Olì took the bundle, clasped the child's hand in hers, and led him to the kitchen. There she gave him a bowl of coffee and a piece of bread. Then she threw an old sack over his shoulders and they went out.
It was dawn.
The cold was intense. Fog filled the valley and hid the immense cloister of mountains. Here and there a snow-dad summit emerged like a silvery cloud. Monte Spada, a huge block of bronze, now and then appeared for a moment through the moving veil of vapour. Anania and his mother crossed the deserted street and stepped out into the mist. They began to descend the high road which went down lower and lower into a distance full of mystery. Anania's little heart beat; for the grey, damp road, watched over by the outermost houses of Fonni, whose scaled roofs seemed black wings plucked of their feathers, this road which continuously descended towards an unknown, cloud-filled abyss—was the road to Nuoro.
Mother and son walked fast. The boy often had to run, but he did not tire. He was used to running, and the lower they descended the more excited he felt, hot and eager as a bird. More than once he asked—
"Where are we going, mother?"
Once she answered, "To pick chestnuts." Another time, "Into the country." Another, "You will see." Anania danced, ran, stumbled, rolled. Now and then he felt his chest for the charm. The fog was lifting. High up the sky appeared, a watery blue, furrowed, as it were, by long streaks of white lead. The mountains showed livid through the mist. At last a ray of pale sunshine illuminated the little church of Gonare, which on the top of a pyramidal mountain stood up against a background of leaden cloud.
"Is that where we're going?" asked Anania, pointing to a wood of chestnut trees. Drops hung from the leaves and from the bursting thorny fruit. A little bird cried in the silence of the hour and the place.
"Further on," said Olì.
Anania resumed his delightful running. Never in any excursion had he pushed so far. The continued descent, the changed nature, the grass slopes, the moss-grown walls, the spinnies of hazel, the red berries on the thorn trees, the little chirruping birds, all seemed to him new and glorious.
The fog vanished. A triumphant sun cleared the mountains. The clouds over Monte Gonare had become a beautiful golden pink. The little church was so distinct against them that it seemed near.