Walking to Georgia
by Philip J. Lees
It was three weeks after the funeral that Jim got the idea. Until then he had felt dead, uninterested in anything, unable to make even the simplest decision. When the brainwave hit him it was like suddenly waking up. Later he couldn’t remember where the idea for the walk had come from. Maybe it was Georgia herself, speaking to him from somewhere else, who had put the thought in his head.
He looked around, blinking. The room was dim; the shutters hadn’t been opened—what was the point? Then he noticed a musty smell in the air: a mixture of dust, stale wine and dirty underwear. Georgia wouldn’t have stood for that for a moment. She would have flung open the windows and shutters, shaken out the rugs and draped them across the windowsills to air, cleared the empty bottles and glasses off the table and stacked them in the sink—no, she would have done that first of all, so the neighbors would have no chance to see them. That kind of information could spread through this small Cretan town at a speed that would have amazed Albert Einstein.
Georgia would have had a thing or two to say to him, too, about how he should get himself out of that chair and clean himself up. Apart from trips to the bathroom and staggering, furtive runs to the corner shop to replenish his store of booze, he had scarcely moved from the chair and it now felt almost a part of him, as if it had molded itself around his reclining body and become a form-fitting nest. If he stayed there much longer, Jim thought, maybe the chair would fold itself up and over the top of his lap, the back would curl around his upper body, the headrest spread across his cheeks like a helmet, until he was encased in an upholstered cocoon grown out of his own apathy.
The fact that he could consider such a thing was interesting, however. His imagination must be starting to work again. His head throbbed with a hangover and underneath it was that other, more agonizing pain that had seated itself in the very center of his consciousness and never quite faded, no matter how much he drank. It even came to him in his dreams, whispering a reminder that his life was now incomplete.
Today, though, instead of reaching for the half empty glass that perched on the corner of the table nearest to his left hand, Jim grasped the arms of the chair and pulled himself to his feet. He steadied himself against the table and looked down to take stock.
He had a down-at-heel bedroom slipper on one foot, a thick woolen sock on the other with part of his big toe showing where a hole was starting to wear through. The toenail was black at the corners and needed cutting. His brown corduroy trousers were crumpled and his fly was half unzipped. He slid the zipper up to the top and immediately felt better. His shirt sleeves were unbuttoned and the tan sleeveless pullover was covered in varicolored stains. There was a cigarette burn on the right hand side, about two thirds of the way down. Had he bought cigarettes? He’d given up smoking fifteen years before. There was no ashtray on the table and he had no recollection of how the cigarette burn had got there. All at once he wanted to cry, but that wouldn’t do, that wouldn’t do at all. It would upset Georgia. Jim sniffed, rubbed the bridge of his nose with the fingers of his right hand, took a deep breath and shuddered.
It took half an hour to heat enough water for a shower. In that time Jim cleared the debris from the table top, thought about wiping the plastic table cloth clean but finally bundled it up and stuffed it in the trash on top of the empty wine and beer bottles. He ran water in the sink and left the glasses to soak. There were seventeen of them, in assorted shapes and sizes, all smeared and smelly. Disgusting. He found the other slipper under the edge of the sofa and put it on. There, that was better.
Jim showered and shampooed. He clipped his nails, fingers and toes. He shaved—carefully, with a new razor blade—and started to feel better, more human. He found clean clothes in the wardrobe and left the dirty ones in a heap on the bathroom floor. One thing at a time.
Then he returned to the living room. He opened the windows inwards, back against the walls. Then he took a deep breath, like someone about to dive off a high cliff, flipped the catch and swung the louvered shutters outward to let in the sunlight. He felt the warmth of it on his face and narrowed his eyes. A canary was singing on the floor above and a gentle breeze brought a faint smell of honeysuckle. I can do this, he thought. Georgia, I think I can do this.
§
There was a place in the mountains south of Heraklion that Jim and Georgia called their secret spot. They had come across it by chance, after taking a wrong turning on the way to Kastelli. The road changed from asphalt to hardcore to dirt to rocky path, until Jim pulled up.
“I’ll walk ahead,” he said. “See if it gets any better. Otherwise we’ll have to go back.”
Even though there was no danger in these Cretan hills, Georgia refused to sit in the car alone.
“I need to stretch my legs,” she said. “I’ve been sitting in that seat too long.”
They picked their way carefully between the stones, mindful of frail bones and ankles that sprained more easily than long ago. After twenty yards the trail turned to the left where a straggly pine jutted diagonally from a cleft in a mottled limestone outcrop. They followed the trail around the corner and there they stopped. For at least a minute neither of them spoke.
At its end the path widened into a flat stone plaque the size of four pool tables. In the center was a shallow declivity where a thin coating of soil had allowed grass to grow and be cropped by sheep or goats to a green crew cut. Ahead of them the ground fell away to a precipice that formed one side of a basin that must have been twenty miles across. There was nothing between them and the hills on the far side, which were checkered with an orderly patchwork of cultivation, the bright emerald vineyards contrasting with the glaucous blots of the olive trees, arranged in rows as neat as a child’s puzzle. Here in this sheltered spot the sun warmed them, but they could see the shadows sliding along the ground as clouds drifted over the valley and far to the right a dark thunderhead trailed its veil of rain across the hillside. High out over the plain two eagles traced lazy circles. The caw of a jackdaw gliding down the slope only served to emphasize the silence.
Jim turned to look at Georgia. She was staring at the view, eyes wide and unblinking, a soft smile on her lips. As Jim watched her he saw the years fall away, the lines become smooth, the cheeks and lips fill out, the gray hair turn to fine chestnut, as if he was seeing through today’s Georgia to the girl he had fallen in love with so many years ago, the girl who still lived inside, beyond the depredations that time had wreaked upon the flesh. And with this came a reaffirmation of the love he still felt for her, and this deeper, more mature adoration was refreshed, rejuvenated by the image from the past.
Georgia turned her head to look at him and in her eyes he could see the same revelation. He took two steps towards her and put his arm around her shoulders; she put hers around his waist. They held each other and lost themselves in the sensations of this place, the past and present ineluctably entwined for a time immeasurable.
At the same instant they released each other and turned in unison, as if both had received the same thought. Still not speaking they walked slowly back to the car.
When they could talk again they talked about going back, taking a picnic lunch, a table, folding chairs, spending the afternoon up there alone, enjoying the view with nothing but each other’s company to distract them.
The months passed. Somehow the weather was never quite right, or there was something else they needed to do that day, or the car needed servicing, or it was a public holiday and the gas stations would be closed. They never had gone back and now it was too late.
But Jim could go back, alone. It would be a pilgrimage. He would go on foot from the town below, climb the hill, follow the trail to the lookout point, and there he could say goodbye. He would do it for Georgia, this one last thing, and then, maybe, he could let her go.
§
When Jim got out of the car it was raining, a light drizzle that was unusual for the time of year. It didn’t matter, though—he’d seen the clouds hovering over the hills early in the morning and he’d brought a waterproof overcoat and a hat he could wear if necessary. He zipped up the coat, pulled the hat on his head, locked the car and trudged along the road, careful not to slip on the slick asphalt.
An hour later he was starting to have doubts. The road was steeper than he remembered and he was still on the paved surface. Had he missed the turning? Surely not. There hadn’t been any side roads that he’d noticed. Jim stopped, straightened up, put his hands in his jacket pockets and took two deep breaths, stretching his mouth open as far as it would go and tilting his face upward so he could feel the cool raindrops tickling his cheeks. Darn it! He wasn’t about to turn back now. He stood there while the second hand on his wristwatch completed a full circle, then he started walking again, trying to set a slow but steady pace that he could maintain. He’d started out too fast and his hip joints were starting to complain. Slow and steady, he chanted to himself in time with the rhythm of his steps. Slow and steady.
After another fifteen minutes the road divided. One branch veered to the left, up the side of the hill, and the other forked right and turned down. In the V of the intersection stood a small shrine, a painted metal frame supporting a miniature glasshouse with a sloping roof and a crucifix on the top. Inside was a pottery lamp with a guttering flame, a small bunch of dried flowers and, incongruously, a plastic soft drink bottle that now contained spare oil for the lamp. For no reason he could explain, Jim crossed himself before taking the left fork. He had stopped going to church many years before, but his hand traced the old pattern with no need for thought.
He felt better now, sure he was on the right track, and indeed once he had passed the first bend in the road the asphalt gave way to roughly graded gravel. Jim stopped for a minute to take a breather and looked down the hillside. From here the road he had left was no longer visible, nor was the town from which he had set off. It was just him and the trail.
The going was harder now and his rest stops became more frequent. By the time the road turned into a goat track his knees were shaking with the effort. Jim stumbled, tripped over a rock the size of a loaf, and went down heavily, feeling something stretch and snap in his left ankle. For a few minutes he remained on his hands and knees, panting with the pain and waiting for the nausea of shock to pass. Then he tried to climb to his feet. As soon as he put weight on his injured foot a stab of agony screamed up his leg and Jim let out a gasp. He hopped to a nearby boulder and leaned against it. His ankle was sprained, as he had thought, but there was more damage than that. Maybe he’d dislocated the joint, or cracked a bone. Now what?
He looked up the path. Not far ahead he could see the jutting pine tree that marked the gateway to his destination. He’d come this far, dammit! He wasn’t going to give up now, even if he had to crawl the rest of the way. It couldn’t be more than a hundred yards altogether.
It seemed more like a hundred miles, but Jim managed it. Right knee forward. Lift left knee and walk on hands. Left knee down. Forget everything else. One step, then another. He kept his damaged foot as high off the ground as he could, but even so a few times it collided with a rock or the ground and Jim hissed through his teeth. Once he lost his balance and fell to the side. He needed all his remaining resolve to control the shivering, push himself back up on all fours and carry on.
At the corner below the pine tree he found a forked branch. Jim clambered upright, using the stick for support, and stuck it under his armpit. It was just the right size to use as a crutch and might have been left there just for him. Good. He could hobble the rest of the way.
His pants were soaking wet and their lower legs were little more than muddy rags. His knees and the palms of his hands were bleeding and sore. In spite of that new pain and the constant, throbbing ache in his left ankle Jim felt strangely content, almost euphoric. It was better this way, he thought, more meaningful. He stumped onward.
The view was just as he remembered it. Jim stood on the tiny patch of sward, propped up on his stick, and looked out over the valley. “Here I am,” he whispered to himself. “Georgia, here I am.”
A wave of dizziness enveloped him for a second and suddenly Georgia was there beside him. Of course, he thought. Of course she’s here, waiting for me. It was the Georgia he had seen the last time, young, vibrant, beautiful, and Jim felt his strength return. The pain left his body and he stood straight and reached out to take her hand.
Together again, side by side, they walked to the edge of the stone shelf, then stepped over and skipped a few steps down the slope. Hand in hand, light as air, they launched themselves into the void as the jackdaw cawed and the eagles circled high above.
§
It was two days later that the goatherd found the body. Strangely, the jackals and vultures hadn’t disturbed it, so that at first Yannis thought somebody had fallen asleep up there. Cautiously, he stubbed it with his toe and immediately realized the body was too stiff to be alive. Yannis cursed under his breath. He didn’t want to get involved with the police and from the clothes this was a foreigner, which would make things even worse. On the other hand he couldn’t just ignore it—that wouldn’t be right. Yannis crossed himself resignedly.
In the early evening he returned with his brother, equipped with a pickaxe, a sturdy shovel and a mattock. They hacked out a shallow grave at the foot of the hillside and rolled the corpse into it. They piled the earth and shale back on top then covered the whole thing with rocks. By this time it was dark. Yannis said a short prayer and they both crossed themselves several times. Satisfied, Yannis led the way back down, a bobbing paraffin lantern lighting the way ahead of them, leaving nothing but space and darkness behind.
- End -
© Copyright Philip J. Lees 2005