Black Mountain

by Venero Armanno

  Let Salvatore give up on me; let any notices he might have distributed fade from people’s memories. Etna would be remote enough and bare enough to protect me – who would think a boy would escape from sulphurous plains only to disappear into a sulphurous mountain?

  The local villages were nothing like the camps I was used to. When night fell all activity didn’t cease and everyone didn’t immediately retreat into their homes. I saw lanterns moving along narrow streets, in small courtyards and in winding laneways away from the houses and closer to fields and paddocks. People stayed out and enjoyed their evenings; there was nothing to fear in this particular darkness; for them the evening air was worth savouring.

  I moved away from the clear stream where I drank, because it ran too close to a collection of neighbouring farms and homes, and soon I discovered a dry creek bed that gave all indications of travelling directly toward the glowering redness in the sky. All around me was an almost pure pitch-black. I stumbled on. There were sounds among the trees but nothing revealed itself. Animals – I was less afraid of them than I was of men, but I’d also heard stories of the great cats that lived in the hills, and how a wayward local or traveller could come to grief. I found a nice heavy branch for protection and carried it over my shoulder, having dug a careful hole with my hands and buried the useless sack and its meager contents.

  More pressing was the state of my feet. At first the thick socks had been helpful, but gradually the ill-fitting boots and constant walking had taken their toll. I tried to put the swelling and pain out of my head because if these were going to be my worst problems then I didn’t have any problems at all. I tried to keep myself feeling optimistic. Freedom itself had to be intoxicating enough to inure me to all discomfort.

  Many hours later, along this creek bed I discerned a dark hillside rising up. There was a small house that overlooked fields, pens and barnyards. My stomach wouldn’t quieten and I’d grown almost completely parched. There might be a well up there. In the neatly planted rows there were probably things I could pluck off the stems to munch on. Deciding to take the risk, I climbed over an embankment and started to cross an empty paddock toward what looked like some kind of animal enclosure. Two dogs appeared like wraiths and stood in my path. They weren’t barking and they didn’t bare their teeth, but no part of them moved either. They simply stared with eyes I couldn’t see for the dark, waiting for me to decide what I would do. That’s what would trigger an action in their brains: what I chose to do next.

  I didn’t move and I didn’t try to call to them. Gradually my eyes adjusted and saw that their tails weren’t wagging but were set dead straight. I slowly moved a foot backward, then the next. I didn’t turn around but kept the dogs as much in sight as I could. Finally I climbed down the embankment and found my way to that dry creek bed once more. My clothes were drenched in sweat.

  I didn’t see the dogs again.

  There was nothing else for hours. The bed was dry and full of flat, smooth rocks and stones. I wanted water. I didn’t know why there was no water here, but I did know that my boots were making far too much noise. I couldn’t take them off. Then again, maybe the scrunch of rocks and pebbles underfoot was keeping animals away . . . or attracting them. I imagined the dull appetite inside some hillside cat, how it would love to chew the meat and crunch the bones of a lonely traveller.

  Much later I saw a sole structure standing close to the creek bed. I was exhausted. I climbed over a bank of dry, crackling reeds and weeds and went as close to the hut as I could. It was the size of a very small barn. One or two cows could have occupied it. There was a latch but no lock on the door. It clicked open, and there was a cluck inside: a chicken house. Some family’s home was probably perched beyond the rise. The hut had been closed and latched, so someone would have to come in the morning to do the reverse. Dawn looked a long way off. I knew I ought to make use of these last hours of darkness but my feet and my belly and my head were in rebellion. I crawled down into the hay and sat amongst white and brown chickens that didn’t mind my presence. They barely moved and didn’t make much more sound than I did. I wondered what they made of me. I lifted one hen, who fluttered her wings but was otherwise docile, and felt the warm spot where she’d been laying on her eggs. There were three. I cracked an egg into my mouth, swallowed quickly and immediately retched.

  The hen let herself be held in my lap. The owner of these chickens must have been a gentle soul. My hunger was greater than my disgust. I cracked another egg into my mouth and when I was able to keep that down I took the third. Then I lay back into the smell of hay and chicken droppings, and their warmth. They’d been closed in because of foxes, I guessed, but no one had considered the intrusion of a boy.

  I was no good at lighting fires with sticks but I still had plenty of Salvatore’s matches in the pockets of his coat, and in the late morning, at the base of a rocky hillside protected by a thick, encircling copse of trees, I built up a small fire that I thought would do the job. The hen whose eggs I’d eaten was plucked and I opened it with my hands, digging in with my thumbs, and pulled out its innards. An hour earlier I’d painstakingly cleaned the brown chicken by the side of a small tributary of a larger fast-running stream, my eyes darting to the left and to the right in case someone was about to come upon me.

  Cleaning the chicken with cold water was murderous. I knew I needed a pot of boiling water to soften the feathers and skin. At least the water had been pristine – I drank my fill and felt half-human again. Then I’d set to pulling the feathers out one by one and used gravel from the bottom of the stream to rub the puckered skin clean.

  Hours and hours before that, I’d left the small hut after hiding the broken shells under a thick mound of hay, and had tried to smooth the surface so there’d be no sign of a visitor. Twelve hens. Now eleven. The owner shouldn’t immediately notice one missing. I hoped some small child with other things on her or his mind would have the chore of letting the chickens out and collecting the eggs. But if it was a farmer or his wife they would likely notice the discrepancy in the number of fowl straightaway.

  It was too much to worry about, but I kept wondering what the penalty for being a chicken thief was. Buckshot in the seat of the pants? Public hanging?

  The bird’s pieces were taking too long to cook and I was becoming agitated – agitated more by fear than hunger. A local farmer now had reason to come after me, or to complain to whatever authorities existed in this place. I closed my eyes and prayed for the meat to hurry up and cook. I’d hide all trace of the fire and bury the bones just the same way as I’d collected all the hen’s wet feathers and stuck them in a hole. To speed things up I tried putting flat stones into the fire and placing the pieces on top of them. Then burning brush on top of that. But it didn’t help, and a thin trail of smoke drifted into the day, sending up a signal to anyone who wanted to know where I was.

  When I was finally eating, though, the taste sent me into a swoon. I’d never had anything quite like this before. I’d cooked myself the finest meal the world has known. I chewed quickly and forced myself to only eat half the bird. The other pieces I wrapped in clean green leaves and tied with stringy dry reed, slipping them into the overcoat’s pockets for later. I poured dirt into the fire and stomped on any remaining embers with my boots until I was sure it was all out. Then I covered it with even more dirt and set brush and brambles over the area so that no passer-by would know what had gone on. Not that there should be any passer-by. The forest remained quiet as eternity. Nevertheless, I buried the leftover bones deep in the rich soil.

  The water in the stream was as cool and welcoming as ever. I washed myself and drank my fill, then set out for the deepest part of the wood.

  Without my stomach grumbling and that constant thirst itching at my throat, I slept heavily, in a deep exhaustion.

  Then the call went off in my mind, the remembrance of all the early starts at Gozzi’s factory and
the mine, but instead of waking at nightfall I discovered I’d slept all the way through to the next morning. An aura of light was touching the horizon. I rubbed my cheeks and shivered. What luxury to sleep so long, and what a relief. My feet throbbed in Salvatore’s boots, but I didn’t dare slip them off to see what sort of state they were in. Instead I allowed myself to enjoy the rare pleasure of coming awake without the feeling that I’d already been robbed of hours of sleep.

  Mist drifted like smoke as I stretched and yawned. My hair and face and hands were damp, the overcoat wet and heavy. My thoughts were clear and sharp. I knew exactly where I was and what I needed to do. Pushing aside the brush I’d covered myself with, I stood and stretched some more, patting myself down. The stream was a hundred metres ahead, invisible now for the thick press of trees, yet I could almost smell its coursing flow. I tramped quietly along then kneeled on the bank and drank the icy water down, splashing my face and neck. As I was drying myself, my breath misted in the frosty air.

  The world here was silent; I could risk travelling among the thickening trees.

  The volcano billowed smoke in the distance. I knew the direction to take.

  Close to evening, I saw the rider again and this time he wasn’t alone.

  There was a rifle crack, followed by another, then two men on horses rode hard towards a clearing near the eastern edge of the forest. I didn’t know what they were hunting, but as they rode across a short plain into the woods I recognised the first rider as the man who’d come so close when I’d been sleeping in the forest. I didn’t know the second man. Maybe they were local farmers ridding the hills of marauding cats.

  Even though the trees protected me and I was safe at this vantage point, I knew I ought to leave fast, head as far away in the opposite direction to the two men with guns as I could possibly go. But for a moment curiosity had the better of me. Wouldn’t it be better to make certain their presence didn’t have anything to do with me?

  The light was fading as I made a careful way down a thickly treed hill, moving as silently as I could. I knew I was safe enough, because near the plain below both men were very busy. They pulled a deer out into the open. The compact animal’s powerful legs were splayed but still quivering. It must have been one of the last of its kind; as I understood it, hunters had all but emptied Etna’s forests of larger prey such as deer, wolves and boar.

  One man tethered the horses and started to make camp while the other dispatched the poor animal and set to preparing their kill. This was the man I’d first seen, and he knew how to use a knife. I thought he was the leader of these two, but as the second man built up the fire, he stretched and took off his coat and hat, and I saw it was big Salvatore. His face was clean-shaved and his bushy red hair had been cut right back to his skull so that he was almost completely bald. His trademark moustaches were gone but it was him, definitely him, and I knew then he’d hired an expert tracker and hunter so they could come collect me.

  How? The nuts and knife blade had given me away? Or had they been prowling these forests and this landscape ever since Salvatore had been freed of his bonds?

  Rolling onto my back, I faced the darkening sky. My mouth was open and I pressed my fists into my eyes, silently shouting with rage and frustration, berating myself for not having moved faster, for having left some kind of trail that men could follow, and for lying here now with nothing in my head but anger and terror.

  It was as if I was locked to the earth by unseen hands. I was too scared to stay where I was and too scared to try and slip away. Biting my lip hard I tasted blood, then that’s what revived me and got me going again, the taste of my own blood and the picture it conjured: the holes in Angelino’s neck, one neat and the other torn out with a mound of flesh. I rolled onto my belly and crept forward so that I could see what Salvatore and his tracker would do next.

  The first waves of blind panic passed and I steeled myself to not scamper away like a rabbit. Better to stay where I was, keep them in view. Here I had the advantage: they didn’t know where I was, yet the two of them were in my plain sight.

  Eventually they set about making themselves comfortable for the night. In the morning I’d be able to see which direction they took, and if need be, to alter my plan accordingly. I could outsmart them; yes, I could. I didn’t believe that in terrain like this they would be able to track one small person moving more carefully than ever.

  Darkness settled. The men sat in front of their fire and drank. The tracker sharpened his knives so that the distinct swish of steel on rock was sharp on the breeze. They talked in voices I couldn’t hear, but they didn’t seem to be taking pains to hide their presence. The aromas from their open-fire cooking maddened my stomach. I felt in my pocket for the wrapped-up pieces of chicken I’d been forcing myself not to eat.

  Something about the cold, dry taste made me want to gag. I choked the chicken pieces down and dug a small hole for the few bones, burying them carefully. I needed more; I wanted lumps of that roasting deer meat. Maybe this was Salvatore’s message to me, wherever I was. He was still the master; I was still the slave. He could eat and drink as much as he wanted and I could cower hungry and cold as a dog. Maybe he expected me to come trembling out of the wood and drop to my knees before their feast, giving up, turning myself in, half-crazed with hunger and exhaustion.

  After they filled their bellies Salvatore arranged more wood onto the fire, then he and his companion settled down and all was quiet. I concentrated on the flickering flames as long as I could but darkness seemed to press down, and as the fire’s glow went down so did my eyelids. Every hour or so I’d snap awake. The camp was always the same, the men always there. I marked every shift in position they made. Salvatore liked to sleep on one side, the tracker preferred to be on his back. The night passed tense and quiet and still, and mist rose above the ground and stayed there.

  After dawn the mist was still there and the two men were packed and ready to leave. I was damp through and through, shivering with cold. I couldn’t remember an hour out of my entire journey when I hadn’t been shivering, except maybe when I’d slept in the chicken hut while holding that hen. Later as the sun came out, I’d drape my overcoat and clothes over some branches to have them dry.

  The tracker was clapping his hands together for warmth. Salvatore was blowing smoke, not mist. Out of the corner of his ugly mouth a stubby cigar protruded. The two men broke camp without fanfare. Salvatore kicked soil over the fire’s embers but I noticed that a good side of deer was still arranged over the smouldering coals. The skin would be crisp and smoky, the meat thoroughly cooked but dripping with natural juice. The rest of the carcass they’d hauled into the trees, but there over the remains of the fire was enough meat to make me mad with hunger.

  It was all I could do to restrain myself. I watched the two men ride away, and forced myself not to move until they were a long way distant and had disappeared like motes of dust into the undulating countryside. Today they’d kept away from forestland and hills, going straight into the plains; it didn’t seem as if they were heading toward Etna. My brow was creased as I tried to think this through. What sort of trail did they believe they were following? There would be villages and towns in that direction. There could be nothing at all for them to read in the land. Something had led them to believe I’d headed straight to civilisation?

  Hunger clouded my thoughts. I could figure it all out later. The succulent deer was waiting.

  Birds of every type drifted out of the sky, drawn by the aromas of the spiralling smoke. Nothing would be able to resist such bounty. I cursed the birds already pecking at the slab. That meat would sustain me for days. I’d eat well and carry chunks wrapped in leaves in my pockets.

  My heart lifted. Maybe from here things would work out.

  By the time I was prepared to risk revealing myself and climbed and tumbled down the dew-covered slopes – crossing a creek bed with a splash
of water glittering in it, and keeping to the edge of the trees behind the place where the men had camped, then darting out to feed myself from those remains – the feast was being attacked from all sides, by infighting sparrowhawks and innumerable squawking birdlife I couldn’t name.

  The carrion fluttered and scattered as I stomped forward. They shrieked at me and I threw rocks and sticks. Wings flapped hard in the desperation and excitement of beaks filled with morsels and tendrils of meat. I saw strips of dangling gristle and muscle being torn away, then I was down on my knees pulling at hot meaty bones and well-cooked flesh. It was warm and tender, and fell away from the carcass like water. My eyes wanted to close with ecstasy as I chewed and savoured a mouthful of this prize. I had more meat ready, but as it touched my lips and teeth I noticed two sparrowhawks fluttering on the ground by the burned wood and branches, and then I knew the trap I’d so willingly entered.

  I dropped what was in my hand, spat out all the globs of masticated portions in my mouth, reached in with my fingers and nails and dug around for any tiny pieces of meat between my teeth. Spat out the animal juices. Birds died around me and I was on my knees retching up anything and everything that was in my belly.

  Coughing, eyes watering, I wiped my mouth with the backs of my hands then wiped my hands on my wet overcoat. Salvatore and his tracker must have tired of the hunt; maybe they’d realised how close I was, even that I’d been watching them. They knew one running boy would be hungry and scared, and the one would conquer the other, and so all they had to do was leave food for me and soon enough their long and frustrating hunt would be over.