The winter of 1956 descended upon Sardinia like a chilling shadow, an icy fist that gripped the island in an unprecedented vise. In mid-January, the wind howled through the peaks of Gennargentu, scattering snowflakes like ash across the Campeda plateau. The sea, a raging monster, lashed at the steamers arriving from Genoa and Civitavecchia, forcing them to seek shelter along the coast. Aboard the Tirrenia motor vessel Sicilia, Louis Bonfant and Marie Denard, two young French archaeologists, battled seasickness, their stomachs twisted, while dreaming of the ancient stones that awaited them. Graduates of the Panthéon-Sorbonne, they had left Paris with a scholarship and an obsession: the megalithic alignments of Goni, Pranu Mutteddu, a place that whispered buried secrets, similar to those of Carnac, in Brittany. Coordinates: 39° 34ʹ 40.60ʺ N 09° 17ʹ 12.10ʺ E. A dot on the map, but for them, a portal to the unknown.
Goni: The Ancient Heart of Sardinia
Goni was a small village clinging to the Gerrei hills, a place where time seemed to have stopped, trapped among nuraghes, menhirs, and domus de janas, the “houses of the fairies.” These small caves carved into the rock, sacred to the ancient Sardinians, were not simple tombs: they were doors, perhaps to another world, or so the old women of the village whispered, with low voices and wary eyes. Louis and Marie, with their maps and notebooks crammed with annotations, had come to study, but they didn’t know that those stones would study them in turn, carving into their souls like a knife into flesh. Pranu Mutteddu was not just an archaeological site: it was a living place, breathing energy, calling to those who dared to approach.
Luisa Sanna’s Welcome
Welcoming them was Luisa Sanna Deiana, a petite woman with raven-black hair and skin so fair it seemed illuminated from within. At sixty-eight, she didn’t show her age: there was something about her, an energy that made the air crackle, as if time slipped past her without touching her. Her house, on Goni’s main street, was a warm refuge against the biting cold, with a roaring fireplace and a bookcase that covered an entire wall, the spines of the volumes like sentinels of ancient knowledge. A former teacher with a passion for France, Luisa welcomed them with a smile that seemed to know secrets they ignored. Marie, who spoke fluent Italian thanks to lessons from a Bolognese professor, had exchanged letters with her, finding her immediately likable, almost an accomplice.
The Stones of Pranu Mutteddu
Over a plate of homemade pasta and local cheeses, they spoke of Pranu Mutteddu, of its stones erected thousands of years earlier, perhaps to mark energetic lines hidden underground. Luisa listened, her questions sharp as blades, revealing a knowledge that went beyond mere curiosity. She recounted inexplicable phenomena: during the equinoxes and solstices, the stones seemed to vibrate, emanating an energy that enveloped those who approached, an ecstasy that could heal or destroy. But there was more. Goni guarded dark stories, legends of janas, fairies or witches, spirits said to be capable of turning anyone who dared to steal their treasures into stone. And then there was Maria Elena Artizzu, a figure who hovered like a shadow over the village.
The Mystery of Maria Elena and Anna Dejanas
Maria Elena lived in a house next to Luisa’s, separated only by a low wall. She was an elusive figure, her face hidden by a black embroidered headscarf, wrinkles that changed expression like a stormy sky. No one knew her age, no one entered her house, a place that seemed to breathe mystery. In the village, they called her a sorceress, a healer who knew herbs and ancient litanies, but who avoided the church, attracting suspicion and rumors. She was said to spend hours among the menhirs, disappearing for days, and that her house, in her absence, echoed with rustling and unnatural voices. Then, one January day, an austere woman introduced herself as her relative, Anna Dejanas. Dressed in black, with a pale face and a voice that cut through the air, she said that Maria Elena had retired to the peninsula for health reasons. But Anna was no less enigmatic: her nocturnal walks towards Pranu Mutteddu fueled rumors that she was a coga, a witch capable of conjuring storms. Her name, whispered in low tones, evoked fear, as if speaking it could summon evil spirits.
The Encounter with the Unknown
Louis and Marie, armed with a compass, a tape measure, and a copper pendulum, set off towards Pranu Mutteddu one January morning, the cold biting their bones and low clouds promising rain. The menhirs stood like silent giants, the sound of sheep bells in the distance like a heartbeat of the earth. But something was wrong. The pendulum, in Louis’s hands, began to spin, then stopped, attracted by an invisible force, overheating until it burned his fingers. Marie, placing a hand on a stele, felt a tingling sensation rise through her body, then darkness swallowed her. She fainted. Louis barely caught her in time, as a dark shadow materialized in the mist: a hooded, faceless figure, with eyes red as embers. A feminine voice, deep and hissing, enveloped them, speaking an unknown language. Terror paralyzed them, until a shepherd found them, lying among the menhirs, alive but shaken, and took them back to Luisa.
The Story of Enrica
Sitting in front of the fireplace, with cups of steaming tea, they recounted what had happened. Luisa listened, then narrated a blood-chilling story. Years earlier, a young woman from the village, Enrica, Maria Elena Artizzu’s great-great-grandmother, had been murdered. A skilled healer, she gathered herbs at Pranu Mutteddu, where the earth’s energy made her cures powerful. But a man, blinded by hatred for a neighbor, asked her for a curse. Enrica refused, faithful to good. He stabbed her, dragging her body among the menhirs under a full moon, burying her in a hidden grave. He didn’t notice the three black figures watching him. They grabbed him, their bony hands like claws, and killed him, leaving his body disfigured, attributed to a fierce animal. But Enrica, her spirit, remained trapped, wandering among the stones.
The Ritual in the Abandoned House
That night, a rhythmic noise woke Louis and Marie. Something was banging on the shutters. Louis opened the window: nothing, only snow. But in the garden, a female figure, with a white face and black eyes, stared at them, inviting them to follow her. She passed through a barred door of Maria Elena’s house. The two, driven by an inexplicable force, followed her, finding the door ajar. Inside, a milky glow illuminated an orderly house, as if suspended in time, with bowls of herbs on the table and an ancient bookcase. A slightly ajar small door emanated a flickering light. They entered, finding the figure sitting in a corner, on a chair next to a wrought-iron bed. Three black silhouettes appeared behind them, chanting an ancient litany.
Luisa’s Voice
Luisa Sanna appeared in the doorway, her hood down, her voice echoing like distant thunder. “It’s no coincidence you’re here,” she said. She spoke of subterranean energies, of ancient builders, of a gift that flowed in Marie’s blood, a connection with the janas, the magical women of the past. Enrica, she explained, was a spirit awaiting liberation. She guided Marie in a ritual: a circle drawn with chalk, the three black figures forming a chain, Louis burning verbena. Marie felt the earth vibrate, saw images of women dancing among the menhirs, then Enrica, dead, rising towards the sky. Her spirit dissolved into a fragrant embrace of herbs, while the three figures vanished. The house changed: the chair and bed became bare again. That night, a roar split Goni: the house of Enrica’s murderer collapsed, perhaps due to the snow, or perhaps to a curse fulfilled.
The Legacy of Verveine
Years later, Louis and Marie returned to Goni with their daughter, Verveine, whom Luisa initiated into the Ancient Art. Among the menhirs of Pranu Mutteddu, where a verbena plant grows, they meditated, united by an invisible thread that bound past and present, archaeology and magic, in a place where the stones still whisper.
