by Luz Gabás
“On this one, there’s an exclamation mark in red—”
As she had on every night since her parents had left, Brianda sat in the sitting room and read her aunt fragments from Colau’s documents. She was never sure whether Isolina was listening. Her aunt barely spoke, she often cried, and she had lost her appetite. Every day, emulating her mother, Brianda helped Isolina get dressed, brush her hair, and put on her makeup before taking her out to the garden, where Brianda continuously asked what needed to be done. Then she’d ask Isolina to make one of her favorite stews, pretending she wanted to learn the recipe. In the afternoons, they took long walks that always ended at the graveyard, where Isolina murmured to her husband through her tears. After dinner, they’d sit in front of the fire, which Brianda made sure was always stoked. She planned a shopping trip in Aiscle and a visit to Neli’s house to get Isolina to socialize.
The previous autumn, Isolina had looked after her, and now it was her turn, even if their circumstances weren’t comparable. And in recognizing that difference, Brianda felt forced to confront her fears, or at least to relegate them to a second plane. Esteban hadn’t taken her decision well, as if he were jealous of her spending time with Isolina instead of with him, or even suspected Brianda of having ulterior motives. Maybe the moment would arrive when she could or would have to be truthful with him; meanwhile, for the first time in months, she had reason to get up in the morning.
“Let’s see what earned an exclamation mark, shall we?”
Brianda began to read out loud. “‘In Dei Nomine, Amen. Be it stated to all, that I, Nunilo, Master of Anels, being of sound mind and body, sound in memory and in word, revoking and annulling all other testaments, codicils, and other last wills, before now made, constituted, and ordained, hereby make and ordain my last testament, will, ordination, and disposition of all my possessions as well as lands had and to have wherever, in the following form and manner.
“‘Firstly, I commend my soul to God Our Lord Creator, to whom I humbly beg, that as He has created it, to place it with His Saints in Glory. Amen.
“‘Item, I wish, ordain, and command, that if God Our Lord wished me to die, my body be interred in the Church of Our Lady, in the place of Tiles, beside the altar chapel.
“‘Item, I wish, ordain, and command, that on the day after my interment, my novena begins to be said, which are nine masses with offerings and candles, as is use and custom in said place; that funeral rites be done after my decease, and after a year; and that one hundred masses be said for my soul and that they be paid from my goods and my estate.’
“Looks like this man was serious about leaving his spiritual life in order!” Brianda joked. “He must have been rich to pay for so many masses! I hope there was something left over for his heirs.”
She looked at her aunt out of the corner of her eye and was pleased to see a faint smile on her face.
“‘Item, that all my debts found good and true and that I was obliged to pay be paid, with bills and obligations or without them, be as may, I wish them paid.
“‘Item, done and paid and carried out all the aforementioned and by my dispositions and ordinations of all other goods and places, names, rights, instances, and actions had and to have, bonds, houses, lands, and estates, and to hereby fulfill the ordained as if by notary, I leave and institute as my heir, in agreement with my wife, Leonor, and as we have not had descendants, he whom here I consider as my son, Corso of Siena—’”
Brianda’s jaw dropped. It could not be true. First a Brianda and now a Corso. She looked around to make sure she was in the sitting room of Anels beside her aunt. She was awake. She got up and handed the paper to Isolina.
“Did you hear that?” she asked. “Can you keep reading from the last line? Is there anything else?”
Isolina, more surprised by the strident tone of her niece’s voice than by the discovery—just another of the many that Colau had so often shown her—skimmed the last paragraph in silence and then summarized in a weak voice: “He orders that his wife be beneficial owner of all his goods for all the days of her life. It’s dated March 27, 1586.”
Brianda ran to her room and came back with a pad covered in notes she’d made about wars that had ravaged the county in those years. She stopped at a date.
“Right before his military expedition serving the count,” murmured Brianda. “What foresight.”
“I didn’t know the house had an ancestor called Nunilo. There are so many things I don’t know.” Isolina’s eyes filled with tears. “If only I had listened more to Colau!”
Brianda, nervous, began to pace around the room. Now she understood her uncle’s exclamation mark. What were the chances of there being a Brianda and an Italian named Corso in the valley more than four hundred years ago and now again? She ran to Colau’s office, rummaged through his books, and found one on the chimneys census done by Count Fernando’s father. The same names came up a lot, some even appearing many times, like Johan. She thought she might find another Brianda, an ancestor of the one executed, but she was sure there would be no other Corso.
She returned to the sitting room and sat down beside the fire. Nunilo had left Anels to a Corso of Siena. Another inexplicable connection, like her mother hearing the name Brianda in the wind. Suddenly, she realized the full implication of this, the rest of the reason for her uncle’s red pen. Today, there was a Brianda at Anels and a Corso at Lubich—the opposite of the old papers and what she’d seen in her regressions. What the hell had happened?
“I know that expression, Brianda. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Well, actually, I’m confused about some of Colau’s notes.”
“When he got deep into his research, he used to forget about time, food, distractions, even me.” Isolina sighed. “I never knew anyone as stubborn as him. He wouldn’t give up until he found the answers he was looking for. I think the executions had him so frustrated he couldn’t even talk about it. It’s nice that you want to continue his work. Can I help with anything?”
“I don’t know. The whole business about the witches freaks me out.”
Isolina gave her a puzzled look and opened her mouth to say something but stopped. She remained in thought for a few minutes, then said, in a flat voice, “The afternoon before he died, I peeked into his office and saw Colau sitting at his desk. He seemed so dejected that I went over to him. In his hands, he had a small box the color of blood that I’d never seen before. He placed a small folded paper in it, closed it, and put it in a drawer.”
Brianda clasped her hands tightly in her lap. So, Colau had discovered that the ring was missing, and Isolina did not know it existed.
“Then,” Isolina continued, “he put his arms around my waist and rested his head on my stomach. He stayed there a long time, in silence, while I ran my hands through his hair. I don’t know how to explain it to you, but I think he was saying good-bye.” Her chin began to tremble and she clenched her jaw. “You know I am a woman of faith, Brianda, but I find it difficult to accept my husband’s death. I don’t know if I can go on without him.”
Brianda rushed over, took her aunt’s hand, and stroked it in heartbroken silence. She wanted to help her, but didn’t know what more to do. She could not understand the sort of grief that could make a person say those words. She thought of her anxiety attacks, how they could make her feel like she was dying. Isolina’s words expressed a feeling diametrically opposed to the testament they had just read. What was to be feared more: one’s own death or the suffering over the loss of one’s beloved? Colau had died after finding out that the ring was missing. The ludicrous idea that she was responsible for Isolina’s anguish rose up again, stronger this time.
Isolina went to bed, and Brianda didn’t waste a second before running back to the office. She sat in front of the desk, put her hand into the first drawer, and immediately found the box. She opened it and took out the paper, which looked extremely old, and unfolded it. Some bits were missing, the words that coincided with th
e folds were erased, and the handwriting was strange, but with the help of a magnifying glass, she finally managed to decipher some phrases.
She did not understand their meaning, but when she read them out loud, the words came out of her throat like a long-guarded lament: “Until the day of your complete extinction … Your house will burn and will vanish into hell … And the last will know … that it was me …”
26.
“It looks like a curse,” said Neli, handing back the scrap of paper. “Where did you find it?”
They were in Neli’s kitchen making tea.
“Tidying up in Colau’s office.”
Brianda had not talked to Neli about the ring. She doubted that she’d be able to talk to anyone about it. Her life was filling up with secrets. First her infidelity with Corso, and then stealing the ring. She was plagued by guilt, but there was an air of inevitability to all of it.
Neli frowned.
“Why the face?” Brianda asked. “They’re just words.”
“One person’s soul can affect another person’s body and mind. Evil begets evil.” Neli pointed to the paper. “The soul of the person who wrote this was filled with hate. The person cursed could only hope for misfortune.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Nervous, Brianda began to set out the delicate porcelain cups with floral motifs and their saucers on the tray Neli had prepared. “Incantations, spells, curses. Who believes in that stuff anymore?”
She belatedly remembered the little pouches of good luck that Neli had prepared for her.
“Anyone who believes in the power of desire,” murmured Neli. “Do not underestimate its strength.” She filled the teapot with hot water, asked Brianda to carry the tray, and walked toward the sitting room, where Isolina and Mihaela were talking. “I’m so happy you all came. With so much rain, the days seem very long.”
It had not stopped raining since Colau’s funeral three weeks ago. The days dawned leaden and stayed that way until evening fell over the soaked fields. The seeds sown in the garden ran the risk of rotting, and the planted flowers remained huddled, waiting for the heat of the sun’s rays that would make them stretch their stems.
Brianda tried to resign herself to the gloom, hoping that one day soon, something would jolt her from this monotony. Corso would come back. Or a clue would magically appear and shed light on her uncle’s documents. In the meantime, the only thing to do was wait, like Persephone, until her annual period in the depths of the cold and gray underworld ended and she returned to the earth, bringing the greening of the fields, the flowering of the crops, and the fluttering of butterflies.
Since Isolina and Mihaela weren’t very chatty, Brianda thought she should help Neli liven up the conversation.
“How’s the restoration of the altarpiece going?” she asked. She’d seen the scaffolding on her frequent visits to the church with Isolina to pray for Colau.
“It’s slow work, which means it’ll take me months to finish,” Neli replied. “I hope it will turn out so perfectly it doesn’t add any more fuel to the madness.”
Brianda was puzzled. Had the locals found out about Neli’s religious beliefs? Conscious of the presence of Isolina and Mihaela, she formulated a cautious question. “Has something happened?”
“Haven’t you told her?” Neli addressed Isolina.
“The truth is, I haven’t felt up to anything,” she answered.
“Mihaela, what aren’t they telling me?” Brianda asked with an exaggerated look of intrigue.
The young woman nodded her head slightly. “Better let Neli explain it.”
Neli clicked her tongue before starting, putting on an ironic, faux-cheerful voice. “Well! It turns out that there is enormous potential here that we must all exploit so as not to miss the boat!”
“Ah, is that so?” Brianda raised a cup of tea to her lips. “And what is it?”
“Witches.”
“What witches?” she cried, sloshing tea on the linen tablecloth.
Neli winked at her.
“For the moment, ones in the past.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The whole valley knows about the papers Neli found,” Isolina explained. “They have become a favorite topic at the bar.”
“It’s all anyone will talk about,” continued Neli testily. “All our so-called experts in history, anthropology, and sociology came up with a hypothesis they’ve now taken for reality: the Inquisition was here and twenty-four women were executed for being witches.”
“But we don’t know if that’s what happened,” Brianda objected. “The documents aren’t conclusive.”
“For that very reason, they can invent whatever they want!” responded Neli. “The town can build a theme park, with key rings, T-shirts, even a torture chamber—”
“Calm down, Neli.” Isolina shook her head. “You are taking this matter far too personally.”
Neli ignored her.
“Apparently, everyone suddenly recalls ancestors who heard wails from Beles Peak on stormy nights and sad songs in the howling wind; or who knew from the bleating of the goats when a witch was approaching; or who were terrorized by the movement of the bushes when no wind was blowing; or who felt the breath of wandering spirits asking for masses for the repose of their souls the night of All Saints … Somehow, this discovery gives meaning to all their inherited superstitions, mixing everything together. It’s not just that they were afraid of witches here, rather that there actually were witches, so they think that explains why, up until recently, stone figures were put up on the chimney stacks to scare witches away, or why jarfuls of holy water were thrown in the fireplace, or why a cross was drawn in the ashes—”
“The woman from Darquas makes a cross every day on her bread before cutting it,” commented Mihaela.
“They think this explains why their grandmothers nailed wolfs’ and goats’ feet, eagle claws and dried thistle blooms, on their doors,” continued Neli, “and why they were raised setting down scissors and tongs in the shape of a cross, and throwing salt on the fire, and filling their homes with vases full of boxwood, rosemary, and olive—”
“I put out vases like that every Easter Sunday after mass,” Isolina objected. “Everything you’re describing is simply tradition in lots of places. It’s you mixing everything together, Neli. This is really about your attitude toward the proposal put before the village meeting.”
Neli turned to Brianda to explain. “I objected to Tiles being turned into a shoddy Halloween theme park for tourists, and they looked at me like I was mad. You should have been there, Brianda! They want to make maps to the circles in some of the fields where wild mushrooms grow and say the witches danced there. And put on a mock trial that ends with the accused being burned at the stake.” She snorted. “And how typical that the accused were all women! I’m sure they’ll say they were flying on broomsticks, killing children, and fornicating with the devil. Superstitious bullshit and historical revisionism that has nothing to do with witchcraft. Just clichés about cauldrons full of boiling toads, black cats, hooked noses, and pointy hats.”
“Seriously, Neli, I think you’re overstating it,” said Isolina. “For a long time now, people have understood that witch hunts were really about political disagreements, and that those poor women were just scapegoats.”
“For that very reason, Isolina, we cannot accept the predictable script for purely economic reasons and ignore the reality.”
“And what is the reality, Neli?” Brianda now asked, looking her friend directly in the eye. Neli had asked her to believe in past-life regressions and to look for clues in her visions. Compared to that, what was a silly list of superstitions? Brianda’s own mother had heard the wind whisper her name!
“The reality is that now half the village won’t talk to me. Next thing you know, they’ll be calling me a witch.”
“It can’t be that bad,” Brianda said.
“Ask Mihaela.” She turned to her. “What did your friend Zacarias say to you
the other day?”
Mihaela went red. “That outsiders should not have a say in village matters,” she answered.
“There you have it! My children were born here, but I’m still an outsider.”
“I certainly am!” added Mihaela with irony. “When I tried to defend Neli, he told me that no one would know Romania existed if it weren’t for Dracula.”
Brianda turned to Isolina. “What did Colau think about the executions?”
She wondered if the neighbors had found out about Jayme of Cuyls signing the orders for them. It sounded like they had not.
Isolina took some time to answer. “The folklore part meant nothing to him,” she said finally. “He was interested in the dates, historic details, and reasons behind the events.”
Like me, thought Brianda.
Neli stood up and began collecting the teacups. Brianda followed her to the kitchen.
“I understand how you feel, Neli, but I also agree with Isolina that maybe your reaction was a bit over the top. Is it really so bad if they use the town’s history to make money? If it helps bring more people here and this sleepy valley wakes up a bit—”
For the first time since she had met her, Brianda saw fury in Neli’s dark eyes.
“Brianda, don’t. Do you know actually what should be done to take advantage of the discovery and use it as a model of historic justice?”
She searched for a pen and paper and wrote down a name.
“Anna Göldi,” Brianda read. “Who is she?”
“Was. It’s a long story, and I don’t want to be rude and leave Isolina and Mihaela alone. Look it up on the Internet, and you’ll understand.”
When she got back to Anels House, Brianda went to Colau’s study, which had become her workspace, and found website pages that gave her some background.
Anna Göldi was known as the last witch in Switzerland. She was executed in June 1782, at the age of forty-eight, in the small Swiss canton of Glarus. A museum there was dedicated to her memory. For the last seventeen years of her life, she worked as a servant for Johann Jakob Tschudi, a physician who had political ambitions. He had accused her of having supernatural powers and of putting needles in his daughter’s food. In 1782, she was arrested and tortured. She admitted to a list of crimes typical of witch trials, including entering into a pact with the devil, who had appeared to her in the shape of a black dog. She retracted her confession, but was tortured again and sentenced to death by beheading. Officially, she was accused of poisoning instead of witchcraft, although the law at that time did not impose a death sentence for attempted poisoning, and the daughter of the physician had not died. During the trial, allegations of witchcraft were avoided and, later, the judicial record was destroyed.