Ariadne peered up at the chapel on the hill, wondering if Hebe could make the trek up from the village over the wooden bridge. The water ran off the hillside in a channel, then flowed out to Mistrali beach and into the sea.
Recent rain had filled the often dried-out riverbed into a steady stream. Then there was a steep path up to the little chapel of St Nicholas. It was 6 December, his festival day, and troops of Nikoses and Nicolettas would come to bless his icon and wish each other chronia polla, or many years. There would be offerings, candles lit, and Father Michaelis would be saying prayers. As it was on a weekday the lighted procession would come later, but the little chapel flickered with hundreds of tiny Christmas lights.
Ariadne wanted the choir to sing something nautical, since St Nicholas was the patron of seafarers and ladies of the night who plied their trade in the back-streets close to harbours and ports all over the world.
Peter, from the retreat, brought the little paper boats for the children and anyone else who wanted to light a candle and pop in their own wishes.
Hebe would be better off staying on the bridge and enjoying the flotilla of little boats bobbing on the stream into the sea. Ariadne did not want her out of sight. There were moments when she seemed so lost, complaining of a headache. It was time to see Dr Makaris again, to have her checked over thoroughly, and if that meant a trip to Heraklion Hospital on Crete, then so be it. Something wasn’t right. Perhaps she should pop her own wish for Hebe’s health into one of the little boats.
The turnout of residents at dusk was decent enough and this time they didn’t sing a carol, but that famous of all sea hymns:
Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm has stayed the restless wave…
Who could complain about that? she thought, as the choir gathered together, singing in harmony. The sound wafted over the gathered crowds and she hoped it would carry down into the village.
Father Michaelis was quite happy to let them perform outside the church, where stars twinkled above them. There were benches by the chapel for the weary to sit awhile and catch their breath. The chapel twinkled in the darkness, set high to catch the last of the sunset, but tonight it was windy and cool. Ariadne was glad of her Puffa anorak, excited by their first public performance. She sensed it had gone well.
*
Chloë climbed the path with Simon and Gary, hugging her secret to herself. Tomorrow she would take a flight to Athens, then fly on to London to surprise her daughter. She would tell Simon later, not wanting him to throw cold water over her plan. Alexa was her child and something was wrong: she could feel it in her bones. Her daughter needed her, whether she knew it or not. She might be grown-up, but in Chloë’s heart she was still her baby girl.
Coming to visit the chapel felt like a pilgrimage. She would light a candle and pray that her journey would be blessed and fruitful. She had even written a little wish to slip into a boat. To her surprise, even the Thorners made an appearance, standing on the bridge, not prepared to join in except for the hymn.
Fairy lights illuminated the path up the steep slope, but Simon had insisted that Arthur, the colonel, stayed on the bridge with Hebe and some of the older villagers. Peter and Alison gathered the children, ready to set sail. It made a great photo opportunity so Chloë fished out her iPhone to capture the moment.
*
Clive Podmore read out a brief history of the Bishop of Myra, who threw gold in at a poor man’s window to enable his daughters to be married, not sold into prostitution. His mission angered the pagan leaders and he was arrested and tortured for his faith. He died in 342, but his life and generosity transformed him from bishop to St Nicholas, to Santa Claus, to Father Christmas in northern Europe. Clive knew that soon it would be St Lucy’s Day. It would remind him of happier seasons, when his wife was alive at his side.
The wind whipped up a chill and it was a relief to sing the hymn. Then everyone made their way down to the bridge at the side of the stream, where Peter and Duke had created a sailing yacht out of scraps of wood and cloth lit with tea lights. It was a moving little ceremony, with people placing their wishes in flimsy paper vessels and letting them go, perhaps in memory of lost ones. Wishes must be unspoken, but Clive heard Peter’s son telling old Arthur, ‘I want more Lego for Christmas.’
What wishes went into those little vessels? They all followed them down to the water’s edge and the choir sang their second piece, ‘I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In’. Then the boats were off down the stream, some collapsing, some sailing on upright, quite a sight, but now a strident voice rang out: ‘Who is going to collect all these metal tea lights when they end up on the shore as litter? It’s very thoughtless to pollute the stream with paper and metal,’ said Norris Thorner.
‘Don’t worry, Norris,’ said the vicar. ‘We’ll fill a sack with anything we find. I think our choir is responsible enough to do that. It was a lovely idea of Peter and Alison to help the children to see that light can only shine like this in darkness.’
*
Chloë could hear the tension in his voice, as he soothed ruffled feathers. Why did Thorner have to raise objections to a simple ceremony and spoil the atmosphere?
‘Wine and cake at the vicarage,’ the vicar’s wife announced. ‘Before all of us freeze to death. I fear the wind is bringing rain on its edge. Hurry, before the deluge hits us.’
Chloë knew the little lights would soon be blown out, the paper would sink and drown the wishes in seawater, but it was the gesture that mattered. It would be a while before sun and warmth returned to the island. Tomorrow she would be flying back to yet more cold and rain, but it would be worthwhile to see the surprise on Alexa’s face. Tomorrow she would find out the truth about her daughter’s troubled life and she couldn’t wait.
*
Gary Partridge paused, looking out into the darkness. What the hell am I doing here, singing hymns, floating boats, scribbling a wish on a bit of paper? I must be mad leaving Kelly sulking. We should be sailing on a cruise, not doing such a silly thing. But Gary’s heartfelt wish was for his childhood sweetheart to conceive. What had that vicar said as they put the wishes into the little boats tonight? ‘Ask, believe and receive.’
Could he really ask for a child to be born, when he carried such guilt in his heart? Their lives were built on sand, not rock. Sooner or later he must confess his secret. Perhaps only then could his wish come true.