ABSTRACT
Virgilio wasn’t supposed to go to the mountain. Not any more. Not just because of what had happened to Zaida but because of the hold the mountain had over him, keeping him captive, as much fascinated as scared. Now when he went he stood on the outside, as a spectator, timid, not like before when he was with his godfather, the holy hermit, professor Lino Valle. Now he peered through a lens darkly. Now he saw shapes and phantoms that weren’t there before.
