Interfictions (16 page)

Nico scurries out of reach. “But Mama, we need help! What should we do?"

"You'll just have to ask the Lord for help. I'm not going to clean up your messes the rest of your life. You're lucky twenty-eight of your brothers are dead, Nicollo, or I might not feel so bad about beating you senseless!"

"Giulio, Giulio! We were right! Mama says we must ask the Lord for help!” Nico runs up to the fallen stone and hugs his brother, who pushes and struggles to get away.

"Isn't that wonderful,” says Giulio, freeing himself at last and fleeing several hobbling steps down the Roman Road.

"What do you think He will do?"

"God? I think He will cause the skies to open up and rain down yearling calves on all of our heads, and the roofs of all the houses will be staved in, and we will be blamed for it. And if we are lucky, by some miracle one may fall into a pond and survive. And assuming you and I and the calf and Mama all somehow live through the winter without any food, next year by this time the calf will be grown, and all four of us will be here again plowing the field. God willing."

"Really, Giulio? That doesn't sound so good."

"No, Nico, you fool. That was a joke. Go see the nuns. Sancto and I shall meet you here when the convent bell strikes four."

Munny grape vines thread the shut gates to the Convent of Our Lady Montimbanca. The rich, red fruit hangs heavy from the iron; the hinges strain to hold them. In a corner by the high brick wall, a few of the bars have fallen away. Nico ducks through; you and I and God walk at his heels, in the guise of a pregnant goat.

We find the sisters in the sanctuary. In shadow they kneel on bare stone, repeating Hail Marys and Our Fathers in voices hoarse as fraying rope to the rhythm of clicking beads. The stained-glass window over the altar casts the only light: a fluent blue that makes the room seem like the bottom of a lake, or a bathtub. The window shows the convent's patron, Montimbanca, preaching to the prisoners; the light would be brighter but for the vines climbing the window's other side.

"Reverend Mother,” says Nico, kneeling beside her, “our cow Grazia died today. I have come to ask you and your sisters to pray God to send my family another, so that we may sow our field and grow food and survive through the winter."

"Shame on you, Nico."

Nico ducks to avoid another blow that never comes.

"Didn't you ever think God might have something more to do in this world plagued by war than worry about a single family that ought to be able to care for themselves? For seven years we have prayed God to protect this village, prayed on bruised knees with throats like parchment paper. For seven years, what good has it done? Look there, before the altar."

Through a crack in the stone floor, a white sunflower grows, indoors and without light. The goat is tempted to go over and eat it.

"He took our husbands. Every year He takes another of our sisters. Last year we brought the convent bathtub out into the garden and planted it with roses, because we realized even we, God's brides, could not resist its temptation. And in return for all our faith and pain, He gives a single flower. But do we stop praying? No. God's works are not for us to understand, let alone a poor fool such as you."

Nico hangs his head. “I'm sorry, Reverend Mother. I didn't know."

"You are a fool, Nico, so I forgive you. You're lucky, though. Had your brother come instead, I would have had to fetch my ruler."

"Yes, Reverend Mother. Thank you."

"How is our little Giulio? We wish he would visit more often."

"Oh, he is well. Though he is worried because of poor Grazia, of course. He would have come with me, only just now he has gone to the forest to ask the mad Sorcerer Sancto to raise Grazia from the dead."

Mother Concetta grabs Nico by the ear, pinches hard, and doesn't let go. “Avenging angels of heaven defend our poor benighted village from the machinations of cripples and fools! Sisters! Sisters, please! For now our prayers will have to wait. We must go forth to drive out Satan. Sister Traviata, bring my yardstick."

In the forest of Fecondita, the Sorcerer Sancto lies asleep under an apple tree. He sleeps on the bare roots in only a loincloth, his arms flung up around his head, his ankles splayed. Dried mud streaks his face. Mosquitoes swarm him by the dozens. Giulio pokes him with a stick.

"Who are you?” the Sorcerer demands, awaking. He doesn't bother to swat at the bugs. After all, God is in them, too.

"I am Giulio Parrucca, from Fecondita."

"Ah, yes,” I say, “the cripple. What are you doing here?” For yes, it is I, the Sorcerer Sancto, who write this. I did not say so before, for fear you would stop reading. It would not be the first time.

A deerfly lands on Giulio's cheek. God, who resides, if briefly, in the fly, feels the quake of Giulio's grimace. Then Giulio kills it.

"I came,” says Giulio, “because I am tired of plowing and sowing. God gave me this useless leg, so I couldn't go to war. Instead I went to the convent to learn from the nuns. Among other impractical things, they imparted to me a love of reason, a healthy dislike for religion, an irrational terror of measuring implements, and an irresistible desire never to lay eyes on another nun for as long as I live. While I was there, I couldn't think of a worse existence. Then they let me out, and I became a plowman."

"I don't see what that has to do with me,” I say.

The swallows have returned. They snap up the bugs that threaten to bite me; I help them to choose the best apples to take back to their nest.

"For three years I have sweated along with the cow,” says Giulio. “Today the cow died. Though I know God has no wish to help me, but only to torment me and keep me from death, I choose to take it as a sign—a sign I should move on. I can think of only one profession worse than both plowing a field and learning from nuns, and that is yours. I am here, Signor Sancto, to become a mad Sorcerer. If you can prove that you possess powers gifted by Satan, then I shall become your apprentice."

The Sorcerer Sancto, who is me, laughs and laughs.

The swallows, startled, flitter away, nearly dropping their apples. A damp wind rises; storm clouds are on their way, the color of cannon-powder, booming like war. The forest shakes its hundred thousand healthy limbs in Giulio's face, without meaning to mock him, but Giulio wheels on his crutch and starts to limp away.

At last I stop laughing. I go after Giulio, and laying a hand on his shoulder, I ask, “How shall I prove my evil power?"

"Bring my family's dead cow back to life, so that Nico may sow my Mama's field and grow corn, and thus they'll survive through the winter."

What use has a mad holy man such as I for a faithless apprentice? No use at all. But God's will is easier shown than explained.

Seven years ago, when the war called the sons and husbands of Fecondita away to die, Giulio, Nico and I, Cecilio Sancto, stood in line with the rest. Giulio came because he wanted to fight. He hated Fecondita, and wished for nothing more than to escape and see the world. He wished it so hard he threw away his crutch. Nico came because his brothers did. I came to see what would happen. I wasn't a Sorcerer then, not yet—just a man of small faith and strong conviction.

Except for Giulio the cripple and Nico the simpleton, the army accepted into its doomed ranks every man of Fecondita, old or young, from twelve years of age to a hundred and twenty. They would have taken me. But when the sergeant reached my place in line, I wouldn't salute. I couldn't meet his eye. Like Giulio, I wanted to see the world. But I didn't want to have to kill or die to do it.

So I ran. I ran for the forest, as fast my two whole legs could go. The men of Fecondita laughed at my back. Even Giulio called me a coward.

The sergeant drew his pistol. He fired on me, a deserter. He would have killed me. But a dying swallow fell into the bullet's path, and I survived.

The soldiers came after me. But the forest of Fecondita, where God resides in every rock and leaf, did not betray me.

Thus did I become the mad, drunken Sorcerer Sancto, lonely, sober, and sane, who hides in the forest, seeing all and doing nothing, but somehow, by my power and God's will, protecting this village from harm.

Atop the fallen stone by the Roman Road, God and a ground squirrel sit cracking acorns. A summer storm rumbles overhead. The convent bell strikes four o'clock; four ripples spread across the field.

Along the Road from the north comes Mother Concetta, clutching her yardstick, dragging Nico by the ear. Twelve sisters march after her, saying Rosaries in rhythm with their steps.

From the forest to the south I, the Sorcerer Sancto, stride with a gait that eats up three yards at every step. Giulio hobbles gasping behind.

"There he is, sisters, the Demon!” cries Mother Concetta, letting go of Nico's ear at last to cross herself. “Oh, heavenly Father, defender of cripples and fools, please in your infinite mercy see your way to striking the evil, mad, drunken Sorcerer Sancto dead!"

Around the stinking corpse of Grazia three red foxes bow their heads—not praying, no, but feasting. Their coats gleam as bright as though Signora Parrucca had brushed them five times that very morning instead of her prized black wig.

Nico, his ear still quite purple and pulsing, runs to shoo them. The twelve nuns, hiking up their habits, hurry close behind. They form a ring in the fecund earth around the cow's corpse, linking their hands, except where Mother Concetta grips her yardstick.

I arrive in my loincloth and bow to the nuns. They shout prayers to God to strike me with a holy bolt.

Giulio hobbles up on his crutch with heaving breath, berries of sweat rolling down his chest. Nico waves hello.

"This cow smells rather ripe,” I say. “Are you sure you want me to bring it to life?"

"No!” screech the nuns. “No, Giulio, don't let him! He is the servant of Satan!"

"Yes,” wheezes Giulio, sinking down beside God on the fallen stone. The squirrel bites into the acorn's bitter meat and chitters.

I withdraw a small pouch from an unsanitary place among the limited folds of my garment. I open it up, and tip out some fine yellow powder into my palm. This I sprinkle on the corpse.

"What is that powder?” Giulio asks.

"Yellow curry,” I say, “imported from Ind by my mother long ago."

"Is it magic?"

"No."

As the yellow curry settles, the dead cow's wrinkled, sagging flesh wrinkles and sags further still. Her bones crumble; her big, liquid eyes shrink away into dry dust and soon she's no more than a pile of earth. A thicket of thorns shoots up out of it, sprouting yellow roses.

"Dio mio!” the nuns exclaim, crossing themselves.

"A miracle!” cries Nico.

"What the hell good is that?” demands Giulio. “Now we'll just have to weed it again!"

"It's the best I can do,” I try to explain.

"I knew it!” Giulio shouts. “He's a fraud! I knew from the start!"

"I am not,” I protest. “I did as you asked: I brought her to life. Just not the same kind."

"You couldn't at least have made something to eat?"

"It's a matter of faith—of belief. I can only get roses.” I admit I am not the greatest Sorcerer this village has seen. After all, Aquinas himself dwelt here for a time. But I do what I must.

"Ha!” cries Mother Concetta. “You see, you nasty boy? You mess around with God and the Devil, you see what you get!” She lifts her yardstick. Nico cringes. She slaps Giulio hard on the wrist.

"Ai!” wails Giulio. “God damn it!"

"Blasphemy!” Mother Concetta whacks him again.

Giulio covers his mouth with his arm. Huge tears roll down his cheeks.

Thunder rumbles over Fecondita. The first few drops of rain come down the size of pomegranates, smashing craters into the soft, black earth. The ground squirrel clamps its teeth on its nut and scurries off home—but God waits. So shall we.

"What are all of you doing there trampling my field?” A woman wearing a squash-yellow dress and a bright purple scarf on her head comes along the Roman Road from Torino, leading a giant black bull.

"Mama!” says Nico, running to give her a hug. “We are using the Sorcerer's magic curry to bring Grazia back to life!"

"Isn't that nice, Nico? But you see, we don't need Grazia anymore.” The bull bellows greeting, nodding its blunted horns. “His name is Ferdinando. I bought him in Torino, with the money from selling my wig. So now you can all go home."

"Mama, your wig? But your wig was your favorite thing in the world!"

"I know, Nico.” She pats his head. “But we needed a bull. And besides, I am getting too old for such things."

Giulio hobbles forward, cradling his wounded wrist to his chest. “You went to Torino? But Mama, the war! You weren't killed?"

"Does it look like I was killed, Giulio, you fool? The war is over. It has been for years."

Now the skies open up. The nuns shriek and run off towards the convent, whispering hosannas for fear of drowning. The swallows flit out of their bathroom window to swing the shutters closed. Ferdinando the bull grunts and pulls at his rope. Nico tries to shield his mother with his body.

"And now, my good boys,” she announces, putting an arm around each, “I think we had better go home."

"Not yet!” I, the Sorcerer, shout, already soaking, holding my loincloth to keep it from slipping. A wrack of thunder tears the sky; the ground shudders as God protests on my behalf. “Not yet. Our bargain isn't finished, Giulio."

"And who is this?” asks Signora Parrucca.

"Mama, this is the Sorcerer Sancto."

"The Sorcerer! WHAT?” She drops the bull's rope, wrests Giulio's crutch from under his arm and advances, swinging. “Back! Back to your forest, before you get a black eye! Stay away from my boys. And quit helping my rats!"

"Moo,” says Ferdinando, and lumbers away up the oxcart path.

"Wait, Mama!” Nico cries. “He isn't evil! He works miracles. See? He made these roses grow from Grazia's corpse."

"Well, in that case—.—.—.” Signora Parrucca picks one. “How lovely! See how it matches my dress!” She tucks it behind her ear. “What's this he says about a bargain, Giulio?"