La Brigantessa

by Rosanna Micelotta Battigelli

  To Tonino’s surprise, Garibaldi is suddenly there in front of his line of troops, his arms outstretched and his hands motioning for his men to hold their fire. Tonino, trembling with indecision, swerves as a line of fire punctures the ground beside him, shooting up clay and earth. Instinctively, he shields his eyes, and when he looks up again, the fracas around him seems to intensify. General Garibaldi buckles for a moment and then again, clasping his left thigh. Tonino watches him straighten, and with blood dripping from his hand, Garibaldi continues to order his men not to shoot.

  But he can no longer be heard, for some of his men on the left flank under his son Menotti, have panicked and have begun to return the fire. Some on the right under Giovanni Corrao are shooting as well. Bodies jerk and fall on both sides. In the swirl of dust and smoke, Tonino is pushed aside by a rush of retreating soldiers. Some of his comrades are stepping over each other to run for cover. In a desperate glance backward, he sees a royal officer ride up and approach Garibaldi, who is being propped against a tree by his own men.

  Not knowing if Garibaldi is dead or still alive, Tonino feels himself stumble. His leg twists and when his foot makes contact with the ground, the earth crumbles beneath him. His arms and hands reach out in desperation, and his rifle slips from his grip. With every interminable jab of rock and gnarled tree trunk as he tumbles down the precipice, Tonino feels his strength depleting, and his eyes, struggling to stay open in search of something he can grab hold of, become disoriented at the whirling sensations and close of their own accord. A series of tiny frames flash beneath his lids—and then, his body smashes against a solid wall.

  STEFANO TIES THE LACES OF HIS FOOTWEAR QUICKLY while watching the girl. Her breathing is regular now, and when his hand grazed her forehead the second time during the night, it felt warm but not feverish. She had stirred slightly the first time, emitting a sound like the grainy mewling of an abandoned kitten. The second time, she had remained completely still except for the erratic fluttering of her eyes under closed lids.

  Stefano rises, reaches for his hat and cloak, and with a last look at Gabriella, leaves the tent. He has instructed Don Simone to remain in the campsite and not attempt to proceed with his travels, considering his ward’s condition and the potential danger of falling into the path of a band with a less sympathetic chief. The priest’s ready nod and nervous glance around him reassured Stefano.

  He intends to find out why a priest would be travelling with a young woman through this formidable stretch of countryside. Even he had been apprehensive about first hiding out in a place of such reviled reputation, a dark and tangled territory that swallowed people up alive, it was said, and never allowed them to return from whence they came. The Aspromonte range was the dark heart of the South, and it beat an ominous rhythm that reverberated throughout the cavernous chambers and murky arteries of its hulking expanse. It provided darkness and refuge for those who wanted or needed it, and hopelessness and despair to those who were brought there against their will.

  He was determined, though, not to let the Bitter Mountain defeat him. He spent days, then weeks and months combing different sections of it, familiarizing himself with its craggy personality, discovering its shady secrets, the mysterious and contorted folds of its verdant cape, the lichen-spotted granite cheeks of the cliffside. He gave each part of its massive body a name, for naming it seemed to tame it somewhat. He would become its master, he decided, after spending a restless first night in its dark embrace. A mountain could not hurt him. Not like a human. Not like his father.

  He would conquer his fear of it.

  By the end of his first week in hiding he had familiarized himself with and named several sections: Il Boschetto di Castagni, a grove of chestnut trees; Via Vento, a wind-trapped path between two cliffs; Campo Fiordaliso, a field of mountain cornflower; Passo al Cimitero, a terrifying gorge in which a dizzying drop would result in perpetual rest in its mist-shrouded cemetery; and Caverna delle Pippistrelle, a gaping cave that had provided temporary shelter for him during a pelting thunderstorm, only to reveal its pack of furry inhabitants upon nightfall. Fortunately, by that time, the rain had abated, and Stefano readily left the bat-infested haven, choosing instead to walk until dawn.

  On one particular day, the coral haze of dawn was breathtaking, and as he stopped to admire the strips of indigo that criss-crossed the sky like the ties of a shapely bodice, Stefano realized he had reached an unfamiliar summit. After exploring around it for a good hour, he knew he had found his haven. This mountain that would shelter him, protect him with its many hollows and copses, detract his enemies with its jagged promontories and furrowed brows, its seemingly impenetrable woodlands. “Monte Galante,” he named it in wonder. His mountain.

  Stefano looks back at his hut. This is no place for either of them, especially the girl. He recognizes her for the peasant that she is, yet he knows, without a doubt, that she has had a sheltered life in comparison to most peasants. He could see it in her face, her bearing, her eyes. She lacks skin that is the colour of tallow, and the weather-lashed face of one who spends dawn to dusk in the fields. Inky shadows do not hang under eyes that have long lost the glimmer of hope for a better life.

  She has none of these features, yet there is something in her face that reminds him of a creature that has been beaten and subdued. Eyes illuminated by fear, like those of his dog Argo, or of a rabbit when it has frozen in its place, aware that it is being stalked by an unknown predator who could pounce at any moment.

  Who is stalking Gabriella? He intends to find out. He himself has been stalked countless times since he went into hiding, has sniffed the predator’s murky scent, has sensed its murderous intent, its desire for vengeance. And up to now, he has evaded its ruthless grip, knowing full well what would happen should he fall into the talons of his captor. For every time he has managed to outsmart the beast, it has become more engorged with blood lust, crazed with the humiliation of human failure and ever more determined to hunt him down.

  An image of such a predator flashes in Stefano’s mind. The man’s chest is puffed in indignation under his medal-studded jacket. Colonel Michele Russo.

  Russo wants his head, he knows. Stefano smiles as the light of dawn sweeps over his mountain with a gentle breeze that feels like a benevolent hand ruffling his hair. He has no fear that he will be taken by Russo. Any fear he ever had was extinguished the night his father attacked his beloved dog. That fear died along with Argo when the good doctor confirmed that the dog’s spleen had shattered. And in its place, a new and much stronger feeling was born. Revenge.

  Stefano grits his teeth as he enters his clearing. The band members have positioned themselves in their usual spots around the extinguished fire. He allows his jaw to relax as he joins them. They have much to discuss.

  RUSSO NODS AT THE OFFICER WHO HAS JUST ARRIVED with his special delivery at the military station. The officer salutes him and takes his leave. Russo stares at the wooden crate on his desk. The sun streaming through the windows throws a shaft of light over his desk. Between the slats, he glimpses glass, but not the contents. He leans forward and tentatively lifts the crate, and then sets it down again. Realizing that his mouth is open, and that a drop of saliva is dribbling from one corner, he reaches for his handkerchief and wipes the edge of his lip. He clamps his lips together and swallows. He can feel his pulse quicken, and inevitably, the base of his scalp begins to itch. With a low growl of impatience, he reaches for the letter opener and relieves the itch, his eyes never leaving the crate. Taking a deep breath, he unlatches the metal clasp on the crate and lifts the lid slowly.

  Russo reaches into the crate, then changes his mind and retrieves a pair of gloves from a drawer in his desk. He lifts up the jar and forces himself not to look at its contents while setting the jar down on his desk. Realizing that his hands are trembling slightly, he clasps them together and sits down.

  Russo lets his eyes begin their slow ascent
from his gloved hands to the jar, the contents of which are now very visible to him. He cannot help but grimace at the severed head with its thick shock of black hair undulating in the colourless liquid. The base of the severed neck is uneven in places, resembling the scalloped edge of a curtain flapping in the wind. The ears are very large, like conch shells, curved and thickly ribbed. The liquid around the head is speckled with crimson globules. Russo watches them, fascinated with their movement from the displacement of the jar.

  Suddenly aware that he is clenching his jaws together, he releases the pressure, and without moving from his chair, he leans forward and twists the jar around slowly. He watches the head bob slightly and braces himself.

  The face is distended in a grotesque death mask. Russo’s stomach lurches uncontrollably. The eyes are bulbous and murky, full of burst blood vessels. The nose has been broken recently; it still bears splotches of purple and yellow. The mouth is gaping, its gums and teeth covered in a filmy mucous. Some of the teeth have detached from the gums, and they are resting on the bottom of the jar.

  Russo starts to gag. He rushes to open a back door, and the contents of his earlier meal spew onto the ground. Coughing and heaving, he clamps his handkerchief over his mouth and returns to his office. Without looking directly at the jar, he lifts it up and places it back in the crate, closing the clasp firmly.

  He didn’t have to open it, but he wanted to see for himself that the bandit Agostino had met his rightful end. Adjusting his uniform and making sure his appearance does not betray his reaction to the sight of the dead brigand, Russo calls for the officer to enter and take the crate away.

  After the officer leaves, Russo plucks the gloves off his fingers and hurls them into a garbage bin. He ponders the destination of the remains, a laboratory in Naples where forensic scientists will examine the head for particularities or distinguishing features that they have observed on other brigands.

  Russo doesn’t care what they find or don’t find. His job is done. The brigand is dead.

  And as distasteful as it may be, there is another brigand whose head he wants even more in a crate in front of him: “The Gentleman,” Stefano Galante.

  AFTER AN HOUR OF RIDING, Alfonso feels a pinch in his lower back, and although the shooting pains on the left side of his head have not returned, he feels a dull ache pulsing above his right temple. He brings Borbone to a stop, whistling to alert Valerio who has disappeared around a bend, and tethers the animal to a tree. He walks over to a bush to urinate and when he turns around, is disconcerted to find Valerio waiting on his mule, watching him.

  He tightens his belt and strides over to his mule for his jug of water. At seven o’clock, the heat is already palpable. “Let me see your map,” he says curtly to Valerio, who still hasn’t budged.

  “Map? I don’t have a map.” The boy shrugs, grinning. “I don’t need one. I know my way around.”

  Alfonso looks at him doubtfully. “But you’re only—what? Fourteen? Fifteen? How could you—”

  “I’m sixteen,” Valerio straightens on his mule, expanding his chest defensively. “And I travel these parts regularly, finding work wherever I can. My last job was in Roccella, harvesting bergamot for a foreign landowner who sells it to companies who make tea and perfume. Imagine! They can’t seem to get these citrus fruits to grow anywhere else in Europe! I wish—”

  Alfonso gestures curtly to stop the boy from chattering. He acknowledges silently that Valerio knows his way around, but it irks him that he is completely vulnerable and in the boy’s hands. With a map at least, he could have chosen the path and gotten a sense of the territory that had to be covered. He should have thought of procuring a map before heading out. “What’s the nearest town or village?” he says sharply. “And how long to get there?”

  “Gioiosa Ionica. Another hour or so.”

  “Are there any better roads to get there?

  “Roads?” Valerio gives him a blank stare.

  Alfonso feels the urge to shake the boy. Perhaps he should have hired a man, not an ignorant urchin. “Roads that are not just used by mules. Roads that are wider, not full of ruts and wild grasses. Roads that don’t skirt the edge of dangerous ravines.”

  Valerio shrugs. “Some roads will be wider when we approach the bigger towns or villages. Don’t worry, Signor Alfonso. Spirito and Borbone are used to these mountain roads. Rare are the mules that end up in a ravine, and those that do were probably startled by a wild boar or wolf.” Valerio jumps off his mule and saunters over to a lentisk bush to urinate.

  Alfonso turns away when he realizes what the boy is doing, but not before he notices the boy’s muscular legs and buttocks. He may be only sixteen, but he has the body of a man, a body sculpted by hard physical labour. Valerio may be weak in intellect—Alfonso doubts that he has received much schooling, if any—but his body, concealed under loose trousers and shirt, is anything but weak.

  “Are you saying there are wild boars and wolves in this area?” Alfonso attempts to keep the alarm out of his voice as he scrutinizes the shadows of the pine and beech trees flanking the mule path.

  Valerio approaches, pulling off the grey bandana around his neck to wipe his forehead and face. He chuckles, which only increases Alfonso’s anxiety. “We are in the Aspromonte, Signor Alfonso. ‘The Bitter Mountain.’ With a name like that, you have to expect more than rabbits and squirrels.” Grinning, he pulls out a knife from one of his trouser pockets. “But don’t worry,” he adds, and Alfonso wonders if the boy is secretly laughing at him, “if a wild boar crosses our path, it will make a fine supper. We’ll make a nice fire and roast it.” Valerio smacks his lips. “There’s nothing better to eat than cinghiale arrosto. Unless you add it to a pot of tomato sauce with maccheroni.”

  Alfonso shudders, not at the thought of the meal, but at the vision of a hairy boar with tiny close-set eyes and menacing horns charging through the trees, sending Spirito and Borbone in a frenzy with its squeals and snorts, and streaking like a wildfire between him and Valerio, looking for some ample flesh to impale.

  “Let’s be on our way,” he orders curtly. “If you don’t mind, I would like to have my dinner in the comfort of a trattoria or nearby hotel, and not around a bushfire.”

  Valerio nods and leaps upon Spirito, unable to completely conceal his amusement. Alfonso remounts with less enthusiasm, and they proceed onward in silence, save for the occasional tune the boy whistles. The cheerful notes mingle with the twitters of sparrows and other birds perched within the shaded boughs of the arbutus and oleander shrubs flanking the mule track.

  Alfonso feels a vein begin to throb near his temple, and without any hesitation, he reins in Borbone to search for a pill before the pain worsens. He washes it down with his remaining water and calls out to Valerio to watch out for a spring along the way. “Avanti, Borbone!” He slaps the mule’s hindquarters. “Find me Gabriella!”

  WHEN GABRIELLA OPENS HER EYES, she searches instinctively for Luciano. She feels a jolt of alarm as she realizes that she is alone in a crude hut, with little more than a few blankets, a packsack, and a woven basket holding a hardened half-eaten loaf of coarse bread, some shrivelled purple figs, a flask of red wine, and a wedge of cheese with a knife stuck in it. A knife like the one she dropped on the floor of the hayloft.

  Gabriella shivers. Someone has cursed her family; she is sure of it. Like the families with infant boys whose doors were marked with blood in the Bible, her family has seen more than their share of blood. The blood of her mother, gushing out that awful night. The blood splattered about her father’s head like the crucified Jesus. The blood squirting from Signor Alfonso’s neck. Bloodshed and death. Even Nicolina, the old midwife was convinced of it when Gabriella’s mother died. “È l’invidia,” she muttered to the grieving Lorenzo. “It is pure envy that has brought death upon this family.”

  Gabriella lingered in the dark shadows of the kitchen, anxious to hear
the words of the wise midwife whose ministrations never resulted in death. It was an accepted fact in the village that Nicolina had “feelings” or predictions that inevitably came true. No one doubted her declarations or edicts. She was well-practiced in the art of magia and had performed some sort of magical ritual on most of the villagers, from healing fiery rashes and unblocking intestinal obstructions, to cleansing the blood from evil spirits that were intent on poisoning it. Women covertly sought her out to obtain powerful elixirs for a number of concerns. Young women needed them to help predispose their womb to conception, older women wanted them to repel the advances of an overly arduous husband, and unmarried girls wished to draw the attention of a prospective husband.

  Gabriella was around Nicolina often enough that she quickly grew aware of the midwife’s ways and skills with the gifts of nature. After the death of her mother, Gabriella clung even more to her, and Nicolina began to mentor her. Gabriella listened with rapt attention to Nicolina’s matter-of-fact descriptions of remedies such as herbal tonics to ensure reproductive success, healing pastes for wounds incurred in the fields, and bitter syrups and plasters for boils and hemorrhoids.

  Nevertheless, Gabriella had gasped at Nicolina’s assertion that envy had killed her mother. Her father had turned to look at Nicolina, his gaunt face a mask of disbelief. “Who would be envious of my sweet, kind wife?” he said quietly.

  Nicolina had closed her eyes, her hands gesturing in the air. “I see someone who envies Elisabetta’s smooth face and hands, who thinks she might as well be the wife of a baron with others doing her work for her. Who thinks she is favoured by the doting priest who employs her, who keeps her busy under his roof as a ‘housekeeper’ while her husband works the church lands like an ox. And another who wonders if perhaps the good Don Simone is giving her special blessings while she is washing his…cassock….” Nicolina’s voice, which had taken a tone and cadence unlike her own, broke and she coughed to clear her throat. Her eyes opened.