Greek Wedding (40 page)

‘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 think 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.'

A flash of lightning seemed to contradict his words, and showed Phyllida, for an instant, the pitiful ruins of the village street, and ahead of them black shapes, swinging slightly in the drenching rain. Yannis crossed himself. ‘God rest their souls.'

After that, they did not try to talk, but plodded forward, with water seeping up through their shoes, and down through every gap left by the rough sheepskin cloaks. An occasional flash of lightning showed a desolate landscape of scorched fields with here and there the leafless skeleton of a savaged olive or mulberry tree. From time to time, Phyllida heard Yannis mutter a curse under his breath. These must be the fields where he had played, or, more likely, worked as a child. Fantastic to remember that he was still little more.

After what seemed an age of this silent, water-logged walking, Phyllida thought she felt a slight slackening in the rain … There had been no lightning for a while and, above them, pale gaps were appearing among the clouds and at last, for a moment, she saw the half-moon before a flurry of clouds hid it again.

‘I told you God was with us.' Yannis stopped to let them catch up with him. ‘This is Old Mandinia. The ruins are just up there.' He pointed into the darkness. ‘The new village is on the hill, but we don't go there. Our way lies along the shore, and, if you agree,
kyrie
, I think we should go on. The clouds are breaking up by the minute. By the smell of it, I'm sure it is clearing. There will be moonlight, when we need it.'

‘Good,' said Brett. ‘Better to walk ourselves dry anyway. Don't you think, love?'

‘Yes, indeed.' Standing still, she began to feel clammy coldness shiver through her.

‘This way then.' The path led gradually downwards between dark hedges that Phyllida thought were reed rather than the usual prickly pear. Then, suddenly, ahead of them a great arc of pale light.

‘The sea,' said Yannis. ‘Carefully now,
kyria
, over the stones.'

They were large, smooth pebbles, worn by centuries of Mediterranean storms, and though the going was slow, it was not impossibly difficult. Besides, the rain had stopped; the clouds were breaking up and at last the moon shone out, turning the sea to silver and showing up a black mass looming beyond it. ‘Navarino's beyond there,' Yannis stopped for a moment to point. ‘A pity you can't swim it.'

‘Yes.' Brett's arm was under Phyllida's to let her lean against him for a moment and rest. ‘We could do with a couple of devoted mythical dolphins right now.'

Phyllida laughed. ‘We certainly couldn't be much wetter.' But already Yannis had turned to plough forward again over the sliding stones. ‘We mustn't waste this light,' he called back over the rough sound of the gravel. ‘We'll need it along the cliff-edge.'

The moon was almost overhead now and Phyllida was able to see that the ground was gradually rising to their right, and the strip of pebble beach narrowing. ‘Lucky there are no tides here.' Brett spoke from behind her.

‘Yes.' It was extraordinarily hard work walking through the slipping, sliding shingle, and Phyllida breathed a sigh of relief when Yannis paused for a moment ahead of her, as if getting his bearings, then turned suddenly inland. Catching up with him, she saw that the way ahead was barred by a stream, rushing darkly between high banks.

‘Nearly there now.' Once again, Yannis stopped to let them catch up with him. ‘The mill at Armyro is your next halting place. Your new guide will meet you there. I hope.' He moved forward cautiously and they followed, their feet blessedly silent now, on beaten earth.

The first sight of the mill was daunting enough. All its superstructure was gone, and it was nothing but a black lump, huddled over the noisy stream. No light showed anywhere. But, ‘It's been like this for years,' said Yannis, his whisper almost drowned by the rush of water. ‘Wait.' He moved nearer the dark building and gave the unmistakable eerie hoot of a hunting owl.

After a moment, another owl answered him, twice.

‘Good,' said Yannis. ‘We wait.'

A light showed in the building, a man appeared, and Yannis went forward for a quick, unintelligible exchange in the local dialect. ‘All's well.' he told them at last. ‘Petrakis expects you. He will send you on tomorrow night. God go with you, my friends.' He turned on his heel before they could answer, and was gone, at a steady jog-trot, down the dark path towards the sea.

‘Dear God,' said Phyllida. ‘He's not going back tonight?'

‘Not all the way, I hope.' Brett turned to answer the greeting of their new host, Petrakis, a silent man who led them without more ado into the desolate ground floor of the mill, fed them a curious meal of dried bean porridge flavoured with garlic, and
left them to sleep. ‘Don't stir out until I come for you. I must see where the Turks have gone now. The next part of your journey will be the most dangerous; they're everywhere around Kalamata. A pity we can't get you across by ship.' He spat. ‘There are no ships. They've burned the lot. Sleep well, friends, and God guard you.'