Greek Wedding (39 page)

Following obediently to the centre of the huge, domed cave, Phyllida was aware of the friendly crowd of Greeks, muttering prayers and good wishes all round her. Sophia paused and motioned to her to go on alone into the circle of light under the high opening, where Brett and Father Gennaios awaited her beside a huge round rock that looked strangely smooth, as if it had lain under the wash of the tide for centuries. Sunlight made a halo of Father Gennaios' white hair and picked out lines of anxiety on Brett's face. It glinted, too, on the crowns carefully held by the boy, Yannis, and a girl about his age. A Greek she had never seen before stepped forward out of the shadows.

‘This is my friend Dimitrakis,' said Brett. ‘He has agreed to give you away. Come, love—' she had hesitated, just a little. ‘It's close to noon. It's lucky then, Father Gennaios says. Not that I need luck, marrying you.' He led her forward into the circle of light. Dimitrakis took her hand and the children closed in behind with the crowns. Father Gennaios was standing
directly in front of the round rock. As he began to intone the words of the first prayer a great beam of light from above seemed to concentrate itself on the stone which glowed like an opal, like fire…

It lasted throughout the service, the crowning, the exchange of rings—Brett's signet, the plain gold one she had inherited from her mother, just fitting on his little finger … Father Gennaios blessing them … Above him, the light was dwindling, and as he said the last prayer, the rock turned dark again.

Sophia was kissing her. They were both crying a little. Behind her, Brett was explaining. ‘It's good luck if the ceremony is concluded while the rock shines thus. Extraordinary, isn't it? I wish I knew what it was, but Father Gennaios won't let me examine it. This cavern is only used for solemn occasions.' He looked upwards. ‘They must have to hurry in midwinter, when the sun's not overhead. But, come, Mrs. Renshaw, they want to feast us, bless them. Not the best preparation for a night journey, but it can't be helped. We owe them too much.'

‘We do indeed.' Extraordinary to feel the warmth of goodwill that flowed around them. ‘Brett,' she smiled up at him, still through a mist of tears.

‘Yes, love?'

‘We'll never have a nicer wedding.'

The wedding party was held in another large cave opening off the ‘chapel'. This, too, was saved for ceremonial occasions and had its own small opening to the sky, which served as a chimney for the huge fire that blazed in the centre of the stone floor. Women who had not attended the service were busy round it, and a delicious smell of roast mutton greeted the bridal party. At the far end of the cave there was a slight natural rise and Phyllida saw that three seats had been carved out of the rock.

‘Today, you are queen.' Father Gennaios motioned her to the central one. ‘And we your subjects.' He seated Brett on her right and himself on her left. Dimitrakis sat down on the ground beside them and the rest of the Greeks arranged themselves in a
loose circle round the fire. Phyllida was the only woman to be seated. The others were busy serving out lavish portions of roast mutton to the men.

‘It doesn't seem right.' Phyllida voiced her protest, low and in English, to Brett as she accepted a slightly charred chop.

‘It's the custom.' Spoken in Greek, it was at once explanation and warning. ‘Eat well, love. You'll need it tonight. Besides, think of the sacrifices they must have made to give us this feast. It's the least we can do to enjoy it.'

‘Yes. And the risks they must have run!' Someone must have pawned his life, down in the valley, for this young sheep that tasted so deliciously of the rosemary branches that had cooked it. She turned to Dimitrakis. ‘Who found the lamb?'

‘I,
kyria
.' He smiled. ‘For our friend, Milord Renshaw, and his lady, who would not gladly risk his life?'

Her eyes filled with tears. How horribly she had misjudged the Greeks, basing her verdict, of course, on Alex.

Alex. She turned to Brett. ‘I wish Oenone could have been here. I wish we knew she was safe.'

‘So do I, love. And the others. But, look! The
Romaika's
beginning, and you must lead. For a little while.' He produced, amazingly, a clean white handkerchief from the pocket of the faded canvas trousers that made him look so unlike his kilted hosts. ‘Here! Take one end.' He held the other. ‘Just lead round the fire for a little while. That will be enough.' Somewhere, beyond the now dwindling fire, someone was plucking at some kind of mandolin.

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 herself 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?'