Chapter Twenty
Twenty
The boat could not be brought all the way into shore, though Andreas towed it close enough that Skye was able to wade most of the way out.
Getting in was trickier than it looked, the water tugging at her clothes and the boat rocking unsteadily.
After a few failed attempts to climb in on her own, Skye’s frustration mounted and she finally gave in, letting him reach out and help her over the side.
“You are light,” he told her as she sat herself down. “I have lifted octopuses that were heavier.”
“Well,” she said, ringing out her skirt, “they do have rather more legs than me.”
Andreas raised the anchor, its chain curling up by Skye’s feet like a slumbering viper. There was a T-shirt tossed over the outboard motor, a worn pair of flip-flops on the floor beside a cooler.
“There are some drinks inside,” he said, opening the lid with his big toe.
Skye helped herself to a can of Diet Coke.
The long walk from the village had left her parched, the sun that had been mellow now more fervent.
She had no idea of the hour. Her phone was where she had deliberately left it, back at Joy’s house, and Andreas was not wearing a watch.
Time had once been at the center of her working day, her eyes going constantly to the clock on the wall of her classroom.
Schools were structured by time—registration time, lesson time, break time, home time—and Skye hadn’t realized how much of a comfort that schedule had been until she no longer had it.
Things were different on the island, however.
Here, time seemed endless, the days leaking into evenings that were gradually consumed by nights.
There was time to think, to pause, to simply be.
“Ready?” Andreas asked as the motor rattled to life.
Skye gripped the gunwale with her free hand, and then they were off, cutting through water so clear that she could see the pattern of light on the rocks below.
The boards vibrated beneath her, a roar that grew in volume as they picked up speed, leaving the bay behind and heading out into open sea.
The wind whipped around them, and Skye quickly tucked her dress between her knees, her gaze drawn upward to the island’s towering cliffs.
Gray and weathered, their surface tie-dyed with patches of lichen.
Andreas tapped her shoulder, pointing to where the dark shape of a bird was playing chicken with the waves.
“A Levantine shearwater,” he said. “They like to chase the wind.”
“Do they nest on the island?”
“Not nest,” he said, speaking loudly to be heard over the engine. “They have burrows, the same as puffins. It is safer for them.”
“It seems to me as if a lot of things seek safety on Folegandros,” she said.
Andreas readjusted his grip on the tiller, and the boat slowed.
“Can you see that cave up ahead?”
Skye scanned the cliffside and located the jagged shadow of an opening, dark and mysterious against the sunlit rock.
“I see it.”
“That is Chrysospilia,” he told her. “It is very famous in Folegandros because, inside, there is a chamber, and painted on the walls are many ancient names.”
“How ancient?”
“The fourth century BC.”
“That’s astonishing.” Skye turned back to him. “Have you ever been inside?”
Andreas shrugged half-heartedly.
“Never,” he said. “If you want to visit, you must have special permission, and it can be dangerous to try. You must go by boat, and only when the sea is very calm. There can be no wind. Once, a long time ago, it was possible to climb down. The people who lived on the island thousands of years ago would come here to Chrysospilia to hide from pirates.”
“Pirates again?” Skye said, recalling what he’d told her about the church above Chora. “What was it about this island that kept them coming back?”
“Perhaps it was the same for them as it was for me,” he said, sliding his fist back around the tiller. “I cannot be the only person who believes that Folegandros is special.”
“No,” Skye agreed, smiling to herself. “I don’t think you can.”
It took them a further half hour to reach the port hamlet of Karavostasis.
The first and only time Skye had seen it was the day she’d arrived on the slow ferry from Athens, mildly alarmed when the vast vessel had aborted its mooring several times.
She asked Andreas about this as he neatly slipped his own small boat into place along a narrow concrete jetty.
“The wind,” he told her. “It can make things very difficult, even for the large vessels.”
Karavostasis was certainly exposed to the elements, sitting as it did on the southeastern tip of the island.
Skye had to clamp down her skirt as they walked, passing a flat-roofed building with a rudimentary “Bus Station” sign fixed to the wall and several plastic chairs outside.
It was possible to walk along either the road or the beach, and they chose the latter, Skye pausing to admire a set of blue-painted benches, arranged below the laden branches of a tree.
There was far more life here than up in her sleepy village, and every person they encountered seemed to know Andreas.
Cheerful cries of “kaliméra” were exchanged, along with other words that she did not yet know though understood to be friendly.
“The only problem with living on a small island,” Andreas confided, “is that everybody wants to know your business all the time.” Breaking away from her, he called, “éla.” An elderly man had shuffled into view ahead of them, a bristly dog trotting along by his side.
“Geiá sou, Karolo.”
The man squinted toward Andreas from his stooped position, then rattled off a stream of jovial-sounding Greek. They talked for a few minutes, Andreas turning to usher Skye forward. When he introduced her, the man, Karolos, nodded and smiled.
“I’ve been trying to convince him to allow me access to his house,” Andreas explained. “It needs some work—a lot of work.”
Karolos grinned, showing off more gaps than teeth, and began gesticulating over his shoulder. Andreas shook his head in mock despair.
“He says the house has survived many wars and much bad weather and that it will be here for many more years after we are all dead.”
Skye considered.
“He’s probably right,” she said, and Andreas laughed.
“Do not encourage him.”
The dog let out a short, sharp bark, and Skye crouched to stroke its straggly gray head. It looked like every dog and no dog, a classic mongrel blend of hardy breeds, with wise brown eyes, an upright curled tail, and a lolling tongue.
“What’s her name?” she asked, and Andreas translated the question.
“Filiá,” Karolos said warmly.
“It means ‘friendship,’ ” Andreas told her. “A very nice name.”
Skye stood with a smile.
“I’ll remember that one.”
Karolos went on his way, though not before Andreas had extracted a promise from the old man that he would at least consider the offer of renovation.
“I am worried about the structure,” he confided to Skye as they continued along the stony beach. “Some newer houses have been built very close to his, and the work has damaged the foundations. There are holes in the wall that I can fit my boot through.”
Skye grimaced.
“That sounds even worse than mine.”
“Your house will be perfect,” he said. “I will make sure of that.”
She followed him to the end of a row of whitewashed two-story dwellings.
Skye wondered how many of the locals would be speculating on who she was and why she was going into Andreas’s house.
If there was one thing she’d learned during her time on Folegandros, it was that the answer was probably all of them.
Not that it mattered. She and Andreas were friends, nothing more.
His house was the neatest she’d seen in Karavostasis.
It was gleaming white, with shutters and a balcony rail painted in the palest blue.
The corner house was also larger than its neighbors and had clearly been extended at some point.
A pot of herbs sat on each of the four steps that led up to the front door, the peppery sweetness of basil competing with the woodier sage—a scent so prevalent with the island that it could have been its signature.
The small patio at the top was empty save for a mosaic-topped table, two foldable chairs, and the familiar bulk of an air-conditioning unit tucked into a high corner. Andreas slipped his hand beneath a blue-and-white mat and extracted a key.
“I used to carry this with me,” he said, holding it up, “but I lost it many times. There are about twenty-five of them at the bottom of the sea.”
“Folegandros doesn’t strike me as a hotbed of criminal activity,” she remarked.
“Ah,” he said as he opened the door, “you are forgetting about the pirates.”
Skye wasn’t sure if she should take off her shoes, though when he kicked off his flip-flops, she followed suit, bending to tug at her laces.
Andreas busied himself with opening shutters, and within a few minutes, the wide lounge area was flooded with light.
The first thing she saw as she entered the room was a wooden cabinet mounted on the opposite wall.
It was ornately carved, the two doors propped open to show a series of paintings framed in gold, the largest of which depicted a bearded gray-haired man in red-and-green robes, one hand raised and the other clutching a scroll.
Behind the figure was a tilted cross, and around his head, a halo.
Andreas saw her staring and beckoned.
“That is the holy apostle Andreas,” he said.
Skye tilted her head, amused in spite of herself.
“Did you name him?”
He laughed at that, his eyes alight.
“éla, no! It is me who is named after him. In Greece, we do not celebrate our birthdays in the same way as other people. Instead, we have a name day, and for Andreas, this is November 30. On that day, we will share some food, perhaps see our friends and family.”
“And these others?” she asked, gesturing to the smaller images inside the cabinet.
“The Holy Family, Christ Pantocrator, and the ever-virgin Mary, bought for me by Giagiá when I moved to the island.”
“The same giagiá who was born here?” Skye said, remembering.
“Nai,” he agreed softly. “To remind me that God is always close. If you follow the Orthodox religion, it is traditional to have these icons in your home. Giagiá is very traditional.” He scratched the back of his neck. “She tries her hardest to make me the same.”
“Are you trying to tell me you’re a rebel?” Skye asked.
Andreas flashed her a roguish grin.
“The worst.”
“I’d argue that serious rebels are too busy rebelling to keep their houses this tidy,” she said, casting an eye over the immaculate cream sofas, a shiny flat-screen television, and a polished-wood coffee table.
A row of books was stacked on a low shelf, and she crossed the room and slid one out, charmed to find that it was an encyclopedia of birds.
Andreas disappeared through a side door. A moment later came the bubble of a kettle, the soft clunk of cups and clinking of a spoon. When he returned, it was with coffee and a slice of cake.
“Honey,” he said, “from the bakery. A rebel does not have time to cook.”
She started to protest, but he pressed the plate toward her.
“Real Greeks eat, remember?”
“Aren’t you going to have any?”
Andreas tugged off his T-shirt, the silver cross he always wore slipping down into the dark forest of chest hair.
“I ate two slices already in the kitchen,” he confessed. “But now I must have a shower.”
“Before you go,” she said, and he turned at the bottom of the stairs, “can I have another look at the letters? Maybe read the one you copied out for me?”
“éla, of course.” He pointed behind her at the bookshelf. “Pull those out, and you will find the letters hidden behind them.”
“You hid them? Why?”
Andreas met her gaze.
“To keep them safe,” he said.
Skye ate her cake, waiting for the sound of running water before she moved.
Carefully, she retrieved the bundle, set her empty plate and coffee cup on the table, then sat down.
Her fingers hovered briefly as she stared down at the letters, giving herself a moment in which to shut out the present.
The past was right there, in her hands, and she was ready to lose herself in its mystery once more.