The Oracle of Cumae

by Melissa Hardy

  “Yes, my friend,” said Papa. “I’d have to say that this splendid panorama is one of my most prized possessions.”

  “Don’t forget your family!” Cesare reminded him. “You have a very fine family.”

  “That I do, Signor! That I do!”

  “And your lovely daughters…I hope you don’t mind my asking. Are they by any chance spoken for?”

  Papa laughed. “Not as yet, Signor. Plenty of time for that. They are young still.”

  “But not too young?”

  My father considered the question. “I suppose not. My beautiful Esperanza was Mariuccia’s age when we met and Concetta’s when we wed.”

  “Ah, yes, well!” said Cesare. “Which brings me to my point.” Steeling himself, he mopped his brow once again, took a deep breath, advised his stomach to postpone its acrobatics for at least a while, and turned so that he was facing Papa straight on. “Signor Umbellino, do I have your full attention?”

  “Indeed you do!”

  “Because I must confess that I was quite struck, the last time I was here, by the beauty of your daughter. So struck—” Cesare could contain himself no longer. The words came out all in a rush. “Well…so struck that I wish to ask for her hand in marriage.”

  My father feigned astonishment. “I don’t know what to say! Excuse me, Signor, but you have taken me by surprise!”

  “I hope you do not think me too bold,” Cesare pleaded, fearful that Papa might decline his request. After all, who could tell what such a rough fellow might do?

  “You must give me a moment to consider your request,” Papa informed him gravely. “In the meantime, I could do with another drink. How about you?”

  “Please!” replied Cesare, though his stomach was pitching like a ship on a high sea.

  My father poured both of them another glass of mistà and the two men drank in silence, Papa gazing down at the valley with an expression so deliberately inscrutable that, try though he might, the Prior found it impossible to read. In truth, of course, my father was cagily biding his time for effect.

  Finally Cesare, unable to bear the uncertainty any longer, blurted out, “I know that I am somewhat older than your daughter and that I live at a very great distance, but I am a wealthy man, Signor, an important person. Your daughter would be well provided for, and you would be welcome in my home at any time.”

  “I do not doubt it,” my father said evenly, noting with satisfaction that the Prior was drenched with sweat and vibrating like a tuning fork. However, reasoning that it is one thing to string a suitor along and another to frighten him to death before the knot is tied, he decided to put poor Cesare out of his misery. “And you would make sure that I was well supplied with cigars of this caliber? For I have to say, this is the finest cigar it has ever been my privilege to smoke.”

  “Of course!” the Prior assured him. “That goes without saying!”

  “All right, Signor,” my father agreed. “You have my permission to marry my daughter. And now I propose that we join the rest of the family and convey to them our happy news.”

  We were just finishing up the dishes when the two men wobbled back, looking markedly less steady on their feet than when they had retired three quarters of an hour before.

  “Ladies. Your attention, please! You, too, my sons! Gather ’round! I have an important and happy announcement to make.” Papa was beaming; we took this as a sign that the desired outcome had been achieved. While the boys crowded in around Mama, Concetta and she exchanged a joyous and triumphant look. Disgusted, I could not repress a snort, but in all the commotion my small expression of contempt went unnoticed.

  “A most unexpected development, but none the less welcome for being a surprise, as I’m sure you will agree! As fortune would have it, our illustrious visitor, Signor Bacigalupo from the excellent and most cosmopolitan city of Casteldurante wishes to honor us by more than his presence here today. To make a long story short, he has asked for the hand of our little Concetta in marriage.”

  Concetta let out a tiny cry of excitement. Forgetting our quarrel, she threw her arms around me and squeezed me so tight I thought she’d break all my ribs. In the meantime, the boys were bouncing up and down and yelping like a pack of dogs at dinner time.

  All was not well, however.

  “No, no, Signor Umbellino!” Cesare stammered. “You’ve got it wrong! It’s not Concetta I wish to marry. It’s—” He turned and looked first at Concetta, then, to my utter horror, at me. It was clear that he couldn’t remember my name. “It’s that one!” he cried and pointed straight at me.

  My father was dumfounded. “Mariuccia?”

  “Mariuccia? What in Heaven’s…?” Mama turned to my father. “Did he say Mariuccia?”

  “Mariuccia?” cried Concetta. Bursting into noisy tears, she threw her apron up over her face and fled, wailing, in the direction of the olive grove.

  Cesare, seeming not to notice the distress his choice of bride had caused, dropped to one knee before me and exclaimed, “Mariuccia Umbellino, will you marry me?” Fumbling in his pocket, he retrieved the box containing his mother’s engagement ring, opened it, and thrust it toward me.

  There was a moment of stunned silence as we stood gawking at the ring. It was the most beautiful and rare thing any of us had ever seen. Even the boys went quiet as Cesare removed it from its box and reached for my hand, clearly intending to slip it onto my stubby finger. Jolted out of my temporary reverie by this realization, I snatched my hand away. “No, Signor! Not me! I wouldn’t marry you for the all the diamonds in the world!” Catching up my skirts, I fled in the same direction as my sister.

  My father looked at my mother, aghast.

  She shook her head. “I…I’d better talk to her…them,” she said and took off after us.

  By the time Mama arrived at the grove, I had taken cover behind the press to avoid being hit by the fistfuls of unripe olives Concetta was hurling at me between accusations. Unripe olives are as hard as buckshot. “He’s my suitor!” she shouted now. “You stole his heart on purpose!”

  “I did no such thing! I don’t even like him! Stop that! Ouch! Concetta!”

  “Girls! Girls!” Mama implored us.

  Concetta wheeled around to face Mama, her hair wild and her face streaked with tears. “Mariuccia stole my suitor! How did she do it? She must be a witch!”

  “It’s not your sister’s fault.” Mama put her arm around Concetta and, drawing her close, attempted to smooth her tangled hair. “It’s just that…well, there’s been some sort of error.”

  “I’ll say!” I declared, standing up and examining my arms. “Just look what you’ve done! I’m all bruised!”

  But Concetta’s eyes had narrowed. “What do you mean, error?” she demanded of our mother.

  Mama looked flustered. “Stay here. And, Concetta, don’t throw things at your sister! I’ve got to check something with Milady. You’re not to worry, girls. Everything will be all right.” With that, she turned and hurried back toward the house.

  “What was that about?” Concetta asked. “And what would Lady Sibylla have to do with it?”

  “How would I know?” I plopped myself down on the stone wall. “A pretty sight you are! Sit down.” Concetta sat beside me and allowed me to wipe her face with my apron. Despite everything, we were sisters. We fought, but we always made up and we did love one another, just not all the time. “There,” I said. “You don’t look so crazy now.”

  “What’s Mama doing?” she fretted.

  “How should I know?” I examined my upper arms, peppered with small round bruises from the rock-hard olives.

  “Mariuccia?”

  “What?”

  “I need to know. You won’t marry him, will you?” She looked so stricken. It was like I might look if one of the goats had died.

  I snorted. “Me? Never! I’d rather b
e dead and in my grave than to marry that ridiculous man!” In light of her evident distress, I added, “No offense.” Then, “To tell you the truth, I can’t think of a man I would want to marry. Maybe I won’t marry at all. Maybe I’ll just stay on here and take care of the goats when Mama gets too old.”

  “Don’t be crazy,” Concetta said. “Every girl wants to get married.”

  “Not me.”

  Mama emerged from the house; she was clutching something to her breast. “What’s she holding, anyway?” I asked.

  Concetta squinted. “It’s Milady’s jug!”

  Suddenly filled with apprehension, I stood. “You don’t think…”

  “That those two have been up to something?”

  “To magic?”

  Concetta stomped her foot. “She wouldn’t dare!”

  I wasn’t so sure. “You know how she is.”

  Mama had been known to dabble in magic—with disastrous effects. There had been that time that she had tried to resurrect her favorite nanny goat and its indignant ghost had haunted the upper pasture for the better part of a year, causing the rest of the herd’s milk to dry up. Or the time she conjured up a rainstorm, and it rained for three solid weeks, and all the goats got hoof rot.

  When she was close enough to see, I gestured toward the jug and mouthed the words, “What is she doing here?”

  “You know that I can see you perfectly well, Mariuccia,” said the Oracle tartly. “Don’t ask me how. So there’s no use trying to go behind my back because I haven’t any.”

  “What have you been up to, Mama?” Concetta demanded.

  “That’s no way to speak to your mother!” the Sibyl scolded her. “She was acting on your behalf—so that you would have what you desired.”

  Concetta ignored her. “What did you do, Mama?”

  Our mother sat on the wall, the jug nestled in her lap. “Just a little spell,” she said sheepishly. “A little…you know…binding spell.”

  “Binding spell?” cried Concetta.

  “You mean a love spell?” I demanded.

  “Just a teensy one…to ensure that Signor Bacigalupo would not forget Concetta once he returned to Casteldurante. What do you think went wrong, Milady?” she addressed the jug. “Do you think I might have mispronounced the Etruscan part?”

  “No, no,” replied the Oracle. “If that were the case, the spell would never work. Nobody knows how to pronounce Etruscan and they haven’t for a thousand years. And, honestly, Esperanza, I swear by that spell. If done properly, it works every time.”

  “This is your spell?” I asked the Oracle.

  Before she could answer, Concetta burst into angry tears. “What? Am I not pretty enough? Am I not a good enough cook? What makes you think I need magic to help me get a husband?”

  “Concetta!” Mama warned her, glancing at the jug. “Manners! There’s been some mistake, that’s all, and we’re going to remedy it. Aren’t we, Milady?”

  Concetta stamped her foot. “Mistake? How can you say that? You made him fall in love with Mariuccia, not me—and she doesn’t even like him!”

  “First things first,” said Milady. “Let’s start with the hair. That is the most important ingredient.”

  “Hair? What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “For a binding spell you need six hairs,” the Oracle replied. “Three from the man and three from the woman.”

  “I cut a lock of the Prior’s head the night of his arrival,” Mama remembered. “Concetta’s I took from her hairbrush.”

  Concetta and I realized immediately what had happened. She let out an anguished howl.

  “What? What is it?” Mama cried.

  Concetta pointed her finger at me and cried, “It’s all Mari’s fault! She’s forever stealing my hairbrush and when I tell you and Papa about it, you never punish her and now…now she’s stolen my suitor.” Clearly our temporary truce was over. She hurled herself at me, toppling me off the wall and onto the ground.

  Mama wrapped her arms tightly around the jug, twisted to one side and hunched over it so as to protect it from our flailing arms and legs. “Girls! Girls!” she cried.

  “Such a display of temper as I have rarely seen in all my thousand years,” huffed the Oracle indignantly. “So unladylike! Continue carrying on this way, Concetta, and I shan’t lift a finger to reverse the situation. Metaphorically speaking.”

  “How?” Concetta wailed. “How can you reverse the situation?”

  “Think about it,” Sibylla replied. “The spell clearly worked. The Prior wasn’t the least interested in Mariuccia before; now he can’t take his eyes off her. So now we just have to repeat the spell using your hair this time. Stop your wailing and give your mother a few strands of your hair. From your head this time.”

  Concetta fumed, but did as she was told.

  “Now, for the Prior,” said Mama. She rose, cradling the jug carefully, and made her way back to the house, followed by Concetta and, at a safe distance, me. Stopping before the door, she turned and whispered, “If I know your father`s mistà, we should be able to pluck a few hairs from Signor Bacigalupo’s head without his being any the wiser.” She pushed open the door and we peeked in.

  Cesare sat slumped in his chair, snoring untidily, his mouth ajar, his left cheek flattened against the tabletop. Opposite him sat Papa, also slumped, chin on his chest and a faraway look in his eyes. It was impossible to say whether he was asleep or just in a stupor. A ribbon of drool dangled from one side of his mouth.

  Mama laid a finger over her lips, handed me the Oracle’s jug, and tiptoed into the house. She retrieved a three-legged stool from the corner, set it down in front of the door, climbed up on it, and reaching over her head, retrieved a pair of scissors from the nail on which they hung. Scissors hung over a door ward off the Evil Eye and keep any potential curses that might come in from outside at bay. Mama stepped off the stool, crept over to the Prior and carefully clipped a lock of hair from the back of his head. This she tucked into her apron pocket, smiling in our direction as she did and mouthing the words, “See? It’s going to be all right! I promise!”

  “It’d better be!” Concetta muttered to me under her breath. “Or you are going to be in such trouble!”

  Of course, in order to work the spell had to be cast on a Friday, and Cesare had arrived in Montemonaco on a Wednesday. For that reason, the rest of us made ourselves scarce the following morning so that my father could speak privately with my would-be suitor.

  “When I agreed to your proposal, it was my understanding that it was Concetta whose hand you sought in marriage,” he told Cesare. “My wife and I believe that Mariuccia is too young to marry. Therefore, if you want her, you must wait until she is sixteen.”

  Cesare appeared crestfallen. “That is hard news. However, wait for her I shall, for I love her to distraction, though I can’t think why.”

  To which Papa replied, “If, on the other hand, you do not wish to wait, you are most welcome to have the hand of our dear little Concetta, who, if I may be so bold as to point out, is of an age to marry, far prettier than Mariuccia, and perhaps more to the point, actually seems to like you.”

  Cesare sighed. “My love clearly despises me, whereas I…I adore each and every hair on her head, unkempt though they may be.”

  And with that my forlorn suitor and his diamond ring started the long journey back to Casteldurante.

  The second spell worked. Well, of course it did. Scarcely a fortnight had passed before my ragtag tangle of brothers espied the Prior’s sorry and somewhat bedraggled self once again trudging up the road from Montemonaco, all sweaty and panting. My sister’s less than stalwart suitor was clearly unused to so much exercise.

  This time it was Concetta before whom he dropped to one knee, Concetta onto whose slender finger he slid the heirloom diamond ring. He made a point of paying little hee
d to me and once I even overheard him tell Papa and Mama that he could not fathom what had come over him to mistake the object of his fervent desire for her little sister, still so clearly a child and a grubby one at that. Grubby! When he thought no one was looking, however, he would steal furtive and, what seemed to me, longing glances in my direction. I found this all very creepy and kept my distance. I wanted nothing to do with Signor Cesare Bacigalupo and made sure he knew it. This made him, I think, a little sad. At least in light of all that followed, I like to think that it did.

  Because of all the confusion over which of their two daughters the Prior would marry and fearful that the Prior might relapse into wanting me—a first spell always being stronger than a subsequent one—Mama and Papa thought it best that the wedding take place as soon as decently possible, that is to say as soon as the banns were read—or, given Padre Antonio’s illiteracy, as soon as they were improvised the requisite number of times, which was to say on three successive Sundays. Cesare was sent on his way with instructions to return on the Saturday before the third Sunday, when the wedding would take place, the general consensus being that Sundays were the luckiest day of the week on which to marry, based on what, I have no idea.

  Montemonaco was small and remote; of necessity, cousins of varying degrees married other cousins with whom they had probably been playmates. If they were lucky, like my parents, they got along and maybe even grew to love one another over time. Many were betrothed in childhood, which gave them years to adjust to what was going to be their lot in life. Marriages of convenience were the norm; love matches, rare.