The wind was blowing from the sea, a light breeze that carried the smell of rosemary and thyme in its arms as it passed over the mountain slopes on her right.  She breathed in deeply, enjoying the stillness of the morning; the air was clean and fresh after four days of continuous rain, with just a touch of sweetness to it.  She felt strangely detached; there was an un-realness about everything.  Moored just off shore she could see two large ships, motionless, black outlines against the glistening Mediterranean; from this distance she could make out few details but she was sure they were cruisers.  She knew she should be frightened at the sight, but from here they reminded her only of the toy ships her young brother, Peter, sank nightly in his bath-tub.  That was how she knew they were cruisers; he had educated her well in the shape of funnels and gun turrets and even flags of convenience.   She could not make out the colours of the flags; they remained anonymous black silhouettes, but she already knew their nationality.  Conception had been talking about them the night before.  One was called El Baleares; it was still a very new addition to the Spanish fleet and the other, slightly older was El Almirante Cervera.  They had come to protect them from the Red Terror, Conception said.  The ships had been there for two days now, waiting, it seemed, for someone to give them orders.  Still she did not feel any apprehension; the sky was too blue and the sun too bright for fear.  A movement caused her to turn around; the dog had startled a partridge and the frightened bird flapped frantically to get away, barely leaving the ground in its haste.  As it flew low and fast across the scrubland, she caught a glimpse of the reddish stripes on its flanks.  Its fear was infectious and as it flew, other scared birds took to the air, unsure of the exact nature of the danger, but fleeing nonetheless in headlong panic.

She called the dog to her side and continued walking along the path.   When she reached the corner she saw the wide expanse of the Guadalhorce Valley spread out below her, a patchwork quilt of green fields and orange groves, with its broad river meandering between tall swathes of sugarcane.  Beyond it she could see the military airfield, dotted with tiny planes and beyond that the city of Málaga itself.   A blue-grey haze was forming over the city, floating gently towards the mountains, delicate wisps of smoke that curled upwards, then broke and went their separate ways, becoming lighter and airier until they gradually blended into the mountain air.  Her eyes turned as usual towards the cathedral, with its unfinished tower, a casualty of funds sent to aid a long forgotten cause, but today it was hidden from sight inside a cloud of dense, black smoke.  A fire was raging in the streets; this much she knew from the chatter of the servants.  There would be heat and smoke and the crashing of falling timbers; people would be running, trying to escape the flames; the air would be full of the smell of blistering paint and burning wood; she tried to imagine it but the sun shone too brightly and the singing of the larks distracted her.  She stood a while longer watching the destruction below, yet not really taking it in.  Then a sound woke her from her reverie; the nearest of the gunboats was firing on the city.  She watched as the ship’s canon pulled back then juddered, sending up a brief, flash of fire and a delicate curl of smoke, with a crack of sound like distant fireworks exploding.  She saw the shell land somewhere near the docks, its position pinpointed by an explosion of earth and debris.  Mesmerized she watched as shell after shell was fired at the same spot and the earth continued to heave and turn, changing its form before her eyes.  At last, as though waking from a spell, she turned and calling for the dog to follow her, ran down the path towards the village.  She felt suddenly very vulnerable and longed for the safety of her home.

As she approached the outskirts of the village she slowed her pace to a walk.  Her heart was still beating wildly and she could feel the perspiration trickling down her cheeks.  She wiped it away with her handkerchief and smoothed her hair into place, so that she would look more composed as she went through the village.  She slipped the lead around Willow’s neck and forced herself to walk calmly along the narrow streets.  There was nobody about; the main square, where the old men usually gathered to sit and gossip, was empty and the doors to the bread shop and the butcher’s were tightly closed.  A small boy leading a donkey by a rope halter passed her without speaking; he stopped when he reached the stone water trough, waited while the animal drank, then continued on his way out of the village and up the hill. She could hear the donkey’s hooves clattering on the cobbles, sharp, hard sounds reverberating through the silent streets.  As she passed Paco’s bar, she saw, behind the swaying strands of coloured beads that hung across the door to keep out the flies, that there were people inside.  The bar was unusually quiet and she was loathe to enter, despite an urgency to speak to someone, anyone, to ask if they had seen the war ships in the harbour, to verify that what she had just seen had actually happened and was not a figment of her imagination.  Instead she kept on walking, taking the cobbled path down the hill and out of the village towards her home.