That same evening, the tinker confessed to Padre Eusebio in advance for his suicide and Eusebio granted him absolution. Eusebio than returned to the rectory, leaving the tinker to climb the stairs to the little choir and hang himself from the corbel. Just before midnight, Padre Eusebio returned to his little church, cut the tinker down, and, with much effort and a great deal of cursing (for, as it turned out, the tinker was a tall, ungainly man and difficult for the diminutive priest to manage), he dragged him the length of the Cappella and bumped him up the steps leading to the altar. He lifted up the floor tiles and stuffed the tinker’s body into one of the vaults previously occupied by a corpse that had, in his predecessor’s time, been disinterred and moved to the cemetery of San Vivaldo in compliance with the Edict of St. Cloud.
Eusbeio was a bit worried that the stink of a rotting corpse might alert someone to the tinker’s interment behind the altar. To his relief, there was no perceptible odor. This was because the mold that dehydrated the body and turned it into a mummy did so in a remarkably efficient and swift manner. That concern having been assuaged, Eusebio figured that, as long as no one dug up the chapel floor and found the tinker’s body, his secret would be safe.
“That’s it,” the old priest concluded. “That’s my story. What are you going to do to me? Are you going to tell Adeodatus? Because if you tell Adeodatus, my goose is cooked. You might as well kill me now if you’re intent upon telling Adeodatus, but could you do it in the least painful way possible? That’s all I ask. On second thought, why not let me live? All of this happened a very long time ago.”
I ignored all these questions, asking instead, “What was the tinker’s name?”
Eusebio was taken aback. “His name? Why do you want to know his name?”
“Was it Enzo?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“You’re thinking what I’m thinking, aren’t you?” Lady Sibylla asked me.
“As in how many jettatore tinkers can there have been wandering around Umbria and the Marches at that time?” I asked.
“Exactly!”
“So the tinker who curdled Padre Antonio’s eyes—Enzo the Tinker—he’s the mummy!”
“You knew this fellow?” Padre Eusebio asked.
“Oh, yes,” I said. “He stayed awhile in Montemonaco years and years ago when my parents were children. He was forced to flee when a boy tore off his eye patch on a dare and was blinded. That boy grew up to be the village priest.”
“The one who pantomimes the Mass because he can’t read?”
“The same!”
“Well, I never!”
“It’s a small world!” exclaimed the Oracle and everyone agreed.
“So, what about me?” Eusebio asked. “Are you going to tell the Bishop?”
“If you don’t tell on me, I’ll not tell on you,” the Oracle assured him. “Otherwise…”
“Oh, I can keep a secret!” Eusebio declared. “I can be most devious!”
“Clearly.”
“All right then,” I said. I stood and turned toward the door.
“Uh-hem. Aren’t you forgetting something?” Eusebio asked.
“What?” I asked.
“The mugwort.” And he tilted back his head and flared his nostrils.
The following day, I prevailed upon Cesare to dispatch Pasquale by stagecoach and then by donkey to Montemonaco, bearing with him the satchel containing Sibylla’s jug. The Oracle had had her first outing in more than a millennium; it had been a success, but it was time for her to return to Monte Vettore, and besides, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep her under wraps. I stayed behind in Casteldurante to care for Cico, who continued to be a clingy, fussy infant whom only I could settle.
Cesare finally talked Antonella into marrying him in May of that year. After that, the entire household headed south along the coast to Martinsicuro, then inland. When our coach arrived at Ascoli Piceno, my father met us, and we parted ways—Cesare and Antonella continued on to the Terme Aquasancta where they would take the waters and fight over every single thing while Cico and I traveled on to Montemonaco with Papa.
Our arrival coincided with a great occasion. For the past several months the men of the village had been hard at work excavating the entrance to the grotto just beyond and beneath the one formerly inhabited by the Sibyl. This was a hugely tall cavern as big as a piazza. Because the stalactites and stalagmites that glowed and sparkled in the light pouring through a sinkhole in the mountain’s flank looked as though a mad confectioner had swirled them into creation out of pink icing sugar, the men of the town decided to call the cavern Il Grotto Rosato—the Pink Grotto. It bristled with crystalline columns, jagged points and formations that, if one looked at them in a certain way, resembled angels or the Madonna or the altar of a church. A river slipped through the echoing cavern like a side-winding snake, a murmur of water, cold and thick.
That Sunday after Mass, the day of the installation, Padre Antonio Di Nardo organized a procession from the Church of Sant’Agata to the Grotto Rosato. Everyone in the village took part. Babies and small children were carried by their parents or older siblings and those of the elderly who could not walk were borne on stretchers. The procession began in the little square in front of the church and wound up through Montemonaco to our farm, where the Sibyl’s jug was ceremoniously collected. As the person responsible for rescuing the Sibyl in the first place, Mama was given the honor of carrying her jug. Upon this occasion, the shortcut to the grotto via the goat path was not used. Instead, the procession made its way up the road and through the Gola dell’Infernaccia. After all, the whole point of a procession is to advance slowly, solemnly, and even laboriously. The best processions, as everyone knows, are those characterized by a certain amount of ardor, of staggering, of being certain that something of great value is about to be dropped, of relief when it is not.
When, at length, the procession had snaked through the narrow Gola to arrive at the newly dug out clearing, the Lamiae were waiting for us, a dozen serpents as long as a grown man’s forearm, with jewels for eyes and sleek bodies brilliant with phosphorescence. It was Sunday, after all. Until the Pope said Mass on the following day, this was the shape the Oracle’s handmaidens took. Who knows how these things get started? The Old Ones were as prone to transformations as the New Ones are to miracles.
At this juncture, torches were lit by which we could see to make our way down the ramp to the lower grotto. Needless to say, there was much exclaiming over the wondrous beauty and fantastical appearance of the cavern on the part of the women and children and old people—after all, this was our first glimpse of the Grotto Rosato, and for many it would be their only glimpse.
The strongest boy in the village bore a chair strapped to his back the entire way. It was the best chair in the village, made of oak with carved arms and upholstered in burgundy velvet, a little tatty with age. For as long as anyone could remember, it had resided throne-like and stiff in the vestry of the church. No one knew where it had come from, but it must have originated in one of the valley towns. There was not a chair like it anywhere on the mountain. It was the job of the Lamiae to determine the position of the chair. However, they could not make up their minds and grew so confused and excited at the prospect that they tied themselves into knots and began to shriek like peacocks. This, in turn, caused the children to shriek like peacocks. Finally, Padre Antonio intervened and arbitrarily picked a spot on the riverbank beneath a formation resembling a baldachin of translucent alabaster. Here the boy set the chair, upon which Mama placed the jug, and we Montemonaci bade a formal farewell to our Oracle.
We would never again descend into the grotto like this—in a group. Instead we would come alone or perhaps accompanied by one other, full of trepidation or grief stricken, to seek Lady Sibylla’s advice or assistance. This was the way it had been for centuries; this was the way it would be henceforth.
Cico and I returned to Casteldurante a fortnight after the installation. My nephew was to be Cesare’s only heir; Antonella would bear her husband no children. It was therefore Cico’s destiny to be the “Son” in “Bacigalupo & Son” and, for that, he needed to reside in town. There were some in Casteldurante and in Montemonaco too, who thought I should marry, but there was no man who interested me in the slightest, and, as I grew older, the subject was gradually dropped.
Instead, I accompanied Cico on his trips to the factory—for he could not bear to be separated from me for any length of time, even as a young man—with the result that I ended up learning the majolica business as thoroughly as any man. Indeed, better.
This proved useful since Cesare dropped dead at the age of forty—as anyone could have predicted, for he had grown immensely fat—and I was compelled to take over the running of the business. Cico, though sweet, was a basket case for much of his short life. He died at the age of twenty-eight, but not without producing his own, single heir, yet another Cico, whom I also raised. All told, I have raised four Cicos. The one who fetched you from the convent, Padre…he is only the most recent. I am happy to say that, with each generation, the strength of the original love spell my mother cast on Cesare has waned a little. This latest Cico is inordinately, indeed, slavishly fond of me, but at least he doesn’t constantly cling to me and whimper when I leave the room. At my great age, that would be too much to bear.
As for Antonella, she remained with me until her death some dozen years ago. Ours was not what you would call a close relationship. You see, I knew her secret while she knew none of mine. However, we tolerated one another well enough. It is a big house, after all.
So, speaking of secrets, there you have it, Father—mine. And now that I have told someone—someone who is pledged to keep my confidences to himself on pain of hellfire—I am going on a journey. It will not be as arduous a journey as it was in years past. We have trains now. However, let me tell you, any journey is momentous when you are ninety-nine years old. This Cico can manage without me, though I know he will be sad to see me go. Well, I would be going soon in any case, wouldn’t I? I have it in my head to go back to Montemonaco, to Monte Vettore. I haven’t spoken to the Oracle for such a long time. I would like to before I die.
That’s all, Father. You can go. I’ll see to it that Cico makes a little donation to the Convent. And, Father…tell no one of this. They wouldn’t believe you if you did.
Acknowledgments
I would like to acknowledge the ongoing support of the Ontario Arts Council for this project and others over many years. Thank you. Thanks also to my careful and insightful readers: Catherine Leggett, Pamela Rooks and Ken Trevenna.
About the Author
Melissa Hardy has published five novels and two collections of short stories, including Broken Road, The Uncharted Heart, and A Cry of Bees. She has won the Journey Prize and been published in numerous journals, including The Atlantic, Exile, and Descant. Her short fiction has been widely anthologized, including twice in Best American Short Stories and in The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror and once in Best Canadian Short Stories. She has five children and two grandchildren and makes her home in Port Stanley, Ontario.
Copyright
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: The oracle of Cumae / Melissa Hardy
Names: Hardy, Melissa, author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190076313 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190076321 | ISBN 9781772601145 (softcover) | ISBN 9781772601152 (EPUB)
Classification: LCC PS8565.A63243 O73 2019 | DDC C813/.54—dc23
Copyright © 2019 by Melissa Hardy
Cover by Natalie Olsen
Edited by Carolyn Jackson
Design by Melissa Kaita
Printed and bound in Canada
Second Story Press gratefully acknowledges the support of the
Ontario Arts Council and the Canada Council for the Arts for our
publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the
Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.
Published by
Second Story Press
20 Maud Street, Suite 401
Toronto, ON M5V 2M5
www.secondstorypress.ca
The Oracle of Cumae Page 19