The Unquiet Mind (The Greek Village Collection Book 8) Read Online Free Page B

he lifts it and places it on the donkey’s back. Suzi is sleeping in the warmth and she starts awake and then immediately drifts off again as Yanni fastens buckles, loops, and ropes.
    ‘What do you dream, my beauty? Of flat fields full of flowers and trees for shade, Dolly by your side?’ He stops to consider her. Her muzzle is greying.
    ‘Yanni, here, give her some more water before you go,’ his mama says.
    The water splashes from the bucket into the bowl she has given him, from which Suzi drinks her fill.
    Yanni deftly rolls a cigarette while her nose is in the water. When he is sure Suzi is satiated, he takes the bitless bridle and scans the ridge. There are two ways down. The way they came up last night, along the ridge a way, past the monastery where only eight monks now live. The old ways are fast dying out, even on the island. That way follows a paved track down through the pine trees. Or he can go the other way, down the compressed earth track which is quicker but steeper.
    ‘Don’t forget the wire and the coffee,’ his mama reminds him. His baba appears in the doorway, makes eye contact and nods.
    The compressed track heads directly for the port and then straight down past the older monastery that has long since been re-designated for nuns. He will take it slowly, with Suzi finding her feet.
    ‘Did you hear me?’ his mama calls after him. He continues walking, raises his hand to acknowledge her without turning, and then bows his head as he lights the cigarette dangling from his lips as if it is windy, which it is not. There is not a breath of air. Just sun, heat, and lower down, the sound of cicadas.
    The scrub and the weeds have not all turned brown with the sun’s heat even on this, the exposed side of the island, but it is only a matter of weeks before the moisture will dry out in this heatwave, the air will become even stiller, the insects’ calls will grow ever louder, and summer will suck everything to a crisp.
    The donkey kicks up dust along the ridge. Yanni’s cowboy boots, softened with age, disturb little as he glides foot to foot with no hurry. The smallest threads of cloud hang very high up in the flat blue sky and Yanni walks for a while with his head tipped back, watching them shift and change, drawing on his cigarette without removing it.
    When he reaches where the land starts to drop more steeply, he watches his step. Small boulders buried in the hillside make good footholds. Suzi, alert now, takes it even more slowly, her haunches dropping and rising as they make their way. As the path flattens a little, they become less vigilant again and then the convent appears in the dip; an ancient stone building the colour of honey built around a courtyard. A tiny domed church squats as the centrepiece, flanked by spears of cypress trees that spike the sky.
    When Yanni was a boy, there were three nuns. Now there is only one, Sister Katerina.
    He watches the building as they descend. The shutters are closed, with only the Greek flag, barely moving, indicating the possibility of life. The only change over the years has been the height of the palm and cypress trees within the walls, each year pushing a little higher. The position is spectacular, its foundations tucked in a dip, but the windows of the cells must boast a panoramic view of town and sea and the mainland beyond. Yanni has only ever been in the courtyard, the church, and the dining hall from where you can see nothing of the outside world.
    As he draws closer to the large main door, there is the familiar smell of jasmine. Under a stubby tree, he loops Suzi’s reins on a hook that was hammered into the wall for that very purpose, Sister Katerina told him as a child, when he would swing from it himself. Yanni faces the door and turns the big cast iron ring, lifting the latch inside. He pushes it open with his shoulder. The scrubland is transformed within the walls to blossoms and roses, bougainvillea and dwarf trees. He has seen it many times