considering at what an almost inaccessible height their little house is perched. Yet it seems a little queer that nobody ever comes.
Bert said so once, to the old woman; I would not have. And she looked down at her hands and said sadly:
“We are considered unlucky. My man died when we were both young, leaving me with but one child, a girl. And Aretoula’s mother, too, lost Aretoula’s father early. People are afraid to come, lest our ill-luck reach out to them.”
A strange thought, that. Of ill-luck as a dark, cloaked presence brooding above the house and ready to stretch out long, invisible arms to clutch anybody who may enter. And how cruel, that such a superstition should isolate two women.
Bert and I were both awkwardly sympathetic. We told old Kyra Stamata that when the war was over she ought to take Aretoula and go down to some town or village. Where both of them could live nearer other women; where Aretoula could meet young men.
But she shook her head. “No. In this house I was born, and in this house I will die. As my father and mother died, and my four brothers. My four tall, strong brothers. And after them my husband and my daughter’s husband.”
Bert said: “That’s hard on the girl. Never getting any where, never meeting any other young people.”
The old woman smiled. A sudden broad smile, so deeply amused that it lit her dark beady eyes, the few yellow teeth still showing under her jutting, beak-like nose, with a red glow oddly like evil. Like a secret, gloating greed.
“If a young man is meant to come to Aretoula, one will come.”
6th June: I am afraid that Aretoula thinks that young man has already come. And so does Ronnie. Tonight I heard them whispering together, out on the mountainside. Traces of snow still showed beneath their feet, but around them — so clear and fragrant that even a dried-up, prosaic codger like myself could catch it — was the breath of spring. Their arms were round each other, and his head was bent close to her dark one. I heard him saying:
“There must be a priest we can get to come up here, Aretoula. My friends can go for him, even if I can’t, because of this blasted leg; I don’t know why it doesn’t mend.”
It is true that Ronnie’s leg is the only one of our ills that this rest here has not mended. He is lamer now than he was when we wandered on the hills. But no doubt the strength of desperation bore him up then.
Aretoula’s voice came, tender, velvety as a caressing hand: “Your leg will be well. All of you will be well. Wait, my Ronnie; only wait. With me.”
“I can’t wait much longer, Aretoula. Not for you. The fel lows’ll be glad to go for a priest. And it’ll be safe. Your Cretans are a good sort — they don’t betray allies.”
She laughed and nuzzled her cheek against his. “Foolish one, my golden love, you do not have to wait! Not for Aretoula. She is yours. As much so as any priest could make her. We will not ask your comrades to risk their lives among these mountain passes that they do not know. Among, perhaps, the Germans.”
He said stubbornly, very low: “I can’t do that, Aretoula. What would your granny think? I can’t take advantage of you and her like that; not after all you’ve both done for us.”
She threw back her head then, looked up into his face. Even from where I stood, around the corner of the hut, I could see how the stars shone, reflected in her eyes.
“Listen, my Ronnie. Granny will understand. I see that I must tell you of sad things — things that I had hoped need not yet trouble us. No priest would come here, if your comrades went for him. They hold this place accursed.”
“But why — what—”
“You cannot understand, you who are English and so not superstitious. You do not know how the mother of my grandmother died raving mad, after she had tried to kill my grandmother, whom she called a
“Yes, she would have killed my grandmother, her own child. Her husband and her remaining son had all they could do, strong men though they were, to drag her off her only daughter. And that night she died, raving. And soon they themselves died also, of the same sickness that had taken the others. But the words of the poor mother’s ravings lived, and my grandmother was left alone. None of the neighbours (for we had neighbours then, here on the mountain) would enter this house; none of her kin would take her in. All hated and feared her; all shunned her. Until my grandfather came climbing this way from another village in another valley — tall and strong and laughing, such a man as her brothers had been. And he laughed at the tales and loved her. All might have been different if he had lived — or if my father had lived. But now the curse has settled here, like a black bird brooding above this house forever. No man will ever marry Aretoula.”
“I will — some day.” Ronnie’s young face was exalted. “I’ll take you away from here. To England, where people are civilised and don’t do things like this to women. We’ll always be together.”
His arms tightened around her, and his head bent to hers. Her mouth plastered itself on his. She pressed herself against him, seemed almost to press herself into him, as if her body might melt, cloud-like, into his.
I came forward then. I said, “Good evening,” casually, before I came round the corner, and Ronnie jumped back, out of her arms. I stayed with them until she went in, and later, after he was asleep, I got Bert out of the house and talked with him:
“We’ll have to leave, Bert. Things are getting too thick here; the kids are falling in love.”
I told him everything; everything, that is, except those fantastic nightmares of old Kyra Stamata’s mother’s. Bert, like many Queenslanders, has seen a good deal of the aborigines; and although he pretends to scoff at their dark beliefs and practices, they have left their mark upon his mind. I was afraid he might be too much impressed.
As it was, he was not enough impressed. He laughed.
“Me, I’d let the kids have their fun, Johnny. This is wartime; it may be all they’ll ever have. But that’s the schoolmaster of it, I suppose; you’ve got to have everything proper and respectable. And maybe it would be just as well to clear out. The longer we stay the less chance we’ll have of getting picked up by our own boats; they may be all gone already.”
I was so surprised that I was startled into an undiplomatic honesty. Undiplomatic since I wanted, suddenly and desperately, to get away.
“You know very well there’s no chance of that, Bert. Any Englishmen that are left on this island are stranded — without a dog’s chance of getting out, unless it’s on a Cretan fishing-boat.”
Bert looked sheepish. “I know. But, nice as they’ve been to us here and all, I’d just as soon get out, Johnny. The old lady makes me feel funny; I can’t help it. She looks like somebody — or something — I’ve seen somewhere else. And how do she and the girl both come to know English so well when they’ve never either one been down off this mountain, and when there’s not a book — not even a Greek bible — in the house?”
I said testily: “That’s nonsense, Bert. You sound as if you suspected them of something. You know Aretoula’s father had been to America — was educated and progressive, quite different from the superstitious peasants around here. Kyra Stamata has talked about that. He must have taught her English.”
He said doggedly: “Maybe. But it’s queer she learned it so well — and remembered it so well all these years. And it’s queer how she knew every last thing that was going on in the war up until we came here — and now she never hears a thing. Nobody ever comes up here; nobody’s supposed to have come up here in a long time. How did she get her news then — and what made it stop? If it did stop. I’m not accusing her of anything; I just don’t like the whole layout. It’s too queer.”
I laughed at him; there can be no doubt of these good wom en’s friendliness. But some of his points were shrewd and well made. More shrewd than I would have expected of Bert. I am more glad than ever that I did not tell him the wild parts of that story of Aretoula’s. In the morning we will ask her grandmother about the mountain passes; about the best way to leave.
7th June: They were hurt and grieved, as I was afraid they would be; our two hostesses. They say that Ronnie’s leg is not well enough for any journey — too much truth in that, I fear. They ask us if we are not happy
