Hour of the Shepherds
And this little turn was already a great displacement,
and certainly, almost a momentary freedom. Maria
agreed as she passed the shadowy hallway, holding
a glass water jar, as if she held an ancient moon for
those who felt thirsty during the night; and the door
handles were gleaming.
Thus, time would pass until evening came when
the rain would stop, the sun, deep bloodied, shone for
the last time. At that time George appeared by the
iron gate of the garden, son of Uncle Lampis, not a
ghost of him, George in his whole body with the thick,
muddied shoes, with a basket over his left arm and
a bag on his right full of spinach, celery, and carrots.
The children ran to the windows behind the curtains
George, George, they yelled. Uncle John brought his
finger to his lips, in a reproachful manner. No one
uttered a word. In that silence inside the house the loud
metallic arm of the weathervane was heard outside.
Then George’s steps as he was leaving. However, he
had come.
The children had something to remember just before
they went to bed, even after they fell asleep — a long
summer and George, naked behind the oleanders, and
running to the river, then the hunter’s leather bag with
the seven killed wild doves hanging off his wet thigh.
Uncle Lampis had secured two carrots on his forehead
like two orange horns behind the blackberry bushes,
and he hid it from us.
