Terroir by Graham Mort Page A

wooded with birch trees, their pale bark spectral in the light. He thought of the deer fleeing, the little stag breaking through the trees with the foal following, then the doe. Everything in the air was a message to them, every molecule of scent meant something. There was a soft crump ahead, then the glow of brake lights through mist. Carl hit the brake and then was thrown back by the airbag as the bonnet crumpled and was flung open. Just a second later he was thrown back against the seat as a car smashed into his and then span and slewed alongside.
    Carl was cursing softly. He pressed the button to open the window. Cold air. The taste of fog. Voices shouting. The smell of petrol. From behind him the squeal of tyres against a wet road, as car after car joined the pile - up. The sound of tyres and tearing metal was softened by fog. Carl needed to run, his body drenched in adrenalin, but he was afraid to step from the car. Then a woman staring in at him, shouting something over and over, blood pouring from a gash in her cheek. He felt stupid, paralysed, the airbag pressing against his face, thinking of Michal, of deer streaming through trees, panicking onto the ploughed land, their breath streaming.
    The kitchen was open - plan, joined together with the living room with its big brick fireplace and wood - burning stove. The log pile was at the side of the house where Carl loved to split and stack a load for the winter, piling them in some scientific way so they’d dry in the airflow. It was a good feeling that, being prepared for whatever lay ahead. For those winter days when snow might pile against doors and windows, though it hadn’t snowed that hard for years. Mainly it was grey skies and a sniping wind that hissed over the farmland.
    When Zoscia glanced up from the screen she could see through the lounge to the track outside. A tractor passed, towing a harrow. A jeep spattered in mud and dung, rocking over potholes. Someone went by on a mountain bike, passing the window and glancing in to where she was working in the shadow, behind curtains. A blue top, black shorts, grey cycling helmet. There was no through way and she wondered if they were lost. She half expected other cyclists to follow, riding in a posse, the way they did on the main road.
    The lone cyclist reappeared a few minutes later outside the window, leaning his bike into the hedge, unstrapping his helmet, reaching into his backpack. Zoscia stood up, went to the window, then the door. When she opened it she saw it was a young man, thick curly black hair spilling from the helmet. He was short for a man – about her height – broad, with strong legs. His sleeves were pushed back where dark hair grew thickly on his arms. The bike looked technical, all cables and levers, like the one Carl kept in the garage with its gadgets for measuring things. She noticed that he didn’t wear a wristwatch. Zoscia smiled and he smiled back, open - faced, showing teeth that lapped over slightly at the front. His eyes were so dark they seemed almost black, the pupils absorbed.
    â€“ Are you lost? There’s no way through here.
    The young man nodded and smiled and pointed to the map. It was under control, it was all in hand. He unstrapped his helmet and sat it on the saddle.
    â€“ Where are you trying to get to?
    He didn’t answer but raised his head and tapped two fingers to his throat. She must have looked absent because he shook his head and made the mute gesture again, more urgently. Zoscia felt something melt. Her belly was a soft fruit, her blood effervescent, washing her away, drenching her. The dark eyes were watching her. He smiled an apology and held out the map.
    Zoscia traced the route he’d taken with her finger and he showed her where he must have gone wrong. They were laughing. Standing this close, he smelled of grass and hedgerows and fresh sweat. Then he was in her kitchen drinking a glass of water. Then her hand was on his arm,