The Moonspinners (8 page)

‘Marv'llous. Nicola, you're marv'llous girl. Feel quite at home. Feel as if I'd been sleeping with you for years. Nice.' I felt him hear what he had said, then his voice came, sharply, shaken into wakefulness. ‘I'm awfully sorry. I can't think what made me say that. I must have been dreaming.'

I laughed. ‘Think nothing of it. I feel the same. Shockingly at home, just as if it was a habit.
Go to sleep
.'

‘U-huh. Is there a moon?'

‘A sort of a one, just up. Waning quarter, all fuzzy at the edges, like wool. There must be a bit of cloud still, but there's enough light; just enough to help Lambis, without floodlighting everything he does.'

He was silent after that, for so long that I hoped he had gone to sleep, but then he moved his head restlessly, stirring up the dust in the bedding.

‘If Colin
isn't
at the boat—'

‘You can bet your boots he is. He'll come up with Lambis in a few hours' time. Now stop that, it gets us nowhere. Stop thinking, and go to sleep. Did you ever hear the legend of the moonspinners?'

‘The what?'

‘Moonspinners. They're naiads – you know, water nymphs. Sometimes, when you're deep in the countryside, you meet three girls, walking along the hill tracks in the dusk, spinning. They each have a spindle, and on to these they are spinning their wool, milk-white, like the moonlight. In fact, it
is
the moonlight, the moon itself, which is why they don't carry a distaff. They're not Fates, or anything terrible; they don't affect the lives of men; all they have to do is to see that the world gets its hours of darkness, and they do this by spinning the moon down out of the sky. Night after night, you can see the moon getting less and less, the ball of light waning, while it grows on the spindles of the maidens. Then, at length, the moon is gone, and the world has darkness, and rest, and the creatures of the hillsides are safe from the hunter and the tides are still . . .'

Mark's body had slackened against me, and his breathing came more deeply. I made my voice as soft and monotonous as I could.

‘Then, on the darkest night, the maidens take their spindles down to the sea, to wash their wool. And the wool slips from the spindles, into the water, and unravels in long ripples of light from the shore to the horizon, and there is the moon again, rising from the sea, just a thin curved thread, re-appearing in the sky. Only when all the wool is washed, and wound again into a white ball in the sky, can the moonspinners start their work once more, to make the night safe for hunted things . . .'

Beyond the entrance of the hut, the moonlight was faint, a mere greyness, a lifting of the dark. Enough to save Lambis a fall or a sprain; enough to steer his boat into hiding without waiting for daylight; but not enough for prying eyes to see the place where Mark and I lay, close together, in the dark little hut. The moonspinners were there, out on the track, walking the mountains of Crete, making the night safe, spinning the light away.

He was asleep. I turned my cheek on the tickling shrubs. It met his hair, rough, and dusty, but smelling sweetly of the dried verbena in our bed.

‘Mark?' It was barely a breath.

No answer. I slipped a hand down under the khaki jacket, and found his wrist. It was clammy, and warm. The pulse was still fast, but regular, and stronger. I tucked the coat round him again.

For no reason, except that it seemed the thing to do, I kissed his hair, very lightly, and settled myself down to sleep.

5

There bathed his honourable wounds, and dressed

His manly members in the immortal vest.

POPE
:
The Iliad of Homer

I got some sleep – enough – though I was stiff when I finally woke. Mark was still sound asleep, curled back against me. His breathing sounded easy and normal, and his skin, where I cautiously felt it, was cool. The fever had gone.

It was still early. The light which came through the doorway was pearled, but without sun. My wrist was somewhere under Mark's cheek, and I dared not move it again to try to see my watch. I wondered whether the cool light were only that of early morning, or if, today, those cirrus clouds were lying lower, across the sun. In some ways, it would be better for us if they were; but they would be cold and damp; and, until we had blankets . . .

The thought brought me fully awake. Lambis. Surely Lambis should have been back by now?

I raised my head cautiously, and tried to turn my wrist where it lay under Mark's head. He stirred, gave a little grunting snore, and woke. He put a hand up to rub his eyes, and then stretched. The movement pushed him against me, and the discovery brought him round with a jerk that must have hurt his arm.

‘Why, hullo! Good heavens, I'd forgotten you were there! I must have been half-seas-under last night.'

‘That's the sweetest thing a man's ever said to me after a long night together,' I said. I sat up, and began to extricate myself from the bedding, brushing it off me. ‘If I could have got out without waking you, I'd have done it, but you were so touchingly curled up—'

He grinned, and I realized it was the first time I had really seen him smile. Even with the two days' beard and the strained pallor of his face, the effect was to make him look very young. ‘Bless you,' he said, as if he meant it. ‘I got a good sleep and I feel wonderful. I even feel as if I might be able to make a move today. Heaven knows, I'd better. But you – did you get any sleep at all?'

‘Some,' I said, truthfully. ‘Enough, anyway. I feel wide awake.'

‘What's the time?'

‘Just after five.'

I saw the creases of worry settle back between his brows. He shifted the arm as if it had suddenly begun to hurt. ‘Lambis isn't back?'

‘No.'

‘I hope to heaven nothing's happened to him. If I've got
him
into this mess as well—'

‘Look,' I said, ‘don't for pity's sake take Lambis on to your shoulders, too. He wouldn't thank you, and it's my guess he can look after himself.' I got up, still brushing bits off. ‘Now, I've been thinking, while you lay snoring. I think we should get you out of this hut. And the sooner the better.'

He rubbed a hand over his face, as if chasing the last mists of sleep. His eyes still looked blurred with the clogging weariness and worry of the night. ‘Yes?'

‘If anyone does come looking for you again, and gets up here – and mind you, if they've any sense they'll go hunting where the water is – they're bound to look in the hut first thing. Lambis was right to bring you here in the first place, for shelter. But now that you're a bit better, I think you should find a place in the open, in the warmth and air, a shady place, where we can see around us. You're much better to be hidden out on the mountainside, than in the only obvious shelter on the hill.'

‘That's true. And I can't say I'll be sorry to get out of this . . . For a start, could you help me outside now?'

‘Sure.'

He was heavier than he looked, and also a good deal less able to help himself than he had hoped. It took quite a time before he was at last upright, half-propped against the wall of the hut, half-leaning on me. I saw now that he was not tall, but compactly and toughly built, with broad shoulders and a strong looking neck.

‘Okay.' He was panting as if he had run a race, and there was sweat on his face. ‘Keep near the wall. I can make it.'

Slowly, we made it. As we reached the doorway, the sun came up, brilliance streaming from the left between the tall asphodels. Long shadows from the flowers ran along the turf. The corner where the hut stood was still in shadow, and the air was chilly.

I left Mark sitting on the trunk of a fallen olive-tree, and went across to the spring.

The pool, too, was still in shadow, and the water was icy. When I had washed, I went back to the hut for the metal pot that I had noticed there. This was a sort of kettle, or small cauldron, which must have been used by the shepherds. Though the outside of the pot was smoked black, the inside was clean enough, with no speck of rust. I scoured it out as best I could, with coarse sand from the stream, then filled it, and went back to Mark.

He was sitting on the ground now, beside the fallen tree trunk, slumped back against it, looking exhausted, and so ill, in the cold daylight, that I had to control an exclamation of panic. If only Lambis would come; Lambis, blankets, hot soup . . .

I scooped a mug-full of the icy water out of the pot.

‘Here's a drink. And if you want a wash of a sort, I've a clean hankie . . . No, on second thoughts, I think you'd better let me. Keep still.'

He made no objection this time, but allowed me to wash his face for him, and then his hands. I let it go at that. Cleanliness might be next to godliness, but the water was ice-cold. He looked like a rather badly-off tramp. I had a feeling that I probably looked a pretty suitable mate for him. Today, I hadn't had the hardihood to look into the naiad's pool.

Breakfast was rather horrible. The bread was as hard as pumice, and had to be soaked in the icy water before he could eat it. The chocolate was better, but was cloying and unsatisfying. The orange had gone soft, like limp suede, and tasted of nothing in particular.

The effort of will with which he chewed and choked down the unappetizing stuff was palpable. I watched him with anxiety, and a dawning respect. Stubborn and autocratic he might be, but here was a kind of courage as definite as any gun-blazing heroics, this grim private battle with his own weakness, this forcing himself to remain a lay figure for long enough to gather effective strength, when every nerve must have been screaming the necessity of action. To me, it was a new slant on courage.

When the beastly little meal was finished, I looked at him uncertainly. ‘There was a place where Lambis took me yesterday; it's a sort of ledge, and there's plenty of cover, and you can see for miles. The only thing is, it's a bit higher up. Round that bluff and then up, quite a clamber. There, do you see? If you can't manage it, I can scout round now, and find something else.'

‘I'll manage it.'

How he did, I shall never quite know. It took us the best part of an hour. By the time he was lying, white-faced and sweating, on the ledge, I felt as if I had run from Marathon to Athens myself, and with bad news to tell at the end of it.

After a while I sat up, and looked down at him. His eyes were shut, and he looked terrible, but the sun was on the ledge, and he was lying with his face turned almost greedily towards its growing warmth.

I got to my knees. ‘I'm going back for the haversack now, and to cover our tracks at the hut. And when I get back, I don't care what you say, I'm going to light a fire.'

His eyelids flickered. ‘Don't be silly.'

‘I'm not. But first things first, and the essential thing for you is warmth. You must have something hot to drink, and if I'm to do your arm, I must have hot water.' I nodded towards the cleftlike cave behind us. ‘If I lit a small one, deep in there, with very dry stuff that didn't make much smoke, we could get something heated. Better to do it now, before anyone's likely to be about.'

He had shut his eyes again. ‘As you like,' indifferently.

It didn't take long to cover our traces in the hut. Any shepherd might have left the bedding, and, while it might still look suspicious, I felt reluctant to remove it, in case Mark should need it again that night. I merely ruffled it over, until it showed no signs of having been recently lain on, then, with a broom of twigs, scattered dust over our recent footprints.

A quick look round, and then I was climbing back to the ledge, a fresh pot-full of water held carefully in my hands, and the bag and haversack over my shoulder, filled with as much dry kindling as they would hold.

Mark lay exactly where I had left him, eyes shut. I carried my load quietly into the cleft. As I had hoped, this ran back fairly deeply into the cliff, and, some way in, under a smoothed off overhang for all the world like a chimney breast, I built the fire. When it was ready, I made a swift but cautious survey from the ledge. Nothing, nobody, no movement, except of the kestrel hunting along the edge of the ravine. I went back and set a match to the fire.

I am not much good at making fires, but with the dry cones, and the verbena scrub I had collected, anyone could have done it. The single match caught hold, fingered the strands of dead stuff with bright threads, then went streaming up in a lovely blaze of ribbon flames. The sudden heat was wonderful, living and intense. The pot crackled as it heated, tilting dangerously as a twig charred and broke under it, and the water hissed at the edges against the burning metal.

I glanced upwards anxiously. What smoke there was, was almost invisible, a transparent sheet of vapour no thicker than pale-grey nylon, sliding up the curved cliff face, to vanish, before it reached the upper air, in a mere quivering of heat-vapour. Ten minutes of this could do no harm.

The pot hissed and bubbled. I broke the last of the chocolate into the mug, poured boiling water over it, and stirred it with a bone-white twig which was as clean as the weather could scour it. The fire was dying rapidly down in a glow of red ash. I replaced the pot in its still hot bed, then carried the steaming mug out to Mark.

‘Can you drink this?'

He turned his head reluctantly, and opened his eyes. ‘What is it?' His voice sounded blurred, and I wondered, with a pang of real fear, if I had done wrongly in allowing the dreadful effort of the climb. ‘Good lord, it's hot! How did you do it?'

‘I told you. I lit a fire.'

I saw the sudden flicker of alarm in his eyes, and realized that he had been too exhausted to take in what had been said earlier. I smiled quickly, and knelt beside him.