The Witch in the Lake

by Fienberg, Anna

  Must burn some more rosemary and thyme, thought Leo, getting up from the bed. Stupid just sitting here doing nothing. Signor Eco had said to fill the room with it continuously, to purify the air. Then it would be time to make the soup.

  As Leo poured rice into boiling water, he wondered for the hundredth time if Merilee had received his letter. Would she have read it eagerly, taken notice of his warning about Beatrice? Would she be worried about his father? In his gloomiest moments, Leo imagined her scanning the words hurriedly, then stuffing his note into the folds of her dress, hurrying off to the next banquet.

  Leo stirred the rice for a moment. Surely Signor Eco would be back today. He dropped the spoon with a clang on the stone floor, spraying water onto his legs. Damn it! Better not to think at all, he muttered to himself, he was such a dunce at everything lately. He took the peacock meat out from its wrapping and began to chop it carefully. The meat would add nourishment to the soup, and be easy for his father to eat. Then he’d peel the turnips and add a cup of wine, good for building up the blood.

  Leo grinned suddenly, thinking of Signor Butteri’s enthusiasm for wine. ‘Liquid from heaven!’ Aldo Butteri would cry, thumping his fist on the table. ‘Improves the blood, hastens digestion, calms the intellect, and expels wind. What more could you ask from a drink?’

  Marco, who liked a drop of wine too, always chortled agreeably with him. But Marco was even fonder of a good argument, especially with his friend Aldo. ‘It makes fools of men, that’s what it does,’ Marco would reply and Aldo would bluster and protest, ‘Only if drunk to excess!’ growing redder in the face as he poured yet another glass of wine to ‘calm his intellect’.

  Leo plopped three turnips into the pot and set the soup to cook slowly. He was just sweeping the kitchen floor when a loud knock on the door startled him.

  Aldo Butteri came every morning to see how Marco was progressing. Often he’d bring something helpful—daily, in the piazza, there seemed to be gossip about a new miracle cure. Yesterday, he’d brought scorpion oil. Four sips were supposed to flush out disease by causing excessive urine. A passing pedlar had told Giovanni about it, who’d told Aldo. Leo had thanked him and tossed it out in the courtyard. He could just imagine, if Marco had all his wits about him, what he would say to his friend about scorpion oil!

  ‘Have you actually seen someone swallow it, Aldo? Do you want to kill me? Ach—such old fables! Dangerous stories! Must you believe everything you hear? Let me give you a piece of advice, my friend: follow the example of Leonardo, and study the world with your own eyes. You’ll stay alive that way!’

  As Leo went to open the door, he thought of the witch in the lake, and the moaning. He’d heard that with his own ears, seen the parting of the lake with his own eyes. It was no story. But who had a cure for that? Marco wouldn’t even talk of it. Sometimes Leo wondered if it was the moaning that kept Marco feverish at night.

  ‘Buon giorno, giovanotto!’ boomed Signor Butteri, tumbling into the room. Leo winced, hoping his father wouldn’t wake. The morning siestas seemed to be healing for him.

  ‘Good morning,’ Leo replied quietly. ‘Can I help you with that?’

  Aldo was struggling with a huge red bath. Inside were two cushions of the same startling colour.

  ‘I thought I’d bring you this—yes, I know you have a basin, but it’s tiny and it leaks and it isn’t red. Where shall we put it down? Here, near the kitchen? The cushions are to put under your poor father’s head.’

  ‘Thank you, Signor Butteri.’ Leo hesitated. ‘Would you like to see him?’

  ‘Yes, my boy, I would. How’s he been?’

  ‘A little better today, I think. Last night he was burning up with fever, but now he’s sleeping. The fever seems to have passed—for the moment, at least.’

  ‘Good, good. Well, I saw Signor Eco this morning, and he was asking after your papà, of course, and he told me that a bath in tepid water will help reduce fever. Particularly if you add a cleansing oil such as juniper.’

  Leo stopped suddenly. ‘You saw Signor Eco? Has he returned?’

  Aldo nodded. ‘Yes, just got back this morning.’ He searched in the leather bag at his waist. ‘Here, he gave me a bottle of juniper oil that the Wise Women made up. He said to put it in your father’s bath. It will help expel infection and act as a tonic as well.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Leo put the bottle on the table. ‘Did he mention that there was anything else for me?’

  Aldo looked puzzled. ‘Something? Not that I remember.’

  Leo couldn’t help the gulp of disappointment rising from his throat.

  ‘He was in a terrible hurry, actually,’ Signor Butteri went on. ‘He’d just come back from Fiesole, you know, and was due within the hour at Montepiano, to see a lady with infected toes.’ Butteri wrinkled his nose. ‘Pus. There are so many theories these days on how to treat it. I told him the old remedy my grandfather swore by—you cut a splinter from a door which a eunuch has passed through, and stroke the infected area with it three times, with three fingers of the left hand.’ Butteri sniffed. ‘Eco didn’t seem much interested though. Hardly stopped to listen. Still, he was in a tearing hurry.’

  Leo turned to lead Aldo to his father’s bed.

  ‘Oh, Leo,’ Aldo tugged at his arm. ‘I forgot—what with all the worry about your father. Eco did say he would be back by six o’clock this evening, if you wanted to drop by. He had something to tell you.’

  Aldo eyed Leo curiously. ‘A medicine, perhaps? A new herbal recipe?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I imagine so,’ Leo replied quickly. How different you can feel from one moment to the next, he thought. ‘Come through and see how the patient is faring.’

  Leo led Aldo to Marco’s bed. Aldo sat down heavily, and took one of Marco’s hands. ‘Thin as a twig, isn’t he?’ he whispered loudly. ‘Leo, go and get those red cushions.’

  As Leo bent to pick up a cushion he wondered how he was going to wait until six o’clock. So much of his life was about waiting. Waiting for his father to get better (please God!), waiting till Saturdays to see Merilee, waiting for her return. Merilee!

  When Leo came back, Aldo gently lifted Marco’s head and slid the cushion underneath. Marco opened his eyes for a second and smiled at his friend. It was a weak smile, but it was one of recognition and calm.

  ‘There!’ exclaimed Aldo.

  ‘Ssh!’ warned Leo. But he was grinning.

  ‘That bit of red is already doing him good,’ Aldo patted the cushion with excitement. ‘The fever’s in his head, you see. Your papà thinks too much, that’s his trouble. I’m always telling him so, but will he listen? Red is the colour of health and vitality. Nothing like it!’

  Leo got up from the bed and silently beckoned Aldo to follow him. Reluctantly, Aldo left Marco and his red cushion, and strode over to the bath tub.

  ‘Is that why you painted it red?’ Leo asked, running a finger along the rim.

  Aldo frowned. ‘Yes, that’s right. Only painted the outside, though, because I wasn’t convinced the paint would stay on when mixed with water. Do you think it will have the same effect, though?’ he asked anxiously. ‘I mean, with the red not exactly touching the body?’

  ‘It’ll be fine, I’m sure,’ Leo said. ‘And I’ll give Marco a glass of red wine to sip while he’s bathing. That way he’ll have red outside as well as inside. What could be healthier?’

  Aldo glanced at Leo sharply. But Leo kept a straight face, busying himself with the soup.

  ‘Good, good, excellent!’ Signor Butteri exclaimed, encouraged. ‘Do you know, you could give him the wine in a church bell. Has much more effect than an ordinary old cup, I’m told, and drives out the fiends. You’ll need to say seven masses, though, while he drinks it, so don’t let the bath water get too cold. Well, my boy, I’ll leave you to get on with your cooking.’

  When Signor Butteri had bustled out, still telling Leo about his sore legs and how busy he was, what with the orders piling up at the workshop without Ma
rco, Leo closed the door and leaned for a moment against the cool wood. He let the silence in, watching the dust motes settle in the sunlight. Then he went to collapse on his bed. Just for a minute.

  Half an hour ago, when he’d heard there was ‘information’ from Signor Eco, he’d felt his heart thump, wild with anticipation. But as he lay there, his hands behind his head, an utter weariness came over him. ‘Something to tell you’—what did that mean? Was Merilee safe, happy? Maybe she’d sent back some advice for his father’s treatment. Maybe she was doing well at her studies. But she wasn’t here with him now. She hadn’t packed her bags and come rushing home. She was far away—lost to him for almost a month, maybe forever.

  Leo looked over at the red bath. People like Butteri were kind. Neighbours, shopkeepers, everyone asked how his father was each day, whether he’d like a nice bunch of raisins, a chat, some advice? But then they’d all go away. They’d take their comfort, the warmth of their voices and hands, and go home.

  Leo felt his eyes burning. He laid an arm across them.

  Why did the people he love always go away? His mother, Merilee, Francesca. It was terrible, the silence between him and his father. Leo was so used to all the words in the house, the arguments, the late burning lamp, the discoveries. Now there was only the quiet of his father. The outside of him. Please come back, Leo whispered.

  He sat up. The soup will be cooked by now, he thought. He would take it off the fire in just a moment and let it cool for when his father woke up. Then he’d fill the bath. Tepid water was good for fever, he knew. It said so in Marco’s journal. He remembered Francesca giving him and Merilee those coolish sponge baths when they were little. Hot and irritable, their skin sore, the water would slide over their limbs, soothing the hurt.

  Afterwards, Francesca would lie down on her bed, the two children on either side of her, their heads tucked like baby birds under her arm. Sometimes she’d sing them to sleep. Leo was gathered up, all of him folded like a present into her warm safe body.

  Leo’s face was wet. The burning became tears that trickled down the sides of his face into his hair. All the thoughts, the bad thoughts, came flying in. He let them come, beating their wings, crying at him with their shrill voices until his mind was dark and he sobbed, great hacking sobs of loneliness that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his heart, although he knew that it was only a muscle like any other because he’d seen it copied beautifully in his father’s notebook.

  He must have fallen asleep because when he woke Marco was calling and there was a smell of burning. He sprang up, alarm shooting through his body, not knowing whether to run to his father first or take the soup off the fire.

  ‘Just a second,’ he cried and in one leap he was at the fire, seeing his precious peacock meat and nourishing liquid just a dried-out mess in the bottom of the pot.

  ‘Mamma mia, che cretino!’ he cried.

  ‘Leo!’

  Marco was half-sitting up in bed. He held out his hand to his son. ‘Could I have a cup of water?’

  ‘Do you feel better?’

  Marco nodded. ‘A little.’

  ‘Later I’ll give you a bath, and then I’ll add some water to the soup, it’ll be all right maybe if I just—’ Leo hopped up to fetch the water.

  He watched his father drink it. Marco winced as he swallowed. His throat must be so dry and sore, thought Leo. What do you give for sore throats? He twisted his hands together. And how could he ever lift his father into the bath by himself? Wouldn’t he need help?

  Marco fell back on the sheets. He was asleep again.

  The silence deepened in Leo’s ears. He watched his father go away, back to the other world where he was alone.

  Leo picked up the cup and refilled it with water. He set it down on the little table next to Marco’s bed. Then he went to wash his face and change his tunic. He would go and see Francesca. He couldn’t think of anything else to do.

  ‘Leo!’ Francesca opened the door, startled.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quickly, ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you, only—’ He suddenly felt breathless, and put a hand on the door to hold himself up.

  ‘Come in,’ said Francesca, glancing up and down the path before she closed the door behind him.

  ‘Caro, you look ill.’ She took the hat from his head and smoothed the damp hair from his forehead. ‘You go up, you know the way, and I’ll fetch some wine and sweetmeats. Go upstairs and take your breath.’

  Leo climbed the stairs into the sitting room. He sat in the deep velvet chair. Everything was so familiar. The same richly coloured murals, the portraits standing above the mantelpiece.

  He looked first, as always, at the portrait of Caterina, Francesca’s grandmother. It was startling how she looked straight out at you from the painting. Her heart-shaped face was Francesca’s, but something about the eyes—the defiance in them—were her own. His eyes slid over the scar on her right cheek. It was more of a pit, really, a deep hollow left by the smallpox. Strange, thought Leo, how that feature in anyone else would have been disfiguring. It would be the first thing you’d see, defining the face, ruining any chance of beauty. But Caterina’s splendour shone out, like a tide of laughter over one small protest. The glow of her eyes, the tilt of her chin seemed to come from some inner fire, some magnificence of soul.

  She must have been loved, Leo thought. A beauty like hers would have commanded a whole troop of admirers. He thought about Merilee, and how much he missed her. It was hard to imagine people who lived so long ago feeling like he did. Then a thought struck him for the first time. Caterina must have been alive at the same time as Marco’s grandfather, Illuminato. If they’d lived in the same village, they must surely have met. What would they have felt about each other, Leo wondered, still gazing at the painting. Illuminato was a great wizard, a miraculous healer—would Caterina have admired his power? And what about him—wouldn’t he have seen the fire in her? Leo had heard different stories about what had become of Caterina; did the plague take her? Leo sat up. Perhaps there was a link between her disappearance and Illuminato, he thought suddenly. Maybe they’d once loved each other, just like he and Merilee . . .

  Leo shifted restlessly in his chair. Next to Caterina were the portraits of Merilee and Laura when they were infants. There used to be a portrait of Leo, too, painted when he was four, but Beatrice had burned it after Laura died.

  Leo closed his eyes. He could see everything better that way. Each object in the room was alive for him. Every chair and cupboard had a silent memory wrapped inside it.

  ‘That’s good, you rest now,’ said Francesca as she came in with a tray. Sitting down near him she poured white wine into his glass, adding water from the jug. ‘Try these sugared oranges, they used to be your favourites.’

  When Leo had drunk some wine and eaten, Francesca asked him about his father.

  ‘He still has the fever,’ Leo replied. ‘But he doesn’t bring up his food any more and today he seems better. Calmer.’

  ‘I’ve wanted to visit,’ Francesca told him, ‘I know how hard it must be for you. All alone.’ She looked away for a moment, reddening.

  Leo cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know what to do. How to help him properly, I mean. And I miss Merilee.’ His throat closed over.

  Maybe he really only had a little mouse inside him, he thought miserably—just a scared baby mouse wanting its mother. Maybe that’s what his father had seen, and would never tell him.

  Francesca leaned near and took hold of his hands. She smelled of rosewater.

  ‘It’s just, why do we all have to be so alone?’ he mumbled into her shoulder. ‘As if we were enemies, or strangers. Why does it have to be like this?’

  ‘Beatrice—’

  Leo flung up his head. ‘I’m so sick of thinking about her. Everyone doing what she wants, obeying her as if she were a queen or something!’

  Francesca sighed. ‘Some people are stronger than others, Leo. They have more vital spirit in them—’

&
nbsp; ‘I can tell you what Beatrice has inside her,’ Leo said in a new voice. It was harsh and knowing. ‘On the day she took Merilee away, I saw her.’

  Francesca waited, looking at him.

  ‘I saw the snake coiled inside her.’

  Francesca drew in her breath. But Leo, still holding her hand, told her everything he’d seen. He chose his words carefully, picking them as if he were cutting out something very precious with the fine point of a knife. He had to make her see. He told her of the lonely little girl, so empty and sad, and how the girl’s face had changed when a shadow dropped over her.

  Francesca withdrew her hand. ‘I am the shadow,’ she said dully.

  Leo stared at her. ‘You! How? You’re warm and sweet, like the sun!’

  Francesca shook her head. ‘For you, perhaps. But for Beatrice—well, I think I stole her light. When we were young, just girls in our father’s house, I was pretty and people were fond of me. I had lots of friends. It came easily to me. I liked to dance and sing, I played the recorder well—’ Francesca looked down at her feet. ‘I played so well that our father used to hold concerts in the sitting room, and all our friends would come to listen. I remember how Beatrice would glower over there,’ Francesca pointed to a chair near the sideboard, ‘her face dark as a storm. Sometimes she’d put her fingers in her ears for the entire concert.’

  ‘So,’ said Leo slowly, ‘she was jealous of you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Francesca. ‘She was always heavy and awkward with people, didn’t know how to converse, how to make the best of herself. She always seemed to say too much, or nothing at all. It’s strange, she never learned how to listen to other people, you know, show an interest in them. And then, when I, the younger sister got married before she’d even had an offer, well, you can imagine. She told me she hated me, wished me dead.’ Francesca took a sip of wine. ‘I remember her face at my wedding, it was frightening.’

  Leo was silent a moment, picturing it all.

  ‘So now she’s enjoying herself,’ he said finally, ‘lording it over you and your family.’