Bethania's Broomsticks

by Amy Stilgenbauer

Bethania's Broomsticks

  Amy Stilgenbauer

  Copyright © 2014 Amy Stilgenbauer

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Image: Die Burgruine Frauenstein im Winter, painted by Karl Julius von Leypold in 1833. This work is in the public domain in the United States, and those countries with a copyright term of life of the author plus 100 years or less. This work has been identified as being free of known restrictions under copyright law, including all related and neighboring rights.

  Viene, viene la Befana

  Vien dai monti a notte fonda

  Come è stanca! la circonda

  Neve e gelo e tramontana!

  Viene, viene la Befana

  -

  Here comes, here comes the Befana

  She comes from the mountains in the deep of the night

  Look how tired she is! All wrapped up

  In snow and frost and the north wind!

  Here comes, here comes the Befana!

  -Giovanni Pascoli

  1.

  Queens, New York. January 6, 2013

  Alice struggled to navigate the dark hallway to her son Nick’s room. A few nights ago he had insisted that turning six meant he was a big boy. Big boys didn’t need night lights. Alice did though.

  She felt something furry brush her feet and had to brace herself against the wall to avoid tripping over the cat. In the process, she dropped the tiny present she had been carrying. It clattered to the ground, hidden by the darkness. “Damn it, Nicky,” she thought, silently cursing his growing independent streak.

  Just the night before he told her not to bother leaving an Epiphany present. He claimed he knew the three wise men didn’t really come to call. Alice Peralta was a woman of tradition, however. She had received an Epiphany present every year until she was sixteen years old, and so would Nick.

  After listening for a few moments at the door to her son’s room and hearing only his soft sleepy breathing, she slipped inside. Everything in the room was neat and tidy as always. Nick was a very meticulous child. She had never heard of another six year old who treated their action figures as though they were archival treasures meant to be kept in a museum. His cousins had all torn the limbs off theirs and caked them in several layers of mud. Not Nick. He did a better job of dusting their particular spot on the dresser than Alice did of wiping down the entire living room. She worked two jobs. She was busy. Still, it was hard on her pride as an adult to be shown up in cleanliness by a six year old boy.

  She went to put the new plastic figure at the edge of the collection; a disturbance that Nick would see immediately, when out of the corner of her eye she saw a shimmering light. It was so sudden, she was sure she had imagined it, but when she looked over toward Nick’s bed, she found him still asleep and clutching a bag of what appeared to be biscotti.

  Trying to keep her steps light, she walked toward her son. Did he have the cookies when she came in? She couldn’t remember, but she also couldn’t think of when he would have gotten them. She didn’t make biscotti. Her mother did, but she was long dead. Before she could puzzle over it much longer, Nick stirred and Alice rushed from the room lest she be caught in the act.

  When she got back to her own bedroom at the other end of the hall, she stopped in the doorway. What she saw there froze her in her tracks. On her nightstand was a bag of biscotti.

  2.

  Castel delle Ripe. (Urbania, Italy) 1277

  The bitter wind whipped at Bethania’s skirts, trying to force her off course. It cut through her woolen stockings like they were made of lace. The bundled infant in her arms whimpered, preparing to cry, and Bethania pulled her cloak tighter around the both of them. She only needed to keep him warm a little while longer.

  The alley where Graziella had told Bethania to go was just ahead. She didn’t know the old woman well, and the thought that she might be betraying her had entered Bethania’s mind more than once, but she had run out of options. When Graziella found her in the marketplace that morning, it could very well have been a Godsend.

  Like most families within the commune, the Peraltas were devout members of The Church Party, but here she was, unmarried with a small infant like a common Imperial Party whore. She could still see the look of pure rage in her mother’s eyes when she had started to show. She took a portrait of her off the wall and threw it into the fire, shouting. Bethania understood why. After all, for Bethania, her only child to survive into adulthood, to become such a disgrace was the ultimate shame. Luckily, her father was away fighting for the King of Sicily. He would have surely done much worse.

  The family tried to hide it, by claiming the baby belonged to Signora Peralta, but the commune was small. Everyone knew the child belonged to Bethania. It was hard to hide her several month confinement. It was even harder to hide the infant.

  “He looks just like you,” Graziella had said when she approached her in the market earlier that day.

  Bethania looked nervously to her mother, but she had been too involved in selecting eggs and oil for the evening meal. “He’s my little brother,” she said quickly.

  Graziella frowned. “I don’t mean to doubt you, signorina, but I also do not appreciate being lied to. I may be old, but my eyesight is not yet failing me.”

  Bethania did not know how to respond. She held Nico closer as an odd chill ran through her.

  “Of course,” said Graziella, looking up toward the sky. “It will snow tonight. And, if it does I will have help for you.”

  “I do not understand,” Bethania said, looking again toward her mother, who was still bartering rapidly with the oils merchant. She knew that if she left now she would be in for quite the lecture, but this grizzled looking old woman was frightening her.

  “Tonight it will snow,” Graziella said again. “You do not know it yet, but you will need me.”

  “I don’t believe...”

  “Come to me. When it snows. In the alley behind La Chiesa dei Morti. You’ll know it when you arrive.” She smiled toothlessly at Bethania and slipped away into the crowd.

  It had, in fact, begun to snow later that night. Word arrived that Signore Peralta was hastening toward home and Bethania was immediately off for the Church of the Dead. Graziella was her last hope.

  *

  The gray door at the edge of the alley bore a symbol foreign to Bethania. Squinting, it resembled an unlit candle and a chill ran through her at the thought. She paused, hesitantly reaching out her hand. She didn’t know what might lie behind that wooden door, but she imagined it couldn’t be worse than her father’s arrival.

  Before she could make up her mind to knock, the door swung open and a beautiful raven haired woman stood before her. Her eyes were bright and dazzling, almost ice blue in color and her teeth were pristine. She looked nothing like the haggard old woman who had approached her in the marketplace. “Are...are you Graziella’s daughter?” Bethania ventured.

  The woman laughed, a light, magical quality in her voice. Bethania imagined that it could melt the heart of many a man. “I am Graziella,” she replied, grinning.

  Bethania stared at her again uncertainly. The woman who had invited her here had been worn down by age. This woman appeared elegant and spritely. “I don’t understand...”

  “Come in, Come in,” the woman calling herself Graziella said, forcefully ushering Bethania over the threshold. “It’s far too cold on the stoop for the babe.”

  All resistance faded at mention of Nico. She was right. He was too small to be out in the snow. “I shouldn’t have brought him,” she muttered, holding him still closer as if it would completely remove the chill from the air.

  “Nonsense,” Graziella exclaimed. “Go over and warm yourself by the fire. I will te
ll you all.”

  Bethania did as she was bid. The moment she approached the fire, Nico stirred in her arms and her heart felt lighter. “Are...Are you sure you aren’t Graziella’s daughter?” she asked again, settling into a large unusually plush chair.

  “I am Graziella,” the beautiful woman repeated, bringing over two cups of warm fortified wine, vin brulé. “I sometimes appear in different forms.” The way she spoke made the possibility of being simultaneously old and young seem only natural.

  Bethania stared at her and did not take a cup. All her training would have taught her that this action was rude, but her training had not covered a hostess such as this.

  “Some people call me by other names,” she continued. “But most succinctly...I am the witch of winter.”

  At the word witch, Bethania was immediately on her feet. That was something she had not prepared for. Good Church Party girls did not keep the company of such demons. “Don’t you touch my son,” she growled at the woman standing before her.

  “Hush,” Graziella said, unmoved. “I do not eat children. That is a terrible lie. I have asked you here because I want to protect him.”

  “You’re a witch.”

  “I am aware of that, thank you.” Graziella looked toward the fire.

  At first, Bethania imagined using it to burn her, an act that might bring her back into the church’s good graces, but then she began to see a picture forming in the flames.

  She saw her father clearly, though ringed in fire. He was holding Nico and rocking him. Bethania could almost swear she heard him singing a lullaby. Then, without warning, he stopped and dashed the baby to the ground. She heard Nico wail and could not tell if it was the boy in her arms or the boy in the fire. A rush of flame burst from the image of her son and the crying ceased.

  For a long while, Bethania could not move. Graziella watched her with a pained expression.

  “Did you see?” The witch asked.

  “He means to kill my boy,” Bethania could barely form the words. Tears streamed from her eyes. She knew that Nico was alive and well in her arms, but the scene in the fire had felt so terribly real.

  “He would have already done so,” Graziella said solemnly, holding the cup of wine toward her again. “Unless you choose to stay.”

  Bethania refused the cup. “I don’t understand.”

  “There are two things that could happen tonight. You may stay here and begin your work under my protection or you may go home and face the aftermath of what Signore Peralta has done. Do not think your work will be an easy choice. You will never see your family again. Not in the same way. But you must choose one or the other. And quickly. Time is of the essence.”

  Bethania eyed the beautiful woman in front of her and then looked back at her son. She had not noticed before that his lips were blue. A terror ran through her as the baby in her arms began to grow cold and slack with lifelessness. “No!” She screamed. “I will stay. What must I do?”

  3.

  Queens, New York. 2013

  Alice Peralta broke her biscotti in two, dipped one half into her cup of coffee, and popped it into her mouth. The cookie was good. It wasn’t hard and dense like the kind she often bought from the local bakery, but light and crunchy with a hint of lemon and anise flavor. If she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn they were made by her mother.

  Her lack of sleep the night before was weighing heavily now. Taking a deep gulp of the coffee in a vain effort to combat the heavy purple sacks she wore under her eyes, Alice supposed it was time to wake Nick. Both of them had a long day ahead.

  As she made her way down the hall toward his room, she heard him speaking. “It’s still not nice to hit kids with a broom,” he said, sounding as though he were lecturing someone. “If you don’t want to be seen, you should be sneakier.”

  Alice couldn’t be sure, but she was almost positive that a delicate female voice responded. She couldn’t make out the words, but she heard it nonetheless. “Nicky?” she called out. “Are you up?”

  She heard a scuffling and moved closer to her son’s room, but did not open the door. “Nicky?”

  “I’m playing, mom,” Nick replied.

  “Nico, listen to your madre.” The woman’s voice was clearer now. She had a thick accent that Alice couldn’t place.

  “Nick?” Alice tried the doorknob, but it was locked. She had thought these doors couldn’t lock. “Nick is there someone in there with you?”

  “Just the cleaning lady...”

  She pushed harder against the door. Something had wedged it shut. “Nick, we don’t have a cleaning lady.”

  “Nico. Go to your breakfast. You are giving your mama a fright.”

  Alice shoved her entire weight against the door. Still, the door still would not give. “Nick!”

  The door finally opened from the inside and Nick stepped out into the hall. He looked up at his mother with concern. “I was only playing, mama.”

  Under normal circumstances, Alice would have corrected her son - she rather disliked being called mama - but in this case she just gathered Nick into her arms. She stroked his hair and looked back into his room. It was empty. “Wh-who were you playing with?” she asked carefully, trying to tamp down the panic rising up in her throat.

  “The cleaning lady,” Nick said again.

  “Nicky, we don’t have a cleaning lady.”

  “She had a broom.” He glanced back into the bedroom. “She gave me cookies.”

  Alice shook her head and gathered her son into a tight hug. She held on for a long moment, but she let go as soon as he squirmed. “Did the wise men bring you any presents?”

  *

  The women who ran the daycare at St. Gregory’s had never been phased by Nick before. They appreciated that he was a clean child and that he rarely rough-housed. If they stopped Alice during pick-up, it was usually to comment on how polite her son had been that day, how kind he was to the other children, how good at sharing. Today, they had something different on their minds.

  The moment Alice arrived, the petite little blonde that ran the center pulled her aside and into her office. “We’re worried about Nick,” she said immediately. Her tone was urgent and gave Alice a chill.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, her mind jumping to a myriad of possible, horrible, conclusions. She read plenty of books and newspaper articles and she had heard all about how she was ruining him by working so hard, but she did what she had to do.

  “He was going on about something strange today. Something about getting presents...”

  At this Alice pursed her lips together. “That’s just...my mother was from Sicily. At Epiphany we say it’s the three wise men,” she explained, feeling rather silly. She didn’t think it was anything for them to be upset over. Part of her wondered if the daycare had fits about other less mainstream holidays.

  “From his cleaning lady, who is a ghost,” the director finished, looking a little offended. Alice couldn’t tell if she was offended by the interruption or the concept of ghosts.

  “He has an imagination,” Alice said, covering quickly. She didn’t want to get this clearly judgmental woman involved, but the idea of a ghost both comforted and terrified her. She had heard the woman; that much was certain. If she were a ghost, that meant that there were no strange women in Nicky’s room, but if she were a ghost...that also meant that there were ghosts.

  “Usually by this age, imaginary friends...”

  “No,” Alice said, cutting her off again. The offended look returned to the director’s face. “Nick is clever, bright, and six years old. He can have imaginary friends until he’s eighty for all I care.”

  The director nodded and made a few marks in the folder in front of her. Alice felt the rage and desire to hit the woman in front of her begin to grow. If this weren’t the only affordable child care service in this part of town, she would have pulled him out right away.

  “May I go?” Alice asked. The director nodded without looking up. Alice
knocked a plant over with her purse as she left.

  *

  Nick was unusually quiet on the drive home. It wasn’t until Alice had parked the car that he spoke, “You shouldn’t have knocked over Mrs. Harper’s plant. Now the lady with the broom will have to clean it up.”

  “If she’s our cleaning lady, what’s she doing cleaning the daycare?” Alice asked a bit too briskly in response.

  “She’s everyone’s cleaning lady,” Nick replied matter-of-factly. “She’s the mother of all the children of Italy.”

  “We don’t live in Italy.” Alice took her son by the hand and led him quickly inside. She didn’t know why she was being so obstinate with him. Usually, she was more than willing indulge Nick in his flights of fancy. Today, she just didn’t feel right. She figured it was the lack of sleep.

  “La Befana is a nice lady, mama.”

  “Don’t call me mama, Nicky, please?”

  “La Befana says you’re my mama.” Nick broke away from his mother’s grasp. Carefully, he peeled off his coat and gloves and hung them next to the door. “She also says that you were a good girl growing up, even if you hid your cigarettes in the ceiling, and that she misses you.”

  At those words, Alice stared at her son, examining him carefully as though he had suddenly become foreign to her, some unknown creature that had invaded her home.

  4.

  Castel delle Ripe. 1277

  For the first week, Graziella would not let Bethania leave the suite of rooms for any reason. Not to go home and gather her things. Not to run errands. Not even to attend mass or take a walk. Graziella, herself, went out several times a day, but refused to bring Bethania any news of her family.

  It was a dull existence and Bethania, who was used to the constant activity of the Peralta household, felt restless. She began to clean the rooms. Each day, immediately after feeding Nico, she would scrub the walls and sweep the floors until each inch of the suite shone. She would repeat the process again the next morning.

  Graziella found this amusing. “I had hoped,” she said one afternoon when she came home and caught Bethania in the act of sweeping the hearth, “that you would find more productive things to do with your time.”