by Jo Thomas
On my sixth morning at the farm, I’m clearing out under the sink, armed with an upturned jam jar to catch any spiders that might be hiding there, when I hear screams coming from the mountain path just above where I’ve been picking the wild mountain greens. It sounds like Kostas. My heart leaps and races like a whippet down the racetrack. I drop my scrubbing brush into the bucket, letting soapy water splash everywhere, and run outside, through the cows’ field and up the hill the other side, my walking boots that I bought from Lidl when Mike and I took Demi to the Green Man festival last year slipping under me as the tiny rocks create a little landslide. I actually manage to jump the fence by lying along the top of it and sort of rolling off the other side, then catapult towards the worn stone steps. Coming towards me I see Georgios, running down the lane from his little stone hut. He must have heard the screams too.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ I say, slightly out of breath, only just managing to stop myself careering into him. He doesn’t speak. I haven’t seen him since he dropped me off last week, and frankly, I’d’ve preferred it to stay that way. He’s still scowling at me now, and I’d like to ask if he’s like this with everyone, or whether it’s just me. Something about him seems familiar . . . But I don’t have time to think about it now; there are more important things to worry about. I need to find out where those screams were coming from. I need to find Kostas. I glance briefly at Georgios, dodge round him and run up the path. Georgios follows just behind me, making me run faster, my breathing deeper, batting away flies from my face. It’s hot now, and getting hotter.
‘Kostas?’ I shout as he suddenly comes into view, stumbling and sliding down the path. ‘What’s happened?’
‘The bees!’ he cries, clutching his head, and carries on running past me and Georgios towards the farmhouse. Georgios and I swap concerned looks. It’s the only common ground we’ve found since I arrived.
I try to remember the number for the emergency services. Should I call? Would an ambulance be able to get up the road? Instead, I follow Georgios back down the path. His limp is only just evident and isn’t slowing him up any.
At the farmhouse, Maria has her arm around Kostas and is leading him inside. She waves a tea towel at us. ‘I have him . . .’ she calls, and Georgios slows up, showering little stones over my feet as he puts the brakes on down the rough road.
‘What happened?’ I call, walking towards them.
‘The bees,’ Maria says, rolling her eyes. ‘He went after the bees. A whole swarm came down through here. He followed them to try and catch them.’
Kostas is whimpering, holding his nose.
Maria tuts and shakes her head. ‘He just wanted the bees to come to the hives. He has been working so hard on them. He just wants them to come before the summer is over,’ she says, looking suddenly close to tears.
‘Oh you poor things.’ I turn to Georgios, but he’s gone, just the tumble of tiny stones where he stood only a minute before.
I follow Maria and Kostas into the kitchen, where Mitera fills a glass of water from a big, battered metal jug. Maria sits Kostas down on a chair and puts cold water on a tea towel, then hands it to him to hold over his face. Going to the dark wooden dresser, she takes down a small glass jar with what look like a few dried herbs in it. She looks up at Mitera, who nods. Maria takes the kettle off the stove and pours hot water into a mug, then adds the herbs and hands the mug to Kostas. He takes his hand away from his face, revealing an angry red sting on the end of his nose, close to another and another. His cheeks are beginning to swell like a red balloon.
We suck in a collective breath, wince and take a step back.
It’s only seeing our reaction, looking in turn at each of our faces, that Kostas realises how bad it actually is.
‘Do we have any more dittany?’ he asks, looking at the pathetic offering in his cup.
Maria shakes her head. ‘Let’s hope we get a visit from the messenger soon!’ She looks out of the window.
‘Who is the messenger, Maria?’ I ask.
‘He is sent by the gods. Ever since the mountaintop has become . . . well, out of bounds, someone comes. They bring a bunch of dried dittany and leave it on the doorstep for whoever needs it. The messenger always knows and always comes.’ She nods firmly.
‘This dittany . . . can I get it?’ I ask, keen to do something to help. ‘Do we have some on the farm? Has Kostas planted any?’
‘Dittany is a special herb. It grows only here, in Crete.’ She waves a hand at the mountain behind us. ‘It has been used as an antiseptic . . .’
‘Anti everything,’ Kostas butts in.
‘. . . since the beginning of time. The gods would seek it out. Zeus was born here. It is said he gave dittany to the island in gratitude for keeping his mother safe when she fled her husband to give birth to him. It is woven into our history here in Vounoplagia. This town is built on dittany. It is why we are . . . well, were,’ she corrects herself, ‘so healthy and lived so long. It’s what drew people here.’
‘I could go and find some if you want,’ I say, turning and getting ready to go.
She shakes her head firmly.
‘It grows only high up, in hard-to-reach places. In the crevices on shady rock faces. Soft fuzzy leaves, arching stems, pale pinkish-purple flowers. No one goes that high up the mountain these days.’
She pours more cold water on to the cloth and puts it back on Kostas’s face. She lets out a long, exasperated sigh, making her lips pout like Demi does when she’s taking a selfie.
‘So maybe . . .’ I start to think out loud, but Maria is busy tending to Kostas, who is whimpering and looking very unwell. ‘Maybe we need to plant dittany. And maybe if I can find it and bring it here, the bees will come back.’ I suddenly break into a smile, feeling like a tiny seed has been sown. Why hasn’t Kostas done this before? It’s exactly what we need!
Kostas takes the cloth from his face and shakes his head. ‘The mountain . . .’ He tries to speak, but his lips have started to swell and Maria scolds him. Neither of them is really listening to me whilst they gently bicker in Greek to each other. Kostas looks like he’s complaining loudly about the pain and Maria is waving her arms, presumably insisting he keeps the cloth in place.
‘The bees won’t be happy until love returns to the mountain,’ Mitera says firmly in English for us all to hear.
Maria and Kostas both roll their eyes but smile as if indulging a young child. ‘The Greek name for dittany is erontas – love. Mitera thinks the bees won’t be happy until the dittany starts to grow again,’ Kostas explains with difficulty.
‘And some people think they won’t be happy until long-lost loves are reunited once more,’ Maria adds.
Mitera shrugs and lifts her chin, turning back to the sink with a look that says she knows she’s right. She gazes out of the window as if expecting someone.
‘You must stay inside,’ Maria tells Kostas. ‘Nell, could you help Mitera in the kitchen?’
‘Of course,’ I reply, glad to be of use. ‘Shall I collect the greens, Mitera?’ and she nods, her teeth rattling up and down in her mouth. I grab a basket and head out of the kitchen door.
I’m climbing up towards the mountain when I hear a rustle in the trees just above the cows’ field, making me jump. I catch my breath and see a dark figure in the shadows. ‘Hey!’ I shout without thinking. The figure stops and looks at me. It’s Georgios, and I let out a little sigh of relief. At least it isn’t some gang member from the mountains. He stands as I march up the hill towards him. ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.
‘I was . . .’ he hesitates just for a moment and then says, ‘making sure Kostas was OK.’ I’m confused. He looks as if he’s leaving the farm, not arriving.
‘Well, he’s in the house.’ I point. ‘Maria says he has to lie down, but I’m sure he’d welcome a visitor.’ I look up at the mountai
n and jut my chin out towards it, as if prodding the belly of a giant bully. ‘Perhaps you could help find out what’s going on up there. You’re the last house up the mountain.’ I look around. ‘You must see what’s going on.’
He steps out of the shadows of the pine trees. He’s wearing his hat and his scarf is pulled up around his chin. The little black and white dog is at his feet. It barks at me and then at something in the distance. I look up and see the smallest of the puppies venturing down the hill towards us. He’s warning it to go back. I know that if I make a move, the dog will warn me too.
Georgios looks at me sharply, his eyes narrowing like a sniper once again. ‘I keep myself to myself. You would be wise to do the same.’ There is something about him – something vaguely familiar – still there, scratching at the back of my mind.
The puppy does as it’s told and turns back to the shed where its mother is waiting. I feel a little surge of defiance on its behalf. I lift my chin.
‘I need to get up the mountain,’ I say, more boldly than I’m feeling. But if anyone can help me, it’s going to be this guy.
‘No one goes up the mountain these days,’ he growls, looking around.
I look at him squarely. ‘Kostas needs some . . .’ My mind goes blank. ‘Some plant thingy. Soft fuzzy leaves, pinkish-purple flowers, the one in the honey.’
‘Dictamus,’ Georgios supplies. ‘Otherwise known as dittany.’
‘That’s it!’ I turn to him and attempt a smile. ‘Can you show me where to get it?’ I try and hold the smile. I want to find some and plant it up in the field.
‘No,’ he says flatly and with finality and turns to walk away.
I’m smarting, but I’m not going to let him see that. ‘Look, just tell me where it grows and I’ll find it myself.’
‘You have to know where to look,’ Georgios replies.
‘Well tell me then!’ God! This man’s infuriating! ‘I just want to help Kostas and Maria.’ It’s the least I can do after all their kindness, welcoming me.
‘It’s not safe.’ Georgios snaps his head round to me, his eyes flashing, unnerving me again. ‘It’s best if you just stay away.’
‘But Maria said the town relies on dittany.’
He looks down and doesn’t catch my eye. ‘I know,’ he says slowly.
‘Kostas needs it. The bees need it. The whole town needs it. If I can just find some to bring down to cultivate in the herb meadow—’ He cuts me off before I have a chance to go on.
‘Nobody has been able to find the dittany since . . . well, since things started happening.’ He looks up at the limestone tip of the mountain, as white as if it were covered in snow. ‘Trust me, if there is any left up there, someone is keeping it very safe.’
He draws away slowly, his gold-flecked eyes resting on me, and I feel every nerve ending tingle. Something tells me not to go any further. Like deep water, there is a darkness behind those eyes that is unsafe and definitely not for swimming in, no matter how strong the pull.
I return to the farmhouse with the basket of greens under my arm to see Maria at the front door, bending down and picking something up off the step.
‘It’s here!’ She straightens up, holding out a little sprig of something dried like it’s the Olympic torch. ‘A gift from the gods,’ she beams. ‘I told you. We just have to have faith and he delivers.’ She holds the herbs to her chest; they’re wrapped with a crocheted ribbon, I notice, like a corsage for a wedding.
‘Is that the herb? The dittany?’
‘Yes! The healing herb.’ She beams again and holds the sprig to her nose, breathing it in. ‘We have it, Kostas! It came! I knew it would!’ She turns and makes her way back through the big blue door into the cool of the whitewashed house.
In the kitchen, she pulls the big black kettle on to the stove with a stained tea towel. Kostas joins us and tries to smile as Maria begins preparing the dittany. He doesn’t look good. His face is an angry red, and swollen where the bees have stung him.
‘I’ll finish up outside,’ I say. ‘Are you sure Kostas doesn’t need to go to hospital? I could try and drive the truck,’ I offer, with more confidence than I feel.
‘No, no. We will be fine now we have the dittany. We’ll use it to soothe the stings rather than as a drink this time. But thank you. If you can do the herbs and check on the hives, that would be such a help.’ Maria hugs me. ‘You are brilliant! Thank goodness you are here. The gods are really smiling on us today!’ she beams, her cheeks like rosy apples. She looks almost teary as she strikes a match and lights a candle in the window. ‘To give thanks to the mountain, for the dittany,’ she explains. ‘And the honey factory is starting to take shape. A lot of people would have turned and run when they saw how much work it needed. And here you are helping us when we need you.’
I suddenly feel really . . . well, just that: needed. They need me here and that feels good. Really good. Like I’m somebody again. Nell, cleaner of honey factories, guardian of herb gardens! I may not be a Nobel Peace Prize winner, but it’s a start. My shoulders relax and I find I’m holding my head higher than I have in a long time, and I can’t help but smile back, feeling my throat tighten and my eyes prickle.
Maria starts grating half the dried leaves into a jug. Then she takes the kettle off the stove and pours boiling water on to the herb dust, stirring it with a big wooden spoon.
‘I let it cool for a minute, then it will be ready to dab on,’ she says, touching her own face. Taking the other half of the bunch, she pours hot water straight on to the leaves to make tea. ‘We will leave it for ten minutes, then strain it,’ she says, as if giving me a Cretan cookery class, but I’m a keen student, it’s fascinating. ‘We will add a little honey.’ She picks up the jar we opened on my first day here and scrapes out the last of it. ‘And now it is gone,’ she says. Their last jar. She shrugs, smiles and tips her head from side to side. ‘At least we have some dittany!’ She kisses Kostas on the top of the head and then on his cheek, and he winces and cries out in pain, making her hug him to her tightly.
I wish I hadn’t eaten the honey. I’ve been having it every day, with yoghurt for breakfast and on fruit in the evenings. If I hadn’t, there would be more for Kostas. I feel bad. I have to try and help get the bees here and the honey factory up and running.
That herb seems to make all the difference. The bees obviously love it too. I wonder, what if I could find some and bring it to the herb meadow? It can’t be that hard, can it? I go collecting greens on the mountain anyway. Georgios’s words come back to me. It’s best if you just stay away. I never did like being told what to do. Certainly not when my mum wanted me to go to Australia. She was moving there with her new husband, Bob, who she’d met on holiday in Benidorm. Bob worked in a boatyard. Everything changed when she met him. I refused to go with them. I didn’t want to take orders from a woman who’d barely been there for my growing up and who had introduced me to more new dads than I could remember. I especially wasn’t going to be told what to do after I rang her from my nan’s and told her I was pregnant and she told me to think about things. That having a child had ruined her life. Ouch! That had hurt, and it made me build my barriers higher. She told me I should consider my options. There was only one option in my mind. I was having a baby and I was going to be a way better mum than she’d been. I was going to throw everything I had into it.
Kostas winces as Maria applies the blanched dried dittany to his stings, waving his arms around complaining about the pain, his nose and cheeks glowing. She argues back and tells him to sit still.
I watch them, so at ease with each other, bickering yet clearly deeply devoted, and I feel a pang of . . . not jealousy exactly, but a sadness, deep down. Mike and I were never like that. We never bickered or rowed but we didn’t care about each other like Maria and Kostas do either. We were just two lonely souls trying to convince ourselves we
were a couple. But we weren’t a couple, not really. Not like these two. I try and think of the things I miss about Mike, and with a heavy heart, I realise I can’t actually think of anything. I realise that there has only ever been one love in my life, and that was Stelios, and I regret with all my heart letting him go. That’s why I’m here. I have to find him and discover if he felt the same, and why he didn’t come after me when I left.
I move away from the sink, where I’ve been cleaning the greens, and Mitera slips her teeth out and starts washing up. As she works, she gazes up at the mountain, as if looking for someone again. Is it the ‘messenger’ she is hoping to see, or somebody else? This dittany plant, if the bees love it so much, could be what Kostas needs to bring them to the farm. If I can just speak to Stelios, I’m sure he’d know what to do and where to find it. He knows this mountain inside out. I just need to pluck up the courage to go and see him. I know one thing for sure: I’m not going to go through life with any more regrets.
Before bed, I Skype Demi. It’s a frustratingly stilted call as I wonder whether now is the time to tell her that her biological father wasn’t just a holiday romance but the love of my life, and that that’s why I’ve come out here – to find him.
But she’s busy telling me about her family that she’s working for in London, and although she doesn’t mean to hurt me, I can’t help wishing I’d been enough of a family for her. I decide that now isn’t the time to tell her about Stelios. I’ll wait until I’ve found him. But every time I look at her, at the dimple in her cheek that appears when she smiles, I see him. I will find him.
I swap a couple of text messages with Angelica about the bees, the honey factory and the messenger from the gods. Then I get a surprise text from Mike, telling me again that he’s sorry and asking if we can give it another go. I lie on my bed and think. Do I want him back? I know I don’t love him like Maria and Kostas love one another. Do I want to settle for anything less? There is only one word that is going round my head. No, I type, and then slowly and firmly press send.