Gabriel and the Swallows (The Volatile Duology #1) (4 page)

“It is for tonight,” replied Gallo smoothly, “and until I see that falcon again. Good luck with the knives, little man.”

“Good luck with the hunt!” I added willfully.

“A smart-mouthed boy you’ve got,” he murmured to Papa, “you must be so proud. And I trust, if you see that falcon, that you’ll do the right thing.”

“I assure you,” stated Papa, “I will always do the right thing.”

“Good man,” sneered Gallo, “my love to Blanca.”

When he had disappeared into the fields, Papa turned off all the lamps but one. He shut all the windows, and with them, the curtains. I returned to the cradle and peeked under the blanket. There she was, asleep on her left side, her right wing curled around her. I looked down upon her very ordinary face and wondered where she came from.

“She looks nothing like a falcon,” I commented to no one in particular.

“”You shouldn’t have spoken to Signore Gallo like that,” chided my father gently.

“But he held his gun to you!”

“As a means of intimidation. He never would have used it.”

“He’s a mean man.”

“He is all bark, no bite,” assured Papa, but I did not believe him. “The Gallos have owned that land for generations. And when this farm is yours, you will have to deal with them. And the less bad blood between us, the better.”

“I hate that whole family!” I spat.

“Come and have supper,” said Papa, sitting down and spooning out the stew with gusto.

“Why did you have to call me clumsy in front of him?”

“One potato or two?” continued my father.

“Can I sleep here on the floor tonight?”

“I think your mother’s asleep, so we’ll save this for her breakfast,” said Papa, and portioned out a perfect serving with all Mamma’s favorite pieces.

“Do you really think I’m clumsy?”

But Papa didn’t respond, and I watched him chew thoughtfully as I pushed food around on my plate.

“Go to bed, son,” he said when he was done eating.

“Are you coming too?”

“In a minute,” he replied, and as I was closing my bedroom door, I saw him sit next to the cradle, pull out his spectacles and examine them, as if he didn’t know what they were for anymore.

I
was a child that reveled in sleep. Unlike other children, who are up and brimming with anticipation as soon as a new sun hits their windowpanes, I would screw my eyes shut and will myself back to slumber. It became an achievement to sleep solidly for long periods of time, and I hoped to beat my personal best of thirteen hours thirty-five minutes. In that way, I was similar to my mother, who always retired early and rose late. My father didn’t seem to mind, if it wasn’t harvest season.

I would be lying if I said it was the rest, the unconsciousness of sleep that I loved. It wasn’t.

It was the dreams.

But the next morning, I was up at the crack of dawn. My mind was fuzzy with faded memories of a new arrival, and Signore Gallo was there too, and a 1912 shotgun. Something told me it was no dream, and I wanted to confirm my suspicions by whatever sight lay in that cradle. When I opened my bedroom door, I realized that I was not the only person in the house with ideas.

Mamma and Papa, both in their night robes and nursing steaming cups of espresso, were peering over the cradle. The bird-girl was awake, both her wings stretched around herself. Only the top of her head and her eyes were visible. She stared at them like a rabbit caught in headlights.

“I suppose,” said my father with resignation, “that calling the authorities is out of the question.”

“If you want to hand her over to Alfio,” said Mamma with a rare hint of authority, “that’s the way to do it. You know Gallo has lined police pockets for years.”

“I worry,” muttered my father, “for Gabriel.”

Silence. Then, “She will be good for him. Like she was for me.”

“Blanca—” warned my father.

“Where do you suppose she came from?” whispered my Mamma.

“The sky, my dear,” responded Papa.

“But what is she for?” asked Mamma.

“For?”

“What did God make her for?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, Celso. Cows are made for milk and meat. Bees are made for honey,
for honey
. That sort of thing.”

“Then what are humans made for?”

Silence. Then, “I don’t know. Something.”

“Then that something,” stated my father like the good Catholic he once was, “is something only God knows.”

“Do you suppose,” began my mother, her voice wavering, “that God didn’t make her at all?”

“Maybe she is God,” I said from behind them. “Maybe she is the daughter of Zeus or Apollo.” I was learning about Greek gods at school and lived part-time in an imaginary world where I fought alongside them in their great red battles.

“Don’t be blasphemous,
bambino
,” said Mamma, coming to her senses. Papa merely chuckled.

We were silent for a moment, just gazing at the creature in the cradle. For once she had heard my voice, her eyes had swiveled over to me, and she seemed to regard me like she knew all my secrets (correction: secret. At that age, I had but one. It was so large and so heavy and so important that I never imagined it were possible to have more than one).

“But what if she is an abomination?” my mother insisted. “What about her parentage? One is human and the other – a bird? Is it even possible?”

“But Mamma,” I interjected, “don’t you already know her?”

“I doubt that is the case, Blanca,” said my father, giving me a hard glance that I could not mistake the meaning of:
don’t ask.

“Or what if there is no God, just hundreds of little ones, and she is a goddess?” I insisted, changing tactics. This was my preferred belief system at the time. “Maybe she is the goddess of the sky. Or wine! Or healing,” I added slyly, glancing sidelong at Mamma, in hopes of her approval. I already wanted it as a pet, despite what Sweet Vittoria might say.

“Maybe she is a devil,” murmured my mother, and her speculation sent chills up my spine. “Maybe she has been a devil all of this time.” A strange light entered Mamma’s eyes, and she appeared as in a trance. “I let the devil inside me,” she whispered.

“Do you know what I see?” interrupted Papa. We all looked up at him then, for his next statement was to be vital: it was to seal our fate and the way we regarded the creature forever. “I see just a little girl. A little girl who happens to have swallow’s wings.”

I nodded slowly, and much to our relief, Mamma did too. Soon we all felt hungry and chattered about food.

“If I cooked us all omelets, would she eat one?”

“She probably came from an egg, Mamma, she’s not a cannibal!”

“What do swallows eat?”

“She’s not a swallow. But seeds perhaps?”

“Swallows eat the insects before the insects eat our grain,” interjected Papa wisely.

Mamma: “I could empty out the bug catcher.”

Me: “We could make her a bug sandwich.”

“Why not try people food?” reasoned Papa.

Mamma:  “Look! She’s moving!

Me:  “She’s turning over!”

Silent and in-awe speculation. Finally…

Mamma: “Is that a
tail
?”

Me:  “I think it is! I think it is!

Mamma: “My God! This is just like those two-headed babies one reads about in the paper. Or that fifteen-toed Indian child!”

Me: (beginning an enthusiastic jig) “Yeah! A freak!”

Mamma:  “I do not like this, Celso. I don’t like it at all.” And her eyes became round and wary, and as her heavy head swiveled slowly on her shoulders, fear descended over the three of us that it was going to happen all over again.

But Papa leaned over the cradle to observe the creature. The blue forked swallow’s tail, with its white underside, did not protrude from her bottom. Instead, just inches below where the scapular wing feathers met in the middle of her shoulder blades, glided the graceful tail, centered in the small of her back. The overall effect was not remotely gruesome or freakish, to my disappointment.

“Of course she has a tail,” remarked my father like it was the most natural thing in the world. “How else do you suppose she could fly?”

At that, Mamma seemed to disregard any previous doubts and launched straight into motherhood. “She’s
naked
!” she shrieked, realizing for the first time. “Oh, you useless
men
!” And Papa and I exchanged bashful glances, high color spreading over both our faces. “Where’s your decency?” she demanded, and began rummaging through my chest of drawers, pulling out a t-shirt far too small for me, which I had saved because it had frogs on it, and I dearly loved frogs.

“Not that one, Mamma, not that one,” I begged.

“Too bad!” sang my mother, and with a pair of scissors, sliced a large square in the back to accommodate the roots of the bird-girl’s three feathery appendages.

And she returned to the chest of drawers and found my rocket ship underpants, also too small yet saved for love of the print, sniffed them, and convinced of their cleanliness, brought them over to the girl. “Come here, Celso,” she commanded, “hold her up.”

My eyes widened at the spectacle of dressing this strange creature in
my
human clothes. “Close your eyes!” demanded my mother. “And go to your room!”

I sat on the bed and sulked, and came out again when I heard the sizzle of the frying pan. To my great surprise, the bird-girl was sitting upright, my frog shirt hanging down to her thighs, the healthy wing protruding easily from my mother’s hole, the wounded one hanging pitifully at her side. I could even make out the forked tail that curled around where she sat. She looked so perfectly normal, like a baby sister even, that I couldn’t help but stare. What made it stranger was that she munched heartily on buttered toast.

My mother deposited pastrami and fresh bread rolls on the table, as well as a chunk of ewe’s cheese,
pecorino
. “I wonder if Lulu is a carnivore,” muttered Mamma.

“
Lulu
?” I bellowed. 

A few hours passed and I found myself again sulking on the bed, listening to Mamma bathing the creature and speaking to it in hushed tones. Papa had gone out to the vineyard, even though it was Sunday. Stupid Mamma, I thought, with her stupid ideas. And stupid Papa too, for leaving us here alone. I’m the one that saved her. She’s
my
pet.

I felt a stab of guilt for assigning such an insult to my parents, especially my father. Then I felt foolish for feeling any ounce of guilt over my own private thoughts that I made up new ones to prove my grown-up independence of opinion to myself. Damn Mamma, was one ferocious consideration. And damn Papa too!

Suddenly I was so overcome with shame for using such a terrible curse word against them that I made up an elaborate prayer full of mournful adjectives to send to Zeus, including a vow to wash the dishes for a month in penance, and a promise never to swear about my parents again.

“Repeat after me, Lulu,” my mother was whispering, “the water is warm, it is lovely.”

Splashing but otherwise silence.

“The water is warm,” directed my mother again. “Repeat. The water is warm, it is lovely. Repeat. Repeat!”

Nothing.

Mamma sighed, and I was sorry for her.

Since she was a teenager, Mamma went to town monthly to visit Signora Silvana, the ancient fortune-teller. Since it became determined that her illness was not a phase, as supposed, but a neurological discrepancy that would last her entire life, Mamma sought the Signora for advice on all matters. There were no photographs to prove that Mamma was ever young, and I had a difficult time believing it. To me, she was always middle-aged, with a slightly stooped back and a head that hardly ever remained still – jerking from side to side – sometimes rapidly, sometimes violently with jitters, and sometimes slowly with precision, like a piano teacher’s metronome.

“Your doctors are wrong,” was the first statement Signora Silvana ever made to her, hunched over an apple crate in a dirty orange tent in an alleyway off Piazza del Popolo. Paintings of Cleopatra and Houdini hung from the tent beams, as well as a faded holographic picture of a UFO. A silk embroidered scarf covered the apple crate, and a crystal ball had been laid ceremoniously in the center of it.

“I have been in and out of specialists since I was eight,” said sixteen-year-old Mamma.

“And they are all…” Signora’s kohl-lined eyes widened for dramatic effect, “
misinformed
”.

“Misinformed?”

“Tell me the details of your condition, if you please.”

“Isn’t that your job?” queried my mother skeptically. It was her first visit after all, and she was not addicted yet. She glanced behind her to the slight figure of another teenage girl waiting beneath the awnings of the stationer’s store, wringing her hands and watching. The girl was wearing a somber black veil that covered everything but her face, and she nodded to Mamma hesitantly.
Go on,
the nod said.
Just get it over and done with.

“My dear, a fortune teller whose predictions are as accurate as mine does not associate with a wide array of spirits, oh no. I commune with one or two very close, very established beings that speak through me and only me. Unlike other two-bit circus performers, I
specialize
. And unfortunately for you,” she sniffed, “the spirit of health is simply not one I am acquainted with.” And she flipped the edges of her headscarf haughtily off her shoulder and glared at Mamma, daring her to disagree.