YANNIS (Cretan Saga Book 1) (40 page)

‘And the tools? Are they just lying around? Forget it, Yannis.’ Spiro picked up the rest of the pack and dealt a hand to each of them. Yannis pushed them away.

‘Count me out. I’m tired.’ He rolled a pullover beneath his head and turned his back on his companions. He felt unreasonably annoyed and frustrated with them.

‘Supper time.’

The voice seemed to come from far away and Yannis thought he was dreaming. He stirred and tried to rise, falling back as his head throbbed violently and a feeling of nausea overtook him. Trying to speak, his voice came in a hoarse croak and Phaedra reached for Kyriakos’s water jug, holding it to Yannis lips. He raised himself slowly and allowed her to support him as he drank thirstily. The water did nothing to ease the pain and dryness of his throat.

‘Lay back, you’ve probably done far too much.’

Yannis obeyed, realising he had no choice. Pain was shooting up the side of his head from his ear and breaking like thousands of fireworks behind his left eye. He felt someone mop his brow and wash his face with cold water and realised he was being covered with Kyriakos’s old rug in an attempt to stop his shivering.

For three days Yannis lay, racked with pain in his head and throat, shivering and sweating alternately, tended by Phaedra and an anxious Spiro.

‘Don’t worry,’ she assured him. ‘It will pass. It often happens to newcomers. They don’t realise the energy they’re using and exhaust themselves.’

Whatever their conversation, it always returned to the pressing problem of where they could shelter. ‘I had an idea just before I was ill, but I can’t remember what it was.’

‘Don’t try to remember. It’ll come back if you don’t try to force it,’ advised Spiro. ‘We’ve been waiting for you to get well so we could talk to you.’

‘Have you had any ideas?’

‘We’ve been talking to the others. Between all of us on the island we have a multitude of talent. There are four men who used to be builders, two carpenters, two barbers, a solicitor, three school teachers, five musicians, a tailor and goodness knows how many fishermen, farmers, taverna keepers and shop keepers. There’s only one snag. Two of the builders are blind, one has hardly any hands left and the other has only one leg. One carpenter is too old and sick to do anything and the other only made furniture.’

‘Fantastic! The men who could really help us aren’t able to.’ Yannis felt unreasonably depressed.

‘There’s one good point, though, apart from getting to know the people. Have you seen my hair?’

For the first time Yannis took stock of his friend. ‘You’ve had a haircut. It looks marvellous.’

‘I persuaded one of the barbers. I bargained with him and he finally agreed to do it for a leather belt.’

‘I wonder what he’d do mine for? I’ve the clothes from Andreas’s bundle. Would they be of any use to him?’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ chuckled Spiro. ‘He’s enormous. I think everyone must barter their food in exchange for a hair cut.’

‘Is there any food? Proper food? Not that awful coddled mess Phaedra’s been making me eat.’

‘There’s plenty in the storeroom. A boat came out this morning with some mattresses and blankets. There was almost a riot; everyone wanted one. Panicos and I stood on the quay and would only let those from our ward in Athens have them.’ He winked at Yannis. ‘I did manage to get an extra one, though. I’ve given it to Kyriakos.’

‘That was kind of you.’

‘He was kind to us when we first arrived. I just repaid the favour.’

Yannis rose to his feet, realising just how unsteady he was as he swayed dangerously for a moment. ‘I’m going for some food, and then you can introduce me to the barber. Whilst I’m there do you think you could locate the one-legged builder? I’d like to talk to him.’

‘You’re at it again.’ Spiro sighed and shook his head.

‘What do you mean?’ Yannis took Spiro’s arm gratefully as he descended the steps to the path.

‘Dashing around, trying to do three things at once. You’ve plenty of time, Yannis. You’ll wear yourself out again.’

‘I promise I’ll be more sensible in future.’ He frowned. ‘If we do start to rebuild we’ll have to limit our working time, just a few hours each day until we’ve built up our strength. Point out the barber to me, then you go and find this builder and Antionis.’

Yannis leaned against the fortress wall and gazed across the bay. A lump came into his throat as he looked at his home village and visualized his family. Two whole years! Anything could have happened in that time. For a while he toyed with the impossible idea of swimming across to the mainland and pretending to be a beggar. Would they recognise him? He touched his face with his hands. He had not seen his face since he was in Heraklion. Apart from his abundant hair growth his skin felt bubbly, but whole. Feeling the hair reminded him he was supposed to be going to the barber. He shuddered, remembering the last time he had visited a barber and been chased from the shop, abuse ringing in his ears. At least that would not happen this time.

Unwillingly he dragged himself to his feet and returned to the man whom Spiro had pointed out to him. Just before the arch leading into the square, a fat man sat, his legs stretched out before him for a modicum of comfort. Yannis sat down beside him, regardless of the scowl that greeted him.

‘I understand you’re a barber. Would you cut my hair for me, please?’

Tiny eyes, sunk deep into rolls of fat, took stock of Yannis. ‘What for?’

‘Because it’s dirty and untidy.’

‘What do I get for doing it?’

‘What do you want?’

The man shrugged. ‘What have you got?’

Yannis sighed in exasperation. ‘Very little; a few clothes, some books.’

The fat man thought. ‘Books are no good to me. I can’t read.’ He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Do you have any socks? I get through a lot of socks.’ He pointed to his misshapen feet.

‘I’ve got a pair you could have.’

The barber nodded. ‘Bring them along and I’ll see what I can do for you.’

‘What? Now?’

He nodded again. ‘I like to have the goods in my hand. I can’t go chasing after you to remind you.’

‘I won’t be long.’ Yannis rose and walked back up the path. Kyriakos waved to him.

‘Come and talk to me now you’re feeling better. I’ve done nothing for the last few days but play cards with Panicos.’

‘What did you lose?’

Kyriakos grinned. ‘Two pairs of shoes; they weren’t a lot of good to me.’

Yannis had to agree with him. ‘I can’t stop and chat now. I’m going to have a hair cut.’ He rummaged in his box and produced a pair of socks. ‘The price of a haircut.’ He held them up to show Kyriakos.

‘He needs them, poor devil. He can’t put a shoe on either foot now.’

Yannis hurried back down the path to where the fat barber sat. He thrust the socks into the grasping hands. Slowly the barber unrolled and inspected them. ‘They’re good ones. Haven’t even been mended.’ He smiled broadly. ‘Help me up and we’ll get started.’

Yannis allowed the heavyweight to lean on him as he hauled himself to his feet, finally propping himself against the wall and instructing Yannis to kneel before him. From his pocket he took a pair of scissors and began to snip away at the long locks. By the time he had finished Yannis’s knees were numb and when told to stand he rose stiffly, rubbing the life back into them.

‘That feels better.’ He ran his hand along the back of his neck.

‘Do you want to see?’

‘Can I? Have you got a mirror?’

From his back pocket the barber pulled a small square of glass and held it out. Yannis studied his face carefully, pretending to look at the haircut. His skin felt worse than it looked. He tried to screw his head round to look at his neck, but the scrap of mirror was too small.

‘That’s fine. Thanks a lot.’ He handed the mirror back and continued down the path in search of Spiro.

A heated argument was taking place between Spiro and the one-legged builder, whilst Antionis sat and listened. Yannis decided to intervene.

‘What’s the problem?’

Spiro struck his leg in disgust. ‘Christos says it can’t be done.’

‘Why not?’ Yannis sat down beside them.

‘A number of reasons. There’s no one fit enough here to build a house. It’s hard work, heavy lifting, climbing up scaffolding, work that we can’t do. Even if we could where would we get the materials from?’

‘We can work.’

‘That’s what I’m telling him,’ insisted Spiro.

‘All we want is your advice. We want you to tell us if a wall is safe, how to put the roof on and hang a door.’

Christos shook his head.

‘Suppose I said I know a way for us to have plenty of water?’ Yannis waited for the effect of his words to sink in.

Christos hauled himself to his feet, placing a prop of wood under his armpit. ‘You’re mad. Talking about building and having water!’

Yannis watched him limp away in disappointment. He shrugged and was about to walk away when Antionis’s soft voice cut through the silence.

‘Tell me about you idea for more water.’

‘It’s quite simple. You just collect rainwater and save it.’ Yannis spoke sulkily.

‘How would you collect enough and where would you store it?’

‘The same way as the Venetians did, make channels for it to run down the roof, catch it in a barrel and store it until it was needed. You need roofs to make channels,’ Yannis ended bitterly.

‘Yannis,’ the old man turned his sightless eyes towards the youth. ‘You’ll have to do it yourself. Once they see it can be done they’ll follow you. You can rebuild.’

Yannis looked at Spiro. ‘He’s right, you know. If we showed that one house could be made habitable they’d be only too pleased to help us. It’s just a question of showing them it can be done.’

Spiro shook his head. ‘We were dreaming. It’s like Christos said, we need materials.’

‘We’ve got the materials.’

Spiro looked at Yannis scornfully. ‘Broken walls and doors and windows. They’ll make fine materials! Where are the hammer, nails, and screwdriver? Even a ladder would help.’

‘We’ll make them or manage.’

Spiro snorted in disgust and disbelief and began to walk away. At first Yannis started to follow him, then changed his mind. He would investigate the possibilities of the ruins he had seen from the summit of the island. Turning away from the concrete path into a narrow, overgrown walkway next to the main church building, he pushed his way through the scrub and low bushes that were growing there. Thorns clutched at his clothes, but he forced his way, all the time Antionis’s voice ringing in his ears. He reached the first of the crumbling walls. It was built with one stone on top of the other; the gaps plugged with slithers of rock, and stood about five metres high.

Yannis pushed against it with all his might, expecting it to tumble over and add to the fallen masonry, but it stayed solid under his strength. He had helped his father build similar structures to retain the earth on the sloping terraces. He searched amongst the fallen blocks for one of a reasonable size, finally lifting it on to a slight depression. Another appeared to fit beside it; he tested it with his hand to ensure the two flat sides were together. It rocked very slightly and Yannis searched amongst the smaller, broken pieces for a wedge.

He became completely engrossed, following the line of the standing wall and adding a row of stones to make half a metre higher. One side of the doorframe was still in position, the other having fallen some time in the past. Calculating that he would need at least two more rows of stones to reach the top of the frame he moved to the other side of the wall in his search for materials. The stones were more plentiful on that side, the wall having fallen inwards originally, and he found he was progressing quite quickly. Oblivious to the damage he was doing to his hands, he tugged, pulled, heaved and lifted the stones into place, the sweat pouring from him until he had to rest.

Sitting on the ground he admired his handiwork. He had raised the wall by at least a metre. Elation with his accomplishment turned to despair. The wall he had tackled was the highest, even if he managed to build up the other three, how would he fit windows, door and a roof? He tried to think logically, timber was needed. He would have to collect it from the other ruins and hope it would serve. He scanned the three lower walls. It would take at least a week to raise them to their former height and whilst he was doing that he could consider the problem of fixing a roof.

Wearily he made his way back to the quay and washed his face and hands in the sea before returning to the square of concrete where Kyriakos sat. He felt restless for the remainder of the day, yet dared not return to the ruined house. A re-occurrence of his high temperature and inability to move was the last thing he wanted. Pretending to read he planned carefully. He would clear the scrub as best he could round all the ruins and then decide which ones to rob of timber. Each time the wind blew he wondered if his wall would still be standing when he next went there and he longed for the morning to come. A disturbed sleep saw him hollow-eyed and Phaedra became concerned.

‘I’m perfectly all right,’ he snapped. ‘Just leave me alone.’

‘Where are you going?’ she asked as he rose abruptly and began to walk away.

‘To be alone.’

‘Leave him, Phaedra,’ advised Spiro. ‘He’s going through a bad patch.’

Father Minos decided he could no longer avoid visiting the family in Plaka. It was his duty to tell them he knew the name of the hospital where their son had been sent for treatment. They could at least write to him, although it was doubtful that he would be allowed to write back. Descending from the rattling bus in Aghios Nikolaos he hoped he would be able to find the fisherman’s house. It was over two years since he had accompanied the young boy to his home to break the news. He ate a leisurely lunch before walking down to the quay where he spotted a solitary fisherman mending his nets, and he picked his way over the debris of boxes, floats and containers to reach his side.

‘Excuse me.’ The fisherman looked up and crossed himself hurriedly. ‘I’m looking for a fisherman, maybe you can help me.’