by Pati Nagle
Twin waterfalls of fireworks flared to life on either side of Zozobra, illuminating Joe’s denim back, and a sudden breeze lifted the failing sparks. Without thought Eva caught the breeze and fed it, pouring anger into it and wrenching it into a screw.
The crowd gasped as the vortex caught dust and sparks and swelled suddenly. Eva’s scream of anger joined Zozobra’s roar and the dust devil leapt taller than the puppet, sucking the fireworks into itself and spitting sparks in all directions. She pushed it toward Joe.
He was still running but the devil caught him and he stood struggling for balance, buffeted, dust and sparks flying about his head. Zozobra was burning a few yards away, fire glowing inside his howling mouth; Eva caught a strand of flame and wove it into her whirlwind.
The fire was hers now, and into it she put not only Joe but Mrs. Rougier, Ms. Messersmith, her mother. All the people who pushed her; she gave them all to the flames, the purging fire of Zozobra, flames and the white heat of her rage blotting out everything else.
Vaguely she heard screaming; the crowd was frightened by the fire. Silly people, she thought. The fire’s good. Let it burn away your troubles.
The flaming whirlwind stood like a torch against the night, dwarfing Zozobra. Someone near her cried, “It’s beautiful!” and Eva smiled.
Joe’s jacket was on fire. He flung his arms up over his head and fell to his knees, flames dancing over his back. Coyote dropped to the ground.
Shrieks filled the air; the crowd’s hysteria obliterated the drums and Zozobra’s amplified howls. Dark shapes were swarming up the hillside like cockroaches. Joe disappeared behind the tide but the whipping flames kept the rescuers at bay.
The wind had quickened the fire and Zozobra ceased to thrash, abandoned by his manipulators, his eyes glowing green in his burning head and bits of flame already falling to the ground from limp skeletal arms. The recorded drums continued but Zozobra was silent. Shocked chatter ran through the crowd, someone nearby whimpered.
Enough.
Eva sighed and let go of the flames. The dust devil sailed gently overhead, whispering now as its power dissipated.
Pandemonium erupted in the park. Eva ignored the frightened, excited voices; she slowly climbed the steep embankment and drank in the deep, cool night.
A mass of firemen and policemen were swarming like ants around where Joe had fallen. An ambulance that had been standing by drove up, and she glimpsed Joe standing, arguing, then being strapped onto a stretcher.
A pang of sadness was gone in an instant; Joe had earned his punishment. All their lives he had pushed her, now Eva had finally pushed back. She knew he wouldn’t bother her again.
Looking at Zozobra, now engulfed in flame but forgotten by his audience, she thought of the old tradition; burn your troubles for a year. Eva smiled. She was free.
And she was beautiful. You didn’t have to have a pretty face to be beautiful, you didn’t have to be what other people wanted. You just had to make your work—carving or fire—the best it could be. She knew that now.
She looked up at the stars, hundreds of them piercing the black night. Grandfather’s voice echoed in her mind, telling of Coyote, who set out to help place the stars in patterns but then scattered them over the sky because it was too much work. It made the others angry, but Coyote said, “It’s better that way,” and he was right.
Something soft and warm touched her leg. Eva looked down into Coyote’s glowing eyes.
Beautiful Coyote. Yes, she was like him. She didn’t need anyone else to say so. No one else could ever understand her own particular beauty.
She picked Coyote up, cradling him to her, and padded through the back streets toward home, attended by summer’s last sweet breeze.
On Swan’s Wings
A shorter version of this story appeared in Cricket magazine.
Valentina Alberti leaned out of the window of her bedchamber to see how close the sun might be to setting. Tonight was the last night of Carnival, and she and her family had been bidden to a masked ball at the Palazzo Medici.
Golden light slanted through Florence’s streets, lighting the ornate walls of the villas and warming the stone paving. It was not warm enough to chase the February chill from the air. Soon the sun would set and night would throw its cold blanket over the city.
Valentina shivered. In the street below, her neighbors were already celebrating the last, frantic night of excess before the beginning of Lent. The laughing cries of young men—half-earnest, half-mocking—rose to her.
“Valentina! Valentina, will you be mine?”
She ignored them, the sons of neighbors, merchants and citizens of Florence. She was no longer permitted to play with them. She was a lady now, and if her father had his way, she would marry a Medici.
By happenstance, today was also her sixteenth birthday, the day of the saint whose name her father had made her burden. Valentine, friend of lovers, martyred for marrying Roman couples in defiance of Emperor Claudius’s ban many hundreds of years ago. Married men made bad soldiers, so the emperor had decreed none should marry. Valentine had married them in secret.
“Valentina! My heart is yours, cara mia!”
She pulled the mullioned window closed. Those boys had taunted her thus ever since they were all children, playing in the street together, blissfully unaware of future responsibilities. Every year on her birthday they had teased her. Be mine, Valentina! Marry me, Valentina—to Beatrice Rossi!
Once she had even pretended to conduct a secret marriage, like her namesake. When her mother had found out, Valentina had been scolded for mocking the holy rites and punished with confinement to her room.
She turned away from the window and looked at her gown for the evening, lying on her bed ready for her to don. A new gown, commissioned by her father especially for the masquerade this evening.
The Medicis’ ball would be more controlled than the Carnival festivities that were already spilling into the city’s streets. Her family would never permit her to attend such wild celebrations as those, though she might watch them from the safety of her chamber window.
She swallowed a sigh, reminding herself that it was a great honor to be considered worthy of marriage to a Medici. The Medicis ruled Florence, and only took their wives from the very best of its families.
She touched the gown, certainly the richest she had ever worn. It was of velvet, deep red with narrow stripes of gold, soft as a kitten’s fur against her fingers. The sleeves were slashed so that the white silk lining could be pulled through. The overdress, which was long and full, cape-like in back, was of heavy ivory brocade in a large floral design, so rich with gilt thread that it almost looked like cloth of gold. It was bound below the bosom with a belt embroidered with roses and adorned with pearls.
A lady’s dress, designed to proclaim her family’s wealth. A dress that offered its wearer’s riches to the highest bidder.
Her chamber door opened and her mother came in, carrying with her something large bundled in cotton cloth. She was already dressed for the ball, in a gown of green floral brocade. Her hair was taped to her head in a coronet bound with green and gold ribbons, and she wore a slightly worried smile.
“Valentina! You have not begun to dress yet! It is high time, child. Come and see what your father has bought for you to wear.”
With these words her mother laid the bundle on Valentina’s bed. Carefully she unwrapped the cloth, revealing a magnificent mask, or rather a headdress, for the mask was but the smallest part of it.
It was a swan, brilliant white, with sapphire eyes and elegant, swooping feathers. Valentina had never seen its like. So beautiful and fragile! She felt a little flutter in her heart as her mother lifted it and placed it on her head.
“Bring the mirror, Giada,” said her mother.
Her mother’s maid brought forward a large hand mirror and held it up so that Valentina could see herself. The white swan was brilliant, its feathers softly draping behind her head, its neck a graceful c
urve rising from her brow. Her dark eyes peeped shyly through the jeweled mask as her hand crept up to brush against a soft feather.
That was not her standing there, not Valentina. It was someone else, a beautiful, alluring maiden who was brave instead of shy, confident in anonymity. That lady had no need for modesty—she stood under the protection of the swan’s white wings. She was a lady whose heart was free, destined for love.
“You will shine tonight, my daughter,” said her mother, squeezing Valentina’s shoulders. “You will win the heart of your future husband.”
Valentina turned. “Who is he, Madre? Has my father made an agreement?”
A slight crease formed on her mother’s brow. She took away the swan mask and set it carefully back into its nest of cloth.
“Nothing is certain yet. You are not to trouble yourself about it. Just enjoy yourself at the ball, and leave such concerns to your father.”
Valentina asked no more questions, but silently obeyed as her mother and Giada dressed her in the white silk underdress, then the velvet gown, then the brocade overdress. While Giada pulled the linings of her sleeves into tiny puffs through each little slash, Valentina thought about her future husband.
It could not be Lorenzo, the old Capo’s elder son, for he was married. The younger, Giuliano, was fifteen, and already had a mistress according to Giada, who always knew the city’s gossip. It would be the duty of his wife, whenever he chose to wed, to disregard the mistress.
Could Valentina’s father have arranged for her to wed Giuliano? If so, she would be the envy of every young lady in Florence. She would live in a grand palazzo, with rich furnishings and many servants. She would give her husband sons and stay home to care for them while he cavorted with his mistresses.
Valentina stifled a sigh, knowing her mother would reprove her if she sighed aloud. She sat at her dressing table while Giada brushed out her hair and bound it back from her brow with a wide ribbon tight across the back of her head, but let it fall in loose waves behind. A maiden’s hair was worn loose. A matron’s was reserved to her husband’s private enjoyment.
How strange to think that she might soon have a husband. Valentina had not met Giuliano de’Medici, though she had sometimes seen him in church. She tried to imagine herself as his bride, and could not.
Of course, her future husband might be someone else. There were many lesser branches of the Medici clan, many cousins and kinsmen. Valentina knew, though, that her father would strive to make the most advantageous match possible.
At last her mother picked up the swan mask once more and carefully set it on Valentina’s head. She felt again the secret flutter of boldness, hidden behind the swan’s wings.
Her mother donned her own mask, a simple green domino, then hurried Valentina downstairs. Giada followed, bringing both their cloaks.
Valentina’s father waited in the atrium. Signore Alberti was handsome, and kind enough, though his business kept him from spending much time with his family. Tonight he wore his best tunic of black velvet trimmed with gold and silver, a matching hat with a dagged-edged drape, and a bright red mask with a long nose like Pantalone.
“Ah, Valentina! Let me look at you.”
She stood still while he slowly walked around her. At last he stopped before her again and nodded.
“You look very well, Valentina. Remember that your behavior tonight will reflect on all your family.”
“Yes, Padre. Thank you for the beautiful gown, and the swan.”
“You are a good girl. Come, give me a kiss.”
Valentina stepped forward and placed a dutiful kiss on his cheek. He then ushered her toward the door.
Giada bundled Valentina’s cloak about her and helped her step into the pattens that would protect her red velvet slippers from the dirt of the street. They were awkward to walk in, but necessary in the streets of Florence, particularly tonight.
Servants waited outside the house, bearing torches to light their way. The men surrounded the Signeur Alberti and his family, forming a circle of golden torchlight around them. Outside the circle, Carnival raged in all its wild abandon.
The sun had now set, though the sky was light enough yet to see. A blue twilight cast its coldness over the city, pushed back here and there by golden candlelit windows, and by the torches surrounding the little party as they walked. The Palazzo Medici was a blaze of light that could be seen all the way from the foot of the Via Larga.
Valentina had never been to the Medicis’ palazzo before, though she had seen it from afar. Torches illuminated the rustic stone arches of the entrance, and every window above was alight. A few were cracked open to let the heat of so many candles and torches escape. Valentina heard strains of lute music drifting down, and the high piercing tones of recorders.
Servants in Medici livery greeted them, leading them into the palazzo and taking away their cloaks and pattens. One of them guided the Albertis up a broad staircase. Music and laughter could be heard from above.
They entered a long chamber filled with people chattering, laughing, drinking wine, all wearing masks and costumes that ranged from the ordinary to the outlandish. A trio of musicians were tucked into a corner nearby, playing a lively tune.
A long table, draped in red cloth, ran the whole length of the room beneath the windows. It was covered with platters of roasted meats, cheeses, figs, nuts, and cakes. Candles crowded the table amidst the food, and torches burned in sconces between the windows and on the opposite wall, which bore a vivid fresco of the lush Tuscan countryside.
Valentina stood blinking at the dizzying noise and color of the assembly. Never had she seen so many people all in one room, except in church. Her father, whose eyes had been searching the crowd, now hastened his wife and daughter across the room.
At the far end of the room the old Capo sat in a massive chair, surrounded by his family. Though he was masked, old Piero’s gray curls betrayed him. He was dressed as a Roman emperor, in white robes and crowned with a golden laurel wreath. From an archway to his left, even more music, light, and laughter were pouring.
Lorenzo stood beside him, smiling and chatting with some of the guests. He was also dressed as an ancient Roman, as was the pretty lady standing with him who must be his wife. On the Capo’s other side stood a young man dressed as a centurion, with a scarlet silk tunic showing beneath his gilt armor, a real gladius hanging at his hip, his sandals laced all the way up to his knees. Valentina could only see his eyes through the gilt helmet he wore, but she was sure he was Guiliano.
Her father waited for the guests ahead of them to finish speaking with their hosts. When they at last moved on, he took Valentina’s hand and drew her forward.
“Greetings, friend,” said Piero. He did not rise, and Valentina remembered hearing that he was troubled by gout.
“Thank you for welcoming my family, Signore,” said Valentina’s father, bowing low. “Allow me to present my only child.”
No names were given. This was a masked ball, and the conceit was that everyone was a stranger until midnight, when they would all unmask. It was all feigned, for the better families in the city—and no one else would be invited to a party at the Palazzo Medici—all knew one another. Yet Valentina had not recognized anyone so far, except for the Capo and his family.
Valentina curtseyed before the head of the most powerful family in Florence. She held her head high, though she kept her eyes modestly lowered. She knew that not only Piero but all his kindred were watching her closely, looking for any excuse to declare her unfit to join their family.
“What a pretty little swan,” Piero said. “We must see how well she flies. Signor Centurion, please escort her into the dance.”
Piero nodded toward the archway at his left. The centurion bowed briefly to the emperor, then approached Valentina and bowed again, displaying a shapely leg.
“Will you dance, Lady Swan?”
She gazed into the black eyes behind the mask. She was even more certain now that this was Giulia
no. She laid her hand across the arm he offered.
“Thank you, yes.”
Valentina cast a glance over her shoulder at her mother as the centurion led her toward the archway. Her mother’s hands were clasped tightly together before her.
The chamber into which the centurion led Valentina was as broad as the first, but much longer. It was filled with light from sconces along both walls. Many people stood talking and watching the dancers who crowded the center of the room. At the far end a half dozen musicians provided the music, lutes and flutes striving to drown out the laughter of the revelers, who only talked louder the louder the musicians played.
Giuliano drew Valentina into the dance. She recognized the music as that for Amoroso, for her mother and Giada had spent hours teaching her the steps of all the current balli. She stood beside Giuliano and watched him perform each figure of the dance, then repeated it herself.
Valentina realized her heart was beating very fast, not only because of the exercise. Dancing was a little like the street games she had played as a child. It made her giddy, and the shelter of the mask, even though Giuliano must know who she was, made her feel slightly bold.
Others present were taking advantage of their false shelter to behave more freely than they ordinarily would. Many were flirting together, and Valentina wondered whether she should be flirting with Giuliano. She glanced at him, thinking it should be he who began flirting, not herself, but he showed no sign of doing so.
Valentina looked away from him, watching the other dancers and seeing their enjoyment. This might be her last chance to play. She was determined to make the most of it. She had until midnight to laugh, and it was her birthday after all. She would fly free until she had to give up the swan mask.
With a start, she realized Giuliano was speaking to her as she danced. She turned her head toward him.
“What?”