The hill

It was on 1234.
On the outskirts of a small town on York, surrounded by a fog so thick it was hardly possible to see just two steps beyond, there was a hill so high it was almost impossible to see its end, with slopes so steep and rugged that anyone who would have seen them would have desisted the effort of climbinf even before trying to.

However, on the full moon nights, when the silvery star's light traspassed the cloud of thick fog that hid the huge mountain, it could be seen in the distance, at the top, a small wooden house built precariously on the edge of the cliff.

Locals would say, that small cabana had been centuries ago the home of a poor family who could not do more than cultivate the barren land surrounding the cabin. By then, the sky was clear and the mountain could be seen from several miles away. The gentle slopes showed the path that leaded to the summit, surrounded by shrubs and wild flowers whose aroma accompanied the walkers throughout the journey.

Those who still remember the story, would say that at harvest time the father went down to the village driving a little cart pulled by a donkey, beside him two little kids too thin for their age, running around, and in the wagon, the few groceries they had managed to harvest from their lands. And every year, no matter how hard the winter had been, their vegetables were always the best, the largest and tastiest on the region.

Maybe that's why the Inquisition arrested them all, and sent them to the gallows that stood in the center of the nearest city square, where the fires burned them alive for the crime of being called witches. The two boys, ages 4 and 8, were the last ones to succumb to the flames.

Since that awful day, both the valley and the hill had been shrouded in a thick, dense fog that rises only once a year, for a heartbeat, always the same day, at the same time. The time the pyres that consumed the four villagers were turned on, that fateful dawn when the High Inquisitors sentence was fulfilled.