ARIADNE FOLLOWED THE DIRT road winding dimly down toward a cluster of whitewashed huts gleaming beneath the rising half moon. The breeze carried a clink of dishes, a voice calling, the plaintive notes of reed pipes. Skirting the village, Ariadne slipped through terraces of young olive trees and lemon groves in the scent of blossoms and dust. Leaves shimmered, touched by moonlight and a cool breeze spinning the arms of an old stone windmill.
She paused above the road on a final terrace of mature olives, silver light and leaf shadow trembling over her. She could still see Peter’s shadowed face looking up at her from the beach. Could feel the shock of his warm mouth touching her sea-chilled lips as he’d pulled her from the drowning darkness.
She shook her head and ducked beneath a bough, dropped over a rock ledge to the road, hurried on. Collecting the springwater samples, like her sensor readings verifying the local geomagnetic anomalies, was only an excuse for this visit to the shrine. A voice that she couldn’t deny insisted she return to the ancient site she’d visited as a girl with her uncle Demetrios. The holy water hadn’t healed the pain of her mother’s death and her father’s coldness. Would it help her now?
Her fingers touched the new crystal in her bag. Its silicon quartz structure of gleaming planes and angles held a template of the geomagnetic currents between the dark cavern and the emerging spring. The smooth waves and the jarring disruptions echoed within it, and somehow she knew it was a key. To what?
Bring it home, a silvery voice sang. Help me bring the light. It was the voice of the Tiniotissa, the voice of the ethereal music she’d heard in the flooded cavern before the dark whirlpool caught her. She could still feel the seething energy fields, the crystalline lattice imprinted in the circuits of her nerves. Her hands tingled with waves of electric sensation and irrational surety, seeking the disruptive currents of illness in the bodies of living creatures, and now the larger body of the earth.
Tingling with the power to heal, as Saint Ariadne?
She shook her head in refusal. But something was happening to her, setting her footsteps on an unmarked path. As she strode down a last hill toward the lights of town and the gleam of the harbor, she was afraid.
Ariadne made her way silently through the twisting maze of stone-cobbled streets. Glimmers of light escaped the shutters of outlying houses as ghosts beckoned from shadowed yards, morphing into laundry hung on lines. Piles of broken roof tiles and storm-ripped branches lined the road. Fresh plaster glowed in white veins on dark walls, tracing earthquake cracks.
As the houses crowded closer, Ariadne recognized sights from that visit years before on Uncle Dmitri’s trading boat. Above the rooftops, pale against the night sky, the church tower loomed. Near it was the smaller sanctuary chapel of the Tiniotissa, the miraculous icon of the healing Virgin, built over the ancient site of a sacred spring.
Her uncle’s comfortable deep rumble: “You know the ancients found these springs first, my little Kri-Kri. Maybe the gods got tired later and gave them over to the Virgin’s care. . . . Remember the stories about Apollo and Artemis? He ruled the sun, and she the moon. But they were twins, man and woman, and only together could they make up a sky complete. When he looked into the sacred pool, there was her reflection looking back at him. . . .”
Ariadne smiled at the memory. Making her way closer to the harbor, she passed an open-air taverna filled with laughter, shouts, the slap of dominoes. Bouzouki music whined and twanged. Glimpsing the Med League insignia on a blue shirt, she moved hastily on, past a kafenion where a cluster of men drank from tiny coffee cups and listened to a scratchy radio.
She stopped short, alarm crackling like the static still breaking up reception.
Peter was right. She was in danger here. Edging back toward the terrace, keeping to the deeper darkness along the wall, she strained to hear more news from the radio.
“Late to be out, Despoina. Are you lost?”
Ariadne spun around, biting back a cry, to see an old man with a laden donkey. She ducked her head in the scarf, passing him quickly. She dodged an electric car, hurrying between apartment buildings over storefronts. Finally she passed through the gateway into the open stone-paved square she remembered.
A whitewashed gallery ran along the far side, broken by dark wood doors and dimly lit by paraffin lamps. Behind its wall, a higher building stretched toward the tower of the big church. Closer, newly-leaved trees rustled in the night, and a carved stone stairway flowed in a frozen wave from the entrance to the sanctuary. Its open doors spilled flickering candlelight and the distant surge of an evening service. Incense wafted through the night.
A murmur rose from the dark courtyard—a ceaseless lament of moans, coughs, sobs, shuffling feet, and muttering voices, punctuated by an occasional sharp cry.
The ebb and flow of suffering was a presence more palpable than sound, washing through the dim figures spread across the square. They lay on blankets and rags and stretchers, lit by the wavering glow of olive-oil lamps. Some lay prostrate, some tossing from side to side, some twisted in motionless postures of pain, some rocking slowly to the rhythm of the common lament. So many supplicants, with the Assumption of the Virgin and Her summer healing pilgrimage still months away. The sick waited through the night for their turn to be carried into the chapel, to make an offering to the miraculous icon.
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