it for a moment as her own. Yet still as that first fierce tide of grief and terror ebbed, somewhere within her she knew the need for control. She sat back on her heels, the shuddering sobs quietening a little. The fly buzzed again, and another. She lifted her head; and froze, staring.

  The mountainside sloped steeply above her, dotted with bushes and trees, sculpted with outcrops of rock. But by a bizarre chance the Shepherd’s Hut stood out clearly above her, open to view. The door stood open. And the movement that had caught her eye had been Adam, coming from the dark interior, carrying what looked like a heavy bag. He stopped, stood silhouetted for a fraction of a second looking down at her. Even from this distance she could see that he had changed his clothes.

  ‘Adam!’ The cry had escaped her lips before she could smother it.

  Her son, face working, stood for a moment longer, then he hefted the bag into his arms, turned and disappeared from her sight. She stood for the space of a breath, tense as a spring. Then: ‘Run, Adam,’ she whispered. ‘Run! But — where will you go? What will you do? Oh, God — how could you do this? And why? Why?’ She sat on a rock not far from the sprawled body and dropped her face into her hands. Nothing made any sense. Nothing. Dully she stared down at the rocky ground. It took a long moment or so before she noticed the glint of gold in the sunshine. She reached a hand to the broken chain that lay half-hidden in the dust beneath a crushed sage bush. She would have recognised it anywhere. She glanced around, searching for the icon. Obviously the chain had been broken in the struggle. Had Leon known it? It was of substantial strength; had he felt the chain break and been distracted, knowing the icon to have fallen? Was that how Adam, unskilled and untrained, had in one split second been able to overcome his stepfather, who had more than usual experience in defending himself? If it were so it was a terrible irony. Leon had been Greek enough, and superstitious enough, she knew, truly to believe in his good luck charm, and the protection he believed that it afforded him. She scuffed at the stones with her sandalled foot, but for the moment at least the thing was gone. Best, perhaps, to let it go, she thought, wearily. It had not, in the end, proved any safeguard from this worst of evils.