Bitter Greens

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Are you thirsty?’ the old woman said, gnawing at the heel of the loaf. ‘I have fresh goat’s milk.’ She drew a ceramic jug out of her basket, uncorking it and passing it to Margherita, who drank thirstily.

  ‘So where are you off to this fine morning?’ the old woman asked.

  Margherita summoned up enough courage to tell her. ‘Limone. Can you tell me which way to go?’

  ‘Limone?’ the old woman answered. ‘The best way to Limone is by boat. If you go down to the port at Desenzano, you’ll be able to buy passage on a cargo boat.’

  ‘I have no money,’ Margherita said.

  The old woman looked troubled. ‘It’s a long hard way if you don’t have a boat. Are you sure you wish to go there?’

  ‘Yes,’ Margherita answered. ‘I must.’

  ‘There’s an old mule track over the mountains,’ the old woman said doubtfully. ‘It’s steep and rough and wild, though.’

  ‘I have to try it,’ Margherita said. ‘I don’t know what else to do.’

  ‘Can you not wait here? I live in the forest nearby and will gladly give you shelter if you need it.’

  ‘I cannot wait.’ Margherita imagined the witch and the giant stalking her through the shadowy forest, coming ever closer to her. She dared not wait a moment longer. So the old woman told Margherita the way through the mountains, though her wrinkled face was worried.

  ‘Thank you so much!’ Margherita cried.

  ‘Take it easy along the way,’ the old woman advised. ‘You don’t want to bring on the birth of your babies too soon.’

  ‘Babies?’ Margherita was amazed and frightened. ‘What do you mean?’

  The old lady pointed her spindle at Margherita’s rounded belly. ‘Did you not know? There’s a baby in there – two if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘A baby? Two babies?’ The thought filled Margherita with sudden fierce joy. Babies of her own. Hers and Lucio’s. No wonder her dress had been tight. Her desire to find Lucio grew even more urgent. She looked up at the mountains with grim determination.

  ‘I hope you find him.’ The old woman picked up her distaff and spindle and began to spin again.

  Margherita followed the faint path up, up, up, leaving the forest behind. Her legs and lungs burnt. Many small waterfalls surged out of the cliff face, running over the path and making the rock slippery. She kept her hand on the cliff face, picking her way through slowly and carefully despite her longing to find Lucio.

  Each twist of the path revealed another panorama of mountains and valleys and swift foamy rivers. Wherever the path widened out, she would rest. There were few trees, but whenever she saw one she gathered together fallen twigs and branches and stuffed them in her sack. If she wanted a hot meal, she would need a fire.

  A little after noon, Margherita came out onto a high spur of land and saw for the first time the lake spread out below her. The sight of it, dark jade green etched with silver, made her catch her breath with painful joy. She had begun to be afraid the old woman had sent her in the wrong direction, as she had been travelling away from the lake the whole way.

  It was an exhausting and difficult scramble after that, the mule track leading upwards at a sharp angle. Margherita supported her belly as best she could, filled with wonder at the thought she carried new life within her and determined to protect her babies.

  It grew colder. Snow lay in the shadow of the cliff and draped the round boulders above her. There were no longer any trees, only stubborn grasses clinging to crevices in the rocks. Margherita gathered the dry leaves for kindling, though they cut the skin of her cold numb hands.

  The path soon led her to a pulpit of stone at the very crest of the mountain, offering a sweeping view of the lake below, and snowy peaks of mountains stretching in all directions as far as she could see. The cold wind buffeted her, but she spread her arms wide, tears freezing on her cheeks. This is what an eagle would see, she thought, as it soars above the lake. I am free like the eagle!

  On she went, leaning on a broken branch. She passed a rocky crag shaped like a giant’s thumb, just as the old woman had described to her. She was on the right track.

  The afternoon was spent climbing again, though the incline was much easier now. The track wound through green valleys and up stony spurs, taking her to the top of another crest and another panoramic view of the lake. It was so cold it hurt to breathe, and her feet were numb. Margherita huddled her hands in her shawl and kept on walking.

  Every step hurt. Every breath stabbed. Again and again, she stumbled, only to catch herself and keep on going. The sharp pain in her side was like a spur, goading her on. The sun slowly set behind her, the snow on the crests of the mountains turning violet and rose. They seemed to go on forever, those mountains, soft undulating ranks of them stretching into blue infinity. Margherita began to fear she would never find her way free of them. Surely, she was lost. The old woman had said it was a day’s walk. Perhaps she had gone too slowly. Margherita began to hurry.

  By the time the moon rose, golden and misshapen as a clipped coin, Margherita had begun to realise that the sharp stabbing pains in her side were more than just a stitch. They came more rapidly, with greater intensity. Each time the pain came, she had to stop, crouching, panting, the world receding from her. Her legs trembled so much she could scarcely keep her balance.

  She stopped to rest. The pain came in a red roaring wave. Margherita could only wait for it to recede before she stumbled on, looking for somewhere she could take shelter. At last, the path rounded a bulge of stone and opened into a small protected valley between high cliffs. At the back of the valley was a shallow cave. Nearby, a spring of fresh water burbled from a cleft in the rock. Margherita knelt to drink from it. The water was icy-cold and delicious. When she tried to get up again, the world whirled about her and a sharp pang lanced through her stomach. She gasped, feeling like a kitten swept away on a floodtide.

  Eventually, the pain ebbed away. Margherita realised she had only a few moments before it came again. She staggered into the cave and quickly emptied out her sack, tossing all the kindling she had gathered into a pile. Her hands shook so much it took a few tries before she managed to strike a spark and light the messy pile of twigs and branches. Firelight began to dance all over the walls of the cave, bringing her as much comfort as warmth.

  She collected water in her pot, setting it to heat in the fire. When the water was warm, she took off all her outer garments and washed herself as best she could. She knew very little about giving birth, but she felt sure it was best to be clean.

  Pain rippled over her belly. She bent, gasping, her hands on her knees. When at last the tide of pain receded, she set herself to tear her petticoat into rough squares of linen. She would need clouts for the baby and for herself. She had only managed to rip the material in half when the pain came again, more intense than ever. She began to sob.

  ‘Mama, I need you,’ she said. The sound of her own voice steadied her, making her feel less alone. ‘I wish you were here. I wish you knew I was alive. I know you loved me. I never believed her. I mean, I tried not to believe her. Oh, Mama, I wish you were here!’

  She was afraid she might die there, alone in the wilderness.

  Pain came like a rabid dog, tossing her as helplessly as a rag doll. She crouched on the floor of the cave, feeling as if her belly was being ripped apart. A deep primal scream forced its way out of her throat. Then she felt a sudden intense relief, and a rush and slither between her legs. She reached down and eased a baby into the world. It was a boy, red-faced and red-haired, screaming and punching his tiny fists at the air. Harsh sobs racked her chest. Margherita sat back on her heels, cradling the baby to her chest. She could do nothing but weep for a while, but his insistent crying roused her and she wrapped him in one of the squares of linen, rocking him helplessly in her arms. His curls were the colour of the firelight, the colour of a new minted copper coin. His eyes were scrunched tight. He kept on screaming, high and piercing as a seagull. Memorie
s of paintings of the Madonna feeding her child came to her. She lifted the baby to her breast and awkwardly inserted her swollen nipple into his mouth. In an instant, he began to suck hungrily.

  Margherita felt a corresponding tugging deep inside her. Then her distended belly rippled with acute pain. She gasped, tears coming to her eyes. Her son made a little dissatisfied noise as she jerked. Margherita clutched him to her, sobbing, then quickly laid him down, screaming, on the pile of rags. She was only just in time. Her pain demanded her surrender. For a moment, she seemed to black out; all knowledge and sensation of the world swept away. Her body exerted itself with all its strength. She felt another child slide from her. This child was blue and silent. A little girl with damp dark curls. Margherita lifted her to her breast, but she was limp and unresponsive. Frantically, Margherita clutched her close, whispering, ‘Oh please, oh please, someone help me.’ The little girl was covered with a white scum of mucus. Margherita tried to wash her clean, rubbing the rag over her tiny body. As she grew more frantic, her movements became more urgent. ‘Please, don’t let my baby die,’ she cried and clutched the little girl to her. The baby gasped for air and began to cry. Weak with relief, Margherita wrapped her in a clean rag and brought her to her breast, then scooped up her screaming son with her other hand and tucked him next to his sister. Silence fell. Margherita sat, dazed and exhausted, gazing down at the two tiny heads nestled against her. One fiery red, the other dark as night.

  DEAD MAN’S BELLS

  Lake Garda, Italy – April to May 1600

  At last, the little ones slept.

  Margherita had just enough strength to throw some more branches on the fire, then she lay down on her cloak, drawing the heavy shawl over herself and her children. She slept.

  Just for a moment, it seemed. Then her son awoke and began to scream once more. His noise woke his sister. Margherita did her best to feed and soothe them, but her breasts were hard as rock and hot as lava, and she ached all over. Blood was still seeping from between her legs. As they suckled hungrily, she felt a familiar surge of pain in her womb. ‘No,’ she moaned. But all that came out this time were two horrible messes of bloody flesh, tied to her babies by thick, grey, twisted ropes. She waited till her babies had once again slipped into sleep, then cut the ropes and buried the messes at the back of the cave under some rocks. She bandaged the bloody stumps as best she could, sobs shaking her, and lay down again.

  The night passed in a blur. The babies woke and screamed and fed, woke and screamed and fed. It was always her son who woke first and who fed the longest. Her little girl was weak and fretful, crying more than she drank, her wails becoming weaker as the endless hours of the night crept past.

  In the dawn, Margherita dressed herself again and made a sling from her shawl to carry her babies in. She felt sick and dizzy but knew she needed help. It had been a long time since she had eaten, and although she felt no hunger she knew she must find food and warmth and shelter soon if she and the twins were to survive.

  She trudged slowly along the old mule track, the babies lulled into sleep by the motion. It was nastily cold at first, but as the sun rose higher the air warmed and she began to move more easily. Many times, she had to stop and lean against a rock; the stain of blood on her skirt was growing larger. Mid-morning, she fed her son, but she could not rouse her daughter to drink.

  Margherita saw Limone as she came over the crest of a hill in the golden hour before sunset. It lay below her, a tiny stone village, crammed between the precipitous cliffs and the deep shadowy waters of the lake. The air was sweet with the smell of lemon blossom, for all available land had been terraced and planted with lemon trees, the delicate flowers protected from the cold by high walls of stone covered with panes of glass that glowed in the sun. The stone walls were joined by wooden trellises where grapevines grew.

  The mule track had turned into a narrow cobblestone road, steep as a waterfall, set with steps at irregular intervals. Panting, with sharp pains in her legs and side, Margherita stumbled down to the port, cradling the weight of her babies in her arms. It was warm down there, the sun reflecting off the grey stone and catching sudden glints of crystal. The fishing boats were coming in, men deftly furling their red sails, casting ropes to the shore to be tied down safely, nets filled with wriggling silver fish. Women in rough brown gowns and aprons, kerchiefs tied over their hair, were filling the baskets on their hips. The setting sun dazzled on the water, hurting Margherita’s eyes, making her head ache.

  Margherita pressed her hand to her heart, sucking in deep breaths, trying to calm her anxiety. She could see no sign of Lucio, even though it seemed the entire village was crowded into the tiny square, talking and laughing. As she made her hesitant way towards the port, people turned to stare at her in surprise. Margherita shrank back. It had been so long since she was last in the midst of a crowd. The noise and the smell of them made her feel sick.

  Her heart beating uncomfortably fast, Margherita went up to the nearest woman, busy gutting and scaling fish with a wicked-looking knife. ‘I’m sorry, I’m wondering if you have seen a young man … his name is Lucio. He comes from Florence.’

  The fishwife looked surprised. ‘Do you mean Signor Lucio de’ Medici? The nephew of the Grand Duke?’

  Margherita stared at her in stunned disbelief. Lucio was a de’ Medici? The wealthiest and most powerful family in all of northern Italy? The blood drained from her face, leaving her cold and trembling.

  ‘He was here last night,’ the fishwife said. She called to the crowd. ‘Has anyone seen Signor de’ Medici today?’

  A burly fisherman looked around. ‘Ah, yes. Young de’ Medici. I saw him this morning. He set out at dawn.’

  ‘He’s gone?’ Margherita felt a sickening drop in her stomach.

  The fisherman nodded. ‘He was up bright and early, very anxious to be on his way.’

  Anguish racked her heart. She was too late; she had missed him. Where would Lucio go? Would he go back to the tower? What if La Strega was still there? She remembered La Strega’s snarling face as she had sought to throw off the silver net. The witch would seek revenge on Lucio. She would hurt him or kill him.

  She looked about her. The mountains towered all around. Her heart quailed inside her at the idea of having to climb back up that precipitous track and retrace all those cold stony miles. But the only other way was by boat, and Margherita did not know how to sail, nor did she have any money to pay for her passage.

  She gazed imploringly at the fisherman. ‘Please, will you take me in your boat? I need to … I need to find Lucio!’

  ‘The wind’s blowing the wrong way,’ the fisherman said. ‘You must sail in the morning if you wish to head south. At this time of day, the ora is blowing. It’ll take you all the way to Riva if you’re not careful.’

  ‘I don’t care! I must go after him. I must stop him! It’s a matter of life or death.’

  He looked at her as if she was mad. ‘I tell you, it’s no use. We’d have to row the whole way with the wind and the current against us.’

  She looked around at the circle of faces. Everyone was staring at her. ‘I have to find him.’

  ‘In the morning,’ the fisherman said. He put out one huge rough hand as if to seize her. Margherita jerked her arm away, a sharp jolt of dread going through her.

  ‘No need to be afraid,’ the fishwife said, stepping closer. Her knife was still in her hand, dripping blood.

  ‘No!’ Margherita cried. She spun, ready to flee, but the ground rocked beneath her, then tilted. Darkness engulfed her.

  Stars dazzled her vision. Time was fractured. Glimpses came to her: faces bending over her, people shouting at her, babies screaming. She was hot, and then cold, small and light, then huge and heavy, awake and then caught in a nightmare.

  She dreamt she was back in the tower room again. The four walls closed in on her, pressing upon her lungs. She saw herself pacing the floor, her hair catching the light of the fire. Then the pacing figure turned
and looked up, and Margherita saw she had the face of the witch. Terror froze her. She could not move or speak, or scarcely breathe.

  The witch continued to pace, her eyes filled with madness, her fists clenched. Dawn brightened the window. Faraway birds began to twitter and sing.

  ‘Margherita, let down your hair so I may climb the golden stair!’ a merry voice called from below.

  Please, no, Margherita whispered to herself.

  The witch paused mid-step. For a moment, she was still, her white face like a mask, then she picked up the long coils of golden-red hair and flung one end out the window.

  Lucio! Margherita screamed. But she made no sound. The braid jerked as someone began to climb. The witch braced herself, struggling to bear the strain.

  Margherita tried to shriek a warning to her lover climbing the braid. She tried to seize the witch and knock her down. She had no more force or substance than a ghost.

  Lucio swung his leg over the windowsill. ‘Mia bella bianca!’ he called. Seeing the still figure in white, he reached for her, only to recoil as he realised it was not Margherita who stood waiting for him but the witch La Strega.

  ‘You wish to see your dearest girl, but the pretty bird sings no longer in the nest.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Lucio cried furiously.

  ‘She’s gone. You’ll never see her again. I’ll make sure of that!’ As she spoke, La Strega dropped the braid and whipped out her dagger, lunging at him. Lucio lost his balance and fell with a scream. Down, down, he fell, tumbling head first into the thorny bushes that had sprung up from Margherita’s comb at the base of the tower. The branches caught him, saving him from being dashed against the rocks, but when he lifted his head, groaning, blood was trickling from his eyes.