The Moonspinners Read Online Free Page A

seemed quite dark, but then the Greek pushed me further in, and in the flood of light from the doorway, I could see quite clearly even into the furthest corners of the hut.
    A man was lying in the far corner, away from the door. He lay on a rough bed of some vegetation, that could have been ferns or dried shrubs. Apart from this, the hut was empty; there was no furniture at all, except some crude looking lengths of wood in another corner that may have been parts of a primitive cheese-press. The floor was of beaten earth, so thin in places that the rock showed through. What dung the sheep had left was dried, and inoffensive enough, but the place smelt of sickness.
    As the Greek pushed me inside, the man on the bed raised his head, his eyes narrowed against the light.
    The movement, slight as it was, seemed an effort. He was ill; very ill; it didn’t need the roughly swathed cloths, stiff with dried blood, on his left arm and shoulder, to tell me that. His face, under the two days’ growth of beard, was pale, and hollowed under the cheekbones, while the skin round his eyes, with their suspiciously bright glitter, looked bruised with pain and fever. There was a nasty looking mark on his forehead, where the skin had been scraped raw, and had bled. The hair above it was still matted with the blood, and filthy with dust from the stuff he was lying on.
    For the rest, he was young, dark-haired and blue-eyed like a great many Cretans, and would, when washed, shaved, and healthy, be a reasonably personable man, with an aggressive looking nose and mouth, square, capable hands, and (as I guessed), a fair amount of physical strength. He had on dark-grey trousers, and a shirt that had once been white, both garments now filthy and torn. The only bed-covering was an equally battered windcheater jacket, and an ancient khaki affair which, presumably, belonged to the man who had attacked me. This, the sick man clutched to him as though he was cold.
    He narrowed those bright eyes at me, and seemed, with some sort of an effort, to collect his wits.
    â€˜I hope Lambis didn’t hurt you? You . . . screamed?’
    I realized then why he had seemed to be speaking from some distance away. His voice, though steady enough, was held so by a palpable effort, and it was weak. He gave the impression of holding on, precariously, to every ounce of strength he had, and, in so doing, spending it. He spoke in English, and such was my own shaken condition that I thought at first, merely, what good English he speaks; and only afterwards, with a kind of shock, he is English.
    Of course that was the first thing I said. I was still only just taking in the details of his appearance; the bloody evidence of a wound, the sunken cheeks, the filthy bed. ‘You’re – you’re English!’ I said stupidly, staring. I was hardly conscious that the Greek, Lambis, had dropped his hand from my arm. Automatically, I began to rub the place where he had gripped me. Later, there would be a bruise.
    I faltered: ‘But you’re hurt! Has there been an accident? What happened?’
    Lambis pushed past me, to stand over the bed, rather like a dog defending a bone. He still had that wary look; no longer dangerous, perhaps, but he was fingering his knife. Before the sick man could speak, he said, quickly and defensively: ‘It is nothing. An accident in climbing. When he has rested I shall help him down to the village. There is no need—’
    â€˜Shut up, will you?’ The sick man snapped it, in Greek. ‘And put that knife away. You’ve scared her silly as it is, poor kid. Can’t you see she’s nothing to do with this business? You should have kept out of sight, and let her go past.’
    â€˜She’d seen me. And she was coming this way. She’d have come in here, as likely as not, and seen you . . . She’ll blab all over the village.’
    â€˜Well, you’ve made sure of that,