Turbinio

Hypericum Perforatum

Gettysburg was a very comfortable and beautiful city. The sound of the Cadichon hooves beating against the cobblestone streets was undeniably soft. The hotels were quiet, but too luxurious for what you were beginning to get used to, with ornate carpeting on the stairs and stained glass in the windows. The church was also like that, chic and big. You didn't know exactly what had made you stop in that town, let alone that church.

Maybe you were looking for Hot Pants. During the travel, you kept thinking about the conversation you had with her. Your mind was caught in a dizzying cycle of names and places. And you remember very well that Hot Pants intended to hide in a Gettysburg convent, but why were you there? Did you want to find her? How stupid.

Taking a deep breath and stroking the sleeping cat on your lap, you shook Cadichon's bridles to get her to pull the wagon again. When did you become so impulsive? What were you thinking when you came to this town? Meeting Hot Pants was too dangerous for both you and Hot Pants; after all, the government is also keeping an eye on you. So, with an involuntary last-ditch check for the whereabouts of a pink-haired nun, you shake your head and toss that idea in the trash, taking advantage of the bright moonlight to travel at night.

During these months of journey, you discovered that Agno possessed an exceptional nose for storms; every time a storm was about to come, he would start meowing wildly, climbing on your shelves and clawing at your clothes as an early cry for help.

This time the kitten had started meowing a few hours after leaving Gettysburg, nipping at your arm and rubbing his head against you affectionately. You could see the storm clouds crossing the horizon. Cadichon had begun to snort with nervousness. And now your focus was on finding shelter. In the middle of a bucolic road, with the night wind of a winter storm whipping your hair and clothes like the robes of a banshee, you turned your face to the heavy skies, then to the abandoned cabin in the middle of a clearing, and prepared to make your shelter.

The sky was as gray as wool, looming imposingly over a storm all night. You unfastened Cadichon's equipment and, after noting that the place was empty, you measured the width of the door to see if your mule could get through. Although she was large, Cadichon would be able to spend the night inside the cabin.

It was a kind of tall stone cabin, spacious because it was completely empty. The windows were locked and the latches rusted in a way that they would never be opened again. A flash of lightning outside announced the sudden onset of the storm, and you took advantage of the only flame from your lamp to heat a few cups of tea. The thundering raindrops pelted the roof, but fortunately there was no sign of leaks. The absence of spots on the ceiling was a relief for the prospects of being able to sleep dry all night.

Cadichon seemed as agitated as Agno, and you took this moment to try to reassure her, stroking her neck and putting small tufts of cotton wool in her ears to make the rain less disturbing. You did the same with Agno, who was hiding between your bags and blankets.

At that moment, the dimness nested you, comforting in its warm completeness. You felt a slight stirring outside, a familiar and intrusive presence, but you continued to retreat into your dry shelter with a pillow, a blanket, and a cat nestled on your belly, purring. However, this stirring dissipated around you, slowly exposing parts of your body to a chilling sensation.

You kept your eyes closed, not knowing what was happening and struggling to understand. After a while, your head suddenly throbbed, and so did a dozen smaller pulses, each a bright explosion of agony. You felt shivers like needles poking through you, like a butterfly stuck to a board. If you could get free of it, you could fly away.

Your eyes closed tighter, seeking comfort in the darkness. You had a distant memory of a terrible effort, the muscles around your ribs ripping as you struggled to pull in the air. There was snow somewhere in your memory, filling your nose; the cold hardening your clothes and freezing your tear-drenched eyelashes. Were you freezing to death, if not strangled? The memory sent a slight wave of alarm through your mind. They said it was an easy death, freezing, like falling asleep. Were you freezing into a final, treacherous stillness as you sought the alluring darkness?