excerpt from
la Brigantessa
Calabria, Italy, 1862
A low rumble in the distance causes Gabriella to pause from her task in the hen yard. She ignores the haughty protests of the bolder hens who squawk around her skirts, attempting the occasional peck. “Luciano,” she murmurs, “where are you?” She hopes he hasn’t ventured to the river with his usual pack of friends; the current is swift and volatile, and Gabriella, in the tradition of Camini’s womenfolk, has warned her brother of its perils.
“Remember poor Vincenzo,” she has told Luciano countless times. “God bless his soul.” Vincenzo had not been much older than Luciano when he ventured off with some friends. While skipping along some flat stones by the river, one of Vincenzo’s shoes had fallen off, and as he tried to recover it, he slipped into the water. On a summer day, he might have had a chance to retrieve his shoe and swim out of the water, but November is a month for the dead after all, and everyone knows that it is not the month in which to tempt fate.
Gabriella shivers at the memory.
Eva, the boy’s mother, who had been washing clothes with her back to the group, turned at the shouts of the boys and was able to just glimpse the sight of a red-clad figure slipping into the water.
With a shriek, she bolted to the river, knowing that only her son was wearing red.
She screamed, hands to her head, the wind whipping her hair against her face. In the distance, a rumble of thunder intensified and she stood petrified, assaulted by the spray of the water churning around her, her eyes reflecting the blackness of the river, her mouth contorted in horror.
She was convinced that she could see the devil’s scarlet face twisted in a triumphant grin, his pointed ears and evil talons extended, his sleek, muscled body swirling with ease as his flickering tail sliced the water like a crimson scythe.
“U diavulu vitta,” she repeated hysterically when some la-bourers, having returned from the fields, pulled her out of the water a few moments later. “I saw the devil. He took Vincenzo.” She started pulling at her hair in despair. “Why? Why? What did poor boy do to him? Si finìu a vita mia; My life is over.” Her eyes fluttered and she collapsed.
The labourers brought Eva home in the back of a hay cart. Her husband Armando returned from the fields and didn’t leave her side that night. Consumed by fever, she thrashed about, alternating between moans and shrieks. The neighbours and Armando crossed themselves with every utterance, certain that the devil had entered her soul, so shattered was it from the shock of losing Vincenzo. Armando, who couldn’t bear losing his wife along with his only son, had the priest summoned in desperation along with Nicolina the midwife.
Nicolina had a gift that no one refuted; even outsiders travelled miles to seek her counsel and purchase her herbs and decoctions. The villagers trusted her implicitly. She had calmed neighbour Pepe’s nervous tremor, eased neighbour Maria’s violent headaches, cured a visiting priest, Don Alberto, of a painfully swollen abdomen, and she had successfully healed the gangrenous wound of young Domenico, who had punctured his foot with a rusty wagon nail.
The villagers were certain Nicolina could concoct something to calm down Vincenzo’s mother, while Don Simone performed the service to rid her body of the same devil that had taken her son.
Gabriella shivers every time she recalls the story. As she scatters feed to the hens, an ominous rumble makes her look up to the sky. Surely, Luciano will be home soon. He hates storms….
A low rumble in the distance causes Gabriella to pause from her task in the hen yard. She ignores the haughty protests of the bolder hens who squawk around her skirts, attempting the occasional peck. “Luciano,” she murmurs, “where are you?” She hopes he hasn’t ventured to the river with his usual pack of friends; the current is swift and volatile, and Gabriella, in the tradition of Camini’s womenfolk, has warned her brother of its perils.
“Remember poor Vincenzo,” she has told Luciano countless times. “God bless his soul.” Vincenzo had not been much older than Luciano when he ventured off with some friends. While skipping along some flat stones by the river, one of Vincenzo’s shoes had fallen off, and as he tried to recover it, he slipped into the water. On a summer day, he might have had a chance to retrieve his shoe and swim out of the water, but November is a month for the dead after all, and everyone knows that it is not the month in which to tempt fate.
Gabriella shivers at the memory.
Eva, the boy’s mother, who had been washing clothes with her back to the group, turned at the shouts of the boys and was able to just glimpse the sight of a red-clad figure slipping into the water.
With a shriek, she bolted to the river, knowing that only her son was wearing red.
She screamed, hands to her head, the wind whipping her hair against her face. In the distance, a rumble of thunder intensified and she stood petrified, assaulted by the spray of the water churning around her, her eyes reflecting the blackness of the river, her mouth contorted in horror.
She was convinced that she could see the devil’s scarlet face twisted in a triumphant grin, his pointed ears and evil talons extended, his sleek, muscled body swirling with ease as his flickering tail sliced the water like a crimson scythe.
“U diavulu vitta,” she repeated hysterically when some la-bourers, having returned from the fields, pulled her out of the water a few moments later. “I saw the devil. He took Vincenzo.” She started pulling at her hair in despair. “Why? Why? What did poor boy do to him? Si finìu a vita mia; My life is over.” Her eyes fluttered and she collapsed.
The labourers brought Eva home in the back of a hay cart. Her husband Armando returned from the fields and didn’t leave her side that night. Consumed by fever, she thrashed about, alternating between moans and shrieks. The neighbours and Armando crossed themselves with every utterance, certain that the devil had entered her soul, so shattered was it from the shock of losing Vincenzo. Armando, who couldn’t bear losing his wife along with his only son, had the priest summoned in desperation along with Nicolina the midwife.
Nicolina had a gift that no one refuted; even outsiders travelled miles to seek her counsel and purchase her herbs and decoctions. The villagers trusted her implicitly. She had calmed neighbour Pepe’s nervous tremor, eased neighbour Maria’s violent headaches, cured a visiting priest, Don Alberto, of a painfully swollen abdomen, and she had successfully healed the gangrenous wound of young Domenico, who had punctured his foot with a rusty wagon nail.
The villagers were certain Nicolina could concoct something to calm down Vincenzo’s mother, while Don Simone performed the service to rid her body of the same devil that had taken her son.
Gabriella shivers every time she recalls the story. As she scatters feed to the hens, an ominous rumble makes her look up to the sky. Surely, Luciano will be home soon. He hates storms….