When the Mountain keeps Secrets

When the Wind Comes Calling

I woke to the amber light of autumn sun filtering through the small window under the eaves. For a moment I didn’t remember where I was—the quilt’s weight, the faint tang of woodsmoke in the air, and the distant toll of a single church bell made it feel like I’d slipped into a dream of another life.

Then the memory of last night came back in fragments: the voice, the tapping, the whistle. The way the candle had bowed and gone out, leaving me in the dark.

I sat up slowly. The air was cool enough to prickle my skin, but not yet the biting cold of winter.

The shutters were still closed, but soft light leaked between them. I slipped from bed, my toes curling against the chill of the floorboards, and unlatched the hook. The wood creaked as I pushed the shutters open.

The view took me by surprise. Below, the village clustered against the slope like a scattering of stone dropped from the fortress above. Slate roofs glistened with morning dew, narrow lanes twisting between them. Beyond the last row of houses, the land fell away into a sea of bare-branched trees, their last copper leaves clinging stubbornly in the breeze. Far beyond, the peaks were pale and streaked with early frost—a quiet warning of what was coming.

And there, on the narrow sill outside my window, lay something small.

A sprig of rosemary, bound tightly with a strip of red cloth.

It hadn’t been there yesterday evening.

I touched the glass. It was cold to the touch. Whoever had left it would have had to climb up the wall—or reach from somewhere very close by. I leaned out slightly, craning my neck. Nothing below but the narrow alley between houses, its cobblestones still damp with dew.

A faint gust of wind carried up the scent of woodsmoke, mingled with something sharper—almost metallic.

“Misia!”

I turned. Nonna Maria stood in the doorway, hands on her hips. “If you let the cold in before breakfast, you’ll wake with a sore throat. Come down.”

I glanced back at the rosemary, meaning to mention it, but the words stuck in my throat. Somehow it felt like mine now, a secret between me and whoever had left it.

⸻

The kitchen was warm from the hearth, the air thick with the scent of chestnut porridge. Nonna moved quickly between the fire and the table, her braid swinging. The small window above the sink glowed with the kind of autumn light that seems to come from the stone itself.

“We’ll go to the market this morning,” she said. “It’s Thursday—the farmers come down from Santo Stefano and Castel del Monte. You should know their faces.”

I sat, wrapping my hands around a cup of milk warmed with honey. “And what will they think of me?”

She didn’t look up from the pot. Instead, she set a bowl of steaming porridge in front of me, sprinkled with cinnamon. “Mangia,” she said—eat. “We leave in ten minutes.”

I ate because she asked me to, because the warmth felt good going down, because the faint sweetness of cinnamon softened everything that had been sharp since last night. When I finished, she slid me her crust of bread with a look that meant no argument, and I took it, because that was its own kind of affection.

⸻

The village felt different in daylight. The same narrow streets I’d glimpsed from my window twisted like veins between buildings of pale stone, their windows set deep and crooked. Laundry lines swayed overhead, shirts and stockings fluttering in the cool air. A dog trotted past with a stick in its mouth longer than the dog itself; it paused to look at me as if deciding whether I belonged.

The fortress loomed above wherever I turned—its crumbling walls catching the sun, its shadow stretching down over the houses. It was less a ruin than a sleeping thing, watching.

We passed the small chapel, its door propped open. Bees drifted around a dish of sugar water on the sill. Inside, a woman in a dark shawl lit candles one by one, lips moving with each flame. She looked up as we passed and murmured something to Nonna. I caught the words la ragazza—the girl—before we turned the corner.

The market square was no more than a widening of the main lane, but it was alive with colour and sound. Stalls draped with burlap offered late apples, jars of honey, wheels of pale cheese sweating faintly in the sun. A man in a heavy coat roasted chestnuts over a brazier, the air sweet and smoky. Someone had strung a row of red peppers like beads; they gleamed against the grey of stone like small hearts.

“Stay near,” Nonna said, not unkindly.

Nonna Maria moved among the stalls like a general inspecting her troops. She greeted each vendor by name, her voice brisk but not unfriendly. People glanced at me—some smiling politely, others with curiosity that lingered a beat too long. I had the sudden, childish urge to smooth my hair.

We stopped at the bread stall, where two women were weighing loaves on an old brass scale. Their heads bent close together as we approached, voices low.

“…they found it by the sheepfold,” one murmured. “Same as last time. Blood, but no body.”

The other clucked her tongue. “You think it was—”

She cut herself off when she noticed us, her eyes darting to Nonna.

“Buongiorno, Maria,” the first said—good morning, Maria—forcing a smile. “Loaf of rye for you?”

“Rye,” Nonna said, “and a small wheat.”

As they wrapped the bread in paper, I caught the other whispering, “Three nights in a row…” before the noise of the market swallowed the rest.

I pretended to look at the apples. The nearest one had a bruise in the shape of a crescent moon.

We moved on. At a stall of dried herbs, an old man with a limp handed Nonna a bundle of lavender tied with twine. “For your windows,” he said, and then, after a long look at me, “In case the wind comes calling.”

I felt my skin go cold despite the sun.

Nonna paid without comment and slipped the lavender into her basket.

We passed a weaving stall where a girl my age was teasing burrs out of a length of coarse wool. When she looked up, her eyes went first to my boots, then my shawl, then my face—measuring me, the way people in Rome used to measure each other by what they wore and not who they were. But there was something gentler in her gaze than the city ever had. When I smiled, she smiled back, quick and shy, and returned to the wool.

At the cheese stall, a man with hands like boulders cut us a wedge of pecorino and wrapped it in paper so neatly it felt like a gift. “For your grandmother,” he said, nodding at me. “The strongest women in this village always have a bit of salt and a bit of cheese. That’s what keeps the bones from breaking.”

“Then give us a second wedge,” Nonna said. “Her bones are still learning.”

He laughed, but his eyes flicked down the lane, the way eyes do when someone is listening for trouble.

We stopped at a table where a thin woman in a blue shawl sold jars of honey. Bees drowsed lazily around the lids. “Chestnut,” she said, tapping one jar, “and here—wildflower. The last of the season.” Her gaze slid to me. “New face.”

“My granddaughter,” Nonna said. Nothing more.

“From the city?” the woman asked. It wasn’t unkind, but the word carried a dozen guesses.

“Yes.”

“Then you won’t miss the trams here,” she said. “You’ll hear the wind instead.” Her voice made it sound like a promise and a warning at once.

As Nonna counted out coins, two men nearby argued over a sack of grain. Their voices rose, and one of them cut the air with his hand in a gesture I recognised—the same horns the driver had made yesterday, palm down, quick and low. The other flinched and spat to his left to undo the bad luck, then laughed too loudly to make the fear go away.

“Come,” Nonna said. “We’re going to Lina’s.”

“Who’s Lina?”

“A woman who knows how to sew. And how to keep her mouth shut.”

We ducked into a narrow doorway half-hidden by a curtain of beadwork. Inside, the air smelled of soap and faint perfume. Spools of thread lined a shelf like a row of bright birds; needles gleamed in a pin cushion like a small hedgehog. At the counter, a woman with iron-grey hair and a tape measure looped around her neck looked up and—without smiling—opened her arms to Nonna.

“Maria,” she said, and kissed her cheek. Then she looked at me. Her gaze was bright as a needle. “So. The granddaughter.”

“Artemisia,” I said.

“Good name.” She turned to a drawer and took out a packet of needles, a packet of pins, and a small blue ribbon. She placed the ribbon on top of the pile and pushed it toward me. “For your hair,” she said. “You look like someone who forgets to tie it.”

I did not know whether to be offended or pleased. “Thank you,” I said.

Lina glanced at the door, then back at Nonna. “You heard?”

“Everyone hears,” Nonna said. “Everyone pretends not to.”

Lina made the horns with her hand beneath the counter. “Three nights,” she murmured. “But they keep saying it’s wolves. Wolves don’t clean up after themselves.”

Nonna’s jaw tightened. “Enough.”

Lina’s eyes softened. “You always did hate gossip,” she said. “Fine. No gossip. Only this—” She tapped the needles. “Don’t mend by an open window after dark. It tugs at the thread.”

“What tugs?” I asked, before I could stop myself.

“Whatever has the patience to wait,” Lina said. “Capisci?” Do you understand?

I wasn’t sure I did, but I nodded anyway.

Outside again, the market had thinned. A gust of wind sent pepper strings rattling and lifted a wave of dust that made everyone blink at the same time, as if the village itself had closed its eyes against something.

By midmorning our baskets were heavy with bread, chestnuts, and a thick wedge of pecorino. As we made our way back, I asked, “Why did that man say ‘in case the wind comes calling’? And what were those women talking about? Something about blood?”

Nonna didn’t answer right away. She kept walking, boots crunching on the scattered gravel of the lane. The sun had climbed, but in the narrow streets the light fell in slanted strips like bookmarks between pages.

“Some here think the wind is just wind,” she said at last. “Others… know better. As for gossip, it grows fast in these hills. Best not to water it.”

“That sounds like a way of saying nothing.”

“That sounds like a way of keeping you safe.”

I bit back a reply. She was right; she was also infuriating.

We turned down a narrower passage, the kind that demands you walk single file. At the end of it, a small square opened like a held breath. An old man sat on a low stool outside his door, whittling a length of wood into something that might become a spoon. A black-and-white dog slept at his feet with one eye not entirely closed.

“Buongiorno,” he said as we passed—good day—and then to me, “You have your mother’s walk.”

I stopped. “You knew her?”

“Everyone knew her,” he said. His knife never stopped moving. “She used to race the boys up to the spring and beat them every time.” He nodded toward the slope above the village. “I hope you know how to run.”

“Why?” I asked, my voice too light.

He looked at the dog instead of me. “Because sometimes the mountain wants you to move faster than your fear.”

Nonna’s hand touched my sleeve. “We’re going,” she said.

We took three steps before the old man added, not loudly, “If you hear whistling, close your mouth. Fright escapes from the lips first.”

I felt my fingers tighten around the basket handle.

Back in the lane by our house, a group of boys were kicking a rag-stuffed ball against a wall, the thud-thud of it echoing off stone. One of them stopped and stared at me as if remembering where he’d seen me before. He had dark hair and eyes the colour of the river after rain. When he saw me looking, he gave a crooked smile—the kind that could mean trouble or invitation.

“Buongiorno,” he said. He didn’t force a translation. His voice was roughened by the cold air.

“Buongiorno,” I managed, and hated the warmth in my cheeks.

The ball rolled to his foot. He didn’t kick it back to his friends right away. “You’re Maria’s granddaughter,” he said.

“Yes.”

“City girl.” Not unkind, not kind. He tipped his head toward the slope. “Don’t go up alone. The trails forget their manners after dark.”

“Trails don’t have manners,” I said, and then wished I hadn’t; it sounded like something I might have said in Rome, for the pleasure of being right.

He smiled with one side of his mouth. “You’ll see.”

“Enough,” Nonna said behind me, not sharp but certain. She didn’t look at the boy, and he didn’t look at her; they acknowledged each other by not acknowledging. The ball thudded against the wall again, as if it had only paused to breathe.

When we stepped inside, the smell of rosemary met me again, stronger this time. It seemed to live in the walls, in the cracks of the table, in the braid at Nonna’s neck. I thought of the sprig on my windowsill, bound in red.

I almost asked her about it, but something held me back. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted her to say that should not have been there or someone is watching over you. I could live for a little while longer with not knowing which was true.

We put away the shopping in silence. Nonna wrapped the cheese in cloth and stowed it in the coolest corner; she slid the bread onto a high shelf where the cat couldn’t reach. She tucked the lavender into the lintel above the door with a practiced push. The three guardians of the house—bread, salt, fire—looked on from their places, and I felt the ridiculous urge to greet them, as if they were people.

“Rest an hour,” Nonna said. “Then help me with the laundry.”

“I can—”

“Rest,” she repeated, softer. “Your head is still in the city. Let the wind clear it.”

In my room I set the basket on the chest and, after a moment’s hesitation, opened the shutters again. The alley was empty. A fly traced a lazy circle in the light before deciding the morning had more interesting places to be.

I reached for the rosemary on the sill. The red cloth was rough against my fingers, stained at one edge with something that could have been sap. Or something else. I didn’t want to think of blood. I slid the sprig beneath my pillow, as if the mattress were a pocket and I was a child hiding a treasure.

I lay down, not to sleep, but to listen.

The village had a sound I was not used to—a kind of layered quiet. The distant clank of a bucket at the well. The low murmur of women’s voices rising and falling like water. The occasional bleat of a goat, which always sounds like an argument it’s losing. Somewhere far above, a hawk cried once and then again, and then the air went back to being a room where sound only visited.

When I got up, the hour had passed without me noticing. We did the washing in the yard where the sun could reach the tubs. My hands went pink with cold. Nonna’s hands did not change colour at all.

We strung the damp shirts on a line that ran from the fig tree to the corner of the house. The fig leaves were mostly gone, the few remaining rattling like paper. When a breeze came, the shirts lifted their sleeves as if raising their hands to ask a question. I half expected one of them to speak my name.

I looked up at the fortress. In daylight it was less terrible and more sad. Whole seasons must live up there without anyone to notice them properly. The thought felt like a stone in my chest.

“Don’t stare,” Nonna said. “It enjoys the attention.”

“I thought it was a ruin.”

“Ruins can enjoy things.”

We ate early—a heel of bread with cheese, a handful of chestnuts split and warmed by the fire until their skins opened like secrets. Nonna showed me the trick of popping them with a thumb so the meat slid free. Mine broke into pieces; hers came out whole. Of course they did.

As the light faded, she went through the house with a care that was almost ritual, bolting shutters, smoothing curtains, checking the latch of the back door twice. She swept a small ring of salt across the threshold and brushed the remainder into her palm, where it looked like snow that had lost its way.

“Superstition?” I asked lightly.

“Insurance,” she said.

We sat by the hearth for a little while, the fire low and calm. Nonna mended a tear in a pillowcase with small, quick stitches that looked like they’d always been part of the cloth. I sorted the buttons in her tin by size and colour because it felt like a useful thing to do. She did not mention Lina’s warning about sewing by an open window after dark, and neither did I, but the shutters were closed tight all the same.

After a time she said, “Sleep.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Sleep anyway. You’ll need the habit.”

“For what?”

“For living here.”

I took my candle and climbed the stairs. In my room, I set it on the table and touched the pillow to make sure the rosemary was still there. Its scent rose—a little bitter, a little green. I imagined it was the smell of courage.

I lay under the quilt and listened, not wanting to, but unable to stop. The wind moved through the eaves and around the corners like a thing that knew the house better than I did. The fire below cracked softly. A pot settled on its hook with a sigh.

I told myself I was being foolish. That last night had been travel and nerves and grief rearranging themselves into sound. That the whistle had only been the wind finding a hole to sing through. That the tapping had been branches, or the house adjusting to a new person within it.

Still, I kept the sprig of rosemary under my pillow.

Just in case.