Selva Lugana

𓆰  Swans and spilled wine ②

What wind blows in our direction?

The Pelér, the bestial wind who covers the tracks of those who lurk.

Pandolfo's knees push against the resistance of the lake waters: his steps are slow and measured yet resolute. His breaths form a canon with the calls of mallards he cannot see.

The farther he goes, the faster he moves. The faster he moves, the less careful he becomes. With less care comes more noise, with more noise comes an erratic movement right under the surface of the dark waters. It draws shapes that get closer to the body of the merchant, now obsessively looking over his back.

A splash, it's a fish.

A sound, it's a duck.

Another splash, it can't be another fish, can it?

From the mudded puddle of shallow lake waters a hand emerges: swollen, hardened fingers; each digit the size of a face. Sharp nails sibilate towards Pandolfo directed by a thick, pulsating wrist covered in algae and soil.

The hand makes a rapid go at the merchant, but her attempts to grab meet a thirst for survival, resulting in an even rapider dodge.

The small, eternally bloodied letter opener that Pandolfo keeps in his sleeve is produced with haste, and before the limb knows it, a cut opens under the giant thumb.

Splashes of lake water soak the merchant's clothes: in the split moment in which the wet sleeve dries the wet eyes of Pandolfo, a painful distraction, he receives one of those five-fingered slap not much different from the ones his grandfather used to fashion. His head spins as he readjusts his jaw a couple of times.

Despite the dizziness (and the hand's quickness to react while still gushing a purpled, dense, viscous blood), the last of her charges ends on the tip of the letter opener: the heavy limb crushes into the lake water as dead as a rock, showering the merchant with muddy water. Pandolfo catches a breath, the lake takes on a reddish hue.

Frogs and mallards sing again, or they were always there despite Pandolfo and despite the hand. The merchant's eyes run through the reeds, how many other hands will try to stop him?

As he worries and checks his body for open wounds to be patched up, something reflects a light, which catches his attention. It's what looks like a sickle, with the handle made out of a boar's tusk and immediately secured.

He doesn't stop to rest, as only a fool would rest when the Pelér blows

And so onwards through the Selva Lugana

Pandolfo goes.

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