by Nicole Maggi
I coughed and stumbled back a step. Standing against the door of the closed hardware store, hidden by the shadows, was Jonah. “Oh!” I pressed a hand to my chest. “I didn’t see—have you been there this whole time?”
He pushed away from the wall. A slant of lamplight fell across his face. “Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was soft as just-fallen snow. He was close enough now that I could see flecks of gold in his deep green eyes. He stared at me for a moment before he turned to Bree. “I think we should go home.”
“Yeah, we’re done here,” she said, flicking her half-finished cigarette on the ground. She stepped off the curb and walked down the middle of the street without looking back.
“Listen, I know how Bree comes off,” Jonah said. “But she’s not really like that. She’s pissed because this is the fourth time we’ve moved this year.”
“Wow.” I shifted a little closer to him. “Doesn’t that piss you off too?”
He shrugged one shoulder and tucked his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, but I just show it in a different way.” His smile, unlike his father’s, reached into every part of his face, lighting up his eyes and cheeks from within.
Without meaning to, I felt myself smiling back. “Like how?”
He leaned in close to me. “Oh, you know. The usual. Sneaking out in the middle of the night to break into the library, borrowing the car without asking to go to the museum.”
I laughed. “Stealing money out of your mom’s purse to give to the local orphanage . . .”
“Exactly.” I could see myself in the reflection of his eyes. “You get it.”
“Jonah, come on.” Bree’s disembodied voice rang out from the shadows across the street.
“Coming,” Jonah answered. He gave my arm just the whisper of a touch. “Nice to meet you, Alessia.” The way he said my name tingled my skin.
I watched him disappear down the dusky street until I could no longer hear his footsteps. I thought about going back to Joe’s, but I wasn’t ready to face Jenny’s interrogation about Jonah. I rubbed my hand over my chest. An odd feeling lingered there, like something inside me was trying to break free.
Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled. The night shuddered all around me.
As I walked home, I kept seeing Jonah’s smile in my head, hearing him say my name over and over. Stop it, I told myself. He’s just a boy. And pretty soon he would move away, and I would still be stuck in this dead-end town where two new kids at school was the most exciting thing that had happened all year.
The thought of the Wolfe family lingered even after the smell of homemade tomato sauce washed over me when I entered my house.
“Alessia? Sei in ritardo,” my mother called out. Even though she had been in this country for fifteen years, she spoke a hybrid of Italian and English.
“Sorry, Mom.” I hung my jacket and scarf on the peg by the door and found Lidia in the heartbeat of the house, the kitchen, her hands covered with bits of mozzarella. “Smells amazing.”
“Grazie, cara mia.” My mother wiped her hands on her apron and gave me a tight hug. I breathed in the scents that always seemed to cling to her: grass, cheese, and fresh-baked bread. “Be a lamb, and get me a jar of pumpkin mostarda from downstairs, will you? I thought we could have it with some fresh cheese for dessert.”
“Americans eat chocolate for dessert, not cheese.” It was an old argument. She gave me a playful push, and I headed for the basement. The wooden stairs creaked as I stepped down to the concrete floor and faced the shelves that lined the walls. The mostarda, an Italian specialty made of candied fruit and mustard, filled the uppermost shelves in all different flavors: fig, pear, citrus, and pumpkin.
I dragged the rickety step stool over and climbed up. The pumpkin mostarda was farther back, behind the citrus, and as I reached for it my elbow bumped an empty jar at the edge of the shelf. It spiraled to the floor and shattered with a loud clatter. “Crap.”
“Alessia? Voi bene?”
“Fine. I just broke an empty jar.” I clunked down off the step stool and pulled the broom and dustpan from the corner. I swept all the big pieces into a pile and did a once-over on the entire floor, jabbing at the corners and edges along the wall. Lidia had a habit of padding around the house barefoot, and I didn’t want her to wind up with glass in her toes.
As I swept along the wall by the shelves, the broom dislodged a loose brick right where the floor met the wall. I tried to push it back in with the stiff bristles, but something prevented it from going into place. Leaning the broom against the wall, I crouched down. Something blue was caught on the inside of the brick. I pulled it all the way out of the wall, and with it came a little pouch of bright blue cloth, tied up in string with a card attached. It looked like it had been inside the wall for a long time.
I placed the little bundle in the palm of my hand and held it in front of my face. The fabric was soft and silken, and even though it was faded, I could tell it had once been brilliantly iridescent.
The card attached to it was slightly larger than a playing card, with a red back. The face was splotchy with dirt and age. I peered at it closely. It was an old-fashioned painting of a woman in flowing robes with the words La Empressa underneath it. Light, spidery handwriting scrawled around the edge of the card. I brought it up close to my face, almost to my nose. This house is under the protection of the Benandanti.
Chapter Two
The Birthday
Italians are superstitious. I had been raised with my mother’s superstitions all my life, her constant crossing of herself if something unlucky strayed into her path and whispered prayers in the face of misfortune.
We had a long braid of garlic hanging in our kitchen, and though she plucked cloves from it to use in her cooking, I knew the real reason it was there. A crucifix and an icon of Saint Francis of Assisi, patron saint of animals, hung in the barn. And carved into the hillside behind the farmhouse was an altar to the Virgin Mary: a little white statue of the Blessed Mother nestled into a blue ceramic alcove, a weathered wreath of plastic roses around her feet. I had seen my mother kneel at the statue’s feet and bow her head, her lips moving in silent prayer. And even though I teased Lidia about all these things, I couldn’t help crossing myself whenever I passed the shrine too.
I sat back on my heels and turned the card over and over in my fingers. This house is under the protection of the Benandanti. I had never heard that word before, even though I spoke fluent Italian. I ran it through my internal translator. Good walkers. The amulet had to be yet another manifestation of Lidia’s superstition. Were the Benandanti one more entity for Lidia to pray to? If so, they hadn’t been protecting us much lately.
“Alessia? Dove sei? Did you get lost down there?”
“Coming.” I clutched the amulet in one hand, carried the mostarda in the other, and headed upstairs. The garlic braid was one thing; at least it had a double purpose. But amulets hidden in the basement? It was time for a superstition intervention.
But when I got upstairs, Lidia wasn’t alone. Seated at the kitchen table was our neighbor. “Hey, Mr. Salter. Slumming?”
Lidia shot me an annoyed look.
But Mr. Salter laughed. “I don’t think Twin Willows is big enough to have a slum.” He jerked his chin toward the living room. “Brought you some firewood. Thought you could use it now that the weather’s turning. We—I—got an extra shipment at the store today.” Mr. Salter owned the hardware store in town. I worked there sometimes when he needed help.
“I just put my bathing suit away, and it’s already cold enough for a fire.” I set the mostarda on the table, but I tucked the amulet deep into my front pocket. It didn’t seem right to bring it up in front of Mr. Salter. “Gotta love Maine.”
“Yeah, well . . .” He toyed with the fork in front of him on the table. “I also thought you two could use some company today. Because—you know.”
I stared at him, my face scrunched up.
He looked down at
the fork. “The first birthday is always hard,” he said quietly.
My heart slammed against my chest once and lay still. I couldn’t breathe. How could I have forgotten? What kind of a daughter was I?
Lidia came over to the table and rested a hand on his shoulder. “It was very thoughtful of you to come over, Ed. You know Tom thought the world of you. You’ll stay for dinner, of course.”
I swallowed, the lump in my throat breaking into sawdust. “Mom?” It came out like a croak. “How long till we eat?”
“About twenty minutes.”
“I need to go . . .” I paused in the doorway of the kitchen. “To check on the hens. One of them didn’t look so good this morning.”
“Now, cara?”
But I was already halfway up the stairs to my room. It took me less than ten seconds to grab what I needed and fly back downstairs.
“Take the flashlight,” Lidia called after me, but I didn’t need it. I could find my way blindfolded.
I ran past the barn, over the hill, and into the woods that bordered our farm. How, how had I gone through the whole day without realizing what this day was? It was unforgivable that Mr. Salter had remembered before I did. I’m sorry, so sorry—
But the only answer was the wind through the changing leaves.
The stone wall that marked the end of our property line loomed in the darkness. I climbed over its crumbling rocks without slowing down. Just beyond, I found the path. The little bundle I had grabbed from my room burned in my jacket pocket, its presence like a firebrand against my side.
Within minutes I heard the sound of water, growing louder with every footfall. I swerved through a copse of birch trees, their bark pale and shimmery. Once past them, I skidded to a stop at the edge of a wide stream and panted, my lungs on fire.
The water at my feet burbled over rocks until it reached a steep edge, where it tumbled into a waterfall and landed in a glassy pool below. I stepped onto a rocky overhang and dropped to my knees. Clouds shifted over the moon, fracturing light over every surface like a blessing.
I pulled the leather pouch from my pocket and held it in the palm of my hand. It was just a fraction of the ashes from the cremation, a handful I had stolen before the memorial. I tugged the drawstring and turned the pouch upside down, scattering the ashes in the stream. Heat tightened my throat, stung my eyes. “Happy birthday, Dad,” I whispered.
I watched the little clump of ashes separate and swirl away until they disappeared over the waterfall.
Ten months ago at the memorial, I had bent my head during the prayers and promised my father we would celebrate his birthday one last time here at the waterfall, like we used to when he was alive. The waterfall had always been our secret, special place. Not even my mother knew about it.
But I had almost broken my promise. Every day for ten months I had felt the ache of his absence, and yet . . . today . . . what had distracted me? Bree and Jonah Wolfe? I shook my head. Stupid, stupid girl.
I rocked back on my heels and braced myself with my hand to stand up. White moonlight broke through the clouds and illuminated the opposite bank of the stream. And out of the brush, black as the night around it, a panther crept forward and paused, its bright eyes fixed on me.
Before I could stop myself, I scrambled backward, wincing as my hand scraped against the rock. A panther in these woods? I had seen wildcats before, but a panther sighting was rare. I inched off the rock, keeping my gaze on the panther. It was safely on the other side of the stream, but I knew if it wanted to reach me, it could—and fast.
Once down from the rock, I sidestepped along the streambed until I reached the edge of the waterfall. The panther didn’t move, but its eyes followed me. We watched each other. The wind rippled the stream between us. I had been in the presence of wild animals before—even dangerous ones—but never had I felt so . . . scrutinized.
A throb started in my palm where I had cut it on the rock. Breaking eye contact with the panther, I held my hand up in the moonlight. Blood and dirt dappled my skin. I glanced again across the water. The panther was utterly still, the only movement the rustle of the breeze in its sleek fur. I squatted down and dipped my hand into the flow of the waterfall. As the cold water rushed over my skin, I realized that in all the years I’d come here, I had never touched the water.
When my hand grew numb, I stood up and tucked both my hands into my pockets to warm them. I tiptoed away from the water’s edge, back toward the birch trees.
The panther rose out of its crouch and stepped into the stream, its paws splashing lightly. I froze, my heartbeat shallow. The panther cocked its head. Its breath misted the air. I took a tiny step backward. The panther stayed where it was, its gaze more curious than predatory. I stepped back again and again until I bumped into one of the birch trees. The panther never moved, just stood ankle-deep in the stream, its eyes on me like two burning torches. Finally, when I ducked inside the copse, the stream—and the panther—disappeared from view.
I sagged against the tree and gulped in breath, suddenly aware that I’d practically been holding it since the moment the panther appeared. I couldn’t get the image of the panther’s eyes out of my head. The back of my neck prickled with the sensation of being watched. I turned in a wild circle, but there was nothing.
I fled out of the birch trees, wanting to put more distance between myself and the waterfall, but after several paces, I stopped. The waterfall was still audible through the forest. I clutched my hand at my throat. I miss you, Dad. Every day.
And yet, it had taken Mr. Salter to remind me of the date. I turned away from the sound of water and headed toward home. It wasn’t surprising that Mr. Salter had remembered; his wife had died only a few months before my dad. He and Lidia had bonded over their mutual grief. I broke into a run again. Branches slapped my face, stinging my skin, but the tears that came to my eyes weren’t from pain.
I reached the stone wall and clambered over to the other side. My vision was blurred with tears, the trees around me fuzzy, and before I could take a step I smacked into something warm and solid. I gasped and fell backward against the wall. “What the—?”
“Alessia?”
I blinked to clear my sight.
Heath, the farmhand my mother had hired a month earlier, stood in the path in front of me. The edge of his mouth curled up, crinkling the corner of his blue eyes. Though he was barely out of his midtwenties, he had little wrinkles there. “Sorry—didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You—you—didn’t.” I straightened. “What are you doing out here?”
“Your mom sent me to find you.” He searched my face. “But she seemed to think you would be at the henhouses, not in the woods.”
“I—” I tried to think of an excuse. I clamped my lips together. I didn’t need to; I didn’t owe Heath anything. He hardly knew me. “I was just heading back now.”
“Great. I’ll go with you.” He brushed a lock of sandy hair off his forehead. “Lidia invited me to dinner too.”
“Yeah, well, she likes to feed everyone.” It was true. She had once invited a perfect stranger she’d met in a bookstore over to dinner.
We walked in silence for several minutes, emerging out of the woods and climbing over the fence at the edge of our pasture.
As we started up the hill, Heath glanced over his shoulder at the forest. “You should be careful in there, you know. There are wildcats.”
“Next time I’ll bring the shotgun.”
Heath raised an eyebrow, unsure whether I was joking.
I wasn’t. I knew how to take care of myself. My father had taught me that. He’d taught me many things, sitting on the rock at the edge of the waterfall. As I’d sat there tonight, watching his ashes disappear, I’d finally realized he was really gone. He’d never teach me anything ever again.
And I would never return to the waterfall ever again, either.
Chapter Three
The Vision
Before the sun rose the next morning, I was
on my way to the henhouses, which were actually fifties-era trailers set at the edge of the pasture. Our farm was mostly a goat farm, although we sold our fresh eggs along with our cheeses at local farmers’ markets and gourmet stores. It was a small operation, smaller since my dad had died, but we did okay. Collecting eggs had been my chore since I was seven, and while other kids might complain about the early hour, I loved watching the day rub the sleep from its eyes and come awake.
When my basket was full, I headed back across the pasture. I felt lighter this morning; it was actually a relief to have Dad’s birthday over. I hoped Mr. Salter was right, that the first one was the hardest. The scene at the waterfall last night haunted me—the ashes swirling in the water, the moonlight shifting over the treetops, the panther watching me. I shivered and pushed it out of my mind. I tucked my basket in the crook of my elbow and buried my hands in my pockets.
My fingers met a lump inside my jeans; it was the amulet I had found. Mr. Salter had stayed late last night, so I hadn’t asked Lidia about it yet, but the light in the kitchen spilled into the dawn-darkened pasture, telling me she was awake now. I cut through the barn, where the goats were starting to stir and bleat. Inside, blue dawn light illuminated a lean shape. “Hey, Heath.”
He looked up and smiled, those little wrinkles appearing again. “Morning, Alessia.” His voice was quiet and low; he said that loud noises upset the goats and spoiled their milk. Heath was always saying weird stuff like that.
I watched as he pitched a bale of hay into an empty stall. As reluctant as I’d been to let a stranger onto our farm, I had to admit that Lidia had made the right choice. The barn was cleaner than it had ever been in my lifetime. Not to mention that Heath made a crème fraîche that could make you cry.
“How’s your French coming along?”
I made a face. Heath had lived in France for a few years and helped me with my French homework sometimes. “It’s much easier to learn a language when you have a native speaker at home.”
