The wind scours people’s faces and whips across the pale, open space. Here in the village square, everyone feels the insistent cold of early autumn. It drifts along the walls of the houses, finds its way into every corner and even creeps under your skin with its icy touch.
They all come here: All the peasants from these parts have loaded up their carts or beasts and traversed the bleak countryside to sell their produce here in the village square.
But the summertime, which is supposed to ripen their grains and sweeten their fruits, is but a shadow of its former self. It’s actually as if it never arrives at all – as if wet spring is simply followed by cold autumn. The fields remain pallid brown and damp yellow – and mildew and rot fester in the half-empty barns of the peasants.
What is it that dilutes the rays of the sun and blocks its life-giving warmth? Is something demonic lurking in the shadows, orchestrating all this famine and death?