The sun directly overhead indicates siesta time, when all sensible people are hiding from the heat of day while I, within two hours of arriving back on the island, feel the need to reach my destination as a matter of urgency.

I take the familiar left path which leads away from the beach. The air is still and very dry. The scorching sun bleaches the crumbling stones of this ghost village. A skinny dog, lazes in a small patch of shade. His tongue lolls and pants rhythmically. He cocks an eye and one ear as I pass.

Few birds fly, though I can hear some desultory cheeping and the occasional call of seagulls drifting on waves in the bay away to my left. My clothes stick to my perspiring skin as I labour on.  


A few remaining windowsills bear cracked or broken pots of withered geraniums, abandoned when the earthquake struck. Bougainvillea, determined to survive, adds a patch of blazing cerise to the shells of these crestfallen buildings.

Where have all the people gone?

This little village was once home to over 1700 islanders. Fifteen hardy families have returned so far to pick up the threads of their lives in the place of their birth. A few men and women, determined and hardened to the cruel twists of nature, scrape among the stony soil to clear a patch for vegetables and fruit.

I recognise Anna Kouriakis, now a very old woman, swathed in black robes and wearing a black fringed scarf; she leans on her rake and spares me the time of day.

She solemnly recounts for me, how the earthquake h
ad struck here just two weeks earlier. So many dead, some as yet unaccounted for. The leathery skin of her face and her rheumy eyes bear witness to the tracks of long shed tears; her gnarled brown fingers grip the rake to support her feeble frame. I offer my condolences and, with a sad heart and a feeling of dread carry on up the hill.

A little further on, I notice the remains of a house with a faded red door. The façade has remained intact, but it is nevertheless, hard to recognise Maria's house where I had spent many happy holidays; once so spic-and-span, its whitewashed walls and windows gleaming, the fresh coat of vermilion paint, reflecting her vibrant personality.

Although the glass in the single window has miraculously remained intact, it is covered with dust and I can see nothing through it. A shutter lies at an odd angle suspended from a single rusty hinge.

As I reach the door, which is slightly ajar, a sound like a rasping voice hangs in the still air. I glance round but the Anna has resumed her labours and returned to her silent grieving. I strain to listen once more.

Yes, there it is again. Like a voice, hoarse with pleading. I cannot make out the words, but it sounds like a plea for help.

It can’t possibly be! Not after two weeks. No one could have survived the intensity of the shock waves on this road when all around lies in ruins.

Adrenaline floods through me as I push against the door in an attempt to open it. Again I hear the cry, only weaker still this time.

I hesitate. Maria, whom I know was killed in the earthquake, had only one child, Mikos. He would be about 8 years old. I never learned what became of him. The letter I had received from Spiros told only of the finding of Maria’s body.

Spiros had been out with the fishing boat when the quake struck. He hadn’t written after that initial letter, when he had been desperately searching for his son, but I had heard that he had moved to the mainland.

Did he ever find Mikos?

I finally manage to push open the door to reveal - a pile of rubble.

Nothing but desolation – and a solitary raven perched on a child’s wooden chair.