The Girl Who Rode the Wind

by Stacy Gregg

  “Now, Nico!” I wrapped my legs around him, no longer using them to cling on, but to signal to him that the race was on, we were making our move.

  Instantly I felt him surge, his stride opening up, his legs working like pistons beneath us. As the others faded he was rising to the challenge, and I realised now that he had been hating it all this time down the hill as I’d held him back with all my strength because he couldn’t bear to be at the rear. With every fibre of his being he wanted to be out front and that was where we were going now, swallowing the ground with every stride, passing Frannie and then Leonardo and then Umberto until at last there was only Antonia ahead of us. If she hadn’t bothered to look back at me before, she was certainly taking a good look over her shoulder now. Riding like a track jockey she manoeuvred her mare to block me.

  She had me jammed behind her horse’s rump as we came out of the woods and into the sunlight, up the other side of the valley. I had to hand it to her, she rode like a pro, never letting a gap open. I was looking for a space, but I couldn’t get past. Furious at being held back, Nico was fighting me, attempting to reef the reins from my fingers, but there was nowhere to go.

  “Easy, Nico.” I kept my grip, but I knew I couldn’t control him like this much longer. If we couldn’t get past Antonia by sneaking through, our only option was to pull out and run wide. We would need to go further and faster to take the lead, but if Nico had the power and speed that I suspected he possessed, then we could make it.

  “OK then, you want to run? Let’s see what you’ve got!”

  Nico gave a snort of indignation as I yanked the rein hard to the left, but then he saw the track opening up and he understood me. He flattened out his stride and when I drove him on he thrust forward with such speed he left me breathless. I had never felt a horse move so fast before. The way he stretched out so that within just a few short strides we were alongside Antonia. I saw the shocked expression on her face as she looked across at me, and then we were gone, taking the lead and moving further in front, until we were a good five lengths ahead of Antonia and more than ten ahead of the others.

  I think he could have run for ever that day, but when we crested the hill and I realised that this must be where we finished, he pulled up real obedient, softening instantly to my touch and coming back easily. I think he knew the race was over, and he had nothing more to prove because he slowed to a canter, giving little happy snorts, and then to a trot and a walk, his sides heaving, his neck and flanks frothing with sweat.

  I turned around to look behind me at the others and the first thing I saw was Antonia with this smile like sunshine on her face. And the others too all whooping and calling out to each other in Italian, and then Antonia was right beside me and she had flung an arm over my shoulder, laughing as if we were old friends.

  And then, with a wave to Frannie who was the last to join us, she called out. “Frannie! You win.”

  “But he came last.” I was confused.

  “Not the race,” Leonardo said, pulling up his horse next to me and smiling. “Our bet. We had a bet with Frannie, he said you could ride, but we didn’t believe him. And now we do.”

  Frannie rode up alongside us. “I told you, didn’t I?” he taunted the others. “Happy now?”

  “Yeah,” Umberto said, giving me a pat on the back. “The kid’s OK, she can ride with us anytime.”

  Frannie looked pleased as he rode up alongside me. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” he said proudly. “Brava. Brava, Lola Scavezzecolla.”

  Scavezzecolla. That is what Marco and Carlo both called me after that day when I jumped the roadblock. What they did not realise was that afterwards I would lie awake at night, petrified that the Blackshirts had recognised me and they were going to turn up suddenly and rip me out of bed and take me away and torture me with castor oil for making them look so stupid.

  There was a change in Mama’s tone now when she spoke about the Blackshirts. She had once admired them as good men. Now, after what happened to Signor Garo, I knew she thought differently. Our town had always been full of rivalries and distrust between the contradas. Now an uglier division had silently begun to consume us. The rich and the privileged, living in luxury despite the war, continued to support II Duce and his fascists. The rest of us, poor and starving for the most part, secretly began to suspect that something was very wrong. At school, as we gave our salutes and stood to attention and chanted about victory, I started to wonder whether we were being told the whole truth. There were rumours flying around that perhaps we were not so victorious after all. If we were winning the war then why were the Blackshirts beating up anyone who disagreed with them?

  By the summer of 1943 the Palio had already been cancelled two years in a row, and it seemed that it would be cancelled a third time with no end to the war in sight. Carlo was very upset about this, he wanted so desperately to race Serafina, but the war had interrupted his plans and the bay mare was now almost nine, too old for the demands and dangers of the racetrack. And so Carlo turned his attention instead to Stella, and began to train her in the hope that by the time the Palio was run again she would be ready.

  “She will be a better horse even than Serafina,” Carlo insisted. “She has the speed to win, plus she is surefooted enough to take the corners and fearless enough to face up to the body slams and beatings that we will take out there in the piazza.”

  By now my father had been gone for two years and Carlo, who was almost eighteen, knew that if the war did not finish soon he would not be joining the fantinos on the racetrack, but instead would be forced to enlist in the fascist army.

  My brother was not a coward. He was very brave. “But to join the fascists is the same thing as fighting on the side of the Nazis,” he told me, “and I will not fight for Hitler.”

  It was July and we were hoping against the odds that an announcement would be made that the Palio would be held again in August. Instead, there was much more dramatic news.

  “II Duce has been thrown out!” My brother raced through the front door of our house, panting and puce-faced. He had run home all the way from the piazza. “There are celebrations. It is the fall of the fascists!”

  The joy came too soon. It was true, II Duce was gone, taken off to prison. But the war continued and it became more dangerous than ever to stand up to the Blackshirts, because the Nazis were in Italy too and the Blackshirts had joined forces with them.

  “We need to rise up against them,” Carlo announced. “My friends, Gino and Vincenzo and Arturo, you know them, they are all ready to join the fight for freedom.”

  “You are just boys!” Mama told him.

  “Together we will become an army,” Carlo insisted. “Not all of the rich and powerful in this town are fascists. The Prior and the Capitano of the Contrada of the Wolf are both good men. We can trust them to help us.”

  “If the Blackshirts discover that you are on the side of the freedom fighters they will come for you,” Mama said. “They will interrogate and torture you until you tell them everything and then hang you as traitors.”

  “You are right, Mama,” Carlo agreed. “And that is why I must go.”

  “Go?” Mama said. “But where? You cannot be safe anywhere in Siena.”

  “To the woods,” Carlo said. “We’ll set up camp, wait for others to join the cause, and plan our next move.”

  “When will you go?” Mama asked.

  “Tonight,” Carlo said. I saw that his eyes were alight with excitement in a way that had been missing ever since they stopped running the Palio.

  That night I sat on the end of my brother’s bed and watched as he packed his bag. He didn’t take much with him, just some warm clothes and a sleeping roll.

  “When will you come back?” I asked.

  “Very soon, Loretta,” Carlo said. “You will see. Now that II Duce has gone, Italy has woken up. More and more of us will turn against the Nazis and we will become an army and return to fight for our people.”

  “Ca
n’t I come with you? I wouldn’t be any trouble. I’ll do whatever you say.”

  Carlo looked up from his packing and saw the tears welling in my eyes. He put down the bag and wrapped his arms around me in a tight bear hug.

  “Who would look after the horses if you came?” he said. “You have a job to do here, Loretta. Do you know how much I am relying on you? You are a fine rider, you must keep Stella exercised and fed and prepare her for the day when the war is over and then I will come back and race in the Palio once more.”

  I sniffled a little. “I don’t want you to go.”

  “Hey, hey now, what’s this nonsense? No crying!” Carlo brushed away the tears on my cheek.

  “Loretta,” he said. “I have not told you the most important part yet. It is not just the horses who are relying on you. There is a very important task that I must ask you to do for me. While we are hiding in the forest you will be our courier. It is a very dangerous and serious job, for unless you bring us food we will starve out there. The Nazis won’t suspect a young girl of being an agent for the freedom fighters. You can carry supplies and messages in and out of our camp without getting caught.”

  I felt my spirits leap at this. I would still be able to see my brother! Also, Carlo was entrusting me with the most important mission. I was to be the go-between, the vital link between the freedom fighters and the outside world.

  I fought back my tears. I was working for the freedom fighters now and blubbing was not appropriate. “I will be a trustworthy courier,” I told him, bravely jutting out my jaw, feeling the weight of the role he had assigned me resting heavy on my young shoulders.

  “Good girl!” Carlo smiled.

  The tap-tap of pebbles being flicked onto Carlo’s bedroom window startled both of us at that moment. I peered down warily at three dark shapes in the garden below. It was Arturo, Gino and Vincenzo.

  “They are here for me,” Carlo stood up from the bed and threw his duffel bag over his shoulder. “I have to go now, Loretta. Don’t worry, I will see you soon!”

  As he got up to go, Ludo leapt up with him.

  “No, Ludo,” Carlo said. “You must stay with Loretta.”

  “You aren’t taking him with you?”

  “Ludo cannot come.” Carlo was firm. “I can’t feed him and care for him out there. It is better for him to remain here.”

  Ludo cocked his head to one side and gave a whimper, as if he knew at that moment that Carlo was leaving him, and I felt the tears prick my eyes once more, not for myself this time but for poor Ludo.

  Some dogs belong to the whole family and will take a pat or a bone from whoever wants to give it. But Ludo was not like that. The dog had just one master, my brother. He was the most devoted of companions, always accompanying Carlo out hunting or riding. If he ever got left behind, Ludo would wander disconsolately from room to room, looking out of the windows and waiting for Carlo to come back again, then greeting him joyously, leaping up and licking him.

  Poor Ludo. I think he howled louder than me that night. He paced back and forth until he had almost worn a groove in the floorboards of my bedroom. Finally, he fell asleep on the hard floor, but even in his dreams I could hear his whimpers of distress.

  “Don’t cry, Ludo.” I stroked his shaggy coat. “We will both see him again soon, I promise.”

  Carlo had entrusted me to be the courier. It was a top-secret mission.

  “So secret that you cannot tell anyone,” I said to Marco.

  I had to tell Marco of course, I told Marco everything.

  I wanted so badly to tell Mama the truth about my friendship with Marco, but her hatred of the Istrice was so heartfelt, I feared what she would do if I confessed to it.

  In public, Marco and I continued to ignore each other, but in private we were closer than ever. Our abandoned villa had become a retreat, from the awfulness of the war. We would meet there as often as we could. Both of us would smuggle morsels of food and we had a deck of cards and would spend hours together, playing, laughing and talking, happy in each other’s company.

  “I can help the freedom fighters too,” Marco offered. “I’ll come with you tonight.”

  “No,” I told him. “Too many of us wandering about the woods and the Nazis might get suspicious. I must do this alone.”

  The truth was, I didn’t want to share the job of courier. It made me feel important that Carlo had entrusted me with the role and it was mine and mine alone.

  All my life I had hunted and played in the woods that surrounded our villa and I knew them like the back of my hand. But Carlo had gone deeper into the woods than we had ever been in our games or hunts. To journey to his camp I would have to chart a course into the darkest and most remote parts of the forest.

  I could never have done it on my own, but luckily I had Ludo. The first time I went, I relied on him entirely. Beyond the point where the paths were familiar Ludo picked up Carlo’s scent, his tail shot straight up in the air and he was off and running. I had put him on a lead so as not to lose him as he scampered up and down steep banks and gullies tracking the scent this way and that. His urgency to reach Carlo meant that he dragged me until I fell more than once, so I was covered in muck and leaves by the time I reached the camp.

  On that first visit I took a backpack laden with cheese, meats, bread and fruit, which made it even harder to keep my balance sliding and scrambling after Ludo, but it was worth it for I was an instant hero. There were whoops of delight from Carlo and his friends as they fell upon the food, ripping it to bits like ravenous animals.

  “Is there more?” Carlo looked hopefully in the bag.

  I shook my head. “This was all I could carry,” I said. “But I will come back as often as I can and I will bring some wine too next time.”

  “Wait!” Carlo said as I stood up to go. “I have a note. Will you take it please to the Prior at the Contrada of the Wolf?”

  I looked at the note, and saw that it was written in code.

  “Do I need to eat it if I am captured by the Nazis?” I asked.

  Carlo smiled. “Good thinking, Loretta. That is why I chose you as our courier.”

  I ran home through the woods that night, my skin vibrating with the excitement of fulfilling my first mission.

  When I reached the door of the Contrada of the Wolf with Ludo still at my side, I caught my breath for a moment then banged on the door with my fist. The Prior himself answered. He peered out suspiciously as if he thought someone might have been following me and then dragged me inside.

  “Quickly, Loretta, do not dawdle on the street,” he hissed. “And perhaps use the rear entrance next time, yes?”

  The Prior was not an old man back then, Piccolina. He was only perhaps twenty, very young to be in charge of the Lupa contrada, but then there was a war on so most of the older men had gone to fight. The Prior had flat feet and this defect apparently meant he was not allowed to join the army. He also had the trust of the fascists who thought he was one of them. He had so far managed to evade suspicion, when in fact he was working with the freedom fighters.

  I was never aware of the contents of the messages I gave to the Prior. I did not read code and I think Carlo thought it best if I never knew what the notes were about. That way, if I was stopped and questioned by the Blackshirts, I would not know anything, and of course I would have eaten the note. I had practised this at home with a piece of paper, and while I nearly gagged at first, I did manage to chew and swallow, so I knew if the time came I could do it.

  As for the packages that the Prior gave me to ferry to my brother, I did not ask what was inside. There was this one time, though, when the package ripped on a tree branch and I found myself unable to resist the urge and took a peek beneath the brown paper and saw three passports. I took them out to look at them. The pictures in the passports looked like Signora Garo and her children, but their names were different – it said she was Esmeralda Garibaldi!

  Of course the passports were fakes and the freedom fighters were
smuggling out people who were in trouble with the Blackshirts, helping them to get to the coast.

  As summer became winter, I took all the warm blankets and coats that I could manage to round up out into the forest. Carlo and his men’s numbers had swelled by now – there were almost a dozen of them. Every few weeks they would move their camp to a new location in the forest. It was a precaution, Carlo said, to make sure that the Blackshirts could not find them. I never had trouble finding their new camp though because Ludo always scented out Carlo and located him for me. He always came with me on my journeys back and forth through the forest, although he howled every time he had to leave Carlo’s side and return home with me. At the villa each night Ludo would sleep at the foot of my bed, but he never laid his head on my lap or followed me around the house the way he had done with Carlo. He was still my brother’s dog and he made it clear every day in little ways that his loyalty was unswerving. At night, sometimes I would wake up to find him staring out of the window, as if he knew that his master was out there and he longed to be with him.

  Stella was a different matter. I had always clicked with the mare right from the start, and she was happy with me on her back as we began to train in earnest. The summer had been and gone and there had been no Palio for the third time in a row, but I was determined that if it was run again next year then Stella would be ready for Carlo to ride when he returned.

  With my father and brother both gone, I was left in charge of the training regime. I took it seriously, making a wall chart of the days, noting the progress of each horse and experimenting with various routines. At first, I took a traditional approach, galloping them around and around until they started blowing, with their flanks working like bellows and then taking them home, hosing them off and putting them back in their stalls until the next time.

  After a week or two of sticking to the same regime, I found myself bored to tears. Also my muscles were stiff and sore from repeatedly riding the same way. Then a thought struck me. What if the horses felt the same way that I did? What if they were bored with always riding the same routine? And what if their muscles ached too from the stress of galloping day in and day out?