The Miracles of Santo Fico

by D. L. Smith

  As Leo spoke, few of his listeners noticed that his thick Italian accent, before so quaint and charming, began to thin. Leo had spent enough years in America that his English was actually quite accomplished, but he’d found early on that there were occasions when it was beneficial to play the role of the simple paesano. It had gotten him out of more than a few tight spots and occasionally saved him some money. In the restaurant he had laid the accent on a bit thicker than necessary for the sake of rural charm, but now the story was taking on a life of its own and he couldn’t be bothered.

  Leo told them of Saint Francis. Of the weary and pious saint plodding the Italian countryside with a loyal band of friars who had heeded his call and followed his vision—traveling on foot to palaces and hovels, no matter the season or inclement weather. Leo told of how, one warm spring day, the good saint found he had occasion to travel south from Livorno along the coast on his way to Roma.

  “It was the spring and everything was beautiful as the blessed saint and his disciples followed the same road you traveled, along the cliffs above the sea—they too were on a journey south. Now in those days, there was a shepherd that had his home somewhere near this spot. He used the pastures down by the sea for his sheep and his goats.

  “It so happened that Saint Francis and his companions, walking along the road, passed by this shepherd’s cottage. The shepherd did not know who they were, but wandering monks and holy men were not uncommon. The good shepherd apologized for his poverty and welcomed them to his little home. He offered to share all he had with them. This blessed Saint Francis, who was’a both tired and sick . . . He asked the shepherd, if it might not be too much trouble, could he and his companions stay and rest for a few days before they continued their journey? The shepherd said he would’a be honored. Well, can you imagine that poor shepherd’s surprise when he discovered that the man who was sharing his cottage was’a none other than Saint Francis of Assisi? Of course, he wasn’t a saint then, not’a yet, but even in his own life he was famous and many people knew his miracles.

  “Now, not far from the shepherd’s cottage, up on top of a hill that overlooked the sea, there was a beautiful fig tree. Every day Saint Francis would walk up that hill, sit beneath that tree, and cool himself in its shade. He would look out to the sea and watch the gulls swoop around the cliffs and dive into the ocean. He would’a watch the winds wave the pines on the hills behind him or blow great white clouds over the distant mountains. And, every now and then, he would reach up and pull a fig off’a that beautiful tree and he would eat it. And so, he rested and prayed, and slowly his strength began to return—and it’s a good thing too. Because, it didn’t take that shepherd long to tell his neighbors who was staying in his little hut. And those neighbors told their neighbors.

  “It started’a slowly, just a few peasants hoping for a benedizione . . . sorry, a . . . blessing. But soon people were coming from all over for the blessings from’a the man who was touched by the hand of God. Saint Francis did not mind. He was so full of the love. He loved the people. He loved this spot high above the sea. And, he loved the fig tree.

  “But one day he was saddened to see that there was no more fruit on the tree. Between himself and his companions and the many visitors—they had picked the poor tree clean. The story goes that Saint Francis sat on the ground beneath the branches and he embraced the tree, tenderly—like a papa would hold a child or a child would hug its mama— and he thank’a the tree for its generosity. And he apologized that they took all the fruit and left none for the birds.

  “The next morning, when Saint Francis returned to his spot beneath the tree there was already a big’a group of pilgrims waiting for the blessing and prayers of the humble man. But, there was also something else. The fig tree was full of fresh fruit. Overnight the tree had’a borne fruit and it was ripe. Well, as you can guess, that morning, among his morning prayers, Saint Francis offered a special prayer for his’a new friend, the santo fico . . . the blessed fig tree.

  “And so he stayed here at this place for many days and in that time pilgrims from all over came to this place and there were many miracles. People who could’a not walk, left here leaping for joy. People who could’a not speak, left here singing hymns’a to God. People who could’a not see, left here wondering at the glories they beheld. And every day, throughout that whole spring all of the people would eat’a the fruit of the fig tree. And every morning they would find its branches filled with new, fresh fruit.

  “At last Saint Francis had’a to leave for Roma. Even saints don’t keep’a the Pope waiting too long. But, he left something behind. The fig tree, she continued to bear fruit. And in the years that followed, no matter what’a the season, no matter what’a the weather, the tree kept offering its fruit. It was a miracle for sure.

  “But, people are strani, eh . . . funny. When a miracle becomes’a ordinario . . . ordinary . . . eh, common . . . it’a stops being a miracle. And so, after a while the people made up their own reasons why the tree bore the fruit. ‘There must’a be something wrong with the tree,’ they would say. Or ‘It’s something in’a the dirt,’ or ‘The stupid tree is’a just confused!’

  “In time, the people forgot about the tree and its miracle. But not the old shepherd. Every day, first thing in the morning, he would walk up the hill and thank’a the tree for its fruit, and he thank’a God for his blessing. And the old man always shared whatever he had with his neighbors and he even look’a for the poor so he could’a share with them.

  “One cold morning, when the frost was on everything, the kind old shepherd came out of his cottage and hiked up the hill as usual. But he discovered that the tree was not just bare of fruit, it’a was bare of leaves. Overnight the tree had withered and died. The old shepherd blamed himself and he wept over his tree.

  “It was weeks later that some travelers told him the news. On’a the third day of October that year, Saint Francis had’a died. When he heard’a this news, the old shepherd went to what was left of the tree, and knelt before it, and thanked his old friend, the withered fig, for being faithful to the end.”

  Leo turned and for the first time gently caressed the smooth, dry trunk of the blackened old stump behind him.

  “. . . For, you see, the third’a day of October was the very day the blessed fig tree also had died.”

  The courtyard was hushed. A few of the English tourists shivered off a wave of goose bumps. Some of the older ladies quietly dabbed their eyes. The locals studied the sky or their own hands. They judged from the silence of the foreigners that Leo had told the story well—although many were sure that he had undoubtedly left out important details.

  Leo sat on the low wall and fiddled with the lichen on the stones. He was quite proud of himself; he had recalled many of the touching details and phrases, even a few dates, although he hoped no one wanted to check on them.

  The sound of someone politely clearing her throat brought him back. He could gloat more later—right now he had to finish up; it was hot and he wanted a cold beer.

  Leo looked up to meet the watery gaze of an elderly woman whose voice barely rose above a whisper, but she asked the question that was on everyone’s mind. Leo knew the question before it was asked and it astounded him how some things refuse to change. He felt that he had, as always, made himself perfectly clear, but here was that maddeningly predictable first question.

  “Is that the, eh . . . That is to say, is that what’s left of the . . . ?” For some reason she couldn’t bring herself to say fig tree—as if uttering the name would be some sort of desecration. Leo nodded, smiled, and finished the phrase for her. “This is all that remains of the blessed fig tree.”

  With that, he stood up—because now two things were going to happen rather quickly. First, someone would venture the alternate most popular question, to which he would nod and step aside. Then, as they all pressed forward to touch the sacred stump, maybe on some spot that Saint Francis had once touched, other questions would begin—slowly at
first, but they would quickly pick up pace until they began to overlap. He had barely gotten to his feet when, as if on cue, a tall large-boned woman (who might have been the blue-haired twin of the horsy gentleman) spoke out boldly with the alternate most popular question.

  “May we touch it?”

  Leo nodded and stepped aside. So the ritual began. The English tourists politely shuffled forward, patiently waiting their turn to reverently caress the smooth dark wood. Many were surprised when their turn arrived—the wood felt like it had been varnished. In fact, the old stump and broken branches bore many coats of shellac going back hundreds of years. This was the only way to protect the wood from the wind, the sun, the rain, and mostly the bugs.

  As Leo worked his way through the crowd, answering their questions as he crossed the courtyard, he thought— amazing; so many years and yet it was like riding a bicycle.

  But as well as things were rolling along, it was time to get on to the Mystery—there was no avoiding it. As he worked his way through the crowd, trying to get back into the church, an odd thing happened. Many of the locals, neighbors he had known all his life and who had gone out of their way to ignore him for six weeks, now nodded to him. A few even lightly patted him on the back. Considering the way they had shunned him as a leper, this was like a testimonial dinner.

  From the garden door he called out in his most endearing accent, “Ladies and’a gentle’a-men, if you would’a step this’a way,” and he moved through the low doorway leading back into the cool shadows of the nave. It would be some minutes before they would abandon the Miracle, so Leo found a bench near the door and, sitting in the cool shadows, considered his next challenge. The Miracle had been simple, but the Mystery was difficult. The story wasn’t harder to tell. In fact, in many ways it was easier. It was certainly shorter. But Leo didn’t like the way the Mystery made him feel and he didn’t like the thoughts it made him think.

  Topo was the first to reenter the church and he almost danced with excitement. Leo was reminded of when they were children and Topo would occasionally get so excited or scared that he would wet himself. It had been many years since he’d been around his friend and he hoped that that particular problem had been corrected. Topo seemed unaware of Leo’s presence as he placed himself next to a pier that was both strategic and yet out of the way. And from his shadowed bench, Leo observed something that he hadn’t expected. As Topo stared into the darkness at the back of the transept Leo recognized an expression that startled him, partly because he would never have guessed it of his old friend. But also because it put a face to what he felt in his own heart—greed. It passed like a blurred cloud across his friend’s face, but there it was. Then, as if his soul felt his sinful thoughts being observed, Topo turned and faced Leo and for an instant the little man looked ashamed. Then the others began filing back inside and the moment was gone—but Leo had seen the secret in Topo’s heart and they both knew it.

  The sanctuary echoed with the sound of scuffling feet and reverential murmuring as the chapel filled and the strangers tried to sense where they were expected to stand and which direction they should look. Leo caught a glimpse of Father Elio returning from the garden with Marta. They were whispering about something that made them both smile. It lasted only a moment, however, before Marta discovered Leo watching her and then her smile vanished. But for Leo the damage was done—for an instant he’d seen her eyes shining and her white teeth flashing. For the first time since he’d been back, he saw her as she used to be and he wished she weren’t here.

  When Leo stood, the room became hushed and even though he spoke quietly, his voice echoed around the vaulted hall. After telling the stories of Cosimo’s miraculous healing and then of Saint Francis and the Miracle of the Santo Fico, Leo liked to keep the story of the Mystery brief. In fact, the story was almost superfluous—the power of the Mystery was in the viewing. So it didn’t take him long to tell about the rich patron whose libertine son was killed in some frivolous war or other. Then he told about a Beautiful Lady who mysteriously appeared, late one night, at the front door of a Great Artist. Sometimes the unnamed Great Artist lived in Siena, sometimes in Firenze, but on this occasion he lived in Roma. The Beautiful Lady spoke for the grieving father of the dead soldier and she offered the Great Artist a generous sum of money for a painting dedicated to the lost son. The Great Artist refused because, as he explained, he was scheduled to leave on a trip. The Beautiful Lady came to his door every night at the same late hour for a week, begging him to reconsider. And nightly he refused, until at last he left on his trip.

  It was supposed to be a simple trip concerning a rich commission for some obscure and forgotten work. But throughout the day the artist’s horse continually turned down a wrong path, or strangers gave him inaccurate directions, or road signs were strangely missing. By evening he was completely lost and wandering along an inhospitable section of the Tuscan coast known as Santo Fico. To make matters worse, a violent storm blew in off the sea and the Great Artist was forced to take shelter in a small monastery atop a rocky promontory.

  “Even from within the stone abbey the Great Artist could hear the wind howling, the thunder rumbling, and the rain beating’a down outside. But he did finally manage to drift off’a to sleep.”

  Leo’s voice became a hushed, secretive whisper as he told them that, “It’a was in the middle of the night that the terrible storm suddenly stopped and it’a was the frightening silence that caused the poor man to wake up. But can’a you imagine the Great Artist’s amazement when he opened his eyes and found, standing before him, glowing like’a the sun, the same Beautiful Lady that had come to his door so many times. She was an angel. Not’a far from her was a handsome soldier, also with’a golden hair, and even though his’a body was covered with the wounds of a terrible battle, he too shone with a heavenly’a light. And standing between them, shining like a brass trumpet, was’a the blessed figure of Saint Francis.”

  Leo told of how the Blessed Saint commanded the astounded Great Artist. “It was’a God’s will that he should create a fresco in memory of this Handsome Soldier—for the youth had been a bad’a boy, much like the young Saint Francis.” But just before a terrible battle, the young man had renounced his evil ways and asked Saint Francis to bless him. To honor this conversion, the Great Artist was to depict the miracle of the blessed fig tree.

  “And so, the next day this Great Artist, inspired by his late-night vision, painted a miraculous picture. Then he just disappeared—gone without’a payment or even leaving his name. The painter of this’a masterpiece of Santo Fico remains forever . . . a mystery.” At this point, Leo nodded to Father Elio and the old priest plugged in the lamps attached to the backs of the piers. Audible gasps accompanied the dazzling lights, not from the sudden glare, but from the power of the fresco finally revealed.

  Nobody ever seemed to notice that Leo’s story absolutely defied reason. It didn’t matter where he set the home of the Great Artist—Siena, Firenze, or Roma—the man could not possibly have gotten to Santo Fico in one day, especially considering all his mishaps. And what was even more glaringly impossible was the notion that anyone could create a fresco in a single day. And, why would humble Saint Francis want a depiction of himself and the fig tree to commemorate some repentant soldier’s conversion? The only fact that Leo got correct was that for at least four centuries the identity of the artist had remained unknown—“a mystery.”

  There was so much that just didn’t make sense, but none of it mattered once Father Elio plugged in the lights. Any concerns about facts and fanciful tales were forgotten against the brilliance of the fresco.

  A dozen English tourists and many more villagers stood in awed silence. It wasn’t as if these people had never seen a wet-plaster wall painting before. In the past week alone these foreigners had probably seen enough frescoes to last them some years. But this fresco was different. What they had seen were innumerable wall paintings that were chipped and decayed, rendered in colors that had
faded and were then coated with centuries of grime. This wall was smooth and even, unmarred by time or man. Also, there’s a wondrous chemical reaction between pigment and lime-rich wet plaster that gives the colors a luminous richness not found in other forms of painting. These colors still possessed their amazing original hues. This fresco might have been created four months ago, not four centuries ago. Hidden in this obscure little corner, there was no harsh sunlight to fade the colors. And since the odd little cathedral had been essentially ignored by generations of villagers, the tincture was not muted by continual candle and incense smoke.

  The second and most remarkable feature was the soul of the scene depicted.The focal point was, of course, a magnificent tree filled with leaves and an abundance of ripe figs. Reclining beneath its shaded boughs, his back resting comfortably against the smooth trunk, was a youthful and surprisingly pretty Saint Francis. One arm reached up, fingers poised only inches from the ripe fruits. This recumbent figure of the saint was an odd mix of sensual yet innocent paradoxes. He was, all in all, a middle-aged man, yet still strangely youthful and delicately boyish. Most startling was his childlike face. Although his hand reached up for the fruit, his eyes were almost shyly cast down, not quite meeting the gaze of the viewer—and they were filled with both gentleness and profound sadness. His small, well-formed mouth appeared on the verge of a smile: either amused understanding or resolute acceptance. Every part of his countenance embodied both joy and lamentation.