It was late October and Augusta was more fit than she had ever been in her life. She had never exactly been out of shape, but she had also never been very interested in physical fitness. Her lack of enthusiasm for team sports meant that she avoided gym class whenever possible as a teenager, and she certainly never went near a playing field voluntarily. She preferred sculpting, or walking in the woods behind her grandparents’ house, or baking biscuits with her grandmother. Gentle, creative exertion rather than fast-paced physical action.
But running she could get behind. Running was hard work, but also beautiful and serene. As she jogged up and down the mountain, the scenery was breathtakingly beautiful, from the stately cypresses dotting the slopes to the bright blue thrushes flitting through the branches. Scrubby herbs poked up along her rocky running paths, offering up angular bits of greenery between the stones. Birds cackled and cajoled from high above. The world was lush and full.
This morning the beauty of the mountains was almost staggering. The blue of the sky, the green of the trees, the white of the stones—the saturation of color in the sunlight was almost more than she could bear. Augusta slowed down as she neared one of her favorite vistas a few miles away from the monastery. An angular bend looked out over Anogia, the local village, and beyond that to the sea. The air was crisp and dry, with a hint of autumn on the way. She stopped and bent over to catch her breath.
It was then that she noticed something moving in the shadows. Just below her, a rustle of leaves, the swish of a tail. Could it be? The fabled Cretan wildcat, the island’s top predator, which only a handful of living people had seen. A few were rumored to survive on the mountain peaks of the interior. Augusta froze and watched carefully, waiting for the merest hint of movement.
There it was again, a little lower now. Although she couldn’t make it out clearly, the suggestion of a furry outline was weaving through the undergrowth. Was it the wildcat? It could just be a common badger or marten. She had seen plenty of those on her runs, but a wildcat sighting would be truly magical. It seemed the perfect morning to spot this beautiful, elusive creature. Augusta stepped gently off the path toward the moving shape.
Stepping lightly over the stony tufts projecting out from the mountainside, she followed the animal downward toward a dense stand of evergreens. Now she was almost sure it was a wildcat. She thought could make out a fluffy tail standing up happily just above the weeds and ferns. The creature seemed to be in no hurry. It was out enjoying the morning just like her. She had to be careful not to alarm it, though. Once the cat realized it was being followed, Augusta was sure it could easily slip away.
The shrubbery gave way to a grove of white-trunked maples with glossy green leaves. Still trailing about twenty feet behind, Augusta crouched behind a carob. She watched as the wildcat trotted out into the clearing, patrolling its territory down the mountainside. Augusta gasped. It was magnificent—smaller than she had expected, but tantalizingly beautiful with its luxurious long fur. She couldn’t let it out of her sight now. Scurrying along at a safe distance behind the wildcat, she picked up her pace as the cat broke into a run. Now it must know she was following. The brown and gray fur flashed back into the undergrowth and disappeared.
She didn’t want this magical moment to end. Darting around the maple trunks and into the scrub, Augusta continued in the direction she had last seen the wildcat. She couldn’t see it anymore, but there was movement in the juniper ahead. She was running now, stepping over stones and avoiding prickly stumps as best she could.
Ow. She felt her ankle twist, a searing pain, and then the soft dirt cushioning her fall. Augusta was flat on the ground, her hands bleeding where she had instinctively caught herself on the juniper stalks. She lay there for a moment, unable to catch her breath, and then started panting, gulping in the thin mountain air.
What now? Augusta stared up at the sky, feeling foolish for allowing herself to stray so far off the path. Why had she done that? It wasn’t like her to be so careless. She never took her phone with her on these runs, and without a means of contacting her father she was vulnerable. She would have to find her way back to the path and get home with a sprained ankle.
Turning on one side of her body, she gingerly pushed herself up to a sitting position. Her eyes fell on a stooped, elderly woman standing a few feet away.
Augusta started in surprise.
“Eísai kalá!” the woman called to her. She was wearing a loose-fitting, plain cotton dress, with a straw basket dangling from one arm and a walking staff gripped firmly in the other hand. A woolen scarf, tied around her hair and knotted at the back of her head, gave her the appearance of an aged pharoah.
“Sorry, I don’t understand,” Augusta said, wiping her bloody palms on the side of her jeans and attempting to stand up. Her ankle was throbbing. She tried to take a step and sank down to the ground, biting her lip against the pain.
The old woman moved toward Augusta, as if to help. She reached up and untied the scarf from her head, then knelt down and wound it expertly around Augusta’s injured ankle. Smiling, she held out her walking stick and indicated that Augusta should take it.
“Thank you.” Augusta pressed the walking stick into the ground and stood up on her good leg. Her ankle felt much more stable in the woolen wrappings. She attempted a step and found, to her relief, that she was able to bear some weight. The walking staff was a useful crutch.
“Come.” The old woman motioned for her to follow. Augusta wasn’t sure she should be mingling with the locals, but she felt herself to be in the old woman’s debt. In any case, she didn’t have many other options. She hobbled along behind the sturdy old lady, who led her to a rocky path on the other side of the clearing.
Without speaking, they walked downhill past more glossy maples, following the path until they reached a small stone building off to one side. It was quite modest, but looked well taken-care of and sealed off against the elements. Its red tile roof was in good condition and the small front yard was spic and span. A donkey was tied up near the front door, munching from a trough.
“Is this your home?” Augusta asked, hoping the old woman spoke enough English to understand her.
She nodded. “Yes. My home.” She opened the front door and motioned Augusta inside.
The room was not altogether different from Augusta’s chapel lodgings, but much more cozy and comfortable. Everything seemed to be in one room: kitchen, bedroom, living area, storage. The ceiling was vaulted with timber beams and a large wood-burning stove was piped out to the back, just over a large rear window. Heat emanated from the stove. The old woman must already have a fire going, even though it wasn’t very cold yet.
“Sit. Please.”
She pointed toward a low sofa, where Augusta gratefully sank down beside the stove.
The Greek woman busied herself in the small kitchen, putting on a tea kettle and rummaging through cabinets and bags. While she worked, Augusta studied the walking stick her rescuer had put in her hands. It was beautifully carved in a spiral form, just like something her grandfather would have made. She wondered if the old lady had carved it herself, or if had been a gift from someone else.
The tea kettle whistled. The peasant woman placed tea cups on the table in front of them and poured two cups of tea, her hands shaking with the weight of the heavy kettle. Steam rose from the honey-colored liquid. This definitely wasn’t Turkish tea, Augusta thought. It smelled earthy and piney. She hoped it was safe to drink.
“Tea,” the old woman was saying. “Healthy for you. Diktamos.”
Augusta lifted the steaming cup to her lips and took a small sip. It wasn’t bad. She certainly wouldn’t want to drink it every day, but for now it was tolerable. She smiled across the table at the old woman.
“Your name?” The woman studied her with storm-gray eyes. Her accent was thick but her voice was not unpleasant—it had none of the raspiness of the very old. Maybe she was younger than she looked, Augusta thought. Her tanned skin was very wrinkled, and her hands were covered in age spots. Perhaps it was just evidence of a life spent outside, scratching out a living amidst the mountain hills.
“Augusta. And you?”
“Xenia.”
Xenia shuffled back over to the kitchen and returned with two small bowls of dried figs. “Eat. Very good. Make you strong.”
The figs were much tastier than the tea, and Augusta was happy to oblige. She didn’t know why, but she felt she ought to do as Xenia said. The old lady seemed to know what she was doing.
“Where you stay?” Xenia asked.
Augusta wasn’t sure how much she should reveal. She pointed up the mountain. “Up there.”
Xenia looked surprised. “Idi?” She placed her hands together in front of her, like the summit of a mountain.
“No,” Augusta laughed. She knew Idi must mean Mount Ida, the highest peak of the range above them. “Monastery.”
The older woman gave her a look of understanding and didn’t say anything else. They continued sipping the earthy tea with no further attempt at conversation.
Augusta silently considered her options. She could ask if Xenia had a phone, but she wasn’t sure if she could reach her father’s encrypted line from a standard number. No, the call probably wouldn’t go through. Was there any other way of reaching her father? Surely he would begin looking for her when she didn’t return from her run on time. But in all honesty, she didn’t know how her father would react. He had lived without her for 20 years. Maybe he wasn’t planning to keep track of her now. Maybe she was just on her own.
She put her injured ankle on the floor and practiced bearing weight on it. The pain was getting worse now. Maybe Xenia could give her some pain medicine, enough to take the edge off as she hiked back up the mountain. With the bandage, the walking stick, and a few painkillers, she could probably make it. She didn’t really have a choice.
Augusta finished her herbal tea and stood up, trying not to wince as she stood on her pulsing ankle.
“Thank you,” she told the old woman, pressing her palms together in a gesture of thanks. “I need to go home now.” She began moving toward the front door.
“I come.” Xenia was surprisingly light on her feet for an elderly person. She was across the room faster than the injured Augusta, grabbing another shawl and wrapping it around her head.
“No, no, thank you,” Augusta said, vehemently shaking her head. “I can make it on my own.” She didn’t think the peasant woman had any bad intentions, but she couldn’t allow her to see their hideaway. Her father would kill her if she brought a stranger back to the monastery.
“Yes.” Xenia wasn’t rude, but she spoke as if the matter was quite settled. Clearly she thought her years gave her authority over Augusta’s youthful protests. “Gaïdoúri.” She pointed at the donkey.
“The donkey? No no no, I can’t ride your donkey. I’ll walk.” Augusta started up the path away from the small stone house, leaning heavily on the walking stick and limping as she stepped.
“Yes.” Xenia scurried in front of her and unhooked the rope holding the donkey to a post. “You ride.” She guided the donkey over to Augusta, tenderly stroking its gray-brown nose.
Augusta had only seen donkeys in cartoons before, and the real-life version in front of her was much sweeter than she expected. It looked soulfully into her eyes and stretched its nose out to her in greeting. She couldn’t resist rubbing her hand over its muzzle, feeling its soft warmth under her fingers. How could she say no to this?
“Oh, fine,” she sighed, turning to Xenia. Her father would be furious when she showed up at the monastery with an old lady and a donkey. But she didn’t think she could walk up the mountain in her condition anyway.
“You and the donkey win. How do I get on?”
She was wrong about her father. He must have heard the clopping hooves of the donkey as they approached the monastery, and he came out in front of the chapel to greet them, a smile of amusement playing over his face.
“I see you’re traveling in style,” he called to Augusta, laughing as she dismounted from the donkey on her good foot. She rubbed the gentle animal’s nose in farewell and waved her thanks to Xenia.
Nicolas spoke in Greek to the old woman, who smiled and responded. After a short but animated conversation that Augusta didn’t understand, Xenia led the donkey away. The clatter of its hooves on the rough stone path slowly grew fainter as they made their way down the steep slope.
Nicolas turned to his daughter. “I can guess what happened, but maybe you’d better tell me your version.” He didn’t sound angry or even worried. Augusta was relieved. Maybe this was just another day at the office for an international agent.
“Are you mad that I gave away our secret location?” she asked, after finishing her story. “I didn’t know what else to do. She was very insistent, and it would have been really hard for me to get up the mountain on my own.”
“You did the right thing. Xenia won’t sell us out to the Rumelovs. She’s an old friend.”
“What?”
“Sure. You don’t think this is the first time we’ve used the monastery as a training location, do you? We’ve been coming here on and off for years. Xenia has always been kind to us. She’s amazing, really. She’s lived alone in that small cottage for years since her husband passed away.”
The relief showed on Augusta’s face. “So that’s how she knew where to bring me. I had a hard time explaining the directions to her. She doesn’t seem to know much English.”
Her father looked thoughtful. “Maybe it’s time we add some Greek to your education. It will certainly come in handy if you need to get around the island. You don’t have to speak it perfectly, just know enough to survive. What do you think?”
“Surviving sounds good.”
“That’s the spirit.” Nicolas grinned. “Besides, you’ll need something to do while your ankle heals. Can’t go out running like that, can you? There’s nothing like a few verb conjugations to make the time fly by.”
Augusta had her doubts about this, but she was willing to keep an open mind. And there was something about her experience with the Greek widow that made her want to learn more. She wanted to get to know Xenia better. To understand her life alone on the mountainside.
And to keep her mind off her friends in Istanbul. She sighed. She had only spent a few days with Eda, Mark, and Erol, but they had been the most eventful days of her life. For better or worse, Augusta felt a lifelong bond with these courageous companions, and she missed them terribly. Eda’s delicious home cooking was especially appealing after cooking for weeks over her father’s portable gas stove. And every time she pictured Mark in his Ottoman garb, she had to laugh. Her time in Istanbul had been both terrifying and transformative, upsetting and uproarious. But she knew she would never experience such life-changing events again.
Shuffling along the path in front of her ancient lodgings, Augusta kicked a stray stone and watched as it rolled away, down the grassy slope. More than anything else she missed Erol. How can I miss him this much? she had asked herself, more than once. I only spent a few days in his company. I hardly even know him. For all she knew, he could have some really bad traits that she just hadn’t had time to notice.
For example, maybe he…
Well, he might…
But she couldn’t think of a single thing Erol might do that she didn’t like. She had seen him through the craziest adventures, and he was always honorable, always courageous, always ready to take on the world. A little too impulsive, it was true, but his heart was always in the right place.
She couldn’t take her mind off the reassuring solidity of his back as they zoomed away from Camlica hill after her father’s revelation. What would she have done then without Erol? He had been by her side during the most difficult times. His comforting presence had helped her work through her grandfather’s death, the theft and return of a family heirloom, and the discovery of a father. That kind of friendship was truly priceless.
Throwing herself down on her sleeping bag, stretching out on her side, Augusta stared up at the pale-faced saint hovering above her bed. In the daylight his gaze was serene, comforting even. She wondered who he was and what his eyes had seen in the centuries since the church was built. Wars? Famine? Plague? Love? Death? Everything, probably. All the elements of life, wrapped up together in his hollow cheeks and dark eyes. Her thoughts flitted to the men who had immortalized this Byzantine martyr on the wall. What had he meant to them? Why had they painted him just like this, staring dolefully out into the chapel?
With closed eyes, Augusta reviewed the people she had met since leaving her quiet home North Carolina. The dignified antiquarian, Mehmet. The traitorous Hasan—grr! The brilliant Professor Meral. And now the intriguing, gray-eyed Xenia. Life as a spy-in-training was hard, but her father was right. It was always interesting. There was always something to learn, someone to get to know, some mountain to climb.
Her ankle had stopped throbbing now. Images of her friends and acquaintances wove sleepily through her mind, spinning together in strange combinations. She saw her father and Veysel, the bookshop owner, in the middle of some strange conversation. Eda and Xenia, drinking tea together in Xenia’s small cottage. Erol’s face gazing out at her from the wall above, his vacant eyes boring down through her forehead, into her innermost thoughts.
Does he know? Will I ever tell him?
Erol’s face swirled into a dusky mist as Augusta drifted into an uneasy sleep, with only one half-conscious thought:
Will I ever see him again?