Pasquale, in the meantime, had ventured nearer to the grotto’s entrance, and squatting down, peered inside. “Must be a pretty small witch.”
“When it comes to witches,” Padre Eusebio assured him, “size is of absolutely no consequence!”
The Prior took charge. “All right!” he announced, rubbing his big hands together. “The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can head back. You, Pasquale and Pio, pour the gunpowder like so.” Using the tip of his walking stick, he described a semicircle in the dirt in front of the grotto’s entrance.
Pio extracted two horns of gunpowder from the donkey’s saddlebags and handed one to Pasquale. “Remember: we don’t want to use it all,” he told his son. “Save some for the fuse. I’ll start at this end, you at that. We’ll meet in the middle.”
When they had finished this task, Pio took Pasquale’s powder horn from him and combined its contents with those of his own horn. “Fetch the straw.” While he trailed a thin line of powder away from the cave toward the perimeter of the clearing, Pasquale fetched a small bundle of straw from behind the saddle and, following along behind his father, strewed the hay alongside the trail of gunpowder. When this was done to Pio’s satisfaction, he turned to the Prior. “Ready.”
The Prior then turned to the priest. “Ready, Father.”
Eusebio stopped fanning himself and stared incredulously at Bacigalupo. “Surely I pray after we’ve blown up the cave!”
“No,” the Prior corrected him. “The Pope’s instructions were for you to pray before.”
“After!”
“Before!”
The priest glanced fearfully at the entrance to the grotto and hissed, “But what if the witch flies out on her broomstick and attacks me?”
“You’ve got St. Alphonsus’s toe!”
“A lot of good that will do me! What am I supposed to do? Beat her off with it?”
Carmine and Emilio began to titter. Papa shushed them.
“I think Father Eusebio has a point,” Pio interjected. “Better pray afterward, once we’ve bottled her up.”
“Oh, all right!” the Prior conceded. “I suppose it doesn’t make that much difference. Now, take cover, everyone, and remember to cover your mouths and noses with your handkerchiefs.”
At this, Pio took the donkey’s bridle and half-led, half-yanked her behind a cluster of large boulders, while Pasquale helped Padre Eusebio to his feet and steered him by one bony elbow to another group of boulders. All three removed handkerchiefs from their pockets and covered their mouths and noses with them while Papa, by a series of gestures culminating in his pulling his shirt over his head, indicated to my brothers that they should do the same. I covered my face with my apron.
As for the Prior, he removed a flint from the pocket of his lederhosen with a flourish and, turning in the direction of the grotto, addressed these words to its entrance, “As Prior of the Confraternity of the Good Death and emissary of His Holiness Pope Pius VII, I, Cesare Girolamo Bacigalupo, hereby send a message to Sibylla, so-called Queen of the Witches. Your reign here has ended!”
He knelt and, wiping the sweat from his brow with his big red handkerchief one last time, struck the flint. It took several tries for the flame to catch. When it did, Bacigalupo leapt to his feet, lingered for a moment to ensure that the modest fire would not flicker out halfway down the wick. Then he turned and scuttled for cover.
Carmine, Emilio, and Rinardo elbowed each other, smirking. “He runs like a girl!”
“Rispetto!” Papa shook his head. “That is your future brother-in-law, if your mother gets her way.”
“Huh?”
“What?”
“Shhhh!”
After what seemed like a rather long time, but was probably only two or three minutes, the flame licked and crackled its way up to the semicircle of gunpowder strewn before the cave’s entrance. It caught and detonated with a boom so loud that for several minutes no one could hear anything at all. Rocks flew every which way. Boulders rumbled down the mountain, landing in front of the grotto’s entrance and blocking it, and pebbles shot through the air like shrapnel. The explosion kicked up a yellow boil of acrid-smelling dust that took a few minutes to settle and made the eyes of all those in the vicinity smart and their nostrils burn and set off a chorus of sneezing and coughing. When it finally settled, everyone present could see that the blast had succeeded in its mission—the entrance to the grotto was no longer visible. It was completely blocked off by fallen rock. In fact, it looked as though the explosion had pulled down half the mountain.
In his hiding place, Papa shook his head. “Not good!”
“What do you mean, Papa?” Rinardo whispered. “It was fantastic!”
“You won’t think it’s so fantastic when we have to dig it out. Che schifo! Black gunpowder! Who would have known? Our poor padrona! Has she even survived such an avalanche?” That was when I knew for sure that Mama had not told Papa of our escapade the night before; that he was unaware that Sibylla was safe in her jug back at our farm.
Down below in the clearing, Pasquale cried, “Ah, for sure she was a witch and we have blown up the gateway to Hell! If that’s not the devil’s stink filling my nose, I don’t know what is!”
“That’s the sulfur in the gunpowder,” Pio pointed out.
“No putting it off any longer, Padre,” the Prior Bacigalupo told the priest. “Pio, get Father’s implements.”
Opening the donkey’s saddlebag, Pio extracted a large, oiled leather wallet and rooted through the ceremonial vestments, bone scrolls, rosaries, and prayer candles until he found a gilded vial of holy water, a small ivory salt box, and a white, fringed scarf or stola. He handed the vial and salt box to the priest and draped the stola around the old man’s stooped shoulders.
Clearing his throat, Eusebio hobbled out into the clearing in front of the pile of rubble and began to pray at breakneck speed: “Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immeunde, in nomine Dei et in nomine Jesus Christi, Filii eius, Domini et Judicis nostri, et in virtute Spirtus Sancti…”
Every few seconds, he glanced fearfully in the direction of the blocked entrance, as though he expected the Sibyl to burst through the rocks. As he mentioned each person of the Trinity, he made the sign of the cross, as did the rest of the party.
“Holy water!” Eusebio instructed Pio, who handed him the gilt vial. Eusebio unsealed it, tottered painfully over to the pile of rocks, flung its contents in the general direction of the sealed-up cave mouth, and then scurried back.
“Now the salt,” he instructed Pio, who handed him the salt box. Opening it, Eusebio stood with his back to the cave’s entrance and tossed a pinch of salt over his left shoulder. “Devil, be gone!” he instructed Satan and then glanced around at the rest of the party. “There! Satisfied? The witch is officially banished. If we leave now, we can make the Umbellino farm by lunchtime. And, just so you know, I’m planning to take a very long siesta this afternoon. I am too old for such goings on!”
We arrived back at the farm shortly after midday and about a half an hour in advance of the Castelduranteans. My brothers were hot and dusty, but exuberant and Papa only slightly less enthusiastic over the destruction we had witnessed. My own feelings were mixed. On the one hand, I lamented the ruin of what had for so many centuries been a holy place; on the other, I had just witnessed annihilation on a scale I had not hitherto known possible and, human nature being what it is, I found it hard not to be in some dark and unspeakable way thrilled by it.
“The explosion was terrific!” Papa told Mama and Concetta. “What a noise!” He clapped his hands. “Like that. Only much, much louder. And rocks everywhere. Flying through the air.”
“You should have seen it, Mama!” Rinardo tugged at Mama’s sleeve. “Such a ka-boom as you can’t imagine! My ears are still ringing!”
“Ka-boom! Ka-boom!” Carmine and Emilio cried in un
ison and rushed about flailing their skinny arms in the air.
“All of you calm down!” Mama warned. “Remember, you’re supposed to have been here all along. If you let on that you saw that explosion, I will cut off your ears and cook them in a stew! Mariuccia, change your apron. You look like you’ve been rolled downhill. You’re covered with dust.”
“And the fat Prior! You should have seen how he dived for cover!” Rinardo cried. Immediately Emilio and Carmine launched themselves through the air and, hitting the ground, rolled over and over again, giddy with excitement and choking with laughter.
“He is not fat!” Concetta cried, red-faced.
“He is so!”
“Get out of here if you can’t be quiet!” Mama cried. “You are driving me crazy! Concetta, go and set the table for lunch.”
Concetta stomped off indignantly in the direction of the olive grove, while the boys—who were like puppies really—clambered to their feet and ran, screeching and hooting and tumbling over one another, in the direction of the cowshed, leaving my parents and me alone in the yard.
“How badly damaged is the grotto?” Mama asked.
Papa shook his head and made a sucking sound with his teeth. “It is much worse than I could have imagined. This black gunpowder—truly it is the devil’s own snuff!”
“Still, you can dig it out?”
“Of course! It will take time, that’s all, and many hands. But I must tell you, Esperanza…” he took Mama’s hand in both of his rough ones, “the Lady Sibylla…well, I can’t see how she could have survived, immortal or not. The top of the mountain crashed into the grotto. The falling rock…surely it has crushed her.”
Mama bit her lip and cast her eyes to one side, evidently considering the matter for a moment before yielding to sore temptation. My mother had many virtues; circumspection was not among them. “Can you keep a secret?” she began.
“Mama!” I objected. First Concetta, now Papa? Who next? The boys? If that were to be the case, we might as well shout the secret of Sibylla’s salvation from the roof top!
Papa was honest to a fault. “That depends on how much mistà I have consumed,” he replied.
“Come with me.” Mama took him by the elbow and steered him into the house. I followed on their heels. She came to a halt before the old oak cabinet and opened its door. “What do you see before you?”
Papa squinted at the contents of the cabinet. “Herbs,” he said. Then, “Your mother’s Book of Shadows.” He placed the palms of his hands on his haunches and leaned forward to have a closer look. He straightened up and pointed to the jug. “This jug here. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before!”
I groaned, but there was no stopping Mama now. She cleared her throat and addressed the jar. “Lady Sibylla, it gives me great honor to introduce you to my husband. Umberto, meet the Oracle of Cumae!”
After introductions were made, Mama removed the Book of Shadows from the shelf and handed it to me. “Take this to my room, Mariuccia,” she instructed me. “And while you’re at it, bring me your sister’s hairbrush and leave it on my bed.”
“Why me?” I objected. “It’s her stupid hairbrush!”
“You heard me! Just do it!”
Disgruntled, I clambered up to our loft, seized Concetta’s brush, and gave my own hair a vigorous brushing before descending the ladder and putting it with the Book of Shadows on my parents’ bed. After all, my hair was probably full of yellow dust from the explosion and it wasn’t as if I had my own brush.
The party from Casteldurante arrived at the farm half an hour later. The Prior, doubtless imagining himself a modern-day Crusader Knight, appeared enormously pleased with himself. He strode well in advance of his party, humming “Ave Maria” and brandishing his Alpine walking stick as though it were a pike, his chest thrust out like a pigeon and his chin held high. It was difficult not to notice how thick his waist was and how spindly his bare, hairy legs.
The remainder of his party, however, seemed distinctly fractious. Apparently Padre Eusebio had complained incessantly of headache since their departure from the grotto, while the sound of the explosion had so stupefied the donkey that she was quite beside herself. Pasquale and Pio had been compelled to take turns dragging her the entire way from the Gola to the farm. The balking of the donkey jolted the priest, which, in turn, made his headache worse, causing him to complain all the more vehemently.
“Help me off! Help me off!” Padre Eusebio bleated as soon as they reached the yard. He stretched his arms out like a child who wishes to be carried. Pasquale took one arm and Pio seized the other and, their patience with the old man exhausted, swung him off the donkey so unceremoniously that the priest landed on his troublesome feet with a jolt. He stood there for a moment, wobbling and clutching his forehead in his hands, until he had regained his balance. “I feel as though someone has driven an ice pick through my forehead!” he declared.
Mama took him by the arm. “Never mind, Padre! We have made you a beautiful lunch—a baked pasta such as you will never find in all the Marches—and, as for that poor head of yours, we shall stuff some mugwort up your nose. That will cure any headache.”
“Really?” Padre Eusebio brightened. “Mugwort, you say?”
Mama turned to Concetta. “Fetch me some mugwort from the cabinet. Everyone else—there is a table laid for us in the olive grove.”
As the Castelduranteans trooped off after Mama in the direction of the grove, Concetta whispered to me. “I can’t open the cabinet…not with her in there! You do it!”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re the brave one!”
“I may be brave, but I’m not stupid!”
Emilio, as it turned out, had been listening in. “Since when are you two afraid of a silly cabinet? I’ll go get the mugwort.”
“No!” I cried.
“Stop!” cried Concetta.
But Emilio was already racing for the house. I picked up my skirts and dashed after him, catching him by the arm halfway across the main room and yanking him backwards and off balance.
“What? What? You’re hurting me!” Emilio protested. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing! Just that it’s important to get the right herb—the wrong one and you could kill the old priest. There’s wolfbane in there and foxglove.”
“I know what mugwort looks like the same as you!” Emilio wrenched his arm free.
“Who is that?” A voice, crackled with age, warbled out of the closed cabinet. “I hear a little boy!”
I panicked. “Sssshhh!”
“Who is that shushing me?” Sibylla sounded cross.
Releasing Emilio’s arm, I sagged into a chair and pressed a hand to my forehead. “It’s Mariuccia.”
By this time Emilio’s eyes had grown so wide that they were straining at their sockets. “Who are you talking to? Is it…Nonna!”
When my grandmother had died seven years before, Papa couldn’t bring himself to accept that his beloved mother had passed. Everyone knows that in the period immediately following a death, the spirit of the departed is in a state of terrible shock—dazed, confused, and quite literally beside itself. Death forces us to undertake a journey that will lead us far, far away from the life we have always known and, understandably, we yearn to stay where we are, with the people we love. Unfortunately, because of the way the universe is ordered, this is not practical, which is why a funeral procession to the cemetery at Montemonaco always stops and starts and makes frequent random turns and twists—to confuse the ghost. As for the journey back from the graveyard, the mourners always take a completely different route despite the fact that this new route takes them out of their way and is longer. This throws the ghost off course, leaving it with no option but to go toward its rightful destination. Montemonaci also knew that, after a certain point, it’s ill-advised to wail and lament since a soul might f
eel the need to come back and console those whom it has left behind should it hear them weeping and keening.
And that is precisely what happened in the case of our nonna and our father.
Despite everyone’s dire warnings, Papa shrieked and wailed and could not be comforted. As a result, Nonna’s ghost remained in the environs for the better part of two years, throwing pots and pans, breaking the crockery, slamming doors in the middle of the night, and rearranging furniture. In time she dissipated, dissolving little by little until one day she was utterly gone, but the period had gone down in our family’s history as a very difficult time indeed. Emilio had been a toddler when she died; he could not recall the time during which the house had been haunted, but he had heard the stories.
“Who does he think I am?” the Sibyl asked me.
“Our nonna Umbellino,” I replied.
“Your nonna? Are you talking about Lucia Umbellino? A most difficult woman. I knew her well.” Then, to Emilio, “I am not your grandmother, young man. I am nobody’s grandmother, just as I am no man’s wife or no child’s mother. I am a speaking virgin.”
Emilio’s jaw dropped. “Are you the…the Virgin Mary?”
“Heavens no! What an idea!”
“It’s the Lady Sibylla,” I explained.
“The Lady Sibylla?” Emilio was astonished. “If that don’t beat all! You weren’t blown up then?”
“Mama and I rescued her,” I explained. “Last night after everyone had gone to bed.”
“Wait until I tell the others!”
“No, Emilio, wait! No, Emilio, you can’t tell—”
But he had already managed to catapult himself across the room and out the door. I leapt to my feet and had just started after him when Sibylla cut me short. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
The Oracle of Cumae Page 5
