to Athens for Christmas, take him on the family summer holiday. He got along all right with his steps, and was fond of his mother. She took trouble and was fun to be with. He guessed that she felt much the same as he did, a bit guilty about not minding more.
So he was surprised now to find how much he wanted to tell her about Ridiki. Heâd always put something about her in his weekly letters, and she always asked, but this time everything seemed to come pouring outâwhat had happened, how heâd searched for her, found her, buried her, his misery and despair and utter loneliness. And the dreamâRidiki glancing over her shoulder and vanishing, and him not even being able to say good-bye. He had said good-bye to her once, in the real world, at her graveside. But if he was ever going to let go of her completely he had to do it again in the dream world where she had gone. He mustnât keep anything. He would take her collar, and the shepherdâs pipes heâd used to train her, and find somewhere inside the cave to hide them, where theyâd never be found, and call his good-byes into the darkness, and go. Then it would be over.
All this he wrote down, hardly pausing to think or rest. He fetched his supper up to his room and wrote steadily on. It was as if his mother was the one person in all the world he needed to tell. Nobody else would do. When heâd finished he hid the letter, unsealed, in his clothes-chest, got everything ready that heâd need for the morning, and went to bed, willing himself to wake when the cocks crew.
Of course he woke several times before that, certain he must have missed their calls, but he didnât when at last they came. He stole down the stairs, put on the clothes that heâd hidden beneath them with his satchel, and left. Hero, the old watchdog, rose growling at his approach, but recognised Steffâs voice when he called her name, and lay back down. It was still more dark than light when he set out towards the monastery, making the best speed he could through the dewy dawn air.
He reached the ridge around noon. The last several miles he had sweated up goat paths under a blazing sun. But so far so good. He had started to explore these hillsides as soon as heâd been old enough to follow his cousins around, so heâd found his way without trouble among the fields and vineyards and olive groves on the lower slopes, the rough pastures above them where he, with Nikosâs help, had taught Ridiki the business of shepherding, and then, above those, up between the dense patches of scrub that was the only stuff that would grow there.
He stopped to eat and rest in the last of their shade, looking west over the heat-hazed distances of the coastal hills. The main mass of Sunion rose on his right. It wasnât enormous, but it was a true mountain, steep, and for half the year capped with snow that fed the fields and pastures of the valleys below. Even on this southern side the last white streaks had melted from its gullies only a few weeks back. The ridge on which he was sitting climbed towards that peak. Its crest, only fifty paces above him, had been a frontier between the homeland and enemy territory in the long, imaginary history his cousins had constructed for their wars and adventures; and in the real, everyday world that was almost true. The legal ownership of these uncultiva t able uplands might be vague, but despite that the ridge was an ancient boundary, well understood by all, between Deniakis and their neighbours and dependants and those of Mentathos. Even in their wildest feats of daring, Paulo, Steffâs elder cousin, had never let any of them set foot beyond it. Now he had no choice.
An unpleasant thought came to him. He should have considered it before he ever set out. If Mentathos didnât want anyone going into the mine to look for silver, he had probably barricaded the entrance. Well, it was too late now. Having come this far he
So he was surprised now to find how much he wanted to tell her about Ridiki. Heâd always put something about her in his weekly letters, and she always asked, but this time everything seemed to come pouring outâwhat had happened, how heâd searched for her, found her, buried her, his misery and despair and utter loneliness. And the dreamâRidiki glancing over her shoulder and vanishing, and him not even being able to say good-bye. He had said good-bye to her once, in the real world, at her graveside. But if he was ever going to let go of her completely he had to do it again in the dream world where she had gone. He mustnât keep anything. He would take her collar, and the shepherdâs pipes heâd used to train her, and find somewhere inside the cave to hide them, where theyâd never be found, and call his good-byes into the darkness, and go. Then it would be over.
All this he wrote down, hardly pausing to think or rest. He fetched his supper up to his room and wrote steadily on. It was as if his mother was the one person in all the world he needed to tell. Nobody else would do. When heâd finished he hid the letter, unsealed, in his clothes-chest, got everything ready that heâd need for the morning, and went to bed, willing himself to wake when the cocks crew.
Of course he woke several times before that, certain he must have missed their calls, but he didnât when at last they came. He stole down the stairs, put on the clothes that heâd hidden beneath them with his satchel, and left. Hero, the old watchdog, rose growling at his approach, but recognised Steffâs voice when he called her name, and lay back down. It was still more dark than light when he set out towards the monastery, making the best speed he could through the dewy dawn air.
He reached the ridge around noon. The last several miles he had sweated up goat paths under a blazing sun. But so far so good. He had started to explore these hillsides as soon as heâd been old enough to follow his cousins around, so heâd found his way without trouble among the fields and vineyards and olive groves on the lower slopes, the rough pastures above them where he, with Nikosâs help, had taught Ridiki the business of shepherding, and then, above those, up between the dense patches of scrub that was the only stuff that would grow there.
He stopped to eat and rest in the last of their shade, looking west over the heat-hazed distances of the coastal hills. The main mass of Sunion rose on his right. It wasnât enormous, but it was a true mountain, steep, and for half the year capped with snow that fed the fields and pastures of the valleys below. Even on this southern side the last white streaks had melted from its gullies only a few weeks back. The ridge on which he was sitting climbed towards that peak. Its crest, only fifty paces above him, had been a frontier between the homeland and enemy territory in the long, imaginary history his cousins had constructed for their wars and adventures; and in the real, everyday world that was almost true. The legal ownership of these uncultiva t able uplands might be vague, but despite that the ridge was an ancient boundary, well understood by all, between Deniakis and their neighbours and dependants and those of Mentathos. Even in their wildest feats of daring, Paulo, Steffâs elder cousin, had never let any of them set foot beyond it. Now he had no choice.
An unpleasant thought came to him. He should have considered it before he ever set out. If Mentathos didnât want anyone going into the mine to look for silver, he had probably barricaded the entrance. Well, it was too late now. Having come this far he
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