Realizing the danger she was in, she leapt from her bed, trying to undo her previous slowness. And the flickering yellow light was not the sun.
The crash had not been thunder, but a more earthly destruction the pitter-patter was not rain, but the sound of dried wood and straw crackling in the heat. How could the light be so yellow unless the sun was rising? And how could the sun fill her rooms when she could hear the rain falling on the roof? Disorientated by her recent dreams, it was several moments before she realized the acrid tang was in her nostrils, not her imagination.
But the light was peculiar: a fat yellow colour which caught the dark red walls and painted them an ugly, bloody shade. It must be early morning, because she could see across the room. The pitter-patter of rain was growing louder. She wrapped the coverlet over her shoulders, and tried to guess what hour of the night it was. Too brave to cry out at a lightning bolt, even if it was hurled by Zeus himself. But the cry did not come: he was brave, her little boy. Her breathing slowed, and she waited to hear him cry out for his mother, terrified by the thunderstorm. He was in his own room, of course he was. She looked around for the baby, before remembering that he was no longer a baby, but had seen five summers come and go while the war raged outside the city walls. She lives in London.Ī deafening crack awoke her, and she caught her breath. Haynes is the author of six books and has written for the Times, the Independent, the Guardian, and the Observer. The following is excerpted from Natalie Haynes' latest novel, A Thousand Ships, a retelling of the Trojan War from the perspectives of the many women involved in its causes and consequences.
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