MARIA FOLLOWED THE shepherd to a small village in the mountains, surrounded by basalt rocks, poppy fields and steep, narrow roads heading north. The tallest peak of the mountains was visible beyond the hills, not far away. She managed not to reveal where she came from exactly, but offered to help the parish priest with household chores. Since he couldn’t afford to pay anyone for the trouble, he readily agreed.
The first few months were hard: keeping up with the priest’s timetable didn’t allow her much freedom, but Maria had gambled so much on this journey to nowhere that, despite herself, she learnt to be grateful for every small achievement. She’d been used to working relentlessly since she was a child, and now she found it comforting to end the day with the certainty of having two things: a comfortable bed and a hot meal she’d prepare using the produce from a small vegetable garden behind the church.
The priest was the only soul to whom Maria confessed everything, one long, rainy night. She struggled through the story of her misadventures in Lolai, her voice broken by sobs. The priest let her finish without making any comments. Then he disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a leather-bound Bible. He looked at Maria and began to read.
‘He said to another man, “Follow me.” But he replied, “Lord, first let me go and bury my father.” Jesus said to him, “Let the dead bury their own dead, but you go and proclaim the kingdom of God.” Still another said, “I will follow you, Lord; but first let me go back and say goodbye to my family.” Jesus replied, “No one who puts a hand to the plough and looks back is fit for service in the kingdom of God.”’
Maria stared at the priest, bewildered.
He closed the book and put his hand on her head, smiling. ‘We all travel along different paths,’ he said, ‘but each of them tells us who we are. Yours brought you here and no step is ever taken in vain.’ He held out the Bible. ‘I’m lending you this.’
‘I can’t read,’ Maria replied, embarrassed.
‘I’ll teach you. You’ll learn.’
They said goodnight and she returned to her bedroom, clutching the Bible.
Day after day, lesson after lesson, she would learn a few passages by heart and practise the alphabet in order to write them down. She’d spend the night leafing through the yellowed pages, her mind reviewing stories about sin, punishment and forgiveness in a new, unfamiliar way; she’d go to sleep only once the faint glimmer of the candle on her bedside table started drawing black shapes on the faded paper, forcing her to postpone her reading to the following day.
She often thought about her parents, about Teresa and Vincenzo, her anger gradually turning into a blend of resignation and pity towards them and, above all, towards herself. Every now and then she was unable to stop snatches of her past coming back to torment her dreams, before vanishing in the daylight like plumes of smoke from a chimney.
She’d often have Sunday lunch with the shepherd and his wife, who, the first time she saw Maria arrive with her husband, looking like a thief on the run, had initially hesitated about welcoming her into her home. Maria sometimes wondered if this new condition of hers truly was a form of freedom she had earned, or an ideal life she was using to lie to herself in order to avoid facing her responsibilities. As time went by in this new village surrounded by mountains, her apprehension increased and, with it, the memory of the shepherd’s suggestion at the entrance to the cave.
One Sunday afternoon, after having lunch at the home of one of the parishioners, Maria offered to boil the water for coffee. While she leaned over the hearth, staring into the fire, the women chatted around the table.
‘I’m telling you,’ the eldest of the group said, waving her arms about. ‘Tzia Mena’s son went missing a couple of weeks ago and she’s looked for him everywhere: he must be dead by now. She’s distraught, poor thing; can’t stop crying.’
‘Was he very young?’ another woman asked.
‘Barely five, poor soul.’
‘Gesù Cristu miu,’ another one said, crossing herself.
‘They didn’t even leave her his body. Missing, like that of Ignazino Agus. That damned cussa Abbranca took them all away.’
At that name, the other women held their breaths for a moment. Not knowing whom they meant, Maria turned inquisitively.
‘Maria Abbranca, same first name as you,’ the youngest said, raising her eyebrows like a teacher hearing the wrong answer to an easy question. She’s the keeper of the great spring several days’ walk from here. She was beautiful and wealthy, an expert spinner and engaged to a rich young man who abandoned her on the eve of their wedding. In despair, she ran away from the village and went to live in a cave behind the spring. She comes out only when she hears the voices of children asking to be healed.’
‘As a matter of fact, tzia Mena’s son was blind from birth,’ the eldest woman added. ‘She’d been told that the place was magical and all you had to do was immerse your sick child in the spring.’
‘Tziu Frantziscu always told me to keep away from that spot,’ another woman said.
‘One of his friends actually saw the witch when he was a boy! No teeth, a hump from living in caves, tousled grey hair like a bruja,’ another replied.
Maria was incredulous: the women had such serious expressions as they discussed these ridiculous tales; they were naive, like drunk wedding guests who think they’re speaking softly, without realising they’re actually shouting.
‘Apparently, she promises the children gifts, and clearly these innocent souls fall for it,’ the youngest one said sadly, her lips downturned. ‘As soon as they reach out their hands to be pulled from the water, she picks them up with a hook and puts them inside the cave—vanished.’
Maria put a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle but couldn’t hold back an odd-sounding moan that came out louder than expected.
‘What are you laughing at, silly?’ one of the women said. ‘Don’t you believe it?’
‘I think it’s all nonsense,’ Maria replied, turning back to the fire.
‘Then why can’t they find the children’s bodies?’ the youngest woman asked, frowning in irritation.
‘They must have got lost in the woods,’ Maria replied, serious again. ‘I also nearly disappeared into thin air on my way here.’
‘The Lord clearly showed you mercy,’ another woman said, ‘because you certainly did have sins to atone for.’
Maria turned back to face her, but said nothing, as the woman stared at her, pouting with an air of superiority.
‘Misfortunes happen by chance only to the innocent ones. The others have to earn them,’ the woman added.
Maria opened her mouth to reply, but the eldest woman put her hand out to stop her and stood up from her chair, no doubt trying to avoid the situation becoming more serious.
‘It’s the day of the Lord, so accabbadda,’ she said, gently tapping her friend on the leg to distract her. ‘Stop it. Let’s have coffee and forget about it. It’s late.’
Maria poured the coffee into the cups without a word, while the women exchanged complicit glances from one end of the table to the other. She drank reluctantly and said goodbye, trying to remain polite, but she felt a familiar choking sensation she’d almost forgotten rise to her throat, like a spurt of water from a faulty tap.
She couldn’t fall asleep that night, tormented by the thought that she’d truly deserved all the things she’d always believed she’d been a victim of. She recognised the painful symptoms of a sickness which, over time, had taken on the form of remorse: every good reason she’d given herself wasn’t enough to justify her abandoning her daughter.
She lit the candle on her bedside table with a match. A faint light filled the room. Maria opened the Bible next to the metal saucer on which the wax had solidified in small, compact drops, and read the title Jonah, Chapter 2 on the open page.
She read for a long time before putting the book back on her bedside table; then she lay motionless on the coarse cotton covers, waiting for the great whale of her thoughts to spit her back out as it had done with the prophet. Almost two years had passed and the very thought of what she would find if she went back to Lolai took her breath away. Maybe it was her age—she was now definitely grown up—or the insinuations of that woman, who had found her guilty even though she didn’t know her; or perhaps it was because of her own conscience—which had never before urged her so powerfully to look back on life—that she realised her escape had lost the semblance of necessity.
The following morning, she told the priest of her decision. He didn’t seem shocked. He told her that the loan was over, that the Bible was her going-home present.
‘Distinguishing lies from the truth has always been the hardest of tasks for everybody. But God speaks to the human heart by means of inspirations, which are much more than ordinary suggestions. They are those thoughts that aspire to good and set us free. We’re accustomed to following our instincts, sometimes even our emotions, but there’s something even deeper that can speak to us in times of trial. That’s where the Lord manifests Himself and gives us the freedom to choose which way to go. If one night a burglar were to break into your house, would you waste time trying to find out who he is and how he managed to get in, or would you instead do what you could to stop him from robbing you?’
The priest shrugged his shoulders as a sign that the right answer was also the most obvious one.
‘We must do the same with our thoughts, especially those that come from our hearts. We must work out which ones inhabit our mind and tidy up a little at a time,’ he said, placing his hand on the young woman’s head in a blessing. ‘Now go, and you’ll see: prayer will do the rest.’
Maria hugged him and left through the back door without a backward glance. She took one last look at the green tufts of the carrots she’d planted—one of the small achievements she’d managed over these months—and stood in the sun, eyes closed, for a little while before heading off.
She stopped at the shepherd’s house, but only his wife was there, making tomato sauce. Maria gave her a big hug, hoping her gratitude would also be transmitted to the man who had saved her. The woman handed her some provisions for the journey and, shortly before midday, they said goodbye.
The walk back home was less arduous than the outbound journey, partly because Maria avoided the path that had led her from the woods to the cave. She followed the river—swollen because of recent rain—in reverse and went back down the hills that surrounded it in the south, walking through dense eucalyptus forests and huge fields of yellow daisies. Impatient and anxious to discover what she would find when she returned, she was often gasping for air and had to stop and catch her breath. Although she occasionally stumbled, her thoughts bounded ahead.
On the third day, she glimpsed the road that would lead her uphill to the cemetery crossroads. The enticing smell of freshly baked bread signalled her arrival home even before the copper-coloured rooftops of Lolai appeared on the horizon. Every step she took grew heavier and the road seemed to shudder beneath her feet, as though it wasn’t just her treading the grey cobblestones of these narrow alleys, but an entire regiment ready for war. That was exactly how she felt: unprepared to engage in the imminent battle after losing her way in a truce she had chosen, hoping to forget the reason behind the battle.
She thought back to the look of contempt Vincenzo had given her on the patron saint’s day, like a child throwing his favourite toy away. She couldn’t understand how easily he had replaced her; accepting that she’d lost him forever had been worse than deciding to run away. Her relationship with Teresa had never begun, and something good could still blossom on that fallow land, but betrayed love was a harder pill to swallow.
The few people she came across on the road couldn’t conceal their surprise and, from their puzzled looks, Maria inferred that she had changed more than they might have expected. Her hands were cracked, she had dark rings under her eyes, which were puffy from lack of sleep, and her hair was damp and dishevelled. She looked almost old, coming back from the last of the thousand lives that had swept over her. She reached casa Collu and stood outside the stone walls, which, unlike her, hadn’t changed at all. Her mind suddenly blank, she reached out to the wooden gate, but before she could touch it, she saw Margherita in the courtyard.
She, too, had grown up: the defective eyelid was still there, but the childlike roundness had given way to a woman’s ample bosom, well-defined cheekbones and shapely chin. Because Margherita was light on her feet, and because of the dark linen dress covering her belly like a nightgown, Maria didn’t notice immediately: Margherita was pregnant. Maria was almost tempted to approach. Then someone called out from the house and Margherita put her hands on her belly and went back indoors.
Maria felt her forehead turn hot and sweaty, like before a fever, but she remained motionless. She looked up at the first-floor windows and saw Signora Collu, still as a statue, her face in the shadows behind the white curtain. She was squinting, as though to make sure Maria wasn’t an apparition. When their eyes met, the woman spun around and called out to someone behind her, before vanishing from the window.
Maria mustered the courage to walk slowly to the farmhouse. Past the stables, the garden was a darker green, the blades of grass so tall they prickled her cold ankles. A few paces from the front door of her old house, she saw the cheerful face of a little girl with black hair and honey-coloured eyes. She was making unintelligible sounds as she picked something from the tip of a stalk, a ladybird perhaps. When she saw how much the child had grown, Maria’s eyes began to sting. There was almost nothing left of the sleepyhead she’d given birth to; just as it had done with her, time had irrevocably changed her daughter.
Oblivious to Maria’s presence, Teresa had carried on playing happily in the grass, but Maria’s mother came out of the house, calling wearily to her granddaughter. No sooner did she see Maria than her legs gave way and she fell forward. Maria ran to her and her mother grabbed hold of her arm.
‘You wretch, where have you been?’ she asked in a faint voice.
Her attention caught by the scene, and frightened by the stranger, Teresa ran to hide behind her grandmother’s long dress.
‘Where’s Papà?’ Maria asked.
The woman cast her eyes down without replying.
‘You can’t stay here,’ she said after a moment. ‘Vincenzo married Margherita and now they’re expecting a child. They’re good to Teresa, she wants for nothing, but if they see you there’ll be trouble.’
Maria stared at her mother in disbelief. ‘I’ve come back for her,’ she replied, indicating Teresa, but the little girl was looking in the direction of the field.
A sound behind them made Maria turn to see a dark figure advancing towards them. It was a tall, sturdy man with a long lock of black hair over his eyes, a thick beard and a pair of puffy hands. Although Maria didn’t know the man, he seemed to be fully aware of who she was. As soon as she saw him, her mother picked Teresa up and stepped back towards the house.
Ignoring them, the man grabbed Maria’s slender arm in his fist. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said, giving her a shove.
‘I haven’t done any—’
‘You have to leave, and if you don’t do it of your own accord, I’ll kick you out.’
Maria didn’t move and the man pushed her to the ground. Her hands stung as they scraped against the stones. The man kept staring at her, his expression menacing.
‘Where am I supposed to go?’ she asked, terrified. ‘I’ve come back for Teresa. I won’t bother anyone. You can tell Vincenzo that—’
At the mention of that name, the man swung his arm back and slapped Maria’s face so hard that she fell back down on the ground, this time on her belly. Trembling, her eyes clouded over from the pain, she stood up, took a few steps towards the wooden gate and fell again, hunched over in the field, hoping that her mother and Teresa weren’t witnessing the scene. The man yanked her back to her feet and Maria looked over at the windows of the house in vain, her hand over her cheek.
The man sniffed and spat on the ground before speaking again. ‘Go to the church: that’s where all the miserable wretches end up,’ he said with a sneer. ‘The priest will find you a place to stay.’
In her despair, Maria uttered a fierce shout. She screamed with all the air in her lungs, as tears ran down her chin onto her dress. The man lunged forward and put his hand over her mouth. Maria got a strong whiff of burnt wood and sweat from his face and, through his clenched teeth, the pungent, alcoholic smell of myrtle liqueur. As their eyes locked a few centimetres away from each other, the man’s lock of dark hair shifted, revealing a small beauty spot between his eyebrows. His neglected, violent body had nothing of its former state except for that one detail, and Maria gasped when she recognised him. Her eyes opened wide, and Vincenzo realised he’d been identified; he pulled away the side of his jacket, uncovering a leather belt into which a leppa was tucked.
‘You’ve antagonised the wrong people, do you understand that?’
Maria didn’t reply.
‘Is that clear, yes or no?’ he said.
In tears, she nodded.
‘That’s not your family anymore and that child’s no longer your daughter. It’s the last time I’m telling you this. If I see you here again I’ll kill you.’
He took his hand off her mouth, wiped it on the collar of her dress and pushed her backwards onto the dirt road. Crouching on the ground, Maria struggled to breathe while Vincenzo disappeared behind the trees in the garden.
A few endless minutes later, she turned her back to the house and limped towards the church, certain that no prayer could save her now. She looked at the cuts on her palms without feeling any pain; she couldn’t feel anything anymore. The square was deserted and the church door locked. She staggered to the fountain, reached her trembling hands to the jet of water and washed the traces of tears from her face.
~
Many years had passed since that day, but as Maria climbed the ridge of the hill on her way back from her walk, the memory of it revisited her with painful clarity. The heat had become unbearable and the old woman stopped outside the church, still carrying her small bunch of asparagus. She brought her wrinkled hands together in the fountain and stared at the old scars on her palms until they were submerged. The water composed a blurred reflection of her weary face. She could no longer see herself clearly but, inside, she knew.
Over the years, other wounds had been added to the marks of these physical ones—less visible but deep enough to devour her mind. She’d spent months living in the darkness of su cuccuru, on one meal a day begged from the parish, her own voice for sole company. Every rejection, every act of violence she’d suffered had appeared before her—now clearly, now faded by time—and as she obsessively relived them, her words had ended up crumbling into disconnected sentences addressed only to her mirror image.
She was no longer able to distinguish reality from what her memory delighted in manipulating, and the only relief she found from this dizzying sequence was to assume a blank stare, a sign of the inevitable, painful implosion to come. At nightfall, in Lolai’s light-filled streets, she was a ghostly entity made ever more wild and menacing by old age, like a bruja.
Maria took a sip of water and wetted her hands again, then raised them, dripping, to her head and brushed the grey back of her neck, her eyes half-closed. She felt a couple of rebellious locks escape from the hairpins that secured her bun, and a sharp pain in her back made her hunch over on the road, like a branch bent by the wind. She recalled the women chatting by the fire, all those years ago, and the legend of Maria Abbranca—the jilted bride who’d lost her mind from anger, the keeper of the waters and alleged child-snatcher. After all, she thought, they had more than just a name in common.
The bruja put a hand in the pocket of her dress and touched the leather binding of the Bible with her index finger. Then she picked up the asparagus from the ground and headed silently towards su cuccuru—comforted by the certainty that in every legend, even if distilled, there’s always a kernel of truth.