My Brother Michael

by Mary Stewart

  ‘All the same it was a stout effort.’

  He opened the door, and I went past him into the chilly corridor.

  ‘They taught us a lot,’ I said sedately, ‘in the tough end of St Trinian’s.’

  15

  Tell the Emperor that the bright citadel is fallen

  to the ground. Apollo hath no longer any

  shelter, or oracular laurel-tree, or speaking

  fountain. Even the vocal stream has ceased to

  flow.

  The Delphic Oracle to the Emperor Julian.

  IT can’t have been much after six when Simon woke me. I had sleepily answered ‘Come in’ to his knock before I remembered that I was no longer in the hotel, and this was not likely to be a chambermaid with a cup of tea. As I turned my head, looking, still sleepy-eyed, towards the door, it opened, Simon didn’t come in, but I heard his voice.

  ‘Camilla.’

  ‘Mmm? Oh – Simon. Yes?’

  ‘Could you bear to get up now, d’you suppose? I think we ought to move. I’ve got coffee on a Primus if you like to come along and get it when you’re dressed.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Good.’ The door shut. I shot, fully awake now, out of bed, and began to dress quickly. From my window I could see the morning sunlight sliding like apricot-bloom over the rounded top of Mount Cirphis.

  In my room it was still cool, for which I was grateful. I wasn’t so grateful about the icy gush of water from the taps – both taps – but in any case washing at Delphi is a penance; the water is as hard as pumice-stone, and just about as good for the skin … but it woke me up fully and finally, and it was with a tingling sense of new adventure that at length I went quickly along to Simon’s door and tapped.

  ‘Come in.’

  I noticed that he was making no attempt to keep his voice low this morning, and he must have seen a query in my face as I entered, because he looked up from the Primus he was tending and said briefly: ‘Danielle checked out an hour ago.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I followed her down as far as the upper road. I didn’t see where she went in the village, but I did see a jeep drive off north.’

  ‘That means she’s either making for Itea or further along towards Amphissa?’

  ‘Yes. Coffee?’

  ‘Lovely. Simon, this smells like heaven. Rolls too? You’re very efficient.’

  ‘I went along to the baker’s after I’d seen Danielle off the premises. Here’s the sugar.’

  ‘Thank you. Where do you think she’s gone?’

  ‘God knows, and there’s not much point in guessing. Probably to pick Dimitrios up in Itea – though if the jeep was in Delphi it seems odd he didn’t take it last night when he got out of the studio. How d’you feel today?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. And you? How’s the shoulder? You’re sure that was all the damage?’

  ‘Certain. And it’s really hardly stiff at all. I feel ready for anything.’

  He was sitting on the edge of his bed, a cup of coffee in one hand and a roll in the other, looking, as ever, completely relaxed and at ease. ‘And you?’ he said. ‘Ready for your adventure?’

  I laughed. ‘I can hardly believe that two days ago I was writing to my friend that nothing ever happened to me. Is it Goethe who says somewhere that we ought to beware what we ask the gods for, because they might grant it? I asked for adventure, and it seems I got it.’

  He didn’t smile. He appeared to consider what I’d been saying for a minute or two, then he said, quite seriously: ‘I ought not to let you come, you know.’

  I didn’t ask why. I drank coffee and watched the sunlight wheel a fraction to touch the edge of the window-frame. A butterfly hovered, then winnowed down to cling to the strip of sunlit stone. Its wings fanned gently, black velvet shot with gold.

  Simon said: ‘Don’t mistake me. I don’t think we – you, are in any danger; but it’ll be a hard day, especially following after yesterday and last night. The only possible danger is running unexpectedly into Dimitrios, who’ll certainly be up there, but if we’re reasonably careful that can be avoided. I don’t think he’ll be expecting us. He probably thinks that now I’ve seen the place, that closes the account for me.’

  ‘In any case I told Danielle we were going to the fair at Levadia.’

  ‘Did you? Good for you. Was she showing interest, then?’

  I smiled. ‘Yes, she showed interest. She asked me flat out where you were going today. I – well, I’m afraid I just mistrusted her on principle, and told her a lie.’ I set down my coffee cup. ‘It seems it’s just as well Dimitrios certainly won’t be looking out for us.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Simon. ‘Of course, there’s no reason anyway why he should have expected me to go up there again, is there? He doesn’t know I know of the existence of any “treasure”. If Michael had sent any information home, Dimitrios might well imagine I’d have come long ago. Cigarette?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He leaned forward to hold his lighter for me. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I think Dimitrios will see it as a pilgrimage for me; and that’s over. All the better. But we’ll be very careful, just the same. With any luck we’ll see what’s going on, and where Nigel comes in – and then we can think about possible reinforcements.’ He sent me a grin as he got up off the bed and reached for his haversack. ‘In any case, not to worry. All things being equal, I can deal with friend Dimitrios. And I refuse to be afraid of Nigel. Even if he has got himself mixed up in anything for the sake of the cash, he’d never in a million years do violence for gain. Or so I think.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘Apart from those two there’s Danielle.’ That swift grin again. ‘Well, I wouldn’t like to swear that I could precisely “deal with” Danielle, but let’s say I’m not afraid of her.’

  ‘We might be wrong about them,’ I said. ‘There may be nobody up there at all, except Nigel.’

  ‘It’s possible—’ he was packing the haversack as he talked: more of the fresh rolls, some fruit, chocolate, water; Spartan fare, but none the less appropriate for that – ‘it’s quite possible that we are wrong about Dimitrios and Danielle, but in any case I’m not concerned at the moment with Michael’s “find” except as it touches Nigel.’ A look. ‘You’re convinced about those flowers in the drawing, aren’t you?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Well, that’s one thing we’re sure of in a maze of guess-work. We don’t really know a damned thing about Dimitrios and Danielle, but we do know Nigel has been in that corrie, and we do know he was wildly excited about something that same night. And Dimitrios came here, for some purpose, to visit Nigel’s room. We’ll freeze on to those facts, and let the rest develop as it will … Are you ready to start?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then let’s go.’

  Already the morning sun was warm overhead, but the rocks were still cool from the night. The path past the graveyard was wide enough for us to walk side by side.

  Simon said: ‘All I’m hoping today is that – if you’re right – we run across Nigel and see what he’s up to, and knock some sense into his silly young head before he gets himself involved in something he can’t get out of. And incidentally – this is the path off to the stadium – find the cave.’

  He had stopped where the narrow path left our track, and waited for me to precede him. I paused, and looked at him straightly. ‘Tell me one thing. Why are you letting me come?’

  For the second time since I had known him he seemed oddly at a loss. He hesitated, as if looking for the right words.

  I said: ‘Granted that you don’t want Stephanos and Niko along. But you’d get along much faster and do much better alone, Kyrie Lester, and you know it. You also know quite well that if we do run into Dimitrios it might develop into quite a sticky party. Why don’t you leave me at home to get on with my knitting?’

  A pine branch cast a bar of shade across his face, but I thought I saw a smile behind the light-grey eyes. ‘You kn
ow the reasons quite well, Kyria Haven.’

  ‘Reasons?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I know the first. I wished a little too hard for an adventure, so I can darned well take what comes, and four eyes are better than two if we want to find Nigel and the cave?’

  ‘Not quite. I had the idea that you were looking rather hard for something on your own account.’

  I turned abruptly and led the way up the narrow path between the pines. I said, after a bit: ‘Perhaps I was.’ Then, later still: ‘You – do see rather a lot, don’t you?’

  ‘And you know the second reason.’

  It was shady under the pines, but my cheeks felt hot. I said: ‘Oh?’ and then felt furious with myself because the syllable seemed to be inviting an answer. I added hastily: ‘I can show you where the cyclamen is, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Simon agreeably.

  We had reached the stadium. We crossed the slanting shadows of the starting-gate and left the trees. Behind us in the holly-oaks and cypresses the birds flashed and sang. The singing echoed and rang up the limestone cliffs.

  We crossed the stadium floor in silence and took the steep path that led to the rocky reaches of Parnassus.

  We saw no one on our way to the corrie.

  Most of the way from Delphi the track was easy to follow, and, apart from one open stretch soon after we had left the top of the Shining Ones, it wound along rocky valleys which would have offered plenty of cover in case of alarm. But the hot desert of broken rocks seemed as empty as yesterday. We travelled in short bursts, going fairly fast, but with frequent pauses in the shade to get our breath and to scan the surrounding country for signs of movement.

  At length, as we made our way up a steep dry watercourse, I looked upwards to the right and saw the line of cliffs that held the corrie. Simon, who was ahead of me, stopped and turned.

  ‘We’ll wait here, I think, and eat. Look, here’s a good place, in the shade between those two boulders. We can’t be seen, and we can keep an eye on the valley and on those cliffs. I’d like to be quite sure no one else is about before we make our way up.’

  I sat down thankfully in the place he indicated, and he produced food from the haversack. The rolls didn’t taste quite as good as they had done in the cool of the morning, but as I ate I began to feel better. The tepid water was a benison, and the fruit was ambrosia itself.

  I let Simon do the watching. After I had eaten I relaxed against the rock with eyes half-shut against the light, and he lit a cigarette for me. He showed no signs of hurry or impatience, or even curiosity. We smoked in silence, and I saw his eyes move almost idly across the landscape, up to the corrie, along the cliff, down the screen, back to the corrie.

  At the very edge of my vision there was a movement.

  I turned my head sharply, eyes fully open now. I could see nothing. But there had been a movement; of that I was sure. I was just about to touch Simon’s arm when I saw it again; it was as if one of the rocks of the scree had moved … a goat. It was only a goat. As it walked forward, taking shape against the void of tumbled rocks, I saw others with it, two, three of them, moving purposefully along some age-old track of their own. I was wondering half-idly if there was a goat-herd with them, and if, perhaps, they had strayed from the troop, when I thought I heard, far away over the cliff-top, the sound of a pipe. Even as I heard it and strained my ears to catch the notes, it faded, and I dismissed it as fancy. The thin, broken stave had been purely pastoral, something from a myth of Arcady, nymphs and shepherds and Pan-pipes and green valleys. But this was Parnassus, home of more terrible gods.

  I relaxed again and watched the smoke from my cigarette wind up in the sunlight. I remember that I didn’t think at all about the business of the day. I thought about Parnassus, and the gods who lived there, and Simon …

  I stole a look at him. He was looking almost dreamily up towards the cliffs. He looked about as tense and vigilant as in the fifth hour of the House Cricket Match. He caught my look and smiled, and moved his hand lazily to knock ash from his cigarette. I said: ‘A penny for them?’

  ‘I was wondering if there was anyone with those goats. I don’t think so.’

  ‘I thought I heard a pipe being played, away over there,’ I said, ‘but I expect I imagined it. Did you hear anything?’

  ‘No. But it’s possible. I don’t think those three would be up here on their own. You must have very good hearing. I never heard a sound.’

  He crushed out his cigarette and got up, reaching a hand down to me. ‘Shall we go up now? I think we’re unobserved, but I don’t want to cross that big open stretch towards the corrie “gateway”. If we skirt it, and go up that gully there, I think we can get round without the risk of being seen, and it’ll bring us out above the cliff where we were yesterday. It’ll be a bit of a stiff pull, I’m afraid. Are you tired?’

  ‘Not a bit.’

  He laughed. ‘One up to British womanhood. Come along. And keep down. This is where the real stalk starts.’

  Simon lay flat at the corrie’s lip, looking downwards. I crouched behind him, a little way back from the cliff edge. I waited, watching him for a signal.

  It seemed an age before he moved. Then he turned his head and lifted a hand, with a slow cautious movement that carried its own warning.

  In spite of myself, I could feel tension pull my nerves taut, like cold wires touching my skin. I inched forward until I lay beside Simon. I was screened by one of the low holly-oaks. I lifted my head slowly till my eyes were above the level of the edge. I looked down into the corrie. There was no one there.

  As I looked at him, with surprise in my face and a question, he put his lips to my ear. ‘Dimitrios is here.’

  Again that coward jerk of the heart. Every vein in my body was contracting, little thrilling wires tightening till my muscles wouldn’t obey me. I found I had ducked my head down again behind the holly-oak, and my cheek was on my hand in the hot dust. The hand was cold.

  Simon breathed, just beside my ear: ‘He’s just vanished somewhere underneath us. I saw him duck under that piece in the corner.’ He jerked his head slightly towards it. ‘Is that where you went exploring yesterday?’

  I nodded. I swallowed, and managed to say quite evenly: ‘What was he doing?’

  ‘I don’t know. He just seemed to be hanging about. Waiting for someone or something. Nigel, perhaps, or—’

  He broke off and seemed to go lower into the ground. I shrank down beside him. The holly-oak hid me, and I peered down.

  Then I saw Dimitrios. He came out from somewhere below us, ducking his head as he passed under the flying buttress that seemed to shore up the cliff. He was smoking, and his eyes were frowning and narrowed against the high blaze of the sun. He walked carefully over the rocky floor of the corrie towards the northern gap in the wall. Every now and again he stopped, and slanted his head as if to listen.

  He reached the corrie entrance, and stopped there, looking down towards Amphissa. Once he turned his head and looked the other way, the way we had come, from Delphi. Then he came back into the corrie. He flung down the butt of his cigarette and lit another. I noticed sweat on his dark face and dust yellowish-white on his clothes. He wasn’t in the dark suit today; he was wearing dungarees in dull faded blue, and a khaki shirt with a red kerchief knotted at the neck.

  The cigarette was lit now. He dropped the match, then looked round him for a few moments as if undecided. He took a few steps into the corrie, and I thought he was going back towards the corner where the cyclamen was, but he stopped suddenly, as if impatient of waiting, turned sharply on his heel, and walked, rapidly now, as if his mind was at last made up, out of the corrie.

  Simon said in my ear: ‘Gone to meet Nigel, or Danielle, do you suppose? Give him a minute or two.’

  We gave him five. They seemed very long minutes. There was no other sound in the hot morning but our own breathing. The sun beat down on us as we lay on the bare earth. I was thankful when Simon moved a
t last.

  We got quickly to our feet, and went down the twisting little path like a couple of mountain goats. We almost ran across the corrie floor and ducked under the fallen rock into the corner.

  There it was, the patch of brilliant green, and the drifts of tiny blue bells, the lovely traces of the mountain rain. But today it was different.

  Simon had checked. ‘Is this the place?’

  ‘Yes, but—’ I caught my breath and pushed past him, to stand staring at the cliff.

  The cyclamen had gone. Where it had clung to its crack in the rock there was now a black fissure. The crack had widened, split, and gaped open, as pressure had been exerted on the weather-rotted rock. I could see the raw white marks where the crowbars had gained their leverage.

  A slab, similarly marked, lay at our feet, newly fallen, and crushing the fresh grass. Yesterday it had been leaning against the rock-face, masking what lay behind from my casual glance. Today there was a split in the face of the rock, some seven feet high by a foot and a half wide – a narrow fissure which angled sharply up to a point at the top. It opened on to darkness. The cave. Michael’s cave.

  My mouth was dry. I said hoarsely: ‘Yesterday that slab was leaning up against the cliff, at an angle. There was a crack behind it, very narrow. I remember now. It didn’t look like an entrance to anything, but that must have been it.’

  He nodded, but he wasn’t looking at me, or at the mouth of the cave. He looked past me, up at the cliff-top, the corrie-walls, all round us.

  No movement: no sound.

  There was a pile of mule-droppings on the grass, that hadn’t been there yesterday. I pointed to them silently, and Simon nodded. He said softly: ‘We were right, then … We’ll go in. You wait here a moment. And keep those ears of yours open. I won’t be long.’

  He disappeared into the darkness of the cleft. I waited. Once again, far away, I thought I heard that little thread of music, the ghostly echo of the Panpipes. Heard now, in this hot cruel corrie, the sound spoke no longer of Arcadia, and the kindly god of flocks and herds. It was a panic prickle along the flesh.