La Brigantessa

by Rosanna Micelotta Battigelli

  With a loaded basket in hand, filled with cabbages, potatoes, onions, chick peas or lentils, and the occasional flask of oil or wine, he would enter seemingly impenetrable sections of the wooded slopes, and after some time, return with an empty basket. The old man’s coins or gold would be concealed within his own ragged clothes.

  Paolo had sent word to his mother that this man was to be trusted implicitly. She sent Carlo with the concealed vest, a sack of potatoes, a round of coarse bread, and a warning—he was to say that he was searching for wild mushrooms if he came upon the forces of law or anyone who looked suspicious.

  Carlo had found the old man, Paolo recounted, and the exchange of vest and food was made, after which the old man’s goat proceeded to butt Carlo and nudge him away from the property. Startled, Carlo had stumbled and the goat was upon him, until the old man, guffawing, had sent the goat scuttling off with a brisk tap of his staff. The old man helped Carlo up and seeing the fright in the boy’s eyes, calmed him with a cup of wine and sent him back home with a bag of wild fennel, chicory, and lentils.

  When Paolo met the old man the next day on the wooded slope, they shared a convivial drink, and Paolo set off to return to the brigand camp with the provisions Carlo had brought, but not before examining the vest and discovering its array of pockets, one of which held a dagger that he recognized as a gift given to his father by a grateful employer.

  And now it is strapped to the leg of Dorotea, who has made good use of it since Paolo’s death. Stefano’s eyes narrow at one memory of Dorotea clasping the polished handle with blood dripping from the shaft, her silver-green eyes glowing with triumph after extracting the heart of a hare captured and killed by Gaetano. And blood, purple-red like the pulpy core of prickly pears, beginning to coagulate on her face and hands after eating the raw organ. It was a family tradition, she explained once to a horrified Tomaso, who had come upon her in the middle of her ritual. Tomaso had shared his discovery with Stefano, and since then, the memory always seems to return whenever Dorotea is nearby.

  Stefano catches Tomaso’s eye and flicks his hand at the smouldering embers. Tomaso nods and reaches for a crude metal pitcher. He pours the last of the water into the coals. At the subsequent hiss and rising plume of smoke, the rest of the band members rise and retreat to their respective resting places. Stefano is aware that Dorotea is lingering purposefully, with the pretence of picking up traces of their meal from the forest floor. When she casts a sidelong glance at his tent and then back at him, Stefano raises his eyebrows.

  She has pulled the bandana off her head, and her coarse hair has tumbled around her face, softening its angular appearance. She opens her mouth, then clamps it shut into a forbidding twist before turning and proceeding stiffly into a cleft of trees.

  Stefano waits until she has disappeared and listens as she settles down onto her bed of dry bracken. He clambers up and around the mountainside to his hut. It backs onto the outcrop and is held up by a series of intertwined branches and sturdy tree limbs. A blanket is suspended in the narrow doorway. He cocks his head, attentive for several moments, assessing each snap and crackle in the distance, each thud on the forest floor. He is no stranger to the tread of a badger, the nimble tap of a leaping deer. He can distinguish the piping call of a goshawk from a kestrel, a short-toed eagle from a sparrow hawk.

  Satisfied that the noises he hears originate from the creatures of the forest and not from human pursuit, he enters his hut and stretches out on a bed of soft bracken over which he has spread a well-worn blanket his mother had made. He fingers it absent-mindedly now, his mind too preoccupied to succumb to sleep. The blanket is comforting, and he runs his hand over the weave repeatedly, aware now that the only sound around him is the thudding of his heart.

  Dorotea would be happy if he returned to her and invited her back to his hut on some invented pretence. She had wept profusely for days after her husband’s hasty burial in an obscure mountain grave, but Stefano has noticed that her eyes have long dried, and there is a piercing luminosity in those grey-green depths that up to now he has tried to deny.

  The thought that she is his for the taking causes him to suck in his breath. He is aware that he has gone without the touch of a woman for far too long. He feels his fists clenching and unclenching. Scenes flash in succession under his closed lids: Dorotea stroking a dead rabbit caught by Gaetano before plunging her own dagger into its still warm flesh, smiling at the subsequent gush of blood; Dorotea sticking her hand into its chest cavity and tugging and snapping muscle and sinew to extract the creature’s heart; Dorotea crossing herself before plopping the dripping organ into her mouth; Dorotea closing the gaping cavity and looking furtively about before slinking back into the woods, thinking nobody has witnessed her.

  Stefano’s jaw tightens. He has never encouraged Dorotea. And never will.

  PART IV:

  PREPARATIONS

  August 1862

  DON SIMONE PLUCKS AN APPLE from the first in a line of fruit trees that border the church property and hang over into the abandoned property of a villager who has left the country. He hands over the treat to Vittorio and with a chuckle, leads the mule over to the stables.

  He gives thanks to God for his equine companion and for another successful mission.

  Not that he was able to cure old Farmer Rocco of his heart failure in the neighbouring hamlet of Riace; no, not even the doctor could do that. But at least he had arrived in time to administer the last rights to the poor man and to anoint him with the holy oil since the regular priest was away on a spiritual retreat. Every soul deserved a final spiritual cleansing before leaving the earthly world, and nothing pleased him more than to see the gratitude and relief mirrored in a dying man’s eyes as he performed the ritual.

  He always looked for it, that momentary gleam that brightens like a burning ember before it is snuffed out. Don Simone is aware that many people have difficulty staring into the eyes of someone who is dying, but it is such moments that give him satisfaction in his chosen vocation.

  He likes to think of himself as attending to the matters of the spirit. By elevating the spirit of others, whether on the verge of death, or in more mundane situations, he in turn feels his spirit elevated. And though he knows that he should not seek any rewards for himself in carrying out his priestly duties, he cannot help but feel rewarded.

  He feels especially tired. After arriving at the poor farmer’s bedside, it took two hours to administer the sacrament of the sick because of the family’s intermittent sobs and lamentations, another hour to console them after the farmer took his last breath, and yet another hour to return to Camini in the sweltering mid-afternoon heat. He would have arrived earlier had he ridden Vittorio, but he had chosen to walk alongside the animal, taking pauses at natural springs along the way.

  He does this on every journey, wanting to ease the burden for the poor beast, and in doing so, prolong his faithful companion’s life. He does it also to fulfill a lifelong vow to the Blessed Virgin since he left the parish of San Bartolomeo, for it was she who had appeared in his dreams, entreating him to embrace a life of service in areas of darkness. And he, in return, had mustered the courage to leave a position of comfort and security to embark upon a journey and destination wrought with danger and disease. He had prayed for her protection with the promise that if he arrived safely, and could carry out his spiritual duties, he would venerate her by demonstrating personal sacrifices weekly, if not daily.

  So, one day, he would go without a meal; another day, he would double his prayers; yet another, he would walk barefoot to the sanctuary of the Blessed Virgin at the cemetery. Don Simone is proud of the fact that in the ten years that he has been in Camini, he has honoured his vows. He is certain that in doing so, the Holy Mother is interceding with God on his behalf to keep him healthy and strong, in order to continue his spiritual mission in Camini.

  He may not undertake the heavy, physical tasks
of the farmers and land labourers, but he makes sure that he reinforces his body as he does his soul, walking countless hours between the neighbouring villages, often choosing to traverse the rougher terrain of mountain paths and mule tracks instead of the well-trodden roads. He likes to think that this activity keeps his physical muscles stretched, while he undertakes the mission of stretching his spiritual muscles in daily prayer and meditation.

  He is feeling the effects of his walk today and is relishing a quiet evening after a rejuvenating meal that Gabriella is sure to have prepared. In all likelihood, the Fantin brothers will be dining in Stilo tonight, as Signor Claudio planned, after consulting with the pharmacist.

  He smiles contently as he leads Vittorio into the barn. Despite the satisfaction of conducting his priestly duties in the sprawling countryside, Don Simone feels no greater happiness than returning to his own parish and family. Gabriella, Luciano, and Lorenzo are truly his family, and he gives thanks daily that he, unlike so many in the brotherhood, is not inclined to live in solitude.

  Amidst the usual bleating and snorting among the animals in their enclosures, an unfamiliar noise captures his attention. Don Simone stands rooted to the spot, trying to determine its origin, and realizes that the muffled groans and gasps are coming from the far end of the barn, and that they sound chillingly human.

  He drops Vittorio’s reins and rushes through the shadowy pathway to the sounds, which have become long, despairing sobs. Cries of lament. What has happened? Is it Luciano? Gabriella? Mother of Jesus, help us. Ave Maria, piena di grazia, il Signore è con te….

  Gabriella is barely recognizable. She is gathered in a quivering heap on the ground, her straw-matted hair strewn over her face and shoulders, her garments are torn and blood-splattered, her body is shaking….

  “O Dio mio!” Don Simone lunges forward when he realizes that the dark hump on the ground by Gabriella is Lorenzo. His eyes fly to the crimson halo around Lorenzo’s head and his stomach recoils as if a deliberately clenched fist has made a heart-stopping impact. He falls to his knees and grabs Gabriella by the shoulders. Her sobs catch in her throat, and she gasps for breath. Don Simone looks straight at her, but her eyes are glazed, the whites laced with erupted blood vessels. His hands slide down to grip hers, and when they make contact, he feels their sticky dampness.

  “Gabriella,” he cries, unable to hide his anguish. “What…how did this happen?”

  His words are like a slap. She recoils and blinks at him wordlessly, before staring at her father’s rigid body. A moment later, she looks up and Don Simone follows her gaze to the loft, his heart lurching at the figure sprawled on the floor. He rises and lifting the hem of his cassock, trudges up to the loft. He feels his knees quiver as his eyes run over the still body of Alfonso Fantin, partially illuminated by the light streaming in through the window. For a moment, Don Simone’s eyes follow the dust motes floating about in the air, hovering over the dead body like disembodied souls. His eyes return to Alfonso’s neck wound, the streaks of concealing blood on his shirt, the stark whiteness of his trunk and loins. The bloodied shaft of the knife on the straw-scattered floor.

  The bile in his throat rises as he takes in Gabriella’s torn frock, her heaving bosom. He wilfully shuts those thoughts down; he needs to remove Gabriella from the barn. There is nobody else who can see to her well-being now.

  He descends the steps two at a time. Kneeling down by Lorenzo, he makes the sign of the cross. “O God, the Creator and Redeemer of all the faithful, give to the soul of Lorenzo Falcone, Thy servant departed, the remission of his sins: that, through the help of our pious supplications, he may obtain the pardon he has always desired. May he rest in eternal peace and divine light, united with all your Saints. Per Cristo nostro Signore. Amen.”

  “Papà!” Gabriella flings herself over the inert body, erupting again into sobs, her eyes flashing with a wildness Don Simone has never seen her display, not even at the death of her mother. My poor orphan. He gently extricates her from her father. Of what earthly offences could you possibly be guilty to deserve such a cruel destiny?

  Supporting her quaking body, he leads her out of the dank recesses of the barn. The sun, which flickered briefly while they were in the barn, has begun to recede, and the clouds seem to be propping themselves against its luminous face in dark triumph. Don Simone feels their darkening shadows replicate themselves on his spirit. He needs to keep his mind clear, so he can figure out how he is to deal with the ramifications of the death of Lorenzo and Alfonso, but he cannot help but feel overwhelmed.

  “Come.” He adjusts her fallen shawl over her shivering body. “You must come with me. I will tend to your dear father afterwards.” And may our heavenly Father tend to us all in the hell to come.

  He staggers forward, biting his lip so hard that he tastes blood.

  “OH, IF ONLY YOU HAD BEEN WITH US IN SICILY….” Tonino’s gaze shifts from the path they are walking to the man beside him, Massimo. “You remind me of my youngest brother,” Massimo continues wistfully. “I left, and now he’s the man of the family. Papà died in the Battle of Volturno.”

  Tonino bows his head respectfully. So, Massimo’s father had been a Redshirt as well, his blood shed for the cause of Unification. And now Massimo is fighting for the cause, undeterred by the possibility of sacrificing his life.

  “Sei coraggioso,” Tonino murmurs respectfully,

  “If we don’t have courage, how will anything change?” Massimo looks up at the sky that is brightening with the sunrise. “We can’t expect our women to fight our battles.”

  “Do you have a woman?” Massimo can’t be but five or six years older than himself; surely he has a girl back home, or perhaps even a wife, even though there is no band on his left hand.

  Massimo shakes his head. “I have been too busy being a father to my six younger brothers and sisters; I get up three hours before dawn to get to the fields. The Baron was good enough to offer me work when he heard the news about my father, who had served him faithfully for years. By the time I get back to my village, it is dusk, and there are countless jobs to do. I have no time to court anyone. And besides, what could I offer her right now? A bed to share with six others?” He laughs, but Tonino hears the edge of bitterness. “And you, Tonino?”

  Tonino feels himself flushing. His pace slows, and he looks straight at the rising sun, a haze of pink and orange. “Her name is Gabriella,” he hears himself saying and bites his lip. He has this sudden urge to weep, not only for himself for having left Gabriella, but for all the men who felt compelled to leave their loved one for the cause. For Garibaldi.

  “Gabriella,” Massimo repeats, and Tonino is almost jealous of the way it sounds on Massimo’s lips. He’s not sure if he wants to share her with anyone. “What were you saying about Sicily?” he changes the subject, his voice less vulnerable.

  “Ah, yes,” Massimo’s eyes look up at the sky again. “Sicily. When the General and his followers arrived in Marsala, my hometown, he was greeted as if he were the resurrected Jesus. The screaming; the women weeping and holding their babies up to him; the men leaping up to touch him; the flowers flung reverently at his feet. And the music! Bands playing as if there would be no tomorrow! I can still see the men blowing with all their might on their bagpipes, their cheeks inflating and deflating, as red as our shirts! Everyone watching the General’s every move. Then he disappeared and a moment later he stepped out onto a balcony overlooking the square. Everyone hushed. It seemed that even the birds and the animals knew to be still. It was like the night when Jesus was born, and the creatures and Wise Men were gazing upon the newborn with awe and wonder. I tell you, Tonino, it gave everyone goosebumps.

  “And when the General cried out, ‘Either Rome or death!’ the silence lasted for another second, and then it was like the stars came crashing down on earth, so great was the resounding cry from the people, and yes, even the birds and the animals. If ever
I doubted the mission before, well, that night, my doubts disappeared.”

  Massimo has stopped walking. He resembles a great orator, his eyes glazed in fervour, his arms outstretched, fingers splayed. The others have passed them; they are the last in line. Tonino stops and sits on a nearby stump.

  “Like the fishermen who dropped their nets to follow Jesus, my Sicilian brothers made haste to join the great Giuseppe Garibaldi in his mission to liberate Rome. And when we arrived in Catania, another crowd of joyful well-wishers! The General ordered two packet ships seized in the harbour—the Abbattucci and the Dispaccio. I’ll never forget the look on his face as he stood watching us cram into the ships that would shortly take us across the Strait of Messina.”

  Massimo shakes his head in wonder. “He was our father, his cheeks glistening with pride, his eyes burning like a lion watching his cubs. We had no doubt that he would defend us to the last. And knowing that he would lay down his life for us, for Italy, how could we not do the same for him?” With a tremulous sigh, Massimo raises his arm to the sky, which is now streaked with ribbons of red. “Viva Giuseppe Garibaldi!” he cries. “And long live United Italy!”