The Black Hole

The water gleams so brightly under the fierce Greek sun that my eyes squint and strain behind my sunglasses. I’ve just arrived in Crete after three flights and one harrowing bus ride. I had no plan in place except to find the beach where I now sit, a small pebbly oasis among the cliffs stretching into a calm cove.

A few tourists speaking indistinguishable languages are baking on weathered lounge chairs, but my rear is firmly planted in the rocks—my two bags, my only possessions, nestled next to me. I touch the photograph in my pocket for the tenth time, more anxious about it than my passport.

“Kaliméra, miss!” A man with dark, curly hair and tan skin approaches. “You want a chair? It’s only ten euro for the day.”

I look up at him, my hand shielding my eyes from the sun, and contemplate the meager amount of money in my possession.

“No, thank you, sir. I’m okay here.”

“No problem. It’s a beautiful view, right?” The man gazes out at the sea in wonder, and I consider what it would be like to spend every day right here.

“It really is. I just got here and I love it already.”

“You need place to stay?” He asks, motioning to my bags.

“Oh, well, yes, I do actually. Do you have any recommendations? Nothing too…fancy.”

“Yes!” He says, clapping his hands together. “My cousin, Manos, has a set of villas just at the top of the hill there.”

The man points behind us, where a winding road ascends the cliffs. The structures dotting the edges of the path are vibrating with hazy heat.

“Tell him I sent you. My name is Giannis,” he says with a hand to his chest.

“Thank you, Giannis. I really appreciate it.”

“Sit a while longer,” Giannis says, both of us turning our heads to face the water again.

“You see that cave over there?” He asks after a moment, pointing to a dark hollow in the cliffside, about 200 feet from the shoreline. “There’s an old Cretan myth that says one day the sun will shine on it, illuminating its secrets. They say the last time it happened was over 100 years ago when…how do you say…sea people filled the waters of this beach.”

“Like mermaids?” I chuckle.

“Ah yes, mermaids,” Giannis nods.

“Well, I will definitely stay then.”

***

By the time I make it to the small hilltop village, I’m swimming in my clothes, the late July heat drawing every last drop out of me. My throat aches with thirst, but I progress toward the row of small dwellings labeled “Cave Cottages” on a swinging wooden sign.

“Hello, Manos?” I say to the man who just rounded the corner, arms full of cloth bags overflowing with dark bread loaves.

“Yes, I am Manos.” He approaches with the same kind smile as Giannis.

“I’m Lucy. Your cousin Giannis sent me. I’m looking for a place to stay.”

“Of course! It’s my pleasure. Follow me.”

Manos takes off toward a larger stone building and I follow with ragged breath. Inside the rustic building, there’s a small desk and a table with brochures for local sites. A doorway at the back leads to a much larger space filled with kitchen equipment, the smell of flour and yeast spilling into the air around us. My stomach growls.

“So, how long you stay?” Manos asks, setting down his bags.

“Well, I’m not sure, actually.”

I think about the life I fled in Philadelphia without any semblance of a plan. A failed relationship and the death of my mom, the woman who raised me on her own, were just the latest events, but I hadn’t felt myself in a long time.

“Okay,” Manos pulls me out of my thoughts. “Well, how much do you have to spend?”

“Not much, actually,” I laugh, in an effort to prove that I’m aware of how ridiculous the situation is. “But listen, I don’t need much, and I can work if you need help with…anything.”

Manos looks skeptical.

“I guess I do need help in the bakery,” Manos rubs his neck looking back at the kitchen behind us. “We must open at three every morning, you see. If you can do that—help me get the bread started—you can stay.”

“Yes! I can do that!”

“Okay, then…partner,” Manos laughs. “I’ll show you to your room, but first I must know: how did you end up here? This part of the island is, uh, not so popular.”

“I came for this,” I say, taking the photograph out of my pocket. “This is my mom.”

Manos studies the picture of my mom at age 27, the same age I am now, as she’s sitting in the sand exactly where I was just thirty minutes ago. She’s smiling coyly, dirty blonde hair whipping around her freckled face. At the bottom of the photograph, etched in faded pencil, is Ouranós Beach.

“Ouranós Beach. It’s a special place,” Manos says, handing the photo back to me. “Okay, Lucy. Let me show you to your villa.”

***

My “villa” is, in fact, more of a shack containing a small bed, a skinny wardrobe, and a bathroom just big enough for a toilet and sink. But it’s perfect. I can hear the waves breaking from the two tiny windows, and every morning at 2:30 AM, when I wake for my shift at the bakery, I meditate to the sound, hoping I made the right decision in coming here.

The work at the bakery is fairly easy, though tedious. After three or four hours of helping Manos bake dozens of bread loaves, shaping, scoring, proofing, then baking and rotating the doughy bundles, I get a break. I use the opportunity to watch the sunrise on Ouranós Beach each morning, making sure to spend a few minutes gazing into the cave.

The photo of my mother never leaves my pocket. Occasionally, I take it out and align the skyline in the image with the one right before my eyes. I take comfort in the simple fact that we have both witnessed the same magical sight. What I wouldn’t give to be able to ask her what was going through her mind when she sat here.

One morning, two weeks after my arrival on Crete, Giannis finds me in my usual spot, holding the worn photo in front of me.

“You look just like her,” he says.

“Oh!” I startle, turning to greet him. “I didn’t know anyone would be here so early.”

“There is big storm coming today,” Giannis explains. “I have to bring all the furniture in and close the beach before the guests come.”

I nod, noticing now that dark clouds are covering the sunrise with an eerie grey film.

“Is that your mother?” Giannis asks, pointing to the photo.

“Yes. She came here many years ago. I’m not sure why, though. I never heard the story before she died.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Giannis says sincerely.

“It’s okay,” I smile. “It feels like she wanted me to come here. To find out. It feels like home.”

“This place is full of stories,” Giannis says. “I’m sure you will find hers.”

***

The storm turns out to be even worse than they predicted, and I spend the rest of the day hunkered inside my cottage, sustaining myself on bread and olive oil while reading by candlelight.

By my fifth night here, Manos picked up on my voracious appetite for books, having already torn through all five that I brought with me, the bed a graveyard of novels. He kindly started leaving any English books he could find outside my door, everything from World War II non-fiction to Greek myths.

The book I’m reading now is an autobiography by Crete’s most famous fisherwoman, Maria. The tales of how she gained the respect of her male colleagues in the 1920s are astonishing. As rain batters the side of my small home, I picture myself sailing through a storm on the high seas, just as the author describes in the current chapter.

Suddenly, I realize I recognize a landmark Maria depicts during her perilous journey.

As water filled every inch of my sight for the second straight hour, I spotted a welcome marker in the distance. The cave, the one they call ‘the black hole.’ I sailed for it, thinking shelter was my only hope for survival.

Once inside though, I began to wonder if I’d found something more dangerous than the howling winds and frigid rains. Maybe I’d simply gone mad, or fallen ill from the weather, but when I swam inside, finding the cave’s small shore, the most painful, screeching melody started, like the voice of a woman trying to sing and scream at the same time.

I had no other choice but to sit in this tunnel of darkness, cover my ears and pray to whatever was in there that I would make it out. ‘I mean no harm, I beg you, please protect me.’ I chanted.

Somehow, I managed to drift unconscious, and when I awoke, the sun was rising—golden light filling the entirety of the cave. I marveled at the beauty of the sun glinting off the slick walls.

But then, I startled at the discovery of something next to me—a bountiful basket of fruit. Fresh pears, plums, apples, and grapes. As if they were just picked moments before.

Surely then, I had not been alone in that cave.

***

I awake before dawn the next morning to a knock on my door and find Manos outside, armed with a flashlight.

“Kaliméra, Lucy. Do you think you could help at the beach? They need to clean the mess from the storm before people come.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll be right there!”

At Ouranós Beach the storm has rendered the once pristine pebbles nearly invisible underneath layers of debris. We get to work quickly, readying for a hot day and a crowd of eager sun seekers.

As I’m clearing branches, garbage, and overturned chairs, something catches my eye. It’s almost like a shell, sparkling and opalescent, but it’s malleable and in a perfect teardrop shape that’s unlike any shell I’ve seen before. Not wanting to delay our progress, I put it in my pocket for later and continue my task.

“Lucy!” Manos waves me over when we’ve nearly returned the beach to new. “Giannis and I need to go pick up the towels and chair covers from the laundry—do you think you can finish up here?”

“Happy to,” I say.

The sun is rising as they leave and I busy myself with ensuring the beach is spotless. Now and then, I glance out at the water, eyes wandering over the cave and imagining Maria inside with whatever it was she encountered on her journey.

I look away and then move my eyes toward the cave again a few minutes later.

I stop breathing. I feel a wave of panic, or excitement maybe, roll through my chest.

There is light filling the cave.

Golden morning sun shines directly inside the hollow where now I can make out glistening stone walls and a small patch of pink rocky sand that kisses the blue water. I have never seen anything more beautiful.

I don’t know what takes over me, but I decide that I have to go inside. I fear it will simply disappear before my eyes if I don’t. I strip down to the bathing suit under my clothes and jump into the cool water, but before I get too far, I remember the object I found earlier.

Once I’ve retrieved the pearly teardrop from my shorts, I push off toward the cave, my limbs stiff from hours of labor. The swim takes only a few minutes, and then suddenly I am inside. The gentle lapping sound of the water echoes off the cave walls.

I find a small patch of land and sit with the lower half of my body submerged in the clear blue water. From this view, there is nothing but endless sea, the walls of the magical hideaway blocking any sliver of coastline.

After a couple of minutes, a rush of cold water flows over my legs and I instinctively look around me for the source. Jumping to my feet, I gaze down, rub my eyes to ensure I’m not hallucinating, and then look again at the pair of bright green eyes looking back at me.

Just under the water’s surface, a woman, or half of a woman, looks up at me, long blonde hair floating all around her. Below her waist is a kaleidoscope of iridescent scales in every imaginable color. We stay like that, staring, for many seconds. Maybe minutes.

“Can you hear me?” I ask timidly. “Is this yours?”

I open my clenched hand where the shell, the scale, I suppose, has been guarded closely. At that, the woman emerges, shoulders and head above water, and extends her hand.

I hesitate, but something in her eyes and her soft smile makes me think that there is nothing to be scared of. So I walk closer, slowly, and place the scale in her palm. But before I can step back, her hand closes around mine, sending a shock through my body.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“You look just like her,” she says simply.

Tears push at the corners of my eyes as we hold hands, my fear subsiding. After a few seconds, she slowly starts to guide me further into the water. Further and further and further until I am submerged and we are eye to eye beneath the surface. She puts her free hand over my chest and closes her eyes, so I do the same.

When I’ve reached the point where I can no longer hold my breath, I begin to squirm, motioning to the surface. But she doesn’t let go. Her eyes stay closed, but now both my hands are in hers, and she places them at her open mouth, bubbles flowing in and out.

It can’t be, though. It can’t work like that. Can it?

I close my eyes, my heart racing, and I slowly open my mouth, my body begging for oxygen. I suck in, expecting to choke on a flood of saltwater, but instead, my body relaxes. The water flows in and out as naturally as air.