Waterfall

by Lisa Tawn Bergren

  I watched it, as if in slow motion, as it shot across the space and split through the first knight’s throat.

  But Lia was not done. She was already on one knee, squinting and taking aim at the second as he turned, spotting us. She let the next arrow fly, and the arrow struck him in the chest, driving him backward, over the parapet wall.

  “Saints in heaven, I believe I’m in love,” Luca growled, running past me, sword drawn, to go to Marcello’s aid. He glanced from my sister to me with a wink.

  Lia was drawing a third arrow, as if she was calmly taking another target in practice, not eliminating the enemy, and Lucas momentum spurred me on too. I drew my sword and ran after him, shouting, trying to draw the attention of those bent on bringing Marcello down.

  Marcello tripped and fell to his back and stilled, watching his opponent as the man drew back his spiked ball.

  I stumbled, watching him, and almost went to the dirt myself. But then I saw him dodge the pounding swing and leap to his feet from his back. He smiled and whirled, bringing his sword around, again at play, not yet beaten.

  His smile allowed me to take what seemed like my first breath since I spotted him, surrounded. Hope surged through me. We just might get out, I thought. We all might live. Please, God, let us live.

  And as I ran forward, as the foreign sound of a warrior’s cry rose in my throat, as I clashed with the first knight and felt the jarring clang of our swords that made me shudder like I’d just taken a jolt from a loose electric wire, as Marcello caught sight of me and mouthed my name-the din too loud to make out the syllables-as Lia took down two more knights from the walls with her arrows, as Luca narrowly saved Marcello from a death blow, leaving me breathless, I knew we were gaining.

  Impossibly, we were gaining.

  “Look out!” Marcello cried, his voice breaking through the dull sounds that seemed to fill my ears, as if I were underwater, looking at me with wide, frantic eyes. But I couldn’t move out of the way fast enough. The man came from behind, the coward, and I was just turning to parry his strike, but I was too late, too late, too-

  The deepest I’d ever been cut before was a kitchen knife incident. And it didn’t require stitches.

  This was way worse.

  As Luca jumped between me and my attacker and blocked his next blow, I hobbled away, unable to see anything but the blood seeping out into an ever widening pool of crimson at my side, crimson like the Paratore flag. I put my hand to my wound and pulled it away, staring at it, thinking that it was like something from a Halloween store. Fake blood. Like that much blood couldn’t be real.

  I lifted my fingers and blood actually dropped from them, plopping to the cobblestones at my feet, exploding, dividing, hopping into ten more.

  I didn’t feel any pain for a minute, maybe two. Probably shock, I assessed distantly. I turned, trying to get a better look at the gash.

  Okay, huge mistake. I saw my gown, sliced open. Flesh, like a rare steak.

  I turned and gasped for breath as Lia ran to me, taking a shoulder roll to dodge raining arrows, then taking aim and shooting again. Would we never reach the end of the Paratore knights? Were they not all supposed to be over at Castello Forelli?

  She glanced at me, my wound, and then paled. She dropped her bow, letting it skitter to the ground-was it odd that I couldn’t seem to hear it?-and ran the few remaining paces to me. She took my arm as I went to my knees, fighting the urge to vomit.

  “To your back, Gabi, go to your back,” she said.

  I did as she said. But how was this supposed to go? I did as she said; I had always been the one to see to her scrapes and bruises, to comfort and care.

  But I looked up to her as if she was more mother than sister in that moment. I was desperately afraid. And beginning to feel the searing pain in my side.

  “Evangelia! The wall!” Luca screamed.

  Two new archers had arrived and were running down the castle allure, alongside the outer parapet. We would be within range in seconds. Another was still shooting. We were lucky he had terrible aim.

  Lia closed her eyes as if willing herself to take courage, then checked out my wound. She turned an odd shade of gray-green and looked away, gasping for breath. Then she turned to me, leaned over and took my bloodstained hand, pressing it to the wound. “You hold it there, Gabriella. Hold it!”

  I pressed, but all I felt was soft, not muscle. Mushy flesh moving far too much. I could make no sense of it.

  Lia was behind me, then. Lifting me by the armpits, dragging me around, behind a well. “Do not stop pressing,” she demanded. “You cannot die on me here, Gabs.”

  And then she was gone. To bring down more archers? To help open the gates? I didn’t know. And truthfully, I had a hard time caring, one way or another. The sky was still a dark purple dotted by stars, and I could feel the drumming beat of the battering ram at the front gate of Castello Paratore, as if it were keeping time with my heartbeat, which seemed to be weakening, slowing, along with my ability to process what was happening around me.

  I looked up to the stars, so familiar to me from my summers in Toscana. Clytemnestra, Orion. They all began to spin, above me, as if I were watching a time-lapse video of the constellations in motion. Here and there, the dark shadows of those fighting entered my field of vision, but I found them irritating, a distraction. All I wanted to do was watch this swirling pool of starlight above me, a dance that transcended this trifling world of humanity, an homage to God Himself.

  God? God?Am Igoing home now?I want to go home now, I think… .

  I was descending-or was it ascending?-when one thought abruptly stopped the skies from swirling.

  Lia. I couldn’t leave without her.

  And then a second thought.

  Marcello.

  I don’t remember much from those first days. Flashes of light. Screaming. Tears slipping down my face. And the blessed abyss … White light. Calming. Beckoning. Calling me.

  Come…

  Marcello’s hands covered my left. I knew him by his smell of wood smoke and cinnamon. But I couldn’t seem to open my eyes. He was praying for me, in Latin. Begging God to save me, to bring me back to him.

  But wasn’t it easier if I just left now?

  Returned to my own time or… disappeared altogether?

  “No, Gabriella,” she was saying.

  Lia.

  “No. You come back to me now,” she whispered in my ear fiercely. “I cannot do this alone. And Gabi, I can’t get back without you,” she said, her tone rising several notes. “I’ve tried.” Was she crying? “God help me, I went back to the tomb, put my hand on the print. I was so scared, Gabs, so scared. But it’s cold, Gabi. Cold. We need to do it together. I don’t want you to die, Gabriella. I don’t want to grow old without a sister. But Gabi, Gabi! If you leave me now, I’ll be stuck here forever! I can’t get back to Mom! Gabs, Gabi…please. Please wake up. Please….”

  It was time. Choose a path.

  Succumb to the light and its entrancing pull, filled with peace, joy, completion.

  Or drag myself back to fighting my way out, living my life until I glimpsed this gateway again.

  It was that clear, that matter-of-fact.

  Now? Or later, Gabriella?

  Was that God speaking to me? Asking me? Was life and how I lived it-if I lived it-up to me?

  Free choice, Dad always said. We all have freedom of choice. Over and over again, minute by minute. How will you live your life? For yourself Or for others? For something good? For love?

  Love.

  Evangelia. There was no one I loved more. My sister, so different from me, and yet one with me.

  But it wasn’t her beside me now.

  Marcello was by my side. I smelled him again. Felt his hands covering mine. So warm. So warm. Hot. Almost like the cave wall.

  My eyes flew open, wondering if I was about to transport back to my own time. Away from him.

  And in that moment, I knew I didn’t want to.

 
My vision, as if I was waking from a deep and long dream, was fuzzy. But bit by bit, from the outside in, each inch of what I could see was clarified. And there he was. Marcello.

  His big, brown eyes grew watery, and he cradled my face in his hands and shook his head. “Gabriella. Gabriella?”

  I tried to say his name, but my voice was garbled, weak.

  Eagerly, he went for a cup of water and then gently eased it to my lips. I felt the water on my tongue, my cheeks. Knew enough to be embarrassed when most of it slipped down my face and neck.

  But his eyes were alight, as if I were a miracle on earth.

  I pushed what I hoped was some semblance of a smile onto my face, but I could feel my lips cracking as I did it.

  Still, he looked at me, not like I was some monster of the desert, bleeding, pale, rising before him as a ghost…but rather like an angel coming to him across the far, green hills.

  His lush lips parted in awe as my eyes flicked open. And he blinked with heavy, dark lashes, as if he might be dreaming.

  Was I?

  Could a guy-a guy like this be that anxious to see me to health, to wellness?

  “Gabriella,” he said, winding his warm hands more firmly around mine, so wretchedly cold. “Gabriella,” he whispered, leaning forward and kissing my temple, my forehead, my nose, my eyes. “Gabriella.”

  He spoke my name in the same way he might say beautiful or wondrous or amazing and really mean it.

  “Marcello,” I croaked, wincing that it came out in a froggy voice in comparison to his princely tone.

  But he smiled as if he had heard it as I had meant it.

  Marcello. Dedicated. Strong. Mine.

  It was Lia who had sewn me up. That was enough of a shock that I almost melted back into my week of unconsciousness.

  My sister, weak-kneed, slightly green at the sight of manure or moldy cheese in the fridge, had found it in herself to disinfect my wound with alcohol-thank God I had been unconscious-thread an ivory needle with sinew, and sew up my side like I was an elementary school project.

  I turned and stared at my six-inch wound again, gaping at the perfect, even curves of sinew like whipstitches in a thermal blanket.

  But then I looked up at her and groaned. “They’ll have to come out.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  I closed my eyes and winced, thinking of the pain to come. But not yet. The trick was we had to let the flesh weave itself together again without letting the sinew become embedded within it. It might lead to infection, which miraculously, I seemed to have been spared.

  That didn’t mean it couldn’t still get infected.

  Modern-day thoughts of flesh-eating disease, MRSA, sepsis, staph, cascaded through my mind. My dad always said I was a bit of a hypochondriac, always reading up on possible ailments and feeling certain I had them. I tried to think back to what I’d read.

  I could feel the whisper of air as Lia fell to her knees beside me, her skirts billowing. “Gabi, what are we going to do? They’re calling us `princess warriors.’ That’s all I hear. They think we’re All That and more. Seriously. And that Luca dude is following me around everywhere I go.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Well, you saved all our lives with your arrows,” I said. “I’d bet you money he’s never seen a woman do that before.”

  She shook her head. “How are we going to get out of this?”

  I closed my eyes, heaved a sigh, and then peeked at her. “I have no idea.” In so many ways… “Lia, how is Fortino? Marcello’s brother?”

  “Oh, amazing,” she said. “Apparently, that’s just another reason to throw you a big party. They’re all excited because he’s back from the dead or something.”

  I smiled and closed my eyes. I was so afraid that I’d wake up to find Fortino gone, even buried.

  Lia rose and gestured in the direction of the courtyard. “Gabi, everyone’s going crazy out there. Now that you’re back from the brink, there’s no way they’re going to be able to hold it off any longer.”

  My smile faded. “What do you mean?”

  “It sounds like all of Siena is coming in for the celebration. Something about a three-day feast to celebrate our victory. And we’re the guests of honor.”

  Victory. Castello Paratore defeated. For Siena, it would be huge.

  It all seemed like a movie I’d seen. I reached out and grabbed Lia’s hand. She was so tenderhearted. She had cried when she shot her first bird with a bow and arrow. I knew killing those men must’ve been excruciating for her. “Lia, do you want to talk about it? I mean, the battle. All those guys-“

  “No.” She pulled her hand from mine. “No, I don’t. I want to get out of here, Gabi, and forget this all happened. It’s like a nightmare.” She shook her head. “We have to get back to the tomb. Try it together. I mean, to make the jump back.”

  I nodded, but my mind was already pulling me in two directions.

  “You’ll do it, then?” she said, relief flooding her face. And in that moment, I remembered how badly I wanted to return to our own time, how I longed for Mom and Lia just a week ago. But now…

  Maybe it was having Lia here, with me. Maybe I was being selfish. But having her here settled me, made me feel less homesick, less vulnerable.

  It wasn’t just me.

  It was us.

  And that freed me to think more broadly about Marcello.

  It was as if some bonds had been broken. Over and over, I had resisted Marcello because of Lia, because of my mom, because I needed to get back. And because he was promised to another. Another who could help him, help his family, help Siena. But now that Lia was here…

  “Maybe I can get you to the tomb on my own somehow,” Lia said, looking at my side again. “It’d be better if we could get you home and to the doctor.”

  “And how do we explain that?” I asked, pointing to my side.

  “That’ll be tricky,” she said, pursing her lips. “Can you believe I did that? Sewed you up?”

  I laughed under my breath. “No. But then you pulled through for me in so many ways, Lia.” I grabbed her hand and waited until she looked at me. “We’ll have to talk about it at some point, you know. I don’t want you to have post-traumatic stress disorder or something. You know, like the guys who fight in wars sometimes get, coming home? I know I’ve been having nightmares-“

  “I really don’t want to talk about it,” she said. Was she a shade paler?

  “You had no choice, Lia. If you hadn’t killed them they would have-“

  “Stop!” She yanked her hand from mine again. She stepped away from me and brought a hand to her forehead. “I just wanna get back, Gabs. This is all so crazy….”

  A knock sounded at the door, and a moment later, Cook peeked in. She looked at me with her kind eyes. “I thought you’d enjoy a bath, m’lady.”

  I winced as I tried to sit up, then lay back down. A bath sounded so good. “I would like nothing more. But my wound.” I glanced at it again and shook my head. “I think it best if I not get it wet.”

  “Well, what if we assist you? To wash your hair, at least. Take care with the rest.”

  Finally I nodded my agreement. Four maids with pails of hot water and a manservant, carrying the deep wooden tub, followed her, set up a screen, dumped the water into it, and then left again. Lia looked like she wanted to follow them.

  “On the morrow, these halls will be filled with Sienas finest,” Cook said. She beamed over at Lia and then back to me. “They’re coming to honor you two, you know. As much as the Forellis are the favored sons of Toscana, at the moment, all of Siena wishes to know about the she-warriors of Normandy.”

  “I don’t know,” I mumbled. I hadn’t yet managed to rise from my bed. Part of me feared that if I moved, I’d tear out Lia’s stitches. I shuddered at the thought.

  But then I caught Lids expression, which plainly said, Yeah, you should take a look at yourself, and thought of how nice it’d feel to be clean again. It had been over a week. And that last
day had hardly been a prissy-girl experience. I leaned down and sniffed my armpit. “Uhh,” I said.

  Lia arched a brow and moved over to my side. “Come on. We’ll help you.”

  I almost screamed when I sat up, and after a moment, I gritted my teeth to stand. Any movement along my side was excruciating. Sweat rolled down my face. Briefly, I considered what it would be to have Lia remove the stitches soon, and quickly cast that thought out. I’d have to bite down on a stick, down a bunch of grappa, or something… because that was going to kill.

  I wrapped my right arm around the shoulders of Cook, who was much shorter than me. Lia held my left hand, more for encouragement than support. Slowly, we moved to the tub, and I sat down in a chair and leaned my head back, letting my hair fall behind me.

  They moved quickly, tag-teaming the process. Cook dumped a pail of water down my head, dousing it, and Lia moved in with a bar of lavender-laced soap, scrubbing my hair into a thick lather. Then they each began with the pails of water, dumping one after another. It felt delicious, and I sighed in relief at the sensation of getting clean.

  Then they brought me a basin and cloth, and together, we washed the rest of me, the best we could, without submerging. Beads of sweat lined my upper lip even as I shivered. Lia frowned at me. “You don’t look so good,” she whispered, when Cook left the room. “I mean, you look far better than you did, but are you feeling sick?”

  I shook my head. “Just the exertion, I think.” I sat up as straight as I could as Lia began the long process of combing out my tangled hair. That was another thing that definitely sucked about living in medieval times: no conditioner.

  Cook returned with two servants. They each set a trunk down, on the edge of my room, and left, never looking in my direction. But Cook was grinning as she opened the trunks. “Gifts, for you and Lady Evangelia.”