The whirring wheels were music to Immacolato, what did it matter if the villagers considered him mad? He had escaped, he would no longer hear them. They would never change; he thought back to his father and grandfather, one as ignorant as the other. Years ago a few villagers had gone to fight against the Abyssinians but none had returned. That had convinced the others to stay put and deride rash adventures but for Immacolato anything was better than staying and decaying. The villagers hated him because he called them blockheads; “Where’s your degree?” they asked. He promised himself that…