Dark Shimmer

by Donna Jo Napoli

  “That’s not the right response,” comes Tommaso’s voice.

  Biancaneve shoves the arrow back under the pillow. She goes to the window and opens a shutter. “Hi, Tommaso.”

  “You’re not supposed to answer. Don’t you know the rules yet?”

  “Of course I know the rules, Tommaso. If I don’t answer, then you have to keep knocking, and eventually you shout out your name, and I say I’m fine. But it’s cold. Your knuckles get raw. So I figured I’d spare you some pain.”

  “Me? Just me?”

  “Well…Tommaso, of course I want to spare you pain. You’re very sweet and dear to me. But I want to spare everyone pain. Don’t you want everyone to have safe knuckles?”

  Tommaso frowns. “I don’t know if I care.”

  “Well, I do. Thank you for checking on me.”

  “Don’t open the shutters to anyone else.”

  “All right.”

  Tommaso peeks in the window. “You’ve skinned only half the squirrels.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty for dinner.”

  “Want me to help?”

  “No. I like doing it.”

  Tommaso picks a thorn off his jacket. “Don’t answer next time.”

  “See you at dinner.” Biancaneve closes the shutters. She finishes the squirrels fast, cuts them into pieces, and throws the meat into the bubbling pot.

  Rapping at the shutters again.

  “I’m not here,” calls Biancaneve. “Does that satisfy you, Tommaso?”

  “I’m not Tommaso,” comes a quiet voice. Biancaneve can hardly hear it.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m lost.”

  Biancaneve trembles. “Go away.”

  “I don’t know which way to go.” It’s a woman’s voice. Refined. But not Mamma’s. Still…

  “I can’t help you. I have no idea where anything is.”

  Sounds of sobbing.

  “Don’t cry,” says Biancaneve. “Please don’t cry. I’m not allowed to let anyone in.”

  “I don’t care about coming in. I just want a little encouragement. And maybe a cup of something warm to put in my belly. I’ve been walking for hours.”

  “Walking from where?”

  “I’m not sure. My cousin lives nearby, toward Treviso. I’m visiting. I was with a group of hunters who went off after a bear. It’s hard to talk through the shutters. Won’t you open them?”

  If she keeps a hand on each shutter, she can close them quickly in an emergency. The woman might be strong, though. “No.”

  “Well, all right. At least this stump is good to sit on. I need the rest.”

  A stump? There’s only one stump, for splitting wood. It’s far from the window, far enough that if someone made a rush for her, Biancaneve would have plenty of time to close the shutters. She opens the shutters just a crack.

  A stocky woman in a bright orange dress sits on the stump. It’s a fancy dress; she doesn’t belong here. The peddler-woman disguise was more convincing. If this is really Mamma, she’s doing a worse job than before. And hunting a bear? Really, now. Suddenly fury rises in Biancaneve’s chest. “So what did you do when they went after the bear?”

  “I told them I’d wait. And I did. I waited and waited. But they didn’t return. It was hours. Finally, I started after them. And here I am.”

  “You should have gone back where you came from,” Biancaneve says sharply.

  “I wish I had.”

  “It was stupid to set off into the woods.”

  “I’ve been telling myself that for the past hour.”

  How can you argue with someone who keeps agreeing? Biancaneve looks hard at the bedraggled woman. Her dark hair is in clumps. She has fat cheeks, reddened in the style of the nobles. She doesn’t look anything like Mamma. But Mamma is clever. “What would you like to eat?”

  “What do you have?”

  “Tell me what you want.”

  The woman sniffs the air. “Do I smell cabbage? I love cabbage.”

  Mamma hates cabbage. And tears glitter on the woman’s cheeks.

  Still, Biancaneve is almost sure Mamma cried when they were sitting on the fondamenta. She cried as she drugged Biancaneve. And the eyes of the old peddler woman—her eyes spoke of tragedy even as she pulled on the bodice lace. “I’ll put a cup of broth on the sill and close the shutters,” Biancaneve says. “Don’t come near till I’ve secured them shut.”

  “That’s hardly hospitable of you.”

  “It’s the best I can do.”

  “You act as though you’re afraid of me.”

  “I am,” says Biancaneve.

  “Oh, how awful, to be afraid of a lone woman lost in the woods.”

  “The last lone woman lost in the woods tried to kill me.”

  The woman’s face shows horror.

  Biancaneve closes the shutters. She fills a cup with broth, then opens the shutters the tiniest bit. The woman is still on the stump. “Here.” Biancaneve puts down the broth and closes the shutters again. She listens.

  After a few moments, the woman’s voice comes. “It’s good, that broth. Thank you. I put the cup back on the sill.” Her voice sounds distant again.

  Biancaneve opens the shutters. The woman is sitting on the stump and the cup on the sill is empty. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  The woman opens a pouch and pulls out a silver toothpick. She cleans her teeth. Oh! She’s missing a left front tooth. No one could fake that. This couldn’t be Mamma! Relief floods Biancaneve. How harsh she’s been to the poor woman. “Do you need anything else, dear lady?”

  “No, I better be on my way.” The woman slips the toothpick back into her pouch. “I feel better. You must be a fine cook.”

  “I’m learning.”

  “If you eat, you should cook.”

  “That’s right,” says Biancaneve. “We should all help in the chores of life.”

  The woman laughs. “I didn’t mean it so seriously.” She tilts her head. “You have beautiful hair.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I have nothing to pay for the broth with. But I do have a comb.” She pulls a silver comb out of her pouch. “It’s old and in need of polishing. But I’d be pleased if you’d accept it as my thanks.”

  “Don’t be absurd. A cup of broth is nothing compared to a silver comb.”

  “A cup of broth and a few words when you’re hungry and tired and alone in the woods—that’s worth a lot. Please accept it. I have another at home anyway. Close the shutters and I’ll put the comb on the sill.”

  “All right.” Biancaneve closes the shutters. “Did you do it?”

  “Yes.” The woman sounds distant again.

  Biancaneve peeks. The comb is on the sill and the woman is back on the stump. It’s a simple comb, but really very nice. Biancaneve likes the curved handle. “Pity that I don’t have a horsehair switch to clean it with.”

  “You can use pine needles, if you must.”

  “Or maybe squirrel tail. I have plenty.”

  “That sounds like a good idea.” The woman shakes a warning finger. “Boil the tail first so you kill the vermin on it.” Then she brightens. “Anyway, there’s no hurry on the tail. I cleaned the comb just the other day. Go ahead, comb your hair. Or let your mamma do it.”

  “I don’t have a mamma.”

  The woman grimaces. “I’m sorry to hear that.” She looks infinitely sad. “Alas. I wish I had a daughter so I could comb her hair.” She seems to be holding back tears. “I could comb yours, if you like.”

  “You’re so kind.” Biancaneve forces a smile. There’s something painful in the woman’s face. Did she lose a daughter? Fear pricks at her for a moment. But this woman is older and missing a tooth; Mamma is too caught up in beauty to pull out a tooth, no matter what. Biancaneve looks down at the charming comb again. “No. You should leave now.”

  “Cautious.” The woman nods approval. “What a dear and good child you are. May I at least watch?”

  Bi
ancaneve pulls the comb gingerly through her hair.

  “Such wonderful hair,” says the woman.

  Biancaneve combs harder now. That’s the right way to comb. She digs in and combs and combs. It’s so good to be doing this, after months of being unkempt. She’ll look like herself again, even if inside she’s all ajumble still. Comb, comb, comb. It’s as though she can feel the glossiness grow.

  Oh! Intense heat bursts through her skull. She looks at the woman in amazement.

  The woman stands and waves, and weeps.

  Giallino walks swiftly with the new pup at his heels. Pietro took his favorite one away—the little prize. He misses her. This new one isn’t as promising. It takes many more repetitions to get anything through this one’s skull. Giallino’s annoyed. He rushes; he should have gone back to the cabin a while ago to check on Neve.

  And there’s the cabin. One set of shutters is open. Giallino half understands. With the hearth fire and the candles, the cabin can get smoky and smelly and stuffy. But facts are facts; The Wicked One wants Neve dead. Neve should wait till they’re all home to air the cabin out. He breaks into a run and calls, “Are you crazy? Close those shutters!”

  He reaches the window and looks in. No Neve. Then he sees her, on the floor, just under the window. The windowsill is too high for him to vault. For the first time in his life, Giallino curses his short arms. He runs to the door. It’s bolted from the inside. Of course. He runs back to the window, nearly tripping over the pup, who has caught his panic. The pup barks. “Neve!” he shouts. She doesn’t move.

  He rolls the chopping stump to the window, climbs onto the window ledge, and jumps inside. He puts his face to hers. “Neve, Neve, wake up.” Her bodice lace is that same old thing. He slips a finger under it easily. Some new trick, new disaster. “Neve,” he says in her ear. “Don’t do this! Don’t leave us!” And then he sees it, a silver comb in her hair. Neve doesn’t have a comb. She’s been using her fingers. He pulls it free.

  Neve moans.

  The sound nearly brings Giallino to tears. “Neve. It’s all right, Neve. I’m here now. You’ll be fine.”

  Her eyes open. They look glassy.

  Giallino runs for a cup of broth.

  The pup yips from outside the window. “Wait,” he calls to it. “I’ll be right there for you.”

  He kneels beside Neve and drips just the smallest bit of broth into her open mouth. Her eyes are closed again, but she moans louder than before. Slowly, slowly, Giallino drips the whole cup into Neve’s mouth. Slowly, slowly, she swallows it all. That’s what she needed, yep.

  She rolls her head from side to side. “My head is numb. My chest tingles.” She struggles to roll onto one side and curls into a ball.

  Giallino pats her back tenderly. “You’ll get better fast, Neve. You’ll be fine.”

  The pup whines.

  Giallino goes to the window and reaches out. He manages to catch the pup. She licks his face frantically. He puts her down inside the cabin and kneels beside Neve. “Neve?”

  The pup comes running over. Giallino blocks her. The last thing Neve needs is a lick.

  Neve’s eyes open. She tries to push herself up, but she collapses with another groan. “I think…I’m going to be sick.”

  Giallino rushes for a bucket and races back. She retches into the bucket over and over. Then she falls onto her back again.

  He should splash out her mouth, give it a good cleaning. He looks around.

  The pup sniffs at the comb, licks the teeth. In an instant, she contorts. Giallino grabs her.

  Poison.

  How can they win against The Wicked One? There are hundreds of ways to kill a person. How can they stay ahead of her?

  Giallino hugs the stupid little pup to his chest and rocks on his heels.

  “I hate this.” Dolce looks at Agnola. “You shouldn’t have dragged me here. These women are sick.”

  The water is the temperature of a warm day in midsummer; it doesn’t let off steam or make one uncomfortable. It’s beautifully comforting. If only Dolce let herself, she’d enjoy it. Agnola enjoys it.

  Today makes a full week they have been at the Abano hot springs. The first morning they drank a rust-colored liquid that made them spend the rest of the day and night racing to the toilets, then back to bed for an absurdly deep sleep, then off to the toilets again. Then five days of drinking nothing but springwater. Yesterday the bathing therapy started, so life turned enormously better. But Lucia La Rotonda doesn’t get to benefit, for Dolce keeps sending her away for special ingredients for dinner.

  “Do you think we should send Lucia La Rotonda home?” asks Agnola. “She’s not having a good time. She never gets to sit in the baths.”

  Dolce splashes Agnola. “I just said I hate it here. Lucia La Rotonda’s cooking is my salvation.” She points at a woman across from them. “You know what she said?”

  Agnola swats Dolce’s hand down. “Don’t point. It’s rude.”

  Dolce slides under the water and comes up sputtering and wiping the water from her eyes. “She told me that there’s a much nicer bath in Caldiero, near Verona. It’s large and airy. You don’t have to bring your own cook because the patrons are excellent cooks.”

  Agnola sighs. This small bathhouse is gloomy. “So why did she come here?”

  “The Caldiero bath is outdoors. They allow patients only June through August.”

  “Well,” says Agnola, “I hope you’re cured long before summer.” Then she remembers. “Oh, Marin will be back by then. You can go with him.”

  “What’s the point of going with your husband when they separate the men’s baths from the women’s? Unless, of course, all your matrimonial pleasures lie in bed.”

  Agnola looks quickly at Dolce, then away. Did she hear Pietro with her?

  “I know you had a visitor last night. I’m happy for you. I just like to tease you.”

  “I don’t like teasing. And I won’t talk with you about…certain things.”

  “All I want to know is whether Pietro is in good health.”

  Agnola’s heart warms at this surprise. “He came only to visit me.”

  “But how is he, in body and in spirit?”

  “Good. Those apples on our table this morning, he brought them from up north. They store them year-round because they’re therapeutic. They clean poisons out of your system.”

  “Poisons?” Dolce strains toward her. “He used that word?”

  “Someone he knows got sick and apples are making her better.”

  “Apples,” says Dolce, as though to herself. “Apples thwart me?” She sinks back. “Can’t I do anything right?”

  Agnola is at a loss when Dolce says nonsensical things like this. And as often as not her outbursts lead to crying. Already, Dolce’s bottom lip quivers. “This water is the best therapy, though,” Agnola says quickly. “It’s good for joint pain and runny noses and swelling and weeping eyes and infertility—”

  “Nothing will cure my infertility.”

  Agnola could bite her tongue. Why on earth did she say such a thing? “I’m so sorry.”

  “I know. You don’t have a mean bone in your body.”

  Agnola isn’t so sure. She gets annoyed with Dolce. “Anyway, these waters have special curative minerals, good for all skin ailments.”

  “I can taste the iron and salt,” says Dolce. “Let’s see if it’s helping.” She holds up her hands and peels a nail off, just like that.

  A spasm shoots up Agnola’s back. “You’re very ill, Dolce. We’re here to make you better. Please, Dolce. You have to help yourself.”

  “I want to go home.”

  “These baths—”

  “Please. I’m exhausted. Defeated. You can see the baths do nothing for me.”

  “We haven’t completed the full regimen.”

  “It won’t change anything. All I wanted to do was make everything right by the time Marin returned. But I can’t, it’s too hard. My heart isn’t in it anyway. Sometimes I know
what I must do. Other times I know I must do the opposite. I hate it. I give up.”

  Agnola leans forward to argue. But Dolce shakes her head. “Let’s go home today. At home, I will follow whatever regimen you set for me. You’ll help me, won’t you, Agnola?”

  “You know I will.” Agnola looks around and sighs. “You’re right. It’s squalid here. The sides of this pool are filthy. The water, scummy. They say it’s therapeutic, but it’s plain old algae.”

  “Algae?” Dolce’s eyes widen, her mouth opens in a circle. She stands. “Algae in hot water. Is this water red?”

  “Slightly.”

  “I thought it was green. How blind I’ve been. Of course.” She walks along the edge of the pool as though in a trance, feeling under the water with one hand.

  “What are you searching for?”

  “Mussels.”

  “You can’t eat shellfish that grow in dirty water. They’re toxic.”

  Dolce holds up a small mussel with a look of triumph and whispers, “It’s fitting…like a circle closing. From my mamma to my daughter.” She looks at Agnola thoughtfully. “You’re right about Lucia La Rotonda. She needs to enjoy herself before we leave. She will bathe with you this morning and go into the mud bath, too, while I will fetch ingredients for the evening meal.”

  Agnola has been biting her tongue at Dolce’s crazy words, but these last ones…“What? You can’t go about the countryside unescorted.”

  “I’ll hire an escort. All the women hire escorts. Who knows what services they supply? I could be as satisfied as you.” Dolce laughs. “Then we can travel home tonight with the future stretched out ahead of us, all ours.”

  Agnola’s head hurts hideously now. She’s sick and tired of dealing with Dolce.

  Suddenly, Dolce wraps her arms around Agnola. It’s like being held by a chain of bones, she’s grown so thin. “I’m sorry, Agnola.”