A curious shuffling step. She had watched it many times and thought the dance uninteresting. Now, with Brett’s hand holding the other end of the handkerchief, with firelight shadow dancing on the roof of the cave, she found it quite different. The music was the beat of the blood, of the heart … The curious hesitating step, forward, pause, forward again, was the pulse-beat of happiness. She felt life coursing through her, to Brett, and, beyond him, to their friends, these homeless Greeks who were joining in, one after another, some holding handkerchiefs, some holding hands, to take their pace from her.
At last the music changed, quickened. Dimitrakis broke out of line to perform a vigorous pas seul. Brett dropped the handkerchief and took Phyllida’s hand. ‘Now! Change as fast as you can. Sophia will show you the way to your own cave. The light’s fading fast, and we are to be twilight walkers from now on.’
‘But Father Gennaios. We must thank him.’
The old priest had dozed off lightly on his rock throne, but woke at once to bless them in rolling Greek phrases. Their thanks he brushed aside. ‘We have done for you only what the law of hospitality dictates. And, now, you are my children. Come back, one day, and show me yours.’
‘Cry at your wedding, happy for ever,’ said old Sophia cheerfully as she led Phyllida down a maze of twilit passages to her own cave. ‘An odd sort of marriage,’ she went on, helping her out of her bridal garb. ‘But no odder than mine. I was married at twelve—for fear of the Turks, you understand. My husband went back to his village immediately, and I was working in the fields again by evening. But not dressed as a man!’ This still scandalised her, and it was with many a disapproving ‘Po, po, po.’ that she helped Phyllida into the fustanella and closely fitted black jacket Oenone had provided. ‘Not but what it suits you,’ she admitted at last. ‘You make a good enough boy, if you keep the jacket buttoned. No need for Yannis to be ashamed of you.’
‘Yannis?’
‘He is to be your guide for the first part of the journey. It’s the roughest, too, I’m afraid. Down to the village. But Yannis knows every rock of the path—and no need to fear he’ll have had a glass too much ouzo either. Not my Yannis. There, the bundle, and you’re ready.’
‘Sophia; I don’t know how to thank you.’ Impossible, insulting to give her money. What had she packed in the bundle—a lifetime ago, urgent in her anxiety for Peter? Nothing of the slightest use. The only precious thing she had, her ring, she had given to Brett in exchange for his.
‘Are you ready?’ His voice from the low entrance made her start and turn. ‘Look what Father Gennaios has given us as a farewell present.’ He was holding two of the sheepskin cloaks that were coat, bed and everything else to the Greeks.
‘God bless him! But, Brett, Sophia. I’ve nothing—’
Brett was feeling deep in his trousers’ pocket. ‘The first time I’ve paid your debts, love, but not, I hope, the last.’ He produced a sovereign. ‘Kyria Sophia, this has been my lucky piece for many years. I need it no longer, since my wife is my luck. May it bring you good fortune, as it has me. See! It has the picture of the King of England on it.’ He bent to kiss her, first on one cheek, then on the other. Phyllida did the same, crying a little, trying to say ‘thank you’, but Brett was urging her away, out into the gathering dusk, where Yannis was waiting.
* * *
The first bit of the path was easy, since it was where she and Brett had taken their daily exercise, and she knew every boulder, every illogical twist, every outcrop of sharp flint that might cut through their silent pigskin shoes. They walked steadily for nearly an hour, then Yannis, a little ahead, turned to let them catch up with him.
‘The next bit’s difficult,’ he said. ‘I think we had best wait till the moon rises.’ He looked up to the five-fingered silhouette of Taygetus, outlined, now, against the faintest hint of light. ‘Not long to wait. Sit.’ His gesture made the cold, bare rock seem the most luxurious of divans. ‘Rest.’ With instinctive tact he perched himself on a boulder a little away from them so they could speak English without seeming to exclude him.
If the sheepskin cloak had seemed heavy and awkward to carry at first, it proved itself now, acting both as protection from the cold rock and from a new bite in the air. ‘A strange wedding night, love.’ Brett had settled himself so that Phyllida could lean against him as comfortably as the harsh outlines of the rock permitted.
‘Yes.’ She leaned luxuriously back. ‘Won’t this be a story to tell our grandchildren!’ And then. ‘What’s that?’ It came again, a wild unearthly keening. From all around? From behind? ‘Dogs?’ Her voice shook a little.
Ahead of them, Yannis, was on his feet.
‘Wolves,’ said Brett. ‘Where are they, Yannis?’
‘Behind us,’ said the boy. ‘Near the entrance to the caves. They smell the food. We’d hoped they’d not come down from the heights so soon.’ He looked at the pale band of light, a little broader now, above the mountain tops. ‘With your consent, kyria, I think we should start now. The ladder is difficult in the dark, but at least they cannot follow us down it.’
The howling came again, nearer, echoing from cliff to cliff. ‘So long as it’s not impossible,’ said Brett.
‘Nothing’s impossible. It is but for the kyria to put her feet, at each step, where I show her. We will have to go ahead a little way, kyrie, to a place where she can wait. Then I will come back for you. You trust me, kyrie?’
‘Of course.’
‘If they come too close, shout at them, throw something, anything to hold them off for a moment. But, whatever you do, kyrie, don’t try to come down the ladder alone. It’s death. Come, kyria, no time to lose. Do exactly as I show you, and there is nothing to fear.’
Nothing to fear? With Brett, waiting up there, and the howling of the wolves perceptibly nearer? But at least no time to waste in fear of this ‘ladder’ whatever it might be. A foot, downward, to the resting-place where Yannis put it. A hand, obediently following his. Another foot; another hand. Thank God for the soft, gripping pigskin shoes. What was below? Better not think of that. Think, rather, of Brett, above, waiting…
Once, her right foot slipped from the resting-place Yannis had found for it, and she hung for an endless moment, supported by her left hand and one insecurely-placed toe. But Yannis was there, his hand over hers, steadying her, helping her find her foothold again. If she panicked, if she fell, she would take him with her. And Brett? She would not panic.
It seemed to go on for ever. Hand, foot; hand, foot. ‘This way, kyria, that’s it.’ Yannis encouraging, helping. Yannis … a boy of, what? Fourteen?
Suddenly, there was light. ‘The moon’s up,’ said Yannis. And then, quickly: ‘Don’t look down!’
Good advice. Better not know. Foot, hand. The wolves again, very near now. Oh, Brett…
‘There.’ Yannis’ voice, low, triumphant. ‘Sit there, kyria. Don’t move an inch. Wait.’ Already his voice came from above her, as he climbed like a monkey back up the ‘ladder’.
She could see it now, almost perpendicular in the moonlight, and Yannis’ dark figure moving now this way, now that, up what must be an incredibly intricate route. No wonder their hosts felt safe in their caves.
The wolves again, directly above her, Brett’s voice, shouting, and the sound of rock on rock. He had thrown something at them, and, so doing had started a small landslide.
‘Lie down, kyria! Hold tight!’ Yannis’ voice came anxiously from above, but she had already done so. Rocks rattled harmlessly past her. It was over. Peering up, she could see nothing now but the loom of the cliff. Then, far, far above—could she really have come down so far?—voices, Brett’s and Yannis’, indistinguishable, drowned by the renewed howling of the wolves.
The air bit cold. She wrapped herself more tightly in her sheepskin cloak. If they are killed, she thought, what shall I do? When the Suliot women were surrounded by the Turks, they danced on their mountaintop, and gradually, as they approached the edge, each one threw he
rself over, carrying her child with her. But I? She shivered. Her money. The great burden of her money. Peter and Jenny, Oenone … Whatever happens, she thought, I shall try to live.
‘Phyllida!’ Brett’s voice. ‘Can you hear me? Are you safe?’
‘Of course I’m safe.’ Her voice was tart with relief. ‘If you think you’re going to get rid of a perfectly good new wife by dropping rocks on her, you’re mistaken. You didn’t even hit me.’
‘Thank God.’
She could hear them, now, above her, moving, pausing, moving again as she and Yannis had done. ‘And the wolves?’ she called up to them in Greek, and was rewarded by Yannis’ laugh. ‘They have never learned to climb the ladder, kyria. Fortunately. Neither up nor down. They’re stupid, like the Turks. There!’ The two of them joined her on her narrow ledge. ‘Five minutes rest, kyrie, if you wish.’
‘No need. If you’re ready, love?’
‘Of course.’ She was on her feet, carefully keeping her eyes away from the dizzy drop below. ‘Which way?’
‘It’s easier now.’ Yannis edged past her to take the lead. ‘We follow the ledge. Keep close behind me, kyria, and don’t look down.’
She had no time to look anywhere but at her own feet, carefully finding their way along the rough path. Downwards and to the left it took them, round a long spur of the mountain. ‘The village is just below us,’ Yannis said. ‘Spit from here, and it should land on the dome of the church. A pity we can’t fly.’
No need to elaborate on the point as they followed the curve of the mountainside farther and farther from their destination. But at least the moon was well up now, and the going easier. They stopped once, to adjust Phyllida’s bundle, which had slipped on her back, where Yannis had made her tie it, under the sheepskin cloak. ‘Just as well it didn’t slip up there on the ladder,’ he said, as Brett made it safe for her.
She shivered at the thought, but already they were moving forward again, steeply downwards, into a deep gorge. She could smell rosemary now, and from time to time felt the softness of growing things under her feet instead of the bare rock. Here and there, a darker shadow was a tree.
Then, quite suddenly, they were in thick woods, pine by the smell of them, and, perhaps—Phyllida slipped and caught a branch to steady herself—the stubby little vallonia oak. No moonlight here to help them. They had to find the path with their feet, moving forward at a snailspace. ‘I see now why you said it would take all night.’ Brett spoke from behind her.
‘Yes.’ Yannis spoke without turning round. ‘But we’re not doing too badly. Soon we’ll reach the half-way point and rest a while.’
Only half-way. But the rest did her good, with the handful of dried fruit and sip from the flask of ouzo Yannis produced. And after that, the going was steadily easier as the path broadened towards the village. At last, ‘Wait here,’ said Yannis, ‘while I make sure that all’s safe.’
‘Exhausted, my poor love?’ Again, Brett had settled himself so as to provide the most comfortable possible resting place for her.
‘Tired,’ she admitted. ‘I’d just as soon not have to climb that “ladder” again.’
‘Good God, nor I. And when you think that they do it carrying whole sheep and pigs!’
‘And Yannis made a special trip for the bridal crowns,’ she said sleepily.
‘And that ravishing outfit of yours.’ He bent to kiss her. ‘Our first night together as man and wife, and look at us.’
But she had fallen asleep.
She did not hear Yannis return, nor their quick, anxious conversation, and only roused, reluctantly, at Brett’s gentle, insistent shaking.
‘Time to be moving, love.’ He helped her to her feet. ‘We’ve had to change our plans. The Turks were here yesterday. I’m afraid they found the hut where we were to have spent the day. Yannis thinks the church is the best place … Not much chance that the Turks will come back again so soon.’
‘No, God damn them.’ Yannis did not sound like a boy. ‘What else is there for them to do here?’
‘Were there people in the hut?’ Phyllida made herself ask it, as they set forward again, walking side by side now.
‘Yes.’ Brett said no more, and she did not ask. She was beginning to notice a new smell, mingling with the fresh, dawn scents of pine and herb, the smell of burning.
‘They hadn’t come this far for years. Not since they burned the chapel.’ It was a shock to realise that Yannis was crying. ‘The old ones did not think they would. They said the ladder was too steep; they’d stay at home, where they were comfortable. They’re comfortable now, God rest their souls.’
The smell of fire was much stronger. They had left the forest behind and instead of slippery pine needles, Phyllida’s feet felt firm, well-trodden earth as they walked between high hedges that she thought were prickly pear. It was darker, the moon must be setting, but ahead of them she could see a red glow.
‘The village,’ said Yannis. ‘Lucky for us they didn’t bother with the chapel. Here.’
The building loomed up, dark against the farther glow. ‘Don’t look.’ Brett had her inside.
The central dome of the little church gaped open to show paling sky and a last star, but one corner of the entrance was still roofed and the three of them settled there, after Yannis had said a quick prayer.
More dried fruit, Brett making her take a burning sip of ouzo, Yannis’ voice: ‘The old ones had saved a cockerel for you, since it was your wedding.’
And Brett’s: ‘Don’t think about it. Or rather remember that I shall tell Milord Codrington everything I have seen.’
‘Yes,’ said Yannis, ‘but that won’t help the old ones.’
When Phyllida woke, it was twilight. Still? Again? And what in the world was that rushing noise? She stirred, was aware of Brett’s sheepskin covering her as well as her own, and sat up. Suddenly, lightning flashed across the open roof of the church, showing the altar, drenched and desecrated, faded frescoes on the crumbling walls, emptiness … And rain pouring steadily down through the gaping roof; pools gathering here and there on the uneven floor; a trickle of water advancing steadily on the dry corner where she had slept. And Brett and Yannis? No sign of them. Had the Turks come back and found them?
The church door hung crazily on broken hinges. She peered cautiously out round it, but could see little through the torrential rain, hear nothing but the sound of its falling. Lightning again, and the crash of thunder, nearer this time. Primitive terror surged up in her. In a moment she would be screaming, rushing out into the storm to look for Brett.
Nothing of the kind. She turned back into the church and went busily to work damming the little stream that threatened to drown their one dry patch.
‘I knew I could count on you.’ Brett’s voice made her start. ‘Yannis was afraid you might panic if you woke and found yourself alone, but I told him he didn’t know what American ladies were made of.’
‘I nearly did. Oh, Brett, you’re soaking!’
‘Aren’t I just? Don’t kiss me, love. Someone in our party had better stay dry. Yannis not back yet?’
‘No. Where have you been?’ She managed not to make it a reproach.
‘Doing my duty by Father Gennaios. Open my bundle for me, love, and get out my notebook. I must write it all down, while I remember.’ He unfastened his travelling pen-and-ink stand from his belt and set it down on a flat rock. ‘Thank goodness Father Gennaios made me some new ink. Pretty odd, I suspect, but it should last till we get to Navarino.’
She had unwrapped his bundle and found it to contain one clean shirt, a bundle of manuscript thickly covered on one side with Greek characters and on the other with Brett’s fine, clear hand, and the invaluable notebook. ‘But, Brett, if the Turks should catch us?’
‘I know.’ He faced her over it. ‘But, think, love, what they are doing here is unspeakable. If they catch us, we’re witnesses. We haven’t a chance. My writing it down can make no difference. At least,’ honestly, ‘I don’t thi
nk it can. And I do think I owe it to Father Gennaios, for all they’ve done for us.’
‘It’s so very bad?’
‘Yes.’ He was writing away busily now. ‘A day-to-day record will be infinitely more convincing than anything we can remember.’
‘But, Brett, in that case, should I not see too? To act as another witness?’
He looked at her sombrely. ‘You’ll see enough, I’m afraid, before we get to Navarino.’
Yannis appeared some time later, shaking the water from his thick hair and triumphantly holding out a pair of quails. ‘At least we can eat.’ He handed them to Phyllida. ‘I’ll light a fire while you pluck them.’
‘A fire? You think it’s safe?’ Brett looked up from his writing.
Yannis laughed scornfully. ‘You don’t think the Turks will be out in this! God has sent the rain as a protection for us, kyrie. And then, thoughtfully. ‘And, that being the case, do you think He will mind if I light a fire in His church?’
‘I’m sure He won’t,’ said Brett. ‘But how will you manage?’
Yannis laughed. ‘My grandmother says I could light a fire at the bottom of the ocean.’
‘Yes,’ Phyllida looked up among a shower of feathers. ‘And find roses on Taygetus if you wanted them.’
‘Why in the world should I want them?’ But he was right about the fire, and the quail, slightly scorched on the outside, rather raw along the bone, was the best meat Phyllida had ever tasted.
When they had finished, Yannis meticulously cleared away the traces of their meal, dousing the fire with the rainwater that still came down in torrents. ‘A bad night for walking, I’m afraid.’
It was indeed. The rain sluiced down. The darkness was absolute and they had to walk in single file along a path that was rapidly turning into a stream. ‘At least no one else will be out,’ said Yannis, leading the way. ‘And the path lies through the fields for the first few hours. It should be easy enough. If the worst comes to the worst, and it hasn’t cleared by the time we get there, we’ll have to shelter in the ruins at Mandinia. But I think it will clear. These storms don’t usually last long.’
Greek Wedding Page 30