Dark Shimmer

by Donna Jo Napoli

  Bini looks away a moment. Then he grins. “Hazelnut sauce to put over roasted hedgehogs.”

  “Good.”

  “But don’t think I’m going to cook. I’ll show you the first time, then you have to do it.”

  “That sounds fair. In fact, I’ve had venison with hazelnut sauce. So once you teach me the sauce, we can have venison, too.”

  Bini gives a half smile. “Venison is rich people’s food.”

  “What do you mean? You live in the woods. You can kill whatever you want.”

  “What gave you that idea? You can take down birds—partridges, skylarks, thrushes, pigeons, anything you want—but you can’t kill big game. Especially not deer. You have to have permission if it’s not on your land.”

  “Alvise hunted this boar.”

  “Not to kill it. We teach the dogs to hunt them down, but we don’t kill them. The landlord lets us stay here in exchange for dogs now and then, so he can show off to his friends by giving them a fine hunter or a cute lapdog. But he forbids us to hunt.” Bini scowls. “Did you think we cheated our landlord? That would be as bad as dirty squatters, paying no rent at all.”

  “I never thought about it,” says Biancaneve.

  “Well, we’re not cheaters!” His face goes red-black. “We don’t steal from anyone.”

  “I never thought you did.” Biancaneve talks softly. “I truly never thought such a thing. Please know that. You are decent men; you prove it every day. So”—she tilts her head and talks even softer—“why did Alvise kill this boar?”

  “He didn’t. Well, he did. But Pietro wounded it mortally first. It was Pietro’s mistake. He said the boar was going to kill him. But I think that’s a bunch of garbage; I think he did it because he wanted those offal.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Liver and lungs. He cut them out of the boar. That’s why they were missing, Alvise told us. Pietro wanted the liver and lungs.”

  Biancaneve stumbles away from the fire, past Bini, and sits on the foot of Giordano’s bed. Liver and lungs. Dolce says liver and lungs fix anything. She says her mamma told her that. Biancaneve’s fingers snake into her hair.

  “Are you all right, Neve?”

  Biancaneve may never be all right again. “We have plenty of dried hazelnuts, Bini,” she says with slow deliberation. “But no hedgehogs.”

  Bini grabs a sling. Biancaneve knew he would. “I’ll get Alvise. We can hunt hedgehogs this afternoon.”

  “If you do, this boar stew can wait until tomorrow.”

  “We will. We’ve got the best dogs ever.” Bini leaves.

  Biancaneve feels unreasonably tired for so early in the day. This isn’t really exhaustion, though; it’s sadness. Her eyes are heavy.

  Liver and lungs.

  No, she can’t think about that. It’s a coincidence. It can’t mean anything.

  Heavens, she’s tired. It’s only early January. It’s so long till spring.

  She counts back in her head to the day they called Christmas. Oh. It’s her birthday tomorrow. She’ll be fifteen. She should be preparing for a party. She should have a new dress and all sorts of wonderful foods and sweets prepared. Venison? Sure. Anything she wants she should have. These men aren’t allowed to hunt what lives all around them. Maybe they’ve never tasted venison. Maybe they’ve never had a roasted peacock. But Biancaneve has! And she should again! She throws herself backward on the bed.

  The door creaks as it opens. The wind whooshes in.

  Whoever it is better not scold her for lying down for a moment, because if he does, she just might scream at him, and if she starts screaming, she just might never stop.

  “Sweet signorina, would you like to see my wares?” It’s a woman’s voice, croaky and broken.

  Biancaneve turns her head toward the door. An old woman stands there, hunched over. Biancaneve’s breath comes quick. It’s easy to hunch over, pretend to be old. White wisps of hair stick out from under the woman’s bonnet. Well, wigs are simple to find. The woman’s coat is thick and coarse. Peasant clothes are easy to find. This could be Mamma—only nothing about her is familiar. The woman straightens a little and Biancaneve sees:

  Her hands are gloved.

  Biancaneve lunges for the fire poker. She stands facing the woman, poker in hand. “Take off your gloves.”

  “I’m so cold.”

  And it must be true. The woman’s hands shake as she puts down her basket and pulls at the fingers of the gloves. She tugs and tugs, the way old people do when their joints are swollen and painful. But, really, she could be putting on a show—she could be a good actress. She’s not making any progress on the gloves, after all.

  Still, her eyes are rheumy. And it’s not just her hands that shake; she shivers everywhere. She shivers so hard it seems she’ll come apart, just fly to pieces. Her ribs show through the back of her dress as she turns this way and that, struggling with the gloves. She’s shorter than Mamma….

  “It’s the burns, you see,” says the woman apologetically. “I made soap this week. I’m so clumsy.”

  For heaven’s sake, Biancaneve should show a little human decency. “Don’t worry about it. Keep the gloves on and come in, please,” she says in a burst. “I’m sorry I spoke so brusquely. Shut the door behind you, would you? Come sit by the fire. Please.”

  “Thank you.” The woman closes the door and moves to the table faster than Biancaneve would have thought she could. She must be half frozen. The woman puts her basket down, then sits on the stool closest to the fire.

  Biancaneve stirs the fire with the poker. She wonders about that basket. But so long as she has the poker in her hand…

  The woman pats her cheeks. There’s something wrong with those cheeks. They look caked with some kind of gunk.

  “You’ve got a lot of makeup on.”

  “Pigeon droppings.”

  Dolce would never put that on her face. Besides, Venetian women know how to use makeup that doesn’t look cakey. Venetian women know all about how to fix their faces. They’re experts. “It’s thick,” says Biancaneve.

  “The only way to cover a multitude of sins.”

  Biancaneve grips the poker tighter. “What sins?”

  “Scars from a pox in childhood. I try to make it easier for others to look upon me.”

  Biancaneve has heard about horrible skin conditions among the poor. “I didn’t know peddlers came around here.”

  “I don’t ordinarily come this way. I took a shortcut through the woods and seem to have gotten lost. The whole time I was terrified of boars. They say this is the best country for boar hunting.”

  “Probably they say right.”

  The old woman bobs her head. “And I haven’t seen a single other cabin. If smoke hadn’t curled up from your chimney, I wouldn’t have seen your cabin, either.”

  “Would you like something to drink? I have—”

  “Water. Hot water will do. I don’t want to ask too much. Thank you.”

  Some people expect nothing of life. That’s what Biancaneve needs to learn—to expect nothing—at least until spring. She moves the poker to her left hand, and with her right she puts a dipperful of water from the bucket into the small pot.

  “The stools are low,” says the old woman. “The beds are short.” Her voice cracks, as though the sight of the beds makes her sad. Does she think they are for children?

  Biancaneve nods. Her eyes fall on the covered basket again. “What do you have in there?”

  “Good things,” says the woman. “Beautiful things.”

  Biancaneve is overwhelmed with pity. What ugly things might this woman think of as beautiful? “May I look?”

  “Please do.”

  Biancaneve pulls off the cloth. The basket is piled high with bodice laces. Silk, and in the best colors of Venezia. She fingers her own bodice lace. It’s grimy and frayed at both ends.

  The old woman reaches out a hand tentatively. She touches Biancaneve’s hair. Biancaneve looks at her in su
rprise. The woman seems wistful. Almost longing.

  “Take yours off,” says the woman quietly. “Throw away that shabby old lace.”

  Biancaneve grips the poker tighter in one hand and pulls out the old lace with her other. Her hand flutters above the basket. “Which one? They’re all so beautiful,” she breathes.

  “You can’t ask me,” says the woman. “I mix up colors.”

  “How funny, to sell such glorious things and not be able to appreciate them.”

  “Pick the color of the sun—warm and comforting, like you.”

  Biancaneve hesitates, but only a second. She puts the poker on the floor. The yellow is, in fact, more dazzling than even the green. She plucks a yellow lace from the basket and holds it to her cheek. It’s soft and smooth and perfect. It’s everything her life used to be. Then she puts it down. “I’m sorry.” She steps back, to fight off temptation. “I wasn’t thinking straight.” This is so unfair. “I don’t have anything to pay you with.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing. And tomorrow’s my birthday! I can’t have anything.”

  “Your birthday? Well then, let me give it to you as a present.”

  Biancaneve blinks in amazement. “These cost too much. I couldn’t take such a present.”

  “Try it on, at least.”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “Doesn’t everyone have the right to pretend, just for a moment, that they can afford something nice? One silk lace?”

  Biancaneve picks up the lace again. She threads it through her bodice.

  “Here. Let me help you tighten it.” The old woman takes both ends and pulls. She pulls and pulls. She’s so strong.

  “That’s too much. It hurts. I can hardly breathe.”

  “Neither can I,” says the old woman, eyes miserable. “That’s the problem, you see.”

  She pulls harder.

  The smell of burning stew slaps Alvise in the face. He comes through the door with Bini at his heels. “Neve!” The girl lies on the floor, her face as pale as her name. Alvise drops the dead hedgehogs and rushes to her. He grabs her hands. Icy. He puts his cheek to her nose. Let there be a hint of breath, Good God, let it be. He slaps her cheeks. “Neve!”

  “Is she dead?” Bini’s voice cracks.

  “I don’t know.” Alvise rubs her arms.

  “What’s that in her bodice?” Bini leans in from the side. “That lace, it’s new. Someone’s been here.”

  Alvise pulls out his knife and tries to slide it under the lace, but it’s too tight. He forces a finger under one part and cuts straight. The lace pops open. He rips it the rest of the way.

  “She was suffocated,” says Bini.

  “Don’t say that. Get her closer to the fire.” Alvise pushes on Neve’s shoulders. “Pull her!”

  They push and pull her as gently as they can. Then they stand over her and watch.

  “You’ve messed her clothes.” Bini points.

  There’s blood everywhere that Alvise’s left hand touched. He sucks on his bleeding finger. Then he squeezes it tight in his right fist. “Get the stew off the hook before it catches fire.”

  “It’ll take two of us.”

  Alvise grabs the bucket and throws what’s left of the water onto the fire. It sputters and goes out.

  “What’d you go and do that for?” Bini gapes at Alvise. “You know how hard it is to get a fire going again.”

  “What if the stew caught fire and it spread and we couldn’t get Neve out of here in time?”

  Giallino comes through the door. “What’s all this smoke? And the fire’s out.”

  “We had to,” says Bini. His face colors, but he doesn’t look at Alvise. “The stew was catching fire, and I couldn’t lift it down myself, and Alvise cut his finger open so he couldn’t help me and—you would have done the same thing.”

  “Why’s Neve on the floor?” Giallino runs over.

  The others come in the door now, shouting questions. Alvise keeps shaking his head.

  “Shut up, everyone.” Ricci claps his hands once, then shakes his clasped hands at them all. “Give Alvise a chance to speak.”

  “We came in and she was lying on the floor, cold as snow.” Alvise jerks his chin toward the yellow silk lace in the middle of the floor. “Someone tried to suffocate her with that bodice lace.”

  “The Wicked One,” says Giallino. “Yep, that’s who.”

  “Neve’s not stupid,” says Baffi. “She’d never let The Wicked One in.”

  “How could she keep her out? She’s a girl and The Wicked One is powerful.” Giordano shakes his head. “We need to put a bolt across the door.”

  “I bet Neve let her in willingly,” says Bini. “She always says we shouldn’t call her The Wicked One. She refuses to believe her stepmother wants her dead.”

  “She won’t refuse now,” says Giallino. “If she lives. She’s not moving.”

  “Ai!” Tommaso falls to his knees. “She has to live. I love her.”

  “We all love her, Tommaso.” It’s Ricci.

  Alvise knew the girl had won their hearts, one by one. Every time she said “please,” and meant it. Every time she sat on a stool and didn’t complain about it being so low. Every time she didn’t smile at them as though they were cute or funny—that sealed it. How you can love someone for what they don’t do, for simply being a decent person…that’s how it happened, though. Neve treats them like people. She works hard. She doesn’t always do things right the first time, but she learns fast and does them right the second time. And her smile, it could make a man fall to his knees. Alvise doesn’t even know if the girl likes any of them, but he knows all of them love her. He’s grateful Ricci was the one to say it. He senses a change in the room. They’re more united than they ever were before.

  Good God, let this girl live.

  Giordano gets his pillow and puts it under Neve’s head. “Her color’s returning. Don’t you think so?”

  “It’s hard to tell, it’s so dark.” Giallino goes to the door. “I’ll get dry firewood. Tommaso, help me. You’re our best fire starter. You’ve got the patience.”

  Tommaso stares at Giallino. Alvise watches: the poor kid, he’s not used to praise. Alvise has to find opportunities to praise all of them.

  “It’s the best thing you can do for her now,” says Giallino. “We need to keep her warm.”

  Bini takes the blanket from his bed and lays it over Neve. He looks at Tommaso. “Our blanket’s thicker than hers, right?”

  Tommaso nods. He leaves with Giallino.

  An hour later, the fire is roaring, the hedgehogs are roasting, the water buckets have been refilled, the burned stew has been fed to the dogs, the big pot has been scrubbed out by the riverside with pebbles, and the table has been set. Everyone worked, no one grumbled. Alvise calls them to the table.

  “We shouldn’t eat till Neve can join us,” says Tommaso.

  Alvise kneels over Neve. “Neve?” He puts his face closer. “Neve?” Did her eyelashes flutter? Thank you, God in heaven. Thank you!

  Neve looks up at him. Her mouth opens, but she doesn’t speak.

  Alvise helps her sit up and get to her stool. Her hands press against her ribs. Her bodice hangs open, but she’s fully covered by the smock underneath. Still, it feels wrong to leave her like that. Her old lace lies on the floor. Alvise grabs it and holds it out to her.

  Neve pulls away, shaking her head. She blinks fast. She’s panting now.

  Alvise doesn’t know what to do. “Well.” He turns to the others. “What are we waiting for?”

  Giallino serves the meat. Bini comes around with the sauce. They eat.

  “Oh,” murmurs Neve. She’s the first to break the silence. “It’s delicious.”

  “You almost died,” says Tommaso.

  Neve’s lips part, then close, then part. “The hazelnut sauce is so good.”

  Bini nods. “Tommaso’s right.”

  Neve sits up tall. Resolve masks her face. “Bini gave me ide
as. Teach me recipes, all of you. We’ll eat better from now on.”

  “Recipes?” says Ricci. He gives her a hard look. “We’re waiting.”

  Neve’s hand trembles. She puts down her knife. “It was an old peddler woman.”

  “The Wicked One,” says Bini.

  “I told you she’d come looking,” says Giallino. “Yep, I told you.”

  Neve takes a deep breath. “Maybe.” Her shoulders fall. She looks around at them. “You saved me.” She’s blinking fast.

  “We’re putting a bolt across the door tomorrow,” says Giordano.

  “And we’ll take turns coming back to the cabin every so often all day long to check on you,” says Baffi.

  “If she comes this way again,” says Ricci, “I’ll kill her.”

  Neve puts her hand over her mouth. She shakes her head.

  “Oh, yeah?” says Bini. “You want to die?”

  “It’s you or her,” says Giordano. “That’s the long and the short of it. And we won’t let it be you.”

  Neve stares at Giordano. Tears well in her eyes. Alvise doesn’t know what to do. Tears stream down her face now. “I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t. The last night we were together she said I was truly beautiful. She said she loved me so much. Why?” Her voice strangles on a sob. She looks around at them. Then she folds one fist inside the other and beats them rapidly against her chest right under her throat. “Recipes? Please?”

  “I can gather porcini,” says Tommaso quickly. “They’re good with squirrel. I know a special place. And they’re big ones—rust-colored and heavy as a goose egg.” Tommaso leans forward. “On private property. But I can sneak them.”

  “Don’t get in trouble just for mushrooms,” says Neve quietly.

  Baffi frowns. “Never call porcini ‘just mushrooms.’ ”

  “I saw other mushrooms at the base of an old fig tree,” says Ricci. “Tall and skinny and white, with little ball crowns at the top. They might be chiodini.”

  “Chiodini and chestnuts—they go perfect with pigeon,” says Giordano. “And we’ve got plenty of chestnuts.”

  “It’s a strange winter when porcini and chiodini are still popping up after the feast of Santo Stefano.” Alvise smiles. He raises his glass. “To a strange winter, and a safe one.”