“You don’t come to Sicily and ask to buy a gun.” The voice, speaking in Italian, seemed to come from far away.
The words, followed by raucous laughter, dimly made their way into my throbbing head as my body tumbled downward, knocking against scratchy bushes, scraping sticks, and small rocks that felt like punches. I was afraid to open my eyes. I knew it was best to keep my eyes tightly closed. When I finally came to a painful stop, I slowly opened my eyes. All I saw was brilliant blue sky above me. I was stuck against a prickly bush that had stopped my rolling further down the steep hillside.
A bird whistled a happy song and I heard tires squealing from what sounded like far away. Gingerly, I sat up. I was near the bottom of a steep, weed and flowered-covered incline. A craggy outcrop of bushes and rocks had stopped my body from continuing its roll right off the cliff. I could hear the surf pounding some ways down the hill a few hundred feet below. So, despite appearances, I knew they didn’t want me dead. I was certain if they had wanted me dead, they would’ve put a bullet in my head before sending my body plunging down the hill, or at the very least, waited around to make sure I went soaring off the cliff into the ocean.
My head throbbed where I’d been whacked with the pistol. I tried to stand, but felt dizzy and slumped back into a sitting position on a large rock, putting my head between my hands. Of course, they’d taken my backpack. I frantically patted under my jeans. My money belt was there. Thank God, they hadn’t searched me.
They were just playing with me. Sending me a message. As far as I could tell the message was “Don’t be a stupid American girl who thinks she can play with the big boys in Sicily.”
I’d learned my lesson. The Tenderloin and Hunter’s Point in San Francisco were Disneyland compared to Sicily.
The warrior learns from his mistakes and grows stronger, more powerful.
It took me a while to make it to the road I’d spotted. I headed to the right, which seemed to be north. I had traveled south to get to the shack.
My head hurt and as I walked, I daydreamed about coming across a small café where I could get a large glass of water and four aspirin. But the road, which was up against the side of the hill on one side and overlooking the ocean on the other, didn’t seem to have any businesses. No cars, either.
After about thirty minutes, I heard the distant rumble of an engine and stepped to the shoulder of the road, ready to flag the driver down. The vehicle that rounded the bend was an old rusty pickup truck and the gray-haired driver didn’t even slant his eyes my way as he passed despite my yells and frantic waving.
I kept walking.
It took me about another half hour to reach a small village.
When I saw the road leveling out and the line of small buildings in front of me, I wanted to cry with relief. Instead, I kept on, encouraged by the thought of aspirin and water.
It wasn’t a store. It was a small cluster of homes. Nobody seemed to be at the first house, but my knock was answered at the second. A teenage girl looked at me as if she were bored.
“Do you have a phone?” I asked in Italian.
Instead of answering, she closed the door. I should have asked for water and aspirin. A few seconds later, she handed me a phone and stood there in the doorway watching me.
A half hour later, I’d downed some aspirin, drank a huge glass of water, and was waiting for a driver from a hotel in Taormina to pick me up. I knew after that blow to the head, I’d need a day or two to recover. It would drive me crazy. I had things to do. But I also knew my body needed some down time.
The clerk at the Grand Hotel Timeo in Taormina said they had a doctor on staff who could come look at my head. I said I’d pass. I’d had a concussion before, from getting a kick in the head during my Budo training. Only time would make it better.