Stephen Jones - The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror. Volume 23

But I shook my head. I said slowly, “What’s the use?”

Ronnie spoke dreamily. His eyes have become fixed, staring at the bird. “I wouldn’t try to hurt it. I think maybe it wants to help us. To lead us somewhere, like in the old stories.”

Bert laughed raucously; I was silent. I know the stories Ron nie means, the fairy tales he must have listened to, not so long ago, at his mother’s or his nurse’s knee; the old formula of the Helpful Beast or Bird. But I have never believed in those stories; I don’t now. And this imperturbable creature of darkness is not my idea of a helper.

But it is true that the pattern of its movements is changing. It flies farther and farther toward the north. And then, every time we hope that it is really leaving, it will stop and turn and hang in the air a moment. Then it will fly back toward us, swift and straight as an arrow, and halt, circling low, just above our heads. The last time that happened Bert cried out and ducked, putting his hands over his eyes.

Twilight: It has happened again. And worse this time. The creature hurtled itself upon us almost as a dive-bomber might. Its flapping wings, its sharp, bright beak, almost raked my face and Bert’s. Its beady eyes gleamed red as they glared into ours; demanding, commanding. But it only circled gently above Ronnie’s head. Tenderly.

It has flown off to the north again now. But it will be back. It does want us to follow it. And the light is going. Dare we risk a real attack, in the dark? We cannot stay here anyhow; not unless we want Ronnie to freeze. After all, can the bird lead us to a worse place than this may be if we stay?

5th June: I could laugh now, reading that last entry I made here. What queer tricks nerves can play on men who are starving and sick and unbalanced by the shock of events no man ever ought to see! No doubt there was a bird that had been deafened by the din of the Stukas, or by some natural cause. No doubt its failure to be start led by gunshots startled us and set our diseased imaginations off. Certainly it was blessed chance, no bird, that led us to the peace of this little house on the heights. Indeed, only Ronnie claims that he saw any bird during the last half of that terrible night-journey. Bert and I, sick, stumbling, holding him up as best we might, saw only low-hanging clouds about us; mists through which sometimes gleamed two tiny, luminous red points, like eyes.

But all troubles, real and imagined, seem far from us now. We need not fear that the Germans will ever find us, in this little place above the clouds. It is high enough to be a bird’s nest, guarded by almost impassable slopes of rock and ice. And the two women here are themselves like birds; they have the same light swiftness of motion, the same high, sweet voices, the same bright, dark eyes.

Aretoúla, the younger, has also a face that might have been carved on some ancient Greek coin. Her grandmother has the same delicate profile, grown beaky now, so that it reminds one a little of a bird of prey. Just as the thinness of her brown, wrinkled old hands sometimes makes one think of claws. But forty years ago I imagine that her body moved and curved with the same singing grace as Aretoúla’s.

They are very good to us. They are forever feeding us, con tinually bringing us tempting little trays because they knew that, at first, our shrunken stomachs could not hold much at a time. Forever apologising for the poor quality of what they have. They do not know how good their bread and honey and olives taste after the days of battle and flight and fear. When we try to tell them how good the old woman only shakes her head and says, almost fiercely, “There is no meat!” a hungry gleam in her black eyes.

It is natural, especially at her age, that she should crave, need meat. When I am a little better I will go out and set traps, as I used to do as a boy in New Guinea. We must give her meat; she has done a great deal for us.

Aretoúla never seems hungry. Aretoúla only holds out her lit tle trays and smiles and says softly: “See the sweet honey, kyrie . The honey and the good bread and the strong olives. The kyrios must eat, eat all he can, and grow well and strong again. Well and fat and strong.”

She has smiles enough for all of us; they bring out the dimples around her lovely mouth just as the sun brings out the unfolding petals of a flower. But the smiles in her eyes are warmest and deepest for Ronnie. Sometimes they make her dark eyes truly soft, take the hardness out of their brightness. I never realised, until this last week, that bright eyes are always hard.

But I am talking like the poet I always wanted to be. The po et very few poor school-teachers get to be. Aretoúla makes a poet of a man. I only hope she is not going to make a lovesick fool of Ronnie. It would be a great pity to repay old Kyra Stamata’s hospi tality with any kind of hurt. Too bad that the women speak so much English; I am the only one of us three who knows Greek. Perhaps young people do not need a common language.

They are very lonely up here. No neighbours ever seem to visit them; which, perhaps, it not too strange, considering at what an almost inaccessible height their little house is perched. Yet it seems a little queer that nobody ever comes.

Bert said so once, to the old woman; I would not have. And she looked down at her hands and said sadly:

“We are considered unlucky. My man died when we were both young, leaving me with but one child, a girl. And Aretoúla’s mother, too, lost Aretoúla’s father early. People are afraid to come, lest our ill-luck reach out to them.”

A strange thought, that. Of ill-luck as a dark, cloaked presence brooding above the house and ready to stretch out long, invisible arms to clutch anybody who may enter. And how cruel, that such a superstition should isolate two women.

Bert and I were both awkwardly sympathetic. We told old Kyra Stamata that when the war was over she ought to take Aretoúla and go down to some town or village. Where both of them could live nearer other women; where Aretoúla could meet young men.

But she shook her head. “No. In this house I was born, and in this house I will die. As my father and mother died, and my four brothers. My four tall, strong brothers. And after them my husband and my daughter’s husband.”

Bert said: “That’s hard on the girl. Never getting any where, never meeting any other young people.”

The old woman smiled. A sudden broad smile, so deeply amused that it lit her dark beady eyes, the few yellow teeth still showing under her jutting, beak-like nose, with a red glow oddly like evil. Like a secret, gloating greed.

“If a young man is meant to come to Aretoúla, one will come.”

6th June: I am afraid that Aretoúla thinks that young man has already come. And so does Ronnie. Tonight I heard them whispering together, out on the mountainside. Traces of snow still showed beneath their feet, but around them — so clear and fragrant that even a dried-up, prosaic codger like myself could catch it — was the breath of spring. Their arms were round each other, and his head was bent close to her dark one. I heard him saying:

“There must be a priest we can get to come up here, Aretoúla. My friends can go for him, even if I can’t, because of this blasted leg; I don’t know why it doesn’t mend.”

It is true that Ronnie’s leg is the only one of our ills that this rest here has not mended. He is lamer now than he was when we wandered on the hills. But no doubt the strength of desperation bore him up then.

Aretoúla’s voice came, tender, velvety as a caressing hand: “Your leg will be well. All of you will be well. Wait, my Ronnie; only wait. With me.”

“I can’t wait much longer, Aretoúla. Not for you. The fel lows’ll be glad to go for a priest. And it’ll be safe. Your Cretans are a good sort — they don’t betray allies.”