La Brigantessa

by Rosanna Micelotta Battigelli

GABRIELLA HAS A SLIGHT BUILD, but her inert body feels like an unyielding mass of granite as Don Simone all but carries her into the rectory. Her animal-like sobs have subsided and her face, although streaked with tears, has acquired the look of an emotionless alabaster mask, like the ones sold at country fairs. He glances at the narrow steps leading upstairs to Gabriella and Luciano’s room, and with a prayer on his lips, begins the ascent.

  After depositing Gabriella onto her bed, he hurries out of the room, all too aware that she is lapsing into shock. He returns immediately with a flask of grappa that one of his parishioners regularly brings him after unloading his conscience at Confession.

  “Those who do the Lord’s work need extra strength,” Farmer Picone assures Don Simone every time he drops by. “Besides, I swore on my blessed wife’s grave that I would serve the Church for the rest of my life, if only to guarantee her soul’s arrival in Paradise.”

  Don Simone begins to pray for the ascent of Lorenzo Falcone’s soul into heaven and for a sign from Gabriella that her spirit has not died with her father. He has no delusions about the abject state her soul must be in at the present time and he will do everything he can in his capacity as priest and closest family friend to save Gabriella from the hellfire that has begun to consume her. As for Alfonso Fantin, perhaps the landowner’s soul has already begun its descent into hell for what he has done. He shudders, feeling his stomach twist at the thought of Fantin’s inert body lying on the floor of the loft with bits of straw stuck to his loins.

  Don Simone lifts Gabriella’s head slightly off the pillow and presses the flask to her lips. Her eyes are fluttering, and as she utters a low groan, he takes advantage of her partially open mouth to tip the flask. She sputters and chokes. Her body spasms as the fiery liquid sears a path through her innards. He feels like the devil himself, putting her through this, but he knows that the outcome will be worth it.

  “Please forgive me, cara mia,” he murmurs as her shuddering subsides and she falls back on the pillow, “but this will help you, I promise.” He reaches for the extra blanket folded neatly at the foot of her pallet and drapes it over her. Satisfied that her cheeks have been restored of some colour, and that she will settle into a state of rest, Don Simone descends the stairs and returns to his own room, his mind a jumble of thoughts.

  Consumed with sudden anxiety, he takes a good swallow of the grappa and sets the flask down on his dresser before dropping to his knees. He must, first of all, pray for a clear mind, he decides, shutting his eyes. For he alone must think of how to save Gabriella from the hands of the law for the murder of Signor Alfonso Fantin, despite the fact it was obviously committed in self-defence. A wealthy landowner from the North, knifed by a peasant from the South. Don Simone has no delusions about Gabriella’s fate. If she has any fortune at all, if the Holy Family and all the saints and the heavenly angels are uniting in her favour, the best she might hope for is life imprisonment.

  In which case, a sentence to hang might be the most merciful judgment given to her.

  DON SIMONE SNAPS HIS SATCHEL SHUT, satisfied with the provisions that he has selected: a flask of wine, a hunk of cheese, several links of cured sausage, and a half-dozen apricots. And in a separate pocket, his breviary.

  He procures three wool blankets from the chest in his bedroom, then scans the room to see if he has forgotten anything. His gaze brushes the wardrobe opposite his bed, and he crosses the room in three paces to retrieve a hunting knife. He deposits it in a pocket within his cassock, murmurs a prayer to the oversized walnut crucifix hanging above his bed, and scurries out of the room and through the back door of the rectory to ready the cart in preparation for their journey.

  Vittorio gives him a welcoming snort, and Don Simone pats him affectionately.

  “No rest for us tonight, my friend,” he murmurs. “We have important work to do.”

  Don Simone arranges the blankets over a thick pallet of straw lining the cart, wedges the satchel in one corner, hitches up Vittorio—whose ready compliance gives him cause to utter a grateful “Glory Be”—and heads to the rectory to carry out his final task, getting Gabriella and Luciano out of the house and away from Camini before the authorities become aware of the situation and attempt to apprehend Gabriella.

  Darkness has never frightened or worried him before; his faith has always bolstered him during his nighttime trips. On this particular night, however, he cannot but feel a disturbing apprehension of forces that are out of his control. He feels the hair on his arms rising as the night breeze passes over him; he likens it to the breath of a malevolent spirit. The dampness of the earth fills his nostrils with a woody, visceral scent that reminds him of freshly dug graves. Even the moon seems menacing with its luminous grin curving mockingly from under the black blanket of sky. Shivering, he hastens to enter the rectory.

  Earlier, shortly after he left Gabriella in a dejected heap on her pallet, Luciano burst into the rectory with flushed cheeks and wisps of straw enmeshed in his hair. Don Simone suspected he had been playing near the reeds by the river with his friends, and was about to scold him, but then stopped short. The boy’s guilty look turned to one of confusion when Don Simone smiled, holding out his arms. Luciano walked tentatively over to him.

  “Come here, young man,” Don Simone urged softly, drawing Luciano closer. “I have something I must tell you. You must be strong…. There has been an accident. Your father fell down and hit his head.” Don Simone’s arms tightened around Luciano and he tried to hold back his tears. “Your Papà died instantly. He is with God in heaven now.”

  A sharp sob in the doorway announced Gabriella’s presence. Luciano ran crying to her, and she dropped down to her knees and clasped him. Don Simone met her alarmed gaze. He jnstinctively understood that she didn’t want him to mention Signor Fantin. He walked over and embraced them. Swallowing hard, he advised Gabriella to pack a few items of clothing for her and Luciano; they would be journeying to a place where they would be taken care of for an indefinite time.

  Don Simone watches Gabriella reappear with her arm around Luciano’s quivering shoulders. She pauses at the window at the top of the stairs, staring frozenly at the barn. He swallows hard. “Come, my dear children,” he calls out, trying to keep his voice strong. “Vittorio is hitched up and waiting for us.”

  WITH EVERY JOLT OF THE CART OVER THE RUTS In the mule path, Gabriella feels something plummet within her. As they continue to descend the mountainside, she peers behind her and in the charcoal mist sees the dim twinkle of candles still burning in Camini, their configuration eerily resembling a cross. Convinced it is a bad omen, Gabriella shivers and makes the sign of the cross herself. How she wishes she could run to Tonino, collapse in his arms, let him comfort her and protect her. But how can he possibly protect her and Luciano? Where could he bring them to avoid the authorities? No, much as it is tearing apart her very soul to be skulking away like this with Don Simone, she knows it is the only way to avoid a life in prison, a life without Luciano. And a life with Tonino was already uncertain, given his decision to join Garibaldi’s army.

  How quickly a life can shatter. She feels hot tears streaming over her cheeks and doesn’t bother to wipe them. Life is so cruel, promising something with one breath and snatching it away with the next.

  She repositions herself on the mound of straw on top of which she and Luciano are huddled and draws one of the blankets around herself and her brother, who has finally succumbed to sleep. Her arm tightens around his slight body. She stares numbly at the mule’s back side as it ploughs its way forward. A breeze passes over them from the nearby Ionian Sea, and Gabriella opens her mouth to gulp at the air; her lungs feel as shrivelled as the figs hanging in the cellar. The clapping of Vittorio’s hooves on the ground reverberates around them, and she squints around her fearfully, expecting the police to jump out from behind the cypresses or prickly pear bushes lining the path.

  A sob catches in her th
roat at the sight of Don Simone, his black cassock draped around his slightly bent body, walking alongside Vittorio. Don Simone, who has put everything aside to bring her and Luciano to a safe haven, and who has always been more than just an employer to Papà, and to Gabriella—he has been a trusted friend—now has the burden of taking care of them.

  Orfani. That is what she and Luciano have become. Orphans lost in a storm.

  The dampness of the earth rises to pervade her senses. Gabriella can tell they are near the river. Although she can’t see it beyond the thick canopy of chestnut trees over the narrow path, the scent of the river tickles her nostrils like a dampened feather. Gabriella hears it slurp and gush now, and immediately thinks of Vincenzino and the tales of how the devil pulled him into the river and caused him to drown. A flash of red explodes in front of her eyes and she squeezes them shut, trying to prevent the image of the devil from attaching itself to her memory. But her eyes betray her, and she sees the alternating face of a scarlet demon and the red jowls of Alfonso Fantin.

  A scurrying through the bushes makes her straighten in alarm. Since her childhood, she has heard stories of wolves, wild boars, gypsies, and brigands. Again, her eyes seek the figure of Don Simone, and his steady gait reassures her that the noises are nothing to be concerned about—perhaps a hare or quail.

  Her heartbeats subside, and despite her resolution to never forgive God for allowing her Papà to be taken from her, she starts to recite the Ave Maria silently. Closing her eyes, she feels the presence of a quieting, calming hand, and without a doubt in her mind, she senses that her own mother, Elisabetta, is with her. Gabriella fishes for her mother’s handkerchief in her pocket and wipes her tears. Letting out a long, drawn-out breath, she allows herself to drift to sleep.

  VITTORIO’S HOOVES ARE DRAGGING, Don Simone realizes. The poor beast has more than doubled his usual working distance and if he is not given a rest, he will be useless. It is nearing midnight, and they have managed, with the Good Lord’s help, to reach the mid-point of their destination.

  The Monastery of the Capuchins of Gerace is roughly fourteen kilometres away, but much as he would like to proceed, Don Simone knows that it is imperative to give Vittorio a reprieve. He scans the moonlit sky, murmuring a prayer in reverent gratitude for its illumination. The journey thus far has been miraculously uneventful. Vittorio has plodded along tenaciously, manoeuvring the light-dappled mule path with a fortitude that brings a lump to Don Simone’s throat.

  He shudders at the thought of the perils and tragedies that have plagued other travellers such as stumbling over a fallen tree, the collapse of mule and cart in an indiscernible rut, a path washed out by torrential rains, a life-threatening encounter with a wild boar, or a sudden attack by brigands. No, thank God, they have met with none of those evils, and as far as Don Simone has been able to discern, there is nobody following them. Yet.

  He glances back at Gabriella and Luciano as the cart comes to a stop. They are huddled together, but even several layers of blankets cannot stop the damp forest air from creeping through, and they are shifting uncomfortably.

  Don Simone dismounts and leads Vittorio over to a black entrance, the first of a series of caves in the Gallica Valley. He knows this area quite well; it has served as a stopping point along his journey to and from his monthly retreat at the Monastery of the Capuchins. The Gallica caves have been chiselled out of granite outcrops at the base of the Gallica foothills, which are surrounded by woodlands and herald the start of the Aspromonte range.

  Don Simone usually indulges in a brief rest here at mid-journey, enjoying a solitary picnic with Vittorio before meandering off for a contemplative walk among the ancient oaks, beeches, chestnuts, and pines. He particularly loves the autumn when he saunters off with a burlap sack to collect the abundant chestnuts that he knows will be enjoyed by the entire Falcone family upon his return, usually around the time of the feast of the castagnata.

  He is pleased that they have reached this point. He explains to Gabriella, whose face is drawn and pale under wisps of hair that are now threaded with straw, that he will build a fire, and they will rest for several hours before moving on. He instructs her to bring down all the blankets and to set them in a corner of the cave. Gabriella is still in a state of shock, but he deliberately speaks to her as if nothing has changed in their lives, as if they are still at the rectory. He will not, cannot, show any sign that he is in shock himself, that his spirit has been shattered, that he wants to scream out the agony of his tormented soul into the silence of the night. No, that is a matter between him and God.

  There will be time for mourning, as right now, he has other tasks of importance. He feels his gut clenching at the sight of Luciano, scrawny and sleepy-eyed, his breeches torn and muddied. He pushes away any further thoughts and busies himself assembling a fire at the mouth of the cave with a bag of kindling he keeps in the cart. As the flames catch the twigs and start to burn, the growing heat is absorbed into the cave. Satisfied with his effort, Don Simone pats Vittorio, who has settled down on a leaf-strewn patch of ground, before returning to huddle next to Gabriella and Luciano.

  To their advantage, a granite outcrop juts over the top of the cave, providing a shield from the rain that decides at that moment to come down in a fine drizzle that reminds Don Simone of the sizzling of the frittuli in the cauldron after the hog slaughter. Although the drops splatter into the fire, causing it to sizzle and smoke, it remains intact, and Don Simone finds himself uttering a “Glory Be” that the weather has co-operated up to now. Even Vittorio is protected by a thick canopy of chestnut trees, unruffled by the momentary rainfall.

  Don Simone glances edgewise at Luciano. The boy’s eyes are luminous, long lashes blinking into the mesmerizing flames, body pressed into the protective curve of Gabriella’s arm and shoulder. Gabriella’s face is stony, and her eyes glassy and dark as coal. She, too, is looking trance-like into the fire, with her free arm stroking Luciano’s head and temple softly, incessantly, as if she needs him to feel her touch, to know that he has not lost everyone, that he is not alone in this cold, dark world.

  Don Simone senses that it is futile to say anything to Gabriella at this moment. And what would he say, anyway? That losing her father was God’s will? That God deemed it necessary to deprive her of her mother and her father for reasons that mere humans could not possibly understand? That she needed to be strong, to keep her faith in God? Don Simone grimaces. His mind shuffles through countless sermons he has given the congregation of Camini in the aftermath of a personal or communal tragedy and the dozens of Bible quotes that he has triumphantly recited from memory, standing on the pulpit with a sea of faces reflecting alternating waves of sorrow and despair.

  “‘And the Lord, He is the one who goes before you. He will be with you. He will not leave you nor forsake you, do not fear nor be dismayed.’”

  “‘Blessed be the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble.’”

  And his favourite: “‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside still waters. He restoreth my soul. He leadeth me in paths of righteousness for His name’s sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.’”

  Back in Camini, Don Simone knew that some of his parishioners were on the verge of severing their belief in a just God; he could practically see it disintegrating before his eyes, flickering desperately in the storms of their own eyes. But what a miracle it was to see some of those dying embers brightening with hope after his fervent recital from the Bible. Even if his words only bolstered one member of his congregation, Don Simone felt that his life’s mission as a servant of God had been accomplished.

  But they aren’t in Church now. He’s not at the pulpit. Reciti
ng passages from the Bible at this time, no matter how well-intentioned, would not be the right thing to do. He frowns, pondering what would be the right thing to do. He glances up at the sky, which has ceased its sprinkling, and he proceeds to spread the blankets out in the cave. He rolls one into a makeshift pillow and leaves another to serve as a covering. “Please try to get some sleep for a few hours,” he murmurs. “We will be safe. I will keep the fire going and wake you before dawn. Please.”

  Gabriella turns wordlessly at his supplication. She glances at Luciano, whose eyes are drooping and she nods, shifting so that she can transfer his body down onto the blankets. Without another word, she lies next to him and pulls the extra blanket over them. Don Simone nods and makes the sign of the cross gratefully. The fire has taken the dampness out of the cave, and although it is not the most ideal sleeping arrangement, it will serve them well for several hours.

  With a torrent of conflicting thoughts spiralling through his mind, he does the only thing he can think of to stop it; he extracts his rosary beads from the pocket of his cassock and starts reciting silently.

  TONINO FEELS HIMSELF EXPELLING a long, drawn-out breath. “And when you landed on the mainland…?” He rises from the stump to continue walking with Massimo.

  Massimo’s face loses its look of rapture as he explains that upon first landing in the town of Melito di Porto Salvo on the twenty-fifth of August, they were hard-pressed to find any supporters. The locals made themselves scarce, showing their reluctance to bring provisions or invitations of hospitality, unlike the crowds that had swarmed them at Marsala and Catania. The volunteers became aware of rumours that the government in Turin was intent on stopping Garibaldi from securing the liberation of Rome.

  King Victor Emmanuel II had issued a proclamation stating that he, and he alone would be the one to make a decision on liberating Rome, and that he would oppose anyone who proceeded to assemble a private army for such a cause without his authorization. Any such individual would be guilty of high treason as he would be foolishly waging civil war, and the Royal troops would be sent immediately to intercept them. The locals, who had started to hear accusations against Garibaldi as being a traitor, were reluctant to show any support, lest they be arrested by officials of the Royal Army in pursuit of Garibaldi.