“I don’t want to fight you,” I grabbed his arm. “You’re my friend. My best friend.”
“Not anymore. Friends don’t steal their best friend’s fiancé.”
“You never even proposed to me Marco,” cried Carmella. “So just forget about all this. Go home. Sleep it off.”
“That’s because you never gave me the chance,” Marco spat. “You never gave me a chance to show you how much I loved you.”
“Do you even have a ring?” Carmella wasn’t backing down. “How can you expect to propose to a girl without a ring?”
“You’re right. I don’t have a ring. Not yet. But I was going to get one,” Marco proclaimed. “I was going to go into Campobasso next week.”
“I’m sure we can all be friends.” I extended the olive branch. “And work this all out over coffee.”
“Never.”
Marco threw the second punch of the afternoon. This time I wasn’t so lucky. It landed square on the left side of my jaw, knocking me down to the ground.
“You’re not giving me much of a choice,” I mumbled through the pain. “Hitting me in front of a woman like that.”
I managed to get up quickly and rush at Marco, grabbing him with one hand and slamming my fist into his gut with the other.
“BASTA!! STOP! Stop!” Carmella pleaded. “I will not allow you to hurt him.”
But Marco and I were too far-gone. This was now a matter of principle.
“Mamma Mia!”
Carmella’s mother ran down the stairs of her house and stood in-between Marco and I, just as Father D’Angello arrived to see what all the noise was about.
“There’s only one way this is going to get settled,” proclaimed Mama Moccia. “You two will dance the Tarantella.”
“I won’t allow it.” Father D’Angello crossed his arms and shook his head. “That is not how we do things around here anymore.”
“It’s not up to you Father,” insisted Mama Moccia. “Marco and Pietro are too far gone for any other kind of intervention. The spirits must decide now.”
“Mama - no!” Stammered Carmella. “It’s too dangerous.”
“It’s the only way,” replied Mamma Moccia. “We need to settle this once and for all. It has gone too far already.”
Marco dusted himself off and straightened out his clothes. He looked at Carmella and then at me.
“I’ll agree if Peter does,” he finally said. “I’m not afraid.”
“Peter don’t! I beg you!” Insisted Carmella. “It’s too dangerous.”
“This is pagan sacrilege!” Jeered the Priest. “It’s the devil’s work.”
“I don’t understand what’s going on.” I had no idea what Mama Moccia was proposing and why Carmella was so upset about it. “Can somebody explain to me what the Tarantella is?”
“Then it’s agreed,” announced Mama Moccia. “On the next new moon Peter and Marco will dance the Tarantella. The last man standing wins the hand of my daughter.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Close to Home
As much as Marco and I were both eager to leave Rome after the American’s rolled in, we stayed in until the late summer, helping Baldazzi and his men with the transition.
One day, out of the blue, Marco decided that he’d had enough of Rome.
“It’s time to go.” He said matter of factly. “I’m ready to go home to Limosano. I miss my family. I don’t want Carmella to think I’m dead. She’ll marry one of my brothers and then I might as well be dead.”
After saying our goodbyes and tracking down enough supplies and gas for our two German BWM motorcycles we made our way out of the Eternal City.
It took us the better part of the day to drive from Rome to Campobasso. The scars of the war were evident all across the landscape. The once fertile foothills were now a scorched wasteland, littered with the bombed-out debris of battle. The stench of death and fear still lingered in the air like an unwelcome visitor.
Marco and I rode quietly, guiding our motorcycles through the mountain roads, and reflecting to ourselves on the devastation of the war. It was a reminder of how blessed we both were to be still alive and looking forward to returning back to something. Marco to his sweet Carmella in Limosano. And I to my Canadian comrades in Campobasso.
Since driving the Nazi occupation north, the Canadian forces had established a semi-permanent presence in Campobasso, to the extent that the city was gaining the reputation as “Canada town” or “Maple Leaf City.”
Campobasso is the capital of the Molise Region, and known as one of the colder cities in the southern parts of Italy. It sits high in the Apennines, with the imposing 15th century Castello Monforte with its six towers looking out protectively over the old medieval city that cascades down the steep hill.
Next to the castle is the Chiesa della Madonna del Monte, Santa Maria Maggiore. The church was originally built in the 11th century and rebuilt in 1525 and again in 1815 after a serious earthquake destroyed much of the original structure. It houses a precious relic of the Incoronata that dates back to 1334.
At the foot of the Castle and the Chiesa, is the Church of St. George built in the 1st century over the ruins of an ancient Samnite temple.
Campobasso’s history has its beginning thousand of years ago as a village that sat at the intersection of three important tratturi, the ancient trails used by Samnite warrior-shepherds, traders and others moving through the Appenine mountains. Eventually the Romans defeated the Samnites, establishing control of the Matese-Cortile, the most important of the tratturi, and eventually bringing their Christian religion and traditions to the area.
After all those years Campobasso still maintained its strategic position. In the fall of 1943 capturing the city became the divisional objective of the First Canadian Infantry.
I remember that fall, as we fought our way north after landing from Sicily. Campobasso was “the wedding cake” of Central Italy. The prize we were all aiming for.
During those long, hard days marching north, there were all kinds of rumours amongst the men that, like some kind of medieval King, the Nazi General Kesselring, who was largely responsible for the Italian occupation, had established his main headquarters in the Castello Monforte.
Campobasso was also the strategic crossroads in the Daunia Mountains, and its capture by the Allies was considered to be of some considerable urgency.
By capturing the city, the entire Allied Force in Italy no longer would have to use the roads of the Foggia plains, some hundred of kilometers to the south as transverse routes to engage the German’s winter line. And, we’d also serve a direct blow to the Nazi’s main chain of command.
It had been less than a year since I had fought my way through Campobasso on that slow trip through hell that was to be Ortona, but it felt like a lifetime.
Driving those mountain roads with Marco, I felt and increasing eagerness to meet up with my fellow Canadian forces. But it was bittersweet leaving Marco. We’d established such a deep connection over the last few months. I felt like I was losing not just a friend, but a brother.
Instead of driving into Campobasso right away, Marco convinced me to meet his family in Limosano.
“It’s not far Pietro.” He motioned with his hands. “Half an hour or less if we open these bikes up.”
“I’m not sure it’s such a good idea.” I was reluctant to drive too far outside of Campobasso, just in case we were stopped by a Canadian patrol. We were driving Nazi Officer issue motorcycles after all. “What if we get stopped - or worse, shot at. After all this time - it’d be a shame to be killed so close to home.”
“Oh Ma, don’t be such a baby,” joked Marco sarcastically. “I want you to see Limosano, to meet Carmella and my brothers.”
“Ok, but I can’t stay long,” I replied hesitantly. “I don’t want to end up having to fight off a couple of burly and sullen MPs.”
The trip to Limosano from Campobasso was short. It took us about a half an ho
ur. The road, descending gently towards the Adriatic, was flanked on one side by the Biferno River. In the distance old medieval villages dotted the hillsides, keeping silent vigil over the tired battled-scared fields.
I followed Marco onto a small narrow, and winding road, that immediately started to ascend steeply into the hillside. The German BMW motorcycles didn’t show any strain from our long journey from Rome. They responded eagerly as we made our way up the twisting mountain road, past the cypress trees marking the cemetery, and on towards the village.
Marco stopped his motorcycle just outside the village.
“I can’t believe we made it.” There was a silent tear in his eye. “I never thought I’d ever see my home ever again.”
“Here we are.” I was starting to feel the exhaustion of sitting on a motorcycle all day. “It looks like a really nice old medieval village Marco. Lots of history.”
“I don’t think I could’ve done it without you Pietro.”
“We were in it together.”
“Who ever would’ve thought that it would take five months to cross this country.” Marco wiped the tear from his eye. “I’ve seen a lifetime worth of things in such a short period.”
“I’m just glad we made it alive.”
“You’re my lucky charm Pietro,” Marco laughed. “I knew it from the first time I saw you in that Nazi cell in Milano.”
“I think I’m going to keep going while I still have some energy left,” I said. “I need to reconnect with my unit back in Campobasso. I’m sure they thought I died in the hell-fires of Ortona.”
“At least stay the night. Have a meal and recharge your batteries. My mama makes the best ravioli you’ll ever taste. Guaranteed.”
“It’s temping, but I really shouldn’t.” The thought of a home-cooked meal and a safe bed to sleep in was very appealing.
“C’mon. What’s one more day,” replied Marco enthusiastically. “Your unit isn’t going to miss you. Like you said - for all they know you’re dead.”
“I guess I could. But I really have to leave first thing in the morning.” Marco had convinced me to stay. Little did I realize that it wasn’t going to be just for one night.
“Hey what day is it?” Marco was distracted by something happening in the Village
“I pretty sure it’s August 17.” I had been keeping track of the time as best as I could. “But I could be wrong.”
“No, no. You’re right!” Marco was excited. “Today is the Feast of Our Lady. It looks like we’re just in time for the procession of La Madonna up to the Cathedral of Santa Maria. Che fortuna!”
“What happens after she get’s to the Cathedral?”
“We eat a lot of food and get rip-roaring drunk.”
“Sounds like my kind of festival.”
“Come on. I want to introduce you to my brothers.”
Marco and I drove our German motorcycles into Limosano, unaware that, over the next year, our friendship we be faced with the ultimate test.
Chapter Thirty
Preparations
Marco sat in the small living room of la Stregha Vechia’s house in San’Angelo. An assortment of dried herbs hung on the walls, and different pieces of dried roots, fungi, and other shriveled unrecognizable bits sat in jars and bowls on the various shelves and small tables in the room.
“You said the curse was going to work.” Marco had finally calmed down. Initially when Father D’Angello had told him that Carmella and Peter had been seeing each other, he didn’t believe it. But when he saw his best friend leaving Carmella’s house, it all became clear, like a fog had lifted from his perception. “What the hell went wrong? I trusted you. You’re supposed to be a powerful witch.”
“I didn’t realize Senoira Moccia was so involved in this.” The witch sipped a steaming mug of fragrant tea. “You weren’t completely honest with me. Her magic is just as strong as mine”
“Well now what am I going to do?”
Marco had resigned himself to the fact that maybe Carmella didn’t love him. As much as the notion tore violently at his heart, he had accepted the possibility that maybe Peter was the better man for her.
He felt twice betrayed. While he loved Carmella deeply, he loved Peter just as deeply. It was a different kind of love, but just as strong, and enough to break his heart a second time.
“I’ve been deceived by the two people I love the most. I don’t think my heart will ever mend from this, that I’ll ever be able to love again.”
“Be strong. You’re going to be the last man standing in the Tarantella. This I will make sure of.”
La Stregha Vechia finished her tea and went over to the altar in the corner of the room. She produced a small vile with a dark liquid in it and handed it to Marco.
“Drink this before the Tarantella begins. But do not let Senoira Moccia see you, or we will be in trouble.”
“I hope it works better than the last one.” Marco took the potion and put it in his pocket. “Or else I’m in big trouble.”
“This potion will help you fight the venom of la taranta. It will give you the endurance to last all night long.”
“You mean I’m going to be poisoned by a spider?”
Marco was surprised. He’d heard tales of the Tarantella. That the old Samnite witches used to take the spider venom ritually to induce visions of the future and to talk to the spirits of the ancestors and commune with the energies of the mountains. But over the years, the Tarantella had become known more as the frenzied, fast-paced dance, and there were contests to see who could dance the longest and hardest.
“I didn’t think that the spider venom was a real part of this tradition.”
“I warned you not to fool around with these spells. The Tarantella is the only way to break the magic. It is now for the spirits to decide whose love is the strongest for Carmella. I was worried that this might happen. But with the potion, you’ll be strong enough. Without it, I fear you will die not from the poison of spiders, but from the poison of love - a broken-heart.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Caught in the Web
“You’re going to poison me with spider venom?” I couldn’t believe what Carmella’s mother had proposed. “What good is that going to do for anybody? This is crazy!”
“I warned you.” Carmella looked despondent. “This whole idea is ludicrous Mama. What has gotten into you.”
“If Pietro doesn’t dance, he’ll die. La Strega Vechia’s spell is very powerful.” Mama Moccia explained calmly. “The spider venom is very potent. Some even have spiritual visions of God when they dance the Tarantella.”
“What’s the point of all this?” I wasn’t convinced that I was going to drop dead from the evil eye. “Why can’t we just work it out over a bottle of wine or something less dangerous than tarantula venom.”
“You and Marco will come to some kind of agreement through this dance,” Mama Moccia replied. “It will direct all the energy into the right channels. The spirits will choose the right man for Carmella.”
“Please say you won’t do it Pietro,” whispered Carmella. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I can’t back out now Carmella.”
“What am I going to do if you die?” Carmella was now crying, the tears streaming down her beautiful face. “I can’t marry Marco. I don’t love him. I’ll never love him as much as I love you.”
“I won’t die. I’ll only come out of this stronger. I can do it. Trust me.” I took Carmella into my arms and gave her a big hug. I didn’t ever want to let her go. I felt the tears well up in my eyes and flow like the spring rains. “If it means I have to die for you love, I will.” I sobbed. “I love you too much to ever let you go. If your ma says this is the only way than we must respect that. Our hearts will also be married Carmella.”
As I held Carmella deep in my arms, both of us crying our love for each other, I couldn’t fully comprehend the extent to which the Tarantella was going to transform my life forever. I still sus
pect to this day, that those two witches plotted this whole thing together. Not only to test the love Marco and I had for Carmella, but the love Marco and I had for each other. And ultimately, the love we had for ourselves.
Chapter Thirty-Two
La Tarantella
We met in the fields where Marco, Primo, Severino and I had scavenged the engine and tires for our tractor from the German kublewagen. We knew it was safe and there was the perfect recess in the ground where we had tripped the Nazi holzmine.
We agreed to meet in the field just as the sun was setting.
“That’s when the crack between the worlds open’s up,” Mama Moccia explained to me. “When the spirits see that we’re gathering, they’ll be easier to call into the dance. La Stregha Vechia will no doubt be bringing her own spirit-helpers to aid Marco. But don’t worry, I have my own allies that I will call into the dance to help you.”
“Allies? I thought that Marco and I had to dance this alone?” I was confused. “I didn’t realize that you could help.”
“The Grigori, the Watchers, are our spirit helpers,” she explained to me. “They are everywhere when you learn how to see them. After the circle is cast, and la Tarantella begins, we will call the Watchers down to aid you in your quest for knowledge and connection to the divine source. The Grigori open doors for us and lead us through them when we are ready. As guardians of these portals, the Grigori can undo the magical energy from a spell, making it useless. There are many reasons why these Watchers might intercede in such a manner. In this instance, we are asking them to undo any magical influences driving your feelings for Carmella. This will ensure that the love is pure, and of the highest vibration. You can’t fool the Grigori.”
When Carmella, her mother and I arrived, there was already a small group of people and musicians gathered in a circle. Primo was there tuning up his mandolin. There was also an impressive collection of tambourines, and other percussion style instruments, and, of course, a fiddler.
Father D’Angello was also there in the circle, dressed as if he was ready to say mass. He noticed that we’d arrived and came over right away.
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