‘I’ll try to get her out of here,’ I said, without much hope. I didn’t think we stood a chance. Every villager was a superb marksman, and they knew the territory intimately.
‘After dark,’ I promised. ‘I’ll come to the sacristy door at nine. Have the donkey ready. Meantime, keep Sybilia locked up.’
Eight hours to go. I decided to push personal considerations to the back of my mind, but my scientific excitement was sadly lacking. Here was the real Corsica, I told myself. This was what I had come to witness — the pageantry of a code of justice as old as man was about to unfold. I tried to record what I could.
Work has always been my opium. Grabbing my notebook, I tried to describe the scene. ‘A vendetta gives the voceri (otherwise known as a voceratrici), or singing mourner, full scope for her talentsI wrote. ‘She works herself into a trance as she hurls accusations and insults at the killer and calls upon the victim's relatives to avenge the murder. This ancient ritual, handed down…’
I could go no further. How could any words convey this ghastly scene: the tangible anger that scorched me like heat from a fire; the sonic shrapnel of abuse exploding in my ears; the rhythmic smash of rifle butts on cobbles, church bells numbing my senses? The women were scrambling to touch the corpse and tearing their clothes. Was it women — or tatty vultures, flapping and screeching, rummaging in blood?
Eventually I waited in the priest’s house, where I passed the time reading his research on local vendettas.
'The last recorded vendetta began with a fight over a straying donkeyI read, ‘and led to three prison sentences, five murders, and wholesale street fighting.’ And then: ‘To a Corsican, a vendetta is a tf misfortune” imposed by destiny. Its execution is the sacred duty of the victim's family. A man who shirks his duty is disgraced and ostracized. He has to kill or live in exile. If there is no man available, a woman must take on the role of executioner in order to uphold the honour of her family. ’
Was this a vendetta? Had Sybilia killed to redress some grievance, real or imagined? Absurd. I was out of my depth. Foolishly I had imagined that her Corsican ways had been extinguished together with those ugly black clothes I had persuaded her to burn in the furnace at the bottom of her garden. Until now I had seen only the fair side of her: a sweet and generous woman who endured her humble role with dignity and patience. She was intelligent, cultured, and kind, but she was also Corsican, and in her blood ran the intense passions of her race.
It was a long day as I weighed the pros and cons and speculated on her possible sentence. Against all reason, I had a strong instinct of Sybilia’s right. Somehow I had to get her through the mountains to safety. She deserved a fair trial, and I intended to make sure that she got one.
Chapter 4
I’ll never forget that evening as I waited for Sybilia, crouched uncomfortably on the marble edge of a grave amongst the tombstones and the waxed flowers in glass domes. I became increasingly frightened. I was about to flee from a scruffy, vengeful mob — armed to the teeth — through the maquis dragging the village whore, now a murderess, on the priest’s bad-tempered donkey. For Christ’s sake! It should have been funny, but instead it was tragic.
Why? Why had she done it? Pointless to waste time in fruitless conjecture, yet these questions plagued me, and the priest’s words kept ringing in my head like a disturbing melody that could not be banished. For the first time, I felt acutely aware of the sinister and oppressive quality of the mourners’ cries. When the villagers’ identities merged in anger, I feared them. This trait in the Corsican psyche was like the dark side of the moon: ancient, unknown, an untamed wild creature, always there, lying dormant, waiting for the call. Satan’s beast! Right now it was lusting for Sybilia’s blood. Strange how mutual hate could blind men irrevocably, yet love could not.
Eventually, the village elders lifted the corpse onto their shoulders and walked toward a house at the end of the square, the mourners trailing behind.
At last they were gone. Peace! I could hear the birds singing. It was a glorious evening, fitting recompense for the intolerable heat of the day. The soft breeze was carrying the fragrance of sea air mingled with the pungent scent of the maquis, while the musky tang of dew on earth and grass drifted toward me, wafting away the stench of blood. From a nearby house came the welcome odour of spiced mutton cooking in olive oil to remind me that I had not eaten a proper meal since early that morning.
TTie full moon was rising. Chunky granite peaks were starkly silhouetted against the brilliant moonlit sky. The full moon would not help us. I began to feel increasingly scared of the journey ahead. But why was she taking so long?
Time to get on with it, I decided. I would prise her out of the sacristy. I stood up, walked slowly to the door, and hesitated there. It was then that a brick hurtled past my head and chipped the plaster beside me. I dived headlong into the church.
Sybilia was inside… White and drawn and obviously terrified, she was struggling with the priest, and was showing a ferocious strength. Her forehead was damp with sweat, her long brown hair had come loose in the fight and was tumbling about her face and shoulders.
‘Thank God you’ve come,’ he gasped. ‘She wants to go out there onto the steps. They’ll kill her, and she knows it.’
Sybilia was clawing at the pew, trying to free herself.
‘For the love of God, help me get her through the sacristy door. The donkey’s waiting. There’s no more time… they’re coming back to kill her.’ The priest broke off as a brick smashed through the stained, glass window. From outside came ominous shouts, marching feet, and again the rhythmic hammering of rifle butts.
‘Leave me,’ she wailed, drowning his voice. ‘I do not want to be rescued. If I did, there’s nowhere to go.’
‘I’m not rescuing you,’ I said softly. ‘Only escorting you to the nearest police station.’ Then I saw the terror in her eyes, and I understood. She had welcomed oblivion in the guise of rough and ready Corsican justice, quickly administered. The prospect of prison, a public trial and the guillotine waiting at the end of it, appalled her.
Compassion touched me. I cupped her face in my hands and forced her to look at me. ‘Sybilia, listen to me. You have one murder on your conscience. There’ll be more unless you come now.’
Too late! The church door crashed open. As the mob surged forward we thrust her through the sacristy and onto the donkey.
I heard an owl cry, and for a split-second there was an uncanny hush as frogs and cicadas were silenced. Then shots cracked around us. The donkey reared up and bolted across the yard into the maquis.
Chapter 5
There sat Sybilia, drenched in moonlight, a moving target that bumped and swayed on the galloping donkey while I skidded behind on the dew-wet path, slippery as moss. The noise was alarming: the donkey braying with fear, the sound of its hoofs on crackling sticks and tumbling stones and my own heavy footfalls. The volley of shots fired toward us every few seconds seemed like physical blows.
At a steep turn in the track Sybilia fell. For a horrified moment I thought she’d been shot. I flung myself beside her, searching for blood, but she was only stunned. I dragged her into the dense maquis and clapped my hand over her mouth. Shortly afterward the villagers rushed past after the fleeing donkey, which was out of sight, thank God.
I waited, listening. There was no one around. I had a plan of sorts. We would deceive the villagers by avoiding the only road out of Taita. Instead we would double back and climb the mountainous slopes through the maquis toward the forest. From here on the going would be easier as we skirted the trees, later we would have to cross the rough mountain pass to the east. There was a new road ten miles beyond it, and from there we’d probably be able to hitch a lift to Bastia.
If this should fail… the thought was chilling, but I had another emergency plan as a last resort.
Eventually I pulled Sybilia to her feet, and we began to force our way through the tangled undergrowth. At first it was not too bad because
we were following the route of my earlier exploratory digs, which roughly encircled the lake and village. Higher up the bush became all but impenetrable. We had to stumble around huge boulders and crawl through thickets. It took longer than I’d expected.
Several more shots rang out, but in the distance. I was sure that the villagers were firing haphazardly into the maquis. After a while the shots came toward us again. Presumably they'd caught up with the donkey and worked out what we had done. That was too bad.
After an hour we saw the lights of Taita far below and realized we’d made pretty good headway. We’d both got our second wind and weren’t so breathless as when we started out.
Then, toward midnight, I heard the pounding of feet on the path below. They were too close. I flung myself down, pulling Sybilia with me. There were angry shouts, a great deal of whistling, but no one seemed to know where we were, so eventually we carried on climbing.
By two A.M. a cold front had risen from the sea and thick clouds covered the western sky. It would take some time before the clouds concealed the moon, I figured, but when they did it would be safer.
Sybilia was looking dreadful. Even in the moonlight I could see that she was completely bushed. Her face was smeared with mud, and her arms and legs were scratched, there was a long tear in her skirt, and one heel had been torn off her sandal. She was wet through and her hair was tangled with twigs and leaves. I knew I should try to push her harder, but instead I wrapped my arms around her and tried to comfort her. I pulled the twigs and leaves out of her hair, rubbed her cold hands, and whispered words of encouragement. I didn’t succeed at all. It seemed that nothing would ever comfort her again. I, too, was filled with a sense of impending doom.
There was a tall boulder nearby. I pushed her into the shadows and climbed up to check our route. What the hell was going on? For a moment I couldn't figure it out. The maquis was brilliant with lights strung out in a semicircle below us. Then I heard the thuds and realized the villagers were beating their way through the maquis, just as they hunted wild boars. Therp were no lights above us. Safety seemed to lie that way, but for how long?
Slithering down, I grabbed Sybilia and hurried her forward. In spite of her exhaustion, there was no fear on her face, only a passive acceptance of death. It was that expression more than anything else which alarmed me. I grabbed her arm so tightly that she winced, and thrust her forward. ‘Faster,’ I muttered.
An hour later we reached the upper limit of the maquis. From here on the shrubs and trees gave way to bare granite slopes and boulders. Sybilia wanted to rest, but that would be suicide. I was about to push her ahead when I noticed a torch flickering behind a rock. As I pulled her back behind a bush, I heard the low hoot of an owl, but no bird ever called quite so melodiously. The sound set my heart hammering and my skin crawling.
We’d been seen! I was sure of that. Who were they? Perhaps shepherds? But no. We were too high for grazing. Besides, shepherds slept at night. There were no predators here, except men. Glancing uneasily at Sybilia, I realized that she, too, had seen them.
They seem to know where we’re heading,’ I said softly.
‘They hunt boar, don’t they?’ She shrugged helplessly and buried her face in her hands.
‘We’ll go back…’I gestured behind us vaguely. ‘Deeper into the maquis. They’ll never flush us out.’
Sybilia caught hold of my arm, pulling me back toward her. ‘Jock! Save yourself,’ she whispered. Her eyes were glittering with fear, her face white and wretched. ‘Please go ahead. Yes, do that for me. I implore you. I shall give myself up to them. It’s best. Listen to me, Jock. I don’t want to go to prison. Besides, we can’t escape from them, and all this has nothing to do with you.’
‘You’re wasting time. Keep moving.’ I caught hold of her arm and hauled her along behind me.
It was almost three A.M. Our clothes were in shreds from pushing aside a multitude of thorny bushes. We had been moving through the maquis in a northerly direction. If we did not make the pass tonight, Sybilia would be exhausted by the following evening. We’d gone some distance since I saw the lights. I decided it was time to take another look. When we passed the next rocky hill, I hauled myself up the slippery side of a tall rock to set our bearings, pausing there to catch my breath.
The first gunshot was thunderous. It shook the night like a thunderclap. The rock beside me exploded in a spray of earth and dust. A second shot followed. For a split second I was completely paralysed with shock. Then I flung myself down and half climbed, half fell to the ground.
Sybilia cried out. Looking down, I noticed blood spurting down my shirt.
‘It’s only a scratch,’ I gasped, pressing one hand over my arm. Scratch or not, it hurt like hell. ‘They’re moving in. We’re almost surrounded. We’ll have to go back.’
We ran headlong down the path, tripping, falling, gasping as shots peppered the bush around us. I was more frightened than I had ever been. We were being hunted like animals, and desperate like animals we retraced out footsteps, time and time again, hour after hour, as we tried to elude the hunters. I lost all idea of time. I only knew that we must keep moving away from the noise of men firing and their shrill whistles, toward the only place of safety I could think of.
Later -I had no idea how much later — immense thunderclouds obscured the moon as the storm moved overhead.
At long last I slowed our pace. It would be almost impossible to take reasonable aim in the darkness, I reckoned. I felt we stood a far better chance now that we were no longer so exposed.
A sudden streak of lightening transformed the darkness into daylight, and in that split second I saw the site of my excavations. The towering, massive faces of ancient warriors looked down on me, lifelike and menacing in the weird, surrealistic light. If I could only reach the cave, we’d stand a chance, I thought gratefully. The site had been chosen by primitive man to withstand all types of siege, and who was I to argue with their sense of self-preservation? I had a rifle and ammunition in the cave, which I kept for the occasional chance sighting of wild boar. If we could reach the ruins, I could keep her there in safety for days until the police came for her.
So close! But we still had to cross the river, and there was no cover. We'd make an easy target.
That thought brought the blood hammering in my chest. It was then that I heard the pounding of many footsteps close behind us. I grabbed Sybilia’s arm, but she would not move. She seemed to be frozen to the ground.
Frantic now, I picked her up bodily and flung her over my shoulder, plunged into the ice-cold river, and began slipping and slithering over the pebbles and boulders. Twice I almost lost my footing against the force of the stream but managed to catch my balance again.
We were exposed; horribly vulnerable! I heard another shot. It came from below this time. Crouching over, I stumbled through the deepening water. A sudden, terrible chilling pain slashed across my thigh. I lurched forward and almost collapsed, but if I fell now, we would die. Was I to be hunted and shot down by the very people I was writing about? This was madness. Insane! A burning anger kindled in me and flared up as I stumbled on through the rushing water.
Providence or coincidence saved us. I’ve rtever known which, but as we reached the riverbank the rain fell, a solid mass of water that poured over us. It pulverized the ground, beating on bushes and rocks, churning the earth to mud in seconds.
The villagers were firing haphazardly now. Visibility was almost nil, but I knew the way to my excavation blindfolded. As I climbed the last bank, I remembered the priest’s words: ‘ There are many people in this village who would sleep easier if she were dead. They will use this vendetta as an excuse to kill her. ‘
I reached the safety of the cave, dumped Sybilia on the floor, grabbed my gun, and began firing into the maquis. I reloaded and fired again. At last the lights began to move away. The villagers were leaving.
Sybilia was shocked but unharmed, and I’d escaped with only flesh wounds, although t
hey stung.
A disturbing thought came to me as I bandaged my wounds: I realized I’d been deceived by the picturesque nature of the terrain. Now I saw the island with a new awareness. It was a harsh, unforgiving land, not to be underestimated, and I had violated its hidden places. In return I was being drawn into the danger and the deep emotional content of a Corsican vendetta.
Chapter 6
The requiem mass had been held in a packed church with half the mourners overflowing into the square. Now it was over, and as Father Andrews led the coffin to the graveyard, his face was pinched and grey. He looked a broken man, ^nd I knew why. He had chistened, married, or buried most of the villagers; listened to their confessions, healed their quarrels. He thought they trusted him. But Sybilia, whom he loved as a daughter, had committed murder and put herself beyond redemption with her refusal to confess or repent.
Thrust forward by the momentum of the crowd, I, too, emerged from the whispering alcoves into the sun. The grass glittered with a billion dewdrops, flowers thrust out their petals to welcome the bees, and the air vibrated with gratitude.
Relieved to be outside, I breathed deeply. Suddenly I was overcome with sadness for Sybilia. It was she who had given me this sensuous love of nature. She had her vision of the earth — a fruitful, living mother, suckling the seeds of flowers and man, lending them substance to grow into forms of infinite beauty. She loved life. She would never kill any living thing, not even a caterpillar or an ant. Was all that a sham? Did that gentle face harbour the mind of a killer? Surely not.
‘The bones that lie in the dust shall thrill with joy before the Lord,' the priest read as he led the throng.
Children raced around the flower beds until they were brought to heel by scowls and threats. Then they too tagged along at the back of the procession.
The Corsican Woman Page 2