The Lost Labyrinth

NINETEEN
I

Iain and Gaille headed back up into the highlands, passing through picturesque mountain villages and towns before turning left towards Plakias. The rocky flanks of the Kourtaliotiko gorge towered above them, giving Gaille mild tingles of vertigo as she stared upwards. A glimpse of whitewashed wall offered testimony to the Greek inability to pass a mountain ledge without building a church upon it. They soon left the gorge behind, to her relief, but within just a few more miles they'd reached a second, the narrow winding road strewn with fallen rocks and stones. 'Christ!' she muttered, as Iain slalomed casually between them, taking her uncomfortably close to the edge. 'How many of these damned gorges are there?'

'Lots,' he grinned. He pointed down at the floor of the car. 'The African and European tectonic plates meet right beneath us. This whole island's the result; and these gorges are the places where the crust's split under all that pressure.'

'Like snapping open a baguette?' suggested Gaille.

'If you like.'

The road wound tortuously on. Clusters of houses clung grimly to steep slopes, like climbers who'd ventured beyond their competence, and frozen. The roads were narrow and in poor repair; just as well there was so little traffic. They reached a coastal plain, passed the quiet resort of Frangocastello and the cove port of Hora Sfakion, before climbing a cliff road so steep that it seemed to Gaille like a strand of spaghetti thrown against a wall. The hairpin bends grew tighter with each turn. She felt nauseous and her feet clenched with cramp. Heights didn't seem to bother Iain at all; he took the corners with lazy calm, even as their tyres skidded on the dusty tarmac, taking them perilously close to the edge. 'Please,' begged Gaille, clutching the door handle. 'I hate heights.'

'Don't worry,' he assured her. 'I drive these roads all the time.'

'Please,' she said again.

Her tone got through to him. He took his foot off the accelerator, shifted away from the edge. They were already amazingly high, the richly coloured houses and boats of Hora Sfakion like toys on the rugged, fractal coastline below, while the sea was an astonishing colour, the rich blue of a hyacinth macaw. The road degenerated into a stretch of raw bedrock. A dump-truck full of tarmac swung recklessly fast around the corner ahead, forcing them out so wide that Gaille could see nothing beneath her but drop. Hot choking dust blasted through their open windows, sending them both into coughing fits. And still they climbed higher and higher, until Gaille couldn't bear it any more, just sat back in her seat and closed her eyes.

'It's okay,' said Iain at length. 'We're past.'

She opened her eyes to see hills either side of her, removing even the possibility of falling. Her vertigo at once abated, though she still felt a little sick. They reached a small town with a tranquil square. 'Anapoli,' said Iain, pulling up outside a general store. 'I'll go in and ask about Petitier. You stay here. They're less likely to open up with a foreigner around.'

'You're a foreigner.'

'I've lived here ten years; I speak local. That makes all the difference, trust me.'

She didn't argue, still jangled from the drive. She checked herself in the mirror, wiped away the worst of the dust, patted down her hair, got out. A pleasant enough town; the kind where the same few families had been farming the same fields for hundreds of years; where the same few surnames would appear again and again in the cemetery. There was a cafe next to the shop, its glass doors wide open. She wandered over. A canary chirped in its cage. Goatskins were stretched out on the walls. A stuffed eagle was poised to take flight. Split logs were stacked by a potbellied stove, four men playing cards at the table next to it. Three of them glanced up at her with benign indifference, while the fourth saluted her with his glass. She smiled and retreated to the car.

It was five more minutes before Iain emerged from the shop, carrying two white plastic bags bulging with food and water. 'You had to pay for your information, then?' she said, as he stowed them in his boot.

'Worth every cent,' he assured her. 'The woman recognised Petitier's picture at once. He comes in once a month to trade supplies.'

'And? Did she tell you where he lived?'

'Yes,' he grinned. 'She did.'