*clip clop clip clop*
The horses’ hooves trot merrily down the shaded road along the river as you make your way towards Lupieri. There is a gentle breeze that caresses the water, causing it to ripple as you gaze around and take in the paradoxically vibrant hues of autumn as Nature throws off the last vestiges of summer and prepares to de-robe Herself for the coming winter, when she should be covering herself in all sorts of layers; but no one has claimed to be able to read Her mind and probably, no one ever will.
For the time being, the weather is mild and the countryside pleasant, the coach moves along steadily as the harness bells tinkle in rhythm to the clip clop of the horses’ hooves.
Finally, as the sun begins to dip nearer to the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange to match the foliage around you, you see the milestone which indicates the arrival of Lupieri. It is as if that boundary stone heralds the character of the village you are about to enter and there is a slight sense of foreboding as you pass into the village’s boundaries.
Your coach driver, on whose face you’d seen the merest flicker at the mention of Lupieri, when asking for a fare, a taciturn man apparently, seems to become even more rigid as the fork towards the village green appears. He halts long enough for you to get off, tosses down your luggage after you and gives his reins a twitch, the horses taking off eagerly, even as they waited whickering softly and shying away from the fork, towards the open highway. He does not even wait to collect his fare, rare behaviour in a coach driver.
Slightly puzzled, you make your way up the fork towards the village green. The shade of the trees along the road is still enough to cast a dappled shadow along your path, enough to make your eyes see things that might not be there and your mind play tricks on you.
You are not too much of a timid person but even then the atmosphere makes you a little jumpy.
As you walk away from the river, towards the green, you notice a flock of goats being driven by a young boy of about 11, going home after their daily grazing. While most children skip, whistle and sing when tending their flocks, this one seems unusually quiet. He seems to be on the lookout for something. Naturally, part of his job is to keep wolves from running off with the livestock but then one doesn’t find wolves this close to human habitation. What could it be?
You pass a group of wagons on the outskirt of the village and for some time you walk on with only the rustling of the leaves for company, until you reach the village green, a big circular clearing in the center of the village with roads leading off in various directions.
It seems to have the regular amenities any village might offer. The dispensary, the courthouse, the merchants and craftsmen have their shops and the mansion of the local squire can be seen some distance away to your right. A magnificent mansion but one which seems to radiate a steel-edged pride in its sheer, precise beauty.
It seems to be like any other sort of village but the deep sense of unease which took you at the milestone still haunts you and what’s more, the unnatural silence of the villagers adds to the sinister feeling. At sundown, when everyone returns from their daily work, there is generally a bustle about the place as neighbours and acquaintances greet each other, on their way home and to dinner. There might be the odd impromptu invitation to join someone, for that special pot roast that they like or perhaps the men loiter around the inn while their wives finish cooking.
However, as you approach the inn, you notice none of this. Instead, you see more quiet people, casting furtive glances into the shadows, people who, if at all they stop, hold hurried whispered conversations and then move away as quickly as possible as if some spectre looms over their shoulders.
The inn-keeper seems surprised at the opportunity of some custom, almost ill-pleased but being the business-like person she is, she conceals her surprise quickly. Almost.
You notice that the inn is empty except for you and you are given accommodation right away, with the inn-keeper’s husband carrying away your luggage to your room. You make inquiries about dinner and also about Lupieri itself.
You are told that rabbit stew, bread, local cheese, wine and some fruit are one the menu tonight but she seems strangely reluctant to engage in conversation – uncharacteristic in an inn-keeper.
You have come to this place for a change of scene, a change of vocation. You hope to get a job with the Lovato family, away in the mansion. You have certain skills which they might find useful, as news on the air suggests.
However, you can’t quite help but wonder why this place seems just a little unreal to you, as you go up to your room and to bed.
Perhaps it is just your imagination. Perhaps it is the long journey which has tired you and it is nothing but your fancy. Perhaps you will wake up tomorrow, feeling refreshed and knowing that you can laugh at yourself for your vague fancies. Perhaps.
