by Mary Stewart
He answered with a sort of desperation: ‘He’s gone back along the hillside. I want to see where he goes. If I could follow, he might lead straight to Colin.’
I had just been very badly frightened, and was still ashamed of my reactions to that fear. It made it difficult, for the moment, to think straight. ‘Do you mean to tell me that you were just going, and leaving me alone in there?’
He looked bewildered, as if the question were irrelevant; as I suppose it was. ‘You’d have been quite safe.’
‘And you think that’s all that matters? You think I don’t even care whether you—?’ I stopped short. Things were coming straight now, rather too straight for speech. In any case, he wasn’t listening. I said, still angrily, because I was annoyed with myself: ‘And just how far do you think you’d get? Have a grain of common sense, will you? You wouldn’t get a hundred yards!’
‘I’ve got to try.’
‘You can’t!’ I swallowed, conscious of the greatest reluctance to say anything more at all. I never wanted to leave the shelter of that ledge as long as I lived. But one must save a rag of pride to dress in. ‘I’ll go,’ I said huskily. ‘I can keep out of sight—’
‘Are you mad?’ It was his turn to be furious; more, I could see, with his own helplessness than with me. That the conversation was conducted in hissed whispers did nothing to detract from its forcefulness. We glared at one another. ‘You don’t even begin to—’ he began, then stopped, and I saw his face change. The relief that swept into it was so vivid that for the moment all exhaustion and worry seemed wiped away, and his smile was almost gay. I swung round, to look where he was looking.
A man had dropped lightly from the tumble of rocks above the little alp, and was making a cautious way between the clumps of asphodel. Brown trousers, dark-blue jersey, bare head: Lambis. Lambis, watching the watcher, following him down to Colin . . .
In a few moments more he, too, skirted the base of the cliff, and vanished.
‘He got away,’ said Lambis, breathlessly, in Greek. ‘There’s another gorge further along the hill, where a stream runs down. It’s full of trees – plenty of cover. I lost him there.’
It was perhaps an hour later. Mark and I had waited, watching the hillside, until we saw Lambis returning. He approached slowly and wearily, pausing at length at the edge of the flowery plateau to look up towards the rocks where we lay. It was obvious from his bearing that he was alone, so Mark had waved some sort of signal to show him where we were, while I had made a hurried way down, to meet him on the narrow path above the spring. He was empty-handed still. I guessed that he had cached whatever he had been carrying, in order to follow the Cretan.
‘Was he heading downhill – down the gorge?’ I asked quickly. ‘That’s probably another way down to Agios Georgios; in fact, I don’t see where else it can go. Did you see?’
The Greek shook his head, then rubbed the back of his hand over his forehead. He looked tired, and was sweating profusely. He had spoken in his own language as if too exhausted to attempt English, and I had answered in the same tongue, but he gave no sign that he had noticed this. ‘No. I couldn’t get too close to him, you understand, so it was not easy to follow him. I lost him among the rocks and bushes. He could have climbed out of the gorge and gone further east, or he may have been making for the village. Look, I must tell Mark. He got up there?’
‘Yes. I helped him up. He’s much better. What about Colin?’
‘Eh? No. Nothing. He wasn’t there. He had not been to the boat.’ He spoke, I thought, as if his mind was not quite on what he was saying. He had hardly looked at me, but kept his eyes on the upper rocks where Mark lay. He rubbed a hand again across his damp face, and made as if to push past me without further speech.
I caught at his sleeve in a sudden flash of apprehension. ‘Lambis! Are you telling me the truth?’
He paused and turned. It seemed to take two or three seconds before his eyes focused on me. ‘The truth?’
‘About Colin. Have you got bad news for Mark?’
‘No, of course I haven’t! Of course I’m telling you the truth, why not? I went to the boat last night; he was not there. There was no sign, no sign of him at all. Why should I lie to you?’
‘I – it’s all right. I just thought . . . Sorry.’
‘It is because I have nothing to tell him that I am angry now. If I had found out something from this man—’ a quick exasperated shrug – ‘but I did not. I have failed, and this is what I have to tell Mark. Now let me go, he will be wondering what’s happened.’
‘Wait just a moment, he knows you haven’t got Colin, we were watching you from the ledge. But the food – did you get the food and stuff?’
‘Oh. Yes, of course I did. I brought all I could carry. I should have been here a long time ago, but I had to stop and hide, because of that one.’ He jerked his head downhill, a curiously dismissive gesture. ‘When I saw him come this way, I hid the things, and came, quickly. It was a good thing you’d left the hut.’
‘He saw it, did you know?’
‘Yes. I guessed that he had. When I came here, he was just coming along under this ledge, and I knew he must have seen the hut. But he was still hunting . . . and I had heard no shot . . . so I knew that you had gone. I guessed you would be here.’
‘Where did you put the food? We ought – never mind, Mark’ll want to hear your news first. Come along, then, let’s hurry.’
This time it was Lambis who hung back. ‘Listen, why don’t you go for the food straight away, yourself? Just the food, leave the other things; I can carry them later.’
‘Well, all right. If you think I can find the place.’
‘It’s near the top of the gorge where I lost him. Follow round where you saw me go – see? There’s a goat track of a kind; it takes you along the foot of the ridge to where the stream runs down into the gorge. It’s rocky at the top, but there are trees, lower down. You can see their tops.’
‘Yes.’
‘At the head of the gorge, where the spring leaves the rocks, there is an olive tree. It is in shelter, and has grown big, and very old, with a hollow body. You must see it, there are no others near. I left the things inside it. I shall come when I have seen Mark.’
Almost before he had finished speaking, he had turned away. I got the sharp impression of preoccupation, almost as if I had been dismissed, and with relief. But the nagging little thought that this brought to me didn’t last long. Even if Lambis (having presumably fed on board the caique) could so lightly dismiss the thought of food and drink, I could not. The very thought of what the hollow tree contained drove me towards it at the speed with which a pin approaches a magnet.
I found it easily enough. It was the only olive tree in sight, but even without that, I felt sure that I should have flown straight to the food by instinct, like a vulture to its kill, even had that been buried in the very middle of Minos’ labyrinth.
I rummaged eagerly in the hollow trunk. There were two blankets, wrapped round what appeared to be a sizeable collection of stuff. I untied the blankets, and foraged for what he had brought.
There were medical supplies, bandages, antiseptic, soap, a razor . . . But for the moment I pushed these aside, to concentrate on the food.
The thermos flask, full. Some tins, among them one of Nescafé, and some sweetened milk. Tins of corned beef. Biscuits. A small bottle of whisky. And, final miracle, a tin opener.
I threw these happily into one blanket, tied the corners up into a bundle, and set off back again.
Lambis met me halfway. He didn’t speak, just nodded at me, as he made way for me on the path. I was glad of this, as it is not easy to speak politely with one’s mouth full of Abernethy biscuit, and to speak Greek – which contains gutturals – would have been less elegant still.
All the same, I would have been the happier for something to lighten the look he gave me. It wasn’t that the distrust had come back; it was something far less positive than that, and slighly more d
isconcerting. Say, rather, that confidence had been withdrawn. I was back on the outside.
I wondered what he and Mark had been saying.
I found Mark sitting at the back of the ledge, leaning against the rock, staring out over the open hillside. He turned with a start when I spoke.
‘Here’s the thermos,’ I said. ‘Lambis says there’s soup in it. There, have the mug, I’ll use the top of the thermos. Get yours straight away, will you? I’m going to light the fire again, for coffee.’
I waited for his protest, but it didn’t come. He took the flask from me without speaking. I added, hesitatingly: ‘I – I’m sorry Lambis didn’t have better news.’
The thermos top seemed to have stuck. He gave it a wrench with his good hand, and it came. ‘Well, it’s what I expected.’ He glanced up then, but I had the impression that I wasn’t fully in focus. ‘Don’t worry any more, Nicola.’ A smile, that looked like something taken out to wear, that one wasn’t used to. ‘Sufficient unto the day. Let’s eat first, shall we?’
I left him carefully pouring soup, and hurried into the cleft to get the fire going.
It was a wonderful meal. We had the soup first, then corned beef, sandwiched between the thick Abernethy biscuits; some cake stiff with fruit; chocolate; and then the coffee, scalding hot, and sweetened with the tinned milk. I ate ravenously; Lambis, who had fed himself on the boat, took very little; Mark, making, after the first few mouthfuls, an obvious effort, did very well. When at last he sat cradling his half-empty cup of coffee between his hands, as if treasuring the last of its warmth, I thought he looked very much better.
When I said so, he seemed to come with a jerk out of his thoughts. ‘Well, yes, I’m fine now, thanks to you and Lambis. And now, it’s time we thought about what happens next.’
Lambis said nothing. I waited.
Mark blew a cloud of smoke, and watched it feather to nothing in the bright air. ‘Lambis says this man was almost certainly making for Agios Georgios, and – since it’s the nearest – it does seem only reasonable to suppose that, whoever these blighters are, they come from there. That makes it at once easier, and more complicated. I mean, we know where to start looking, but it’s certain, now, that we can’t go down there for official help.’ He shot a quick glance at me, as if prepared for a protest, but I said nothing. He went on: ‘All the same, obviously, the first step is to get down there – somehow – and find out about my brother. I’m not such a fool as to think—’ this with a touch of weary hopelessness – ‘that I could do very much myself yet, but even if I can’t make it, Lambis will go.’
Lambis made no reply; indeed, he hardly seemed to be listening. I realized, suddenly, that between the two men, everything that had to be said had already been said. The council of war had been held already – while I had been sent to get the food – and its first conclusions reached. I thought I knew what they were.
‘And so,’ Mark was saying smoothly, without looking at me, like someone trying out a delicate tape-recorder set somewhere in the middle distance, ‘will Nicola, of course.’
I had been right. First order in council: Women and camp-followers, out of the way; the campaign’s about to start.
He was addressing me directly now. ‘Your cousin’s coming today, isn’t she? You’ll have to be there, or there’ll be questions asked. You could be down at the hotel, and checked in . . .’ a glance at his wrist . . . ‘good heavens, by lunchtime, probably. Then you can – well, forget all this, and get on with that holiday of yours, that Lambis interrupted.’
I regarded him. Here we were again, I thought: the smile, friendly, but worn as a vizard to anxiety; the obstinate mouth; the general wariness of manner which meant ‘thank you very much, and now, please go away – and stay away.’
‘Of course,’ I said. I pulled my canvas bag towards me over the juniper needles, and began putting my things into it, rather at random. He was perfectly right, I knew that; and anyway, there was nothing more I could do. With Frances coming today, I would have to get out, and keep out. Moreover – I was rather sharply honest with myself here – I wasn’t exactly eager to run into any more situations such as I had met last night and today, with their tensions, discomforts, and moments of extreme fear. Nor was I prepared to be regarded – as Mark, once on his feet, would obviously regard me – as a responsibility, even a liability.
So I smiled rather tightly at him, and pushed things into my bag.
‘Bless you.’ The smile he gave me now was one of swift and genuine relief. ‘You’ve been wonderful, I don’t have to tell you how wonderful, and I don’t want to seem filthily ungrateful now, after all you’ve done, but – well, you’ve seen something of what’s going on, and it’s obvious that if I can keep you out of it, I must.’
‘It’s all right, you don’t have to bother. I’m the world’s crawlingest coward anyway, and I’ve had enough excitement to last me a lifetime. I shan’t cramp your style. You won’t see me for dust once I get within sight of the hotel.’
‘I hope to heaven your luggage is still where you left it. If it’s not, you’ll have to be thinking up some story to account for it. Let me see . . .’
‘I’ll dream up something, something they can’t disprove till I’ve left. Good heavens, you don’t have to start worrying about that! That’s my affair.’
If he noticed that one, he let it pass. He was crushing out his cigarette, frowning down at it, withdrawing into those dark thoughts again.
‘There’s one thing, and its desperately important, Nicola. If you do see Lambis – or even me – around in the village, or anywhere else for that matter, you don’t know us.’
‘Well, of course not.’
‘I had to mention it.’
‘That’s okay.’ I hesitated. ‘But you will let me know somehow – sometime – what happens, won’t you? I shall worry, who wouldn’t?’
‘Of course. Will the British Embassy in Athens find you?’
‘The British Embassy?’ Lambis had looked up sharply.
‘Yes.’ Mark’s eyes met his, in that now-familiar, excluding look. ‘It’s where she works.’ Then, to me, ‘I can get you there?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll write to you. Another thing . . .’
‘What?’
He wasn’t looking at me, he was fingering the stones beside him. ‘You’ll have to promise me something, for the sake of my peace of mind.’
‘What is it?’
‘You won’t go near the police.’
‘If I’m getting out of your affairs, I’m not likely to complicate them by doing that. But I still can’t see why you don’t go at least to the headman in Agios Georgios. Personally, I’m all for doing the simplest thing, and going straight to the authorities, wherever I am. But it’s your affair.’ I looked from one man to the other. They sat in uncompromising silence. I went on, slowly, feeling more than ever an intruder: ‘Mark, you know, you haven’t done anything wrong. Surely, now they realize you’re just an English tourist—’
‘That won’t hold water.’ He spoke dryly. ‘If they didn’t realize on Saturday night, they did on Sunday, and this morning. And still our friend’s looking for me with a gun.’
Lambis said: ‘You’re forgetting Colin. He is the reason for this.’ His gesture took in the ledge, the scraps of food, all the evidence of our rough-and-ready camp. ‘Until we know where Colin is, how can we do anything? If he is still alive, he is their – I do not know the word – ó ómeros.’
‘Hostage,’ said Mark.
‘Yes, of course. I – I’m sorry. Well . . .’ My voice faded feebly, as I looked from one to the other; Mark wooden, Lambis sullen and withdrawn once more. Suddenly I was conscious of nothing but a longing to escape, to be away down the mountainside, back to yesterday – the lemon grove in the sunshine, the egret, the point where I came in . . .
I got up, and Lambis rose with me.
I said: ‘Are you coming too?’
‘I will see you part of the way.’
I didn’t demur this time; didn’t want to. Besides, I supposed he would want to make his own way into the village, once he had seen me, so to speak, off his pitch. I turned to Mark. ‘Don’t get up, don’t be silly.’ I smiled, and put down a hand, which he took. ‘Well, I’ll say goodbye. And good luck, of course.’
‘You got your cardigan?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t return your petticoat.’
‘That’s all right. I hope your arm will soon be better. And of course I hope . . . well, that things will turn out right.’ I lifted my bag and slung it over my shoulder. ‘I’ll be going. I expect in a couple of days’ time I’ll think all this has been a dream.’
He smiled. ‘Pretend it has.’
‘All right.’ But I still hesitated. ‘You can trust me not to do anything silly; for one thing, I’d be too scared. But you can’t expect me to shut my eyes and ears. You see, if Agios Georgios is the guilty village, then I’m bound to see that man with the rifle, and find out who he is, and all about him. And I’m bound to find out who speaks English. I certainly won’t bother you, unless I hear something terribly important. But if I do, I – I think I ought to know where to find you. Where’s the boat?’
Lambis looked swiftly at Mark. Mark hesitated, then said, across me, in Greek: ‘We’d better tell her. It can do no harm. She knows nothing, and—’
‘She understands Greek,’ said Lambis sharply.
‘Eh?’ Mark threw a startled, incredulous look at me.
‘She speaks it almost as well as you do.’
‘Does she?’ I saw his eyes flicker, as he did a bit of rapid back-thinking, and, for the first time, a trace of colour came up under his skin.
‘It’s all right,’ I said blandly, in Greek. ‘You haven’t given much away.’
‘Oh well,’ said Mark, ‘it serves me right for being rude. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s all right. Are you going to tell me about the boat? After all, you never know, I might need help. I’d feel better, if I knew where to find you.’