Ardor by Lily Prior

Ponderosa went back into the room and banged the shutters behind her. Although Arcadio Carnabuci felt the dampness on his head, was temporarily blinded by moisture in his eyes, and became conscious of it permeating his clothing, he was at a loss as to what had happened. This was not the outcome he had anticipated. In due course, an uneasy feeling came to him: that he had somehow offended her. Slowly, and seemingly shrunken to half his former size, Arcadio Carnabuci slunk the short distance to his cottage.
    And I followed him through the shadows with my heart about to burst at the unbearable cruelty of the world.

CHAPTER ONE
    E ventually, drained to exhaustion by exaltation and despair, I gave up waiting outside Arcadio Carnabuci’s cottage for him to come out and claim me. His every thought was of the stranger. My own situation was ever more hopeless. He would never notice me now.
    I dragged my poor little hooves along the road to the town and entered the gate at Concetta Crocetta’s premises with more misery in my heart than it was designed to contain. To my surprise and embarrassment, I found the district nurse pacing impatiently back and forth across the yard with a lantern in her hand.
    â€œWhere have you been?” she demanded, throwing my saddle over my back. “Maybe I should follow the advice of the District Health Authority and get a moped. Belinda Fondi has gone into labor. We must hurry.”
    In spite of my exhaustion I allowed myself to be boarded by Concetta Crocetta, clutching her bag of medical implements, and we set off to the Fondi house. With every step I felt I was leaving a little smear of myself behind on the road: broken-heart paste that would be mercilessly kicked over by other passing feet. My mistress continued to chide me for my late-night disappearances and expressed her intention of tethering me inside the stable by means of a rope. But no rope could keep me from my man.
    The dark sky seemed scarcely able to support the weight of the swollen moon. The stars twinkled at our passing, and high up in the firmament the faintest echoes of Arcadio Carnabuci’s song lingered still.
    As we were so late, the labor was in an advanced stage by the time we reached the Fondi farm. No sooner had Concetta Crocetta scrubbed her hands and arms in a basin, donned her crisp white apron, and laid out her instruments than the baby, Serafino, made his entrance into the world. As Concetta Crocetta bathed him, she noted with medical interest the tiny imperfections on his shoulder blades, one on either side. Warts. Or so it seemed.
    â€œNothing to worry about, my dears,” she said to the anxious parents, “lots of babies have them.”
    But Belinda Fondi could not feel entirely reassured. She wanted her baby to be perfect, and although she was trying hard to be delighted, she wanted to cry.
    â€œIt was that singing, wasn’t it?” she asked Concetta Crocetta sadly. “That singing’s what’s made the baby go wrong.”
    â€œNo, dear,” said the nurse, giving her a hug, “superstitious nonsense that. It’s warts, plain and simple.”
    Her work done, Concetta Crocetta left the house and foundme grazing on some embryonic apples in the hedge bordering the yard. While she had been inside, the sky had changed from black to gray. The great butter moon had disappeared over the mountains and the stars were extinguished one by one. The air was warmer, softer. As she coaxed me to abandon my early breakfast, Concetta Crocetta felt something alight on her cap. The same little things began to land on my shaggy gray coat, on the pristine blue serge of the nurse’s cape, and on the shiny shoes on her feet. They tickled past Concetta Crocetta’s face as they fell to the ground. The nurse caught hold of one and looked at it. It was a feather; the tiniest blue-gray feather, soft as down.
    The feathers fell thick and fast. They were raining from the sky. Soon I was