Winter’s Tale

S and saw the bell tower at sunset backlight, and background mountains stood out in dark blue to red pieces, the sky, and to time the sun had set. The night was close. The muted sound of the day and gradually took over the silence of the valley. It was the departure time of night birds, the owl, the bat, the owl, all began their time hunting and prey did not suspect the danger they face. The treetops swaying gently in the night breeze and the valley bottom, on the road to the cemetery, up to the farmhouse of “The Age fit”, a train of mules approaching the town. Any dog over barking scared than anything else to pass the horses and then to silence even if it is more present. The man ran in front of the rope, with the largest mule’s halter between his shoulders, shed his beret and cigarette butt between his lips. With head bowed, and imprisoned in everyday thoughts without any apparent concern came from a week of hard work in the depths of the mountains, between and broom thickets, ravines and scrub. The mules with their loads of cork, panting with the effort, it still wanted to get to your block and tan bitch, who was walking beside her, occasionally looking at him with that look that only animals can use. The lights dim lit streets of the first convoy, the man in his 60s, tall, lean, with high cheekbones, a few freckles and the red beard of some days, wearing a greasy coat of arms left free below the hood that covers the shoulders, a broad-brimmed hat also greased, corduroy trousers and leather boots espolainas. The hatchet girl had crossed uncork the fuck back black leather belt with a buckle of the army. The hands, with bony fingers calloused and lots of spots and freckles, behind his back holding the peak of the halter, and his pace, rhythmic and long, joined the passage of mules in perfect balance. The storm was still illuminating the sky down there in the valley and the heavy drops that up to a minute had accompanied them, were becoming more scarce. Occasionally the echoes and the rumble of distant thunder indicated that overnight the storm would be sleeping in the valley and perhaps in the morning as gentle dissolve formed in midafternoon. He still had a hard job, I had to download the cork, stackable and extend it to not take wrong way, remove the gear to the mules, feed and drink, prepare some food for him and for the dog, wash and prepare bed, little sleep, tomorrow morning I had to finish definitely stacked cork, tie and pulled him doblao. Tomorrow was Sunday morning Mass to go to church, hear without hearing the priest and the altar servers and then to a cafe to drink a glass of wine with a cover of “potato handles” with friends. The people were encouraged on Sundays, the children would play the hole with mud and Bolinches Zambos stone, glass or steel, dirtying the clothes and new shoes, and enduring the screams of their mothers, the storm had left a clear sky and clear and the air would smell of damp earth. It’s funny how every time he had his game and as one moved from one to another without anyone knowing, as soon as someone pulled a lime and water in the early autumn, with the wet ground for better nailed, and everyone began to get theirs, rummaging through the cabinets of grandparents, parents or uncles and give Tabarra the blacksmith so that sharpened. As it later appeared some nola and everything was the same grind with pieces of timber in old oak for learners or a family will make the best nola the village and then the blacksmith to the nail collected with care from anywhere outside rounded and sharpened at the forge heated red hot and then nailed to the wood to form a single body to withstand the biggest blows against all the pitches of the village. And so did the different games of Bolinches, underline, circle, hole, etc..Those Bolinches stone and chopped to best suit your fingers and not slip, or glass of soda from Joseph the “Perea,” or those that brought the vacationers, who were called marbles, and glass were colors, and steel bearings are caught in the motorcycle and bicycle shops. At one time the boys were playing the wheel, and was curious how much of different ways you can use a wheel motorcycle covers were used and handled with a short stick that just served to, making short strokes, push the wheel in flat or cuestarriba, once picked up speed as serve as a rudder or brake in cuestabajo. Bicycle wheels were handled with a stiff wire bent into a U shape to which made him a wooden handle and which was also used for small-wheeled vehicles from small child or the scooter. Some also used the bearings to make the best runners they saw on the sidewalks of the village with their handlebars brake shoe string and leather. Returning to our man, listen as others in the coffee, talked things of the field, the time, rumors of a wolf pack, how he broke the old oak beam. Would look to the sky and make predictions for the coming days. The talk little, smoke two or three cigars, rolling slowly cut with his own blend of snuff, which grew in the small little garden in the backyard and after carefully harvested, dried and chopped with mincing knives slaughter, kept in the wooden chest of doblao, return home early to fix something beasts and clean the kitchen, preparing the herd the next day, a little streaky bacon, fried sardines bundled in a brown paper a sausage without much chop half cup of chocolate. The dog would be waiting behind the door and wanting to go out again into the field to chase after rabbits and hares, hoping to hear the roar of the shotgun, the cinnamon was a good dog. Monday morning dawned clear and clean at times and at times overshadowed by the dark clouds of the storm the previous evening that almost every afternoon had taken over the valley. The dawn and time to lightening and kicking the animals restless and demanding attention-eared the slightest bit of noise coming from the backyard. He finished eating a piece of bread migado in a huge bowl of cafe au lait and was putting out the fire that ignited early to make coffee in the tin pot. He had prepared the ranch to spend the day in the garden, and was dating the doors and get the tools you need for the task, pruning shears, the Amoladeras, sickle girl new and the ax, scythe had Sharpening the last day and some snuff. Went outside and sniffed the clean air of the morning, the dawn RESENCE droplets had filled flowers of bedding and the dog scampered between his legs wagging her tail, wild with joy, the day he guessed right and no one could imagine what to come. The routine rig beasts, would take the mule and the donkey was not prevented from continuing with the thoughts that last week and almost every morning we were worried, this pack of wolves that was rumored to haunt the town and village were not a reason to rest and after thinking about it a couple times, took the gun and a pair of cartridges, so it could happen. Mule loaded with tools and mujarona climbing up to the donkey, went outside and started down the hill to the “carreterilla” to “quagmire”, where he used to water the cattle in the pillar and fill the water jug fresh at the source. He greeted the owner sits at that moment the doors opened and continued the way to the “costs drainer. It was cold and wrapped himself up in his parka, driving to the donkey. Cinnamon, restless, ran five meters in front and retraced his steps, to look at and return to their careers. Upon reaching the top of the hill something prompted him to turn left and turn onto the path of “miravalles. – I’ll get to the grove a moment, he thought. Whistling the dog got off his ass to facilitate the rise of bad stretch of road, and began to ascend among the rocks. From this height you could see the whole valley and the village, which already saw some smoke from fireplaces and clarity drew the contours of the mountains in the distance. Picked up the pace to finish up the scree and once again climb up the ass, this time unwittingly straddled and touched the butt of the shotgun. His mind rolled to the days when the gun was not used only for hunting, in war not so long ago, the guns were the weapons of many of the “volunteers” who were “dazzled” by the “ideal” to be defend. The shotguns were more for companionship and as useful to obtain food, which hooks to replace the shot and he did not remember having fired a single shot that could have hurt someone. – Who was going to shoot him. However, it is tempting left wrist, following the path of the scar of the wound that licensed it. That little bullet of a gun, bouncing from rock to rock, do not get what the prayers and cries of his mother and his father’s sermons serious. The custom of tempted scar came from old and almost always when something unknown disturbed his usual calm. He brushed his gun and whistled the dog was heard barking in the distance. The miravalles road is very narrow in places and the vegetation, rock roses and broom almost hidden. Though it runs through a level spot, skirting the foot of the hill on your right plunges into a high court filled with flowers and left is flanked by stone walls of the adjoining properties. Small riots and vegetation from seeing beyond a few meters. The barking of the dog could be heard getting closer, but the animal did not go to their whistles. A shiver ran through his back and felt the hair bristling red hair from his arms, something was up ahead. The ears of the donkey and the animal stood up stood on a bend in the road, the hindquarters of the dog were visible among the thickets on the right of way and his tail between his legs indicated the fear that forced their barking, and proceeded down still barking, warning of danger. – From the dangers . – What danger could be so close to town, day and into the road A distant thunder rolled among the rocks down there, reaching him. He threw down the donkey and took down his shotgun, loaded one of the sticks and tied the halter a little guy trying to reassure the animal. Slowly and with the gun before the revolt came to where the dog was barking. It was clear from the way the branches were lopped and dark spots on the floor. He tried to identify some pieces of clothing that looked green here and there, but there was no trace of anyone. As he advanced into the clearing saw more pieces of clothing under the trees and hanging from branches and soil, the dog was up to him and continued barking, turning to one side of the road, on the precipice. The tricorn appeared between his feet as he approached to look down and jumped back to the center of the clearing. He was a civil guard cocked hat, bloody and ragged echo. A noise to his left made him turn quickly in time to see. .