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“Then I bid you good day, sir,” I said. “I will come again tomorrow.”
I left the farm elated, and slightly confused. I had completed my first mission for the Order,
successfully and quickly. But one of the old man’s utterings nagged at me.
“The Great Beast’s wiles, or those of his minions?”
It had been foolish, perhaps to take him so literally as to mention the great beasts of the deep, but
he had seemed happy with my answer. What, though, did his phrase reveal of my other mission?
Perhaps the old farmer was merely trying to gauge how different we would be from the Dominicans
in the fight against heresy and devils. But what did he mean by “minions”? Did he know of
something in the area, something tainted, which he could not speak openly of, from fear?
I drew rein, and asked myself would it be fear of retribution from those servants of evil, or fear that I
would tell the Dominicans and the whole village would be burnt for hiding such a being.
As I looked around me, as if I might find my answers written on the valley’s walls, I noticed a small
hut, half-hidden from view in the foothills of the mountain. It was composed of planks built up, using
an old stone ruin as its base. Grass grew from where dirt had lodged in the roof. I led my horse
towards it, marvelling at how weathered it looked. A rug served as a door, and I doubted that
anyone would live there.
I was surprised to find it occupied, and the black-clad woman who thrust aside the rug was both
surprised, and a little wary, to find me on her doorstep. Of course, she would only be used to Father
Donato, and perhaps to the sight of the local Dominicans visiting Attaviano Strozza, to press their
claim to his land.
“I am Father Cosimo, of the Society of Jesus,” I said, and grasped for an excuse for troubling her,
other than curiosity and my investigation. “Might you spare me a drink of water?”
It was not, by any measure, hot, but the road to Strozza’s farmhouse was dusty. She nodded and led
me around the ruinous cottage to a well.
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“I am the Widow Brunetto,’ she said, pushing aside the well cover, and seizing the rope in her work-
worn hands. “You are welcome to a drink, padre.”
As she filled the wooden dipper, I said, “Montello del Lanzigo is a quiet place, and you are even
quieter here in the foothills below it. Are you troubled here by anything unnatural?”
“No.”
“Have you seen any strange goings-on?”
“No.”
Both times she gave me only a flat no, and in truth I understood her unwillingness to talk to
someone she likely perceived as a threat. I had failed, I was thought of as the enemy, and I would
have to ask elsewhere. I thanked her for the water, but as I turned towards the road again, a shadow
passed over the sun. I was not concerned by the passage of clouds, but the widow immediately fell
to her knees and made the sign of the cross, muttering a plea to be delivered from evil. I gave her
my blessing, but wondered how a brief flicker of the sun’s light could provoke such a large reaction?
Well, was not my own village full of superstitions, I thought, as I rode back into Montello del
Lanzigo? But still, it plagued me. How could a single, simple shadow cause that? Superstition would
play a part, but I believed the reaction was too large for it to be the only cause.
That night, forsaking my warm berth at the priest’s house, I walked up and down the rough streets
of the village and went, at last, to sit in the low-ceilinged taverna that served as a community
gathering place. I feared the only food I would find there would be the organs of sheep too old to
survive the winter, and stale bread, and the only drink would be cheap wine from the grapes not
claimed for other, better vintages. Still, I hoped there would be a village gossip or drunk who could
tell me a history of Montello del Lanzigo, and for that I could put up with a substandard meal.
Stepping into the taverna, I was expecting to silence the conversations and sour the mood, but I
went unnoticed. No-one looked up, and I crossed the crowded room to the bar without as much as a
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sideways look. As I had guessed, the food on offer was stuffed sheep’s stomach and stale bread, but
the wine was surprisingly good, full-bodied and heady. I sat at one of the few unoccupied tables, and
let the taste of it evoke memories of cool water on hot summer days, and bees droning in the
orange trees behind my father’s house.
I was soon joined by a shabbily-dressed man, and I presumed he would be known as the town
storyteller, rather than the town drunk, because he retained a slight nod to decency in his
appearance and most likely paid what he owed, if not on time. He introduced himself as Pasquale,
and I asked if he would care to share the bottle I had purchased. When I had poured him a drink, I
inquired after the history of the village.
“You are a historian, then, my young friend? It is a mania with you priests, perhaps? Well, it is a tale
long in the making, although I am not sure it has been longer in the making than this fine vintage.”
Pasquale waved his mostly-empty cup at me, and I took the hint and filled it up.
“Montello del Lanzigo was founded by good and righteous folk all, who settled here as simple sheep-
farmers, many years ago. Who can say which of them had the foresight to plant the walnut trees
which do so well in our valley? Then-”
I interrupted. “I was most interested in any stranger events that might have happened here, more
recently.”
There was a break in the talk around the tavern, as if all present had drawn a breath at the same
moment. Then, as though nothing had happened, the room returned to normal, and my
acquaintance began to talk on the stranger occurrences in the village’s history.
“Well, nothing much happens up here, heh, it’s a blessing in many ways. But still, there are a few
oddities in our village’s annals.”
I listened as he regaled me with tales about rains of fish and Latin speaking frogs, trying to pick out
salient points from the avalanche of details. Pasquale pressed one hand over his heart and went on.
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