arguments, opinions, reasons. And with the passing years, he has learned, by the light of his night lamp, to carve bits of wood into a great many beautifully shaped animals and birds and also unknown creatures that he saw in his imagination or in his dreams. Almon gives those carved wood creatures to the village children as gifts: Matti got a pinecone cat and kittens carved from the bark of a walnut tree. For Little Nimi, he carved a squirrel, and for Maya, Almon made two long-necked cranes with wings spread and stretched out in flight.
It was only from those small carvings and the pictures their teacher Emanuella drew on the blackboard that the children knew what shape a dog was and what a cat looked like, or a butterfly, a fish, a chick, a kid, or a calf. And Emanuella taught some of the children how to imitate the sounds of the animals, sounds that the people of the village surely remembered from their childhood, before the animals disappeared, but that the children had never heard in their lives. Maya and Matti almost knew something they were forbidden to know. And they were careful not to let anyone suspect that they knew or almost knew. Sometimes they met secretly behind the abandoned hayloft, where they would sit and whisper for about fifteen minutes, and when they left, they each took a different path. Of all the grownups in the village, there was perhaps only one they could trust. Or not: several times Matti and Maya had almost decided to tell their secret to Danir the Roofer, who in the evening would sometimes joke loudly with his young friends in the village square about things that children were forbidden to hear. And when he drank wine with his friends, he was known to joke about a horse, a goat, a dog he was thinking of bringing from one of the villages farther up the valley.
What would happen if they told Danir the Roofer their secret? Or maybe they should tell old Almon instead? And what if, one day, they dared to go a little way into the darkness of the forest to try to find out if their secret was real or only an illusion, a passing dream that Nimi the Owl might have, but certainly not them?
And meanwhile, they waited without knowing what they were actually waiting for. Once, toward evening, Matti bravely asked his father why the creatures had vanished from the village. His father was in no hurry to answer that question. He stood up from the kitchen chair, paced the room for a few moments, then stopped and grasped Matti's shoulders. But instead of looking at his son, the father's eyes wandered to a bare spot on the wall above the door, where the plaster had crumbled because of the seeping dampness beneath it, and said, Listen, Matti. It's like this. Once, things happened here in the village, things we're not proud of. But not everyone is to blame. Certainly not to the same degree. Besides, who are you to judge us? You're still a child. Don't judge. You have no right to judge the grownups. And anyway, who told you that there were animals here once? Maybe there were. And maybe there weren't. After all, so much time has passed. We forgot, Matti. We forgot and that's it. Leave it alone. Who wants to remember? Now go down and bring some potatoes from the cellar, and stop asking questions all the time.
As he got up suddenly to leave the room, Matti's father said one more thing: Listen, let's agree on one thing, you and Iâthat this conversation never happened. That we never even talked about it.
Almost all the other parents chose to deny it. Or to avoid the whole subject by keeping silent. Not to talk about it at all. Especially not in front of the children.
4
Silently and sadly, the village lived its simple life.
Day after day, the men and women went out to work in the fields, in the vineyards and orchards, and in the evening, they would return wearily to their small homes. Every morning, the village children went to school. In the afternoon, they would play in the empty yards, wander through the
It was only from those small carvings and the pictures their teacher Emanuella drew on the blackboard that the children knew what shape a dog was and what a cat looked like, or a butterfly, a fish, a chick, a kid, or a calf. And Emanuella taught some of the children how to imitate the sounds of the animals, sounds that the people of the village surely remembered from their childhood, before the animals disappeared, but that the children had never heard in their lives. Maya and Matti almost knew something they were forbidden to know. And they were careful not to let anyone suspect that they knew or almost knew. Sometimes they met secretly behind the abandoned hayloft, where they would sit and whisper for about fifteen minutes, and when they left, they each took a different path. Of all the grownups in the village, there was perhaps only one they could trust. Or not: several times Matti and Maya had almost decided to tell their secret to Danir the Roofer, who in the evening would sometimes joke loudly with his young friends in the village square about things that children were forbidden to hear. And when he drank wine with his friends, he was known to joke about a horse, a goat, a dog he was thinking of bringing from one of the villages farther up the valley.
What would happen if they told Danir the Roofer their secret? Or maybe they should tell old Almon instead? And what if, one day, they dared to go a little way into the darkness of the forest to try to find out if their secret was real or only an illusion, a passing dream that Nimi the Owl might have, but certainly not them?
And meanwhile, they waited without knowing what they were actually waiting for. Once, toward evening, Matti bravely asked his father why the creatures had vanished from the village. His father was in no hurry to answer that question. He stood up from the kitchen chair, paced the room for a few moments, then stopped and grasped Matti's shoulders. But instead of looking at his son, the father's eyes wandered to a bare spot on the wall above the door, where the plaster had crumbled because of the seeping dampness beneath it, and said, Listen, Matti. It's like this. Once, things happened here in the village, things we're not proud of. But not everyone is to blame. Certainly not to the same degree. Besides, who are you to judge us? You're still a child. Don't judge. You have no right to judge the grownups. And anyway, who told you that there were animals here once? Maybe there were. And maybe there weren't. After all, so much time has passed. We forgot, Matti. We forgot and that's it. Leave it alone. Who wants to remember? Now go down and bring some potatoes from the cellar, and stop asking questions all the time.
As he got up suddenly to leave the room, Matti's father said one more thing: Listen, let's agree on one thing, you and Iâthat this conversation never happened. That we never even talked about it.
Almost all the other parents chose to deny it. Or to avoid the whole subject by keeping silent. Not to talk about it at all. Especially not in front of the children.
4
Silently and sadly, the village lived its simple life.
Day after day, the men and women went out to work in the fields, in the vineyards and orchards, and in the evening, they would return wearily to their small homes. Every morning, the village children went to school. In the afternoon, they would play in the empty yards, wander through the
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