The Moonspinners (5 page)

He jerked his head again. ‘Come.'

I hesitated, then looked determinedly away from that polished knifehilt, and followed him up the dizzy goat-track that led past the spring.

The place he chose was a wide ledge, some way above the little alp where the hut stood. As a hiding place and watch-tower combined, it could hardly have been bettered. The ledge was about ten feet wide, sloping a little upwards, out from the cliff face, so that from below we were invisible. An overhang hid us from above, and gave shelter from the weather. Behind, in the cliff, a vertical cleft offered deeper shelter, and a possible hiding-place. A juniper grew half across this cleft, and the ledge itself was deep with the sweet aromatic shrubs that clothed the hillside. The way up to it was concealed by a tangling bank of honeysuckle, and the spread silver boughs of a wild fig tree.

I found myself a place at the back of the ledge, and sat down. Lambis stretched himself full length near the edge, his eyes watchful on the rocky stretches below us. From this height I could see a wide reach of the sea. Its bright leagues of water hurt the eyes. It seemed a long way off.

We shared what food there was. Lambis abandoned all pretence, and ate ravenously. He didn't look at me, but lay, propped on one elbow, never taking his eyes off the mountainside below us. I kept silent, watching him, and when at length I saw him give a sigh, and reach into a pocket for a cigarette, I spoke, gently.

‘Lambis. Who shot Mark?'

He jumped, and turned his head sharply. The ready scowl came down.

‘Not that I care,' I added, mildly, ‘but you've made it obvious that you expect them, whoever they are, to have another bash at him, so you're both in hiding. That's all very well, but you can't stay that way indefinitely . . . I mean, for ever. And you ought to have the sense to see it.'

‘Do you think I do not know this?'

‘Well, when do you plan to go – if not for help, then for supplies?'

‘Is it not obvious that I cannot leave him—?'

‘It's obvious he can't be moved, and he ought not to be left, but the way things look now, if someone doesn't get help very soon, he'll get worse. Let's face it, he may even die. If not of the wound, then of exposure. You told me he'd had a night in the open. People die of that – shock, pneumonia, goodness knows what, didn't you know?'

No answer. He was lighting his cigarette, and he didn't look at me, but at least he was making no move to leave me, or hurry me on my way.

I said abruptly: ‘You came here by boat, didn't you? Was it your own?'

His head jerked up at that, and the match went fizzing down among the dry juniper needles. Absently, he put the heel of his hand down on the tiny gyre of blue smoke to crush it out. If it burnt him, he gave no sign. His eyes were on me, unwinking.

‘By – boat?'

‘Yes, by boat. I heard you say something about “the caique”, to Mark.' I smiled. ‘Good heavens, everybody knows that much Greek. And then, Mark lied about how you got here. There's no road from the east; in fact, there's only one road through this corner of Crete, and if you'd come by that you'd not have needed to ask me all those questions about the route down to the village. If Mark hadn't been feverish, he'd have known I'd see through such a silly lie. Well? You can't have come by the supply boat from Chania, because that'd tie up in Agios Georgios, and – again – you'd know the way.
Was
it your own boat?'

A pause. ‘Yes, it is mine.'

‘And where is it now?'

A longer pause. Then a reluctant gesture towards a part of the coast out of our sight, some way to the east. ‘Down there.'

‘Ah. Then I assume you'll have supplies on board – food, blankets, medical things?'

‘And if I have?'

‘Then they'll have to be fetched,' I said calmly.

‘How?' He said it angrily; but at least, I thought, he was listening. His initial mistrust gone, he might even be halfway to accepting me as a possible ally. ‘You might not find the boat. The way is not easy. Besides, it is not safe.'

So he had accepted me. I waited for a moment, then said, slowly: ‘You know, Lambis, I think you had better tell me about this – affair. No, listen to me. I know you don't really trust me, why should you? But you've had to trust me this far, and you'll have to, again, when I finally do go down to the village. So why not trust me a bit further? Why not take advantage of the fact that I came along? There may not be much I can do, but there may be something, and I promise to be very careful. I won't interfere where I'm not needed, but obviously I'm less likely to make mistakes, if I know what's involved.'

The dark eyes were fixed on my face. They were quite unreadable, but the stony sullenness had gone from his mouth. He seemed to be hesitating.

I said: ‘I have understood one thing, I think. It was a man from Agios Georgios who shot Mark?'

‘We do not know. We do not know who did it.'

I said sharply: ‘If you don't intend to tell me the truth even now—'

‘This is the truth. Can you not see? If we knew from where the danger comes, or why, then we would know what to do. But we do not know. This is why I am afraid to go into the village, or to ask there for help from anyone – even the headman. I do not know if this is some affair of family, or who may be concerned in it. You are from England: perhaps you have stayed in Athens, or even in the
Peloponnisos
—' I nodded – ‘but still you do not know what it is like in these mountain villages of Crete. It is a wild country, still, and the law does not always reach here. Here, in Crete, they still kill sometimes for affairs of family, you understand? They still have the – I do not know the word, family killings and revenge—'

‘Vendettas. Blood feuds.'

‘Yes, “vendetta” I know; killing for blood. Blood will always have blood.'

He pronounced this involuntarily Shakespearian line in a matter-of-fact voice that chilled me. I stared. ‘Are you trying to tell me that Mark has injured someone – by mistake, I presume? And was shot at in revenge, or something, by someone he doesn't know? Why, it's absurd! I suppose it
could
have happened, in a country like Crete, but surely they must realize by now—'

‘He injured nobody. That was not his mistake. His mistake was that he saw a murder done.'

I heard my breath go out between my teeth. ‘I – see. And the
murderer's
mistake was that Mark is still alive to talk about it?'

‘That is so. And we do not know even who the people were . . . the murderers, and the man they killed; and so we do not know in what direction we can go for help. We only know that they still search for Mark, to kill him.' He nodded at my look. ‘Yes, these are wild parts,
thespoinís
– miss. If a man is injured, his whole family, perhaps his whole village, will support him, even in the case of murder and death. Not always, of course, but sometimes, in some places. Often here, in these mountains.'

‘Yes, I'd read it, but somehow one doesn't—' I paused, and drew in my breath. ‘Are you a Cretan, Lambis?'

‘I was born in Crete, yes. But my mother was from Aegina, and when my father was killed, in the war, she returned to her mother's house. I lived in Agia Marina, in Aegina.'

‘I know it. Then you don't belong to this part of the world? It couldn't have been anything to do with you, this horrible affair?'

‘No, I was not even here. I found him next morning. I told you.'

‘Oh yes, so you did. But I still can't think that it literally isn't safe to go down for supplies, and even to see the headman in Agios Georgios. Why, he'd be—'

‘No!' He spoke sharply, as if in sudden fear. ‘You do not know it all. It is not so simple.'

I said gently: ‘Then supposing you tell me.'

‘I will do that.' But he waited for a moment, letting his eyes move slowly over the empty reaches of the mountainside below us. When he was satisfied that there was no movement anywhere, he settled himself more comfortably on his elbow, and took a deep drag at his cigarette.

‘I told you I have a caique. I live now in Piraeus. Mark hired me there, to take a voyage to some of the islands. We have been to different places, during two weeks, but no matter of that, two days ago we come round to the south of Crete. We mean to come in to Agios Georgios, perhaps, later that night. I speak of Saturday. Well, Mark he know of an old church, in a hollow of the mountains, not far from the coast, to the east of Agios Georgios. This church is very ancient—' he pronounced it ‘auncient' ‘– perhaps classical, who knows, and I think it is in the old books.'

‘I've heard of it. There was a classical shrine. I think, then later a church was built on the site. Byzantine.'

‘So? Well, in the auncient times there was a harbour nearby. Still, in calm weather, you can see the old wall under the water, and a small caique can get right in where the old landing place was. Mark, he tells me to stop there. We had been sailing for two days, and now they were wanting to go on land, to walk—'

‘They?'

‘Mark and his brother.'

‘Oh!' I stared at him, with the beginnings of frightened comprehension. I was remembering the look of agonized helplessness on Mark's face, and something Lambis had said, to quiet him: ‘
I'll go and look for him myself as soon as I can
.'

‘I begin to see,' I said, rather hoarsely. ‘Go on.'

‘Well, Mark and Colin leave the caique, and go up through the hills. This is Saturday, did I say? They are to be gone all the day. They have food and wine with them. I stay with the caique. There is a small thing wrong with the engine, so I am to go along to Agios Georgios for what I need, then return in the evening to meet Mark and Colin. But I find the engine goes right quite easily, so I just stay and fish, and sleep, and swim, until it is evening, and they have not come. I wait and wait, but not knowing when they will come, or if perhaps I should go and look . . . you know how this is—'

‘I know.'

‘Then it is night, and they are not coming, and now I am very anxious. These are wild hills. I do not think they can be lost, but I think of accidents. At last, when I can wait no more, I lock the cabin on the caique, and put the key where they will know to find it, then I take a torch, and go up to find the little church. But you will understand that, even with the torch, it is not possible to find a way.'

‘I can well believe that.'

‘I shout, of course, and I go as far as I can, but I do not even find the church. I do not wish myself to be lost, so I go back where I can hear the sea, and I wait for the moon.'

‘It's rising late, isn't it?'

He nodded. He was talking easily now. ‘It was a long time to wait. When it rose, it was not a big moon, but I could see the way well enough. I go slowly, very slowly. I find the church, but they are not there. I do not know where to go from there, but then there is cloud, and sharp rain, and it is dark again, very dark. I have to take shelter till first light. I shout, but there is nothing. I do not think they have passed me, back to the boat, so when it is light, I go on. I am lucky. I find a path – not just a goat path, but a wide one, of stones worn flat, as if men went that way. Perhaps in the old days it was the road from Agios Georgios to the church and the auncient harbour, I do not know. But it was a path. I go along it. Then, on it, I see blood.'

The bare simplicity of Lambis' style, together with the matter-of-fact tone he used, had an absurdly sensational impact. As he paused, with totally unconscious effect, to grind his cigarette out on a stone, I found myself watching him so tensely that when a shadow scudded across the ledge between us, I flinched from it as if it had been a flying knife. It was only a kestrel, sailing in to feed its young in a nest on the rock above us. The air shrilled with the ecstatic hissing with which they greeted the food.

Lambis never even glanced up, his nerves being that much better than mine. ‘Now,' he said, ‘I am sure there is an accident. This has happened before the rain, because the rain has washed most of it away, but I see blood between the stones. I am afraid. I call, but there is no answer.' He hesitated, and glanced up at me. ‘Then – I cannot explain you why – but I do not call any more.'

‘You don't have to explain. I understand.'

I did understand, very well. I could picture it as he had told it me: the man alone on the mountainside; the blood on the stones; the eerie silence, and the echoing rocks; the creeping fear. I had been to Aegina, the idyllic little island in the Saronic Gulf where Lambis had been brought up. There, one solitary hill, sea-girdled, is crowned with a temple which stands among its sunlit pines. From between the pillars, on every side, you can see woods and fields, edged with the calm, blue sea. The road winds through gentle valleys, past slopes where little Christian shrines perch, it seems, every fifty yards or so, among the ferns and wild blue iris . . . But here, in Crete, it is a different world. These cloud bound crags, with their eagles and ibexes and wheeling vultures, have, time out of mind – it is said – been the haunt of outlawed and violent men. So, Lambis had hunted in silence. And, finally, he had found Mark.

Mark was lying some three hundred yards further on, full in the path. ‘He had crawled that way, from where the blood was spilt. How, I do not know. I think at first that he is dead. I see then that he is fainting, and that he has been shot. I do what I can, quickly, then I look for the boy.'

‘The boy? You mean that the brother – Colin – is
younger
?'