The Healer's Secret

by Helen Pryke

  “All right, I’ll go, even if it is just to keep you happy. But I might be back sooner than you think,” I warned.

  “I’ll be waiting,” Mum said, smiling.

  “Magic, humph,” I muttered.

  Snoring Bearded Guy gave a sudden, loud snort that jolted me out of my memories and brought me back to the present. He gave a little shrug and settled back to sleep, unperturbed. I wriggled in my seat, trying to get some feeling back in my legs, and thought anxiously about what awaited me. After much anguish, soul-searching, and more than a few tantrums, I’d agreed that Mum had come up with the best solution and that a holiday in Italy was exactly what I needed. I’d brushed up on my Italian so that I’d be able to say more than just ‘ciao’, and Mum and I had checked out the area on the internet, printed out detailed maps, and planned my journey meticulously. Back in England I’d felt ready for the great adventure ahead of me.

  As the plane came in to land at the Pisa Galileo Galilei International airport, I was feeling a lot less sure of myself. I had to get a taxi from the airport to Gallicano, a journey of about 45 miles, and wasn’t looking forward to being stuck in a car with a talkative Italian who probably reeked of garlic.

  I sauntered out of the air-conditioned airport into the bright May sunshine of Tuscany, a far cry from the rainy, wind-swept UK I’d left behind. I took off my heavy coat and rested it on top of my suitcases, then stood still, soaking up the Italian atmosphere. A car horn suddenly blasted behind me, making me jump. I turned and saw a taxi driver leaning out of the window.

  “You need taxi?” he called, pointing at himself. “I take you!”

  Suitcases safely stored in the boot, I got into the back of the taxi and settled myself down for the long journey. As I’d feared, the driver was determined to talk, but at least he didn’t stink of garlic.

  “Parlo italiano,” I told him, hoping that I’d be able to understand him.

  “No, no, I want speak English, I speak all time with tourists, my English good, no?”

  I grimaced and gave in gracefully. Mum had told me that Italians were very friendly people, but never took no for an answer. “Yes, it’s very good. So how long have you been driving a taxi, then?”

  As we drove along the busy roads, he kept up a constant stream of chatter. It helped distract me from the industrial landscape outside of factories, warehouses, and scrap metal yards with the crumpled, rusting carcasses of once-mighty machines. It was depressingly disappointing, after everything I’d heard about Tuscany and seen from Mum’s photos.

  “In my thirty years as tassista, I must have took… hmm, let’s see now… maybe thousands of passengers.” He suddenly beeped the horn as someone pulled out in front of him, and let forth a burst of angry words in Italian. Making himself comfortable again, he continued. “I like tourists, they nice people, much better than these damn Italians.” He turned and grinned at me. I nodded back, wishing he’d keep his eyes on the road.

  “Sometimes I take famous people.” He paused, obviously waiting for a comment from me.

  “Really?” I faked enthusiasm. “Like who?”

  “You know Berlusconi? He was the Italian prime minister.”

  “Berlusconi?” I asked incredulously. “He’s been in this taxi?”

  “Well, not exactly Berlusconi, but his brother, who is also very famous here in Italy. We had a long talk, very interesting. Of course, this was before all the scandals.” He shook his head and gave that typical Italian shrug of disappointment. “Otherwise, imagine what I could have found out!”

  “Yes, what a pity,” I remarked. “So, is all the Italian countryside like this, then? I thought it would be… prettier, somehow.”

  He glanced out of his window. “Here is industrial area, where they make marble. Soon we arrive to the mountains, you will like them a lot.” He leaned over and opened the glove compartment. The car wobbled slightly, and I tightened my grip on the armrest, praying to all the gods that we would arrive in one piece.

  He took out a piece of wood and passed it back to me over his shoulder. I saw that it had a painting on it of a mountain scene in winter, with a small house in the background and an elderly man walking towards it.

  “That’s pretty,” I said. It was; it had been painted by a talented artist, each flake of snow painstakingly dabbed on to create an incredibly realistic effect.

  “I painted it,” the driver said, with a hint of pride in his voice.

  “You did this?”

  “Yes, I am also painter, when I get the time,” he explained. “I started when I was young, and still like to do it when I can. This one I did last winter, it is good, no?”

  “It’s very good.” I was amused at his lack of modesty, but had to admit that he was right, he was a talented artist. I leant forward and tapped the piece of wood on his shoulder. “Here.”

  “No, no, is for you.”

  “For me? No, I can’t accept this,” I replied, panicking that he was about to fleece me for this painting.

  “No, please, I like to give it to you. I often give my paintings to the passengers… only the nice ones, of course.” He looked in the rear-view mirror at me and winked.

  “I can’t accept this, I haven’t got much money, only enough for the journey,” I blurted out.

  He looked hurt. “I no want your money, is a gift.”

  “Oh.” I’d offended him. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

  “Is OK,” he interrupted. “My wife tell me I am too good, but I don’t care, I like to be nice to people, make them happy. I hope, with these gifts, to make their day better.”

  I felt worse than ever. I coughed to hide my embarrassment. “Well, if you insist, I’d love to have it. I’m sorry if I upset you.”

  “Everything is good, we friends as before,” he replied.

  I turned it over in my hands. There was a name and date on the back. “Marcello Bini. Is that you?”

  “The one and only.”

  “So, tell me how you started painting.” I made myself more comfortable and looked out of the window at the changing scenery as he told me his life story. The industrial valley gave way to the first mountains, and I finally started to relax and enjoy the view. The Tuscan countryside was stunningly beautiful in spring, with the deep greens of the tree-covered slopes contrasting vividly with brilliant blue sky and white clouds. There were tiny villages nestled on the slopes, half-hidden by the thick vegetation around them. Every now and then I saw a church perched right on the top of a rocky spur, a mind-blowing feat of gravity-defying skill. Even more so when I considered they’d probably been built hundreds of years ago.

  Marcello commented on the towns we passed and places of interest I might like to visit as we drove along the winding roads through the mountains.

  “Close to Gallicano there are the Grotte del Vento. Large caves, very exciting to see. The locals used them as a fridge to store their food until only few decades ago. You should go, is definitely worth a look.”

  “OK, thanks, I will. How far is it now?” Adrenalin flooded through me at the thought of what I’d find once I got there.

  “Oh, about five minutes. Just a few more curves, then we go through the town, the house is on the other side, all by itself.”

  “You know my grandmother’s cottage?”

  “No, I look on GPS, it tell me. See?” He indicated the screen in the middle of the dashboard, with the arrival flag already visible.

  The closer we got, the happier I felt. I’d made it. I’d travelled all the way from England to the heart of Tuscany, and managed to arrive in the middle of nowhere. I couldn’t wait to let Mum know.

  We passed through a picturesque town full of traditional houses and more modern apartment buildings, then followed a small country lane up a steep slope. After a few minutes, the taxi stopped in front of a pair of huge, dirty white gates. The setting sun shone through the metal bars, casting strange shadows across the gravel. There was no sign of the cottage, or any people.

/>   “Well, this must be it. The GPS says we are arrived.” Marcello turned and smiled at me. “Remember your painting.”

  I nodded, staring mutely at the imposing entrance, and slowly got out of the car, my legs aching at having been still for so long.

  After taking his business card and muttering a brief goodbye, I stood in front of the gates, my luggage on the ground beside me. I lifted my hand to wave but he was already gone, leaving behind a cloud of dust. I sighed and turned back to the gates. A curved, gravel driveway overgrown with weeds led, I presumed, up to the cottage, which was hidden from view by a thick clump of trees.

  The lock was rusty and it took me several attempts to unlock the gates. After a few pushes on the handle, the right one swung open, squeaking as it scraped over the stones. I collected my luggage, took a few steps inside, then put everything down to lock it again.

  “I see Great-grandma didn’t believe in automatic gates,” I grumbled. All the travelling was catching up on me, and I was exhausted. My earlier adrenaline rush had given way to sudden lethargy. I couldn’t wait get inside the house and relax. As I lugged my bags around the curve in the driveway, the cottage came into view.

  “What the…?” I cried in dismay. The stone exterior of the house was covered in ivy, and thick, wild bushes grew right up to the walls. Most of the shutters were open, hanging half off their hinges. The windows were grimy and one had a hole in it, as if someone had thrown a brick through it. I slowly walked up to the door. As I touched the handle, the door swung gently open with a long creak. This is the moment I should run, I told myself. There’s probably an axe murderer waiting inside for you, Jen, so run!

  Instead I took a deep breath and entered the house. And wished I hadn’t. My lungs filled with a rancid, musty smell that literally took my breath away. I ran back outside, coughing furiously. I grabbed Marcello’s business card from my pocket, tempted to phone him and ask him to come and take me back to the airport. I could get the next flight back to the UK and be home by the morning. Then I thought of Mum, having to start worrying about me once more, and how I would hurt her for the umpteenth time. Deep down, I knew she was right… if I went back to England, I’d set out on a path of self-destruction, and I wasn’t sure if I would make it out intact this time. Scared as I was, I had to face this head-on, prove to myself that I could do it.

  Pulling up my t-shirt, I covered my mouth and went back indoors. I dumped my bags just inside the door and looked around, briefly taking in the kitchen and living room, then I spotted the stairs. I was too tired to think about cooking or cleaning. I grabbed my overnight bag, leaving the rest of the luggage where it was, and stumbled upstairs, thinking only of finding a bed and going to sleep. Everything else could wait until the morning.

  I almost sobbed with relief when I opened the first door and found a bathroom. Mum had been right, at least I wouldn’t have to use an outside loo. There were three bedrooms, and I chose the smallest one for myself – not out of respect for my great-grandmother, but because it seemed to be the least dusty. I took some clean sheets out of my bag and made up the bed. Then I sent a quick message to Mum to let her know I’d arrived safely, before finally collapsing into oblivion.

  Chapter Two

  When I awoke early the next morning, I couldn’t remember where I was for a moment. Then it all came flooding back to me as I looked down and saw my footprints clearly visible in the dust on the floor. Thoughts flew through my mind as I fought the urge to start scrubbing right away, and I clenched my fists tightly, willing myself to ignore the grime all around me. There were more important things to be done first.

  I got out of bed, gingerly standing on tiptoes while I dressed, trying to keep my feet inside the slightly cleaner footprints until I managed to get my shoes on. Finally ready, I took a deep breath and went out onto the landing.

  I walked from room to room, opening all the windows, the fresh mountain breeze blowing through the house and removing some of the musty smell. The sun was strong enough to penetrate the dirt-smeared windows; it streamed into the cottage, chasing away the shadows, making it seem a bit more welcoming. I checked out the upstairs rooms again since I’d had only a cursory look around the night before. There were two decent-sized rooms with double beds, and the smaller one I’d slept in, with a single bed. Apart from everything needing a good clean, the rooms all seemed in good condition, with only a few damp patches on the walls. The bathroom was small but functional, with a bath/shower, toilet, sink and bidet, although the flowery tiles were a bit overpowering. I’d discovered the previous night there was still running water and I couldn’t wait to unpack my bags, grab some clean clothes and a towel, and jump in the shower.

  I was curious to see what the rest of the cottage was like. The stairs led directly down to the living room, with a sofa and a couple of comfortable armchairs in front of a fireplace, a tall sideboard with an old-fashioned TV on top of it, and a bookcase full of books. I made a mental note to have a look through it later. It was a dark room, full of dark furniture, the only light filtering through the glass panel in the top half of the back door. I imagined it in the winter, with the fireplace lit, a family sitting around it in the warm, cosy atmosphere.

  The kitchen was on the opposite side of the room. In modern terms it would be called open-plan, but it formed an integral part of the living room, as if it were impossible to divide the two areas. The cupboards looked like they’d been there for a long time, the doors made of solid walnut, their darkly rich brown colour adding character to the place. Underneath a thick layer of dust, the worktop was cold and seemed to be made of marble as far as I could tell. The ceramic sink was underneath a small window that looked out onto the front, a grey, moth-eaten net curtain preventing anyone from seeing either in or out.

  Just off the living area was a long corridor that led down to the front door. A tall, solitary cabinet stood soldier-straight against the wall, shadowy objects stacked behind its dusty, glass-fronted top half, wooden doors hiding secret treasures at the bottom. I decided to leave it and carry on exploring. Another door opened into a dark room without any windows. I flicked the light switch, but nothing happened. I took my phone out of my pocket and turned on its torch, shining it around the room. The walls were covered in wooden shelves holding glass jars of every size and shape, some full of unidentifiable items, others empty. Some of the shelves had hooks screwed into the edges, dried bunches of flowers or herbs hanging suspended from them. I reached out and touched one. It was so brittle it crumbled under my fingers, and the sweet smell of lavender filled the air. I looked around me, enthralled by the room, wondering why it was there.

  Closing the door, I went back into the kitchen, suddenly desperate for a coffee. Mum and I always drank espresso coffee at home in the mornings, and I’d brought a couple of packets with me; we couldn’t abide the watery, granulated stuff, and neither of us managed to function very well until we’d had at least two. I opened the cupboards until I found the Italian coffee percolator and filled it with water, letting the tap run until the water turned from a dark, rusty brown to its usual transparent colour. There was a black wood-burning stove in the corner, and a more modern cooker next to it. I didn’t have a clue how to use the stove, so I ignored it.

  After some searching, I found the gas valve and turned it, grunting as it resisted at first, then finally gave way. Holding my breath, I tried to turn on one of the gas rings. There was silence, not even the quiet tic, tic, tic of the igniter. I waited a few minutes for the gas to fill the pipes and burst into flame, before realising that if there was no electricity, there’d be no gas either. I cursed out loud and emptied the water from the percolator, grimacing as I saw a couple of tiny black beetles lying in the sink, their legs kicking feebly. I suddenly felt grateful for small blessings!

  Disappointed, I grabbed a bottle of water and some cookies from my suitcase and took my meagre breakfast out into the garden, looking around curiously as I munched noisily on the biscuits. There was a patio
area just outside the back door, covered with a trellis and what looked like a grapevine. The rest of the garden was a blanket of weeds, with a few trees and some broken-down wooden frames that might have been chicken coops or rabbit hutches. There was a ramshackle garage to the left which didn’t seem too sturdy. The garden was so big that I could hardly see the bottom of it, although I could make out some sort of hedged area further down. I sighed and turned back to the house, brushing crumbs off my fingers. The garden would have to wait, the house was my main priority. I felt exhausted just at the idea of tackling all that grime.

  Before I could do anything, I needed a coffee, though. Or two. Before I started thinking about… I stopped there, otherwise the thought would become an obsession, not leaving me in peace until I succumbed to its siren call, and continued to make a mental list of things to do. I had to see about getting the utilities switched back on, get started on cleaning up the cottage, organise someone to come and sort out the garden… it was going to be a long day.

  I grabbed my handbag and keys, and went out the front door. A short path led to a small entrance gate, which I’d missed the evening before in my tired state. The front of the house was much closer to the road; the drive curved around from the huge metal gates in a long U-shape, finishing up at the back door. If the taxi driver had gone just a little further ahead, we would have noticed the other entrance. The garden in front of the house was planted with rose bushes, I could see small buds already forming on the thorny branches. I hoped they were the perfumed kind and would fill the house with their sweet aroma.