As a child, I wondered what lay beyond the sea. One of my earliest memories is of asking my father that very question as he sat by the fire after a hard day hauling the nets. He said simply, ‘Such matters are for God to know, Lachin,’ and drew on his pipe. I may have pestered him further; I remember mother telling me to let him rest. But for me, God was not the answer. God was real, of course. He looked down on us every day; sometimes he answered our prayers. And sometimes – rare, terrible times – he sent punishment. I saw that for myself once. I was eight years old and had recently experienced a small injustice of my own. I was playing in the woods with my brother and his friends. The boys shook the tree I was climbing and I fell and broke my leg. They claimed it was an accident, of course. The injury healed slowly, and left me with a permanent limp. During my recovery I was housebound, and overheard the women gossiping. Our neighbour’s brother believed his wife had been with a peddler who had passed through the village not long before.
