The house on the cliff

one of the stretches below. This time an engineer was summoned, and to his verdict even my great- grandfather Siór Márkos, who revelled in his ability to move mountains, had to acquiesce. The slope was unstable and exceptionally dangerous. Held together with nothing but soil, the great boulders were bound to continue their descent to the sea as successive winter rains loosened to bonds between them. The cliff path was declared off-limits, and my great-grandfather bought an adjoining piece of land leading to the neighbouring beach and constructed a road that led safely to the water. The path, in the intervening years, had continued its collapse, to the point where, when I encountered it, no actual path could be discerned. Still, for someone very familiar with the territory, it was passable enough, with care, and by far the shortest route to sea. My father had repeatedly coached me on the most treacherous spots, and trained me strictly in its safest possible ascent and descent, which I was allowed only in his company, to save time. Our regular way to the sea was by Jeep, along the village road (the neighbouring land having been sold off) but our beloved little beach could only be reached by sea. He had made me promise never to take the path without him, but promises like that are made to be broken. In those summers after 1946, when Dóra returned and my life changed so dramatically, only the cliff path offered me a chance of freedom. AT THE CAVE In order to get to the top, I would have to wait until the gardener moved on, otherwise there was no chance of getting past him at the cliff top, even half-blind as he was. So, for the first time that summer, I scrambled over the tumbled rocks of the great rockfall towards my secret hideaway. Holding my breath, I squeezed between the two great boulders that guarded the way - I could still just about fit through but it took a bit of manoeuvring - and with my heart a bit in my mouth, contemplated the most dangerous part. I had to slide, sitting, over the dangerous slope of a massive rock, then stop myself halfway, braking with my heels, and leap to one side before the downhill momentum took me, to land, a bit lower down, at the Gate, the great boulder that hid the entrance to the cave. “Halt! I’ll shoot!” I froze. It was a man’s voice, hoarse, not one I knew, though for a split second it seemed oddly familiar. He spoke calmly. The first wild thought that crossed my mind was “It’s Daddy, and he’s going to kill me.” Shaking, I took a step back and a few pebbles slid out from underfoot and skittered down the cliff.