Mama told me to kill and pluck the swan. I won’t. We creatures of muscle and bone, of wing and sinew, must stick together.

Submit, I whisper into the swan’s hollow-boned neck. I mean you no harm.

My square hands coax her into a state of collapse. Against my sturdy thighs, the swan - her name is Aramisa - is a feathering, a lightness. Outwardly we submit, but underneath our rebellious hearts beat in time, our pulse a song.

Beyond this shed, Mama machetes the heads off chickens and pretends that conscription is the price of peace. Beatriz mixes eggs, sugar and flour for Papa’s favourite cake, Pão de Ló. Maria shells beans. Antonio mucks out the horse stall. They pretend that Death is not a shrouded woman shadowing Papa.

Beyond this farm, Papa is low capped and dread eyed, marching with a bag slung over his shoulder, too loyal to slip across the border. I think of his easy laugh, his pine and cedar scent, the sloping shoulders that I inherited. I think of the way he left, a fist to his chest and a promise to return.

Beyond this shore, ships arrive at the Provincias Ultramarinas. Boots stomp. Soldiers sweat. I recall Mama’s fierce whisper in the night, saying it is fine for generals to make grand gestures with the lives of others. Papa’s soft murmur in reply. He is no fighter. But he went.

What can I do? I am only a girl.

Aramisa shakes and preens her feathers, forgoing her pretence at death. ‘What folly. Are you not the eldest child? Do you not defend what you love?’

And it’s true. I saved Aramisa. I can do more. There's a grinding heat in my chest. A bunching of my muscles. Aramisa and I agree that tonight, we will do our own plucking and gathering.

After dark, after Mama’s breath steadies and the others are fast asleep, we steal into the kitchen. Into my satchel: a knife, bandages, beans and wedges of Pão de Ló, its wrinkled brown crust and airy lightness the taste of home.

I strap myself to Aramisa. Underneath my weight, she is all feather and flap, her pulse a beating song as we rise, dip, rise, gathering strength.

Together we will soar above the farm, the shore, the churning sea.

We will find Papa.