I am with my brother Tom and our father. We are an itinerant troupe roaming through Greece. We are in an Orthodox church, unpacking our belongings and moving in. Gold leaf and dark wood. Packing our belongings and moving out. Always moving. We are wearing long heavy robes.
Tom and I travel in a cart pulled by two beautiful palomino shire horses. I am mesmerised by the movement of their bodies, their sweat, their smell. I think my attentions are irritating to them, but they pull us and all our belongings through a hot mountainous landscape with the dusty perfume of pine and herbs, and the song of cicadas.
The way is long and stony. We reach the top of a mountain and are faced with a steep descent. The horses become edgy as they start to slip down the treacherous scree. One goes wild, rears and bucks its way out of the harness and tramples the cart to splinters. It is enraged. Tom and I flee up a pine tree. It is easy to climb but the wood is dry and dusty and the branches creak. I am acutely aware that we are pushing the dry branches to their limits. It is hard to tell which parts of the tree are alive and which are dead. The hot wind rustles in the pine needles.
The horse below is rearing up and pawing at the tree. It is trying to knock it down. Then it starts to climb. Tom and I watch incredulously as the huge furious animal comes agilely up after us, moving like a panther.