one would even dream to look
.
Flavia shrugged. So what? What was it to her – all this intrigue, all the whispering about enemies and valuables that must be kept hidden?
‘Let me look.’ Maria was at her side now, inspecting her basket. What would she do now that her boy had left the village – not to go to war but to hide in the mountains, so people said. Some called them deserters – those men sleeping in local cottages and caves, living off the profit from black-market grain and stolen cattle. Most didn’t blame them. But what if he didn’t come back?
And when the war ended? What then? Even if you were chosen by any of the young men who had survived the war, what sort of life would be yours? A life like Mama’s – if you were lucky. Cooking, cleaning, having babies. Drudgery. Confined to the house for evermore. Apart from church and the market, that was
. Eugh …
‘Your mind is always in another world,’ Maria scolded. ‘What is wrong with you? This is our food, our life.’
Flavia swung her basket
. Our food. Our life.
Was it so wrong to want more …?
After lunch, Flavia couldn’t settle to her siesta. The white light of the early afternoon bore into her eyes and temples as she tossed restlessly on her bed. What was it? Was it just the heat of July? Or …? She got up, splashed cold water on her face and went downstairs. All wasquiet. The world was sleeping, but it was the kind of sleep that came before a storm.
Shielding her eyes from the sun, she stepped past the limp netting and out of the door. The earth of the kitchen garden was dry and hard, but the fava beans, artichokes and peas were all doing well – Mama made sure of that. While they had land, they would eat. And the harvest would provide seeds for the year to come.
For a moment she hesitated, intending to move towards the sea where she might step perhaps into the cooling water, but drawn instead in the other direction, towards the distant fields and olive groves on the lower mountain slopes. She squinted into the distance. For a moment she thought she saw something – the reflection of light on metal in the field of tawny wheat between the olive groves. She waited, motionless, beads of sweat collecting at the top of her spine and on her brow
. Sì.
There it was again. A flash, like a signal, a sign
.
Flavia spun on her heels, ran back into the kitchen to fetch a flask of water and in moments was out again. She looked around. There was no one in sight, everyone was inside, trying to escape this oppressive heat. A lizard basked for a moment on the bare white stone rock, then flashed like quicksilver away.
She walked down the path towards the first olive grove. She walked through the trees, shimmering grey and silver in the sun, their gnarled branches now heavy with olives. The earth beneath them, once red, had dried to a pale dusty salmon. The land was throbbing and mercilessly the cicadas screamed. In the distance the horizon was like liquid violet to her eyes.
At the end of the first grove, Flavia paused under a tree to take a drink from the flask. It tasted like nectar, cool and sweet. She keptlooking around her, beyond the field of honey-coloured wheat framed by wild poppies and clover that seemed to be vibrating in the heat of the afternoon. There it was again, the flash of light. Just beyond the ridge. Within reach.
Once again Flavia set off across the field and the next olive grove. By the time she got to the ridge she was gasping for breath and her heart was hammering. She stood for a moment, motionless. The air was heavy and still, so still.
She stepped forward, looked down, and there it was. A plane, half broken, with wreckage all around
. ‘ O dio Beddramadre,’
she said, hand over her mouth. Oh, Holy Mother of God … And not twenty metres away, white-faced, holding his leg and in obvious pain, lay a man; a foreigner. An airman
. ’O dio Beddramadre… ’
Flavia put down her pen. She was as exhausted as if she had
.
Flavia shrugged. So what? What was it to her – all this intrigue, all the whispering about enemies and valuables that must be kept hidden?
‘Let me look.’ Maria was at her side now, inspecting her basket. What would she do now that her boy had left the village – not to go to war but to hide in the mountains, so people said. Some called them deserters – those men sleeping in local cottages and caves, living off the profit from black-market grain and stolen cattle. Most didn’t blame them. But what if he didn’t come back?
And when the war ended? What then? Even if you were chosen by any of the young men who had survived the war, what sort of life would be yours? A life like Mama’s – if you were lucky. Cooking, cleaning, having babies. Drudgery. Confined to the house for evermore. Apart from church and the market, that was
. Eugh …
‘Your mind is always in another world,’ Maria scolded. ‘What is wrong with you? This is our food, our life.’
Flavia swung her basket
. Our food. Our life.
Was it so wrong to want more …?
After lunch, Flavia couldn’t settle to her siesta. The white light of the early afternoon bore into her eyes and temples as she tossed restlessly on her bed. What was it? Was it just the heat of July? Or …? She got up, splashed cold water on her face and went downstairs. All wasquiet. The world was sleeping, but it was the kind of sleep that came before a storm.
Shielding her eyes from the sun, she stepped past the limp netting and out of the door. The earth of the kitchen garden was dry and hard, but the fava beans, artichokes and peas were all doing well – Mama made sure of that. While they had land, they would eat. And the harvest would provide seeds for the year to come.
For a moment she hesitated, intending to move towards the sea where she might step perhaps into the cooling water, but drawn instead in the other direction, towards the distant fields and olive groves on the lower mountain slopes. She squinted into the distance. For a moment she thought she saw something – the reflection of light on metal in the field of tawny wheat between the olive groves. She waited, motionless, beads of sweat collecting at the top of her spine and on her brow
. Sì.
There it was again. A flash, like a signal, a sign
.
Flavia spun on her heels, ran back into the kitchen to fetch a flask of water and in moments was out again. She looked around. There was no one in sight, everyone was inside, trying to escape this oppressive heat. A lizard basked for a moment on the bare white stone rock, then flashed like quicksilver away.
She walked down the path towards the first olive grove. She walked through the trees, shimmering grey and silver in the sun, their gnarled branches now heavy with olives. The earth beneath them, once red, had dried to a pale dusty salmon. The land was throbbing and mercilessly the cicadas screamed. In the distance the horizon was like liquid violet to her eyes.
At the end of the first grove, Flavia paused under a tree to take a drink from the flask. It tasted like nectar, cool and sweet. She keptlooking around her, beyond the field of honey-coloured wheat framed by wild poppies and clover that seemed to be vibrating in the heat of the afternoon. There it was again, the flash of light. Just beyond the ridge. Within reach.
Once again Flavia set off across the field and the next olive grove. By the time she got to the ridge she was gasping for breath and her heart was hammering. She stood for a moment, motionless. The air was heavy and still, so still.
She stepped forward, looked down, and there it was. A plane, half broken, with wreckage all around
. ‘ O dio Beddramadre,’
she said, hand over her mouth. Oh, Holy Mother of God … And not twenty metres away, white-faced, holding his leg and in obvious pain, lay a man; a foreigner. An airman
. ’O dio Beddramadre… ’
Flavia put down her pen. She was as exhausted as if she had
Similar Books
