YANNIS (Cretan Saga Book 1)

by Beryl Darby

  Yannis felt a lump come into his throat. ‘I wish you could see it.’

  ‘It’s enough for me to know you’ve done it. Now they’ll believe you, Yannis. They’ll help you. They believed me once.’ He turned his sightless eyes towards Yannis. ‘I failed them. You won’t. You can rebuild.’

  ‘I’ll try. I’ll try for you,’ promised Yannis.

  ‘No,’ Antionis shook his head. ‘It’s too late for me. Do it for them.’

  ‘If they’ll help me.’

  ‘I’ll talk to them. You go and rest. Remember, you have to take care. Too much too soon and you’ll suffer. Take it slowly. Pretend you’re old, like me, and take life slowly. When I first came here I couldn’t wait for each day to pass. I saw my friends die and I still lived. Living with nothing to live for! Now I want to live and there is little time left. Take it slowly, Yannis.’ Antionis’s head sank down onto his chest, his last words becoming so faint that it was difficult for Yannis to hear them. He released his hand from the old man’s grasp and stood up.

  ‘Thank you, my friend.’ As he walked away with Spiro he was not sure whether Antionis called after him or the words ‘you can rebuild’ were ringing inside his head.

  ‘Do you think Antionis will tell the others and get them to help?’

  Yannis smiled to himself. ‘I believe in him.’

  ‘You’re two of a kind! Idealists.’

  ‘No.’ Yannis shook his head. ‘Realists. I know that if I have to live here then I have to live with a degree of decency. That decency begins with having somewhere to call my own, where I can shut my door and say this is my home.’

  Spiro looked guardedly at Yannis. He had hardly changed since his arrival at the hospital; he obviously suffered more mentally than he did physically.

  ‘I think you should rest,’ persisted Spiro. ‘You’re far more tired than you realise.’

  Yannis smiled at him wearily. ‘You’re probably right.’

  Spiro settled him beside Kyriakos, with a jug of water. ‘Now, tell me exactly how you managed it.’

  Yannis related how he had heightened the walls and searched for timber and tiles. ‘You know, Spiro, I was so pleased with myself, but it isn’t really very successful.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ Spiro stared at Yannis in disbelief.

  ‘I didn’t know how to fix a door or think of a chimney, so you couldn’t have a fire in there.’

  ‘I don’t think that matters. You’ve proved a house can be built. If the others help we’ll figure out other ways of doing things.’

  Yannis closed his eyes. He felt deflated. His grand accomplishment was not really so great. Anyone at all could have managed to construct the hovel. It was meaner than any peasant’s hut on the mainland. Spiro looked at the prone figure and rose silently. He would go and inspect Yannis’s handiwork properly. As he approached the house he was surprised to find quite a gathering there. Christos had managed to haul himself up the slippery path with the help of his crutch and was surveying it critically.

  ‘Well?’ Spiro grinned. ‘Not bad for an amateur.’

  ‘I doubt if it will stand up to a mistral. He hasn’t tied his corners in or rebated his rafters deeply enough.’

  ‘If you’d helped us as we asked it could have been more professional,’ snapped Spiro, unwilling to have Yannis’s work belittled.

  Christos shrugged. ‘Did you help him?’

  Spiro shook his head. ‘He did it entirely alone.’

  ‘Are you both going to live up here?’

  ‘Yannis didn’t mention living in it. He wants to repair some of the others.’

  ‘Better tell him to take advice or he’ll do more harm than good.’

  Spiro took a deep breath. He had an overwhelming urge to drive his fist into the sneering face. ‘Will you advise us?’

  ‘I might. If it was worth it to me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’d want my home done first.’

  Spiro nodded. ‘I see. I’ll tell Yannis and let you know what he says.’

  Christos slithered back down the path, leaving Spiro to listen to the admiring remarks of the others who had come to inspect the accomplishment. He decided there was no time like the present to try to rally support. Mounting one of the blocks of stone Yannis had used as a catwalk he shouted at the tiny gathering.

  ‘Listen to me, listen all of you. You’ve seen what Yannis has done here. He did it all alone. No one helped him. Think how many houses could be rebuilt if we all helped. Wouldn’t you like to have somewhere to call your own?’ Spiro jumped down and caught the nearest man by the shoulders, spinning him round to face him. ‘You could shut your door and be alone when you wanted. You could put your books on a shelf, your clothes in your chest and know they would be there the next day. No one could borrow them without knocking on your door and asking your permission.’

  ‘What door? There is no door.’ The man swung away from Spiro’s grasp.

  Spiro looked about him helplessly. The people who had come up to look and gasp in admiration were now dispersing back down the hillside, smiling and tittering about the lack of a door.

  ‘Fools!’ shouted Spiro after them. ‘I laughed at him and said it couldn’t be done and he proved me wrong. You’ve seen it can be done and still you laugh. Don’t you want a roof over your heads? Do you enjoy living in the open? Please, help us. You don’t do anything all day except sit in the sun.’

  ‘I’ll help.’

  Spiro turned, a smile spreading across his face. Behind him stood a girl, she looked about fourteen, thin and pale, the upper part of her left arm was badly ulcerated and dirty.

  ‘What could you do to help?’ he asked her gently; she looked hardly strong enough to stand, let alone work.

  ‘I’d bring water up to you, and food if you wanted it.’ She looked up at him eagerly, hoping her offer would not be ridiculed.

  ‘You would? It’s a bargain.’ He placed his hand on her shoulder and she beamed with pleasure. ‘I’ve got one volunteer,’ he called after the others. ‘Lazy bastards,’ he growled, as they continued downwards without looking back at him. ‘You ought to keep your arm wrapped.’ He twisted the limb towards him, the ulceration spread from below her elbow almost to her shoulder.

  She pulled her arm away. ‘I tried wrapping it, but it didn’t seem to do much good, so now I’m leaving it unwrapped. The sun might help to clear it.’

  ‘It ought to be wrapped,’ Spiro spoke firmly. You never know when you might get some dirt in it, then it would get a lot worse.’

  She shrugged. ‘I’ll wrap it when I’m working. When do we start?’

  ‘Come back with me and meet Yannis. Where are you sheltering?’

  ‘There’s a tower further up. It’s small, but it has a roof.’

  Spiro was silent. They had passed the small structure on many occasions and never considered it as a place to shelter. The doorway was so low you would have to bend double to enter and it was doubtful that you could lie down once in there.

  Yannis was still asleep when they reached the shack, Phaedra sitting beside him. Spiro spoke to her quietly and she helped herself from the sack of clothes that were too large for Yannis bringing out an old shirt. She ripped the side seam open; then with the help of her sharp little teeth she tore it into strips and handed them to Spiro.

  ‘Hold out your arm,’ he ordered. He dabbed at the raw patches on Flora’s arm with a little clean water on a wad of cloth, ignoring the way she winced and tried to draw away from him. Finally satisfied that it was as clean as possible he wound the makeshift bandage around and tied it securely.

  ‘At least that will keep it clean.’

  ‘Is he going to wake up?’ She pointed to Yannis.

  Spiro shrugged. ‘He’s tired. He’ll probably be full of ideas when he does wake. Why don’t you help Phaedra get a meal whilst you wait?’

  Flora followed Phaedra and after a while Spiro could hear the
m laughing together. It was the first time he had heard Phaedra laugh. He laid himself down and closed his eyes. It occurred to him that he was sleeping far too much. When it became dark he slept until dawn, then most of the afternoon. He was either more ill than he thought or becoming very lazy.

  ‘I’ll soon find out,’ he thought. ‘I’ll have to try to keep up with Yannis,’ and grimaced at the idea.

  Maria cradled her baby gently in her arms, studying the tiny, wrinkled face with pride. Babbis sat beside her, his arm around her shoulders, smiling fatuously. Kassy bustled around, tidying away the soiled sheets ready for washing, pausing every now and again to have another look at her first grandchild.

  ‘I wish I could take her to show Mamma,’ Maria remarked wistfully.

  ‘Time enough for that when she’s a little older and you’ve got your strength back.’ Kassy was not having the girl get any wild ideas about walking over the hills the following day. It had become easier for her after her father had called and asked after her health a few weeks earlier. Babbis had been able to walk over with her in the evenings and it had been a weight off Kassy’s mind to know that her daughter-in-law was safe. ‘Besides,’ she added, ‘Anna will tell her how beautiful she is.’

  Maria smiled. ‘Wasn’t she wonderful? Who would have believed that my little sister could have been so efficient?’

  ‘Good job she was,’ snorted Kassy. ‘The Widow is past it, and I know nothing. Without Anna it could have been a difficult time for you.’

  ‘It was difficult anyway. I had no idea it would take so long.’

  ‘Nor had I,’ agreed Babbis. ‘I ran like the wind for Anna and the Widow and I thought they would be too late the time it seemed to take them to get here.’

  Tears began to roll down Maria’s cheeks.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong? Do you hurt?’ Babbis was all concern.

  Maria shook her head. ‘I’m just so happy,’ she sobbed. ‘She’s so beautiful and perfect.’

  ‘Then why are you crying?’ Babbis was way out of his depth with his wife’s unpredictable behaviour.

  ‘Leave her alone,’ his mother advised him. ‘It’s only natural she should cry. Mothers often do so. She’s tired and relieved that it’s all over and that both she and the baby are all right. Let her have her cry out and she’ll feel better. Then it’s a good sleep she needs.’

  Babbis held her to him whilst she sobbed, waiting until she had stopped before he spoke again. ‘What are we going to call her?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘After you and your mother?’

  ‘No, it gets too confusing, everyone having the same name.’

  Babbis sat silently. Dare he suggest it or would Maria laugh at him. ‘Do you like the name Marisa?’

  ‘Marisa?’

  ‘You don’t like it. You choose what we call her.’

  ‘Marisa,’ repeated Maria. ‘I do like it.’

  ‘It’s half your name and a bit of my mother’s, but if there’s something else you’d rather call her I don’t mind.’

  ‘There’s nothing I’d rather call her. She’s Marisa, and it isn’t to be shortened.’

  Babbis kissed his wife’s forehead. ‘May I hold Marisa for a short while? Then I think you should get some rest.’

  Maria handed the precious child to her father and lay back on her pillows as he handled her inexpertly. Life was so good to her. She had a wonderful husband, a kind mother-in-law; her father had forgiven her and now this incredibly beautiful baby. She sighed with contentment. What more could one ask from life?

  Yannis sat inside the house he had constructed. The floor of beaten earth felt cold and damp to the touch and the wind blew through the window and door opening unceasingly. Huddled beneath his blanket he felt more miserable than he had for months. This was only the beginning of winter. He shivered. His hopes and dreams of rebuilding had fallen on stony ground despite the enthusiastic reception of his first house building attempts.

  It had taken weeks of begging and pleading with the mainlanders who brought over supplies before they finally agreed to bring a ladder to the island. Having the necessary elevation it proved impossible to climb the ladder carrying the heavy blocks of masonry and unwieldy tiles. Yannis eventually designed a sling that he would haul up with the necessary materials, but the work was arduous. Christos had propped himself against a wall, his crutch under his arm, and criticised everything Yannis tried to do.

  ‘It’s no good,’ Yannis finally declared to Spiro. ‘It’s impossible to do some things without tools.’

  ‘Then we must get some.’

  ‘How are we going to do that? Pop over on the next boat and buy them? What do we use for money for a start?’

  Spiro shook his head. ‘Don’t talk foolishly. We have to beg them, the same as we begged for the ladder.’

  ‘How long is it going to take?’

  ‘Probably quite a long time, but if you can think of a better idea I’m willing to listen.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Spiro. It all seemed so easy when I talked about it at first and managed to build this. I can’t even hang a door without a saw to cut the wood and a screwdriver to drive the screws home.’

  Spiro and Phaedra had taken it in turns to sit on the quay and plead with the boatmen to no avail; it was little Flora who was most successful, returning one day with a hammer. She had presented it to Yannis as if it was made of gold and he had thanked her in like vein. From that day she had taken it upon herself to be the one to sit on the concrete jetty and beg from each boat as it arrived. The sickly looking waif who accosted them, asking for nails, screws, hinges and tools intrigued the regular suppliers.

  At first they had laughed at her, but finding her continually huddled in the same place and making the same requests they gave in and would bring a handful of nails or a couple of hinges which they had scrounged from a local store. Manolis would appear regularly and always had something for her. The gifts were not always items she had requested, but she would thank him gleefully, whether it was a nail or some homespun wool that he threw across the water to her.

  Despite her apparent success their stocks grew slowly and winter was almost upon them when Yannis nailed the final tile on the roof of Christos’s house. Having examined the repair from inside Christos declared himself satisfied, but demanded that Yannis should also replace the shutters which had fallen off and lay rotting on the ground. Reluctantly Yannis agreed and used some precious pieces of timber he had been saving for his own house, despite criticism of his actions by Spiro.

  ‘You’ve got to stand up to him, Yannis. Tell him that is the last thing you’ll do for him.’

  Yannis shook his head. ‘It’s not as easy as that. We need his knowledge and the only way we’re going to get it is by doing everything he asks.’

  Reluctantly Spiro had let the matter rest and watched whilst Christos’s house became waterproof ready for the winter. Now, sitting in his miserable hovel, Yannis realised the sense of Spiro’s words. He had enough wood for one shutter, it was cut to size, but it would be impossible to fix until the rain stopped. There was no sense in getting his clothes soaked; they would take weeks to dry. He would just have to be thankful that he had four walls and a roof that he and his friends could use as a shelter.

  ‘Next year it will be different,’ Yannis promised himself. ‘Somehow I’ll make them help me.’

  Next year! The thought suddenly hit home. He was beginning to accept that this was where he would stay until the end of his days. He groaned aloud. Kyriakos shifted uncomfortably on his mattress and Yannis looked at the old man. He should be somewhere warm and dry, not in this dank hut. Spiro returned from the storehouse, shaking drops of water from himself like a dog as he entered.

  ‘That’s all there is. The bread’s hard and the cheese is mouldy, but it’s food.’

  Yannis shrugged. He had eaten worse in the hospital, but at least you knew there would be something each day, howev
er unpalatable. Now unless a boat arrived soon they would all starve. The knowledge added to his misery and depression.

  ‘I think it’s easing off,’ Spiro tried to cheer him. ‘If it does I’ll help you fix that shutter.’

  Contrary to Spiro’s optimism the weather did not improve for a further two days. By that time their clothes and mattresses were soaked and the food exhausted, despite severe rationing on their part. Spiro had lost his cheerfulness and lay, like Yannis, huddled against Kyriakos for warmth, trying to ignore the gnawing pains in his stomach that craved for food.

  Silence woke Yannis and he struggled up stiffly from his mattress to look out of the open doorway. From beneath ragged wisps of cloud a pale sun was trying to emerge. With a resigned sigh Yannis realised that although he felt weak and miserable he was not going to die from deprivation. A boat would probably arrive that day bringing supplies which would fortify them all ready for the next spell of bad weather and enforced starvation.

  Slipping and sliding down the path that was a sea of mud and exposed rocks Yannis reached the main path. He passed the patch of concrete and the wooden shack where they had passed the summer months and continued on beyond the ammunition tower. There he staggered across the bare, slippery rock to the Venetian wall and stood looking down at the sea, which sucked menacingly at the rocks below. Across the bay he could see the farmhouse where he had spent his childhood and he screwed up his eyes to try to discern any movement. He would have liked to see his mother once more before he died.

  ‘What are you doing, Yannis?’ He felt clawed fingers in his belt.

  He stared at Phaedra blankly before sinking to the ground at her feet, shivering violently. ‘I can’t,’ he stammered back at her. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You can’t what? You can’t face a few days of being cold and hungry?’ she spoke scornfully. ‘Some of us have faced it for years. It will happen more than once before the winter’s out. You just have to get used to it and accept it.’

  ‘I can’t,’ repeated Yannis.

  ‘You don’t have a choice,’ she answered him curtly. ‘All the time it’s warm and you have food you’re full of grand ideas. The moment things become difficult you’re prepared to give in. The winter doesn’t last for ever.’