The Ittica Columns
Stefano climbed the final red clay steps to reach the Ittica Columns, and then fell, exhausted, onto the dusty pathway. He could only see with blurred vision, and his breathing had become uneasy. He concentrated hard on regulating it again. As his full sight returned, he looked up, shading his eyes with his hands from the midday sun, at the splendid sight. Fighting tears, knowing inside that this was likely to be his last visit.
The Ittica columns stood at the top of the cliff, between two valleys, and the coastal Kefolos village and Kyita town. Still the inland journey between the two was 21km, even with the new tarmacadam road built in the spring. But, to Stefano, this cliff path was not just quicker, but the only way he had ever known. It would now be such a loss for future generations. With the new road it was unlikely to be used anymore.
Stefano had walked the cliff seven days a week as a child; taking his mothers fresh bread over to Kyita for sale. Making the delivery as fast as he could, he'd then return to play in the columns. A fisherman . A caveman. Sometimes a daring soldier. Other times he would sit on the rudimentary steps which had carved themselves in the soft stone, and make pictures in the dust. Then every winter, when the rains came, the pictures would disappear, the steps become slippery and trecherous, only regaining some solidity in the spring, taking on that new seasons shape.
When he was fifteen a local hotelier offered him work in Kyita. In the one days rest he had every fortnight he would walk the cliff, taking home most of his pay, and sweets he bought from the small shop in the village. Back to his mother and three brothers, and in latter years his nieces and nephews. Over the sixty seven years he spent in Kyita, it had changed, and was now fast becoming a busy tourist trap. Kefolos still retained its charm, but for how long, he wondered, now the tarmacadam lorries had visited
Stefano had never really retired from Kyita, although he was supposed to have ten years ago. He carried on visiting and helping if he could. It was an odd situation. It was always said they never expected him to call, but then, when he didn't, the search parties were raised. That was what happened a month or so ago now, when he had fallen with pain, close to the town. Help came, and he was forbidden to walk the distance again.
Stefano looked up as he heard a gentle voice calling.
Stefano. Stefano!
It was Dalia. He had been expecting her. Dalia used to bring her children to play in the columns, and as they grew she would come alone. They would sit in sunlit serenity talking of Kyita, and Kefolos; or of the summer, the autumn, the spring, the winter. Dalia was much older now, but her eyes still defied her sixty years. Hours had been spent where they now sat, watching the sun set in early and late season, basking in the glorious sunshine in high summer; before Dalia had to return home and finish her chores of that day.
Not much was to be said this day. The conversation fell into an easy silence as they watched the sun set once more.
Suddenly Stefano cried out in pain, grabbing his chest. He couldn't see. He couldn't think. He collapsed into the red dust. Dalia spoke to him, felt for a pulse, and then held him as he was no more. She knew she must now return quickly to Kyita for help, so she kissed his forehead, and tearstained, whispered Goodbye, Stefano! and ran towards town.