Prologue

He ran the back of his hand across his brow. It was too hot to be doing this sort of work. He should be in doors with the others, sleeping off lunch, but his wife wanted this done and so it would be done, now.
Rodolfo Fabbroni was not a henpecked or timid man. In the local town and surrounding area he was a known as a man who could get things done. He was not the sort of man who backed down from any situation, but when it came to his wife he found it difficult to refuse her anything.
She did not nag, threaten or cajole, she merely asked and he would look in to those big, almond shaped brown eyes, and he would find himself doing things he had no intention of doing.
This why he found himself rodding the block sewer drain to the silage tank in the heat of the afternoon sun, when he would rather be lying in the cool of the bedroom with his wife by his side.
He straightened up and pulled a grubby yellowing piece of cloth from his pocket. He wiped his face, trying to clear the stinging sweat from his eyes. He had been up since five o’clock this morning. He had already done a full day’s work driving livestock to and from the local market. His back ached, his arms and legs felt heavy. He wanted to sleep, but until he had cleared the pipe no one could use the toilets and so here he was, tired, aching and irritable. Then there was the ploughing to do. That could wait until the cool of the evening. At least there was no rush to get that done.
He shoved the rag back in his pocket, picked up another section of rod and screwed it on to the long section which disappeared down in to the foul smelling pit and off down into the sewer drain which ran from the house.
What ever it was that was causing the blockage, and he had a good idea what it may be, was well and truly stuck. He had attempted to clear it from the end nearest to the house but that had proved fruitless. So now, here he was, standing in a field, at the side of the house, pushing, prodding and poking with a set of old fashioned drain rods.
He had spoken to his father, Adolfo, on many occasions about the need to buy some modern drain clearing equipment but his father would have none of it. Why waste money on new fangled machinery, which was bound to break down when you needed it, when they had a perfectly good set of rods. He had used them; his father had used them, now Rodolfo could use them. He would hear no more about it.
Rodolfo braced himself, as best as he could, against the hard dry earth and pushed, twisting the rods as he did so. He could feel the blockage. He could feel the metal, double helix corkscrew on the end of the rods bite in to what ever the blockage was and then jam.
He straightened up again and swore gently under his breath. Then he raised his eyes heavenwards and apologised. Rodolfo was not a particularly religious man but he felt it was never wise to tempt fate. He was also worried that Prima Nonna Etta would appear and clip him round the ear as she had done when he was a child.
When he was younger he was convinced she was a witch. She could appear and disappear at will. This fear, even though he was thirty-three years old and Prima Nonna Etta was thought to be over a hundred years old, lived with him and he often found himself apologising, flinching and genuflecting several times a day even when he was many miles from home and well out of range of Prima Nonna Etta’s shoe.
He pushed again on the rods, not with any real force, just allowing them to take his weight so that at least it would look like he was doing something should anybody be watching. He could feel the sweat running down his back under his vest. He wanted to shower. He wanted to stand under the jets of cool water, but most of all he wanted to sleep.
He listened carefully; it was silent save for the occasional clang of the cow bell tied round the neck of the old ram in the sheep pen.
There was an advantage to be out here at this time of day. The silence. Normally the farm was a continuing babble of sounds. His children running and laughing; his mother and wife gossiping; his two brothers arguing and Prima Nonna’s radio playing, permanently tuned to any station that was playing the old folk tunes and polkas.
But now all was silent, even the insects seemed to be sleeping. The chirp and hum that had been part of the background for as long as he could remember was silent.
He half heartedly gave the rod a shove and a twist; he looked across the field that made up the majority of the farm and down the sides of the mountain towards the town which lay several kilometres away in the bottom of the valley. Even that appeared to be silent. The distant buildings shimmered in the haze of the hot summer sun. He imagined the quiet, empty streets. The shuttered windows. The silent bars and cafes.
His reverie was broken by Rufus, his favourite dog a large aged Alsatian, who at present was laying in the shade of an olive tree some meters off. Rufus lifted his head off his paws, pricked up his ears and growled deep at the back of his throat. Rodolfo followed the direction of his gaze over to the sheep pen. “Calm down boy,” he said “there’s nobody there.” Rufus dropped his head back on his paws closed his eyes and continued his nap.
The bell around the old rams neck clanged again and the sheep in the pen began to bleat loudly. Rodolfo looked back over to the pen, he called out “Is anybody there?” He was not expecting an answer and did not receive one. Then he noticed something that did worry him. The gate to the pen was open. He was sure it had not been a moment ago. Then he noticed the second thing to cause him worry. The cow bell, which was usually tied about the neck of the old ram, was now hanging over the gate post.
He released his grip slightly on the rods and was about to cross over to the pen, when he realised the sheep were lined up in the entrance of the pen, staring at him. Well, not so much at him as through him and behind. He half turned, to see what they were looking at and saw, too late, what it was. It was the old ram.
What happened next happened at such speed that it took Rodolfo by total surprise. The ram pawed at the dry earth, his gaze fixed on Rodolfo. Like a mangy, woolly bull it dropped its head and charged at Rodolfo. Rodolfo was no Matador and the afternoon’s hard work, heat and large lunch had slowed him down. The ram hit him square in the stomach. Rodolfo made a grab at its horns and missed, he staggered backwards towards the edge of the pit. He managed to turn and lunged at the rod sticking up out of the thick brown sludge. He caught hold of it and it bent slightly under his weight.
He hung for a moment, seemingly suspended in mid-air. His feet looked for purchase on the crumbly edge of the pit. His body hung out over the sludge. His already tired arms and hands fought to keep hold of the smooth wooden rod. He hoped that if he could walk his hands back up the rods he would be able to pull himself upright.
Slowly, one hand at a time, his feet scrabbling at the disintegrating edge, he began the ponderous process. Then it happened. The thing he had been trying to do for the past hour. The blockage gave way. The rods jerked forward. Rodolfo, his hands scrambling upwards, tried to steady himself. The rods stopped, slide forward slowly and then gave way, disappearing at great speed in to the brown sludge.
As Rodolfo tumbled towards the mire he caught, out of the corner of his eye, a familiar figure leaning against the fence of the sheep pen. His slicked back hair and leather box jacket gleaming in the bright afternoon sun.
Rodolfo was not sure, but the figure seemed to be smiling.