𓆰 Swans and spilled wine â‘
The story of Pandolfo, born with the Drit, the wind who brings the voice of the past to the ears of the present, begins with his boots in the mud, among the cattails and lake waters, where the roots of the oaks go touch the stones of the strand.
The dirty boots are attached to the sweaty body of a merchant trading in feathers and inks; a body that seems to only exist so that a mouth can walk.
And it is for the pleasure of his mouth (and for a growing affection to the animal), after all, that Pandolfo is desperately about to move steps among the miry reeds: the young swan who, at every orange dusk, would glide on the lake waters bearing a floating bottle of the sweetest wine has been killed.
Revenge against the vicious perpetrator of the nefarious crime can wait, time is a luxury: a healer for the magnificent bird must be found as soon as possible and the closest one lives beyond the Selva Lugana.
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