Lizzi Bizzi and the Red Witch

by Stefano Pastor

  I was destroying his pride but he really made me angry. It was happening too often lately.

  He tried to recover the slice and clean hands. Her cheeks were burning, he realized, and this was even worse. It was very easy to sink him in the «sea battle», but I granted him a lifebuoy.

  «Hurry up, it’s time to go. You do not want to be late again today».

  Renato was quick. It seemed as if he never ate, but the food on his plate disappeared mysteriously. He was already standing, intent on wearing the backpack. I made an inventory and it seemed everything was there.

  Dino talked and ate. «What are you doing?».

  He persisted, though subdued. «I don’t have to account to you. I have plenty of work to do, understand?».

  I was the only one running the farm, although in reality we only had a small vegetable garden and a few chickens. We the Morels were not farmers or ranchers, since always our lives were tied to the trees. My husband, his father and his grandfather had been loggers. All our forefathers had been, as far as we could remember. Our life was tied to those woods. Times had changed, however, and Dino had adapted to work in the sawmill, down in the village. But the heart would always be there, where our house was.

  Dino had the bike that we had bought a couple of years ago. It was a necessity; I could no longer drive him around with a pickup truck. In return he was to take care of his brother. He took him to school and if necessary he would also bring him home. Not always did their schedules coincide and Renato had to go home on foot often.

  «You’re making me be late», he complained that morning.

  Dino was still eating and snorted. He put on his jacket without stopping to chew. «Can I rest assured?», he asked before leaving.

  It was almost pathetic in trying to run my life, but it was a boy and could not do otherwise. Although only I raised him, certain mechanisms had to be innate in his genes, they could not be fought.

  Lying was easier. «I give a damn about the Verdanas».

  There were three families who lived on Mount Valgoj; the Verdanas, the Drenghis, and us. We, Morels, lived at the base of the mountain. From there a dirt road started, that zigzagged along the mountain until you reach the top. The Verdanas lived up there. The road then continued down to the valley on the other side. In that narrow valley the Drenghis had built their home. There were no other streets other than that. If they wanted to go into town, both the Drenghis and the Verdanas had to pass in front of our farm.

  Once we were all loggers. In recent times many things had changed. The Drenghis had started to farm. I had heard that they had built a pair of greenhouses. The Verdanas were no longer loggers, but in return they went down to the village every Friday with a couple of barrels of a super-alcoholic and homemade grappa. It was said that they had made their distillery in the woods. It was illegal but nobody cared.

  Given that for a long time even the television channels could not reach us, the recreation of the inhabitants of Valgoj was only one. And the offspring had grown dramatically. I could not remember how many children there were, let alone their names. I, too, would be transformed into a mare if Bob does not if it were spun. I could not complain; I had two children left, unfortunately both male.

  Let’s be clear, I always wanted my kids’ welfare from deep in my soul, though I would have preferred they were females. It’s in my nature, I cannot do anything about it; I was born that way.

  That neighbors did not live in harmony was an understatement. We hated each other, this was the truth. From time immemorial the inhabitants of Valgoj were at war with each other. A war made of aggression, violence, slander and abuse. At least it was until Roberto was gone. From that moment on even that game had come to boredom and for me the neighbors had ceased to exist. I did not care about what they did, and it did not have to matter even to my children.

  They had done nothing to endear themselves; every time they passed they ignored us, when they did not insult us. As the boys grew up they had turned into exchanges of compliments. No longer was real hatred, we almost did not know each other, let’s call it custom.

  It was strange that they had not passed our house, very strange.

  I took charge of the chickens, watered the garden. I filled a washing machine and prepared vegetables for soup. I worked the whole morning, even if I brought them faster. At eleven I calculated that I would make it. Half an hour to go and roughly the same to come back, five minutes to make sure they were safe. I would be on time for lunch.

  Dino was right, but I had no intention to accept it. I did not give a damn about the Verdanas, but I wanted to know what happened to them. I wore a leather jacket and took my gun. I checked if it was loaded, and I slipped a couple of cartridges in my pocket. I was forty years old but I looked as if I were ten years older. There was nothing feminine about me; I did not remember ever wearing a skirt. I had given up a lot to take care of my appearance, and although I was always on the move I was gaining weight well.

  The truck was in poor condition, it would not last long. I was sorry, because I was fond of that jalopy. It would not be the same with any other. Furthermore it just did not take any additional expenses. Going to the top of the hill was a grind, but I was sure that I could do it.

  I put the gun on the passenger seat and started the engine. Whatever thing I expected, I was ready to face it. We are like that; we do not ask anyone for help.

  I met Rico many years ago; he had come to our wedding. I had found him to be the most odious of all creation. A white buffalo, which I thought were extinct. Rico was the patriarch and his family ruled unopposed. The women were inferior beings and wives were obliged to serve. I would have kicked a guy like that in the balls, but instead everyone respected him. Among the Verdanas, his wishes were fulfilled quickly and no one dared criticize him. I had heard terrible things about what went on in that house, but I had always ignored them. Gossip about me also rained. According to them I was abnormal, because I had not remarried. In fact, I had just one man. It was incredible that a woman could do without one.

  To me, the country talk was hateful. A lot was said about me when Roberto left. It was generally believed that the fault was mine. I had not been able to hold it. In some ways, Rico and Roberto looked alike, with the only difference that the flaws I saw in Rico almost completely escaped me when I looked at my husband. This demonstrates how love can make a woman blind.

  The road was rugged and uneven. The only car to follow it was now Rico’s SUV, and his driving caused more harm than good. I trudged almost to a crawl, because I did not want to wear the cart down. As long as times were calculated to perfection, I would make it.

  I had not been up there for so long. At one time the forest was my home, but being a mother kills the thirst for adventure. My walks had become short, rarely solitary. Not one tree had been cut down for years, the wood had become impenetrable.

  The air was crisp and the silence absolute. I only heard the gasps of the engine and the lament of some annoyed bird. Against my calculations, I arrived five minutes earlier. The final part put a strain on the cart, more than once it was about have its last breath. The slope was steep.

  I reached the top of the mountain and then immediately began the descent. The Verdanas’ house was there, on a natural terrace surrounded by trees, just beyond the peak. The road was a curve that managed to touch their property, before fading back into the trees.

  I slowed down, although it was not necessary. My arrival could not be ignored, since the engine’s noise could be felt kilometers away. I noticed the SUV in front of the house, along with a battered pickup truck and a couple of motorcycles. The family had to be there in full force.

  I knew there were five of them, but after ten years of not going up there to visit, they could have easily doubled. Anna gave birth to children as if they were cakes. She looked like a chick, tiny and skinny as a rail. At thirty years old already seemed as old as my mother, I did not dare to think what state she had been reduced to now.
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br />   They were things of the past, but in that place life seemed fossilized. Maybe it was like this everywhere, in every mountain village separated from civilization; the Verdanas more than anyone else. Satellites and phones could not change the backward mentality of a couple of centuries. It would take a scalpel to put some intelligence in those knuckleheads. Like father like children, I was quite certain they were growing in his image and likeness.

  There was nobody on the square. The house was big, but had a single story. There was a fence where they kept the animals, just opposite the shed which sheltered the cars. The land in front of the house was empty and inviting, it would be stupid not to take advantage. I had the same charm of a cobra ready to strike. The feeling of putting my head into the lion’s mouth was very strong, but it was not my habit to be afraid.

  I walked down the street alongside the fence and almost arrived to the house. I stopped first, because something had caught my attention. There was a dark shape lying on the ground, over the fence. It was an animal. Maybe sick, perhaps dead. I got out of the truck carefully. I took only two steps and went back. I took the gun.

  I did not care about him getting offended, but I had to think about my safety. «Rico!», I shouted, but no one answered.

  I climbed over the fence and from there I had a better view. It was disgusting; to the Verdanas animals were all pigs and had to be treated as such. There was a greenish slime on the floor, disgusting and sickening. Luckily I had put my boots on, but I had to wash them as soon as I got home.

  The animal was three meters away from me and it was a donkey. I saw another one on the other side of the fence and seemed even bigger, maybe it was a cow. That one too lay on the ground and did not move.

  At first I thought they had left them to starve, but then I saw the blood. There was a puddle around the carcass and had coagulated to become black. A cloud of flies hid the corpse. They didn’t flow up even when I reached it.

  The donkey had been slaughtered, and badly. The Verdanas being capable of such a thing was not a surprise; it made no sense, however, that they had abandoned it like that. I walked over to the cow and I noticed a pool of blood too. I could not get to the house without walking past the entrance to the barn. A fetid gas cloud hit me. I collapsed to my knees, unable to hold back the vomit.

  It had never happened before, I certainly was not the squeamish type, but that was an uncovered tomb. I threw up until my soul left my body, and then I tied a handkerchief to my face, like a thief in the Far West, to face the nightmare.

  The barn was badly lit and it was hard to concentrate and ignore the smell. They could not be hens, although there was a score of them, all beheaded in their cages, including splashes of blood and torn feathers. It was something bigger, and deader.

  They were in their stalls, besides three cows and two horses, there was also a bull, and his head was almost detached. They all died the same way, with their neck cut off. It had been days, I was sure of this; the decomposition was at an advanced stage. I backed off, without getting lost in the details; death was death and nothing more. I left the shed and headed straight to my car without looking back.

  No sooner had I reached it that I sighed in relief, to be there heartened me even more than the gun in my hand. Because I knew I would be able to get away. I sat in the driving seat, without even closing the door.

  What should I do? I wondered.

  Whatever had happened, some days had already passed. On Wednesday the Verdanas were not down in the village. Where were they? They could be gone, as they could be in the house. If they were in the house, I would find them in the same condition of their animals. It was impossible that they were still alive. If they were no longer there, where could they have gone? I did not remember seeing them pass. Did not even hear them, and my hearing is very good.

  I was trying to delay the inevitable; any excuse was good not to enter the house. What had happened? Maybe it was revenge; Rico had many enemies and possessed a concept of its own justice and legality. How much hatred was needed to get to behead chickens as well?

  I remembered Tom, the mangy, as I called him. As a pure bastard race, a cross between a German shepherd and a Pomeranian, with all black fur, which Rico had picked and trained as a guard dog. He is nowhere to be found, alive or dead. He had to be in the house.

  At that moment calling the police did not even cross my mind; it was contrary to my nature. Only the criminals had to do with the law, the good citizens were those who never had contact with the police. I was raised with a different mentality, we mountaineers solved every problem between us, and there was no need to ask anyone for help. The Verdanas were bastards, idiots and even pigs; however, they had become my problem. It was I who had to take care of them; and more specifically, to find out if they were still alive.

  I counted to a hundred, to calm myself. I checked again for cartridges in the barrel, ready to explode. I almost blew my head making sure that the rifle worked, then got out of the car.

  I looked like Calamity Jane and felt a little like her. I also had a hat on my head to protect myself from the sun. I would have surely not scared whoever had made such a massacre, but I doubted he was still there.

  The front door was wide open, but that did not mean anything, the Verdanas lived like that. Besides, what good would it have been to close it if they were the only ones there? The consequences of such behavior were under my eyes.

  The house smelled disgusting, but this was probably its natural condition. From the kitchen came a hellish stench, but I found no bodies, only rotting food. There were pots on the stove, turned off for luck, even a cauldron that looked just like a witch’s. If the pulp concealed on the bottom of the container was a stew, then Anna would need to consult a book of recipes, as long as she was alive.

  She was not, as I found out almost immediately, in the dining room, next to the kitchen. Everyone was there, I counted nine people. The children were seven, so in the end they contained themselves.

  At first I did not even notice that they were dead. All sat around the table, neatly, to lunch. The table was full of food, they had just begun. Rico was at the head, as was fitting. Anna was at his side. It was strange that he did not serve others, perhaps he had just finished.

  They had been slaughtered, everyone, even the youngest children. I could not get close, I was shocked. There was something terrifying in that scene. The bodies were standing on their chairs without any support, as if they remained peaceful to wait for their turn to be killed. No one had tried to escape; no one had fallen lying on the table. They had simply bled out, and seemed to be wearing a black gag over their clothes. There, too, the smell was persistent and was full of flies. They did not even buzz, not to disturb those resting in the grave, or perhaps because they were too busy sucking their food.

  I uttered my first word. «Shit».

  2

  I stood still for long, trying to reason, but it was not easy. I was not thinking as I got closer, that there was the risk of getting typhoid or some other serious illness. I stepped back, I had seen enough.

  Anna had been luckier than me; she had had five girls, except now they were all dead. I was sure Rico did not appreciate that, for him girls were useless, he preferred male children.

  I did not wander through the house, I aimed straight toward the exit, and I wanted to get out of there. A growl froze me at the door.

  The only survivor of the massacre was in front of me, five meters away. If Rico had not put him on a diet, then poor Tom fasted for at least four days. It was a mangy skeleton; I have never seen an animal in conditions so appalling. I noticed something else, but I had to get closer to be sure.

  I clutched my rifle and pointed it. It would have been easy to eliminate the problem, Rico would not have complained. I had him in my sight, but when the time to pull the trigger came I hesitated.

  Tom was dangerous. Without his boss, hungry, he would become wild. Maybe it already was, perhaps Rico had trained him to kill. It was no
t a problem I could deal with. It would be better for everyone, even for him.

  Tom growled at me, but did not move a millimeter. Neither could I; ours was a duel, and I hoped it would not end with death. I was lucky, because Tom did not want to enter the house. He knew what was in there. He barked again, but then he moved. With the tail between his legs he walked around the house, until he was lost among the trees. Even his courage was simulated.

  I clearly saw the cut, before he disappeared. Someone had tried to kill him as well. The skin on the right side of the neck was injured, but the flesh had not been reached. At least he had managed to escape.

  It took a long time before finding the strength to start the car; all my programs went downhill. That place was scary but also disturbing. Death had come without sparing anyone. It had struck suddenly and without reason; leaving a cemetery behind it.

  My hands were shaking, I could not swing the gear, and I forgot to take off the handbrake. I cried, and this was absurd, I had not cried even for my father. But it was not for them I cried, not for those children whose name I did not even know, but for the tension of being spoofed, which was destroying my nerves.

  I left that place and came down from the mountain with a maddening slowness, even though it was already late. I did nothing but turn around all the time, although it was impossible that someone was following me. At that time I asked myself, if I should call the police, but it was an abstract concept, without any practical application, and I left that question unanswered.

  There were more urgent things, the boys were coming soon and I had not prepared anything. For the soup was too late, it was better to fall back on a plate of spaghetti. Crisps, to keep them happy, even if anything fried did not do them any good at all, but for once I could make an exception.

  Taken by the most pressing problems, I took Rico and his family out of my mind.

  I was reminded when I sat down. It took a long time; I had two children to take care of. After serving and revering them my turn came, but I could not eat the noodles on the plate. I could not even swallow a potato chip.