The crowd was mystified since as she neared the shallows she did not stand to walk out but instead used her arms to pull herself toward them, exposing her breasts, then the fish scales that began at her waist and covered her lower half, which was now, most decidedly, a fish’s.
“The Pining Nereid,” one of the sailors muttered.
The onlookers fell to their knees and gave thanks to the Virgin who had saved Diamante by turning her into a sea nymph. Though there were no miraculous healings, the crowd venerated her anyway because learning to breathe water and becoming half fish were apparently miracles enough.
The jubilation drifted up to the hilltop revelers, who looked down at the other miracle unfolding. Garnet screamed and rushed, still nude, to her sister, gathering speed and spectators as she made her descent. When she reached the shore, Garnet lifted her twin upright and gave her an embrace that shot volts of energy through both their bodies, since water and electricity do not mix. Garnet’s hair sprang even higher, and the whip of Diamante’s braid curled up like a fiddlehead fern. Even more spectacular, everyone in proximity could feel the power emanating from the sisters, coating them in a supercharged ethereal net. That’s when the suddenly healed town harlot began dancing the jig, the broom maker’s mole shriveled to the size of a chickpea and fell off, the blacksmith’s burn disappeared, and the mangy town mutt lost his mange.
When Marquis came upon the scene, he was, as in the other tale, repulsed by the now-changed girls and was overtaken by all manner of oozing pus. Instead of losing his sight, he lost his mind, but rather than holing up in the Cyclops’s cave, he swam out into the Strait of Messina and dove headfirst into whirlpooling Charybdis, which swallowed him whole.
The townsfolk cheered, threw cloaks over the twins, hoisted them onto their shoulders, and carried them up the hill to Marquis’s estate. They deposited Diamante in the cypress-lined reflection pond, where she flipped her tail in the water with glee. They deposited Garnet in the highest tower, where she acted as the first-ever lightning rod, happily protecting the area from Etna’s volcanic lightning for the rest of her days.
Every sunset, Garnet descended from her tower and sat beside her Nereid sibling at the edge of the pond. People from near and far gathered around them with hopes of healings nestled in their chests, because when the twins held hands, their weird circuitry colluded in such a way that all who were in proximity, including the sisters themselves, received their hearts’ desires.
Mt. Etna and Mt. Saint Garnet Erupt
By MARIE MANILLA
June 25, 2025
SICILY, Italy—In a strange geologic coincidence, volcanoes on two continents simultaneously erupted yesterday. Though Sicilians are blasé about the frequent belches from Mt. Etna, residents of Sweetwater, West Virginia, were abruptly awakened when the once-dormant volcano that had begun smoldering in 1980 came to life on June 24, the seventy-fifth birthday of their most famous resident, Garnet Ferrari. Oddly, when scientists recently measured the spectral density of the Mt. Garnet Hum, a low-frequency sound inaudible to most, they found it to be in the same range as the Mt. Etna Hum recorded decades ago.
The eruption destroyed the 1880s mansion built atop the volcano where Ferrari lived from 1973 until 1980, when heirs of the original owner successfully contested a will that had bequeathed the estate to Ferrari. Most of the structures in the vicinity were also destroyed, including Ferrari’s childhood home, the Nicky Ferrari Library, and the bulk of Sweetwater, a once-thriving community largely abandoned at the turn of the twenty-first century. The local Catholic church sustained heavy damage, although, according to Sr. Desiderata Evangelista, certain items remained unscathed: a statue of St. Brigid of Tuscany and the steeple bells.
Garnet Ferrari rose to international fame in the 1970s when reports of her healing powers drew the Vatican’s attention. An investigation ensued, with inconclusive results. At the height of Ferrari’s renown, Sweetwater hosted five hundred pilgrims a day; they infused life into the village, which had been in decline since the 1968 closing of its primary industry, a metal-processing plant. Sweetwater was briefly rejuvenated by the influx of pilgrims but deteriorated again after Ferrari was ousted from her hilltop manor, which is also when the long-forgotten volcano, dubbed Mt. Saint Garnet, began smoldering.
Heirs of the original owner soon discovered high amounts of zeolites in the natural spring, which are useful for removing heavy metals from the human body and can be used to treat various cancers, mental illnesses, and skin disorders. The family immediately began bottling the now-famous Acqua Dolce, popular in high-end markets in North America, Europe, and Asia, according to retired CEO Abigail Stork.
Photo by Paul Gunning
It is rumored that Ferrari, now a recluse, relocated to a villa in Sicily’s Nebrodi Mountains with other relatives, but locals here will neither confirm nor deny this. However, a Ferrari crypt in the local cemetery holds the interred remains of Diamante Lapelle Ferrari, Ferrari’s grandmother. Artifacts resting on the tomb include a Whitman’s Sampler box, a bottle of Marsala wine, and pictures of Pope Pius XII and Diamante’s second husband, Angelo Ferrari. Also present is a statue of Mary of Lourdes in a grotto; the figure sports a white braid of human hair that, according to the groundskeeper, grows 1/32 to 1/16 of an inch per year.
Acknowledgments
With deep gratitude I offer the following:
A boxcar of biscotti to Kate Garrick, my agent, who believed in The Patron Saint of Ugly when I was still quivering in my boots over the audacity of it all.
A case of Marsala to my editor, Lauren Wein, whose unerring eye helped me rein in the beast whenever it threatened to run wild.
A set of Pliny’s Naturalis Historia to my copyeditor, Tracy Roe, knower of all things. I’ll also offer one Hail Mary as penance for each dangling participle.
A chunk of the Sistine Chapel ceiling for Ellen Weinstein, who illustrated the book’s spectacular cover.
A round of limoncello for the Houghton Mifflin Harcourt team who polished Patron Saint to a high gloss and launched her into the world.
Italian cream cake and sambuca for my writer pals who endured those early drafts: Zoë Ferraris, Paul Martin, Mary Sansom, Laura Treacy Bentley, and John Van Kirk.
A row of votive candles for Pier Paolo Claudio, who helped with the Italian translations.
Rosaries and novenas of thanksgiving to my holy trinity of cheerleaders: my mother, Elaine Manilla; my sister, Chris Palmer; and my husband, Don Primerano.
Mille grazie!
About the Author
MARIE MANILLA is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Her fiction has appeared in the Chicago Tribune, Prairie Schooner, and the Mississippi Review, among other journals. She lives in Huntington, West Virginia.
The Patron Saint of Ugly Page 35
