The Fury(25)

The monster was revealed to be nothing but a collection of various interconnecting branches and foliage. Leo’s overactive imagination had drawn the dots together and assembled a devil. It wasn’t real, just a trick of the light. Even so, he was thoroughly spooked.

And then—Leo grabbed his stomach. He groaned.

Suddenly, he was feeling sick.





21





While we had been at the restaurant, Agathi had dealt with the two measly-looking wood pigeons Jason had shot that afternoon.

She had sat at the kitchen table and begun the slow, patient plucking of the birds. She had been doing this since she was a girl, when her grandmother taught her. She had been reluctant to learn at first—it looked unpleasant, even gruesome.

Don’t be silly, girl, her grandmother said, taking Agathi’s hands and placing them firmly on the bird. Doesn’t it feel nice, soft under the fingers?

She was right, it did—and plucking these feathers, enjoying the sensation, the rhythmical movement, comforted by the memory of her yiayia, Agathi went into a meditative trance, listening to the wind. That wind, it was like the wrath of God. Appearing from nowhere—a lightning bolt from a clear blue sky. No warning. The fury—that’s what her grandmother called it. And she was right.

Agathi remembered how the old woman would watch the gales from the kitchen window. She would clap in delight, applauding, as branches were ripped from trees and hurled through the air. As a child, Agathi used to believe her grandmother was somehow responsible for the violent gales; that she had conjured them up, by one of her spells, by one of her magic potions bubbling on the stove.

Agathi’s eyes were suddenly wet with tears. She missed her, terribly—she’d give anything to have the old witch back, bury herself in those bony arms.

Stop it, she thought. Stop thinking about the past so much.

What was the matter with her? She pulled herself together and wiped the tears from her eyes, leaving fluff and traces of feathers on her cheeks. She was tired, she thought, that was all. Once she’d plucked the birds, she made herself a cup of mint tea and went upstairs to bed.

She wanted to be asleep before the family returned from the restaurant. Years of experience had given Agathi a nose for trouble—she sensed something was in the air. If there was to be any drama, she wanted no part of it.

In the end, Agathi fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. Her mint tea remained on the bedside table, untouched.



* * *



She wasn’t sure what woke her up.

At first, while asleep, she became aware of voices downstairs—muffled voices, raised in argument. Then she dreamed Jason was looking for Lana, calling her name.

Suddenly, Agathi realized it wasn’t a dream. It was real.

“Lana!” Jason yelled.

Agathi opened her eyes. She was instantly awake. She listened. There was no further shouting. Only silence.

She got out of bed. She crept to the door—and opened it a crack. She peered out.

Sure enough, at the end of the corridor, she saw Jason. He was emerging from Lana’s bedroom.

Then Kate climbed up the stairs. She and Jason spoke to each other in low voices, barely audible. Agathi strained to hear.

“I can’t find Lana,” said Jason. “I’m worried about her.”

“What about me?”

“Haven’t you had enough attention for one night?” Jason gave Kate a look of contempt. “Go to bed—”

He tried to pass by her and they tussled for a second. He threw her aside with possibly more force than he intended. Kate lost her balance, clutching on to the banister for support.

“You’re pathetic,” Jason said.

Agathi silently shut the door. She stood there for a moment, feeling uneasy. Her instinct was to pull on her dressing gown and go in search of Lana. Yet something held her back. Better not to get involved. Go back to sleep, Agathi told herself.

There had been similar evenings to this over the years, many dramatic scenes, often involving Kate, and they were always amicably resolved the following morning. No doubt Kate would sober up, apologize for whatever she had done. Lana would forgive her.

Everything would go on as before.

Yes, Agathi thought, yawning. Just go to bed.

She lay down and tried to sleep. But the wind kept slamming her window shutters against the wall outside. It kept her from entering a deep sleep.

Eventually, she got out of bed and closed the shutters. After that, she slept soundly for an hour or so—perhaps longer—until once again her sleep was interrupted.

The shutters were banging against the wall:

Bang, bang, bang.

Opening her eyes, Agathi suddenly realized it couldn’t be the shutters banging. She had locked them. It took her a second to work out what she had just heard.

It was gunfire.

Agathi’s heart was racing as she hurried out of her bedroom, and she rushed downstairs. She ran out the back door.

The wind was fierce but she barely noticed it. She heard other footsteps nearby, bare feet thudding on the earth, but she didn’t look around. She focused on running, racing in the direction of the sound.

She had to get there, she had to prove to herself she was imagining it, that she was wrong, that nothing terrible had happened.

Finally, she reached the clearing beyond the olive grove. She reached the ruin.