The Rush Cutter's Legacy

by Sara Alexi

  Further along, where the path turned inland behind a rock, a shape appeared. A man and a donkey. She did not want to see anyone. Her eyes were sure to be puffy and she could not pretend to be anything other than miserable, but there was no avoiding the meeting and she walked on. The figure grew closer and with a sudden spark she recognised Stefanos – from the way he moved, more than anything else.

  She could not face seeing him. There was something wise and far-seeing about the man, as if he only saw people on a deep level. That was the last thing she needed. She ducked under a tree to her left and, after climbing a little, she found the steps Spiros had taken her up the day they had gone to the windmill.

  But today she did not walk so fast and she stopped before she reached the top, turning around to admire the view and take a little rest. There was no sign of Stefanos on the path below and she wondered where he had gone.

  Once she recovered her breath, she pushed on until she reached the top. The effort of it all kept her thoughts at bay, for which she was grateful, but after she passed the little church and emerged by the old windmill her scrambled emotions all returned, crowding in on her, each more pressing than the last.

  'You look troubled,' came a quiet voice.

  Vasso nearly jumped out of her skin. Peering in amongst the pine trees down the steep slope she made out the donkey first, munching away at the base of one of the trees, seeking out little patches of green that were defying the parched days of summer.

  'I think there’s a bit of run-off here or something,' Stefanos said, pointing at the weeds his donkey was eating. 'They do go brown and shrivel, but it takes another week just here. They are already dead everywhere else on the island. She loves them.' He patted his donkey's neck, released the rein and left the animal to eat as he climbed the last few steps to the windmill’s base.

  'So, why the sad look?' He sat down facing the sea, turning his head slowly as he took in the whole view.

  'Nothing.' Vasso did not want to talk about it. Not to him, not to Spiros, not to anybody.

  'Yes, I know that nothing,' he said. 'Is it possible to live a life and not have your heart broken?' It seemed a strange comment from someone who appeared so content. ‘My wife lost our first child this time last year. Now I wait for my second to be born. My mother thinks it will be a boy. She is a midwife, so she should know. If it is a boy, we will call him Yianni and he too will be a donkey man.’ Stefanos sounded proud. ‘But for now I wait and I hope, and sometimes I even pray. But it is easy to stop praying when you lose a child.’

  It took her by surprise. Firstly, because he did not seem much older than her – but then why shouldn’t someone their age have a child? Her hand crept over her stomach. And secondly, she had just not imagined him being married; he seemed so remote, so distant. She looked at the back of his head. His hair was matted, presumably from sleeping on it, and there was an aroma of goats about him. His clothes were far from new and his boots were scuffed and worn. It was difficult to imagine him enjoying a love affair – yet he had a wife and a baby on the way. And there was something very attractive about his face, even though he was unshaven and his hair was unruly. When they had first talked, down at the port, she had noticed that his eyes had all the signs of real intelligence clicking away behind them. It was his outer layer she had trouble imagining anyone wanting to get close to.

  ‘But I trust this time he will be born safe. Yanni, son of Stefanos. It is enough.’

  ‘I wish you and your family well,’ Vasso said. They sat in silence for a while. Stefanos was not much older than her, and he had already lost one child. Her perspective shifted as she digested this thought. The life growing inside her became real, a little person. A strange sensation crept across her chest, and as it spread it expanded – it drew in her heart, her mind, brought strength to her limbs, her whole being. It was a force that had no limits, a passion that had no boundaries. It was love, love for her unborn child, a jealous, protective, passionate love.

  'I have a theory–' Stefanos began, but then stopped. Vasso waited. He continued to look out to sea for several minutes without speaking.

  'Tell me your theory,' she said, but he didn’t react, and she began to wonder if he had heard her. The sensation of her all-consuming love lingered, but there was more to it, now. In her mind arose the thought: ‘I am no longer alone.’ This struck Vasso as odd; she had never felt alone – or, at least, not completely. But this was different. This was a sense of not needing anyone else, of a developing toughness. A sense that she need rely on no one else to protect her baby. She, herself, would do whatever it took.

  'I think people love,’ Stefanos said. ‘Or they think they love. They meet, fall in love, get married, have children. But then, if their partner does not continue to love them they think they have a broken heart – but do they? Is what they had really love, or is fulfilment of their parents’ expectations and a brief courtship and marriage just the quickest route to the easy family life they think is theirs by right?’ His words came out quickly and Vasso tried to process them as he continued. ‘I think, only if you have loved and that person has been taken away, for whatever reason, do you really know the depth of your love, why you love them, how that person fulfils a part of you and makes you whole. Only then, when your heart so yearns for them, can you say it is truly broken.’

  Vasso did not respond, unsure how to. His concepts seemed strange – reflective perhaps of his own experiences. Or maybe she would have these thoughts, too, if she spent as much time in deep reflection as it seemed Stefanos had.

  The donkey's hooves clicked against the stones as it made its way towards its master.

  'Those sound like very wise words,' she finally replied, feeling that she didn’t understand all he had said and that she would have to think more deeply now she was responsible for the tiny heartbeat inside her.

  'Just an observation,' he said as the donkey went round behind him, nudged him with its muzzle. Stefano’s weather-beaten hand took the reins that dangled by his ear. 'So, is your heart really broken?' he asked.

  'I never said it was.’ She searched his face, hoping to find wisdom there, but what she saw was pain at the understanding that life could take away his loved ones. There was something else, though, or at least she imagined there was – a pragmatic acceptance, which she had previously mistaken for contentment.

  'People cry either for love or money. You don't strike me as the type to cry for money.' He stood and stretched.

  'So if I cry for love and my love has not gone away then my heart is not broken?' Vasso smiled at her question, not taking her own words very seriously, knowing she was simplifying what he had been saying. It was a relief to inject some levity into this rather serious conversation.

  'Maybe you are crying because he is still there. That is another thing I have observed. People pretend to be in love because they are too scared to make a break.'

  'Or they might be married.’

  'You do not have to physically leave to make a break.'

  'You are so deep!’

  'But it's true, no?’ He looked at the palm of his hand and then rubbed it down his trousers.

  'Well, yes, I suppose so,’ Vasso replied. Then he smiled at her and it was as if everything he said was wiped away and the world was full of joy.

  'See you,’ he said, and his donkey and the smell of goats headed with him up past the windmill towards the small church and the way she had come.

  'Extraordinary,' she told the breeze, but somehow she felt a little lighter.

  Chapter 22

  She sat and watched the morning turn to afternoon, the shadows grow shorter. Across the expanse of water, fishing boats floated aimlessly, whilst others moved steadily, trailing lines through the calm sea, their ripples casting ever outwards until they flattened or hit the shore.

  The intensity of the sun grew as it reached its height. Vasso mirrored its journey as she shuffled around the mill, staying in the shade. Down on the rippling blue glass the bo
ats dispersed, the fishermen retreating in search of cool harbours. As the world became still and there was little to watch, her thoughts turned back to her predicament and what she should do.

  It was then that she had the idea to try the mill door. It was a distraction and she knew it was, but maybe, if she did not think, by some miracle a solution would come to her. At worst, as time passed the reality of it would settle inside her and she would reach a place of acceptance rather than horror.

  The stone against the door was a good size and it would not roll away with a push of her foot. As it was speckled with dried mud and goat droppings she did not want to use her hands. Looking around, she found an unused fence post, propped against a tree stump, as if left there for the purpose.

  It levered the stone away from the door quite easily. The stone rolled over twice and the gap was wide enough for her to pass through.

  Outside, the windmill was circular, so she was not sure why she found the roundness of the room a surprise. Maybe it was because every time she had been through a door she had been met with flat walls and square corners, or maybe it was because the few pieces of furniture that could fit in the place were at odd angles against the curve of the wall.

  There was a wooden bed, crudely made, lashed across with rough brown rope. An aged yellow-brown, stripy mattress was folded up at one end. There was a small wardrobe, the door of which was missing and which looked like it might collapse at a touch. These two items gave the impression that no one had lived there for years. But on the sill of the single small, glassless window that looked out over the sea was an empty wine bottle with the stub of a candle, and another wine bottle lay on its side on the floor. Beside the second one were crisp pieces of dried orange peel. It could not have been very old as the remains still infused the room with a hint of orange essence.

  Above were the wooden bones of the upper floor, the boards now missing, and, higher still, where the roof should have been, was half made of open sky.

  The difference in temperature was enough to make her loiter, but after a minute or two and some gazing out of the window she could no longer feel the effects of the shade. Everywhere was hot at this time of year.

  She sat on the hard edge of the bed. Since arriving on the island she had had little sleep. The mattress might have been grubby but the temptation to lie down and block out the world with dreams was more than she could resist. She flipped the mattress back to find a relatively clean sheet folded inside. Maybe someone was staying there, or perhaps they came, as she had, to rest in the heat of the day.

  Shaking the sheet to dislodge any insects, she covered the mattress and lay down. Just lying still in the heat felt delicious. With her hand on her belly she concentrated to see if she could feel anything. A grumble reminded her she had not eaten. She concentrated harder. There was a small life in there, a tiny being who would fight to live like all other living things do. It might have no name and no personality now but it would still fight for its existence. Given life, it, too, would grow and one day have children of its own who would love it as she loved her own mama. Maybe she would become to it what her mama was to her. That was quite a thought. Maybe she would love it as her mama loved her. Why wouldn't she? And if that were the case, would she also have room in her heart for Spiros? Was it possible to love two people with such intensity? Then again, if she had such love for this child, would it really matter if Spiros spent all his time cooking? The child might be enough.

  Ah, Spiros. Still so beautiful, but how quickly he had become so involved with his work that there was no time for anything else.

  'Is that like all men?' she asked a seagull soaring high above the missing part of the roof.

  Maybe this was the way of life. How would she know? She had never known her baba. She had never witnessed a marriage from inside a home. Maybe all courtships started with that flush of interest, only to level out to the practicality of everyday life. But so quickly?

  And what of Stefano’s thoughts? Did such pain as the loss of an unborn child give you insight?

  Closing her eyes, she reflected that it would be very simple to let go, let herself drift, and why not? Did she not deserve to sleep now she was taking care of a little one?

  Her hands slipped from her stomach as she allowed herself the luxury of oblivion.

  It was the sound of munching that woke her. At first, she had no idea what it was, or where she was, but as she recalled her walk to the windmill she presumed that the munching came from Stefano’s donkey, that he had come back. The sleep had creased her all over so she stretched and looked through the small window to the wide expanse of blue sea. She must have slept a long time as the hills of the mainland in the distance had taken on the purple hue of sunset. Pushing her head out, she looked down the steep bank towards the path and the sea, but below her she saw, not Stefano’s donkey, but a herd of goats in amongst the scrubland, surrounding the mill.

  The inside of the mill was now hotter than the cooling day outside so, leaving the mattress refolded, she carefully replaced the stone outside the door. The goats scattered at the sight of her, but then forgot she was there as they struggled to find enough to eat and closed around her again as if she were one of the herd. There would be a shepherd somewhere, and she hoped she would not have to meet him. For the moment, it was enough to be alone.

  One goat, its front hooves halfway up a tree trunk, stretched its neck as far as it could reach, and nibbled at the leaves on the lower branches. Its tongue curled from its mouth, hooking the thin twigs. She was so absorbed in watching that she did not hear someone approaching her from behind.

  Chapter 23

  'There you are! I’ve been worried sick.' Arms swooped around her and she recognised him by his musky scent as her face was held against his shirt. Spiro’s grip was around her so fast, and was so tight, that the top of her ear got bent over, and it hurt.

  'I’ve been all over the island looking for you,’ he said, releasing her enough to look her in the face. As she rubbed at her ear she wanted to believe him, but the timing seemed just about right for him to have finished cooking for the evening customers. And why would he look for her anywhere else on the island, when this was the only place she knew?

  'I panicked. I thought you might have gone back across.' He let her pull away a little more but he did not release her. The worried look in his eyes seemed genuine now. His mouth moved slowly towards her and he kissed her tenderly.

  'Why did you leave?' he asked again as he rested his forehead on hers.

  'You had to cook.'

  ’Well, yes. You know I have to cook, but why did you leave?' He pulled her into him again, her face in his hair this time, which smelt faintly of chicken and rosemary.

  'Because you don't really need a baby in your life and I am beginning to wonder if you even need a wife,' she said gently in his ear.

  'I think those hormones that you are supposed to get when you’re pregnant must be kicking in already.' He released her a little, to hold her by her shoulders. 'Seriously, though – please don't ever disappear again. Tell me if you need space. I will understand.'

  She allowed some of her fears to subside and she wondered if she had in fact overreacted.

  'It just seems to me that now is a bad time to be having a baby, just as you are getting going, establishing your place on the island. I mean, you still have to depend on Argyro for ordering the food, and nothing is really settled. I should think the last thing you need to think about is a little life that is dependent on you.'

  'Ah, well, there you are wrong.' He sounded triumphant.

  She looked at him. How could he be so sure?

  'We don't even know how Argyro is going to take the news. She might–' Vasso began.

  'She’s fine. In fact she is more than fine,' Spiros was quick to tell her.

  'How do you mean?' Vasso waited for a reply but Spiros just shrugged as if he didn't know what else to tell her. 'I’m not sure I trust her, Spiro. Even Stamatis thought she might t
ake it badly. You know – get jealous because she can't have children.'

  'Well, then, she has surprised us all! She is absolutely fine about it and she now says that you should not be living in that room at the back of the taverna. As my fiancée, you should have a place in the house with us. She’s arranging for you to have the spare room until we are married.'

  'Really?'

  'Really.'

  The relief she felt rushed over her and loosened all the muscular knots that she hadn’t even realised she was trying to relax in her back and her neck. It felt like someone had poured cooling water over her head, and the aching in her temples was instantly gone.

  'Really?' she asked again.

  'Yes, really!’ Spiros assured her.

  'She isn't jealous or cross or anything?'

  'Quite the opposite. She’s happy for us.'

  'It doesn't fit.' The calm sea was dotted again with silhouettes of small fishing boats, men out to relax after a day’s work, trying for a fish for their supper.

  'No, but I am not going to question it. Let's just enjoy!' Spiros replied.

  'Do you trust her?'

  'I don't understand. What is there not to trust? We are getting married, you are having our baby and she wants to be there for you!'

  Vasso settled in next to him, his arm around her so they could watch the setting sun. After a couple of minutes’ reflection, Vasso added, 'Spiro? It is one thing to be happy for us, and another thing to say she is “there for me”. Did she really use those words?'