Piero hadn't even had time to wake up.
With the dampness of the just-passed night evaporating from his clothes, he pointed the barrel of his rifle toward the bush and fired.
Morning had begun with timid light bouncing off the blanket of mist at the mountain's feet, the muffled chime of the village bell tower, and a warmth that smelled of home, breakfast, and sugar meant to sink generously into the black surface of coffee.
The bullet had pierced the foliage, scattering acrid swirls of bluish smoke, and ended its course lodged in a fallen trunk. The wolf had escaped unharmed yet again. It simply left. It had turned its back on Piero, who fumbled clumsily around his belt for another round for his rifle. The wolf had peeked out between two trees, like a curious onlooker leaning out a window onto the square. Then it vanished, kicking up a little cloud of dead leaves and dirt.
The previous day had passed like that, in anticipation of another chance.
Piero had christened a stump as his seat, waiting for the wolf to reappear, and, staring at clusters of red berries and lance-shaped leaves stirred gently by a timid breeze, he had fallen asleep.
The next day, as dawn chased away the last stars and the same ever-present fog rolled thickly across the valley floor, Piero had taken position in a trench. He had dug it with his bare hands, taming roots and negotiating with a pair of stubborn stones that refused to budge. When the wolf’s scent wafted into the air and the familiar rustling among the leaves betrayed its presence, the rifle barrel erupted with a bang, and the wild berries exploded, giving the illusion of blood. Even that day, the animal slipped away without bothering to run, and once again, Piero’s scorched fingers tangled as he tried to reload the rifle, desperate for a second shot.
He had cried.
It happened when the wolf, safe behind the trunk of an ancient chestnut tree, looked at him with its small green eyes. With its fur slightly ruffled along its back and a bit of dry earth around its nose, it looked as though it, too, had amused itself by digging a hole.
The night following his latest failure, with yet another dose of frustration weighing down his already heavy soul, Piero had neither slept nor eaten nor dreamed. For him, it was natural to feed on expectations, letting his sagging bundle remain closed next to a flask of wine that was turning into vinegar. The only thing that mattered to him was that the wolf would return, that his hand would be steady, and that the rifle would be willing to repeat yesterday’s scene.
At the next dawn, the gray coat crossed his sightline, always blending into the omnipresent foliage, always camouflaged by the black streaks that melded with the dense underbrush. Piero fired, and a mushroom in the distance disintegrated in a burst of fragrance. Desperate, head in his hands and eyes fixed on a carpet of burrs, he realized the wolf had escaped once more. He didn’t even react when that damp nose lingered on his neck, accompanied by the tickle of stiff whiskers and a breath that wormed its way beneath his jacket.
Shortly after, the animal moved away, turning its back on him.
Before retreating to safety, before slipping out of range, it melted into the twilight until it vanished, and the night’s chill began dictating its terms again.
Rain had tended to every single leaf, cleaned the wood, dusted the fruits, and put the ants on alert. On the forest floor, pine needles floated like tiny ships, and a network of miniature mountains, valleys, and waterways redrew the terrain’s geography. The day climbed in with a slight delay, shaking off the clouds and leaving a sea of cream over the roofs of the still-sleeping village.
From a high branch, the forest was invaded by shafts of light. Some pierced all the way to the base of the trunk, as if intent on igniting the piles of dead leaves at its feet. Others extinguished themselves in the dense vegetation, while still others cast luminous islands on the distant peaks of larch trees. Below, the familiar fog blanketed the valley, and a stream murmured in the distance. The water, emboldened by a curve, plunged into a small waterfall that resolved into a flurry of foam and vapor. A little farther down, a weathered wooden bridge had digested the nails holding it together, its exposed side coated with moss.
"And instead, we had it all wrong. We, because we thought we were big and strong by shooting at animals; you, Piero, because you thought the world was just a simple process of actions and consequences. But the wolf wasn’t in the bush, and I died in its place. Look at him; he lived his life knowing that a man had been struck down instead of him. In some way, he’s grateful to you…"
He was there, at their feet, his mouth curved into something that resembled a smile, ears upright as if he understood every single word. Suddenly, he licked Piero’s palm, and Piero grabbed his muzzle as though he were a house dog seeking affection by the fireplace. At that moment, a light whimper could barely be heard.
"And him, will he have forgiven me?"
The friend had laughed. With his corduroy pants that seemed fresh from the cleaners and that shirt smelling of laundry, he looked like he had just come from Sunday morning Mass, standing on the church square with the freshly folded newspaper tucked under his arm. His hair still shone with pomade.
"I hope so; otherwise, dear Piero, we wouldn’t know which road to take to get back home. Because they’re waiting for you at home, you know?"
"Re…really?"
"Of course! Everyone’s impatient. Your wife, especially… Though time up there is felt very differently from how it is in the world of the living, yes, sometimes we get a little bored too..."
He had trembled.
"Ah, your son is doing well. He’s down there..." His finger pointed toward the village. "Everyone speaks highly of him, and trust me, he still has a lot to do before they call him. So, what do you say, shall we go?"
Piero had hesitated. His purgatory—that immense and repetitive forest that he thought he had learned to know but that had always reserved surprises for him—was about to be left to its slow and inexorable cycle. He had to leave it, and he had to do so immediately.
The wolf had already started walking and was looking at him impatiently a few steps ahead.
"I killed you..."
"And I forgave you. Everyone has forgiven you..."
"Really? Are you sure?"
That smile was worth more than a thousand words.
A rustle of leaves marked the beginning of the journey.
The wolf led the way, sniffing the exposed roots, the stones of the path, and every other corner of the trail. Fern fronds jutted out from the sides, and sometimes they had to push them aside. Wild rabbits, crouched in shelter behind tufts of grass, watched their passage, unconcerned about the wolf just a step away from their noses.
They climbed with a slow but steady pace toward the upper part of the forest, the one Piero had never had the courage to explore.
In no time, they disappeared, embraced by a sea of green. Piero, his friend, and the wolf.
The forest breathed like a child absorbed in dreams.
Before leaving together, they had buried the rifle under a meter of damp earth.
With the dampness of the just-passed night evaporating from his clothes, he pointed the barrel of his rifle toward the bush and fired.
Morning had begun with timid light bouncing off the blanket of mist at the mountain's feet, the muffled chime of the village bell tower, and a warmth that smelled of home, breakfast, and sugar meant to sink generously into the black surface of coffee.
The bullet had pierced the foliage, scattering acrid swirls of bluish smoke, and ended its course lodged in a fallen trunk. The wolf had escaped unharmed yet again. It simply left. It had turned its back on Piero, who fumbled clumsily around his belt for another round for his rifle. The wolf had peeked out between two trees, like a curious onlooker leaning out a window onto the square. Then it vanished, kicking up a little cloud of dead leaves and dirt.
The previous day had passed like that, in anticipation of another chance.
Piero had christened a stump as his seat, waiting for the wolf to reappear, and, staring at clusters of red berries and lance-shaped leaves stirred gently by a timid breeze, he had fallen asleep.
The next day, as dawn chased away the last stars and the same ever-present fog rolled thickly across the valley floor, Piero had taken position in a trench. He had dug it with his bare hands, taming roots and negotiating with a pair of stubborn stones that refused to budge. When the wolf’s scent wafted into the air and the familiar rustling among the leaves betrayed its presence, the rifle barrel erupted with a bang, and the wild berries exploded, giving the illusion of blood. Even that day, the animal slipped away without bothering to run, and once again, Piero’s scorched fingers tangled as he tried to reload the rifle, desperate for a second shot.
He had cried.
It happened when the wolf, safe behind the trunk of an ancient chestnut tree, looked at him with its small green eyes. With its fur slightly ruffled along its back and a bit of dry earth around its nose, it looked as though it, too, had amused itself by digging a hole.
The night following his latest failure, with yet another dose of frustration weighing down his already heavy soul, Piero had neither slept nor eaten nor dreamed. For him, it was natural to feed on expectations, letting his sagging bundle remain closed next to a flask of wine that was turning into vinegar. The only thing that mattered to him was that the wolf would return, that his hand would be steady, and that the rifle would be willing to repeat yesterday’s scene.
At the next dawn, the gray coat crossed his sightline, always blending into the omnipresent foliage, always camouflaged by the black streaks that melded with the dense underbrush. Piero fired, and a mushroom in the distance disintegrated in a burst of fragrance. Desperate, head in his hands and eyes fixed on a carpet of burrs, he realized the wolf had escaped once more. He didn’t even react when that damp nose lingered on his neck, accompanied by the tickle of stiff whiskers and a breath that wormed its way beneath his jacket.
Shortly after, the animal moved away, turning its back on him.
Before retreating to safety, before slipping out of range, it melted into the twilight until it vanished, and the night’s chill began dictating its terms again.
Rain had tended to every single leaf, cleaned the wood, dusted the fruits, and put the ants on alert. On the forest floor, pine needles floated like tiny ships, and a network of miniature mountains, valleys, and waterways redrew the terrain’s geography. The day climbed in with a slight delay, shaking off the clouds and leaving a sea of cream over the roofs of the still-sleeping village.
From a high branch, the forest was invaded by shafts of light. Some pierced all the way to the base of the trunk, as if intent on igniting the piles of dead leaves at its feet. Others extinguished themselves in the dense vegetation, while still others cast luminous islands on the distant peaks of larch trees. Below, the familiar fog blanketed the valley, and a stream murmured in the distance. The water, emboldened by a curve, plunged into a small waterfall that resolved into a flurry of foam and vapor. A little farther down, a weathered wooden bridge had digested the nails holding it together, its exposed side coated with moss.
"And instead, we had it all wrong. We, because we thought we were big and strong by shooting at animals; you, Piero, because you thought the world was just a simple process of actions and consequences. But the wolf wasn’t in the bush, and I died in its place. Look at him; he lived his life knowing that a man had been struck down instead of him. In some way, he’s grateful to you…"
He was there, at their feet, his mouth curved into something that resembled a smile, ears upright as if he understood every single word. Suddenly, he licked Piero’s palm, and Piero grabbed his muzzle as though he were a house dog seeking affection by the fireplace. At that moment, a light whimper could barely be heard.
"And him, will he have forgiven me?"
The friend had laughed. With his corduroy pants that seemed fresh from the cleaners and that shirt smelling of laundry, he looked like he had just come from Sunday morning Mass, standing on the church square with the freshly folded newspaper tucked under his arm. His hair still shone with pomade.
"I hope so; otherwise, dear Piero, we wouldn’t know which road to take to get back home. Because they’re waiting for you at home, you know?"
"Re…really?"
"Of course! Everyone’s impatient. Your wife, especially… Though time up there is felt very differently from how it is in the world of the living, yes, sometimes we get a little bored too..."
He had trembled.
"Ah, your son is doing well. He’s down there..." His finger pointed toward the village. "Everyone speaks highly of him, and trust me, he still has a lot to do before they call him. So, what do you say, shall we go?"
Piero had hesitated. His purgatory—that immense and repetitive forest that he thought he had learned to know but that had always reserved surprises for him—was about to be left to its slow and inexorable cycle. He had to leave it, and he had to do so immediately.
The wolf had already started walking and was looking at him impatiently a few steps ahead.
"I killed you..."
"And I forgave you. Everyone has forgiven you..."
"Really? Are you sure?"
That smile was worth more than a thousand words.
A rustle of leaves marked the beginning of the journey.
The wolf led the way, sniffing the exposed roots, the stones of the path, and every other corner of the trail. Fern fronds jutted out from the sides, and sometimes they had to push them aside. Wild rabbits, crouched in shelter behind tufts of grass, watched their passage, unconcerned about the wolf just a step away from their noses.
They climbed with a slow but steady pace toward the upper part of the forest, the one Piero had never had the courage to explore.
In no time, they disappeared, embraced by a sea of green. Piero, his friend, and the wolf.
The forest breathed like a child absorbed in dreams.
Before leaving together, they had buried the rifle under a meter of damp earth.
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