Valerio is biting the corner of his lip nervously. Alfonso wonders if the lad is right for the task. He is perhaps too young; he can’t be much past fourteen, if that. “I appreciate your offer to help, lad, but I was thinking of someone perhaps a little older, someone with a mule and cart of his own. I intend to pay him well, of course.” Alfonso watches in silent amusement as Valerio draws himself up as tall as he can, puffing out his chest.
“I am the man in my family,” he asserts. “My parents are both dead of the malaria, and I take care of my nonna. She would be happy for me to take this job. Not just for the pay,” he adds hastily, “but because I’d be helping our friends. And we have a mule and cart.”
Alfonso pretends to consider Valerio’s offer. He suspects that Valerio would accompany him even without pay. He stares for a moment into those grey, lovelorn eyes and then nods. At Valerio’s unabashed cry of joy, Alfonso reaches into his pocket, and hands Valerio some coins. “This is the first instalment of your payment.” We are both getting what we want, he thinks smugly.
The boy’s eyes widen; the poor bugger has probably never handled this much money in his life. When Valerio blurts out that it is far too much, Alfonso is touched by the boy’s honesty. He reaches into his pocket again and takes out several more centesimi.
“You are doing me a favour, Valerio. And I appreciate it. Give these to your grandmother. She deserves a reward for raising such a fine young man. Meet me here at dawn tomorrow, and we will be on our way.”
Valerio blinks, and Alfonso can see that he is too choked up to reply. Alfonso pats him on the back and with a respectful nod, the lad is off.
“And who says I don’t treat others as I like to be treated?” Alfonso heads back to the rectory, thinking of the bottle of nocino in the rectory kitchen. He has had no further jabs to the head, thank God. That alone is cause for a celebratory drink.
DON SIMONE EXCUSES HIMSELF and in his absence, Gabriella limps into the adjoining room. A straw pallet is wedged into one corner, and a wicker basket crammed with herbs leans against the wall. She starts as a field mouse appears from behind the basket and skirts the edge of the room before disappearing into a crevice in the dirt floor. She shudders and despite the heat, feels a flurry of goosebumps skimming down her arms.
Her eyes are drawn to a cord that is strung from one side of the hut to the other. She notices the splatters of blood along the cord and a few errant feathers. A pigeon. Or a quail. Her gaze drops to a bulging haversack on a low bench. Her nose wrinkles at the scent of freshly killed fowl. She prods the bag with her foot and the twisted head of a pigeon pops out, its white feathers scarlet-tinged. So, the shepherd is not far off then.
The walls of the hut seem to be closing in on her. She hobbles back to the first room and out the door, where she almost collides with Don Simone. He is holding a sturdy oak limb.
He drops the limb and holds her steady by the shoulders, peering at her in concern. “Your face is as pale as the blessed host.” His voice is stern. “Perhaps I should have left you with Luciano. It was madness on my part to think that you could withstand such a journey.” He wipes the beads of sweat on his forehead and under his eyes. “Oh, how I wish we still had Vittorio with us.”
Gabriella was present when Don Filippo advised against it, suggesting a little-known foot path through the Aspromonte mountain range that would bring them to a safe haven—a secluded Augustinian monastery run by a personal friend of his. He mapped it out for Don Simone, assuring him that the forces of law would not venture to penetrate the dense woodlands in the vicinity. Don Simone looked skeptically at the intricately drawn map with its serpentine twists, and after getting a few clarifications from Don Filippo, folded and tucked it into his cassock. “Take care of my Vittorio,” he smiled ruefully at the abbot.
“It will take us roughly two more hours before we arrive at the Monastery of the Augustinians,” he says now, his eyes intense, “but I cannot in good conscience allow you to travel any further until you are feeling better.” His eyes drift past her to the hut. “We have no choice but to stay here for now. The afternoon heat will kill us both if we set out. Perhaps later, when the sun has gone down, you will be strong enough to go on.”
“No! I don’t want to stay here,” Gabriella hears herself blurt out. “The shepherd has left a bag with some dead pigeons, and he’ll surely come back soon. I…I don’t want to be here when he comes back. He might be angry with us for trespassing. He might….” She realizes her body is trembling along with her voice, and her eyes meet Don Simone’s in silent pleading.
“Oh, my dear, you have nothing to fear. The old fellow is as old as the Aspromonte mountains. And besides, I am with you. You will come to no harm.”
Gabriella watches as he extracts his wooden rosary beads from his cassock with one hand. “We are not alone,” he says, holding them up triumphantly. “We have the Lord with us. He will protect us.”
Gabriella turns away sharply, freeing herself from Don Simone’s steadying hand. Don’t talk to me about the Lord, she wants to scream. She looks around her in agitation, feeling as trapped as a cornered rabbit. “I’m not staying,” she says with the calmest voice she can muster. She draws out a long breath, fully aware that this is the first time she has defied Don Simone. Whatever demon has seized her soul to make her act this way, she has no intention of fighting. If anything, she is ready to do battle with the Lord that Don Simone holds so dear.
Crossing her arms, she watches as Don Simone blinks helplessly at her. His mouth opens and then flaps shut without a word. He cups his chin with one hand and after a moment, nods. “Va bene,” he concedes. “We will go.” He stoops down to pick up the limb. “Use this to help you walk.” He hands it to her and enters the hut to retrieve his packsack. When he reappears, Gabriella notes that he has also helped himself to the herbs. She spots two pigeon claws protruding from an outer pocket of the packsack.
“I only took one,” he murmurs sheepishly. “We have little food left. May the good Lord forgive me my thievery,” he says, eyes lifted to the sky.
Gabriella turns away, not wanting to show her surprise. Two commandments broken in less than an hour. Don Simone has never demonstrated such human weakness before. In one way, she finds it disturbing. She has always thought of Don Simone as a pillar of right action, a man quick to rise above the petty foibles of his parishioners. A man far removed from human indiscretions. Perhaps nothing is as it seems, she thinks bitterly. But then again, if a man of the cloth can justify his sins, and then seek pardon, then perhaps she can be forgiven for her crime, an act she carried out simply to protect herself.
Gabriella wipes the beads of sweat from her face with her sleeve. Her damp collar is pinching her neck, and her foot is throbbing. She looks up to the sky, but the midday sun is blinding, and she shuts her eyes. No, you are not willing to forgive me, are you, Lord? I must suffer still. There is no justice for peasants like me.
Stifling a sob, she begins to hobble back to the mule path. Don Simone walks closely behind her. For the first time, she feels truly alone. Not only has God betrayed her, but the man who has been her second father has let her down as well. Oh, Don Simone will say an extra rosary and pray for God’s understanding and forgiveness of his actions in such dire circumstances. His conscience will be appeased. Her conscience, however, will not, for she refuses to ask God’s forgiveness for sticking her knife into Alfonso Fantin’s thick neck.
Damn him. He deserved to die.
PART V
ASPROMONTE:
THE BITTER MOUNTAIN
August 1862
DON SIMONE SHAKES HIS HEAD sadly at the figure hobbling ahead of him. She has changed already. Gabriella is no longer a tender creature suspended in a safe chrysalis, but one who is hardening in order to survive in the outside world. Her barely restrained defiance of his wishes to stay in the shepherd’s hut has caused him some consternation, but he has
no desire to cause her further distress. The poor child has had more than her share.
Walking at this time of day is unbearable. His black cassock is drawing the sun to him like a flame enticing a moth. His collar is drenched. Dabbing at his face with a handkerchief, he prays they both have the strength to walk the remaining two hours to get to the Augustinian monastery tucked away in a dark cleft on the northeastern slope of the Aspromonte mountain range. It is even more elusive than Don Filippo’s monastery, accessible only by foot. It has been in use for three centuries, attracting the most reclusive of monks and nuns to its perpetually sheltered walls. Don Simone has never had the occasion of visiting it, but Don Filippo is on good terms with the abbot and felt it would be the ideal haven for Gabriella under the circumstances.
Gabriella is in pain but wants to go on. So be it. He has no choice but to accompany her and ensure her safety, although he’s not sure what kind of protector he can be if he collapses from heat exhaustion. Unless it is a dire emergency, he never travels about the countryside at this time of day, when the sun is at its strongest. Huffing, he catches up to her. She glances at him with the barest hint of a smile, and he utters a prayer of thanks to God for this minuscule sign that perhaps Gabriella’s spirit isn’t completely dead. Somewhat cheered, he smiles back. “Coraggio,” he says. “We are almost there.”
“And where would ‘there’ be?” a voice rasps behind him.
Don Simone pulls Gabriella to him, his heart jolting. Before he can turn around to face the speaker, the man jumps out in front of him and Gabriella, one hand holding a rifle and the other clasping a bulging haversack, the same one that was in the shepherd’s hut. This is not a man of the law. But neither is he a shepherd.
Don Simone feels Gabriella go rigid. Trying not to show fear in his voice, he nods congenially. “Good day, sir. We’re…we’re heading to…to the village. My friend, the priest, is in need of a housemaid, and I was accompanying my niece….” He has a hard time seeing the man’s face under his black conical hat. The sun is throwing shadows across his features, embellishing the slant of his eyebrows, the shape of his moustache. The man is lean and muscular. His shirt sleeves are pulled up, revealing forearms that are dark and sturdy.
His pants look a size too big, held up by a rich leather strap decorated with a buckle studded with jewels. The myriad stones catch the sunlight and mesmerize Don Simone for a moment. The man chuckles and looks at Gabriella and then back at him. Don Simone catches his breath. This man is a thief; at worst, a brigand. His grip tightens around Gabriella, a gesture that instantly draws the thief’s attention.
“It is not safe to travel in these parts without some sort of protection,” the man says in a concerned tone. “There are all manner of villains lying in wait to rob you. Or worse.” The man takes a step forward and tips his hat. His face is visible now, a slate of hard curves and edges, with eyes and hair as black as charcoal. His nose leans into his thick moustache; it has been broken, perhaps. If not for its awkward angle, the man might be considered almost pleasant-looking. Almost. Don Simone notices a pale ribbon around the man’s neck, but the pendant is obscured. He wonders if the thief is wearing a sacred amulet of some kind; if he is, perhaps he will show respect to a representative of Christ….
“You have travelled this way before?”
Don Simone nods. “I have made pilgrimages to the Madonna of the Poppies,” he lies, silently thanking Don Filippo for mapping the surrounding area for their journey.
“Then you will make your way back home. I will take your niece safely to Don Damiano.”
Don Simone clears his throat, aware that Gabriella’s eyes have widened. He feels his stomach muscles clenching, the blood draining from his face, but he is determined not to show his fear to this…this vigliacco. “With all due respect, sir, I have promised my brother that I would not leave his daughter’s side. Your offer is much appreciated, but I am afraid I must decline.”
“You are afraid?” The thief’s eyes narrow into slits. “Not enough, I think.” He taps the butt of his rifle sharply into the ground. “You will turn back at once.”
Don Simone doesn’t know if it is he who is trembling or Gabriella. He desperately thinks of something he can offer the thief. Something of worth. He wrenches the only ring he owns from his left hand and holds it out. “Please allow me to thank you for your trouble,” he says as steadily as he can. He is heartbroken to relinquish the ring, not for its material worth, but for the fact that it was a parting gift from Monsignor Brunello prior to his departure for Calabria. He only hopes it will satisfy the thief.
It is a thick band of twenty-four-karat gold, with a ruby sunken within an oval silver border. The thief all but snatches it from his outstretched palm and surveys it with interest. He nods and slips it into a pocket of his trousers. “It is most kind of you, Sacerdote.”
Don Simone feels a thread of hope….
“Now go home,” the thief rasps.
Don Simone gulps. His chest tightens with the terrifying realization that he has nothing with which to protect Gabriella. Nothing. He cannot bear to look at her. And then he has a thought. He lets his arm drop from around her tense shoulders and casually slips his hand into the side of his cassock. He forces himself to take deep breaths as his hand closes around his hunting knife, trying to figure out how he can thwart the thief without getting himself or Gabriella shot.
“Hand it over.”
The voice is behind him. Another thief. Don Simone makes a quarter turn and sees a figure almost identical to the first thief. The man is shorter, more robust but with the same features, all but the bent nose. This one is wearing breeches, with laced-up footwear and no stockings. The same conical hat and a gentleman’s silk shirt. Around his neck, a gold chain above a thick mat of chest hair. In his hand, a polished pistol.
“You heard my brother.”
Don Simone’s shoulders slump. We’re finished. He hands over his knife without meeting the thief’s eyes. Dear Lord, spare Gabriella. He cries out as the brother wrenches him away from her. The first thief leaps to her side and grabs her by the elbow. She begins to struggle, twisting like a filmy leaf in a gust of wind, but her movements come to an abrupt end when the thief’s vein-swollen hand slams against her left cheek, leaving a scarlet imprint.
Don Simone groans as the thief delivers a blow to her other cheek. Gabriella collapses. Don Simone attempts to rush forward, but the thief’s brother holds him back. The villain’s eyes are bright with excitement; he gathers Gabriella up in his arms and disappears into a thicket. Don Simone feels the bile thrusting its way up his innards until his throat engorges. He chokes and gasps, and the acrid liquid spurts out in a gush, spraying the brother’s chest with a thin, yellow film clotted with phlegm. The brother cries out in disgust and slams a fist into his stomach.
Don Simone feels himself crumpling to the ground, the brother’s bile-splattered face the last thing he sees before complete darkness.
GABRIELLA SCREAMS AS THE BRIGAND THROWS her down onto the forest floor. With all the force she has left, she begins to thrash about wildly. The brigand’s eyes are dilated as he looks down at her, his unshaven face glistening with perspiration. In seconds, his body has covered hers and although he is not heavy-set, his weight is enough to still her movements. He pins her arms down over her head and as his mouth comes down to the base of her neck, Gabriella hears a thundering voice ordering the brigand to release her. Light-headed, she wonders if it is God Himself. The brigand rolls off her, and as she tries to rise, her knees give out and she falls hard on the ground. She cries out as a sharp slab of rock juts into her lower leg.
She is too shaken and hurt to move. The smell of the churned-up bracken with its hint of decay is smothering, and she feels her stomach quivering with what is left of the morning’s breakfast.
Without opening her eyes, she shifts painfully onto her side and almost immediately feels her st
omach contract before violently expelling its contents. I’m dying. She sinks back to the ground. I’m dying like a beggar, or worse still, a woman of the streets, used and tossed out. She opens her mouth to gasp for breath and realizes the voice she mistook for God is talking to the brigand. It is controlled now, yet more frightening.
“Find your brother and get back to the hideout. This will bear some…discussion.”
“Sì, Capo.”
Gabriella gasps. The brigand is deferring to his chief. The brigand sounds like a child capitulating to a stern parent, his voice lowered in shame. Gabriella’s head begins to clamour with all the implications. She hears the footsteps of the brigand receding and then silence. Where is the brigand chief? Her stomach roils again, and she retches into the bracken. Whatever fate awaits her now can’t be any better than the fate she almost experienced at the hands of that animal.
Yes, the brigand chief stopped one of his men from dishonouring her. But she does not want to face the man who has such power. For who could possibly stop him? And even if Don Simone manages to escape the clutches of the other thief and catches up to her, what could he protect her with? His rosary? His prayers?
Her hand instinctively feels the area that is throbbing on her left calf. There is a tear in the folds of her skirt, and at the cold, clammy sensation, she quivers, sensing that the cut is not a superficial one. At the sound of neighing, followed by footsteps crunching through the bracken, her head jerks up to see a figure standing over her, his eyes shaded under the rim of a black conical hat. His face is deeply tanned and unshaven though his moustache is trimmed. His hair is dark and longer than that of any respectable man. Something about his face unnerves her, and closing her eyes, Gabriella prays that Don Simone will appear.
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