The story we are about to tell took place a long time ago, when there were no trains and

cars and the

world was more mysterious. It began near a verdant valley, overlooked by the last trees of the forest
now known as the Golden Forest.

We will begin with the day when, for the first time, an untruthful and cruel witchcraft, the likes of
which had never been known before, made its appearance there.

It was an October morning swept by a cold wind, and large clouds crossed the sky.

The valley was enclosed in a ring of stony mountains, a small plateau covered with a lush blanket of
grass and surrounded largely by gray rock. The exception was the mountains on the western side,
from where the beech forest sloped gently down to where the valley began.

At that time the village was no different from how it is seen now: a village of stone houses, the same
color as the rocks to which it clung. It stood on a spur of the mountains on the northern side, just
below Mount Muto.

The large meadow that stretched out over the valley began as early as the village gate and
descended to the plain, where daisy, poppy, yarrow and dandelion bloomed, and in the spring
wildflowers of chickweed, saffron and orchid also bloomed. And in the clearing in front of the door it
was easy to find a group of children cackling.

There were half a dozen of them that day.

We are particularly interested in one little girl who was eleven years old, a long hank of brown hair,
an old checked dress that covered her always peeling knees, and a pouty little face. Her name was
Anna, but everyone called her Nannina, and she stood straight next to a peer who was picking the
few flowers left over from the summer, making a bunch.

She grumbled:

"If we all start plucking flowers from the lawn, what's left?"

The other, who was squatting down to snap the stem of a dandelion, got up, shrugged and took off
running with her bunch. She had flowing light brown ringlets, a wide pink ribbon on her head and a
new dress. Her name was Mariella, and most of all she hated being called Lella or worse Lelletta,
which so the other children did with some gusto.

At that moment, under the arch of the door appeared Aunt Elena, who let out a shout to call the
children back: it was time to go back in, it was necessary to help around the house with lunch. She
had one arm stuck in the handle of a basket and the air of someone who does not have too much
patience to wait for the little ones to finish their games. Nannina was still following Lelletta with her
eyes as she ran off with the flowers, until she was attracted by something else, a twinkle. Then her
gaze went past Lelletta and settled further down, on a dark hunched figure trudging down the mule
track toward the village, her back to her, surrounded by a clatter of metal banging.
Nannina ignored Aunt Elena, took off at a run, and in a moment reached the hunched figure, who
was wrapped in a black, dusty, lined dress and kept her gaze on the ground. It was not difficult to
guess who she was, however; anyone in the village could recognize the Crazy Old Pot Lady from a
distance.

The little girl circled around her, trying to meet her gaze, but the old woman seemed not even to
have noticed her presence; she was muttering to herself as she always did, with her collection of
frying pans, braising pans, and double- and single-handled casseroles tied together and hanging over
her shoulder. One large casserole, made of beaten copper like all the others, she wore on her head
like a helmet.

"Hello," said Nannina.

"What do you want?" said the old woman without looking at her. "That you brought me some
bread?"

"Not today," answered Nannina. "What are you doing?"

"My business," answered the old woman, then she added, "The bread from yesterday was hard."

"You'll soak it all in the soup anyway! And then if I bring you fresh bread, mother will get angry. Don't
you want it anymore?"

"All right er old bread," the old woman sentenced and then resumed mumbling her mysterious
formulas.

"Then next week, when Mom makes the new bread, I'll bring you a piece of the old one, if there's
leftover," said Nannina. But the old woman had already recoiled and seemed to pay no more
attention to her.

She had already taken about ten steps, when suddenly she stopped, turned around, and began to
stare at the little girl with spirited eyes. Only after a long moment did she speak:

"You must be careful! He's coming for everyone, even your parents!" She was silent again with wide
eyes for a few moments, then turned as if nothing had happened and started walking again.

"Who?" asked Nannina. "Who is coming?"

"The Oniromancer," muttered the old woman wearily, without turning around, surrounded by the
pots and pans that rattled to the rhythm of wobbly footsteps