Castle of the Lion

by Margaret Rome

  Slowly, painfully, she trembled upright, anxious to escape the heavy silence filling a room that had taken on the ambience of a prowling lion's lair. Step by cautious step she began backing towards the door, keeping her eyes fixed on the back of his black-maned head, willing brooding thoughts to keep his mind occupied until she was out of reach. The sound of her heartbeats was pounding in her ears by the time she had moved to within groping distance of the door. Then just as she began reaching towards the handle, just as she was teetering on her toes preparing to break into a run, the door was flung open by Gavin, who sauntered cheerfully unsuspecting into the lion's den.

  'I hoped I might find you in here, Sis!' Momentarily oblivious to Stelios's presence, he handed her a sheaf of loose-leaf pages. 'Here are the notes you offered to type—I'm so grateful to you for undertaking half of my research programme, without your help I wouldn't now be looking forward to a long relaxing soak.'

  'Without the help of a nursemaid sister, I doubt whether you would eat, much less wallow in the idle existence you appear to accept as your due!' Stelios almost snarled behind him.

  Gavin swung round to face his sharp-toned attacker. Remaining sublimely insensitive to deadly undercurrents, as well as to the lingering pall of animosity left from their recent battle, he made an unfortunate decision to respond in a mocking vein.

  'I work hard at being idle,' he flashed an engaging grin. 'In fact, I'd go as far as to say that I'm a dedicated student of an art in which I hope eventually to obtain a degree.'

  Sensing smoke signals rising from still-smouldering embers of wrath, Petra tried to prevent Gavin's fingers from being burnt.

  'My brother didn't mean that, Stelios,' she pleaded, her eyes deeply earnest, dark as midnight sky. 'He was merely being… flippant.'

  'As flippant as a child who has been spoiled by an over-protective nanny,' he agreed with a cold edge of sarcasm. 'It appears to me,' he turned to scowl at Gavin, 'that the art upon which you should be concentrating all your efforts is that of the process of maturing. To become an adult one needs to be left alone to develop the core of inner strength that enables man to survive all setbacks. So, starting from dawn tomorrow, you will continue your studies among the shepherds and goatherds who tend their flocks during summer months on the higher mountain pastures. The length of your stay there,' he pronounced austerely, 'will depend upon the time you take to show convincing evidence that you are ready to carry your own burdens of responsibility, instead of shifting them on to the shoulders of a sister whose obsessive devotion to yourself is beginning to pose a threat to her own identity.'

  His shocking verbal douche left Petra gasping, and for a few fraught seconds Gavin too seemed incapable of finding words. He stared at Stelios, his face paling, flushing, then paling again before he managed a defiant refusal.

  'If you think you can force me to spend an unspecified period of time among sheep, goats and taciturn shepherds then you can think again!' he challenged rudely. 'Having to live here is bad enough—there's no way you can force me to accept further curtailment of freedom.'

  'Oh, but yes, there is,' Stelios insisted with such a suave intent that Petra was convinced he meant every word. 'I can send you back to goal!'

  Every last faint hope of happiness died within her when Gavin stormed out of the room, leaving her at the mercy of a fierce Greek male who, with a few dozen words, could make a friendship—or form an enmity likely to endure for a lifetime.

  She had no pleas left in her for Gavin, no excuses or appeals for leniency. All she wanted of her angry flint-eyed husband was an answer to one vitally important question.

  'Stelios…' she husked, struggling to force painful words past her lips, 'do you really think me capable of simulating shyness? Of… of…' a blush raced high into her cheeks then sank deep enough to stain her very soul, '… being willing to satisfy sexual instinct in the arms of a man for whom I feel no love?'

  'I'm not certain what to believe, Petra.' Much to her relief he did not attempt to touch her, but left a yawning gap between them while he forced an admission between tight lips. 'I had begun to think of you as an intensely private person, one excited by small treats, easily moved to tears by distressed birds and animals, dismissive of your natural beauty and of the beguiling charm that made simple villagers take you to their hearts. But a person viewed externally—from outside—often turns out to be completely different from the purely sociable image one has formed. Given time,' he turned aside, looking infinitely weary, 'I may find it possible to resume the duties of a husband. At this moment, however, I feel that the relief I would find most welcome would be news that procreation has been successfully carried out—that already you are carrying a child.'

  Stabbed numb by his casual treatment of a subject so sensitive that even gentle discussion would have left the imprint of a bruise, Petra slipped quietly out of the study leaving him alone with his deeply morose thoughts. With the detachment of an automaton she climbed the staircase, then walked the length of a passageway to her bedroom feeling an urgent need to talk to someone, yet knowing that the only ears she dared trust belonged to Pini, the little yellow bird who had been told all her secrets because his tongue was incapable of betraying a confidence.

  She heard his sweet song of welcome immediately she entered a room filled with sunshine— except for the space occupied by Gavin's hunched figure. He was standing glowering out of a window, but turned to face her as if he had been anticipating her arrival.

  'What am I to do, Petra? I must get back to university for the beginning of term, yet I could tell from Heracles's expression that he wasn't bluffing, that he really meant every word he said. My career's at stake, Sis—with or without your help I must get home to England!'

  'Don't worry, I'll help you to escape.' Petra's response was automatic, her words echoing in her ears as if from far away. Even her strange choice of phrase did not impinge upon her subconscious as she talked and walked through an intolerable cloud of pain.

  'You will?' Gavin's face cleared. 'I didn't expect… I hardly dared hope… I thought that, now you're Heracles' wife, you would feel it your duty to conform to his wishes.'

  Heracles' wife! Feeling a dull ache where her heart should have been, Petra began mentally sorting through a list of wifely designations, seeking a niche that might relate to her own peculiar status. Spouse; partner; consort; soulmate; helpmate; broadwife; housewife—fishwife! No, even that humble term would flatter a wife expected merely to reproduce, to propagate, to be the clinical vessel that nurtured her husband's offspring…

  'Petra, are you feeling all right?'

  Gavin's face loomed through a black mist of misery, looking anxious, as concerned as one who has just become aware that others might have problems even greater than his own.

  With an almighty effort Petra dragged her mind back to the present, forcing herself to concentrate upon the task of deciding how to get away from Buffavento Castle, and where to go.

  'We must go to Grandfather's,' she decided calmly.

  'We?' Gavin's shocked exclamation whistled through his teeth. 'You mean you're coming too?'

  She nodded, then without giving him time to spill out questions she could not bear to answer, she began outlining swiftly: 'You'll need your passport, without it you've no hope of leaving the island.'

  'It's kept in a drawer of the desk in Stelios's study,' he told her eagerly.

  'Good. In that case, we must wait until the coast is clear before attempting to retrieve it. While you're keeping watch, I'll start packing a small suitcase with essential items,' she instructed with the fatalistic calm of a kamikaze pilot, 'it's best to travel light, because I wouldn't be surprised if feet should turn out to be our only means of transport.'

  Less than two hours later, after escaping from Buffavento with ludicrous ease, they were trudging the narrow, twisting, pebble-strewn mountain road leading down to the lower slopes where their grandfather's village was situated. Minutes after their plan of action had been fo
rmulated, Stelios had unknowingly left their way clear by driving away from the castle in the manner of a man determined to seek an antidote to poisonous thoughts—probably in the company of his many female friends, Petra had decided sadly, whose sweetness might help to counteract the bitter resentment coursing through his veins.

  Because they had timed their departure to coincide with the servants' siesta hour there had been no sound of movement, no curious grooms or gardeners to watch or comment upon their hurried exit from the castle grounds.

  'This blasted heat!' Gavin grumbled, pausing for the umpteenth time to cock a hopeful ear, willing some sound of approaching transport. But not so much as the clip-clopping of donkey's hooves disturbed the hush of a heat haze pressing like a blanket over a sleeping population. Wearily he set down the suitcase containing their combined possessions to mop a handkerchief over his sweat-beaded brow. 'I know just how a penitent must feel wearing sackcloth and ashes,' he grimaced.

  'Ashes to ashes and dust to dust; if God won't have him the devil must!' Then, as if arriving at his subject by the process of word association, he continued without pause:

  'Stelios is hardly likely to give up his wife without a fight, devilish pride will send him scouring the island immediately he discovers that you're missing.'

  Petra stumbled, then hobbled across the verge to rest on a large boulder, using the need to massage a ricked ankle as an excuse to hide humiliated colour forced into her cheeks by his casual implication that, whatever reason might prompt Stelios to search for his wife, it would not be love.

  'I've thought of that,' she murmured painfully. 'Our one chance of remaining undetected is the almost certain possibility that searchers will be told to concentrate all their attention on the airport and seaports. As Stelios is unaware of Grandfather's existence, he's unlikely to suspect us of choosing a hiding-place that's practically on his doorstep.'

  'True,' Gavin conceded moodily, dropping down on the verge beside her, 'nevertheless, I'd rate our chances of success a great deal higher if only you hadn't insisted upon bringing that darned bird. The sight of a fair-haired girl carrying a caged canary could be equivalent to leaving a visiting card with every passing villager.'

  'I couldn't leave Pini behind,' she choked, her fingers tightening Convulsively around the small travelling cage she had previously condemned. 'And please, Gavin, don't go on about stowing him out of sight—he needs plenty of air and the happiness of basking in sunbeams.'

  'Hush!' Gavin jerked upright, cocking his head to one side. 'Start saying your prayers, Sis, and hope that the faint rumbling becoming gradually louder is being made by the local bus!'

  He had barely finished speaking when an ancient-looking vehicle grunted around a bend, its roof-rack packed with cardboard boxes and baskets piled with produce, its window seats lined with curiously-staring but mercifully unknown faces.

  'Stamata!' Gavin leapt into the middle of the road waving his arms and shouting at the top of his voice. 'Stop!'

  Thankfully Petra grabbed Pini's cage and began limping towards the bus that was being wheezed to a standstill by a driver so confident of not being overtaken that he did not bother drawing the bus towards the verge. She stepped aboard, then with as much composure as she could muster began weaving a pathway through sheep, goats, chickens and ear-splitting conversation towards a seat hastily cleared of parcels by accommodating passengers.

  'Whatever you do, don't start admiring the livestock,' Gavin muttered in a jocular attempt to coax a smile on to her forlorn mouth, 'otherwise we could leave this bus with the beginnings of a menagerie! Cheer up, Sis,' he urged, settling next to her with a relieved sigh, 'you may have left behind a castle, but shortly you'll be arriving at the next best place to home!'

  Yet a stifling hour later, when the bus drew up inside a deserted main square, nothing could have looked less like home or less like the majestic outline of Buffavento Castle than the cluster of grey stone houses with paint-blistered doors set in old-fashioned mouldings; courtyards teeming with browsing chickens; herb-choked windowboxes made out of discarded paraffin tins, and balconies piled with melons left to ripen in the sun.

  They waited until the bus set off, returning the 'waves of friendly passengers until it had disappeared around a bend, then without exchanging a word they began walking through the village until the road turned right, leading them across a strip of olive and carob groves towards a simple house with a ground floor balcony surrounded by a rickety-looking balustrade.

  As they crunched along the garden path Petra noticed a stirring of movement on the balcony, heard the creaking of a cane chair, then met a piercing look of enquiry from ancient eyes peering beneath the battered brim of an equally ancient straw hat.

  'Patera Romios!' she called out, feeling a sudden aching need of her grandfather's wise counselling and undemanding affection.

  'Petra! My little Petra…!' He rose to his feet and flung his arms open wide.

  Pausing just long enough to thrust Pini's cage into Gavin's hands, she stumbled up the steps and fell, half laughing, half crying, into her grandfather's hugging embrace.

  'Oh, Grandfather, I'm so glad to be here with you!' she choked against his broad, comforting shoulder, feeling safe, rescued, as reassured as Pini must have felt when comforted by Greek male strength and tender compassion. 'Why do we have to grow older? Why can't time be made to stand still so that we could always play in the kingdom of childhood where no one is ever deliberately hurt?'

  'But would you also wish to forgo an adult's appetite for living, elika?' her grandfather murmured, his wise eyes assessing her quivering mouth and eyes that were deep blue wells of unhappiness. 'Achieving maturity can often be painful, but even a bird is forced to peck its way out of a shell before it can ever hope to fly.'

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  True to the tradition of hospitality practised by open-hearted Cypriots since time immemorial, Patera Romios's neighbours and friends had insisted that the family reunion should be celebrated with a feast. The largest and fattest pig available had been slaughtered, dressed, washed in hot water and rubbed with salt and lemon to whiten the skin, then hauled on to a huge wooden block for the butchering to begin. For days past the women of the village had been working hard preparing choice delicacies, marinading hams in troughs filled with rough red wine, rendering down fat for preserving any left-over pieces of meat, frying strips of skin into crispy crackling, boiling the pig's head and feet for many hours, reducing the meaty liquid so that, when cold, it would set into a tasty savoury jelly.

  Yet Petra was finding it difficult to appear cheerful as she sat on the balcony sharing a pot of coffee with her astute, too keenly perceptive grandfather.

  'I do wish you could have persuaded your friends not to have gone to so much trouble, Grandfather,' she shifted uneasily. 'After all, the circumstances that gave rise to my unexpected visit call more for regret than rejoicing.'

  'So far as my friends are aware, your visit was planned to surprise and delight an elderly grandparent,' he reproved gently. 'I trust they will be given no cause to suspect that I am actually harbouring a couple of fugitives—one from justice, and the other from a newly wedded husband whose displeasure she has somehow managed to arouse!'

  Holding the coffee pot poised over his empty cup, Petra paused to direct a stare of suspicion towards the elderly patriarch whose expressionless features and mildness of manner were completely at odds with his excitable Greek temperament. Since early childhood she had grown used to her grandfather's fiery outbursts of temper that was easily provoked, swift to escalate, then just as readily apt to die down. He possessed the volatile nature of a firework, she had often thought, a short-fused thunderflash that soared skyward, ridding itself of explosive sparks before descending safely back to earth. So why had he taken her confession so calmly? Had his explosive core evaporated with age, or was his fuse secretly smouldering, threatening to erupt into a dangerous rocket of resentment?

  'I missed you yesterday,
Grandfather,' she probed, keeping her tone as casual as she was able. 'It's not like you to absent yourself from the village for an entire day. Where did you go?'

  'Er… nowhere in particular.' Airily, he waved away the question, then deliberately changed the direction of the conversation by sinking his teeth into a slice of syrupy semolina cake. 'Mm, it's . good!' he nodded, twinkling bright-eyed approval from beneath an overhanging thatch of eyebrows. 'You have forgotten none of the lessons taught to you when you were no higher than your grandmother's knee. Do you remember how wise she was, elika, how kind, how anxious to preserve the peace? What were the words she used to scold children who quarrelled and refused to make up?'

  'Wounds fester and swell in silence,' Petra faltered, slowly setting down the coffee pot. 'It is fatal to be too proud to explain.'

  'True. So very true,' he murmured, rising from his chair to wander across to a flower-filled tub spilling blossoms over the rail of the balcony. 'Fable has labelled three paths to hell, jealousy, anger and pride—the latter owing its well trodden surface to the feet of many young lovers.'

  Snapping the stem of a poppy between gnarled fingers, he contemplated the drooping head of blossoms cupped within his palm and sadly shook his head. 'It has been said that at one time all flowers grown on this island were colourless. After a misunderstanding with Aphrodite, her lover Adonis went hunting and was gored by the tusks of a wild boar. As Aphrodite ran to help him her feet were scratched by thorns, and drops of her blood stained white roses red. Just as the blood of her expiring lover dyed anemones and poppies the same passion-dark colour. Such a shame,' he sighed heavily, 'when lovers part in anger, blinded by pride, deafened by misunderstandings, often reconciled too late to enjoy the full rich glow of happiness.'

  Casting fantasy aside like an unwanted cloak, he suddenly turned on his heel to astound her by declaring: 'You are obviously deeply unhappy, my child. Am I right in suspecting that you are very much in love with the husband you deserted?'