Gunpowder, heat, and dust. Even the plane trees by the Dala stream stood bent, hunched over, their leaves waxy and withered in this black summer. The gorge of Acheron and the steep cliffs of Zavrouchos echoed day and night with the sounds of cannon fire. The paths all around were blocked; neither in the plain of Fanari, nor in Paramythia, nor even in Lakka could anyone go out to gather a few grains of harvest to ease their hunger. The entire Souli had been sealed off by the forces of the Turkalbanians of Ali Pasha; the tight siege was approaching three years and the noose of fire around the mountain valley was tightening more and more. First fell Skapeta, the allied villages to the north of the mountain’s edge, in the spring, and since then only the narrow plateau to the south remained free, the main area of Souli, the legendary Tetrakori, Avarikos, Kiafa, Samoniva, and Souli itself. Its entire area was no more than two or three thousand stremmas, with the deep ravine and the sharp rocks dominating above the four villages.
“Shall we run away?”
Legko looked at Kiko, her little sister, as if to say the most unusual thing.
“Well, aren’t we going to run away? Without water, we’ll perish. Not even the cicadas are thirsty in such heat.”
“It’s because you have the baby to take care of.”
“And you. And you have no one at home, you’re all alone.”
