Herbs tied in thick bundles under the porch roof. Red tomatoes, thinly sliced and placed on netting. The smell of salt and smoke drifted down to the village on the wind. The children dared each other to sneak up behind them.
The women shook their heads and said it wasn’t healthy to cling to the past.
The men laughed louder than anyone else. Yet Martan never answered them. He worked from dawn till dusk, his boots moving steadily across the hard-packed earth.
Each jar he sealed he carefully placed inside the cabin. Every bale of meat was counted, every pound of salt measured and stored.
She bought more salt than anyone else in town. She didn’t buy sugar, she didn’t buy coffee, she didn’t buy flour, only salt. The shopkeeper joked about it. She didn’t smile because four years earlier laughter had filled that same valley in winter.
