A settler’s hut in the island’s west was our new home. Rain ran down the walls in streams the colour of mustard, gathering on the earthen floor. Winter forced its way in through gaps between the planks, where beyond, flour sacks lined our cots. The door, held with wooden pegs, blew out in high winds.
“Myko, the door,” called Father.
I ran to force back the door. The bark roof creaked, threatening to leave the four walls.
“Is it tight?” asked Father.
I pressed the door’s bar – the pegs held firm. “Yes, it doesn’t move an inch.”
“Then come back to the warmth.”
Mother knelt by the fire, rocking to and fro, speaking in our native words, “Sacred Gabija, forged, may you lay, kindled, may you shine.”
I sat silently as she made a bed for the fire, delicately pouring ashes around its outline
