Cries, cries from everywhere. "Fire! Fire!" Cries mixed with shouts. The clamors ran through the steep cobblestone paths, the slippery alleys, and the small squares at the crossroads. They flooded the village from end to end, stirring it up, agitating it in the black, moonless night. They rushed into the walled courtyards and the locked henhouses, causing even greater commotion, as the animals—those lucky enough to have survived the previous harsh winter of great hunger—were startled from their uneasy sleep and immediately joined the uproar. The voices crept into the small stone homes, seeping through the tightly shut thick shutters, which in such hard times were closed for protection at the first darkness of night. "Fire! The fire is lit!"
Angela was stirring the katsamaki, the watery cornmeal porridge, with focus when she caught the echo. She stopped for a moment, lifted her head, and pulled her scarf back to free her ear and listen more closely. Once she was sure of the word drifting in the evening air, she made the sign of the cross, murmured a prayer to herself—the same one for months now—and then calmly continued to stir the pot hanging from the hook in the stone fireplace. That was her only concern after last year's harsh winter. The pot; the full pot. Five mouths depended on it.