Illusion

This story won a prize in the City of Ottawa annual competition in 2007 for ‘novice writers’ (i.e. previously unpublished) aged 55 and over. She qualified with a quarter century to spare.

ILLUSION

Janet Wendy Last

Betty blinked in the glare at the threshold of her pension. It was already scorching hot with the light rippling on the Mediterranean below, and although she should have started earlier she did enjoy the leisurely breakfast. This was her first holiday in years, and after a week on the island she was beginning to relax and enjoy the slower pace. She wandered off along the cobbled street between whitewashed stone houses with bright window boxes. No wonder the people here seemed open and friendly with so much colour in their lives. Strangely though, the population seemed to consist mostly of old women dressed uniformly in black, with very few young people. Of course the children would all be up the hill in school at this time of day.

As she explored, she tried to keep on a horizontal tack, because she had no climbing muscles in her legs. After being flat on her back for so long what muscles she had were pretty flabby. The absence of cars, calmed her: since her traffic crash even the sound of wheels on pavement unnerved her.

Between the two-storied houses the path was shaded, making the air pleasantly cool, but the sun on the higher walls caused sunbeams to dance off the mullioned window panes opposite. Cats were on every window sill, doorstep or on walls by the houses. Several times one jumped up and run in front of her. Was it good or bad luck for a black cat to cross one's path? She wasn't sure but it didn't matter.

At intervals when paths crossed her way the sun flooded through and she got a glimpse of the bay below where the golden sand contrasted with the turquoise water which lazily rolled up the beach.

When one of the bigger roads up the hill intersected she had a view towards a cathedral on a large square and the corner nearest to her had an inviting striped awning and cafe tables where old men sat with their coffee playing dominoes. She decided to rest there.

The road down was steep and by the time she sank into a chair in the shade her knees were wobbly. She really had a long way to go to get back into shape. Who would have thought that these same legs could downhill ski for hours just a few months ago.

From her table she had a different view from the one at her pension which gave onto the east end of the bay where small fishing boats were moored behind the breakwater. She hadn’t seen the west end before and studied it as the sun lit up cliffs and fissures in the rock wall, enormous boulders cascading down as if some giant had thrown them.

She ordered a coffee and baklava and decided to stay under the shade for a while. Just then the cathedral doors opened and some women came down the steps into the square to linger by the fountain while three small children splashed each other with the water spewing from the cherubs' mouths. She felt a deep calm as she gazed at this peaceful scene.

When she could no longer prolong her coffee and the proprietor was bustling about polishing the tables and looking at his watch, she paid him, left a generous tip and wandered off on a side path. The fierce heat had gone out of the sun, and a breeze was whispering off the sea. She wanted to see what was on top of and beyond the cliff.

After about fifteen minutes the character of the streets changed. There were wooden barriers lying about haphazardly, sand was drifting against the walls, litter was blowing around and there were no colourful window boxes. The houses looked empty, shutters nailed up, weeds growing through cracks in the walls. She turned up the inclined path determined to see what was at the top and explore the ruins she had seen from the cathedral square. The ruins came into view as she climbed higher.

It was then that she heard a piano, children’s voices and laughter, so odd in this desolate place. She turned the corner to find a big door propped open, so she paused to look inside. The slanting sun was highlighting the dust motes through which she could dimly see a woman playing a piano. A game of musical chairs was nearly finished as only four chairs remained in the centre of the hall, where five children were racing and pushing to get a seat. About fifty others were grouped around the walls of the room, cheering on their favourite to win.

Betty moved closer to get a better look when a nun dressed in a grey habit came up to her, carrying a large tray covered with a heavy towel. “There you are,” she said in an unmistakable Irish accent, “I’m Sister Brigid. We've been waiting for you. Please take this to Kristos.. You'll need some one to show you the way. Nikos. Come here please!” A small black haired, barefoot kid, with a merry face and a broad grin ran up to the nun. She gave instructions to Nikos who beckoned to Betty and turned to go through the door and along the path to the top of the hill. The going was difficult because she couldn't see her feet below the tray and there were drifts of sand and lumps of rock strewn along the path. It didn't help that Nikos hopped about like a puppy, sometimes hiding and then jumping out at her. The first time that happened she nearly dropped the tray, while he whooped with laughter.

They climbed over a low stone wall into what had been a wonderful formal garden, but now overgrown with oleander and aloe cactus. The central path led to the house door, massive carved wood with a knocker beyond the reach of her small guide. He picked up a rock to hit the door several times, but there was no response. Nikos led the way around the house to the other side where a smaller door opened half way as they approached it. A little boy with a puppy stood there, and after an exchange of words, Nikos indicated that she should put the tray on a wobbly urn standing by the door. Carefully she balanced it, happy to be rid of the weight on her arms. Once more Nikos beckoned her around the house to the wall on the edge of the cliff. He disappeared, and in a panic, feeling responsible for him, she looked over the wall to a sheer drop to the rocks below, now covered by surf blown by the much stronger wind.

“Nikos” she called, and was answered by a shrill whistle carried on the wind. Looking over the wall again she saw a tousled dark head and a wide smile emerge from a small cave about two meters down the cliff. Using hand gestures she called out “Come up please,” but the head vanished again into the cave. Feeling tired, worried and impotent she stepped back from the wall to look around the garden. Her rational mind argued that there must be some secret passage to the cave, maybe a well, or a hole, but she could seen nothing nearby and because Nikos was as agile as a cat she figured he would be alright.

The afternoon shadows were lengthening, and having come this far she felt impelled to see over the crest of the hill to the country beyond. She followed the wall away from the cliff, and came to a steep set of stone steps leading to the top of a sand bank. With difficulty she climbed the narrow steps and started to walk on the sand which oozed away from under her feet and glissaded down the slope to the deep valley below. Caught by surprise she had the luck to fall on her hands and knees and hook her foot over the top of the stone step, thankful to be on solid ground.

She looked down on a large sandy basin, high walled on four sides, the country beyond not visible except on the south slope where the almost vertical sand wall finished at the coast. A hissing noise startled her, making her look landward. On the horizon of the far sand dune, a row of goats was silhouetted against the sky, and the sand they dislodged was cascading down to the floor of the valley, starting like a small waterfall and building to an avalanche. The goats disappeared over the other side. She shivered as the wind picked up, and she hastily climbed sailor wise, backwards down the steps.

The afternoon was nearly over and with no twilight and a strict dinner hour where she was staying she lost no time in retracing her steps to regain the town. At the end of Kristos’s garden she looked over the cliff and called ”Nikos” as loud as she could but there was silence, and no tousled head showed at the cave entrance. The wind on the water blew salt onto her face as she bent over the wall. She paused at the church hall which was empty, the piano and chairs tidied away and the door swinging to and fro on its one hinge.

Taking a lower route than before, she stumbled along the uneven path and was surprised to see the cathedral square open in front of her much sooner than she had expected. The cafe, now full of families having dinner was on her left, so she crossed in front of it and glad of the hand rail on the wall, climbed the steep hill to her main path leading to her pension.

As she entered she saw that the other guests were already being served, but she felt so dirty she had to wash and change before eating. By the time she sat at the table the others were finishing and her hostess seemed put out.

“You will have to hurry if you are going to see the start of St.Anthony's parade,” she said, “This year is the fiftieth anniversary of the great earthquake and they are dedicating a statue in the Square.”

“Who is the statue of?” asked Betty.

“The victims of the big earthquake on this afternoon fifty years ago. A huge wave washed over the cliff as it fell into the sea. The church at the top and many houses just dropped into oblivion. All the school children, their mothers and Sister Brigid were in the church hall celebrating St Anthony and nearly all perished. Only two children survived. Kristos, who had run home to see to his new puppy and Nikos who was found two days later wedged in a cleft of the crumbling cliff. Poor lad had been severely injured, was flown to the mainland for treatment and came back months later in a wheel chair, but he didn't thrive and died soon after. Many of the fathers who were fishermen also perished. A few bodies were washed up along the coast weeks later. The tsunami caused a huge build up of sand on the north shore of the island and that is where the dunes are. Very dangerous, with whispering, unstable sand which has engulfed many an animal and person who has ventured out on them. It is forbidden to go up there.”

“What happened to Kristos?” asked Betty.

“He was taken to Canada by his uncle, and this year he has sent money for a statue of Sister Brigid and the others. Tonight it will be unveiled. ”

Betty arrived late at the square after most of the villagers had left for home, so she could see Nikos clearly with his merry face and broad grin standing next to the nun she had seen earlier, but now they were part of a marble statue.