Chapter 5
The Great Pig Race
The sky over Plovdiv had been a cheerful, robin’s-egg blue for days, promising a perfect start to the annual pilgrimage. Baba Yana, her silver braid coiled like a sleeping serpent at her nape, patted Babe’s broad, bristly flank. Babe, a pig of such magnificent proportions he could have been mistaken for a small, pink boulder, snuffled contentedly, his intelligent eyes fixed on the horizon. Around them, the other grandmothers fussed over their own porcine steeds: Elitsa, her face alight with anticipation, braided wildflowers into Rosie’s already impressive mane; and stout, hearty Anya adjusted the woven saddle on her prize boar, Boris. The air buzzed with the familiar excitement of their most cherished tradition.
Then, the sky turned. Not gradually, but with a sudden, violent swipe of grey. The wind, which had been whispering secrets through the ancient oaks, began to howl, ripping at laundry lines and rattling windowpanes. Rain, heavy and relentless, lashed down, turning the dusty village paths into muddy rivers.
“This is no ordinary shower,” Baba Yana murmured, her brow furrowed. She’d seen many storms in her long life, but this one felt… different. It carried a raw, untamed power that made even Babe shift uneasily.
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