The Healer's Secret

by Helen Pryke

  His mother tried to defend him at the beginning, but soon stopped as Ernesto turned his attention to her, shouting and thumping his fists on the table. She would glance at Mario, an apologetic expression on her face, and the two of them would carry on eating in silence. Even so, Mario’s arms and back were covered in bruises, which he tried to hide from his mother.

  One day, Mario returned home from school, happy that the weather was good enough for him to stay out in the garden all afternoon. It had been raining a lot just lately, and he was fed up with being cooped up inside the house. There was a particularly interesting spider he’d found; it’s unusual markings and incredibly intricate web needed further investigation. He ran into the house, threw his bag on the floor and dashed across to the kitchen for a glass of water.

  “So you’re home, then,” came a voice from behind him as he was filling up a glass from the tap. He jumped, spilling most of the water into the sink.

  “P-papà,” he said, turning around. Ernesto sat in his armchair, holding a leather belt taut in his hands. A glass of wine was perched dangerously on the arm.

  “Surprised to see me?” he slurred.

  “A-a bit,” Mario replied. “Did they close the factory again?” Just lately, his father had been coming home early from work, saying that there was a problem with the machinery and the factory had had to close.

  “Yeah, it closed again,” he said dispiritedly, closing his eyes. “Permanently, this time.”

  “What do you mean?” Mario didn’t want to continue the conversation but was unable to stop himself. “They’re shutting down the factory? That’ll be a disaster for everyone in the village.” He thought of all the men who worked there, and how they relied on the factory for their livelihood.

  His father opened his eyes and glared at him. “They’re not shutting it down, they’ve just closed it permanently for me.” He grinned, and raised his glass to Mario. “Cheers, son, looks like you’ve got to be the man of the house now. Apparently, I’m not up to the job… neither at work or at home.”

  “Does Mamma know?” Mario asked, confused. What was he talking about?

  “Nope, and you’re not going to tell her,” Ernesto said, narrowing his eyes. “D’you hear me, boy? She’s not to know about this.”

  “Wh-where is she?” Mario asked, looking around frantically. He glanced at the belt resting across his father’s legs.

  “Where she always is. Out tending her damned garden. If only she looked after me half as well as those fucking plants, we’d never be in this mess.” He finished off the wine in one big gulp. “Fetch me another bottle,” he bellowed at Mario.

  “D-don’t you think you’ve had enough?” Mario realised his mistake as soon as he’d spoken the words.

  His father glared at him. “Who the hell do you think you are, telling me whether I can drink or not?” he yelled. He slowly raised himself out of his chair and walked over to the kitchen, the belt dangling from his right hand. “I asked you, who the hell do you think you are?” he shouted more loudly.

  Mario cowered before his father. He was a small, frightened boy in front of a huge, angry man. He recoiled as Ernesto slapped the belt against his legs, the noise deadened by the thick material of his jeans. He bent over Mario, his eyes wide and staring, as if he didn’t know what he was doing. Then he raised his arm and brought the belt down on Mario’s back. Again and again he hit his son, anger surging through his body as the leather made satisfying contact with the boy’s body. Mario screamed the first few times, then his cries turned into whimpers as his body became numb to the pain. He had no idea how long it lasted, it seemed as if his father had been hitting him forever. But eventually Ernesto’s arm grew tired and started to ache, and he stopped. He moved backwards, looking disdainfully at the boy curled up on the ground in front of him.

  “Not a word to your mother, boy, or I’ll do the same to her,” he snarled. Mario whimpered, shaking his head.

  “Let that teach you never to question my drinking. Get out of my sight, before you make me start all over again.”

  Mario dragged himself up onto his feet. His back felt as if it were on fire, the stinging welts making him wince with every movement he made. He was sure that if he lifted his shirt and looked in the mirror, he would see a mass of cuts and bruises. He shuffled over to the back door and went outside, glad to get away from his father. He carefully made his way down to the bottom of the garden, to his mother’s chicken coop. He sat down under the apple tree, tears springing to his eyes as his shirt touched his bruised back. He watched the chickens scratching around in the dirt, beaks pecking at microscopic crumbs or insects, and wished he could be in there with them, without a care in the world. He tried laying down on his stomach, and that seemed to relieve some of the pain. He rested his head on his hands and fell asleep.

  “Mario?” His mother put her hand on his shoulder and gently shook him awake. He started as pain shot through him, and pulled away from her touch.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked him, looking worried.

  He tried to sit up, every muscle in his body protesting against the movement. “I-I’m fine, Mamma, just give me a moment. I must have fallen asleep,” he said, rubbing his eyes.

  “Come here, you’ve got dust all over your shirt,” she said, brushing it off his shoulders. She jumped as he screamed and pulled away from her. “What? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, it’s nothing, Mamma.” Mario tried to stand up but his body wouldn’t obey, and his legs collapsed beneath him.

  “Mario!” Luisa held him close to her, noticing his pained expression as she touched his body. She lowered him to the ground, then pulled his shirt up. The blood drained from her face as she saw the mass of bruises covering his entire back. “Who did this?” she whispered.

  “Don’t, Mamma,” Mario mumbled.

  “Was it your father?”

  He pulled away from her, avoiding her gaze.

  “Mario?”

  “He-he said he’d do it to you too, if I told you.”

  “Let me see,” she insisted. Mario turned around. Luisa felt sick as she saw her son’s battered body. “Come, we’ll get some ointment for it, that will take some of the pain away.”

  “No, he’s in the house, he’ll see us.”

  Luisa pursed her lips. “What’s he doing home anyway? It’s too early for him to have finished work.” She looked at her son’s face. “Mario? What’s going on? Do you know something?”

  “He’s finished work, Mamma, for good.” Seeing her puzzled expression, he explained. “He lost his job. I don’t know why, but he was sitting in his armchair, drunk, when I got home. He wanted me to get him another bottle of wine, and when I didn’t… he did this.” He shrugged, wincing.

  “Sacked.” She said it as if she’d been expecting it. “You’re right. It’s better we don’t go indoors. I’ve got a pot of salve in the garage, I keep it there in case I hurt myself when I’m gardening. I’ll go and get it. You stay here out of the way.”

  She soon found the ointment at the back of the garage and picked it up. Hesitating, she glanced at the other bottles on the shelf. She saw the small one at the back, hidden behind the others. Hidden for a reason. Almost without realising it, her hand reached out and took the bottle. She placed it in the pocket of her apron, and went back to Mario.

  The bottle seemed to get heavier as the day wore on. She could feel it bumping against her leg as she worked, and she was so tense that she was sure her face would give her emotions away. But anger filled her whole body, a deep burning sensation that threatened to consume every particle of her being. An image of Mario’s back flashed in her mind, and she remembered how he’d bravely stood still while she applied the soothing balm. He was only ten years old, how could anyone do that to a child? How could Ernesto do that to his own son? Her stomach clenched as she thought what Ernesto had done to his own daughter. Was Bruna right? Was there something evil here that worked its way into weak people? What if it wasn
’t Ernesto’s fault?

  The doubt that Ernesto could be innocent stayed with her all evening, and she kept glancing at him as he sat sprawled in his armchair. She couldn’t help remembering how handsome he’d been all those years before on their wedding day, and how she’d looked forward to their future. What had happened? Had something at the cottage changed him? Or would he have become this monster regardless? She reached down and touched the outline of the bottle, taking comfort from its presence. She had to decide: let Ernesto live and make her life miserable until the day she died, and risk losing Mario as she’d lost Bruna and Teresa, or… the bottle seemed to pulse beneath her fingers, heat flowing up her hand and along her arm, all the way to her heart.

  “I’m going to bed,” Ernesto announced, making her jump. “You comin’?”

  “In a moment, I’d like to finish this.” She gestured at the open book on her lap she’d been pretending to read.

  Ernesto grunted and went upstairs. Luisa breathed a sigh of relief, and went to retrieve the ancient recipe book from the back of the cupboard. Sitting at the table, she opened it and found the page she needed. The parchment here was worn thin and she was almost afraid to touch it, in case it crumbled to dust beneath her fingers. There were several notes written in different hands, and Luisa marvelled once again at the way all the healers had left their mark on the paper over the centuries. Her eyes moved to the very first note at the top of the page. The ancient calligraphy was faded and smudged, the lettering difficult to make out. She slowly read through the recipes, smiling at the various names her ancestors had given the plant over the centuries. Banewort, devil’s berries, death cherries, devil’s herb, dwayberry, belladonna and deadly nightshade. But none of them mentioned what she was searching for. She needed the right dose: too little and it wouldn’t work, too much and it may leave evidence that would cause suspicion, making everyone point their finger at her.

  Nothing. Only innocent recipes with the very small doses necessary for relieving pain, particularly for women’s monthly problems or for elderly men with gout. She rubbed her eyes. Absentmindedly, she turned the page, expecting more of the same. To her surprise, it was blank, except for a few lines of text right at the bottom of the page. They seemed written almost as an afterthought, so small that she had to lean close to the parchment. She read the words: Used in higher doses, the berries of the banewort plant will cause a quick, painless death. Firstly, steep the leaves... She gasped, putting her hand to her mouth. This was it. She turned back to the previous page and checked the handwriting; it was the same as that of the first entry. Luisa wondered under what circumstances her ancestor had had to write it, and why it was on the back of the parchment. Shaking her head, she turned back to the recipe.

  After reading it through several times, she sat back in her chair, pressing her fingers against her temples. Now she had to make her choice. Images flashed through her mind: her wedding day, holding each of her babies in her arms for the first time, Ernesto’s look of joy when Antonio was born, the women in the village whispering behind her back, Antonio in the darkened bedroom, fighting so hard against the disease that would kill him. An image of Bruna appeared, her face contorted with hate as her father tried to touch her hand, her belly round and taut as the baby grew within her, holding her hand during those long hours of labour. And then, that moment when she placed the pillow over the baby and pressed down, her heart breaking as she destroyed the one thing that would have kept Bruna there at the cottage. She felt a tight band around her head, so tight she thought it would crush her skull, her brains oozing out onto the kitchen table. Still she allowed the images to come. Ernesto fucking that floozy in the alley, Ernesto drinking and lashing out at both her and Mario, poor Mario’s back after his father had beaten him with his belt. Everything that had happened came back to Ernesto. He was the pivotal point of all their pain and heartbreak.

  She placed her hand in her pocket and took out the bottle, holding it in front of her face. The berries had lost their shine and were starting to wrinkle, the leaves were dry and brown around the edges. She placed it on the table and went to get a bowl from a cupboard. Removing the stopper from bottle, she shook its contents into the bowl, counting out the exact amount. She knew exactly how toxic this plant was, so she was careful not to touch anything as she poured warm water over it. The berries and leaves needed to steep for a few hours, so she covered it and hid it at the back of the pantry.

  As she crept into bed a little while later, she couldn’t help smiling. Very soon, their problems would be over.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “No arguments, Mario, you’re going to Nonna Emilia’s for the day,” Luisa said, as her son protested for the hundredth time.

  “But Mamma, I told you I need to study those hornets that have built a nest near the coop,” he said, hopping from one foot to the other impatiently.

  “It can wait until tomorrow, one day won’t hurt,” Luisa replied. “Nonna needs you today, she said she’s got a lot of work to do in the garden, and she isn’t up to it.”

  Mario sighed theatrically. “I s’pose, if I really have to.”

  “Yes, you do,” Luisa said, hiding a smile. “Now shoo, you’ve got a long day ahead of you.”

  Ernesto made an appearance later that morning, his bloodshot eyes and three-day stubble making him look ten years older. Luisa had got up early, going straight to the pantry and checking on the mixture in the bowl. Satisfied that it was just right, she’d strained off the juice and thrown away the swollen berries and leaves, careful that no-one could accidentally touch them. Ernesto’s special bottle of wine was now standing on the counter in the kitchen, waiting.

  “Ugh, I feel terrible this morning,” he groaned. “How much did I drink yesterday?”

  “I don’t know, but it was probably too much. You’re getting through bottles like there’s no tomorrow, Ernesto.”

  He grunted. “Only thing I’ve got left.”

  Luisa privately agreed. Her once-handsome husband had become so flabby and aged that the women in the village probably didn’t even look at him any more, let alone open their legs for him. And she hadn’t let him touch her since finding out about Bruna. Let him drown his sorrows in alcohol, she thought wickedly, let’s see how that solves everything.

  She gestured to the bottle on the side. “Why don’t you see if another glass makes you feel better? You know, hair of the dog and all that.”

  “Maybe later,” he said, belching loudly. “Right now, I’d like a really strong coffee.”

  Luisa cursed inwardly, but made him his coffee. “I’m going out to the Grove,” she said, handing him the cup. “Signora Paoli asked me to make some more cordial for little Michele, it seems it’s the only thing that stops those fits of his. Call me if you need me.”

  She sauntered out into the garden, humming under her breath, her heart pounding nineteen to the dozen. She was certain that Ernesto wouldn’t be able to resist the bottle of wine. It was just a matter of time.

  The morning passed quickly and it was soon time to prepare lunch. Luisa opened the door with trepidation, holding her breath. She could see the back of Ernesto’s head over the edge of the armchair, still as a statue. She silently moved forward, ready for what she would find. Her foot caught the edge of the coffee table, which scraped across the tiled floor echoed loudly around the room.

  “Jesus, Luisa, what are you sneaking about for?” Ernesto grunted, turning towards her.

  Luisa screamed.

  “What the hell, woman? I just dropped off for a moment, there’s no need to make so much fuss.”

  Luisa put her hand to her chest, willing her heart to stop jumping about. She glanced over to the kitchen counter; the bottle was still there, untouched.

  “I’m going to make some lunch, what would you like?” she asked, trying to sound normal.

  Ernesto glared at her. “Nothin’, I’m not hungry.” He sounded like a sulking child. “Why d’you wake me up?” He walked over to her
, a little unsteady on his feet. She backed away from him, until she felt the edge of the sink behind her. He raised his hand and she flinched, expecting him to hit her.

  “Just getting my wine, woman… Jesus, you’re a bag of nerves,” he muttered, reaching past her to grab the bottle. He leaned in close, leering, then turned and went back to his armchair. Luisa let out the breath she was holding, and busied herself in the kitchen, trying to ignore her shaking hands.

  She ate some cold meat and bread, she didn’t have the energy to cook herself something. She could see Ernesto’s profile through the kitchen door, and almost choked when she saw him pour a generous glass of wine. Suddenly the meat tasted like cardboard, and she could hardly swallow the piece of bread she was eating. She hurriedly gathered up her plate and fork, threw the remains in the bin and put everything in the sink. She couldn’t stay there any longer, she thought she might be sick.

  “I’m going upstairs for a lie-down,” she said to Ernesto, trying to plaster a cheerful smile on her face. “I overdid it in the garden, I’m afraid.”

  “Just as long as you leave me in peace,” he snarled. “My head’s thumpin’, I can’t be putting up with you yapping on at me.”

  She noticed that his face was covered in a film of sweat. She glanced at his glass, it was already half-empty. “I-I’ll leave you to it, then,” she mumbled, hoping he wouldn’t hear the tremor in her voice. He merely grunted in reply, and took another gulp of wine.

  Luisa escaped upstairs to the bedroom and closed the door. Taking a deep breath, she sat on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands. Her whole body began to shake, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts. She couldn’t stay still, so she started to walk around the bedroom, careful not to make too much noise. The last thing she needed was Ernesto coming upstairs to shout at her. She picked up the book on her bedside table and opened it, her eyes skimming over the pages without seeing anything. She continued to pace, backwards and forwards, the book in her hands but her mind buzzing.