Dark Shimmer

by Donna Jo Napoli

  And he’s never heard her growl.

  Yep, this is a good pup for a young missy. Even a girl younger than eight.

  He picks up the pup and hugs her. “Time to go check on Neve. Let’s run.” He puts her down and runs. The pup stays right at his heels. Better and better.

  Thump! Then several smaller thumps.

  Giallino spies a gray-brown stag through the trees. A big one. Giallino is sure he couldn’t touch the animal’s shoulder even standing on tiptoe. He scoops the pup into his arms and watches.

  The stag is looking down with shock on his face. He has only one antler. Oh, of course, now Giallino sees it; the animal has just cast an antler. The stag walks up to the shed antler gingerly and sniffs. Then he licks it in obvious amazement.

  Giallino suppresses a laugh. What a mystery the world must be to animals. Is it hard for him to balance now, with all that weight gone from his head?

  And now Giallino recognizes the opportunity. Bini told him Neve loves venison. They’re not supposed to hunt big game, but one deer—who would notice?

  He slowly sets the pup at his feet. She sits, absolutely silent, waiting to see what he wants. Good pup. He reaches for the bow he carries slung on his back. No one walks in these woods without protection; Alvise has taught them the basics.

  He pulls out an arrow, sets it in place, aims, shoots.

  The stag flashes a look at the slipper-soft sound of the feather and leaps away, with the arrow lodged in his side. What a pity. He’ll run a long time before he falls. Giallino couldn’t keep up with him. It’s a mistake to go hunting without dogs to chase down the prey. The beast is wasted. That’s so wrong. Giallino would never kill an animal for sport. He did it for all good reasons, but it didn’t work out.

  He goes and picks up the antler. It really is heavy. But he needs to hurry now, so he holds it out to one side as best he can and runs. The pup stays at his heels. Tears roll down his face as he runs; he can’t think why.

  The woods are quiet this morning. Silent, really. The sound of Luminoso’s hooves is the only noise. Riding along like this, with no goal, just enjoying the chilly air, comforts Sebastiano.

  He looks up through the high, bare branches of the chestnut trees to a leaden sky. Maybe it will snow. The end of January is unpredictable. He likes that. Life needs more adventure.

  He smiles ruefully. To think of changes in the weather as adventure—what a pitiable soul he’s become. He’s only twenty-three, he has everything ahead of him.

  A crow flies overhead. Now a second, a third. Even in the pale light, they give off a green sheen. He should put his gloves on, but he doesn’t trust gloves when he’s riding. The leather can cushion the feel of the reins in his hands so much that he may pull too hard without realizing it. Luminoso has a soft mouth. Sebastiano trained the stallion himself; they are a team. This morning is cold, though. And he’s enjoying a gentle ride. What harm could there be? He takes his gloves out of his jacket and pulls them on.

  Caws break the tranquility of the woods. Sebastiano squeezes his thighs and Luminoso presses forward. The caws get louder. The birds are squabbling over something.

  He follows the noise. A raucous, flapping black cloud covers the ground in front of him. Luminoso whinnies and prances in place. Sebastiano urges him forward and shouts at the birds. They rise again, screaming at him.

  An arrow protrudes from the hindquarters of a stag. The carcass has been ravaged by something other than birds, something that ripped it apart. Probably boars.

  Sebastiano dismounts as the crows scream and Luminoso neighs and stomps back and forth. Sebastiano pulls at the arrow. A crow dives at him. Another. They’re coming fast, in a mob. He yanks with all his might and the arrow comes free. He runs for Luminoso, batting the birds away with his arms. He puts the arrow through a loop on the pommel, throws his leg over the saddle, and rides off.

  Luminoso’s thumping hoofbeats are drowned out by the sound of Sebastiano’s heartbeat. Crows dive in spring and summer if you’re near their nest or young. Everyone knows to just go the other way. But those are pairs of crows. This was an entire flock—who knows, maybe fifty birds—and they acted together. Sebastiano touches the back of his neck and then looks at his hand. Blood. He knew it.

  He shakes. He was in danger—a murder of crows could overtake a full-grown man. And he’s furious at whoever shot the stag. This is his property. No one has permission to hunt. He relaxes his legs and Luminoso slows to a walk.

  It must have happened within the past day or so.

  Who would come out here now? It’s Carnevale in the city. And anyone he knows would have asked his permission.

  This arrow wasn’t made by the local fletcher. Did a stranger pass through? But what stranger hunts a deer? A traveler might pick off a rabbit and eat it over an open fire. A deer, never. You couldn’t finish it off, you couldn’t properly take it with you. No one would be that wasteful.

  Maybe the dwarfs know something. They go through these woods frequently, training their dogs, but Sebastiano has had no reason to seek them out. His father used to claim the best lapdogs as the landlord’s due so he could give them away as a grand gesture. Sebastiano doesn’t even like lapdogs. They have bad breath. In any case, he’ll go to the dwarfs’ cabin.

  He shifts in the saddle and squeezes his knees. Luminoso trots again, and the sound of the crows fades. A terrible sense of loneliness overcomes Sebastiano. He would love someone to tend to his neck, to rub his shoulders. Not a servant. Not at all.

  The little curl of chimney smoke directs him now. Little curl from a little roof from a little cabin. It’s an odd place, but the dwarfs built it themselves and they never ask for anything. As he nears, dogs bark. He’s surprised. Usually in midday the dogs are scattered through the woods, wherever their various trainers have decided to practice with them that day. Well, good, he’s lucky; he won’t have to wait till evening to ask about the dead stag.

  Sebastiano dismounts and ties Luminoso to a sapling. He grabs the arrow, then booms out a greeting as he reaches a hand to open the door.

  It doesn’t budge. It must be bolted from within.

  “Hello in there,” calls Sebastiano.

  No answer.

  “Hey! Open up. I need to talk to you.”

  Still nothing.

  “What’s going on?” He walks around the cabin. All the shutters are closed. He jiggles them. They hold fast. “I know you’re in there,” he calls. “You can’t bolt a door from the outside. Answer me!”

  Nothing.

  He pounds on the door with his fist. It’s absurd that he should be thwarted like this. “This is Messer Simoli. Your landlord. I demand that you open up right now.”

  “How do I know that?” comes a voice. A woman’s voice. Or a girl’s.

  So far as Sebastiano knows, there are only seven people who live in this cabin, all of them men. “Who the devil are you?”

  “That’s what I’m wondering about you.”

  “I told you who I am.”

  “Aren’t you really Dolce in disguise?”

  “Who the devil is Dolce?”

  “My mother. My stepmother.”

  “Do I sound like your stepmother?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You’re the one who said it.”

  The girl is silent.

  Sebastiano crosses his arms. The wind has picked up a little. He’s chilled. “Shall we start over? My family name is Simoli. My given name is Sebastiano. May I know your name now?”

  “No.”

  “That’s uncooperative of you. Highly.”

  Silence.

  “Listen, I’m not your stepmother.”

  “Do you work for her?”

  “I work for no one.”

  “So you just live off other people, is that it?”

  “No.” Sebastiano frowns. “I oversee this estate. I’m sure I do far more work than you do.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “I can hea
r it in your voice. You’re Veneziano nobility. You probably spend your day playing the harp.”

  “Stop that!”

  “Stop what?”

  “The harp is a beautiful instrument.”

  “I agree.”

  “So why did you say that?”

  “To upset you. You upset me.”

  “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  Sebastiano’s feet are getting cold. He stomps in place. “I think maybe I’ve been away from people too long.”

  “You live alone?”

  “With servants.”

  “Servants are people.”

  Sebastiano clears his throat. “What I meant is that I’ve been away from society too long. I’m losing my social graces.” It’s true. “I apologize.”

  “Why have you been away from society?”

  “Things happen. Things you can’t plan for.”

  “Ah.” Her voice catches.

  Was that a sob?

  “I’m cold,” says Sebastiano.

  “I can’t let you in. So go away. Get back on your horse.”

  “How do you know I came on a horse?”

  “I’m not deaf.”

  “Right.” Sebastiano sinks to the ground and pulls his knees to his chest. He feels a little warmer. In his left hand he still clutches the arrow from the stag. He turns it over and over. “Have you gone to Carnevale parties this season?”

  “I’m barricaded in a cabin in the woods. Haven’t you noticed? You seem a bit daft.”

  Sebastiano’s eyes smart. She’s certainly as rude as he’s been. He doesn’t owe her any niceties. “I made a mistake not to take part in Carnevale this year.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It would have done me good. Perhaps even to get flat-out drunk and flirt with beautiful women, stealing a kiss here and there, or maybe more. I’ve gotten lucky at Carnevale in the past.” Sebastiano knows he shouldn’t be talking this way to a girl. But she’s irked him, and this kind of talk warms him a bit. “All my friends count on getting lucky. It’s like one giant secret that everyone shares; pretending it’s a secret protects everyone’s virtue.”

  “Hypocrisy,” says the girl. “I hate it.”

  “Agreed,” says Sebastiano.

  The girl is silent for a bit. Then, “You could still go to Carnevale. The festivities continue till Martedì Grasso.”

  “Indeed I could. I have friends in Venezia who would take me in. But all of them have daughters who now, more than ever, look at me as an eligible bachelor.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  “Then they look at you right.”

  “Not really. I don’t feel eligible, you see. I’ve been solitary since summer, and I’m getting used to it.”

  “Are you a widower?”

  “No. It was my father who died.”

  “I’m sorry. And…” She pauses. “Your mother?”

  “I grew up missing my mother. She died in childbirth with a baby girl, who also died.”

  “So you were little.”

  “No. I was already twelve. So I grieved for the loss of both of them. I still do, though I miss my father even more now.”

  “My mother’s dead.”

  “I know.”

  “How?” comes the sharp question.

  “You don’t have a stepmother if your mother’s alive.”

  “Oh.”

  “Now who seems a bit daft?”

  “I’m sorry I said that,” says the girl. “Let’s stop.”

  “Agreed. How old were you when your mother died?”

  “Little. She died in childbirth, too. Along with my infant brother. I envy you being able to miss your mother. I remember almost nothing of mine.”

  “What rotten thing did you do to your stepmother?”

  “Nothing! Why would you ask such a nasty question?”

  “You’re barricaded in this cabin, as you say. Against her, I gather. So she’s angry at you. Did you run away?”

  “I was swept away.”

  Sebastiano stands abruptly. “What? Did the men of this cabin steal you?”

  “No, no. They’re my heroes. They’re helping me. They’re keeping me safe.”

  “Safe? From your stepmother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s your father?”

  “Traveling.”

  “Where?”

  “Far.”

  “Where?”

  “Russia.”

  “What on earth would make someone travel to Russia in winter?”

  “He’s gathering books for his library. He left in autumn, and got snowed in. He’ll be back in spring. He’ll come for me. In the meantime, I stay inside.”

  “That’s a long time….What’s the worst your stepmother would do to you, anyway?”

  “Kill me.”

  Sebastiano shakes his head, though the girl can’t see him. “People kill boys sometimes, to remove potential heirs. I’ve heard of that kind of wretched behavior. But who kills a girl?”

  She’s silent.

  “Please answer me.”

  “I’m not a liar.”

  “I’m not calling you a liar. I just don’t understand.”

  “I’m staying here till Papà comes for me.”

  Sebastiano paces in a circle. “It’s not right that you should be in this cabin till spring. My house—”

  “Don’t think about it. Anyway, no sensible person invites a girl he doesn’t know into his home.”

  “I’m not sensible. I’m lonely. There, I said it.”

  “Well, no sensible girl accepts such an invitation.”

  “I wouldn’t harm you.”

  “The only thing I really wish I could have,” says the girl slowly, “is a view of water. From our balcony, I could see a long stretch of the Canal Grande. I miss that so much.”

  “You can’t see water from my house. But—”

  “Stop. I don’t even know who you are, really. Besides, it sounds like you have enough trouble taking care of yourself.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You said it yourself. You need to do something, anything, to get yourself lively again. If it’s not Carnevale, then something else. What else do you like to do in winter?”

  “Well, my father, he was a noisy man. Quick to laugh, generous, and always on the lookout for beauty. We traveled, particularly in winter. It was the best part of life, traveling the world with my father. Everything was glorious seen through his eyes.”

  “I traveled with my father too.”

  “A girl?”

  “I told you, I’m not a liar.”

  “Sorry. It’s just that I’ve only ever heard of one girl who traveled with her father. In fact, I knew her, briefly. We traveled together, the four of us, to a monastery. It was right after my mother died. The girl’s mother had also died not long before.”

  “So you commiserated?”

  “Hardly. She was three. Maybe four. Argumentative with her father—my father disapproved, but I thought she was fun.”

  She’s silent. After a long while, she says, “That’s it, then. Travel is the answer.”

  Sebastiano rubs the back of his neck. “Listen, I’d like to help you.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe because this is the longest conversation I’ve ever had with a young woman, just the two of us talking. It feels…intimate.”

  She’s quiet. Did he offend her? “I don’t know why I speak so openly with you. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Don’t apologize. I know what you mean. I know exactly what you mean.”

  His breath speeds up. “Let me help you.”

  “You can’t.”

  “At least tell me who you are.”

  “Never. I don’t really know if anything you’ve said is true, you see. I don’t know why you came to this cabin out of the blue.”

  “Because of the stag. Someone killed a stag on my land. I brought the arrow
with me. I wondered if the men here had seen anything.”

  “The stag? Oh, no! That’s my fault.”

  “You shot the stag?”

  “Don’t be foolish. I don’t hunt. But Giallino came across the animal yesterday. Bini had convinced everyone that I love venison after some stupid remark I made, so Giallino shot it. But it got away. I’m so sorry. The last thing I want is for these men to get thrown out because they violated their agreement with the landlord.” Her voice breaks. “They are good men. The stag is my fault. Please forgive them.”

  “Are you crying?”

  No answer.

  “Don’t be afraid. I won’t punish them. In fact, I’ll bring you venison, cooked a special way. I swear. Don’t cry.”

  “I’m not crying out of fear. I’m crying because Giallino was so sweet. They’re all so good.”

  “Well, that’s no reason to cry.”

  “Sure it is. Go now. Go on your travels. Go before I believe you’re sweet and I open this door and die.”

  Biancaneve lays the squirrels on their backs in a line: six of them. She skins one and keeps the pelt. Alvise has promised to show her how to make new gloves and hats for all of them once there are enough pelts. Actually, Biancaneve knows quite a bit about sewing. But she accepted Alvise’s offer because she could see it made him feel generous. They all like to help her these days. She skins two more squirrels and throws a tail on the pile of pelts. She’s good at this.

  There’s a loud rap on the shutters. Her heart jumps. It’s been two days since Sebastiano was here. He has probably gone traveling already. It’s foolish of her to hope. But if it is him, she’s decided to tell him her name, to see if he recognizes it. After all, when he was twelve, he and his father went traveling with a girl and her father—and the girl’s mother had died recently, and she was only three or four. Biancaneve cannot remember traveling with anyone but Papà. Still, she does have an isolated memory of riding in front of a big boy on a wonderful, fast horse, and the boy being ever so fun—and she has no idea who he was.

  She goes to her bed and reaches under the pillow for the arrow Sebastiano left outside the front door. She twirls it in her fingers. Sebastiano was quick at sparring. That was interesting. The men of this cabin all dote on her now; Sebastiano was a welcome change. It was exciting to talk with him. The flutter in her stomach right now is due to nothing more than a hope for diversion from the routine. “Who’s there?” she calls.