Everyone played their part and nerves were so stretched no one slept for more than hour. The day dawned dull and grey with a thick November mist that veiled the view from the train’s widows as the locomotive chugged into the wayside station of Bogomil, a hamlet of stone hovels, which if they could see, was actually in the middle of nowhere. Waiting for them was a string of donkeys and a small herd of fine looking Andalusian horses. They breakfasted under some dwarfish pine trees while the entire population of Bogomil, meaning three men, five women and eleven children, loaded the luggage onto the backs of the donkeys. There was no sign of any brigands and none had been spotted for several weeks said one of the Bogomils – a craggy-faced, pipe-smoking, back-bent crone. The man who supplied the horses was called El Lopes. He owned a prosperous farm outside Lourdes and was of the opinion that Sarazan had moved east, closer to Carcassonne, to warmer climes ahead of the winter chill and the first snowfall.
What do You think about The Curse Of The Singing Wolf?
