A wave of vertigo overcomes her, and she realizes that the brigand chief is the cause, sweeping her off the ground as easily as if she were a wayward bough that had snapped off a tree and was in his way. He strides a few paces to his mule and promptly sets her on its back before remounting. Gabriella stiffens and as his grip on the reins tightens, she wants to scream but can’t. Her powers of speech are dead; her throat is a dark, petrified tunnel with no opening.
“Hold on, unless you want to pitch forward and split your head on those stones,” he rasps, barely giving her the chance to extend her arms to his waist before clicking his tongue and prodding his mule on. The mule begins its trot, and without wanting to, Gabriella’s arms grab hold of the folds of the brigand chief’s cloak. Her chest thrums erratically as they begin to ascend the steep mountainside, the path barely wide enough to accommodate two mules.
Oh, Don Simone, where are you? Please, dear God. Please let him be safe. She immediately stifles any further evocation, remembering that God is dead to her since taking both her beloved parents. “God!” she mutters in disgust, and feeling stronger in her fury, she surveys her surroundings. What if she were able to slide off the mule? She eyes the thick stand of trees hugging the mountainside. Could she run off into the woods and hide before the brigand chief found her? Surely she would eventually find a shepherd’s hut….
She refuses to think that there could be other wayfarers that might not be sympathetic to her pleas, that might end up harming her. There had to be people who would be willing to provide her shelter and safety, especially if they knew she was evading the clutches of brigands.
She cries out as the mule veers unexpectedly and follows a rough path that skirts the mountainside. This path is much narrower, and her hold on the chief’s cloak tightens as she glimpses the impossibly deep ravine. A prayer rises again to her lips. She can’t help wondering how many bodies are lying on the ravine floor, broken and torn from their hellish descent.
I am in hell. With every thump of hoof on the path, Gabriella’s heart pounds. When the mule sends some rocks skittering over the edge of the mountainside, she cries out while entwining her arms tighter around the brigand chief’s waist, her cheek flat against his back. She clamps her eyes shut, telling herself that the mule must have taken this path countless times. Surely the brigand chief would not put his own life in danger. With eyes closed, the sounds and smells around her intensify. Perspiration rolls in droplets off her temples. Her nostrils flare at the smell of wild jasmine. If she were in a dream, she’d think she was in a heavenly garden.
A sudden rustle in the trees makes her wonder in alarm if it is a wild boar. While another scene plays itself out in her imagination, the mule swerves sharply again, and then, after another dozen paces, comes to a complete stop.
She feels the chief dismount and when she opens her eyes tentatively, he is standing in front of her, arms extended, waiting for her to jump or slide off the mule. She has no choice. He breaks her fall by clasping her by the waist, and when her feet hit the ground she sees his face clearly for the first time.
She tries not to recoil, but when he stiffens and lets his arms drop to his side, she realizes that he has seen her reaction, momentary though it was. In the stifling heat of the late morning, his sudden coldness is even more palpable, and it takes everything she has not to tear her gaze away from his strange eyes.
One green, one brown. The sunlight reflected in their canyon-like depths make her shiver inwardly. What kind of a devil has God put in her path?
The hut that he leads her to is a tangle of sturdy tree limbs, branches, and foliage.
“You will rest here,” he tells her curtly, lifting the blanket hanging at the door and ushering her inside. He gestures at a thick pallet of compressed poplar leaves upon which a woven coverlet has been placed. The pillow is a rolled-up linen shirt.
Dear Mary in Heaven, don’t let this happen to me. Again. Gabriella begins to shiver and realizes that the horrible clacking sounds reverberating in her ears are coming from her own teeth. She covers her face with both hands. She has never felt more alone in her life.
DON SIMONE FINGERS HIS ROSARY BEADS, Absent-mindedly watching the wisps of cloud parading in front of the moon. He stops in the middle of a “Hail Mary,” struck with the way the elongated clouds resemble the filmy wings of a butterfly. He sighs, brings the rosary to his lips and then sets it down, vowing to complete the final decade once he has had a chance to…to think. He needs time to absorb what has happened, what is happening. To make sense out of the brigand chief, who did not hesitate to reveal his name…Stefano Galante.
Don Simone has always considered himself to be an accurate judge of character; he has been right far more than wrong when assessing the truthfulness of a confessor, ever watchful for a revealing twitching of an eye, a biting of the lip, a subtle clenching of the jaw. These telling signals have always prompted him to delve a little more into things; experience has made him realize that once over their fear of revealing their demons, his parishioners are able to arrive at the core of their inner anguish.
There is a physical forcefulness about Galante that is undeniable—his body and face could be carved from the Gallica caves themselves. There is no softness there. And his character must be stone-hard as well, to hold the position he has. This is obvious in the deference with which his band members respond to him. Don Simone harbours no doubt that the men who apprehended him and Gabriella had villainy on their mind…probably more with Gabriella than with him. His stomach muscles tighten as he recalls the events leading to the arrival of the brigand chief….
After retching all over the second brigand and fainting, he awoke confused and disoriented. And then Gabriella’s screams reached him, and everything came back to him, along with the fear that the second brigand had probably joined his partner, who looked to be his brother. Wincing, he tried to get up. If it took his last breath, he would do anything he could to stop them. Filthy degenerates. Not knowing what he was going to do or how he was going to save Gabriella, he hurried toward the sounds, praying fervently for a miracle. The brush was thick, and the sweat trickling down his face blinded him. He tumbled over a jagged stump and lost his balance. He could see the brothers, the first shoving Gabriella onto the forest floor, and the second standing with arms crossed a few paces away, a grin of anticipation stamped on his face.
Neither of them saw or heard the horseman’s approach. As Don Simone attempted to untangle the hem of his cassock from the pointed edges of the stump, a sudden stomping of hooves made him stop. Clad in black, from his conical hat to his laced-up footwear, the horseman jerked his reins and stopped in a swirl of dust.
Don Simone wanted to weep. Another brigand. And then he glanced at the brothers. He was astounded to see fear replacing the smirk on their faces and the steely purpose in their eyes at the horseman’s command to release Gabriella. And to see their shoulders caving in submission to…their chief. They shuffled away like errant schoolboys after a thrashing from their schoolmaster.
And yet, despite his granite exterior, the chief’s eyes seemed to soften as he took in Gabriella slumped on the forest floor. The flicker of warmth disappeared as soon as the chief’s vision caught the incongruous black of his cassock draped amongst the bracken. His head riveted like an eagle, locking narrowed eyes with Don Simone for a moment before stating his name and nodding slightly, in what Don Simone wanted to believe was a sign of respect for a man of the cloth. His stomach muscles relaxed, and Don Simone instinctively knew he wouldn’t be harmed.
Don Simone wonders now, though, if the brigand chief will be as honourable with a defenceless young woman as he is with a clergyman. After all, Galante could have allowed her to remain in Don Simone’s care instead of ensconcing her inside his hut. Don Simone forces the inevitable soiled thoughts from his mind. Surely, the brigand chief has no intention of taking advantage of her under such circumstances. No…not if he i
s an honourable man.
But how can a brigand chief be honourable? After all, a brigand is a criminal, an outlaw. And one who leads a band of brigands, who orchestrates their nefarious activities, who directs them in their ungodly transgressions, who purposefully pulls them away from the way, the truth and the life…. Is that not the work of the devil?
With a troubled sigh, Don Simone turns his head to the darkened copse leading to the brigand chief’s hut. He is utterly powerless to stop the chief from doing whatever he intends to do. He gulps, his throat constricting with a wave of guilt. Poor Gabriella. What more must she endure?
“I have failed you, my child,” he whispers, bringing the tip of the crucifix to his lips. “And I have failed your father.” He begins to sob quietly, his tears flowing down his cheeks and onto the collar of his cassock. “God forgive me. Oh Lord, have mercy. Abbia misericordia.”
GABRIELLA CAN FEEL HIS BREATH BY HER EAR. “You will be safe with me,” he murmurs. Gabriella’s stomach twists. Is this what she is destined for, then? To serve the whims of a brigand chief? She doubts that she will be able to thwart him as she did Signor Alfonso. And if she tries, who will come to her rescue? Don Simone is no match for any of these criminals. Yes, Stefano Galante saved her from the certain disgrace that would have befallen her at the hands of brothers, but….
“No one will dare touch you here,” he says, “and you can be assured that my men will answer to me for their actions.” He extends a hand at the pallet. “Lie down,” he commands brusquely. “That wound needs tending.”
She limps over to the pallet and when she is lying down, he lifts her skirt to survey the gash on her leg. Mortified, she looks away. Despite the afternoon heat, she is still shivering uncontrollably. She feels the chief’s hand briefly on her forehead, and, with the thread of consciousness she has left, curses her inability to defend herself. He rises to get something in a basket and returns immediately. She winces as he presses a raw potato over the cut. Her teeth clench as he moves it over the gaping wound, squeezing at the same time so that the milky liquid can drip into it.
“This will prevent it from becoming infected,” he murmurs.
The brigand chief clamps down her leg with his hand when she instinctively tries to jerk it away. She cannot control her teeth from chattering. He reaches into his packsack and retrieves a bottle. Supporting her slumped body in a sitting position, he presses the bottle to her mouth. As the liquid squirts into her throat, she sputters and chokes; when she becomes still again, he tips the bottle into her mouth once more. When her coughing and shuddering subsides, he takes off his cloak and drapes it around her, before laying her down gently.
When she opens her eyes, she gasps at the sight of Don Simone’s face above hers. Not knowing if he is part of a dream or reality, she closes them again, welcoming the embracing darkness.
STEFANO REALIZES THAT THE PRIEST has been watching his every move, his lips intoning a silent prayer. Don Simone nods gratefully when Stefano offers him the flask and takes a generous swallow. When it is obvious that Gabriella is sleeping, Stefano motions to the priest to precede him out of the hut and to the clearing. He sits on one of the stumps positioned around a fire pit and gestures at Don Simone to do the same.
“You have the manner of a doctor,” the priest murmurs, gazing steadily at Stefano. “Healing hands.”
Stefano laughs curtly and picks up a piece of charred wood. The innocent comment is like a burning ember in his heart. His intended reply catches in his throat, and he coughs. He pulls a knife from the folds of his cloak to whittle away at the burnt edges. He takes satisfaction at every cut, every precise incision. With every strike of the knife, he surveys the movements of his own hands in a detached manner, as if they are the hands of another. Suddenly, he stops.
Yes, he would have liked to have used these hands for healing people. He mentioned his foolish dream once to his father. Only once. Stefano pitches the wood back into the fire and turns away from Don Simone with the pretence of looking for another piece. He resumes whittling, his eyes stinging at the memories….
“Never mind such grand ideas.” His father’s eyes narrowed, and Stefano caught the telltale flutter that usually came before a vitriolic outburst, or at worst, a thorough beating.
He looked down at his boots, slick with manure from mucking out the stables, and then ventured another glance at his father, who had begun to pace around, his expression glazed, his mouth twisted. He stopped in front of Stefano, one hand clasping the stall gate, one hand clenching and unclenching.
“You think you’re too good for your father’s farm? Don’t want to dirty your pretty hands?” He snorted, raking Stefano with dead, bloodshot eyes. “You think you’re better than I am?”
Stefano barely saw the hand before it opened to deliver a blow to his left cheek. His knees buckled from the impact and he collapsed into a pile of dung. Stunned and unable to prevent the tears that dimmed his vision, Stefano remained sprawled on the ground. The mule’s snorts and neighs rang in his ears. His father began talking again, his words muffled. He was a short man, but he stood above Stefano like a squat, grotesque giant, his eyebrows shadowing his face like heavy canopies, the folds of his chin and neck bristling with grey whiskers, his shoulders squared and menacing.
His face contorted as he spat in Stefano’s face. “Just remember, figlio mio, you were born into dung and you’ll die into dung. I didn’t produce a son just for the opportunity it gave me to bed your mother, goddammit, though I’m the one who was damned, fathering two girls before you showed your face. Goddamn piscia sangu, all of them, including your mother.” He spat on the ground.
Stefano blinked, trying to clear his vision. Every word his father had uttered was a white-hot poker searing his gut. His stomach heaved with revulsion at the stark hatred in his father’s voice. He felt a sudden urge to rise up and crush the mouth that had emitted such vile obscenities about the people he dearly loved.
His father pulled out a flask and brought it to his lips. Some of the colourless liquid dribbled down his reddened cheeks and neck. He started as Stefano’s dog, Argo,ventured into the barn and leapt up at him, barking.
He gave a grunt of rage and kicked Argo in the belly, sending him skidding through the dung into Stefano. With a sneer, he tramped out of the barn, slamming the door behind him.
Stefano froze. He knew that if he went after his father, he’d be responsible for making his mother a widow. He savoured the feeling of pure murderous desire, allowing it to course along his veins until he was trembling uncontrollably, as if struck with a nerve disease like old Farmer Nunzio on the other side of the village.
Argo was whimpering. Stefano buried his face in the fur of his neck, murmuring and patting him gently. “Argo, Argo,” he whispered, placing a palm upon his heart, feeling his frantic heartbeats. Stefano could barely stand to look in the dog’s eyes, knowing that pain would be reflected in its trusting depths. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you from that…that beast.” He grimaced at the sight of the jagged cut on Argo’s underbelly.
Damn the stables. Damn Papà. Much as he would like to make his father pay for what he had done, Stefano forced himself to quell his rage and tend to Argo. His fingers gently explored the area around the cut. He had learned much from his covert visits with the travelling doctor, who had allowed him to serve as an apprentice of sorts. But he was not sure if the swelling that he was feeling was the result of inflammation from a burst spleen. If it was, Argo would not have much time to live.
Stefano thought fast. If anyone could save Argo’s life, it was Doctor Primo. Feeling his throat constrict, as if his father’s fist was clenched within, Stefano grabbed a woven blanket hanging from a peg and wrapped it around Argo. He carried the trembling bundle outside and placed it gently into the straw-lined cart under a giant fig tree. He hitched up the mule to the cart as fast as he could, glancing several times at the farmhouse a
nd praying that his father would not reappear and prevent him from leaving.
Stefano checked the bundle in the cart, lowering his face to nuzzle the dog. When he felt Argo shift slightly to lick the salty streak of tears on his cheeks, Stefano gulped and leapt into the driver’s seat.
It was only when he had driven the mule out of his father’s farm that he allowed himself to be engulfed by tears.
Stefano senses the priest’s eyes on him again. His eyes shift from the carving in his hands to the eyes that hold a glimmer of invitation. An invitation to unburden his soul. His jaw clenches, and he examines the unfinished bird he has whittled. He flings it into the fire pit before gesturing at his hut. “She should not be moved. It is a pleasant night. You will be comfortable enough.” He points to the edge of the clearing. “I’ve instructed one of my men to prepare a pallet for you behind those bushes.”
At the priest’s helpless nod of submission, he grunts approvingly and returns to his hut, his memories of his father extinguished.
GABRIELLA HEARS A RUSTLE AND IS STARTLED before realizing that it is the result of her slight shifting on the pallet beneath her. The smell of the brigand chief’s shirt against her nostrils is familiar; it holds the same scent that assailed her when she was pressed against his back on his mule, clinging desperately to avoid being catapulted into the dark folds of any one of the countless ravines.
She attempts to lift her head, but at the accompanying rush of vertigo, she plops back onto the pallet. His scent is inescapable. He smells of the forest: the sharp tang of resin, the astringent tone of pine, and the musky body of the earth, with the summer heat trapped inside. Gabriella is both repelled and drawn to the scent. She is suddenly aware of the throbbing in her leg, and as she tries to regulate her breathing, she remembers that the brigand chief is only several arm’s lengths away. She can hear his breathing, deep and even compared to the irregular thudding of her heart.
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