The Ariadne Connection

SHE STRODE DOWN THE rocky path, her donkey trotting along in the cool morning as they rounded the headland and broke into a spill of sunlight. Below, a cove glimmered clear vibrant blue—mirror for the cloudless sky and white cliffs cutting pure lines against it. The air shimmered, humming electric with the fresh day.

Ariadne Demodakis stopped, filling her lungs with the air’s astringent tang, tingling with the brand-new, ages-old promise of dawn. Life surged in her, pulsing with the world’s heartbeat.

A shadowy twinge. She knew even as she savored this rare morning that it was only a brief reprieve from all those urgent voices clamoring for attention: the RP-Hansen’s victims, the healing experiments her scientists were running back at the lab, the communications conglomerates’ announcement that they were raising the already-dangerous transmission power on the remaining microwave towers, the latest plan to capture more shipping lanes by her father the Tyrannos—her jailkeeper. And this beloved island, her birthplace become her prison.

She took a deep breath and pushed those strident voices back inside a sphere of silence, summoning the cool serenity of a marble statue to smooth her face. Within that quiet, she had learned to find her freedom.

Today, this fragile glory of the dawn, wasn’t meant for shadows and clamor. The world even stricken was such a power of beauty it sounded her depths like a bell and she could only ring with it, send her voice pealing out to the earth and sea and sky in reverent praise.

“Chairete!” Rejoice.

Lifting her face to the sky, she turned slowly with outstretched arms, stepping to an ancient dance of thanks-giving.

A nudge at her back startled her. “Iris!” She turned to her donkey who carried the waterskins strapped to a pack saddle. “All right, no more dawdling.” She smiled and gathered the lead rope.

The path took them around another headland, dropping toward the village spread along a pebble beach. An old stone windmill spun its sails in the breeze, pumping water from an underground spring. The climbing sun was already heating the rock wall of Fofoula’s garden on the edge of the settlement, stirring scents of herbs and dust.

“Despoina Demodaki! You’re out early today.” Fofoula, drying her hands on her apron, hurried from her doorway with a glass bottle. “Did you bring more of the holy water?”

Ariadne filled the bottle with her activated mineral springwater. “Don’t forget, all you need is a small drink each evening, for the pain.”

“Despoina Demodaki! Despoina Demodaki!” Two little girls and a boy came pelting down the dirt road.

“The holy water. Mother says can you come?” The boy caught a breath, panting. The girls, suddenly shy, looked at the ground, gripping their skirts.

“Tell them I’m on my way.”

The children raced back toward the village square as badly-amplified bouzouki music broke out over the housetops.

“That Nikos!” Fofoula’s husband Yiorgos joined them, shaking his head. “He can’t wait to start the party.”

Fofoula touched Ariadne’s arm. “Come to the celebration. It’s Nikos’s name day.”

Ariadne hesitated. How long since she’d been to any kind of celebration? “Endaksi.” All right. “I’ll go.”

Low stucco houses closed in around them, laundry flapping from lines and chickens pecking the dry dirt yards. They passed the ruined, blackened walls of the old two-room school bombed during the Sons of the Prophet attack the year before. Beyond it, the new school gleamed in its fresh coat of white, with blue-painted door and lintels.

The villagers were already gathered in the dusty square, in front of the crumbling masonry chapel and the combined kafenion-grocery store. Nikos, the proprietor, was spruced up in a garish plaid jacket, mustache waxed to black points. He snapped another cassette into a battered antique boom-box, turning up the volume in a barrage of hissing tape and singing voices. Children in patched skirts and shorts wove screaming and laughing around legs as an old man danced by himself, eyes closed. Women with head-scarves sat on wooden chairs, whispering and laughing. Plates of cookies and breads, bottles and glasses filled a long table.

“Despoina Demodaki! Welcome. Welcome. You honor us.” Nikos hurried forward, hands outstretched.

Heads turned, voices dying, and Ariadne braced herself. All those faces, watching her. Curiosity, eagerness, speculation, caution, resentment against the rich crazy Demodakis in her dusty peasant skirt. . . . And the worst: reverence.

A matron rushed up, then dropped to her knees to grasp Ariadne’s hand and kiss it. “Despoina sancti! Efcharisto.” Thank you.

“No, no, Ksanthi! Please.” Ariadne tugged her to her feet.

“You saved my mother,” Kyrias Mamalakis insisted, clutching her hand.

“The chapel, too, by the Grace of God,” a younger woman piped up. “And the children have a new school, thanks to you . . . and to Tyrannos Demodakis, of course,” she added hastily.