Falcon in the Glass

by Susan Fletcher

  But a small peck, peck, peck of worry niggled at the back of his mind. Something he should remember; something he ought to do . . .

  “Renzo, hold out your cup!” The padrone motioned to a serving maid to pour him more. Renzo drank.

  In a while Sergio rose from the table and made the rounds, laughing with young men at other tables, teasing the serving maids. And soon Ettore rose as well. Renzo made to do the same — but when he did, he discovered that the room was spinning. The rich food, which had felt so good going down, now churned in his belly — hot and bubbly and sour. He lurched into the table, making the drinking cups teeter. Luca took his arm to help him balance. “Shall I fetch a boy to help you home?”

  Only women, invalids, and children would need such help. A man could walk home by himself. Renzo shook his head, thanked Luca, and staggered out the door.

  Again something pricked at his mind, something troublesome. But the difficulty of setting one foot squarely before the other on the narrow path beside the canal pushed every other worry aside. What an irony it would be, Renzo thought, if the future legendary glassmaker were to fall into the dark water and drown on the very day when his career had begun!

  21.

  Lion’s Mouth

  By the time Sergio reached the island of Venice, the bitter-cold wind had sliced through the layers of linen and wool in which he’d wrapped himself. He had no sensation whatsoever in his ears and nose; likewise, his toes had gone numb.

  And yet the chill did not penetrate to his heart. The rage still smoldered there.

  Renzo!

  Sergio nosed his little boat into the mouth of the dark canal. At once the wind died down. The water grew smooth, almost glassy. He unbent his shoulders and stood up straight, glad to find respite from the squalls and lurching waves of the open lagoon.

  For the thousandth time he wondered where Renzo had picked up that little trick, the trick with the falcon. From his father, as he had claimed?

  Doubtful.

  For that morning Sergio had seen the very bird. Or a real one exactly like it, a little kestrel. He had caught sight of the children who had tamed it — or enchanted it. Slipping through the glassworks. Disappearing down the alley behind the storeroom, with four or five birds flying behind.

  He had come to watch Renzo, to see if he was likely to pass the test — and had found more than he could have hoped for.

  Now Sergio nudged his boat into a canal to his right, paddled a little way, then turned left into another. He knew his way through the labyrinth; he had come here many times. Though glassworkers were not supposed to leave Murano, he and his friends often visited the city of Venice after dark.

  For pleasure.

  Not like tonight.

  Tonight was for revenge.

  Ripples splashed against the stone walls. High above, candlelight glimmered from a row of tall Moorish windows, lending the black water an iridescent sheen, like the feathers of a raven.

  Yes, those children must have had something to do with Renzo’s glass falcon. Though, whether they were truly witches — as rumor had it — Sergio did not know. He had watched Renzo carefully and seen nothing of conjury about the crafting of the falcon. It was a trick, that was all — a series of fairly easy steps done quickly and put together in an unlikely way. But it came out so birdlike, so like that kestrel. The children must have helped, someway.

  As Sergio neared the Grand Canal, the houses flowed close to either side, looming larger, more ornate, more perforated with light. Sergio rowed through their rippling reflections, stewing.

  He had told his father about Renzo and the children. He had shown him the feather as proof, but his father hadn’t cared. He had humiliated Sergio before the others; he had advanced Renzo despite his ignorance of the craft; he had taken Renzo under his wing as if he were his son.

  If his father didn’t object to Renzo’s associating with witches . . . Well, others would.

  Sergio tied up his boat and carefully stepped up onto the dock. Ragged clouds blew across the full moon. The bell of the campanile tolled the hour past midnight, a great, deep, booming bong.

  Sergio rolled his aching shoulders, then set off down a narrow street.

  How many times, he wondered, had he been forced to lift his cup?

  To the apprentice!

  To the first of many!

  Pah!

  Sergio turned a corner, nearing his destination:

  Bocca di Leone — the Lion’s Mouth.

  Because surely the doge would like to know what Renzo was up to. Surely he would like to know where the bird children might be found.

  And dropping a note into the slot in the Lion’s Mouth was like whispering into the doge’s ear.

  There it was now, a light stone plaque on a dark stone wall. He could see the carved face of a man, the furry eyebrows, the ears like those of a lion. He could see the dark slot that formed an open mouth.

  Many Lion’s Mouths decorated the walls of Venice, but this was the one for denunciations of heretics and witches.

  Sergio pulled the note from his doublet. He hesitated. What they would do to Renzo and those children . . .

  Shut your stupid yawp!

  Sour bile rose into his throat. Sergio slipped the note between the lion’s jaws, and with a hushed swish of parchment on stone, it was done.

  22.

  Cold Fire

  He had thought that Mama would be asleep. It was well past midnight now; surely she wouldn’t wait up this long. But a rustling of cloth caught his ear as he shut the door. He turned and saw her in the light of the glowing embers. Sitting on a bench, perfectly still, her mending in her lap. Looking up at him expectantly.

  “It’s done,” he told her. “I passed.”

  She made a little sound then, something between a gasp and a sob. She dropped to her knees, her mending falling to the floor, and clasped her hands in silent prayer.

  He waited awkwardly, feeling that he should go and pray beside her but not knowing if he could accomplish the feat of kneeling without stumbling or tipping over.

  Mama rose, walked to him. She set her hands on his shoulders, kissed him on both cheeks. Then she held him at arm’s length, seeming to search for something in his eyes. “I’m proud of you, Son,” she said at last. “And your father would be too.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  It was Taddeo who reminded Renzo what he’d forgotten. He was shuffling out the glassworks door just as Renzo came in to work the next morning. At the sight of him Renzo halted in his tracks.

  Letta.

  Taddeo scowled at Renzo, leaning in as he passed, to whisper: “We were all waiting for the news. And you never came, then, did you?”

  But it was worse than that. Renzo was supposed to warn her. “Listen, Taddeo. They can’t — ”

  But Ettore called to Renzo and motioned for him to come inside.

  He searched for Sergio and the padrone and found them together by the furnace. In their faces he saw nothing that seemed amiss. It was true that the padrone hadn’t seemed to care about the feather when Sergio had shown it to him. So maybe there was no need to worry.

  And yet . . . Sergio knew about the children. Or at least he suspected.

  Dangerous.

  Well. Renzo would warn them tonight.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  And so it began, his new life in the glassworks. That day Renzo slipped easily into his role with Ettore, eager to learn the skills he’d missed. Ettore worked steadily and hard. He was quick and exacting, and expected Renzo to keep up. Renzo pushed through fatigue and headache, willing his mind to stay alert. He cocooned himself in glasswork and allowed nothing else to penetrate. When at last they broke for the midday meal, Ettore nodded and said, “Well done.”

  Renzo’s entire body ached; his arms shook; his head throbbed. And yet he felt happier than he had in a long time.

  This was what he was meant to do. This was what he’d been made for.

  Again he did not go home for the midday
meal but worked with the padrone, who could soon make the falcon as well as Renzo, and more consistently. But there was something of clockwork about the padrone’s methods: Now let it cool to the count of ten. Now blow three quick huffs into the pipe. Now place the borsella at precisely this angle.

  And each bird looked exactly like the last.

  Renzo recalled how with Letta the bird had seemed a little like magic, and it had changed and grown more itself each time.

  Ah, well. To be profitable, the padrone said, the birds had to be made quickly, with no wasted effort.

  That evening Renzo celebrated with Mama and Pia. Mama had roasted an entire rabbit, and Pia had made a little brown cake studded with nuts and dried fruit.

  It should have been one of the happiest, proudest days of his life. And yet, he thought later, lying awake on his bed that night, why was he so unsettled? Was it the hint the padrone had dropped that perhaps Renzo could show him more of Papà’s secrets? Was it Sergio’s hostile glances? Was it knowing that he hadn’t truly earned his apprenticeship by mastering the list of skills?

  Was it Letta?

  But he’d had no time to warn her. The celebration at the tavern had gone on far into the night. With all the wine that had been thrust upon him, he’d just barely managed to stagger home. And then he’d had to tell Mama, and . . .

  A picture blinked into his mind, of the children all waiting for him, waiting to find out if he’d passed the test. Of Letta, with that look she’d had when he’d given her the mantle, when the color had risen in her face.

  Renzo groaned, turned over onto his side. She had come to rely on him. And who else was there to help her?

  So he would go there tonight, in the small hours. He would warn them.

  But what would they do then? Where could they go to get warm? Where could they hide?

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  The outer door to the glassworks stood wide open.

  Renzo stopped before it. Peered inside.

  Dark.

  A wind gust picked up the hem of his cloak and flapped it against his legs. He shivered, suddenly afraid.

  What combination of events, he wondered, would lead to this door standing wide and unattended in the middle of the night?

  Nothing good — that was certain.

  He moved into the doorway. “Hello?”

  He listened for an answer, straining his ears against the dark. Behind him: water splashing against the sides of the canal, and the hollow thump of one boat jostling another. Ahead: the dull, throbbing roar of the furnace.

  It sounded wrong somehow. Not loud enough?

  Renzo edged forward until he could see an opening in the furnace. Usually the fire was a dazzling white-gold, so bright, you had to squint to look into it. But now it had dimmed to a dullish copper.

  Cold fire.

  That should never happen. Never.

  “Letta!” he called, and when there was no answer, “Taddeo!”

  Quiet.

  Renzo crept into the glassworks, alert for movement, for sounds. Something odd ahead — an overturned bench. And now he made out the shapes of tools, strewn about the floor, and feathers — far too many feathers. Something glittered ahead. A plume of glass shards, winking in the light of the furnace. Renzo scanned along the trail of broken glass until he found the pail, tipped over onto its side.

  He crossed the wide interior floor, his lungs filling up with a thick, choking dread. He burst into the storage room.

  The shutters stood open. A band of moonlight striped the floor and laddered across the tiers of shelves.

  Empty. No one here.

  But wait. There, in a dark corner, something . . .

  An arrow?

  Renzo moved forward. He stooped, grasped the wooden shaft. Its tip was embedded in something dark and small. Renzo took it into the moonlight.

  It was a bird. A little wading bird with long, red legs.

  Paolo’s bird.

  PART II

  FLIGHT

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  23.

  The Message

  The old woman cleared her throat. “He will abandon us,” she said.

  But Letta did not look up from her writing. The woman watched the pen scratch across the strip of parchment, leaving a trail of tiny script. She squatted on the stone floor in the corner beside Letta. This far from the lamp, the message was no more legible to her old eyes than a line of sugar ants. “You know he will,” she said. “They all do.”

  “What of Nonno?” Letta said, still not looking up. “He didn’t.”

  Matteo? She would compare this boy to Matteo?

  “So there’s no other like him in all the world?” Letta persisted. “Only one, and he fell in love with you?”

  The woman sat perfectly still. What’s this? she thought. What has happened between them? What have they done? “Letta . . .”

  “Don’t!” Letta looked up at her, eyes sharp but hurting. And young. Though not so very much younger than she herself had been when Matteo . . . Those days in the hills above Verona . . . Not two words in common they’d had, and yet . . .

  Someone called out in sleep — Sofia. Earlier she had had a nightmare. The woman listened as Sofia muttered something unintelligible, then settled back into silence.

  She brushed her memories away. She must attend to now. To her youngest grandchild, to her grandnieces and grandnephew, to the children more distantly related. Who had been caught, arrested, terrorized, knocked about and bruised . . . Who had been bound, gagged, hooded, separated from their birds, dragged through the marsh, shipped across the lagoon . . . Who had been flung, sobbing, into this dank, foul-smelling hellhole to await whatever fate the Ten had in store.

  The one mercy was that they had put all the children in here with her.

  Letta’s pen had begun to move again. “ ’Tisn’t like you and Nonno,” she said. Though the woman hadn’t asked. “He doesn’t even know that I . . .”

  Love him? the woman wondered.

  “. . . think of him at all. But I believe he’s . . . honorable.”

  Honorable? Perhaps. Honor was not yet entirely dead in this world, however often it seemed so. But it was a concept the woman seldom dwelled on anymore. Survival, that came first.

  She leaned back against the cold wall, watching Letta write.

  Back in the early days with Matteo, there had been time for falling in love, time for building a snug cottage in the hills, time for having many children.

  But then the plague had come, with the mob on its heels, crying witchcraft.

  How could they have thought that we had brought the plague, the woman wondered, when it had taken so many of our own?

  But it was the birds, she knew. Her people’s bond with them. This bond was too alien for outsiders to countenance for long; it was mysterious even to those who possessed it. Their green eyes might have been tolerated, but their birds — only for a while. Nevertheless, the bond was immutable; it was precious. It was part of who they were, no less than the hair on their heads, the noses on their faces, the lines on the palms of their hands.

  It had been decided that the old woman should take the children to Venice, while the children’s parents — those still alive — should seek far and wide for a place more hospitable to strangers. At first the scattered groups had sent messages back and forth, but after a while the messages had ceased. The old woman had sent her owl to find them, but he always returned with the selfsame messages she had sent.

  Somewhere to her left Paolo moaned. The woman stood, feeling the familiar creaking rasp in her knees and hips. She picked her way through the welter of sleeping children until she came to Paolo. She sat again and took him onto her lap. His breath was easy. The smell of the marsh still clung to him, though it was fading, overcome by the sour reek of sickness and piss and sweat. He had ceased with the vomiting at last, the vomiting that went on and on until she’d thought he must be hollow, just breath and bones. To lose your bird that way, so young. To see it slai
n . . .

  Miraculously, the other birds had survived. The woman had found each one by kenning; she had overridden the children’s kens and told the birds to wait hidden on the roof with her owl until after dark. She felt them now, pressing against her thoughts: quick, tremulous, twitchy, hungry, eager, fretful.

  She kenned them to be still, be calm.

  She wondered how long the jailers would keep her and the children here together.

  She wondered how long the littlest ones could survive.

  She wondered if they would hang her as a witch, and if the children would share her fate.

  Letta blew on the ink, rolled up the strip of parchment.

  Don’t pin your hopes on this, the woman wanted to say. He will be loyal to his own people, and there is honor in that. Us he will have to abandon.

  Letta turned to her, scanned her face. The woman did not smile or make her countenance go blank to hide her doubt.

  Letta pursed her lips. “I’ll send it,” she said. “We’ll see.”

  24.

  Wading Bird

  It had gone cold, the bird. Renzo cupped it in one hand — its spindly red legs limp between his fingers — half-hoping to feel the beating of a tiny heart.

  But no.

  It was still.

  He felt along the shaft where the arrow entered the little body. It penetrated deep, too deep to leave space for life. He stroked the bird’s speckled neck and back, as he had seen Paolo do. So smooth and silky. He had never actually touched a wild bird before. He set it down carefully, though he knew nothing could hurt it now.

  He scooted a crate beneath the window, stepped up, peered out into the dark. Nothing moved. But a little way down the alley, a familiar shape . . . He scrambled over the casement, thumped down onto the packed dirt outside. Just a few steps, and he held it in his hands.