Closer to town, they passed the former abbey flying the tricolor. Ever since the government muscled it away from the monks, soldiers marched back and forth in front, lean and tall, handsome in their uniforms, tight in all the right places, and she’d looked. Her cheeks warmed at the thought. She could live with that change and, she admitted, was grateful for the show of strength, glad when the Bourbon rulers slinked off her land. Good riddance: ugly, self-righteous pigs, every last one.
Except for the queen. Stately, beautiful, stubborn, Maria Sofie held out in Gaeta surrounded by all of Savoy’s troops, soldiers and cannon stacked against her as high as the peaks of Monte Pellegrino. Yet she refused to surrender, stood her ground while the king, her husband, cowered in the closet. Defeated, the queen, still my queen, she’d said one day to Giorgio who replied, “While she ruled, Maria Sophie cared not a jot for Sicilians.” But Serafina had no plans to remove her picture from its place of honor in the parlor.
Beppe snapped the reins. Again and again he touched his back, twirled his head left and right, looked up at the heavens searching for the star. His Phrygian cap crimped the tops of his ears. He turned onto a side street, their usual shortcut.
Not far from home, then, but Serafina couldn’t see a light anywhere, except for their lantern, and a small beacon behind them, Arcangelo’s torch. It was dark ahead, and Beppe paid too much attention to that star. And she, wishing she hadn’t mentioned La Puddara, not at all, thought that Largo was going too fast, probably sensing the end of the journey, when one of their wheels rolled over a large stone.
The trap canted to one side, as if suspended, creaking on two wheels for ever so long, it seemed. Beppe slid into her. Serafina hung onto the iron railing, biting her lip and trying with all her might to push Beppe back, but it was seconds before the trap righted itself.
The Stranger
Largo halted. Serafina heard a mandolin, the melody faint. In the dark, something moved. The shimmering of an ancient shade?
A form appeared in the glow of the trap’s lantern, a shadow running toward them, growing more distinct. Weathered hat. Matted hair. Beard. Long legs. Tattered shirt and pantaloons. Bare feet. Knife in belt. Lips formed words, indistinct. An accent? Funny, he held the pistol with both hands. Unsteady. Too much wine, perhaps. He fired, hitting the lamp. Blackness.
Serafina heard another shot, more shouting, metal clattering on stone.
Afterward, she recalled the set of the stranger’s mouth, a taut red band, remembered flaming shards exploding around them like fireworks at the end of a festa.
“Stop or I shoot!” Arcangelo yelled, framed in the light from his torch. He dismounted. His revolver pointed at the attacker who sunk to his knees and begged for his life.
Beppe jumped down to join Arcangelo. As they stared at the man, probably a deserter living rough, he wrested the gun from Arcangelo’s hands, swiped it across Beppe’s jaw, and ran.
“Quick,” she heard Beppe shout, “let’s get him!”
“Let him go!” Serafina said. She handed Beppe a cloth to dab the blood from his lip.
“But my revolver,” Arcangelo said.
“Do as I say. You were both going to run after him and leave me alone in the dark with no gun, a scared mule, and God knows how many of the bandit’s comrades lurking in the shadows.”
Arcangelo and Beppe looked at the ground.
“And as for revolvers, you can choose one of ours. We have too many as it is. But bravo to both of you for your bravery. A sure shot, Arcangelo. That unfortunate would have taken our coins had you not been here to help.”
A Quick, Sure Stab
“Why do you weep?” asked the monk, gesturing freely. “Look around. The air, sweet for November. This spot is a pleasant respite from the strife of daily toil. Birds sing in their ancient abode. Flowers bloom. Dry your eyes and take joy in the simple beauty of nature.” He stretched his arm to indicate the public gardens surrounding them.
Through a stuffy nose, she said, “Better leave. I’ve no money for the likes of you.”
“I’m not begging for coins, my child.” The monk made the sign of the cross over the young woman. “May your heart flood with the peace of the brazen serpent.” He sat back and began reading his holy book.
They were silent.
Then she asked, “What kind of a monk are you?”
He smiled. “From the north. We practice an ancient rite, one that bequeaths peace beyond understanding.”
“Not for the likes of me.” Her smile was lopsided.
“I know what you do. Forgiveness is yours if you ask. And perpetual absolution if you so desire. It is for a select few.”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand. I must continue with my work or my family starves. Yesterday my brother took the money I gave him, but said it wasn’t enough. It’ll be my fault, he said, if my family can’t stay together. I need to earn more, but La Signura won’t raise my fee.”
The monk was silent. “Tell me about your brother.”
She shrugged. “What is there to say?” She told the monk that she sent money home with one of her siblings who came to call each month. She cannot earn more.
“And your family, where are they?”
“Enna.” She began to relax.
“My work needs many hands,” the monk said. “I could use yours, and they would fill with gold.”
“Not interested,” she said, rising.
“Easy work. Information, that’s all I need,” the monk said. “For you, enough prayers to last a lifetime. I need recruits for my life’s work, the work of the brazen serpent.”
• • •
When the voices told me to begin, I left, like you. Careful, now, so careful I am. The last one, smooth, the blade like the serpent’s razor, the flesh like jelly. I sharpened it beforehand, you see. A quick, sure stab. She stilled. The carving, perfect. This time there were no screams. The voices do not drown them out. They howl when the moon is black. I cannot abide their ringing. You’d be proud of me, I follow the will of the serpent, my work has begun. Early days yet, but I will triumph. I will go back soon to rescue my helpless one. He has sticks instead of arms. In the grave they told me he is, but they are wrong. He is alive. He comes to me in dreams. I know he lives. Perhaps he is with you. In dreams, too, lurks the wizard. So near to me she was, I saw the fear in her face. I could have triumphed: one quick pull of the trigger, but the time was inauspicious. Righteous and sacred, they say, the voices, when I wait for a day of totality, in the fullness of the earth and of the heavens, when I wait for the perfect number. Next time, there will be a next time, now that I have help. So precious to herself she is, the wizard, but she will be no more. Soon, it will be soon, and the harlot’s house will collapse. The work of the serpent will kiss the land. The voices demand it. Blood washes blood, they sing in my ears, a honeyed melody, a cloak for dreaming. And they heal me, they tell me I cannot fail.
Part Two
The Train Station
Tuesday, October 23, 1866
Serafina thought there would be a few passengers at the station, but when she and Renata arrived, a long line of carts waited at the front door to discharge passengers. Inside, wiry men stood together smoking cigarettes and talking fast. They wore collarless shirts and carried knapsacks. They’d take the train to the harbor, board a steamer bound for one of the Americas and work, return in six months or a year.
But Serafina also saw whole families, large clumps of them. It looked like they had all their belongings with them. Each person carried a cloth bundle. Peasants, Serafina knew from their dress and inflection, or as Loffredo would say, “people of the soil,” thin, with leathery faces and bright eyes.