Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

To what green alter, O mysterious priest

Lead’st thou that heifer lowering at the skies

And all her silken flanks with garlands bare.

(Keats ‘Ode to a Grecian Urn’ )

Simon woke up late. It was dark. Two beams of light with motes of dust shone through slits above his head. They illuminated a bunk. And straw? He tried to recall the events of the previous night. Had he been thrown in jail? There was a small door. He pushed it open. Outside, in the bright sunshine, he remembered. Here was the spot where the Greek youth had found him and offered water. And the previous night? Had that been a dream?

The sun hung low in the sky. It was late morning. In the distance was the monastery, below him was the valley and the sea which shone brightly.

Simon rubbed his eyes. He returned to the gun emplacement to gather his belongings and his shoulder-bag. There - on top of the straw - was a piece of notepaper ‘Give my regards to Polly‘ and underneath was scrawled ‘Love from Uri.’

He rushed out to the sunshine. A white yacht was disappearing over the horizon. She had gone! It was as though the sun had been switched off.

Having no wish to revisit the monastery - he had been there before -Simon started walking along the road. He had crossed the island the previous day and now knew the direction to the town; he also knew the position of the various rain-water traps.

Vagabond fashion, he swung his way down the old donkey track, feeling invigorated and refreshed. He put this down to the fact that he had finished his packet of cigarettes the previous evening and now had none left. The air was filled with the powerful scent of sage and oregano.

A few pleasant hours later, he passed a small bay. In the distance, in the blue sea, was a small boat and, just discernible, were a few people on the beach. Perhaps it might be worthwhile climbing down to the bay where he could enquire about the possibility of hitching a lift back to the village on the boat? There seemed to be a path leading down the gorge that led to the bay.

Due, perhaps, to his practise the previous night, Simon was able to scramble down the bed of pine-cones and across tangled tree roots with ease. The route seemed familiar for the gorge resembled the Gorge of Samaria though it lacked the latter's grandeur; similar vegetation grew but no cool stream ran along a bed over white boulders and no Polly strode manfully along.

At every turn, when the bay and the blue sea appeared, the boat by the beach seemed larger in size. Soon Simon was scrambling along the bed of the gorge. An hour or so later he passed a small brick building and faced a bay with a pebbly beach. He sank down by the building to recover his breath. The scent of oregano was overpowering. He closed his eyes.

"Polee kahla efkaresto?"

Simon woke. A young girl had spoken to him. She tottered on her feet, and her eyeballs rolled wildly and she twiddled her fingers. But what had she said? Simon mentally translated. 'Very well, thank you?' A small mouth hung open and a little tongue hung out. She was obviously mad. Simon trembled and glanced to the left and the right. Could he dart back up the gorge? Or would she block his path?

The girl coughed and turned around. Simon caught her peeking at a book. She faced him again, grinning nervously.

"Tahvassea efkaresto keh ssess," she stammered.

Simon mentally translated once more. 'Fine thanks and you?' He saw that she had tucked a small finger into the pages of the book. But the book seemed vaguely familiar.

“Hey - give that to me, " he said, snatching it out of her hand. As he had suspected, it was the same phrase book that he possessed.

"Look, you silly girl, they've bound it wrong. The pages don't quite match. You want the next phrase down. “See?"

"Oh?"

The girl put a thumb into her mouth and peered down at the pages.

Simon explained further. "'How do you do' then ‘Very well thank you ‘Fine thanks and you?' Do you get it?"

She nodded and Simon sighed; the girl had even opened the book at the same section on 'Dating'.

"But what do you want to say?" he asked. The girl seemed puzzled.

"But I thought you were -- "

"Thought I was what?" interrupted Simon.

" -- Oh nothing."

She stared miserably down at her feet.

"Hang on for a moment, " he said.

Simon searched through his shoulder-bag and found his notebook. He really ought to share in his researches.

“Ah, here we are. Someone told me a few Greek phrases."

He muttered a few Greek words.

The girl was confused.

"But what does it mean?" she asked.

Simon hit his head in exasperation.

"But, of course, you're English."

He pointed to one of the phrases.

"Can I kiss you?" he explained.

Again she stared miserably at her feet. Her toes dug into the sand.

"Well? I don't know?" she said, peeking nervously to the left and the right, "If you must. But only once."

She closed her eyes and raised her face. Well, thought Simon, one had to take one's chances where one could. He took her by the shoulders and was about to kiss her on the lips.

"Ouch!"

He hit the ground and rolled over in agony. Tears filled his eyes. What had he done? He stared wildly around searching for the person who had attacked him. A fierce looking woman towered above and held the paddle of a rowing boat in her hand.

"You Greeks," she snarled, "You're all the same. Dirty minded. Can't you keep your hands to yourself?"

"But I'm English," wailed Simon, totally confused. But why had she whacked him with an oar? It hurt. He eye her nervously and reproachfully.

"Oh?" said the woman.

After a pause she continued, "But that's even worse," she shouted, "Really you ought to know better."

The woman turned on the girl.

”YOU - over there -- ”

She pointed to the beach.

" -- Over there, - with daddy."'

"But mum, I was only practising me Greek?"

"OVER THERE!"

The girl sobbed, sulked and hung her head. Then she put her hands behind her back and hobbled to the boat - like a member of a chain-gang.

Simon was mortified. He had thought she was a bit skinny and somewhat lacking in some departments. He stammered his apologies.

"Hum. "

The woman glowered and muttered, but she relaxed her hold on the oar.

"But where have you come from?" she said, inspecting the enclosed bay, "have you fallen from the sky?"

Simon explained that he had lost his direction walking across the island the previous day; had spent the night in a gun-turret, was thirsty and hungry and was trying to make his way back to the village. "Is that where you are staying?" he enquired.

“Oh dear," she commiserated, "You poor thing. Well, I dare say you can come back to us. We've just come on a morning's excursion to this beach - for a barbecue.”

Simon accompanied her to the boat where a party were eating a meal under a clump of trees by the beach. Voices drifted from under the trees' cool branches.

"And then we went to this delightful trattoria in the Rue de - where was it?.....”

Simon recoiled. My God! It was the unspoilt Greek island mob.

A fat pink, man turned round. The fat man sighed.

"Of course, it will get spoilt when the tourists find it -- "

He saw Simon approaching, sniffed, nibbled at a piece of chicken, threw the bones onto a pile of rubbish. The voices drifted on in the cool breeze.

" --Lovely here - but getting so spoilt."

"Next year we might go somewhere quiet."

"Delightful village in Tuscany.”

"Next year - the Seychelles, I think?"

"Oh, how delightful," cooed the mother, ‘So unspoilt.’

She joined them, picked up a glass and held it as though she was attending a cocktail party.

"Nice spot we found just down from the Algarve."

"That reminds me off -- "

Simon edged away towards the boat. An old man and a Greek girl sat next to a smouldering fire. The girl wore a t-shirt with N.U.K.E the B.R.I.T.S scrawled across her breasts. They seemed more promising. The old man smiled as Simon approached.

"Kalymira," he said.

Simon enquired if they were going back to the village. On finding that they were, and if he paid half fare, would they take him back?

”Anglica?” said the old man.

"Yes."

"Ah --," A dim mist appeared in his eyes, " ---Hi was in Londres during whar."

The Greek girl smiled.

"You like barbecue?"

"Oh, yes please."

As they busied themselves about the fire, Simon found out that there would be a ferry to Rhodes that night. It left from the village at about eleven o'clock, so he could relax and enjoy the afternoon.

The food was delicious. There was meat roasted on spits with herbs - the sage and oregano; more meat, with rice - all wrapped in vine leaves. And fresh bread and lots of wine served out of what seemed to be plastic oil-drums.

Soon Simon was full and relaxed.

He strolled down to the beach to find a spot where he could read until the boat left for the village. Two girls in sunglasses lay comatose. How had they got there? The patterns across their bodies were unmistakable. They inspected him as he walked by, gossiped to each other and returned to their books. They had not recognised him He spread out his towel, read a few chapters and then looked at the cool, green water. There was plenty of time for a swim.

Soon he had swum around the bay to the boat. He found a ladder and climbed aboard. On the forward hatch lay a fat girl beached like a beached porpoise. As he put his hands on the side of the boat and peered over, the fat girl gave him a look of such ferocity, that he nearly fell into the water. Next to her lay the fat, pink man.

"Whoo, whoo, hee, hee."

It dribbled choked and wallowed.

"Oh dear, oh my, he, ho, ho,”

The fat wobbled and glistened in the sun like an obscene jelly.

Simon dived back into the water and swam back to the beach where he sunbathed for the rest of the afternoon.

"Hallo," said a small voice.

Simon woke. It was the young girl.

She sat down next to him and tried to make a sandcastle out of the sand in between the pebbles.

"These holidays with parents. Yuk," she said.

She glanced towards the boat, screwed up her face and pointed out her tongue.

"Yeah, not much fun."

Simon commiserated.

"How long have you been here?" he enquired.

"One week. Just down from Yugoslavia, " came the reply.

"And where are you staying?"

"At the hotel - you know the one next to the shipyard."

Simon added a moat to her sandcastle.

"And do you like it here'?"

“Yeah. Its okay. Getting a bit spoilt though."

He waited for her to commit herself further.

"Well, I prefer Spain," she said.

She thought for a bit.

"Though the food is better in the South of France."

"Oh, quite," said Simon.

She sighed. "Its Portugal next year,’” she explained, "You know it’s all the same really. I'd like to go somewhere more exotic: -- "

She stared longingly at the sea and the far horizon.

Simon coughed and changed the subject. He asked about the fat girl on the boat. "Is she one of your party?"

"What? Fatty?"

“Well, yes?"

"Yeah. She's been here for a week and won't speak to anybody -"

She gave a conspiratorial glance.

" -- Especially if they're Greek men."

"Oh, why's that?" Simon asked.

He recalled the girl's ferocious look when he had peered over the side of the boat.

"She just talks to that pink man all day. He's weird." she said.

"What do you think?" asked Simon.

"About what?"

“Greek men”

"Naw. They're all the same. Spanish, French, Italian, Greek," she made a face, "Ow like zee Angleesh rhose. Huh! They won't speak to you the next day. Then its off to the airport for the next lot."

Her voice tailed off again.

"At least English blokes talk to you."

Simon could not agree. It must be very nice when somebody handsome came up to you - told you that you were beautiful and that they couldn’t possibly live a moment longer without you. Nice for a bloke if a girl came up too! Though he might take exception if they told the same thing to someone else five minutes later.

"But surely," he argued, "Its nice being a girl? --, " he had always been interested in the opposing viewpoint, " --Everybody telling you how pretty you are," he continued, "And kissing and hugging you all the time."

"Huh. Naw - that’s what you think."

“Cooey, where are you?"

Sibilant tones drifted down the beach.

The mother, shading her eyes against the sun, was peering about the cove and moving backwards and forwards like a mother hen.

"I’d better go," whispered the young girl "Its her."

She smiled wistfully and, dragging her feet, headed back towards the barbecue party.

Simon returned to his book. After reading a few chapters he was disturbed by the sound of banging. He raised his eyes. There was activity by the boat. The old man was frantically beating the lid of a saucepan. It was time to go. Soon they had all clambered aboard. The anchor was then pulled up and they slowly headed out of the bay.

N.U.K.E the B.R.I.T.S took the tiller. Simon feared for her safety. She stood upright, bracing herself against the side of the boat. She held the tiller - and the direction of the prow - with the instep of her foot. It seemed very Homeric but, surely, if they hit one strong wave, she would be sent flying over the side? He waited expectantly so that he could dive off the side of the boat and save her life.

"Simon?"

"Yes?"

It was the mother.

"Simon, this is, my husband."

Simon shook hands with a man wearing a nautical beard and a peaked cap.

"Ah, hallo, my boy," hiccuped a beard.

"Its nice here, isn't it?" Simon replied.

The nautical beard sipped at some wine that the old sailor, who had been in England during the war, had passed around the boat.

The beard stared at N.U.K.E the B.R.I.T.S

"This is the life, eh, my boy --,” The beard sipped the wine again. " --Hedonism, my lad, that's why we're here. Wine, women and song. “

The young girl grimaced.

"Oooh," squeaked the jelly, “oh my, oh dear, hee, hee, oh yes," it squeaked and blubbered.

The voices continued in the sea breeze.

"Lovely apartment.”

"So quaint."

“Unspoilt”

"No hot water."

"But it is what one must expect.”

“Primitive, you know""

"Delightful.”

‘For that price you would think they'd provide a bath."

"God, the coffee!"

“But so unspoilt."

They chugged past a white yacht which was moored near a secluded bay.

Simon saw someone on deck inspecting the shore through a pair of binoculars. The man resembled Zorba. No - it couldn't be? Someone with a very distinguished appearance stood behind him; someone with a smart beard who was dressed in a business suit. He smoked a huge cigar and waved at Simon as the boats passed each other. But it was Sophocles - Sophocles from Athens What were they doing here?

The engine of the boat stopped chugging, N.U.K.E the B.R.I.T.S swung the tiller, and they drifted towards the shore. The old sailor dropped the anchor-chain. Then he and the girl loaded some boxes into a dingy that was tied to the stern. Then they slowly rowed to the shore. It was an isolated bay and they pulled the dingy onto the beach.

Simon saw figures gathering on the beach. They were dressed in what seemed to be identical, striped t-shirts. He saw a few barrack-like huts, a few white boulders and rocks. And was that a wire fence?

A girl and boy waded out to the boat.

"Got any cigarettes?" the boy enquired.

"They've virtually taken away our money. We can't get off," wailed the girl.

"Give you a few of these in exchange?" pleaded the boy.

He hopefully passed some coloured beads to Simon.

”lt's all I've got." he explained.

"I'm sorry. I haven't got any cigarettes." Simon apologised profusely "But if I had?"

The couple looked crestfallen.

The party on the boat coughed, sniffed and turned away. The beard stamped out his cigarette butt on the deck and ground it into the wood with his foot.

"Here," said the young girl.

She furtively passed down a packet of cigarettes and basked in the looks of absolute adoration from the girl and boy. They said their thanks and, hand in hand, waded back to the shore.

Zorba inspected the new experimental farm though his binoculars. On board the yacht was a contingent from the Conference of Hotel Managers held in Rhodes. Zorba was interested for a few sites on the Southern side of Crete; barren rock, unused, had been provisionally mapped out for similar experiments. But he had his doubts.

"Look at the savings?" explained Sophocles.

Philosophy no longer paid the rent; symposiums were not as popular as they used to be, so he financed some of the new ventures. He hoped for a large return on his investments.

Zorba never knew how to reply. The Athenian asked a question which seemed to require a response. Zorba always replied yes. It didn’t seem to matter if he said no, for the Athenian always provided the correct answer himself and Zorba could never refute his logic.

"You see?" said Sophocles, "We limit the age range - maximum fertility - same quota of each sex. Thus - no expense for entertainment's plus maximum use of space gives high yield for investment, high turnover, quick profits and -- "

He took an expansive puff of his cigar.

" -- Just think just think of the possible future crops?"

"Yes?" replied Zorba.

He waited expectantly for answer, or for the Athenian to continue. No answer came. Sophocles had spotted the Englishman who had paid a visit to his flat and argued about the packaging of abroad. Now what had he said? "But if you provide people with fairly constraining roles to play in a situation where you impose rules and regulations, with accepted ways of behaving - a holiday camp -then people would stay at home. There would be nothing to escape to?”

"Hum?" said Zorba,

Sophocles hesitated and faltered, not replying to Zorba.

"But --,” encouraged Zorba.

There was still no response.

He tried again.

"Yes but -- "

Still no reply.

Finally he gave into his impulse.

"Yes - but there's nothing here -- " He stared at Sophocles with an amazed expression, " --Ees only rock?"

There was a long silence. finally Sophocles spoke, "No - we're selling them an idea. An illusion," he continued with all the fervour of a prophet, "We're offering mortals all that had once been the kings and princes - and us, naturally."

His voice tailed off.

"Of course," he added, “We can't provide the girls."

Zorba peered once more through his binoculars. He had to admit the crops were active and they appeared to be content. But, in his heart, he had little liking for the new venture.

The barbecue party waited while the old sailor and the girl unloaded some boxes onto the beach. Then they both rowed back to the boat, tied the dingy to the stern, and they all headed, once again, around the coast.

One hour passed. Then another.

Simon surveyed the sheer cliff faces that dropped to the sea. He marvelled that he had managed to cross the island on foot.

He was suddenly aware that the fat girl was staring at him - eying him from head to toe. He stared back. She hugged her breasts defensively and tried to squeeze herself low down onto the battened hold. Her body blushed bright-red. Simon averted his eyes. When he looked back, she gave him another look of ferocity.

"Hallo," he said.

“Hallo” she replied, “I think people are horrid,” she added, apropos of nothing.

She had a lovely voice and a lovely smile.  

“Perfectly vile,” replied Simon

"Oh. my, hee, ho, " quivered the jelly behind her; it slopped and slithered and oozed into the crevices and cracks of the deck.

The girl laughed.

"I'm Simon," he said

"I'm the fat girl," she replied.

They both stared blissfully up at the blue sky while they contemplated the extinction of the human race.

Soon the boat pulled into a harbour. Simon saw a destroyer, a clock tower and small white houses covering the slopes of hills. They had reached the village. The party disembarked, dispersed through the streets and the young girl skipped off.

"Look after yourself, dear," cooed the mother.

Simon was left on the quay with the fat girl and the parents. Nobody wanted to move.

”Have a drink, my boy?" said the beard.

"Well, I really want to freshen up, " Simon replied.

"Yes - you could do with a shower," said the mother, “Come back with us - if you like?"

"Oh - yes."

Simon thanked them and they all trooped around the harbour to the hotel by the shipyard. The parents sat down on a patio in front of the hotel and the fat girl eyed one of the chairs hungrily.

"Are you having a drink too?" asked Simon.

”Oh - no, I really have to change.”

She disappeared to her room.

Simon enquired where he could have a shower?

”Just there to the left," said the mother.

Simon slipped into the bathroom and caught an image in the mirror. He recoiled in horror. Spiros stared back! But how could the Greek waiter have got in here? And why was the Greek pursuing him? Simon turned to rush out of the bathroom. The reflection did likewise. He moved closer. A dark, brown face peered back. He peered more closely. What had happened to his skin? He scratched his face. Whatever it was, wouldn't come off. But the colour of his skin was not all that was wrong. There were his eyes. His eyes? Now his eyes were brown with white surrounds. Usually there were pink veins in them which accompanied the grey, bookshop pallor. And his teeth? They were white? Well, that could easily be put down to the wholemeal bread. There was obviously plenty of grit in it. It suddenly occurred to Simon that the young girl had approached him that morning under the impression that he was Greek?

"There you look quite refreshed," said the mother as he joined them on the patio where they were sipping drinks.

"Whisky, my boy?" said the beard.

"Thanks."

He peered inquisitively around the hotel.

"Where's your daughter?" he said.

"She's probably gone for a swim," said the mother, ‘”She's a nice girl - really."

"Oh, absolutely."

Simon smiled.

"Its a pity she's here on her own," she continued, "Not many English people near her own age. Are you staying here long?"

Simon nervously glanced at the door.

"Of course," she said, "The Greeks do look after her. Quite enjoyed herself last night. Didn't she,“ she said to the beard.

The beard coughed, grunted and said "Yes, my dear," and stared miserably out to sea.

The mother continued: "She came back at three o'clock. A midnight feast on the beach. So romantic. Don't you agree? And the older Greek men really looked after her. Made quite sure she didn't get into any trouble. She told us so. Didn't she?”

The beard grunted and poured himself another whisky. "Of course," she continued, "We can't go out with her in the evenings. She goes to the discotheque, you know? Are you staying for long, Simon?"

"Ch yes - I mean no," he hastily said, "No - I mean thanks for the drink and the shower - but I really have to get back to Rhodes - tonight."

"Oh."

The parents remained, wistfully, on the patio as Simon rushed away. Once he turned to wave as he headed back to the harbour. He saw the beard put his arms around the mother’s shoulders. They kissed, held hands and sank down at the table. They were a nice couple but baby-sitting had never been part of his holiday plans. It was a dead end.

He whistled happily as he reached the quay. The afternoon had been enjoyable. The barbecue on the beach had been fun.

It was now dark.

Moored by the jetty was an old-fashioned yacht, sleek and slim - more like a schooner - with huge bells, polished dark wood and brass fittings. What a romantic looking yacht it was!

Behind him, the slopes of the hills were covered by the lights of houses, which twinkled like phosphorescent white flowers; the lights competed with the stars for attention. Above, over the hills, were the dim outlines of mountain ridges. A few black patches of night sky hid in the village on the slopes - the sites of the bombed and deserted houses. Simon remembered the guide’s tour. Yes - it was easy to imagine Stuka bombers whining low over the bay; tracer bullets hitting the twinkling lights; the orange flares of exploding bombs, the Stukas climbing and winging over the mountains and, then, blending with the night sky.

He strolled around the harbour.

It suddenly seemed familiar. There was a main street which led to a square; there were chairs and tables of a cafe spread out under a gnarled, plane-tree; there was a another cafe by the beach which had been converted into a discotheque, there was a prominent taverna on the shorefront and there was a new hotel.

Soon Simon sat at a table under the plane tree by on the quayside, with a glass of ‘raki’ in his hand; he examined the few postcards that he had left. Was it here? - here, on this island, that it all ended? He wished the professor would appear. ‘Who are these coming to the sacrifice?’ Why had those words come to him? It was Keats again. He peered around the quayside, Who was the mysterious priest? And who was ‘that heifer lowering at the skies/And all her silken flanks with garlands bare?’

The two girls in sunglasses from the barbecue on the beach sat at a nearby table. An elderly woman, with a fur coat and a little lap dog at her feet, sat elegantly at another table. She glanced casually at her watch. A handsome youth appeared from a corner. He bent down, kissed her hand and they departed down the main street. No doubt, thought Simon, to the schooner with brass fittings.

And there was the young girl sitting, or rather laying, at yet another table under the trees. Was she all right? Perhaps she was sick? Her head was buried between the thighs of a Greek youth.

He approached the table and pulled her hair.

Are you all right? Are you ill?" he said.

The Greek glowered and raised a menacing arm.

"Ees mine," he shouted.

The young girl lifted her face; her hair fell in ringlets. She had the face of a cat and snarled, scratched and nearly spat. Simon returned to his table under the trees.

The Greek grabbed a fistful of the young girl’s hair and, twining the ringlets around his fingers, he pushed down her head - hard - between his thighs. He insolently stared at the two girls in sunglasses and flicked a hand through his hair.

Simon sighed. But hadn't this happened already? It seemed familiar. He had been here before. Could he let it go? Was this part of being Greek? Part of the appeal? Now he looked the part. The young girl suddenly raised her head and smiled. It was a look of triumph. No - he could not let it go.

He sauntered over to a table close to the cafe - close to the girls in sunglasses. He nonchalantly sat down on a chair, leaned it back against the cafe and loudly kicked over another chair - as he had seen the Greeks do. The two girls, who were holding hands, turned round. He then flicked his fingers against the cafe window.

"Bear, pronto," he shouted.

A few sharp Greek words came back.

"Ah," he said, not forgetting to flash his teeth, "Ahow like zee Angleesh rhoses."

It worked! The two girls inspected him, smiled and gossiped with each other. Now why had he not tried this on the boat? He waited patiently for their response - they would join his table in awe - but then he overheard whispering.

"Jesus wept."

"Not again."

I'm getting pissed off with this."

"Thinks he's God's gift, does he?"

"Hah, chauvinistic pigs."

"Yeah - what maidens loathe."

"Come on, Mabel, let's move to another table. “

The girls rose, smiled sweetly as they gathered their possessions and headed towards the other side of the cafe.

Simon was mortified. He rose and walked down the main street, turning onto the quay where he walked straight into the jelly.

“Oooh! Oh, hee, ho, my dear, oh my."

The pink mound quivered and rumbled at Simon's touch.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

Simon apologised.

But no? The jelly sucked and glued around the Greek youth who had escorted him to the monastery the previous day? The youth smiled like an angel. He wore lipstick?

Simon walked walked miserably down the quay avoiding the cracks and gaping holes in his path. Similar cracks had appeared in his holiday.

The water in the harbour was black and deep. A strong wind began to blow. It was getting cold. He wished the ferry would arrive. He wanted to escape.

He entered a boutique which sold souvenirs. A bright fluorescent light illuminated shelves solidly packed with rows and rows of miniature statues; a bronze torso dominated - a six-pack with curly hair. But these were images of Spiros? No! It was Hermes. Simon recognised the statue, for many barber shops in England possessed a copy which was placed prominently on display in their shop windows. On the floor of the boutique were figurines of statuesque beauties, some with missing limbs; others were scantily clad with flowing white robes. There were shelves and shelves of Greek vases, dark red, with black figures in silhouette. Simon peered closer. But what were these silhouettes? Dancing figures with tridents? Huge phalluses? They seemed naughty English seaside postcards as interpreted by Aubrey Beardsley. The vases seemed to slowly revolve and Simon left the boutique.

He sat down at the taverna near the destroyer. The clock face on the tower said nine o'clock. It would be another two hours before the ferry berthed. Some young Greek women were watching ‘Bonanza’ on a colour television outside. He ordered some fish, a salad and a bottle of wine.

The events of the evening had shaken him. Was it the youth wearing lipstick? Had that shaken him? But why? In Ancient Greece it had been the norm? To love a beautiful youth while the wife stayed at home, doing the cooking and looking after the children. Or was it the young girl who had disturbed him? She too had seemed innocent.

His meal arrived. Simon ate, sipped the wine and his mind raced. Now the stars shone down. The sky was beautiful.

There was a commotion by the cafe. The Greeks looked up. The fat girl stood on the crescent of the path that led across the promintory to the hotel. It was a transformation. She wore a long evening gown; blond hair blew out against the wind and she was framed by the blue dome of the church and the stars above.

She descended gracefully and hesitated for a moment, by Simon's table, before walking slowly down to the jetty. Should he have asked her to join him?

The lights of an approaching ferry flashed and flickered over the far horizon.

Simon hardly noticed.

An image of Polly laying on the beach, caressing her breasts so innocently -yet so invitingly - filled his mind There was her odd resemblance, in pose and manner, to the girl on the calendar at work. The image had seemed so much more potent in the dark office.

"Ees Hoss."

There was laughter near the television set. Then giggles.

Those Greek girls, thought Simon, sipping their cokes seemed innocent enough - smashing in their summer frocks. Of course, one never knew what they got up to in the vineyards.

He tried to dispel the image of Polly - though it gave him comfort in a way. She was good reason to return to Crete.

The food was delicious. White fish, lightly grilled with a touch of lemon and the white wine was refreshing. He gulped down a few glasses.

The night was so black and so still. The water in the harbour gently rustled. Pin points of light shone in gentle white houses. A light cool breeze blew from the sea. And behind were the hills and the stars. It was quiet but his mind was racing. What was he doing on this island? All he had done was to arrive in Athens and then head for Crete? Why had things gone this way? Could his holiday not have gone in another direction? Was it inevitable, due to a series of events, that he would land up here? It had not been planned.

Then Simon remembered the previous night and his date with Uri. But they had discussed something about a maze? Oh yes! Knossus. She had mentioned a Minotaur. But in what connection? He hurried searched through his shoulder-bag and found William's 'Introduction to Greek Mythology' He looked up the Minotaur in the index to refresh his memory.

Ah! Persiphae, wife of the King of Minos, had fallen in love with a bull. Daidalos, the king's engineer, had constructed an imitation cow in which she could hide. She had mated with the bull, producing the minotaur - half man, half bull.

Simon read on. The bull was concealed in an endless labyrinth at Knossus, constructed by Daidalos. Hum?

Simon now wished he had a torch. It was so dark. What did it the legend say? Every nine years, youths and maidens were brought from Athens to be devoured by the monster. It was this monster that Theseus had to slay before he could find his way out of the labyrinth and escape.

"He la, missie."

There was laughter from the quay.

Simon raised his eyes from the book.

The fat girl had reached the end of the path along the quayside. She stopped at the taverna near the jetty. She seated herself at a table and a waiter approached. She smiled. They knew each other. Damn! Now why hadn't he followed her down the path? But would it be another dead end? At least he could have talked with her? Then the young girl appeared meekly from the main street. She sat at a table by the nearby cafe. Simon could see, even from this distance, that she was twiddling her fingers. The elegant woman walked by the schooner - accompanied by the handsome youth and the lap dog. And there was the jelly and the beautiful boy. They all seemed to circle the bay aimlessly like black silhouettes.

A star flickered and moved across the dark sky. No - it was an aeroplane.

The harbour was a circular auditorium Iit by the stars. Simon felt as though he had intruded on someone else's holiday - not a light, romantic comedy but darker, more uncertain colours. He gulped down some more wine. The star still flickered across the sky. It seemed to flicker and sink in the deep, harbour water. He had read that only other people gave you an identity; it was only when other people saw and perceived what you did, what you were, that you existed? Simon's mind wavered with the star in the water. Perhaps it was true ? Did he exist? Had he managed to establish an identity on the island? The star flickered brightly. A red landing light? No - he was a traveller. He was not there. The star disappeared over the horizon.

The parents entered stage left, looked at their daughter, then moved to the shadows. Why had she approached him? Was he to be some foil to the Greek? Had she allocated him a role more than that of a baby-sitter? Was she going through some sort of adolescent crisis? Perhaps he should stay?

She turned around. She saw him.

He waved.

The young girl seemed to get up, then changed her mind.

Was it a game? How had the others perceived him? What was his role? He hastily peered around. Nobody was looking. He furtively put all his notes and postcards back into his shoulder-bag.

A bell tolled mournfully, like the bell at the monastery. He felt summoned. The toll of the bell came from a ferry that had pulled up, unnoticed, at the jetty. Lights suspended from its superstructure formed a bright patch in the dark water.

No - he must go. Nothing would be achieved by sitting still. If he moved on, new paths would open and here would be new a venues to explore. He crept behind the new hotel and found his way, through various side streets, to the quay, where he climbed aboard the ferry unnoticed. The deck was nearly deserted - apart from the girls in sunglasses.

Simon surveyed the harbour as the ferry pulled away. A small crowd had congregated around the jetty to watch its departure. They were quiet. There was the young girl staring at the boat. And there was the fat girl behind them, In the shadows, stood the parents. They all seemed to look at him reproachfully.

The lights of the village got smaller and smaller and Simon felt sadness. What would happen to them all? To the young girl and her parents? To fat girl and the waiter? To the lady and the lap dog? To the jelly and the beautiful boy? He would never know. It would all happen without him.

The small village disappeared. It blended with the night and the stars and it was unlikely that Simon would ever see it again. The sea was calm and a few hours, the ferry had berthed at Rhodes.

It was well past midnight but the ferry to Crete had not yet arrived.

Simon strolled around the fortress town of Rhodos, whose fortifications seemed to bulge out through the pressure of tavernas within its walls. He found a cafe by a colonnade of shops, where he had a clear view of the jetty and the arriving ferries, and sipped sipped an oozo.

A very strong wind blew but it was still warm.

‘Lost the plot?”

Simon searched though his shoulder bag with alarm.

”No, I don’t think so,” he said.

"Hallo Simon?"

It was Aunt Edna.

"Hallo."

"What are you doing here?"

Simon started to explain that he had fallen asleep in the lifeboat and -- and --

"Hallo, my boy. Didn't see much of Rhodes then?"

Simon laughed.

"Well, I've seen the harbour and the jetty."

Aunt Edna and Norman sat down and soon the table was cluttered with drinks.

They gossiped.

‘Why don’t you come with us for a few days,’ suggested Simon’s aunt, ‘We’ve got a settee in the hotel and ---”

"Yes," added Norman,"We"re going to ‘Plain of Butterflies’ tomorrow."

Simon stared out to sea. On the jetty was a silent crowd with their baggage. Among them were the eternal travellers. He had met them before. They often sat outside the cafe in the main square opposite the Gulf of Merebello for the cafe seemed to be a meeting place for those passing on to more exotic destinations. He had listened to their tales of travel. He only had a weeks holiday then back to work in the bookshop -

"Simon?"

"Um?"

No - he would stay where he was. It was pleasant just sitting here with friends - old and new. The threads had joined up again. He could go somewhere else, but he would only end up sitting at another table with another group of friends. There would be a small village: a harbour; a quay and a jetty with people arriving and departing; a nearby beach, a friendly cafe and a taverna with, possibly, a ramshackle discotheque. But the days were getting shorter. Things seemed to be speeding up. Half his holiday had passed. What should he do? Had he travelled any further than yesterday?"

"Simon!"

"Um?’

"'Oh my, ” said his aunt, ‘It’s come.”

There was a sudden hoot, a crunch and a wild screech of metal. The ferry heading for Crete had arrived . A crowd disembarked. Simon spotted Zorba talking to EI Capitino on the quay. The moon glinted off a paper cup. El Capitino swallowed the contents. Zorba seemed worried and stared towards the horizon. The captain shrugged and boarded the ferry. Zorba followed.

Should he stay here? Simon now felt rootless, like a boat without a rudder; a bird without a nest and an author without a plot.

"Simon?"

The voice was faint. Who called?

Just then a girl rushed out of one of the shops on the colonnade next to the cafe. The shop was a travel agency with a small sign announcing 'Zeus Tours'. It was Polly! She rushed aboard the ferry carrying a strangely shaped case.

'"Simon, Simon, where are you going?'" shouted Aunt Edna.

He turned and shouted back.

“I must go. See you in England. “

He managed to squeeze aboard the ferry just before its ramp was raised.

Simon bought a second class ticket which entitled him to a seat in the lounge. Having spent one night in a lifeboat and the next in a gun-turret, he felt that he was entitled to a night of luxury. He crossed the passenger deck, clambering over sleeping-bags; legs, chairs and tables. It seemed as though the same piece of land that had detached itself from Crete just a few days ago, was now returning.

He entered the lounge.

There was Polly sitting in a corner. She seemed nervous - like a schoolgirl and clasped her case between her knees. He approached.

"Hallo?’ he said, “ Fancy meeting you here?"

It seemed as though Polly blushed, before she stammered and rushed away.

Euterpe rushed away and locked herself in the ‘Ladies Room’. She had been booked to play at an evening of music and dancing in Crete. But now she trembled on the toilet seat. Why had someone spoken to her? She had hardly spoken to a mortal for over a century. It was lucky she communicated with her lyre. Her silence was due to one of those unfortunate occasions that her family never spoke about.

It happened when she attended the first performance of a piece of music by a new composer. She had been so enthralled that she had rushed down to the podium, flung her arms to the heavens and announced: “I am Euterpe, daughter of Zeus and Mnemosyne, and I spake to thee thus...”

Before she had got much further, the composer had keeled over and died of a heart attack.

Euterpe had been carried away screaming and locked into a police cell. This event was one of the reasons why they had all gone undercover. Now they were treated as fanatics and madmen. Mortals were no longer prepared to believe. It had taken all of Athene's wisdom and all of Apollo's skill as a barrister to obtain her release.

“But Euterpe," Athene had counselled afterwards, "You have forgotten what I told you. You never have to do anything. It is for mortals to believe.”

Athene had undertaken the education of the muses for their mother had been far to busy. As she had led Euterpe around her perfumed garden, she had placed an arm around the muse's shoulder and had given a consoling kiss.

"I know it is hard for us girls to play such a passive role," she had said and then she had whispered in her ear, "But the times are changing. I can sense it."

Euterpe had felt a shiver in the air.

She also feared the wrath of her father for she recalled the tragedy of Erato and that mortal - what was his name - Shelley? But Zeus had been quite nice about it. He had taken her weeping body into his arms and wiped away her tears. "But my dear girl," he had said, wagging his little finger, "Why on earth didn't you go to his dressing room afterwards?"

Simon sighed. That girl was really contrary. He could only hope that she might speak to him in Crete. He peered around the lounge. It was full of detritus; bodies lying comatose on the benches, sleeping bags on the floor and plastic cups and beer cans on the tables. Where could he sit? There was only one vacant seat. It was one of three. The other two seats were taken by girls in sunglasses. They were gossiping and didn't seem to notice when he sat down.

It was now well into the night and Simon fell asleep almost immediately.