She moved like a nightingale, inscribing her figure in the paths, running from her home to the bottom of the village. The stone houses were built angled down the mountain, running down hill was an ease. Her legs went too fast and tangled in her skirt, so she reached down and bunched the brown cloth in her hand so she could move unencumbered. She was looking for the home of Torch and going to what they called in the village the old neighbourhood. Midwife Friday emerged from a lane into the village square. It was a large open space, where they gathered for festivals but now empty. Flanking it was the cafe and the general store. Men who were too old for field work sat around the cafe. A song about thieves wailed through the radio, the tin sound from the speakers competed with the pattering feet of Midwife Friday. They looked up from their backgammon boards and saw her running with her two sons behind. The men at the kafenio yelled after her, taking their fingers off their red and black discs, they warned her she was going the wrong way down the sloping paths. She mistook their warnings for catcalls and ignored them.
Her foot slid on some mossy steps, she nearly keeled over, both hands extended out for balance and the boys grabbed her to make sure she didn’t fall. She arrived at the Loquot tree in front of Torchs house, momentarily distracted by the gold fruit. When her gaze hit the house, she realised there was something wrong. Most of the outside wall made from white rocks and mortar had fallen down. A crack in the wall grew from the ground up, tearing the house apart, it left a pile of stones near a closed door and the living space completely exposed. Inside the house parts of the wooden roof had collapsed next to the fireplace and had shattered the grain urns. Rain and damp had been coming into the house, tiny greens had taken root and plants were emerging inside amongst the weathered broken furniture. She stopped to think, the house was a reminder of her own unpropitious times, the homes she thought she knew much about, which had their own nature, her first one that was taken away from her through war, destruction and exile.
Perfume of the golden fruit filled her nose, the scent stirring her body to the present, blessed to break those thoughts, because her mind would have swum to those who stayed behind. She looked around for help and called out to the neighbourhood. From around the corner came Musk, who was considered the village dullard. She was carrying a water jug and wearing a floral dress which was more appropriate for Sundays and ceremonies. There was oil and chicken blood stains on it, ruining the fabric that indicated she came from a prosperous family. Musk clicked her mouth, her throat moved up and down as she gulped. Midwife Friday asked where the whole Peasant family lived now. Musk groaned as she put the water jug down, she put it at her feet and it involuntarily tipped slightly to the side, some water rushed out of the top. Musk mumbled a curse, the water was from the only tap in the village, which was past the outskirts just before the cemetery. It was a trek to get such a