by Dillon, Paul
Chapter 8
Ben tired of exploring; the yacht was still a couple of hours away. He decided to return to the hotel, take his book down to the cypress garden, and read. Besides, he needed the mosquito spray from his suitcase. On his last visit to Greece, he’d come back covered in bites.
With less than thirty rooms, the Hotel Dionysius had a cozy feel, reminiscent of a large house. It sat beneath the hills, a short walk from the quayside.
Back in the lobby, his friendly maid mopped the checkerboard floor. Recognizing him, she took a moment to lean against her mop and smile. With a wave, he hurried past, en route to the stairs.
Ben looked down from his balcony at the green expanse below, a peaceful hour beckoned. With mosquito spray still wet on his legs, he grabbed the book and headed down. Standing at the entrance to the garden, he soaked up its moody atmosphere. Even with the midday sun directly overhead, shadows crept out from under the trees. Somewhere in the cypresses, crows rioted again.
A canopy, covered in vines, extended from the hotel and over the rear dining area, providing shade to a wooden bench. Ben sat and photographed the scene. The garden’s charm was more than visual; he switched over to video mode, capturing the sounds. Empty of people, the crow and cicada orchestra played only for him.
The space had a symmetrical design. A gravel path ran down the center, between two low walls, which tapered in the distance. At the halfway point, on each side, iron gates opened onto a lawn, carefully manicured, and dotted with ancient dwarf pines. The symmetry drew the eye towards a stone sundial and beyond, to a ruin, hidden in the trees.
Curious, Ben set off down the gravel path, glanced at the sundial, and stood, staring at a folly, overgrown with flowering vines. The whimsical structure, a faux wall and roof, suggested an abandoned cottage or farmhouse. Wooden shutters covered non-existent windows, their paint cracked and faded. Barely visible through the leaves, an old rusted iron gate led nowhere. At the top of the wall, about ten feet high, clay roof tiles sloped back until hidden in the cypresses.
Two trees grew close to the sundial, overhanging the folly. Loaded down with red blossoms, their branches arched over the rusty gate, coalescing with the purple flowers below. One of the crows looked down from the roof as if to enquire of his presence in the garden. Ben acknowledged the bird, as he would a fellow guest then sat on a bench to read.
Where was he up to?—Van Norden was re-telling Carl’s fictitious story of his amorous encounter with the wealthy Irene.
Perhaps it was the raucous birds but Ben couldn’t concentrate. The book dropped to the bench and he let the garden enter his mind. It had summoned him since waking, maybe even as he slept. Now, it had taken on a persona, questioning him, demanding an explanation of his presence, probing into his solitary, aimless life.
Ben rarely felt the need to justify his man-of-leisure existence. Last year, at a party, some woman had called him a dilettante and that had riled him—it wasn’t even true. He thought about the word again, with distaste; a dilettante, a dirty, stinking dilettante.
In truth, Ben had never been troubled by the lack of an occupation. He’d toyed around in his father’s businesses, vaguely hoping to find direction, expecting to take over the reins at some point in the distant future. It was only after the death of his fiancée that he’d lost interest and taken a long leave of absence. His father, always supportive, set up a trust fund allowing him to live a comfortable, if not extravagant, life.
Soul-searching seemed natural in this empty, peaceful place; it deepened his affinity with the garden.
After Maria’s death, he moved to Los Angeles; LA soothed the pain caused by her loss. He knew it was psychological but, somehow, he convinced himself that the sun, the low humidity, provided a barrier from grief. He only had to stay there to be free from sorrow. In this way, time healed his wounds and he found the routine of his life. Maria had died, at the age of twenty-one, in a pointless traffic accident … the girl wasn’t even driving. She was his second love; the first had ended in heartache too, but not of such epic proportions. Perhaps, even now, the loss still affected him. Hadn’t it only been a few months earlier that some melancholy song, a memento from their past, had briefly revived the devastation following her death? Now, fifteen years later, here in the garden, he willed the sadness back. He would never see Maria again—ever. No amount of money, not his fathers’, or the combined wealth of the world could make any difference. Even if it were possible to clone her, it would not be Maria. No technology, on any drawing board, could replicate the trillions of neurons firing in precisely the same order, for twenty-one years, making her 'his Maria'. She was gone forever.
A loud commotion in the trees jolted him back to reality. He thanked the birds.
He was just proving a point to himself. He was over Maria, could think about her anytime, revive the pain then dismiss it at will. Dwelling on the conquest of emotion led him to consider his relationships since Maria. Several had promise; all had faded into oblivion. He could trace their decline back to trivial incidents. Julia, for example, she had given him a photo of herself; he assumed she took a certain pride in the picture. Even though he found her attractive, the photograph somehow repulsed him to such an extent that he went from the precipice of love to abandoning the relationship shortly after. He had come to suspect that some love-safety-valve would forever trigger in his subconscious, warding off future pain.
Voices drifted over the lawn. An elderly couple strolled, arm-in-arm, towards the sundial. Their presence disturbed him; he did not want to share his peaceful oasis. Shadows deepened, down at the bench, by the folly. Later, the garden would become dark, green and gloomy. He wanted to be there when it did.
Chapter 9
The campfire smoldered inside a ring of stones on the barren ground behind the Katros barn. Once a roaring blaze, it had burnt down to a flickering glow. Ioannis poked in the embers with a stick sending plumes of smoke into his face. He leapt back, eyes stinging. Stamos and Andreas Matsakis watched his antics with amusement. The moon was in the final day of the last quarter, faintly illuminating the black night.
“Stop poking around in the fire, they’re not done yet,” said Stamos for the second time.
Ioannis let his stick drop and rubbed his watering eyes. The potatoes had been roasting an awful long time. He was ravenous.
As though reading his mind, Stamos aloft held a basket covered with a red-checkered wrapping. He untied the cloth, whipping it off like a magician before revealing the snacks inside. A surprise bonus, the extra food supplemented the rations they’d secretly hoarded over the past few days. Stamos began dividing out equal shares.
“Wait until the skins are black, they taste better.” Andreas passed along a chunk of bread and some pastries from their new larder.
Staying awake late into the night had left Ioannis in an excitable state. He paced around the fire. The urge to grab a stick and poke the embers was like a nagging itch.
“We got lemonade,” Stamos shouted. He’d stashed a bottle of his mother’s homemade lemonade next to a pile of logs, behind his seat. He held the bottle above his head, waving it around. Ioannis nearly tripped over Andreas’s leg as he rushed across to claim a swig of his favorite drink.
The boys snacked on bread, pastries and hard-boiled eggs. An owl called from the orchard, prompting a suggestion from Andreas.
“How about a ghost story?”
Ioannis wished Andreas hadn’t spoken. At home, he might have enjoyed a scary tale but tonight, outside in the dark, he wasn’t so sure.
“I know one,” said Stamos. “Let’s get the potatoes out first; they should be done now.”
Finally … those words were like a bell, signaling the end of school. Ioannis sprang to his feet, grabbing his stick. He thrust it into the embers, maneuvering his potato to the edge of the fire, only to see it wedge between the stones. His efforts merely served to puncture the blackened skin, creating a long white scar. Frustrated, he reached in with his h
and, burning his fingers on the hot bricks.
“Here, use this.” Andreas held up a knife with a carved bone handle. A black and charred potato sat impaled on its tip. He slid his supper onto a metal plate, which balanced on his knees and passed the blade to Ioannis.
“This is a true story,” began Stamos. “One night, on a farm just like this.” He waved his hand in the direction of the outbuilding. “A vampire lay buried in a crypt, behind a wall, in an old stone barn. Every month, at the start of a new moon, the vampire pushes up the creaking lid of his coffin and opens his coal black eyes.”
Ioannis stabbed the knife into his potato, lifting it out of the fire. He knew he wasn’t going to enjoy this story. The very idea that a vampire could live in their barn was unbearable. He thought about putting his hands over his ears or escaping to the tree house.
Andreas let out a yelp. Ioannis took heart from the sound, believing the older boy shared his fright. The empathy was short lived; Andreas had burnt his lips on the hot potato.
Much to Ioannis’s relief, Stamos fell quiet, focusing his attention on supper. If Ioannis thought his brother had forgotten the story, he was mistaken. Two minutes later Stamos continued.
“When he leaves the crypt, the vampire crawls on his belly through a narrow tunnel under the wall and emerges, hissing, and hungry for the blood of young boys.”
Ioannis could hardly contain himself; he didn’t want to hear another word. Only concern for what his brother might think stopped him escaping to the tree house.
Untroubled by the vampire, Andreas sprinkled salt on his potato.
“One winter’s night, a young boy got lost and strayed into the barn to shelter from the rain. The vampire opened his eyes. Even in his coffin, he could smell fresh blood close by.”
Ioannis tried not to listen. He thought about school, about the jars of candy in the Matsakis’ store, about Nicia climbing into the tree house…
“The full moon was bright, it shone through a hole in the roof, lighting up the entrance to the crypt. The boy moved closer to the opening and bent down. Something glistened in the darkness, perhaps silver or gold. Believing the moonlight pointed to hidden treasure, he squeezed into the narrow tunnel…”
“What was that, a bat?” Andreas jumped up, pretending to fend off an imaginary winged creature.
Stamos laughed then continued. “The crawlspace was only five feet long and the lad wasted no time scampering through into a dark cellar that stank of damp earth. All of a sudden, the coffin lid creaked. The boy screamed as an inky black shape, much darker than the dimly lit room, rose up from nowhere. He dashed into the tunnel, crawling on his belly as fast he could. The vampire grabbed his foot just as the boy reemerged into the barn…”
Ioannis could stand no more. “What rubbish! There’s no such thing as vampires.”
He hurled his last chunk of potato into the fire; sparks showered into the air like a swarm of fireflies. Without another word, he marched over to the oak, listening intently for any sounds in the darkness.
The two older boys smiled at each other.
“Save him some lemonade,” said Stamos.
Ioannis shinned up the last branch and inched open the tree house door; the hinge creaked ominously. A candle glimmered atop a wooden crate, illuminating his hands as they clasped the jamb. Too scared to enter, his imagination ran wild. A black cape lay strewn across the floor, waiting for him; he just knew it. If he dared look, the cloak would rise up, inflating with horrifying speed until it towered over him, dragging him inside. He covered his eyes then took a deep breath, stealing enough courage to peek through his fingers. To his relief, the candlelight bathed the interior in a comforting glow. He scurried in, snatching a comic off the blanket-strewn boards.
Reading helped take his mind off the undead but made him drowsy. Soon, his eyelids closed and he fell into a fitful slumber.
***
The tree house was too small for three boys to sleep with any degree of comfort. Ioannis woke often during the night. At times, Stamos squashed him or his blanket would shift underneath, exposing the bare wooden planks which hurt his sides and chafed his knees. The night dragged on forever.
Dawn eventually broke. Nearby, roosters crowed, lifting him out of an uneasy dream. Parched, he groped around for the lemonade, finding it near the door. Despite its warmth, the tangy drink quenched his thirst. Ioannis thanked Stamos for saving him a share.
Inside the tree house, the stuffy air reeked of wood smoke. Ioannis sniffed the sleeve of his shirt and turned his head away in disgust. Stamos and Andreas slept soundly. He opened the door, causing the candle to flicker, and crept into the branches to see a glorious sunrise, above the mainland hills.
As the interval between cockcrows lengthened, he grew tired and climbed back inside, snuggling into the blankets next to his brother. He fell fast asleep.
***
In the final years of his life, Ioannis would remember this scene, sat in the boughs of his father’s oak tree, listening to the crows and the roosters greet the sun as a cardinal moment, a moment that embodied his childhood, his island, his loss; a memory fundamental to the kernel of his being.
***
Just after nine, a 6.0 earthquake struck; the first of three that would bring Kefalonia to its knees. The oak shook with a savage force, throwing Ioannis against the wall; Andreas crashed into him. The wooden structure folded in on itself causing the roof to drop, almost crushing the boys inside. Nails, fastening the floor joist to the tree, screeched as they popped out; the den pitched precariously on the branch.
Stamos reacted first, squeezing his way through a gap that was once the door. By sheer force, he wriggled free and managed to get a foothold on the bough. He shouted for Ioannis to get out; collapse was imminent.
The tree house creaked and groaned. With a shudder, it tilted ever more dangerously. Andreas stayed calm, propping up the roof with his back and pushing Ioannis through the mangled door. Stamos reached in, grabbing him under the arms. With one almighty tug, he yanked Ioannis free. It was not a moment too soon. Seconds later, the den crashed to the ground. Andreas was still inside.
With his brother safe, Stamos bounded down the trunk, scraping his hands on the iron nails in the dash to reach his friend.
Fate would be kind this day. Cocooned in the wooden boards, the fall to earth left Andreas unharmed. He emerged from the wreckage before Stamos reached the ground. Only a few bruises would provide proof of his ordeal. The two boys started laughing, exhilarated by their brush with danger.
“Stamos, come and look,” shouted Ioannis.
Ioannis had climbed down after his brother. He stood over by the stone barn where a large crack had appeared in the wall. Andreas shoved at the door but it remained jammed shut.
With an almost telepathic understanding, the boys realized the implications for the town. Without a word, they raced off down the dirt lane heading for home. Ioannis followed, struggling to keep up. The quake of the tree house morning began series of events that would define the rest of his life.
Chapter 10
Getting a table by the water’s edge proved easier than Ben expected. A gentle breeze rolled off the bay and under the canopy, making an ideal spot to idle away the afternoon. Below his feet, rippling waves created patterns of sunlight on the shallow, stony bottom. Small black fish darted around in the translucent water, scavenging for bread tossed in by the diners.
Eight tables covered in crisp, turquoise cloth enjoyed the shade under the cabana; only two were occupied. Ben grabbed one of the striped cushions off his rattan loveseat and stuffed it behind his back. He started people watching.
Across the public boardwalk, sandwiched between the restaurants, a souvenir shop did brisk business. Most of the pedestrian traffic turned back towards the main square after reaching the gift store. Further on, the harbor walls sloped down to a small gravel beach, marking the end of the village.
Several minutes elapsed before a man came to take an order.
From his demeanor, Ben guessed him to be the owner.
“Will you be dining alone?”
Ben nodded and the man handed him a menu with a red leather cover.
“Something to drink?”
“I’ll have a Mythos.” Ben was so thirsty he could already feel the condensation on the cold green bottle, wetting his fingertips.
“We have Mythos, but I prefer Alfa beer. Have you tried it?”
Ben wasn’t expecting service with a personality. It reminded him of the time he passed through Alabama and stopped off at a roadside diner. His waitress sat next to him at his booth and chatted for ten minutes before taking an order. He warmed to the man, accepting his recommendation.
“Okay, Alfa it is; a large one please.”
The man smiled and walked across the esplanade to the taverna.
Sitting with his back to the main square, Ben faced a small beach. From where he sat, the sand appeared to be grit or gravel of a dirty brown color; the beach was empty. A few yards to his right, two outboard engines, hoisted out of the water, loomed over the stern of a boat named Magdalena. He had an uninterrupted view of this end of the shallow bay.
Watching the marina reminded Ben of the yacht. He wasn’t sure how long the journey from Sami would take or whether Eric would stay out in the channel, fishing.
The owner reappeared carrying a tray. He set a basket of bread on the table before pouring a measure of beer into a glass, holding it up to the light, examining the color. Ben half-expected him to take a sip and probably wouldn’t have cared. The man placed the drink on a paper mat, folded his arms and waited. Ben felt obliged to treat the beer with the same respect as his host, mimicking him before savoring the cold fresh taste.
“How is it?”
“Perfect,” replied Ben. Suddenly, and without thinking, he added. “I’ll never order Mythos again.”
