“You won’t let me leave,” Bethania protested in reply. She reverently set the broom by the fireplace and took Nico from the makeshift cradle. He cooed softly in his mother's arms and she smiled.
There was a sadness in Graziella’s eyes as she watched the pair of them, but Bethania did not see it. The witch forced it away by laughing and going over to her bookcase, which was quite lavish to Bethania’s eyes, and selected a few volumes. “You could always read and prepare. Or look into the flames. Work on your divination.”
Bethania shook her head, though her eyes were still on the precious books. Not even the wealthiest people she knew had so many. “Witchcraft is a sin.”
“There are many things you should not be so certain about,” Graziella replied, seeming quite annoyed by this statement, but Bethania remained firm.
“Not that it matters,” Graziella went on. “We will be leaving the commune tonight.”
This took Bethania by surprise. “We...”
“The Ghibellines will destroy this city. We must be away.” With care, she placed the fragile volumes in a trunk and began gathering up other items.
Bethania did not move. She stood, frozen, holding Nico close. “They can’t...how would you know? Are you an Imperial?”
Graziella’s eyes flashed with a harsh, cold rage. The temperature of the room seemed to drop several degrees and the fire suddenly extinguished. “We are above your silly political parties now. Guelph, Ghibelline, Church, Imperial, it no longer matters. Do you understand? There are bigger things at play here.”
Still, Bethania could not move. She felt as though her entire body had become ice. “But...where will we go?”
“To the mountains,” Graziella replied. “I have people there. In Brianza.”
Brianza and the Alps were far away. Bethania had never left Castel delle Ripe, but she heard enough about the world around her to know that it would take at least a week to make the journey, and that was if they had carts and horses. Graziella kept a pretty suite and she had books, but Bethania did not imagine she had carts and horses. “Brianza...”
“You will have to send the babe elsewhere. There is not a place for him there.”
Her tone was too casual for Bethania, who felt her terror grow, recalling those awful moments when she thought her son was dying in her arms. “No!” she said immediately. “I’m not leaving Nico.”
“I didn’t say leave. I said send elsewhere. If you leave him here, he will die and all of this will be for nothing.”
“I’m not leaving him,” Bethania repeated.
“It will be a safe place. You can look in on him whenever you wish.”
“I--”
“There is no time for argument. This commune will be destroyed within a day’s time and we cannot be here when the walls fall.”
Bethania looked at her son’s face. He was so small, so quiet, so trusting. She was all he had in the world. She would give up anything to keep him safe. She knew that much. But she didn’t know if she could give up him.
5.
Queens, New York. 2013
The blinking microwave clock was the only light on in the kitchen. Several minutes ago a shrill beep had told Alice that her coffee was reheated. She had not heard it. By now, the coffee was probably cold again. She was asleep; face down in front of her laptop with the pile of documents she had been digging through since Nicky went to bed.
She scoured the Internet and other sources for hours to find her ghost, but so far as she could tell, there wasn’t one. No one had died in the house, which had only been built in the 1980s. No previous owners had reported disturbances or left mysteriously. No cemeteries had been moved or paved over to build the housing development. She was at a loss.
She was at a loss about something else too. Something even harder to explain than a mysterious woman’s voice: she couldn’t remember giving birth to Nick. She couldn’t even remember being pregnant. Or who his father might have been. She brought out all of her old diaries, but she couldn’t find even a single reference to her son prior to one late January entry, hastily scribbled:
Nicky is ill. He refuses to eat. I have never been so frightened in all my life.
Before that, most of the pages were devoted to her divorce. She could remember the divorce. It had been brutal: to be abandoned because she couldn’t have children...but she did. She had Nicky.
It was only a week ago, she was talking to her a coworker, Grace, about her struggles getting pregnant. How she thought she’d never be able to have a baby. How she had been so surprised when she found out she was pregnant; so happy. How when she was carrying Nicky, she craved artichokes. Why couldn’t she remember any of these things anymore? They seemed completely foreign to her, like something that had happened to someone else.
She found it easier to attack the mystery of the ghost. It made her feel less sick to her stomach.
Nicky had referred to the woman as La Befana. It was a story that Alice had heard before, but she had no idea how Nick had come upon it. It was an Italian story and, her mother’s background notwithstanding, Alice had raised her son in a pretty standard American way. It all baffled her.
She fell asleep some time around two, right in the middle of reading about the town of Urbania, where Befana was said to be from.
“Your coffee is ready.” Alice heard a soft woman’s voice saying as she was nudged awake.
“My...?” For a moment, Alice was unsure of where she was. The smell of fresh strong coffee with a hint of cinnamon drew her back to her mother’s home and she half expected her to be standing over the sink, staring out the window at the bird feeders. What she saw, however, was far more startling than waking up eighteen again. Standing at the sink, holding a cup of steaming coffee, she saw herself.
It was like looking into her own reflection and yet, it was all wrong. The woman before her had the same blue-grey eyes and molasses colored hair Alice did. Her lips drew the same line that Alice often wore when uncomfortable or nervous. She even had the same lump on the left side of her nose that had appeared after Alice broke it in a car accident as a teenager. But Alice couldn’t imagine how she got the lump. She looked like she had walked straight out of a medieval tapestry.
Her hair, much unlike Alice’s, had been pulled back in elaborate twisted braids and secured by a green ribbon coiled around the front. She also wore a long, faded, green gown with elaborate blue embroidery pieces at the neckline and sleeves and a bronze colored cord belted around her waist. Upon closer examination, her body bore the signs of a different sort of life. Slight wrinkles decorated her face, though Alice knew instinctively she was her age or younger, and she had several pox marks near her neckline. Alice had chickenpox when she was younger, but it had left no scars.
Alice had never thought herself beautiful, but this strange twin standing in her kitchen was lovely.
“Who are you?” She asked cautiously after she had taken her in.
The medieval version of Alice carefully walked over and set the coffee in front of her. “Bethania Peralta,” she said. “But the children call me La Befana.”
Alice just stared at the coffee. It smelled delicious, but she couldn’t drink right now. The woman had called herself Peralta, which was Alice’s own last name. Could she be the ghost of one of Alice’s ancestors?
“Drink it,” Bethania urged. “Your other coffee got cold. It’s no good once it gets cold.”
“Befana’s an old woman...who meets the three wise men...” Alice muttered, still not touching the coffee.
Bethania waved a hand. “Sometimes I can look that way. Graziella has taught me many things...”
“You’re...the one who was talking to Nicky?”
“Si.”
“And the biscotti?”
“You looked like you needed some cheering up.”
Alice glanced from the woman to the coffee, twice. Suddenly deciding that she definitely needed it, she took a deep gulp of the hot brown liquid. It tasted smoother an
d more flavorful than anything that had ever come out of her own coffee pot. The cinnamon even had a little heat to it. “You make a damn good cup of coffee for a ghost,” she muttered.
“I’ve had plenty of years to perfect it,” Befana said to that, a smirk adoring her face. “We didn’t have any such thing when I was a girl...”
“Don’t know how you got along.” Alice continued to drink. Vaguely she wondered if the ghost woman had put something alcoholic in the coffee. The constant ache of tension between her shoulder blades was starting to disappear for the first time in days.
“We made vin brulé.”
The two women regarded each other in silence for awhile. Alice had a multitude of questions she wanted to ask. She desperately wanted to know what this woman was doing here and why they looked so much alike. She wasn’t able to form the words, though, so she just sipped her coffee and eyed the woman suspiciously.
It was Befana who finally spoke. “I know this must come as quite the shock, but I’ve come for my son.”
Alice immediately put down the coffee and looked at Befana, eyes wide with rage. “Excuse me? Your son?”
“Nico. I appreciate your looking after him, however, Graziella has new intelligence that...”
Alice shoved the coffee off the table as she stood. Her memories may have been growing muddled, but they were still her memories. “You stay away...”
“You have to agree!” Befana shouted, sounding desperate. “If you don’t return him, you will never be born!”
Shaking her head fiercely, Alice advanced toward the specter before her. The sick feeling returned to her stomach and she began to feel light headed. The medieval girl held out a small talisman with a look of fear in her eyes. That was the last thing Alice saw before she fainted.
6.
Brianza. Near Canzo. 1277
Bethania barely remembered the trip to Brianza. Graziella had tried to talk with her a few times, get her to practice her magics and learn her history, but it was all in vain. The only thing Bethania could think about was Nico. The woman who took him looked kind enough. Graziella promised that she would be able to get him back very soon. Still, Bethania wasn’t sure that she could trust any of them. They were all witches and worse, they were dragging her toward the Alps, toward the Imperials and Ghibelline country. Despite Graziella’s constant insistence that none of this mattered anymore, Bethania was a good Guelph. She believed as she had been taught all her life. Her allegiance was to the church and, even more importantly, to her son.
As they approached the cottage, Bethania was surprised to see a man standing there. Despite the snow, he was waiting outside, almost as if he had known they would arrive today. Ignoring her traveling companion, Graziella broke into a run and raced toward him. Bethania watched, a strange envy growing in her gut, as the pair embraced. They clung to each other, appearing desperate to never again be parted, then, forgetting all propriety, he took her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers.
Eventually, the two parted and Graziella gestured for Bethania to come forward. She did so hesitantly.
“Bethania, I want you to meet my husband, Gianni,” Graziella said, holding tightly to the man’s arm. He looked handsome enough with dark brown hair and thick passionate eyebrows, but he had the same bearing about him that Graziella did; there was no way to tell if he was truly an old or young man.
Bethania stared a moment, and then, remembering her manners, dropped into a low curtsy. “Pleasure to meet you, Signore.”
Gianni laughed. It was a handsome laugh, strong and protective but also kind. “Been a long time since someone’s called me Signore. Pleasure to meet you too, Signorina Peralta.”
“You know my name?”
Gianni just smiled knowingly and looked to Graziella who answered for him. “Gianni likes to show off sometimes. Pay him no heed.” She squeezed her husband’s arm one last time before letting go. “Now, let’s get ourselves inside before Bethania freezes.”
The cottage was laid out in a cozy manner. Woven tapestries covered the walls for insulation and a fire roared at the hearth. Bethania couldn’t help but notice that many things about the space were similar to the suite Graziella had kept in Castel delle Ripe. The decor was similarly colored. The books on the shelves were slightly scattered in almost the same order. Most obviously, the floor here was also in desperate need of sweeping. As her eyes traced over the floorboards, she saw a makeshift cradle. It looked almost identical to the one they had left behind.
“What is that?” Bethania cried out desperately.
Graziella calmly took Bethania’s hands and led her toward the small table. “Sit,” she said, her voice sweet and quiet.
“Why is Nico’s crib here?” Bethania demanded, yanking her hands from Graziella’s grasp.
“It’s not Nico’s...”
“It’s the exact same one!”
“No,” Graziella replied firmly.
Bethania stared at her hostess, both rage and confusion fighting for dominance over her face. She felt so far from everything she had ever known, her home, her family, her son. None of this would ever be okay, and if Graziella was not going to enlighten her...
“It belonged to a little girl,” the raven haired witch said quietly. Her face had turned hard. “I have lived a very long time, Signorina, and I will live a great deal longer. I suggest you come to terms with your transitory nature in my life.”
Bethania shrank back a little in her chair, eying Graziella carefully. She had been afraid of the witch before, but this was the first time she had felt genuinely threatened. She opened her mouth in the hopes of apologizing, but all that came out was a small squeak. Graziella rolled her eyes and waved dismissively.
It was Gianni who broke the tension between the two women, carefully placing two mugs of warm vin brulé on table before them. “Time to close the door, Grazie,” he said calmly, stroking his wife’s arm.
Bethania watched jealously. Her thoughts turning for the first time in many days to Nico’s father. He had not treated her with any sort of affection, surely not the way Gianni treated Graziella. He had been brusk and harsh. Every fiber of Bethania’s being hated him. “I’m sorry, I....I’m tired...” Bethania said quietly.
“Si,” Gianni said, still not looking away from his wife. “Your quarters are just beyond the blue curtain.”
Taking her mug with her, Bethania disappeared from the room.
*
The next morning, when Bethania rose, she found the cabin empty. Snow was beginning to pile up outside, but there was no trace of either Graziella or Gianni.
At first, she thought of running away, but then it struck her that she had nowhere to run to. Even if she could remember how to get back home, Graziella told her that the commune had been destroyed. If her family was still alive, they would have fled. She had no way of finding them. Instead, she decided to poke around the cottage for awhile. It was in need of a good sweeping, after all.
Trying not to think about the fate of Castell del Rippe, or worse, Nico, she began to straighten up the bookshelves. She was impressed. A number of them were in Latin and other languages which she did not recognize. On one, however, she spotted the same symbol that had been on Graziella’s door at her old suite: a roughly drawn candle that had been blown out. The sight of it made her just as uncomfortable as it did the first time. Still, she pulled the book from the shelf.
It was bound in thick suede and though it had been clearly cared for with deference it was a decidedly old volume. She didn’t recognize the words it contained or understand the images that illuminated the pages, but she felt a chill run through the entire room. Part of her knew, deep down, that there was something deeply wrong with the text. She imagined that it was a spell book. Unsettled, she returned it to the bookshelf and backed away slowly.
“Something wrong, Signorina Peralta?” asked a smooth male voice from the doorway.
Bethania jumped back, startled, her eyes turning immediately to Gianni.
He looked very striking: his dark features dusted with powdery snow. At that moment, Bethania could certainly see what had drawn Graziella to him. “I woke up and no one was here,” she said immediately.
“There was much work to be done,” Gianni explained. “Graziella is still seeing to some of it.”
Bethania did not appreciate his vagueness, but she was too afraid to press the matter. Instead, she nodded and hurried toward the stove. “Shall I make you a drink. Warm you up a little?”
“No need,” Gianni replied. He took off his boots and went to sit by the fire. The flames dimmed a little as he approached, but they raced back to life swiftly enough.
Maybe it was the fire or handsomeness of his features, Bethania couldn’t say, but she suddenly found herself feeling bold and asking, “Are you a witch as well?”
Gianni laughed rather heartily at that.“I suppose the common folk might say so these days, but they’ve called me a number of things. Just as they have you.”
Bethania eyed him carefully for a moment. “Me?”
“Si, Signorina Peralta.”
She figured the cold must have addled his brain, for she had no idea what he was talking about. “No one calls me anything other than my own name, signore.”
He stood up from the fire and went to the bookshelf. Collecting the very volume that had so terrified Bethania, he opened to a page near the back and went to sit in a chair. “Come. I must show you something.”
Though she didn’t want to, Bethania did as she was bid. When she saw the image on the page before her, she suppressed a cry of fright. It was a drawing of a woman who looked identical to herself, only she was dressed quite differently. She wore a loose fitting gown that looked similar to draperies and had a crown of laurels in her hair. “Who is that?” she asked, marveling at the likeness.
Gianni regarded Bethania for a moment. His entire body seemed to grow older before her eyes. “Her name is Strenia. She...was a good friend of mine...many years ago.”
Bethania found herself wanting to take the old man’s hand. He suddenly looked small and frail. Gone was the robust, protective man of the mountains. “Was she my...grandmother?” The style of the woman’s dress looked much older than that, but Bethania couldn’t imagine Gianni and Graziella living forever.
Bethania's Broomsticks Page 2