Angel of Death

‘Oh. The lion terrace. The long grass full of broken bits of marble everywhere. The sound of the crickets. We do get crickets in England, in the grass, but they don’t make as much noise.’

‘Here, they’re called cicadas,’ he reminded.

‘Cicadas, yes,’ she repeated. ‘It was their singing that helped to make me so sleepy. There must be millions of them. And all those white marble pieces of broken statues and columns . . . it is a strange place. Beautiful, but very strange.’

‘Haunting, especially in the spring when the grass is full of asphodel.’

‘Asphodel, I’ve heard of that – isn’t that something to do with Greek beliefs about heaven?’

‘Yes. It’s similar to narcissus; a very pale white lily flower, looks like a ghost flower – hence the Greeks thought it grew in the Elysian fields, their idea of heaven. Although they practically invented logic and the use of reason, they were very religious, too. Delos was central to the worship of Apollo. It was forbidden to die or give birth on Delos because it was insulting to Apollo. People who were likely to die, or have a child, were taken off in a boat to Rineia, which is very close.’

She glanced around, and he pointed to another small island very near by, a blue and green smudge in the afternoon heat haze. ‘There it is. Can you imagine how it felt to be dying or about to give birth, and have to put out to sea, sometimes in terrible weather, in storms, with wind and rain lashing down. It must have been terrifying.’

‘Why was giving birth an insult to Apollo?’

‘He was born on Delos, and his priests were determined to make sure nobody else ever was, I suppose. Well, I don’t really know.’

Alex stood gracefully, feet apart, body poised, easily riding the soft swell of the sea under him, and she watched him with intense attention, couldn’t take her eyes off him.

‘We will reach Mykonos soon,’ he told her.

‘That’s inhabited, isn’t it?’

He laughed. ‘Try overcrowded, in spring and summer. Tourists flock there in season. During the winter the population shrinks away. I prefer it then. It was always a poor island until tourism started, the land is barren, very dry, and sandy. The people lived by fishing. The beaches are excellent, especially around the coast at Platys Gialos, which is why most of the hotels and restaurants are there. You must see the famous white windmills above the town, and walk round the streets, if you feel up to it. You’ll be amazed at the shops with top designer names – Versace, Dior, Cartier. American tourists can buy anything there . . .’

He went back to the wheel and Miranda drank some cold water then settled down to drowse, enjoying the rocking of the boat, the cool rush of sea wind over her hot skin.

They spent only an hour at Mykonos, walking round and round the strange, curled white streets which had the convolutions of an ear lobe, making it easy to get lost. Half-blinded by the shimmering whiteness, you followed a lane past walls over which peeped purple wisteria, here a fig tree, there olive branches, and caught glimpses of the blue, blue sea.

Suddenly they were climbing again, up a hillside, past dozens of church towers hung with bells, where Greek Orthodox priests with bushy black beards, in long black cassocks, wearing tall black hats, swung on the bellropes so that the whole town echoed with tintinabulation.

Miranda soon saw what Alex had meant about the international houses which sold goods in this little island. That was almost as bewildering as the sound of bells. What did Paris fashion, American jewellery, high Italian style, have to do with this fascinating place with its own distinct impact – the round windmills on the hill above the town, the white-painted houses, the smell of fish and the whisper of the sea curling up on the sands?

It made money for the inhabitants who had once lived by fishing, that was all. It gave Mykonos a surreal feel, Alex was right.

‘Seen enough?’ Alex asked, mouth curving in derisive amusement.

‘More than enough!’ she said grimacing back.

As they sailed back sunshine danced around them, dazzling Miranda, giving the wide sea a living allure, making her want to sail on forever. It was so tranquil out here, in this wonderful light; sunlight entered her eyes, sank through her cortex into the living brain, stimulating some chemical change which made her suddenly, unbelievably happy.

No wonder the Greeks had worshipped Apollo, god of the sun, of light, of music. Living here in these islands with the blue sky above, the blue sea stretching all around them, the air filled with this marvellous light, they must have been deeply conscious every day of how vital sunshine was to their own wellbeing. She knew she had never been so aware of the necessity of light as she was here, now.

When they got back to the hotel she and Alex went to see Pandora, to give her an olive wood bowl they had bought for her in Mykonos.

‘You could fill it with sweets, or fruit, and have it beside your bed,’ Alex suggested.

She stroked the smooth, golden, curved sides, smiling. ‘Eene oreus, Alex, efkhareesto polee,’ then she looked at Miranda and said in English, ‘It’s lovely, thank you.’

Someone knocked on the door. ‘Come in!’ Pandora called in Greek, The door opened. Miranda stared in shocked dismay at the newcomer.

‘Elena!’

So Pandora knew the other woman? Did she also know about Elena’s involvement with Charles?

Alex had got to his feet. Elena slid a sideways look at him, her eyes slanting and gleaming like polished jet. ‘Hello, Alex,’ she purred.

His voice was formal, a chill on it. ‘Elena. What are you doing here?’