Strega (Strega Series)

by Karen Monahan Fernandes

  "Hmmm," he mumbled. "Fascinating."

  "What?" The word burst out of my mouth as I stood up in anticipation, still holding the tissue against my lip.

  "Well," he said, furrowing his brow as his mind churned. "The craftsmanship is outstanding. The design and materials are reminiscent of much older blades, yet it's in spectacular shape. Looks brand new. Where did you get this?"

  "Uh...I found it," I said with unintended exuberance. "Last night. In my aunt's basement."

  I was nervous. There were way too many details I didn't want to share with him, and I was afraid he would see right through me.

  "Do you recognize those symbols?" I asked, hoping my previous answer satisfied him and he was ready to move on.

  "I'm almost certain they are ancient European," he said, picking up the blade and continuing to study it. "But they are a bit different than anything I've seen before. Daggers that date back to the Roman Republic...their design is similar to this. But these symbols are not Roman."

  He paused for a moment, and I hoped that he was about to reveal a critical piece of information.

  "Did you know that a dagger was used to kill Julius Caesar?"

  My heart sank. This was the start of a tangent. In class, he always threw in interesting tidbits for us to digest amidst our review of drier material. I usually loved it, but I didn't have the patience for it now.

  "They are very powerful weapons. Do you know much about them?"

  "No," I said, deflating and sitting back in my chair. I stared at the silver blade, the unique stone, and the strange symbols. "I don't know a thing about them."

  "Well, the distinctive shape and use of the dagger dates back to human prehistory. Its defining characteristics are its short blade with two sharp cutting edges, a central spine, and a sharply-tapered point. Also a full crossguard to protect the hand from sliding forward," he said, indicating each of these parts on the blade as he spoke of them. "And in various ancient cultures, daggers were often adorned with symbols like this—usually to represent gods or spirits.

  "Daggers have long been the weapon of choice in close combat. They are symbolic of treachery and deceit," he continued. "They are easy to conceal, which makes them the perfect weapon when sneaking up on an unsuspecting victim. The Roman Senators that assassinated Caesar concealed their daggers in their flowing robes. A weapon like this allowed them to get courageously close to their enemy."

  An abrupt knock at the door interrupted us. Before Mr. Baker could say "come in," the doorknob turned and in walked a tall, young man. His dark hair and short-trimmed beard sharply contrasted with his pale white skin, and his face startled me like a strong, cold wind.

  "Oh. Hi, Ron. Come on in." Mr. Baker waved his hand to invite him. "Ron, this is Jay...Jay, Ron. He and I have a meeting at ten to go over a few things—he's going to cover my classes for a few days next month. Ron is well versed in Roman military strategy, so we are going to put together an interesting agenda."

  Ron settled in on the other swiveling chair next to Mr. Baker's desk.

  "I'm so sorry, Jay. I have to get ready for our meeting. Can we talk more about this later?" he said, nodding toward the blade on his desk while shuffling through his papers.

  "Talk about what? Did I interrupt something?" Ron said, as if my being in Mr. Baker's office with the door closed wasn't an indicator. He stretched his neck out to get a closer look at the blade. "What's that?"

  Before I could grab it, he reached for it and picked it up.

  "Wow...," he managed to say before I took the blade from him. His grip on it was so tight that I had to pry it out of his hands. As he released it, I saw a hint of wrath in his eyes. I shoved it back into my bag, and my face erupted with annoyance that I didn't try to hide.

  "When are you free?" I asked Mr. Baker. He probably had nothing more to add, but I was desperate and out of alternatives. He scratched his head as he contemplated my question.

  "I'm tied up all morning and most of the afternoon, unfortunately. But I'll tell you what...Mr. Whitmore might have some thoughts. He studied symbology and ancient languages in grad school. He might know more than I do about this particular blade. If you don't mind leaving it with me, I'll try to catch him this morning. We have a staff meeting so he'll be in soon."

  Suddenly Ron shot out of his chair as he pulled his sleeve away from his watch. "Mitch, we really need to get going."

  I looked at the clock on the wall above Mr. Baker's desk. It was only 9:45. Mr. Baker nervously shifted gears and ruffled through his disorganized pile of papers again.

  I pulled the blade back out of my bag and made sure it was concealed before I placed it back on his desk. Ron stared at it like a hungry animal. Something about him really annoyed me. I didn't want him touching it. I lingered for a moment to be sure he didn't.

  "I'll call you when I've had a chance to talk to Mr. Whitmore," Mr. Baker said.

  "OK. Thanks. I'll talk to you soon." I smiled and waved goodbye to him. I glanced at Ron on my way out and felt my smile fade.

  XVII

  I wandered around campus aimlessly before I finally got back into my car. I needed to occupy myself somehow so that I didn't go crazy waiting for Mr. Baker. I headed downtown and found a parking spot on State Street just outside the library. Rao's was only a few blocks away, and a coffee was a good place to start.

  "I just feel so lost. I don't know what to do...It's like I'm getting deeper each step I take."

  For a second, I wondered if my own internal dialogue was loud enough for everyone to hear. As I stepped onto the brick sidewalk in front of the library, I noticed two women walking in my direction. It was their conversation I was hearing.

  "I just don't know if he's the 'one,'" the woman continued. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  "Well," her friend responded, "the answer will come to you. You just have to keep your eyes open. Signs are all around you. Messengers. Pay attention to what they are trying to tell you."

  Her words were like a splash of cold water in my face. Before I could look away, her eyes locked with mine and a sharp energy shot across the space between us, jolting me with such force that I felt my heart jump out of my chest.

  Before I could pull myself together, a row of trees outside the library caught my attention. Their beautiful green-and-gold foliage rustled in the gentle wind. People sat on the grass nearby, talking and laughing.

  Suddenly, a bolt of fiery blue lightning from the clear sky above struck the tallest tree. Within seconds, bright orange flames consumed its leaves and then vanished, leaving behind an ashy skeleton.

  I gasped, but the people on the grass continued their conversations as if nothing had happened. Others walked past me toward the library with uninterrupted determination. I stared at them in disbelief. But when I looked at the tree again, its scorched and lifeless branches were abundant with green leaves.

  I couldn't believe my eyes. I ran toward it, hoping to find some remnant, some bit of evidence to validate what I'd just witnessed. But I found nothing. I turned away, defeated, fearing once again for my sanity. But when the gentle breeze blew, I caught the subtle scent of charred wood and saw tiny flakes of paper-thin ash.

  ***

  The library's brick façade and white wooden trim contributed to the quintessential New England vibe in town. I stood at the base of the steps staring at the entrance. The glass doors reflected the sun and gave off a blinding glare. Like a portal of light, the doors beckoned me, as if crossing through them would bring me enlightenment. I decided to forego the coffee at Rao's. I hadn't been to the library since fifth grade, but as I approached the entrance, I anticipated the mandatory peace and quiet I would find inside.

  Two older women sat behind the reception desk reading. Each one eyed me curiously as I passed by. I put my phone away, suddenly aware that it might be the reason for her disdain. I migrated to the second floor to the European history section, where I browsed the shelves until Mr. Baker called.

  I was so used to search
ing for information on the internet. Typing a few words and hitting return got me endless pages of relevant data in an instant. It was a big step back to rely on tables of contents and indexes to find anything. But it was kind of perfect. I had time to kill.

  Mr. Baker said the blade was similar to daggers of ancient Rome. This was as good a place to start as any in my aimless search for sanity. In the European history section, I grabbed the first book I saw on the subject of the old civilization.

  A History of Rome, from 500 B.C.E. to 50 A.D. The Roman Empire reached far and wide throughout Europe, and absorbed many regions with varying cultures and accompanying symbology. I browsed the book and searched the index for "dagger" or "symbols" but found nothing relevant.

  As I was about to grab the next book, a slender volume on a nearby shelf caught my eye. Its spine was dark blue, a unique color among the drab browns and grays surrounding it. Before I could reach for it, it fell to the floor with a giant thud. I stared at it, too afraid to pick it up. Then the words I'd overheard minutes before played again in my mind.

  Signs are all around you. Messengers. Pay attention to what they are trying to tell you.

  I took a deep breath and picked it up. I ran my hand across its smooth face. Etruscan Civilization: A Cultural History. Adorning the cover was the stone likeness of a husband and wife embracing and gazing into each other's eyes lovingly. I flipped to the copyright page where the image was identified as the lid of a marble sarcophagus found in Vulci, Italy, dating back to the second half of the fourth century, B.C.E.

  My limited knowledge of the Etruscans began to trickle back into my consciousness. The Etruscans occupied the Italian peninsula long before the Romans did. That I knew. The rest came back in bits and pieces. And from what I recalled, bits and pieces were all that was left of their lost civilization.

  I took the book to the nearest table and cracked it open. I skimmed the first few pages, reminding myself that the ancient race dominated the region for centuries before Rome rose to power. I recalled that the Etruscan culture was unique, and still regarded as exceptional in modern times for its uncommon vivacity. They treasured life, celebrated love, art, and family, and valued all things of beauty. Women and men had the same rights and were equals. Their way of life contrasted greatly with that of their neighbors in Rome and Greece, regions dominated by ruthless patriarchs that pursued power, glory, and conquest with no regard for the cost.

  The Etruscans were loyal to their gods. They believed that everything was infused with meaning and had a living essence—that the gods spoke to them through all things in nature. As I read this, a gentle breeze swept past me and rustled the pages. I searched for an open window but all of them were closed.

  I turned back to the book and my eyes settled on an ancient map of Italy. The ages-old peninsula was divided into different regions. Etruria, the former homeland of the Etruscans, was highlighted. With the Tyrrhenian Sea on the west coast, the Arno river to the north, and the Tiber river to the south, the Etruscans occupied the large chunk of land that included modern-day Tuscany.

  I flipped to the index and searched for "daggers," "symbols," and "blades," hoping to find something in this book that had literally fallen at my feet. When I still found nothing, I turned back to the table of contents. The book was broken down into different time periods, starting with the beginnings of Etruscan history around 900s B.C.E. and ending just before the turn of the new millennium. The last chapter detailed Etruria's end and the beginning of Roman reign.

  A cold chill shimmered up my back. I swung around to see nothing but people sitting quietly around circular tables, hovering over their books and laptops. A young man rolled around a cart of books and returned them to their shelves.

  My eyes settled on the book again and I flipped to the last chapter, curious to learn what led to the Etruscans' demise. But as I turned the pages, they slowly turned black and the words were swallowed before I could read them. Beneath my fingertips, each page turned to ash as if consumed by fire. The corners curled as entire pages disintegrated. I saw no flames, but my fingers burned. I shoved the book across the table and it fell to the floor. I stood up abruptly, knocking my chair over behind me. My chest heaved as I struggled to breathe, feeling all eyes upon me. As I peered over the table, the book that had become a pile of ash before my eyes was completely intact.

  I gathered my things and ran for the door. I flew out of the library and jumped into my car, tearing down the street as fast as I could. I made my way back to school. I felt like madness had begun to consume me, and I had nowhere else to go.

  XVIII

  As I made my way up High Street toward school, I spotted a familiar car driving toward me. It was Kate. My favorite reporter at the newspaper. Kate recognized me too. She waved and honked as she drove past, and I suddenly remembered that I hadn't even touched my latest assignment. It was due in two days.

  Journalism was one of my favorite subjects, second only to history. And the two subjects were the perfect coupling. The first historians were journalists after all. Whether I was digging through old books or interviewing fellow students or teachers about various topics, I loved discovering things I might not otherwise know about.

  The University of California, Berkeley's history and journalism programs were among the best in the country. The day I finally got my early enrollment packet, I tore it open before I closed the mailbox. I rifled through the thick, colorful booklets as I ran toward the front door, ecstatic and eager to grab a drink and settle in to soak up every page.

  Along with UC Berkeley's academic offerings, I also loved San Francisco. Mom had gone to college there. When I was small, we went out to visit some of her old friends. It was the last trip we took as a family. I only remembered bits and pieces, but each memory I treasured. When I turned sixteen, Gram took me back. We strolled the campus where Mom went to school, took pictures of the beautiful house she rented with her friends, visited the clothing boutique she worked at, and dug our toes in the amazing sandy beaches she went to on her days off. I memorized every inch of the place, and I didn't want to leave.

  My internship at the Newburyport Press would help me get into UC Berkeley, I hoped. The day my journalism teacher encouraged me to sign up, I drove straight to the paper to submit my application. I pulled up to the modest brick building where all the town's papers were printed, and gave myself a quick pep talk before nervously going in to meet the executive editor, Mr. Bernard Turner.

  When I stepped inside, Angela, the administrative assistant, made a quick call to Mr. Turner and directed me to the newsroom. Mr. Turner sat rigidly behind his desk and waved me on. Eagerly, I handed him my best news stories from class, along with the application that I'd just filled out in the car. After quickly thumbing through it all, he hired me on the spot.

  The first week, I covered two stories for the town. I interviewed Signora Sovana as part of a series on local restaurateurs. Then, I met with a biologist at the Parker River National Wildlife Refuge to discuss the endangered piping plover population on Plum Island, and the protective measures implemented to preserve their nesting sites. Mr. Turner never assigned me any critical breaking news, just feature stories. He never wanted to put me in over my head, though I often wished he would.

  I got a sense of a newspaper's unwavering deadlines, saw the buzz of the newsroom, and got to know the flow. Advertising, space issues, priority stories. I met all the full-time reporters who were out getting the real news from town officials, law enforcement officers, and people on the street. Mr. Turner didn't want me tagging along with reporters on assignment unless he specifically approved it. But some called and took me along anyway. Kate was one of them.

  Kate's car disappeared in my rearview and I wondered where she was going. Any other day I would have followed her.

  XIX

  "Just waiting," I said, out of breath and pointing to Mr. Baker's door. The administrator continued to stare at me over her glasses as I settled into the chair outside his
office.

  Each minute ticked by slowly and painfully. I sweat profusely as my mind spun out of control, trying to make sense of all I'd seen and experienced. There was too much to process and no way to rationalize it anymore. I shifted in my seat as a door several offices down squeaked open. A familiar voice floated out into the waiting area and Mr. Baker emerged. As soon as he saw me, he threw his hands up in the air as if he'd just witnessed a miracle. In his right hand, he clutched the blade.

  "Jay! You have good timing."

  He walked toward me, eager to introduce me to Mr. Whitmore, who reached toward me and enthusiastically grabbed hold of my hand.

  "Hello!" he said with a smile. I'd never taken any of his classes, but I'd seen him around school. He was much taller than Mr. Baker and about ten years older. He towered over me like a tree and peeked over thin-rimmed glasses that sat low on the bridge of his nose. His short dark hair was streaked with silver highlights.

  "Listen," he said, anxiously signaling to his office. "Do you have a few minutes to talk right now?"

  "Yes!" I said, thrilled that he was willing and available. "Definitely."

  I turned toward Mr. Baker, assuming that he would join us.

  "Unfortunately, I have a few things I have to get back to," Mr. Baker said, signaling to his office. "But maybe we can all talk later. I'm interested to hear about your conversation."

  He thanked Mr. Whitmore and put his hand on my shoulder.

  "Keep me in the loop, will you?"

  "I will."

  Mr. Whitmore enthusiastically turned toward his office, and I was eager to follow. But suddenly he stopped and turned back.

  "Oh, Mitch!" he called to Mr. Baker, signaling to the blade he still clutched in his hands.

  "Oh, of course." Mr. Baker ran back and gave me the blade, letting out a nervous laugh before he turned away again.

  Mr. Whitmore seemed just as anxious to talk as I was. Before he even shut his office door, he was already getting down to business with his first question.