Simple Prayers (27 page)

“Help me with his clothes,” said Maria Luigi. “He's suffocating.”

They removed his garments and lifted him into the washtub, which Maria Luigi had filled with cool water; then they sponged him down until the pain subsided and he fell into a heavy sleep. When she was certain that Maria Luigi was calm, Miriam fixed them both a dish of fennel tea and some black bread and honey and then returned to the alcove to resume her prayers.

As she settled back in, with Nicolo at her breast, she struggled more fiercely than she had all week to keep her eyes open wide to the flames. The heat she'd felt in Fausto's body was terrifying; it frightened her in a way she had not expected.

A short while after she'd returned to the altar, Nicolo began to squirm in her arms; her right breast was dry, and he wanted to change to her left one. Miriam moved him to the other side, but no sooner had she done so than she shifted him back. Nicolo was unhappy. He squawked a bit and scrambled in her arms, drawing Maria Luigi to the alcove.

“Does he need something?” she asked. “It's not like him to fuss.”

“He's fine,” said Miriam. “He must feel my concern for Fausto.”

Maria Luigi nodded and returned to the other room. Nicolo continued to struggle to shift his little body, but Miriam stroked him, and slipped a finger into his mouth, and gently discouraged him from changing his position.

Nicolo was fine –– Miriam had not lied to Maria Luigi. What she did not tell her was that when she'd shifted him to the left side she'd felt a painful pressure behind the breast, in the pocket of her arm, where the faint shape of a hard, dark swelling had begun to grow.

WHEN BEPPE GUANCIO
rang the bells at
mezzogiorno
the sound thundered across the island. With Piarina felled by the storm, the
campanìl
under construction, and the spring festivities cut short by the illness of the mummer, the bells had not chimed since the last hours of dusk before the quiet of Christmas Eve. But where they were then the wild and improvised music of Piarina's longing, they were now the sober sounding of the island's fear.

Within minutes of the first peals the villagers began to gather at the new
campo
. The Vedova Scarpa, Brunetto Fucci, Siora Guarnieri, Giuseppe Navo, Silvano Rizzardello, Siora Bertinelli, Armida Barbon. They walked slowly and intently, their faces pale, their eyes ringed and hollow from lack of sleep. They carried spoons and switches and churning poles –– whatever they could grab — in the hope that they might beat back this demon should he dare to show his face. The only demons they found, however, were the dragons that glittered on the floor of the
campo
; Piero's mosaic had taken on a new, grim meaning.

Piero arrived shortly after the others — an equal pallor on his face, a handful of wild thyme clutched tightly in his fist. As he approached the gathering he could feel the terror in the air; for a moment he considered running to the docks and racing off into the lagoon. But he knew that someone had to speak to the villagers, so he walked to the center of the
campo
, stood in front of his statue of Miriam and Nicolo, and tried his best to sound calm.

“I called you here because I know you'e concerned. I know this sickness is spreading quickly. But we can't let ourselves be frightened by a few black lumps.”

“Can't we, Piero?” said the Vedova Scarpa.

“We have to keep to the facts,” he said. “Tell me who's been stricken. Tell me what you know.”

“Cunizza Scabbri's in terrible pain,” said Siora Bertinelli. “She keeps crying out that her hens’eggs are lodged in her side.”

“The twins are spitting blood,” said Silvano Rizzardello. “They have dark blotches on their bellies and they can't stop sweating.”

“Gesmundo's got a crazy fever,” said Armida Barbon. “His lumps have broke open and it's horrible what's coming out: black water, black sand, black pieces of sea scum.”

“I'e got one starting in my throat,” said Siora Guarnieri.

“I'e got it coming in my side,” said the Vedova Scarpa.

“It's the mark of the devil!” said Giuseppe Navo.

“It's the end of the world!” cried Brunetto Fucci.

Piero raised his arms in the air and waved the sprigs of thyme like an olive branch.

“You mustn't panic!” he said. “We don't know what it means yet. We have to put our faith in God.”

“God must be angry with us,” said Silvano Rizzardello.

“He's punishing us for something,” said Armida Barbon.

The people were silent for a moment — their arms hung limp at their sides, their heads sagged heavily to their chests.

“What about the girl?” came a voice from the back of the crowd. “Where's the little girl?”

The villagers turned to see who was speaking and found Orsina — her hair unpinned, her clothes in disarray, her sharp features softened by the obvious effects of fear.

“Maria Terza's got the lumps in her side. Maria Prima's feverish. And Ermenegilda's missing. She's been acting strangely for weeks now, disappearing from sunup till sundown. But the past three nights she hasn't come home at all. I have to find that little girl who can cure things.”

A percussive ripple ran through the crowd as the people softly murmured, “Piarina.”

“It's no use,” said Armida Barbon. “I went there myself as soon as Gesmundo got sick. The door's bolted shut, and no amount of knocking will bring an answer.”

“Some say the Devil's in there,” said Giuseppe Navo. “But I think she and Valentina are finally having it out.”

“If Piarina could cure this thing, she'd already have done it,” said Silvano Rizzardello. “I think her powers have gone sour, and that's why she won't come out.”

“Has anyone tried to get a physician?” asked Piero. “Perhaps there's a treatment. It could be quite simple.”

“I'e sent four servants out to bring back a surgeon,” said Orsina. “Once they row off into the lagoon they never return.”

“Maybe it's some kind of purification,” said the Vedova Scarpa. “Maybe something black and ugly inside us has to come out, and then we'l be all right again.”

“Maybe it's not a punishment,” said Siora Bertinelli. “Maybe it's a cure.”

Piero looked at the faces of the villagers and saw that if he were going to say something to soothe them, now was the moment. Their fear had relaxed. A breeze of hope had blown back across the
campo
, and a few strong words might build upon that hope. As he stood there, however — the sprigs of wild thyme hanging limp at his side, the faces of the villagers staring up at him in expectation — he realized that he had absolutely nothing to say.

“Do you think so, Piero?” asked Armida Barbon. “Do you think it's just a test of our faith?”

Piero tried to formulate a response — but before he could do so he was distracted by the sudden appearance of Maria Luigi at the far end of the
campo
. She moved slowly, with a fuguelike grace that made it seem as if she were absent from her body. Her face was expressionless, her eyes vague and emptied out; she traveled as if propelled by some mechanical, external force. When she reached the
campanìl
she bent down, gathered up a handful of small stones, and began tossing them at the height of the tower. She threw in an easy, fluid manner, only stopping, when she'd emptied her hands, to bend down, gather some more, and toss again. The villagers watched her in fascination — the intensity of her concentration calming them, the careful elegance of her movements drawing them slowly out of their fear. There was no anger in her action, no willfulness, no blood. Only the determined intention to accomplish an aim that none of them could decipher.

“Maria Luigi,” said the Vedova Scarpa, finally interrupting her, “what is it? What are you doing?”

Maria Luigi turned as if startled to find that anyone was there. “Have to — ring — the bells,” she said.

“But the meeting's already begun,” said Brunetto Fucci.

“Have to ring — the bells,” she repeated.

“But why?” said Siora Bertinelli.

Maria Luigi looked down at the stones in her hand, then back at the faces in the
campo
. “Fausto's dead,” she said. “Have to ring the bells.”

She turned back to the
campanìl
and began pelting it again. She tossed higher and higher, until she finally reached the open window of the belfry and a stone chinked lightly against the bronze. It was a tiny sound. A foolish, ineffectual sound. But it penetrated the hearts of the people of Riva di Pignoli like the sepulchral clanging of a cathedral bell tolling death.

Chapter 17

T
HE PEOPLE OF
Riva di Pignoli could no longer hope that the sickness was not serious: by nightfall Fausto's death had been followed by Gesmundo Barbon's and Anna Rizzardello's. Their pain at the end was so intense, they hurled themselves out of bed and began a frenzied dance before dropping, dead away, to the ground. The Vedova Scarpa dubbed this “Beelzebub's dance,” which the rest of the island soon adopted as the malady's name. Over half the villagers now had some sign of the sickness, which seemed to follow a distinct pattern of development: the initial feeling of heaviness in the limbs was followed by the appearance of the dark swellings; when these grew to about the size of a fist, they began to ooze blood and a brackish pus; this was followed by greenish black blotches across the arms, legs, and belly, wild fever, continuous sweating, and finally the lunatic dance that came before death. The entire process took only a matter of days, which meant that the victims had barely enough time to recover from the initial shock before the final stages were upon them.

Each villager had a different theory as to how the illness was communicated. Some said by breath, some said by touch, some said by mere proximity. Armando Guarnieri fled off into the lagoon. The Vedova Scarpa wrapped layers and layers of gauze, soaked in eglantine-and-lemon water, over her nose and mouth. Siora Bertinelli began burning everything she owned in her pastry oven.

More difficult were those villagers who insisted that someone be held to blame. That the sickness had been brought in with the mummers seemed obvious. The mummers, however, were gone — and for a handful of the villagers there was little satisfaction in hanging the responsibility on them. They needed someone who walked among them, someone they could focus their rage upon, someone whose very appearance on their island might contain the seed of this evil. And no one better fit their need than Miriam.

The group was small. It was made up, in part, of those who had never forgiven her for betraying her seeming purity: Siora Guarnieri, Ugolino Ramponi, Cherubino Lunardi. The rest were those villagers who had so little within them to face the rising horror, they let themselves be persuaded that this bright spirit they had held so high was really the Devil's messenger. It eased their anguish to have someone to blame. It allowed them to become victims, to remove the slightest possibility of responsibility from their own shoulders. So even as the dark swellings rose on their skin and the fever sapped their strength, they gathered in Maria Luigi's garden, beating soup pots and skillets, hurling stones through the window, and demanding that Miriam come out and face their wrath.

Miriam, however, was barely aware of their presence. Each of her thoughts, every particle of her being, was focused upon the candles in her alcove. At first she had concentrated her prayers upon the mummer boy, had asked that his pain be soothed, that the black marks she'd seen be healed and fade away. When she found those marks upon her own body, however, she turned her prayers to Nicolo. She believed with all her heart that if she could keep her eyes from closing, keep the candles from going out, she could fortify her baby with the strength to resist the illness. That he not be touched was all that mattered; she would not cease praying until she knew that he was safe.

As the days went by, Miriam's ability to keep the candles aflame increased — and as her ability increased, she began to light more and more of them around the alcove. Two, six, twelve, twenty; they gradually filled the tiny space with a warm and nourishing light. But on the evening of the second day after Fausto had died — the first evening after the small band of vigilantes had appeared outside her door — Miriam felt a change come over her. The tension in her back and shoulders increased. Objects that had vanished reappeared suddenly to cloud her concentration. And the nagging choir of voices outside her window, which had seemed no more than the faint buzzing of flies, suddenly made its ugly chorus clear to her.

“Pox maiden!”

“Murderess!”

“
Strega!
”

“Whore!”

Miriam felt the words against her body like tiny blows, her prayer too deep for her to recognize that a fine shower of small stones accompanied the cries. For an instant her faith wavered; the tenuous thread of concentration that had allowed her to keep the candles aflame threatened to snap. But the warmth of Nicolo in her arms, the dampness of his skin against her skin, the ultimate urgency of her need to insure that he live — all these enjoined to see her through the trial. And when the thread was reconnected, and the sounds faded away again, she received the sign she'd been waiting for: her eyes closed as a brilliant stab of pain passed through her, and the candles stayed aflame. From that moment on they remained burning whether her eyes were open or shut — and Miriam knew that no matter what either the sickness or the voices outside the window might do to her, her little boy was going to be spared.

ERMENEGILDA AND VALENTINA
learned of the illness as soon as they stepped outside the hovel. There was a frenzy in the air and a smell like rancid butter, and they each met someone who told them of the horror before they'd had time to consider the first of the items on their list.

“Have you got the marks yet?” called the Vedova Scarpa as Ermenegilda bustled past her garden.

“Is Piarina gone?” asked Armida Barbon as Valentina started up the Calle Alberi Grandi.

Both women quickly interrogated their interlopers and in a matter of seconds discovered what was happening, to whom it had happened, to whom it was about to happen, when it had begun, and how it had spread across the island. But though Ermenegilda and Valentina both recognized the fatigue and the slight tenderness in the side, neither of them was worried about what they were told. Piarina's cure now had its sickness; as long as they could locate the things she'd requested, they were certain they had nothing to fear.