Читать книгу Dancing with Kings - Eva Stachniak - Страница 9

Diamandi’s skin is as smooth as a fresh fig. ‘Catch me,’ she cries to him and reaches for the first branches of the oak tree at the edge of the meadow where the sheep graze. He is still standing, unsure of what he should do. After all, she is but a girl with scabs on her knees. Thick scabs she likes to tear off, impatient for the new pink skin underneath. She is but a girl, even if she can swim like a fish and steer a kaiak better than many boys he could name.

Even if she can outrun him. Make him gasp for breath. Make him pant right behind her like a dog.

‘Catch me, Diamandi.’

He makes the first cautious step toward the tree, his tanned hands reach toward the lowest of the branches. Then there is a snap of a twig. A curse. The sound of a body heaving up, pushing through the leaves. She is halfway up already where the branches are thinner, her hands grabbing, testing their strength. ‘Like a squirrel,’ Mana has said, in a voice half angry and half approving. A squirrel is agile and cheeky. Digs out bulbs and cuts the stems of flowers. A squirrel mocks the fat tabby who stalks it in hope of a skirmish.

From the top of the tree Bursa looks small and forlorn. Even the big houses of the rich seem insignificant, their gardens but patches of greenery, really no different to her mother’s small kitchen garden. The garden where the flowers are only allowed on the edges, for the soil is too valuable for ornaments.

‘Come on, Diamandi.’

He is right behind her, and gaining speed. His body is wiry and strong. Stronger than hers, even if not that fast. Her cousin is a ferryman and a shepherd. He is older by seven months, fourteen already, while she is still only thirteen and has not yet bled like a woman.

He wrestles with other boys, pins them to the ground, breathes in their faces until they squirm. His eyes are flashing with victory. He will not let her win that easily. He will hold her down, if he has to.

‘Dou-Dou!’

There is pleading in his voice and the promise of tenderness.

‘Dou-Dou!’

She stops right before reaching to the thinnest of the top branches that could still sustain her weight. She waits until Diamandi comes right behind her and orders her to climb down. ‘Right this minute,’ he says and his hand rests on her behind. Just for a moment, for a split second, but enough to make her skin hot and tingly.

‘You are crazy. Your mother would scratch my eyes out if anything happened to you.’

‘Then let’s see who can climb down first,’ she says.

She can feel his eyes on her as she climbs down. A tricky old tree. But she knows which of the branches are rotten through and would not support her. She trusts her strong hands. Her legs can wrap themselves around a branch and hold her. She does not mind the scratches on her skin. The thin trails of blood, the bruises. ‘A bit of pain always sweetens the pleasure,’ Mana says, laughing, her white teeth even and small. Her father’s eyes narrow at such moments. His fingers drum on the edge of the table, a funny rhythm, a staccato of sounds that end as suddenly as they started. There is something heavy in the air, a promise of a storm. She has often heard that her father is a jealous man, and that her mother gets nothing more than what is her due.

‘You are not to do it ever again,’ Diamandi says. What a voice he has, this boy-man. Pretending to be angry and yet wanting her to defy him. Daring her to shake her head and laugh in his face. Daring her to tell him he is nothing but a boy.

He has jumped off the last branch and is now holding her down. His hands are cool and dry. There is a smell of dried grass around him and of fresh milk. She wriggles away.

To this lithe, olive-skinned boy she is a mystery, the half-wild creature of his dreams. The wind is now cool against her cheeks. ‘I’ll race you,’ she cries and runs until, by the olive grove, he pulls her down onto the soft grass, kisses her lips and pushes his tongue through her teeth. The air is again sweet with blossoms, moist with the sea, and she is shivering.

‘I love you more than my own soul,’ he whispers, and for now she believes him.