Ritrovando

Francesca was surrounded by a hungry silence. It clung to the emptiness around her. It sat in the dust-shadows left behind by a sword, in the scratches worn into the floor by a table, in the rusted hinges that used to hold shutters. It seeped into the cracks in the wood and tugged at her dress. It hung above her in the rafters and plucked the thoughts from her head. 

A knock on the door sent the silence skittering away. Francesca started, and finally allowed herself to stand. She drifted towards the door and opened it. Silhouetted by the harsh sunlight was Reglio, the town’s stableboy. Behind him, she knew, the neighbor’s houses were empty. Half the town was already at the funeral. He looked at her expectantly, his dainty fingers plucking at a loose thread on his sleeve. She nodded, and pulled her shoes on. She followed the boy through the portal and down the street. 

The silence smelled of ash. It clung to the still branches of the trees they passed. It pulled the distant smoke into a clear sky. It fled only from the crunch of their footsteps, and even then it was hesitant. Francesca held onto this quiet. She found comfort in it, in the distance it put between herself and everything else. 

Houses gave way to apartments and dirt gave way to cobbled stone. The smell of ash grew thicker, and mingled with the waste that was never fully washed from the gutters. The shops were closed, the apartments empty, the streets deserted. The stableboy coughed. Besides this, only silence.

The piazza was ahead. The silence drew back, replaced by the shuffling and murmur of a mourning crowd. As she emerged from the shadows of the surrounding buildings, hundreds of voices ceased. The gathered crowd parted way for her, a corridor of bodies leading to the unlit pyre. The stableboy coughed again, and offered his arm. Per tradition, a member of the family should escort her, but there are none left. So, it fell to a cousin of her sister-in-law.

She took his arm, and they began the long walk. The air stank of smoke and sweat, and the faces around her glistened in the afternoon sun. Giovanni, the baker, had his arm in a sling. His wife, Lucia, was clutching a charred hairbrush. Marcello helped build her house, and now leaned on a crutch. Antonino dined with them on All Saint’s Day, and was adjusting an eyepatch that didn’t quite fit yet. They continued their somber march to its end. 

The funeral pyre was piled high with pieces of her home. Odd purchases, wedding gifts, heirlooms. A pair of shutters. A table. A locket she didn’t recognize. Standing in front of this was the priest, who held a piece of flint and the family sword. This was forged long ago, before the walls were raised and the beasts driven into the mountains. She took the sword in her small hands, could barely lift it. The blood had been washed away, so she could see her reflection in its blade. She was not sure how long it had been since she slept, but it was long enough to show. 

Francesca placed the sword’s tip on the ground. She smacked the flint against it until sparks flew. A handful caught on the kindling. Sparks became embers, embers became flames. The priest led the town in prayer. This was the last of the town’s funerals. The rest of the dead had been buried in the surrounding hills, if there was something to bury. This ceremony was special, for her husband was a hero. Her husband had killed a dragon.

The priest said, “So be it.”

And so it was.

The funeral lasted until the sun took her leave. People trickled out of the piazza, returning to their homes to begin rebuilding. Francesca’s friends and distant family stayed for as long as the pyre was lit. They drank mead and told stories of her late husband’s adventures. Marcello spoke of the first time the two of them had left the safety of the walls:

A witch was causing trouble for the farmers. Their crops were falling ill to a mysterious blight. The city council tried anything they could, but were at a loss. Then, Sergio requested audience with them. He and Marcello told the council of an enchanted locket that was passed down in Sergio’s family, from mother to daughter. Blight was a common curse for witches to cast, and this locket could be used to find where this fiend was hiding. It was simple, Sergio explained. One simply has to put an infected piece of the plant inside the locket. Then, the closer the locket gets to the witch, the warmer it becomes. The council was skeptical, of course. What self-respecting farmer deals in such dark arts? Sergio reminded the council that his line is one of adventurers. After much deliberation, they granted him a hunting party of twelve men and a contract of three months to slay this demon. Sergio wasted no time, and set out within the week. They journeyed north, into the mountains. They saw all manner of beast on the trail, and kept their bellies full with ease. As the party advanced, the air grew colder and the locket grew warmer. One day, they reached a clearing ringed by snow-dusted trees. Sergio approached the center, and the locket became too hot to touch. At once, he tore the jewelry from his neck and held it aloft. He shouted a victory cry, and demanded that the witch show herself. But, nothing happened. So, he told his hunting party to make camp and wait. With much grumbling, the group complied. They waited in the middle of the clearing for three days and three nights. On the dawn of the fourth day, a sickly old woman emerged from the trees. Sergio’s men captured her, and he demanded that she end the curse on the town on pain of death. She refused, so he cut off her head. When he did, a black mist spewed from her neck, and made all the hunting party cough and gag. Sergio realized that she had infected them all with the blight, but upon her death a new path appeared in the woods. The party followed it, knowing that they would die before making the journey home. After a full day of walking, the group came to the end of the path. Before them stood an old shack, covered in moss and ivy. The party was becoming sicker by the hour, and did not hesitate to go inside. There, they found a simmering cauldron. Close by, they found an open spell book. The witch had been in the middle of casting a spell. Sergio and Marcello stayed awake all night to decipher what the book said, and how to reverse the blight. After an entire night and six candles were spent, they figured it out: the spell was incomplete. All they needed was a unicorn horn. But, of course, a unicorn had not been seen in centuries. In his despair, Sergio threw himself to his knees and prayed to the Almighty. He prayed for forgiveness, and pleaded for help. The party was so moved by this display that they all joined him, and together they called in one voice for God’s guidance. Just when all hope seemed lost, Sergio leapt up and exclaimed that he saw a light outside the window. They all looked, but could not see anything. Then Sergio said he saw it again, and dashed off into the woods. The group followed, if only to stop Sergio from hurting himself, but he was too fast for them. He disappeared, and the rest of the party returned to the shack in dejection. They tried to spend what little time they had left playing games and telling stories, but it was all sour. Then, when all hope seemed lost, Sergio emerged from the forest with a unicorn’s head in his grasp. He told them of how this came to pass:

Sergio followed the light deep into the forest. It led him to a small glade with a brook running through it. The light disappeared, and in its place was a unicorn, tall and strong. It radiated an ethereal light, and touched his mind with something like joy. The blight ebbed from his bones. He approached slowly, careful not to scare it away. It stepped back. He stepped forward. It stamped its hoof. He drew his sword. It charged him, and he swung. It was over in an instant. 

The hunting party stared in awe at Sergio. He simply entered the hut, cut off the horn, and plunged it into the mixing potion. He then lifted a ladle to his lips and took a triumphant sip. He passed it to his brothers, and they each tasted its sweetness. They each felt their bodies rejuvenated, their minds cleared. The hunting party made the long journey home. After arriving, they poured just three drops onto each effected field, and every one saw the disease disappear. 

Francesca surprised that she had never heard this tale. The others around her were enraptured, but she could only think about what else he had neglected to tell her. She knew nothing of his life as an adventurer, while her friends knew nothing of his life as a husband. Or, perhaps, they did not much care.

Many stories were told this night. Stories of courage, of embarrassment, of love won and lost. Late into the night, their voices echoed across the piazza. Once or twice, Francesca even smiled. But, the fire died down and her friends left, one by one. At the end, she was left alone with the stableboy. He coughed. She looked at his silhouette for a long time.

“What is your name?” Her question caught him off-guard. 

“Oh, uh, Nuglio.” He shifted and wrung his hands. 

“Do you have a betrothed, Nuglio?”

“No, ma’am, at least not yet.” He coughed again. 

“When you have one, take care of her.” She said this in a whisper, and turned back to the dark pyre.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, whether or not she heard him.

With that she rose and approached the dark charcoal of Sergio’s pyre. She moved some of the logs to see the grey pile that used to be her husband’s body. The embers beneath were still glowing, their heat caressing her face. It was a kind of touch she always wished he would give her. 

The stableboy gave her a small leather bag. It was undecorated, unceremonious. The kind of bag one uses to carry dice or coins. She grabbed handfuls of his ashes and poured them in. The ceremony was not yet complete. As per tradition, a hero’s widow had one final task: carry her beloved’s ashes to the highest peak of the Alps, and scatter them to the wind, so that all might bask in his victories. 

But, that was a task for tomorrow. This night, she would sleep. She would sleep and dream of his adventures. She would pray that his soul be given a place in heaven beside the heroes of old. She would thank God for giving her such a brave husband, whose light shone too bright to last. She would ask for safe passage through the wilderness and protection from the monsters within. She would dream of his embrace, his tender lips. She would ache in his absence, and pray to be returned to him. As per tradition.

But, she did not pray this night. She was not thankful, nor did she ask forgiveness. She certainly did not sleep, for she dreaded nothing more than the dreams that may come.

She was staring at the dark rafters. She did this often, these days. A knock at the door. The stableboy again, Nuglio. He held a bag. Behind him were her husband’s friend. Neatly arranged, as per tradition.

Nuglio held a knapsack in his hands. It was filled with the essentials: a water flask, two loaves of bread, a block of cheese, as well as tools and small equipment. She thanked him, and was surprised at how small her hand seemed when she shook his. She moved past him and onto the delegation. They all hugged and kissed her, gave small pieces of advice. They donated their tears, which she could not, herself, produce. She received gifts. More cheese, an extra scarf, Giovanni even gave her an extra loaf of bread. She thanked each of them profusely. She kissed their hands, and accepted their prayers. Soon, she was on the road. The neighbors stood at their doors to watch her go. 

She passed the walls within the hour. They were monoliths, constructed of dark stone. They reached almost four man-heights and were as wide as a carriage. These walls had protected her for her entire life. They guarded their denizens against the creatures of the night. Yet, when she passed beneath their shadow, she couldn’t help but shudder. 

Then, the city was behind her. Francesca adjusted the pack on her shoulders and the sword on her hip. This road led only into the forest, and was not often traveled. Tufts of grass sprouted here and there. As she moved along, those grasses became more abundant and thick. Soon, it was hard to tell if there was a road to follow at all. She was on her own, with only the sun and stars to guide her. 

That first night was warm. A summer breeze shifted the branches above her. It brushed her face and hands. It brought tidings of a distant storm, but that was a worry for tomorrow. For now, she would rest, while that breeze kept the silence at bay. She could almost pretend that the smell of smoke was from her extinguished fire. 

The next day brought clouds. She laid some traps for small game, but nothing was caught. She continued on. The next few days passed in a similar manner. The rain drove a coldness into her bones that refused to leave. She could still not catch any animals, and now was running low on food. She spent most of her days praying. Finally, by a stroke of luck, a rabbit happened across one of her traps. It was not a feast, but it kept her belly full. She salted the leftover meat and stowed it in her pack. With bait, the next week was easier. Her hands became rougher, more accustomed to working with the twine. Then, suddenly, two weeks were behind her.

She’d grown rougher as well. Her eyes twitched at every snap of a twig, and her hand rarely left the sword’s hilt. The air grew thinner and colder, but she now had a mountain lion’s pelt to keep her warm. She marched north, rarely deviating. That is, until she smelled smoke. It was faint, little more than a whisper. But it was there. She tried to follow it, and eventually saw a hint of grey reaching into the sky. 

Francesca followed the smoke to an old shack, sitting squat in the woods. It looked ancient and was covered in moss and ivy. She carefully approached, and knocked on the door. It swung open, to reveal an old woman. She looked at Francesca suspiciously, then saw that she was alone and beckoned her in. 

“Frightful few days we’ve had, wouldn’t you say?” The old woman took Francesca’s bag and pelt and tossed them onto a table. The shack was cozy. It contained some wicker furniture and small decorations hung on the walls. A large cauldron took up a corner of the room. Francesca’s blood ran cold.

“Are you…” her voice was hoarse with disuse, “Are you a witch?” The old woman chuckled.

“I prefer the term ‘weaver of spells,’ but yes, ‘witch’ will do.” She began leafing through a worn book and tossing ingredients into the cauldron.

“But, Sergio…”

“Killed me? Yes, I’m sure that’s what he told you.”

“So, what happened?” Her hand found the pouch of ashes. She fingered the drawstring.

“I made a bargain. I was trying to cure the blight anyway, and he offered to help.”

“What of the unicorn?” Her words made the witch pause. 

“Unicorns are pure beings. Some say, they are gifts from God himself. They radiate a magic that is rare and beautiful. To have a heart cold enough to kill one…” The witch sighed. “I pity the wife of that man.”

Francesca was silent for a long moment. The witch drew a chair to the table. She offered it to Francesca.

“I pity a great many women, but none more so than you.” 

Francesca looked at her hands, at the callouses and scars. They looked unfamiliar.  They looked like Sergio’s. 

“He sheltered me,” she began. “He gave me a home.” 

“Ah, so you miss him.” The old woman continued with her concoction. She kept her back to Francesca.

“I should.” The bag of ashes was in her hand. It was worn, faded. 

“I will make you a bargain. After you reach the summit, come back here. I could use an extra set of hands.”

In the morning, her journey resumed. The witch saw her off, and pushed into her hand a glass bottle filled with a strange liquid.

“Drink this, dear, when all hope seems lost.” The witch embraced her, then shut the door behind her. Francesca was left alone in the woods. 

She continued north. She laid traps and found water. The first three days were bearable, but on the fourth it began to snow. It started small, as it always does. A single flake caught in her hair. Another pinched her cheek. The day dragged on, and dragged the snow with it. By the mid-afternoon, it was falling in sheets. Her shoes were soaked through, and she could no longer tell which direction was north. She sat beneath a conifer and drew her fur around her, willing herself to be warm. At some point, she fell asleep. 

She awoke to silence. The air hung still around her, weighing down the thick snow. She was covered in it, and suspected that it gave her just enough insulation to avoid frostbite. It was a sobering thought. She dug herself out of the small snow drift that had formed around her, and the silence skittered away. She continued on. The soft crunch of her footsteps was her only companion. 

She came to a sheer rock wall. Her feet were numb and her hands ached with cold. But she could not go around. She could wait, but there was no telling if she would be able to warm herself enough to be comfortable, and besides, she needed to finish this. 

She began the slow climb. Hand by hand, foot by foot. Parts of the wall were slick with ice. She tried to avoid those, but she slipped more than a few times. After what felt like hours, she reached the top. She clambered over the wall, and laid in the snow for a long time. Finally, she sat up. She had reached the peak. 

Plump clouds drifted across an azure sky. Beneath her, all of Italy stretched to the horizon. Other peaks filed out beside her, each capped with a soft dusting of snow. Forests twisted and wove their way down the slopes. In the distance, a hint of the sea. And over all of it hung a familiar silence. 

Yet, this silence did not hunger. It was not a silence of absence, but of anticipation. The world around her was holding its breath. And, there she was, at the crux of it all. She stood motionless in that unbreakable silence. A breeze touched her cheek. It tugged at her pelt, like a child asking to play. 

She set her pack down and removed her husband’s ashes. She scooped out a handful, and tossed it to the wind. The ashes twisted and flowed through the air, exploring its currents. She emptied the bag and tossed it into the basin below. 

Francesca sat down and took in that silence. It whispered of home, but more so of the future. Of peace. Of rest. 

She unstrapped the sword from her belt, and left it to rust.