Lyuba watched him. “Little boys shouldn’t go where they do not belong or play with things that don’t belong to them.”
Then he understood. Lyuba somehow found out that he had taken some of her herbs—maybe she even knew he had taken that hair. “You have poisoned me,” he tried to say, but his tongue felt like it was too big for his mouth.
“I didn’t poison you, Milosh. You poisoned yourself with your greed, your thoughts, and your actions—all negative. You think only of yourself. That is why you feel the way you do now. The little blue flower only reacts to the bad. If you had good thoughts and performed good deeds, the little blue flower would make you strong and virile.
He stood up and clumsily staggered over to the water where he tried to stoop down and wash his face. He vomited instead.
Lyuba removed a white handkerchief from her pocket and untied the knot to expose a small root from the sassafras. It would neutralize the alkaloid and aconitine of the blue flower. But first she wanted to make sure he understood.
“Milosh, you are in the singular position of being a leader of men one day. You must use your position to do good. Forget trying to harm others. It doesn’t become the son of the Bandoleer. And it dishonors our tribe.” She stood and walked over to where he lay. I will put your indiscretion behind me now, but be warned. If you ever do it again, I will call together a kris. At that time, I will insist on marime. You will be a disgrace to yourself, your family, and to your tribe; and you will be banished.”
Milosh lay on the ground too sick to say anything. He wasn’t too sick to understand her words, though. The kris was like a gypsy court of law, and if the old woman got her way, he would be forced to leave the tribe. That’s what marime was.
“Suck on this.” She handed him the root. “It will ease your cramps and restore feeling in your mouth and limbs.” Then she left. She didn’t want to be there when the poison flushed through his intestines. He could find his own way home once the nausea passed and he felt stronger.
* * *
Carolina awoke feeling completely refreshed and eager to start the day. She quickly dialed Larry’s cell phone number. Not getting an answer, she left a message similar to the one she had left when they first landed that she and the FIGS had arrived safely and were comfortably installed in a beautiful, rustic Italian farmhouse. She would call again later.
Before going to bed the night before, she and the FIGS had discussed their plans and decided to visit the Villa Mondragone first. With any luck, and with Lucia along to help smooth their way through the system at the Second University of Rome, the university that now owned the Villa Mondragone, they would be able to examine other books and private collections in the library that were from the same period as the Voynich Manuscript.
Carolina found the bathroom down the hall empty. Even though the house was old, everything seemed to be in surprisingly good order. The shower was better than the one in her bathroom at the bungalow. Not wanting to disturb the FIGs—they were probably exhausted from the trip—she quickly dressed and tiptoed down the stairs to the kitchen.
“The hardest part was wrapping each one of those paperclips.” Jennifer was telling the story to Mother Granchelli and Papa in English, and Dara was rapidly translating. “And then unwrapping them.” Mackenzie stood at the stove preparing what looked like gigantic omelets. Everyone was laughing.
“My gosh. Did I oversleep?”
Mother Granchelli jumped up and hugged her newest daughter. “We are hearing about Wood Rose,” she said. “Such a nice place.”
“Yes.” Carolina glanced at the FIGs and sat down at the table. She had never seen them look more relaxed—and happy. “Maybe you and Papa can come visit some time.”
“Mother Granchelli and Papa have fresh eggs—from chickens!” Mackenzie was obviously enjoying the farm aspect of where they were staying. “Papa even let me gather the eggs this morning.” She flopped another whopping omelet onto a plate and set it in front of Carolina.
“Papa is going to take us for a ride on his tractor to see the rest of the farm,” added Dara, “later this evening when we get back from Villa Mondragone.” She poured a cup of coffee and set it in front of Carolina.
Carolina nodded and then looked at all the food on the table. “I can’t believe I am hungry again, after all that we ate last night.”
“It is the country air, Carolina.” Mother Granchelli smiled at the newest additions to her family. “I will see that all of you have rosy cheeks before you return to Wood Rose. Too much work—all that worry—is not good. Here, you will relax, eat, and have a good time.”
A few minutes later Lucia arrived and joined them in the kitchen. She looked more rested than she had on the previous day; she didn’t seem quite so solemn. Mackenzie jumped up from the table and began cooking her an omelet as well. “I was able to get in touch with Rector Catoni at the Old Villa last evening to ask his permission for you to examine the library. The students are on break now, so it is a perfect time for you to go. He asked that I tell you he is looking forward to meeting you, and will be at your service for whatever you need. He is a nice man, Carolina. You will like him.”
Without any warning, Carolina’s eyes filled with tears. This had been a long journey, starting with when she first learned that she was adopted; and now she was closer than she had ever been to finding out who she was and where she had come from. The three FIGs had never seen Carolina cry. Jennifer covered her face with her hands, and Mackenzie burst out bawling. Dara simply looked away.
“What is this? I ragazzi,” Mother Granchelli scolded. One by one she pulled the young women into her embrace and wiped each face with her apron. “I told you too much work is a bad thing. Now, Mother Granchelli will get out the grape jelly—made from the grapes of our vineyards. It is good on my fresh-baked pane filoncino and will go well with Mackenzie’s omelets. Sit! Now eat!”
Carolina and the FIGs ate the grape jelly on the warm crusty bread. It did make them feel better. Soon they were chattering away once again—speaking in Italian, Dara translating for Jennifer and Mackenzie, all of them laughing. Only Lucia remained somewhat subdued—tentative. She knew what the tears meant, and it made her all the more determined to do whatever she could to help the child of the gypsy woman.
Chapter 13
Lyuba quickly returned to camp. On the way a single crow flew down and landed on the path in front of her. Another bad omen. Back at her hut, she gathered the things she wished to take into the village to sell that day. Her heart was heavy, for she knew that Milosh had once again chosen to follow the darkness of his heart and ignore her warnings.
Milosh angrily pushed through the underbrush, not seeing the path that was before him. The old woman had embarrassed him. He would make her sorry.
Back at the camp he hid in the trees until he saw his mother and father leave. He didn’t want to answer their questions. Not now. Then he went into the trailer and removed the book of curses from the trunk. He had learned a lot from reading the book. He knew what he wanted to do.
Bakro forgotten for another day, he reached under the pallet that was his bed where he slept and pulled out the herbs and strands of hair he had taken from Lyuba’s hut. Then he mixed them in a jar he found in his mother’s cabinet. He didn’t know who the little girl was in the photograph, but she must be someone important to Lyuba. Using all of his negative emotions—the hurt, hate, frustration and fear—he felt a tingling electricity within his body and in the air around him. The curse was working. Lyuba had called him a little boy. She would be taught to respect him as the man that he was. The ancient gypsy magic wasn’t just knowledge. It was being brave enough to use it. And he was brave.
Once he was sure the herbs and hair were mixed well, he tossed the jar under his pallet, hidden from view. Then he lay down, still weak from the Monkshood, and fell into a black, dreamless sleep.
* * *
Since Lucia wouldn’t spend the entire day at the Villa Mondragone, she drove her own c
ar. Carolina and the FIGs followed behind in their rental. The villa towered on a hill before them. Once there, they parked in a reserved parking area. “It’s 416 meters above sea level. The estate consists of an eighteen-hectare lot,” Mackenzie informed them as all of them gaped at the magnificent structure. “The villa itself is about 80,000 cubic metres, and it faces Rome.”
Lucia smiled. “You girls have done your homework.”
“Look,” said Carolina. “You can see the farm from here.” Off in the distance a little north of the villa, the Granchelli farmhouse and barns were visible, as well as the vineyards. Carolina wanted to absorb everything about this ancient place—its sounds, its smells, its position in relation to the things nearby. Behind the villa slightly to the west, she could just make out what looked to be some small trailers and a few make-shift huts. “What is that, Lucia?”
“It is the gypsy camp,” she answered.
Immediately Carolina felt a chill. Lucia put her arm around her.
“It is the black tribe. They have been gone for many years, but only just recently returned.”
“How long will they stay?” Dara asked. She and the other FIGs remembered what Lucia had told Carolina about her name—Lovel—and its connection to the black tribe.
“Only they know that. They will stay until they feel it is no longer beneficial for them to remain. When they feel it is time to leave, they will. One day they will simply be gone.” Lucia took Carolina by the arm and led her toward the villa. “Come. I’ll introduce you to Rector Catoni. I know he is eager to tell you of the villa’s history.”
Rector Catoni was much younger than Carolina or the FIGs expected. “I thought he would be an old guy,” whispered Dara.
“Yeah, wearing a monk’s robe,” added Jennifer.
Mackenzie gave Rector Catoni the once over and told the others, “This guy is kinda cute.” Carolina tried to look stern at the three girls, but giggled instead. After all, he was young, and he was cute. Wavy dark hair, dark eyes, a nice smile, good build. And charming.
“So, Ms. Lovel…” He took her hand and caressed it.
“Please call me Carolina.”
The FIGs giggled.
“You are researching the Voynich Manuscript?”
“Yes. And any other documents that might be from that same period.”
The three FIGs, Carolina, and Lucia made themselves comfortable on the Louis XVI sofa and chairs covered in dark purple velvet, the color of royalty, nobility and spirituality, in the seating area of Recor Catoni’s office. The room was about the size of the cafeteria at Wood Rose. High ceilings, tall windows, massive furniture, heavy fabrics—reflective of a time long past, and beautifully aged with historical importance. There was a light tap on the door, and another slightly younger man entered carrying a coffee service on a large silver tray.
“Another hottie,” whispered Dara to the other FIGs. All three giggled. Carolina cleared her throat.
“I thought you might like some coffee,” Rector Catoni said, “before you start to work.”
The young hottie served the coffee while the rector explained more of the history of the villa. “Between 1616 and 1618 significant works of enlargement of Villa Mondragone were carried out under the direction of the Flemish architect Jan van Santen. These interventions affected both the block enlarged with the gallery between the Casino of Longhi and the Retirata, the small residential building constructed for the son of Cardinal Altemps, and the external part of the great garden, the portico, and the large quadrangular courtyard—near where you parked.”
Carolina listened carefully, hoping to pick up on something in his words and gestures that would trigger a long-ago memory. There was something—a flicker—when he mentioned the garden. But just as quickly, it disappeared. Nothing else that he said was even remotely familiar to her except for what she herself had uncovered in her research findings. She wanted to explore the library.
Knowing Carolina was eager to get started, and also knowing the rector could talk about the villa indefinitely without any encouragement, Lucia put her cup back on the silver tray and stood, deliberately gathering her pocket book and car keys. “Rector Catoni, I must be going now. If you will be so kind as to show my friends to the library…” She glanced at Carolina and smiled.
“Of course.” He made a slight movement under his desk and immediately the “hottie” returned. “Alfonso will show you to the library and be available to help you for as long as you need. If I can personally be of service, please… Perhaps tomorrow you will allow me to show you more of the estate.”
“Thank you, Rector Catoni. You have been more than generous with your time.”
Lucia smiled at Carolina and because her heart went out to her, she reached out and hugged her. “Mother Granchelli has invited me for supper. Shall we plan to meet back at the farm by six o’clock?”
“That will be wonderful,” said Carolina. “We’ll see you there. Thank you.”
Alfonso led Carolina and the FIGs down the hall and through several connecting rooms, all the while explaining the significance of the different rooms and artifacts within, until they reached the older part of the villa. “It is generally accepted that the Voynich was part of a larger collection belonging to the Collegio Romano that was transferred to the Villa Mondragone during the period following the Risorgimento,” explained Alfonso.
“Alfonso—” Dara whispered to Mackenzie and Jennifer, because she could speak several languages, “—It is derived from Visigothic Adalfuns, and it means noble. And ready.” She arched her right eyebrow causing the others to giggle once again.
Alfonso smiled at the girls. “That was in 1870 when Italy was unified, then secularized. Just prior to that, Don Marcantonio Borghese, owner of the Villa Mondragone, signed an agreement with the Jesuits in order to use the villa as a college for the Italian nobility.” He paused in front of an archway leading to a large room filled with books. “This is the Bibliotheca Major, which is the main library. The private library, however, which is called the Bibliotheca Secreta, is where the private collections have always been kept. It is where the Voynich was discovered.” He walked past several more rooms until he reached the “separate” library.
Alfonso left once he saw that Carolina and her students were situated, and for the next several hours, Carolina and the FIGs went through old books, manuscripts, loose papers and documents. Just trying to absorb the work confronting them was overwhelming. There were literally hundreds of books and stacks of papers, seemingly in some sort of order, but the order was not immediately discernable.
Mackenzie, because of her special talent for deciphering codes and solving problems, was the first to make a suggestion on how to accomplish the most out of what was obviously going to be a gargantuan task. “We need to divide the room into fourths: then work from top to bottom, left to right. If we find anything that looks remotely helpful, we will pull it, mark the spot where we took it from with a sheet of paper with its name or any other identification, and put it aside to examine later. Once we have pulled everything we want to take a closer look at, we will start going through each one more thoroughly.”
It made sense. Otherwise, it would be too easy to get confused and overlook something critical. Carolina and the FIGs began work in earnest. Several times Alfonso unobtrusively popped his head in to ask if they needed anything—Refreshment? Help with moving heavy books?
They were fine.
Finally, exhausted and covered in dust, with no idea of how long they had been working, they stopped. Carolina glanced at her watch. It was already five-thirty; they needed to return to the farm. She looked around her; only a few things had been pulled from the shelves—material they wanted to look at a second time. That wasn’t especially encouraging, but they had only gone through about a fraction of what was in the library. This was turning into a much bigger project than she had anticipated. Tomorrow they would get an early start, and with any luck at all, by the end of the week they would know wh
at needed to be examined more closely.
* * *
Mrs. Ball just couldn’t seem to break herself from being startled every time Dr. Harcourt said good morning to her in that new, cheerful, high-pitched voice. It just sounded so aberrant. This time she dropped the mail on the floor. “Good morning, Dr. Harcourt,” she answered as she bent over to scoop up what was intended for his desk. He had arrived early, and she hadn’t been prepared for him.
“Anything interesting in the mail?” he asked.
She looked at him in disbelief. He actually missed the FIGs. All the complaining he had done over the years, all of the pranks he had been subjected to, all of the aspirin she had given him to sooth his migraines, and—he actually missed them.
She stood up and gathered her composure. “Nothing from Carolina,” she said, breaking her self-imposed rule of always referring to faculty as Mr., Ms., or Mrs., “or the FIGs,” breaking another rule by not calling the FIGs by their given names, “if that is what you mean.” He really was starting to irritate her.
“Oh, I wasn’t expecting anything from them,” he said quickly. A little too quickly from the way Mrs. Ball saw it.
“I do have the address and phone number where they are staying,” she offered in an attempt to match his cheerful manner.
“Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to interfere with their research.” And he went into his office, closing the door before Mrs. Ball could gather up all the mail and put it on his desk.
She sighed, then knocked and entered. He was standing in front of the multi-paned window, shoulders more stooped than usual, staring at the Photinia frasen.
“I believe I saw some new growth,” she said as she placed the headmaster’s mail front and center on his desk.
Either he didn’t hear her, or he didn’t wish to comment. Not feeling the least bit cheerful, she left, closing the door firmly behind her.
Dr. Harcourt had also noticed the new growth and that pleased him. What didn’t please him was the feeling that Wood Rose had suddenly become a dull haven for all who were associated with it—himself included, in spite of his initial euphoria. The natural cheerfulness he had experienced with the departure of the FIGs was now unnatural and somewhat on the forced side. The faculty and staff seemed moody and sullen, and Mrs. Ball was starting to get downright snippy. Even Ms. Alcott, a frequent visitor whose well-known acid tongue and strong opinions had reddened his ears with regularity over the years, didn’t want to come around now that the FIGs weren’t on campus. “It’s just too quiet and boring,” she had told him the day before after a board meeting. “You are a pompous stuffed shirt, and you run this place like a funeral parlor.” She was right. It was too quiet—and boring. Not only that, as difficult as it was to admit, he was a pompous stuffed shirt. And even the appearance of the soft blush of red tips couldn’t alter that fact.
The Cadence of Gypsies Page 10