Bitter Greens

by Kate Forsyth

  Margherita woke with a start. ‘Lucio!’ she sobbed. ‘Oh, Lucio!’

  ‘Ssssh, now,’ a woman’s voice said kindly. ‘We’ll be there soon.’

  ‘Where? Where are we going?’ Margherita’s voice was creaky. She opened her eyes and saw a pale blue sky above, flecked with tiny clouds like brightly coloured fish. The light hurt her eyes. She winced and covered her face with her hand. It seemed as if she was lying in a bed, but the bed rocked weirdly beneath her and she could hear water lapping. She tried to sit up, but her limbs felt weighted down. Panic flooded through her. Struggling up on one elbow, she realised she was in a small boat, wrapped up in blankets. Her tiny babies were tucked in beside her. Her son was awake, sucking furiously at his hand, his indigo-blue eyes staring up at the sky. Her daughter lay limply, her face deathly pale.

  ‘Just you lie still and rest now,’ the woman said. It was the fishwife from Limone, a shawl wrapped about her head. ‘You’ve got milk fever. But don’t you worry now. We’re taking you to the wise woman. She’ll know what to do.’

  Even though Margherita heard her words, it was hard to understand their meaning. Everything felt so strange. She looked down at the little heads tucked up against her. Their birth seemed like a dream. But it had been real. Did that mean that Lucio’s fall from the tower was real? Tears choked her. She wanted to leap up, to shout, to run, to hurry to Lucio’s side. But she could scarcely lift her head.

  ‘Try and rest,’ the fishwife said. ‘The wind is with us. We’ll be there soon.’

  The little boy began to wail. The sound made Margherita’s stomach clench with anxiety. She tried to feed him, but her breasts were hard as rock and throbbing with heat. It was agony to even brush her fingers against them.

  The fishwife took him. She dipped the twisted end of a square of linen into a bucket of milk, then let him suck on it. It kept him quiet a moment or two, but then he began to scream even more loudly, his face turning crimson.

  ‘The wise woman will know what to do,’ the fishwife said hopefully, dipping the kerchief in the milk again.

  Whenever the twirl of milk-sodden linen was held to his mouth, he sucked eagerly, then cried till it was dipped in the milk again and he could suck again. The little girl did not stir, and Margherita held her close, pressing her face to the dark curls, still matted with blood and mucus. Tears dampened her eyes. She shut them and felt again that sick giddiness, that sense of time and place being out of joint. Where are you, Lucio? Margherita thought. Oh, please, be safe!

  When next she opened her eyes, it was to find the boat sailing into a small bay. The mountains towered above her, rising straight out of the water on either side but pulling back in one spot, like a woman lifting her skirts. In that one spot was a grove of blossoming fruit trees, a tendril of smoke curling up from a low stone cottage in their midst.

  ‘She’s here,’ the fishwife said in relief.

  The boat was being skippered by a burly man with skin coarsened by long years in the sun. He carried Margherita to shore, despite her instinctive recoil, and through a garden riotous with herbs and flowers. She knew some by sight: parsley and sage, and rosemary and thyme, and the pretty blue flower of rapunzel. Against one wall was a pomegranate tree, its grey branches bursting with scarlet flowers. Margherita knew what the tree was called because at the Pietà they had worn pomegranate flowers in their hair when they performed.

  The fisherman carried her in through a narrow doorway, ducking his head to avoid banging it on the stone lintel. The room was blessedly cool and dim inside. An old woman sat knitting by the fire. She rose to her feet. ‘Lay the poor girl here,’ she said.

  He laid Margherita down on a narrow bed against the wall, and the old woman brought her a cup of fresh water flavoured with some kind of herb. Margherita gulped gratefully. She did not think she had ever been so thirsty.

  Margherita was staring anxiously over the fisherman’s shoulder. ‘My babies?’

  ‘Giuseppe will go and get them now. You need to just lie back. Let me see what I can do to help you.’

  ‘Lucio,’ Margherita said, turning her head restlessly against the bolster.

  ‘You did not find him?’

  At these words, Margherita drew her gaze back to the woman’s face. Hollow-cheeked and wrinkled, with hooded dark eyes and silver hair coiled out of the way, it was the face of the old woman who had given her directions in the forest. ‘It’s you.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry to see you in such straits. Let me take a look at you.’ The old woman lifted Margherita’s skirt and examined her quickly, then laid one hand on her swollen aching breast. ‘I wish you had stayed with me. I could have helped you.’

  ‘I had to find Lucio.’ At the words, Margherita’s eyes filled with tears again. She had gone through so much in her search to find him, yet had failed.

  ‘You’ll find him again, don’t you fear. Let us just make you and these little ones of yours well again.’ The old woman laid cold compresses on Margherita’s breasts and forehead. ‘I will pluck you some cabbage leaves as soon as I can. There is nothing better for sore and swollen breasts.’

  The sound of a baby roaring came up the path. The old woman turned swiftly to help as the fisherman and his wife carried the twins into the cottage. The little boy was red-faced and squalling. The little girl lay as limply as if she was dead.

  The old woman brought the little boy straight to Margherita. ‘You need to feed him. I know it hurts, but it’s the best thing for you both. Feed him for as long as you can stand the pain.’

  Hot agony lanced through Margherita as her son fastened greedily onto her nipple, but she gritted her teeth and endured. To her surprise, the pain soon eased a little. She watched anxiously as the old woman bent over the little girl. She felt her forehead, tested her thin arms and legs, then pressed her ear to the tiny concave chest. Her face was grave.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Margherita cried.

  ‘Her heart is very weak,’ the old woman replied. ‘Don’t be afraid. You are all safe here. Keep feeding your son, and I’ll be back in a moment.’

  ‘Don’t leave me!’

  ‘I won’t be long.’ The old woman picked up a basket and a knife from the table and went out the front door. Margherita lay still, supporting her son’s head and gazing at the still body of her daughter with anxious longing. She looked so small and pale and helpless. Margherita longed to hold her.

  In a moment, the old woman came back, her basket full of herbs and flowers. She put the basket down and took out a bunch of purple-blue foxgloves. Margherita felt her heart constrict. Her grandmother had always called foxgloves ‘Dead Man’s Bells’ or ‘Witch’s Gloves’. The old woman stripped away the leaves of the flower and tossed them into a bowl with some wine, which she then warmed on the fire.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Margherita gasped, as the old woman lifted the limp body of her daughter.

  ‘Giving her foxglove tea,’ she replied. ‘It will help her heart. Don’t worry, I know not to give her too much. Just a spoonful to begin with.’

  Carefully, she spooned a mouthful of the potion into the baby’s mouth, massaging her throat and heart to help her swallow. The baby choked, spluttered and began to cry. Smiling, the old woman wrapped and tied a square cloth about her bottom, then swaddled her in a soft white knitted blanket and tucked her in beside Margherita. ‘There you are, my little lamb. You have some milk now.’

  As Margherita wearily guided her daughter’s mouth to her nipple, the old woman took away the little boy, expertly changed the sodden rags about his bottom, wrapped him up in another white knitted blanket and tucked him back beside Margherita. He was fast asleep, his soft mouth puckered in a contented smile.

  Tears slid down Margherita’s cheeks, but she could do nothing except blink them away, both hands filled with her babies. Her own little children. Margherita could scarcely believe it was true. She wept with joy as much as with pain and exhaustion. The old woman smiled at her and came to dab away her tears
and lift a cup of warm herbal tea to her lips so Margherita could drink.

  ‘How can I thank you?’ Margherita said.

  ‘Grow well and strong again,’ the old woman said. ‘You look as if you may have lost a lot of blood, and you’re far too thin. You must look after yourself so you can look after your babies.’

  ‘I don’t even know your name.’

  The old woman smiled. ‘You can call me Sophia.’

  She brought Margherita a bowl of fish soup and let her drink. ‘You must build up your strength. Heaven knows, you’ll need it with two little ones to look after. What shall you call them?’

  Margherita looked down at the two little heads, one dark, the other bright bronze-red. They were so small and so new, their skin as soft as rose petals. ‘I think I’ll call my little girl Rosa,’ she said, thinking of the skeletons lying entombed in the tower. It seemed so unfair that they should be forgotten. ‘And maybe … if you don’t mind … Sophia, after you?’

  ‘I would be honoured,’ the old woman said.

  ‘Rosa Sophia,’ Margherita said and bent to kiss the downy dark head. She then gazed down at her son. Lucio, after his father? Alessandro, after hers? She wanted him to have a name all of his own, though. Then an idea came to her. ‘Raphael,’ she whispered. The angel of healing, and the name of Lucio’s favourite artist. She remembered how he had described the painting of the Madonna in the Meadow, surrounded by flowers and with two little ones at her knee. ‘Raphael Lucio,’ she said and hugged him close.

  That night, she dreamt of Lucio again. He stumbled through a forest, his eyes all swollen and crusted with blood, his hands groping outwards.

  Margherita woke with a cry of anguish. ‘Lucio!’

  ‘Ssssh, now,’ Sophia soothed her. ‘You don’t want to wake the babies.’

  ‘Lucio … he’s hurt. Oh, I need to go to him!’

  ‘You cannot be going anywhere just now,’ Sophia said. ‘It’ll be days before you can even walk. Look, you’ve woken the little ones. Let me help you get them settled.’

  ‘They cannot be hungry again,’ Margherita said in disbelief as the thin wails of the babies filled the room.

  ‘Indeed they can,’ Sophia said. ‘You’ll find they do little else but eat for the first few weeks, the little darlings.’

  Margherita found it intensely frustrating. All her sinews and nerves urged her to go and find Lucio, but she could barely rise and make her way to the chamber pot. The twins seemed to cry all the time. Raphael ate greedily and soon fell asleep, but Rosa was much more unsettled. Sophia made her some chamomile tea and fed it to her with a teaspoon, then held her up against her shoulder, rocking her gently and singing to her till at last she fell asleep.

  ‘I don’t know how I’d manage without you,’ Margherita said.

  ‘If you had not been so strong and sensible, the three of you could have died out there in the mountains,’ Sophia said. ‘Many a young girl would not have done so well. Rest up, and tomorrow if it’s warm enough you can go and sit out in the sunshine.’

  ‘I need to go and find Lucio!’

  ‘So you shall, just as soon as the three of you are strong enough.’

  Margherita trusted her enough to close her eyes and try to sleep. This time, she dreamt of singing.

  THE GODDESS OF SPRING

  The Rock of Manerba, Lake Garda, Italy – May 1600

  The tower on its high rock cast a long shadow over the shining waters of the lake. As the small boat sailed into its coldness, Margherita shivered and pressed her twins closer to her.

  ‘Not long now,’ Sophia said.

  She brought the boat in as close to the shore as she could, and Margherita kilted up her skirts and waded to shore, the twins snug in a sling made from her shawl. ‘Thank you!’ she called, and Sophia blessed her and bid her farewell with a troubled glance.

  Margherita put her wet feet into her boots and made her way along the rocky beach. Birds sang, and the sun filtered through the soft green leaves of downy oaks. The twins slept peacefully in their sling.

  ‘Lucio?’ Margherita called. Now that she was here at the Rock of Manerba again, she did not know how to find him. She was terribly afraid of La Strega. Was the witch still here, lurking nearby, waiting for Margherita to return?

  She circled around the hill, looking for any sign that Lucio might be near. But all was still and quiet. Slowly, she began the steep climb towards the crest of the hill. The top of the tower was visible through the leaves. Margherita thought she saw a flicker of movement at the window and ducked behind a tree. Her heart was beating so hard it made her feel faint. She waited till its pace slowed, then crept forward.

  To reach the base of the tower, Margherita had to climb over ruined stone walls all overgrown with brambles. She thought she heard La Strega’s voice, calling her. Petrosinella! Petrosinella! How could you leave me here? Petrosinella!

  It’s nothing but the wind, Margherita told herself. La Strega is long gone.

  At last, she reached its square foot and the thicket of thorn trees that had sprung up from her comb. Tatters of cloth were caught in the thorns. Margherita untangled one and held it to her face. It was the red velvet of Lucio’s doublet. On the stone was a dark bloodstain. With tears in her eyes, Margherita touched the stain gently. Then she began to follow its trail through the rocks and the brambles. A glimmer of gold caught her eyes. She saw, twisted through brambles, the long rope of braided hair. It took her a long time to disentangle it, but at last Margherita managed it and coiled it at the bottom of her sack. Then she went on, following the spots of blood.

  Many times, she thought she had lost the trail, only to find a broken branch or a shred of cloth on a thorn.

  Petrosinella, the wind called.

  She found a place where the blood had pooled, as if Lucio had fallen there. It was hard to follow the trail after that. Margherita could not be sure whether it was Lucio who had bent back the grasses or a hare, or a deer. Once, she found the imprint of a shoe in the dust, but it seemed far too large for her lover.

  The hours passed. The babies woke and demanded to be fed. Afterwards, Margherita ate some of the bread, cheese and olives that Sophia had given her. On she went, searching, calling, her voice thickening with despair.

  As dusk fell, she found a place to camp down near the shore. It was cold, and she gathered driftwood and made herself a small fire. She fed her hungry babies, then made a little nest for them in the grasses while she heated up a small pot of rice and vegetables that Sophia had made for her. The babies were cold and unsettled, so when she had eaten she gathered them in her arms and sang them a lullaby.

  ‘Farfallina, bella e bianca, vola vola …’ Butterfly, beautiful and white, fly and fly …

  Sparks from her fire spun up like tiny fireflies. Above, the sky was midnight-blue velvet sewn with countless silver sequins. An owl hooted nearby. Margherita felt her misery seep away. I’ll keep on searching, she vowed. Lucio, wherever you are, I will find you.

  She sang the lullaby again, her voice strengthened with new hope. Then, out of the darkness, came a hoarse cry. ‘Margherita!’

  She scrambled to her feet, looking about her with dilated eyes. ‘Lucio?’

  ‘Margherita!’

  A dark figure stumbled out of the darkness, his hands stretched before him. Margherita lay down the twins in their nest of soft grasses and leapt to meet him. In an instant, they were in each other’s arms, kissing, talking, laughing, weeping.

  ‘Where have you been? I’ve been searching.’

  ‘I thought I’d lost you forever.’

  ‘What happened? Are you hurt? Let me see.’ Gently, she drew Lucio towards the fire. His gait was slow and unsure, and he gripped her hand tightly. As he came into the light of the fire, Margherita saw his face was bruised and badly scratched, his eyes sealed shut with dried blood. She drew him down so he lay with his head on her lap. ‘Oh, my darling, what have you done?’

  ‘I’m blind,’ he said.

&
nbsp; Margherita began to weep. He reached up to draw her closer, his breath sharp and uneven with grief. The tears flooded down her face and, as she bent to kiss him, fell onto his eyes. ‘Oh, my darling, I’m so sorry,’ she managed to say. ‘It doesn’t matter. I love you with all my heart. I will love you and look after you all of my life. I will be your eyes and you will be my strong arm.’

  ‘I love you too,’ he croaked.

  Still she wept, her tears falling on his face like spring rain on a battlefield. He put up his hand and gently wiped them from her cheeks, then rubbed at his own wet eyes.

  ‘I can see,’ he said wonderingly. ‘Just a glimpse, a slash of something bright.’ He reached up one hand and touched a tendril of her red-gold hair, hanging down over him. ‘It’s your hair …’

  ‘You can see?’ Margherita scrambled to her feet, laying his head gently on the ground. ‘Wait just a moment!’ She caught up her sack and drew out some of the soft cloths Sophia had given her for the twins. She ran down to the lake and dipped them in the dark water. In a moment, she was back by his side, gently cleaning his face. Lucio cried out and flinched away, then submitted to her ministrations, his hands clenched by his side.

  As the crust of dried blood was washed away, Lucio was able to prise open his eyelids. ‘I can see firelight. It’s blurry, but I can see it!’

  ‘Your eyes are intact,’ Margherita said in relief, peering down into his face. ‘The thorns did not put them out, thank heavens! I’ll wash them properly in the morning, with herbs steeped in clean water. Perhaps then you’ll be able to see more clearly. Oh, Lucio, I’m so glad! You’re not blind at all.’

  ‘Thanks to you. Your tears healed me. It’s like a miracle.’

  ‘The miracle is that you were not killed, or crippled, by your fall!’ Margherita stroked back his dark curls.

  ‘I thought I would die. But someone came to help me. He lifted me and carried me away from the tower, and bound up my wounds.’ Lucio lifted his shirt to show that rags, now bloodstained, had been wrapped about his chest. ‘He brought me water mixed with honey, and a kind of soup made with herbs and fish, and built a fire for me to sleep by. I’d have died of cold and despair if he’d not been there.’