Scarpino, Sicily 1891
“This is the village of my ancestors!” Mauro Callagnia said proudly to her.
He was a tall, handsome boy of nineteen, who literally bristled with energy and invention. Everything he touched or attempted became a natural ability under his hand. He was an expert horseman, a deadly archer and swordsman, an accomplished musician, poet, and painter. He had so much to give, he was like an unending fountain.
“It is so small and unimposing,” she said as they drew their horses to a stop before the old wall and gate which marked the entrance into the small mountain village of Scarpino. Miles below them, huddled in the hazy cloak of twilight, lay the city of Palermo, the current home of Mauro’s family.
Mauro smiled. “It is from such humble beginnings that many great things may come,” he said.
She nodded, and looked carefully down the narrow streets ahead, then started to direct her mount toward the central avenue.
“Wait,” said the boy who was already a man. “We should wait for the rest of the caravan, don’t you think?”
She did not really wish to wait for Mauro’s family, especially his father. She did not feel comfortable in the presence of the Duke. “Very well, Mauro. You are right.”
She looked back down the trail, which snaked back and forth across the hills, to see the remainder of their party slowly negotiating a narrow path. The line of horses carried men and women in gaily colored dresses and suits. Even in the failing light, she could see the mark of breeding and royalty in their carriage. Her young Mauro was the product of admirable bloodlines, and it was certainly no accident that he was so talented and gifted.
A minute passed in silence as Mauro’s father, a Duke whose family title originated before the formation of the now defunct Kingdom of Two Sicilies, appeared over the nearby ridge. She noted that he was a hale man with great stamina and strength for his age. The Duke’s face was creased from the years, but a fierce intellect raged behind his bright eyes. There lay a hard casting of determination in his features. The Duke carried a reputation as a man to be respected, and to be dealt with fairly.
Lyrica was forced to admit that, although she feared few men, she could possibly fear the Duke of the House of Callagnia.
“What took you so long, father!” Mauro smiled after his greeting.
“A slower horse, and not my age, if that’s what you imply, my son!” The Duke turned and signaled to the rest of the family party. “Follow me, it is not far now!”
Mauro assumed the lead, and led the procession down the central avenue of the village. It was a narrow street which leaned to the left, and ascended the hill toward the small village church, whose spire rose above the low-slung houses like an aspiring dream.
As they approached the rectory, a moderately large residence beyond the church, she felt a twinge of apprehension. She had come this far because she had always been cautious, always watchful of the fears and superstitions of the humans. It was easy to become overconfident, and she had always tried to be vigilant against that failing. Of Mauro, she had no fear or distrust—he was so in love, so infatuated with the joys of the flesh that he could never be a problem.
But there were others who were not so intoxicated. It was as though certain men—admittedly few through the ages—were immune to her powers of entrancement, and while she had only seen the man several times, she suspected that the Duke might be such a man.
And so, she thought with a sense of adventure and daring, perhaps it was a reckless thing to accompany this brilliant boy to his parents’ anniversary dinner.
She would know soon.
The procession wound its way toward the rectory, and as the line of horses passed, many of the villagers appeared at windows and doors to have a look at the last of the village’s nobilia in a time when nobility was a dying art form. She looked down at the people in their ragged clothes and their ragged faces, returning their stern expressions with looks of patronizing kindness and false friendliness. It was the haughty carriage that the peasants expected, and she gave it to them with little effort.
Finally they reached the rectory where they were greeted by two small boys, presumably acolytes who worked for the pastor. Everyone dismounted as the boys tended to the steeds, and faced a tall, wizened old priest who walked forward with open arms to greet the party.
“Welcome, my children,” said the priest. “Come into my home. Dinner is almost prepared.”
They entered the foyer to the stone and stucco rectory, and she was introduced to Pastor Mazzetti.
“Lyrica,” said the Duke’s wife, Dulcima, “I would like you to meet my mother’s brother, my uncle, the Pastor Francesco Mazzetti!”
The old priest reached out and took her smooth white hand in his. His palm felt like the bark of an olive tree. He smiled and his runneled face looked as though it might crack like old leather. She smiled back and curtsied, but she could not avoid the intensity of his gaze. This was a man of great confidence and faith…and, therefore, power.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, signorina,” said Mazzetti. “You should feel privileged to attend what has become a grand family tradition…”
“She is my guest tonight, uncle!” said young Mauro with a burst of pride as he cut into the conversation. “Is she not beautiful!?”
The old priest smiled, nodding. “Yes, nephew…she is that, and more, I am certain.”
An old woman appeared in the doorway, which led deeper into the house, and nodded silently, catching Father Mazzetti’s attention. He looked about at the assembled guests and brought his hands together in a practiced gesture. “And now the dinner is served. This way, everyone…”
The anniversary dinner was indeed a wonderful affair. Seated at a long table headed up by Father Mazzetti were the Duke and his wife, her brother and his wife, their daughter Carmina, and of course Mauro and herself. Mazzetti had arranged the chair assignments so that Lyrica was seated at his right hand—presumably the place of honor, but she was beginning to wonder what might be the true motivations of the priest. He kept looking at her throughout the dinner with intense, probing eyes.
After having glossed over the usual family pleasantries and toasts to good health and long life, the conversation about the table had drifted, inevitably, into politics. Lyrica knew this topic was not unusual among the noblemen of Italy because there were finally signs that the unending upheaval and unrest of the country might be nearing surcease. She listened to the banter with a halfhearted interest, while running her long fingernails up and down Mauro’s thigh beneath the table.
“…and I think the best thing that ever happened to us as Sicilians, was getting rid of Premier Depretis,” said the Duke as he reached for more wine from a crystal decanter.
“Of course, brother-in-law!” laughed his wife’s sibling. “You belabor the obvious, don’t you think? Since our new prime minister is a Sicilian, it is to be expected that he would look out for the interests of the Island!”
The Duke nodded. “Perhaps, but he must do it with some tact, with diplomacy, yes?”
“Francesco Crespi is no fool,” said Father Mazzetti. “Let’s not forget he fought with Garibaldi many years ago. He has made the ascent to power up the rear face of the mountain—he knows how difficult and delicate and lonely it can be at the top.”
Lyrica watched the priest as he spoke. He seemed to be totally engaged in the conversation, and yet, she had the distinct impression that he was observing her, recording her every movement and reaction. Even though he appeared to be in his late sixties or early seventies, he appeared bright and strong. An interesting old man, she thought with a smile.
“Still,” said the Duke. “I think Crespi’s taking office is the most important thing to have happened to all of us since the beginning of the Risorgimento!”
The Duke’s brother-in-law shook his head. “Some would say that Humbert the First’s ascension to the throne is the real key to everything…”
The Duke seemed
to flush with a moment of anger. “That fool! Do you really think that the crown prince of Germany should be the King of Italy! It’s time we throw out the house of Savoy once and for all!”
Father Mazzetti smiled. “Ah, me…the Duke will always be a headstrong man, a man of impulse and raw emotion.”
Everyone laughed softly except the Duke.
“And what of it, uncle? My personality has served me well, has it not?”
The priest shrugged. “Perhaps,” he said, “but you’re starting to sound like Antonio Labiola.”
The Duke appeared perplexed. “And who is he?”
“A professor at the University of Rome who has been teaching Marxism to his students.”
“Marxism!” The Duke exploded with laughter. “Do you actually think that a nobleman like myself could ever espouse the writing of such a crackpot as Marx?”
“Why not?” Father Mazzetti said sotto voce. “You seemed to have embraced the socialism of Mazzini well enough.”
“Oh, please!” said Dulcima, the Duke’s wife. “Must we talk of politics endlessly?”
“I’ll talk about what I please!” said the Duke.
Dulcima turned to the Pastor. “Uncle, I fear you agitate him. You do this for your own amusement!”
The priest smiled. “I am an old man…I need something for my amusement!”
Everyone laughed as the priest used the opportunity to gaze sharply and quickly at Lyrica. She could not escape the hard, cold aspect of his glance.
The moment was interrupted by the appearance of the pastor’s cook, who began clearing away the main-course plates and dishes with a clattering efficiency. The conversation at the table fragmented as though on cue into smaller one-on-one exchanges. The Duke seemed to be upset with his wife, while Dulcima’s brother was making amusing small talk with his niece Carmina.
“My family is rather outspoken,” said Mauro, leaning close and whispering in her ear.
“Don’t sound so apologetic,” she said absently, trying to cast unnoticed glances at the priest. She was feeling more and more uncomfortable, and she was thinking of ways she could handle it.
“I’m not being apologetic,” said the boy.
“Oh, yes, you are!” She smiled and kissed his cheek.
Even that small gesture seemed to excite him and she could sense his desire pulsing from his body.
The cook reappeared with a tray of Sicilian pastries and a small urn of espresso. She placed it in the center of the table and everyone ‘oohed’ and ‘ahed’ appropriately.
“And now the dessert!” said Father Mazzetti clapping his hands. Everyone smiled as he began to pass about the tray and the cook began pouring out small cups of the dark, sweet coffee.
The tray was passed to her, and she selected a cream and almond pasticceria. As she placed it on her plate, the cook offered her a small gold-rimmed porcelain cup of espresso. It was a delicate, exquisite piece of work, and she marveled at the relative opulence in which the priest lived when one considered the humble surroundings of the village.
Such were her idle thoughts as she sipped the thick dark liquid from the demitasse cup.
Drawing the porcelain away from her lips, she felt a stabbing pain in her stomach, and an almost instantaneous numbing sensation spreading outward from her head down into her limbs. It was a paralyzing effect, turning her to stone. Even her breathing seemed to be affected and she had the sensation of suffocating.
Poison!
The single thought pierced her like an arrow, and she glanced about the table as she began to straighten out like a plank and slide from her chair. She tried to cry out, but no sound would come. The power of the potion was strong indeed, obviously imbued with the priest’s blessing to have any effect at all. She would need all of her cunning and strength to overcome it.
Everyone was talking at once at the table, and as she slipped into a semi-comatose state, she was only vaguely aware of the torrent of voices that swirled and eddied over her.
“My God! What’s happened to her?” cried Mauro. She could feel his soft, gentle hands on her as he helped lower her to the floor.
“Let her be!” cried the priest in a sepulchral voice. “Stand back!”
Mauro turned to his father, who had left his chair, and was rushing to her side. “It’s true, then? Is it true, Father?”
“Father,” said Mauro, “what is happening here? Of what do you speak?”
The priest advanced and huddled over her. She could see him through a filmy, gauzy aspect which had overtaken the light in the room. She was fighting off the effects of the poison, and her body was sending signals that she would be able to overcome it with time. She was thankful for that, but there was still a panic deep within the core of her being. A panic like a glowing coal that threatened to burst into flame in an instant.
“She failed the tests!” cried Father Mazzetti. “Stand back from the Demon! Stand back from the Possessed Creature that she is!”
“What!” cried Mauro. “Have you all gone mad?” He reached out and pushed at the old priest, who was leaning over, peering into Lyrica’s glassine eyes.
Suddenly the Duke lashed out with his large hand and smacked Mauro in the face. The force of the blow knocked him back off his feet so that he went sprawling.
“Silence!” cried the Duke at his son. “You mewling pup! What do you know of this woman other than the fire of her loins!”
Mauro propped himself up on one elbow, stunned and confused. “Father, what you speak is madness! She is no demon!”
“No, she is far worse!” cried Mazzetti, who now held a gold crucifix over her face. “Her food was laced with ground bitter-root…enough to choke a man, and she noticed it not! It is as the tales have told—a monster tastes not of man’s food!”
The Duke moved to his son and held him in his arms. “My son, I am sorry for what I must do, but it is for the best.”
“Oh, father!” The young boy sounded very panicked. “What are you going to do with her?!”
“We have suspected for a time that the young woman is possessed,” said the Duke, as the rest of the dinner party gathered about to peer down at her in a ragged circle of faces. “And so we have brought her to the finest exorcist in Sicily—our own Father Mazzetti!”
“Bring her into the church!” commanded the old priest. “I must prepare myself…”
Lyrica could feel the effects of the poisons coursing through her supple body. Soon the effects would be lessened enough for her to affect a change. Soon but not yet. And so she was powerless to stop them from lifting her up from the cold stone floor and out into the night. The sky above the foothills was a brilliant, midnight blue, laced with stars and frosted by the wind. They crossed a small courtyard, past a fountain, and into the sacristy entrance of the church.
Her vision was blurred, but she could still determine that the tough old priest had already assumed the mantle of his office, his silk raiments of the priesthood. He stood like a man posing for a sculptor or a painter, striking a posture of defiant strength.
“Take her out to the altar,” he said as calmly as his voice would allow. Even in her distressed state of mind, Lyrica could detect the metallic scent of his fear. Fear was indeed the mind-killer, and if she could capitalize on Mazzetti’s own fears and self-doubts, she still possessed a chance.
She was carried out of the sacristy and into the nave of the church, where the white marble altar lay surrounded by statues of the saints and several elaborate stained-glass windows. As she was placed before the altar, the priest moved down beside her and anointed her forehead with oil. Her muscles were beginning to contract involuntarily. Either the effects of the poison were wearing off, or they were getting worse.
Suddenly there was a stinging sensation in her face, and after being so totally numb and paralyzed, she was ecstatic to feel even the faintest pain in her checks. Mazzetti had sprinkled holy water on her, and the droplets burned like acid. It stung, but it was such a sweet stinging.
She could see Mazzetti standing over her, holding up a gold crucifix. In a booming, echoing voice, he began speaking in Latin: “In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, and by the power and authority granted to me by the Holy Mother Church and Pope Leo the Thirteenth, I invoke the rite of exorcism over this woman…”
Mazzetti continued droning on as Lyrica secretly smiled at him. His prayers were totally ineffectual; she wanted to cry out and laugh at him, and tell him what a fool he was. More feeling was returning to her cheeks, her limbs. Soon, she would show them that their silly poisons and potions had little real power over a being as great as she.
Yes, it was happening now…
She could feel the power returning to her once-numbed body. In an instant, the juices of the changes were produced and shot through her soft tissues. She could feel her flesh hardening, flaking, and sloughing off, as she began the transformation to the True Form.
The Duke was the first to notice and he cried out in an uncharacteristic voice of alarm. “Father! Look! What does she become?”
“Oh, my God in heaven!” yelled Mauro. “What are you doing to her! She’s dying! Can’t you see that she’s dying?”
Father Mazzetti paused, placed the crucifix upon the altar.
“Silence!” he said quickly. “It is all right! Behold the power of the Lord!”
Suddenly, the priest turned and opened the small tabernacle atop the altar, bringing forth a small golden chalice. Slowly, and with great reverence, as he continued to mumble through the endless Latin prayers, Father Mazzetti reached into the chalice and produced a large, paper-thin wafer of unleavened bread—she knew it was the host, the Eucharist. Holding it carefully between thumb and forefingers, the priest placed the host inside a magnificent gold benediction mantle. It was a chalice-like object that held the Eucharist face-outward in a circular, glass locket surrounded by delicate, radiant spires of gold.
The cast beams were intended to suggest a great irradiation of light from the central figure of the host, but in this case, it was not necessary.
Fearful Symmetries Page 31