Damiano (16 page)

“What
we
shall do next, you mean,” replied Macchiata, standing unconcernedly in the middle of the blanket her master was attempting to fold.

“What we shall do, then. We are going to take a trip. A very pleasant trip into a beautiful land. Just the two of us.”

Macchiata cocked her head to one side, and the tip of her tail began to wag. Slowly the wag gained both speed and mass, until her body was still only from the shoulders forward.

“To Provence, Master, as you said last week?”

Damiano threw the blanket into the corner and stood. He thrust his head out the single small window the room possessed and took a chestful of clean air. “No. Last week I was dreaming childish dreams. I was dreaming of my own happiness. But still, where we are going is more beautiful than Provence. We are going to Lombardy, little dear. To find the witch my father said was the most powerful in all the Italics: Saara the Fenwoman, whose dominion...” and then his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, as he remembered where last he had heard the word “dominion.” “Whose power is over both snow and sunlight. She
must
help us.

“—For I don't know anyone else to ask.”

The parting with Carla Denezzi was hard. It seemed to Damiano he had never known how he loved her until she was lost to him. If he had been more forward... but then he had not suspected there would be a limit to their time together, and feelings, like fruit, ripen slowly in the high air.

Damiano bought the black gelding from Paolo Denezzi, who was more than willing to help Damiano on his way. The last of his coin was spent on food and warmer bedding than even his closet at home had provided. Was General Pardo now storing
his
garb in the Delstrego wardrobe? It was quite possible, since the tower was nearly the best house in Partestrada, and certainly the most defendable.

Now that Damiano stopped to think about it, the general would be running quite a risk if he did plant himself in Damiano's house. A man could come to harm, nosing about in the Delstrego tower, even though Damiano had quenched the fires in the workroom before leaving. There were still the chemicals, and the elementals... Damiano entertained the possibilities. A problem or two would be solved if Pardo exploded along with a sealed retort. But it was an idle notion: there was nothing the witch could do at this distance to encourage an explosion, and besides, he did not know for sure that Pardo was staying in his house.

Damiano rode back along the road south out of Aosta. He rode bareback because that was most easy for him. Guillermo Delstrego had never kept a horse; animals hadn't liked him, and he had returned the feeling.

Or perhaps it had happened the other way around. In either case, Damiano had not learned to ride along with the other boys of family in Partestrada. He had not learned most things along with the other boys, but he had learned quite a few things by himself, and among them was bareback riding.

And the horse liked him much better, now that Damiano's madness had burned itself out. The gelding stepped easily down the packed surface of the road, where a warm day had thawed the brown ice and hollowed it, making sheets brittle and thin like isinglass. Shod hooves ground the stuff into slush.

Macchiata pattered about, behind, before, and beneath, interfering in a hundred ways with the patient steed's walking. Occasionally the horse put its head to the ground or thrust its lippy muzzle into a crack of the rock wall, in the forlorn hope of grass. Damiano did not correct it because he had no rein on the animal, and also because he had not the heart.

They passed the spot where Damiano had first been hailed by Pardo's captain and then the bend in the road where Damiano had destroyed the soldiers with his memories of a butchered cow. Finally they passed beside the small crevasse where fifty-two men were buried beneath snow and branches. For Damiano this journey was another form of the stations of the cross. He said nothing, nor did Macchiata, though her nose had a long memory of its own.

The horse, who had memory but no words, rolled its eyes, and the hide over its withers twitched.

A mile south of this point, as Damiano stopped to take a pull of wine from the bag at his left side he heard a quick clatter of hooves. With his heel he prodded the horse to the side of the road and called Macchiata to stand beneath. Then he pulled his staff out from his bedroll and spoke the spell; it came easily, for he was both rested and in practice.

When the goatherd passed with his tiny flock, he did not notice the prints of shod hooves that led onto the smooth snow of the shoulder of the road and then stopped abruptly. The goats were more observant. They stared with their crazy yellow eyes, pupils rectangular as money boxes, and the witch didn't know whether they could see him or whether they knew he was there by other means.

When almost all had passed, one weatherworn buck halted before the horse, examined them sagaciously and urinated into his own beard. Macchiata growled at the insult. The goat presented its horns.

“Don't get involved,” hissed Damiano helplessly from above. At that moment the goatherd stalked over, and with his supple leather whip, sent his charge bawling up the road.

“Well,” said Damiano, when they were alone again. “It might have been soldiers.”

By midafternoon Damiano had passed the fork in the road where the stone hut stood abandoned and empty, passed by the shoulder hills that concealed the dead village of Sous Pont Saint Martin, and left behind the footpath where the bones and raw hide of a cow had been tossed to rot in the first thaw. Thus all the tragic histories of this past week were behind him.

The sky was streaked with fairy clouds of ice that scattered the sunlight. He felt warm under his furs, warm and sleepy. “Let's start again, little dear,” he murmured to Macchiata. “No more of the Devil. I went wrong somewhere—I don't know where, exactly, and I have no one to ask, but it doesn't matter. Maybe Saara can tell me, eh? She's been round awhile and must have seen much of life, traveling from the Fenland down to Italy.”

He waited for an answer, because Macchiata always replied to his questions, even the rhetorical ones. After a few seconds of silence, he looked around, then leaned over to peer under the horse's belly.

“Macchiata?”

When was the last time he had heard from the dog? Sighing, Damiano slid to the ground.

To the left of the road rose hills, more rounded than the peaks visible from the crossroads, pocketed with green-black growths of pine. To his right the land hollowed out, and standing water had turned to sheets of ice. He squinted at the bright white road behind him.

A tiny speck of russet was hobbling in the distance. It became recognizable, and Damiano relaxed, leaning one arm over the black horse's back. As Macchiata galloped she rolled like a small but heavy-laden ship, and her tongue lolled in desperate manner.

“Why didn't you tell me you couldn't keep up?” asked Damiano. Macchiata looked up at him, pulled in her tongue, and then all four of her bandy legs gave at once. As she hit the packed snow of the road her jaws clashed resoundingly. Her inadequate little tail lay flat out behind.

She was hot as a bed warmer when Damiano scooped her up. “That's terrible, Macchiata. Your pride might have gotten you lost! Now lie there a minute and don't move.” As he spoke he deposited her across the withers of the horse, where she lay as limply as the goatskin of wine. Damiano leaped up next to her.

“This poor horse,” he began, as he clucked the gelding to a walk. “Two riders, two bags, a bedroll, a wineskin, my staff, and the lute besides. It's lucky for him neither of us weighs too much!”

The dog only groaned.

“Do you wonder,” asked Damiano, when a few minutes had passed, “why I should care about Partestrada so much? To go running hither and thither, fighting battles in the snow?”

“No,” answered Macchiata, and she clambered precariously to her feet on the horse's back, her blunt nails digging in for grip. Damiano had barely time to grab her middle before the twitch of the black hide sent her slipping. He sat her on her tail before him, one arm holding her around the middle. Her back legs lolled in the air.

“No, Master. Partestrada is our home.”

“But some might question whether she is worth it. After all, Partestrada isn't the largest city in the area, and she hasn't produced any great poets or philosophers—yet.”

“Partestrada is our home,” repeated the dog, as though there was nothing more to be said.

But Damiano was not listening. “I think... it may be the fruit vendors that make it so special. The way they push their vans down the alleys bawling, ‘rubies, rubies, red rubies' when all the world knows they have only apples for sale. Or it may be the way the sun seems to roll along the crest of the mountains at midwinter, and the dawn and twilight colors last half the day.

“Of course, it could be our wool, because the sheep get to stay cool both winter and summer and yet get enough to eat. We all get enough to eat, as a matter of fact, unlike cities like Florence, where bread might as well be wrapped in gold leaf, for what it costs, and I'm told a man may have a house of marble and yet eat bread laced with sawdust and bran.

“Or it may be the fact that we make our own wine, though frankly, Macchiata, it isn't good wine—not made from the grapes they use in the south.” He slapped the gurgling sack smartly.

“And then again, little dear, though they make fun of us Piedmontese because we are so mixed up between France and the Italies, I think this mixedness makes us flexible. No one is as proud as an illiterate Tuscan peasant, though he has naught to be proud of except a field of sunbaked clay! A man with a Lombard father and a Rhenish mother-in-law must develop a sense of humor—to survive.

“But all in all, I think it is the vendors.”

“I'm mixed,” introjected Macchiata. “My mother is a ratter and my father... I don't know, exactly.”

“Certainly! And see how fortunate you are in that? Strong, enduring, and, though you are not the largest dog in the Piedmont, fierce enough to put three highwaymen to flight.” He squeezed Macchiata till her breath squeaked out her nose.

Then Damiano's dark eyes grew somber and earnest. “Though I know that the highest love asks nothing, still I would like... little dear, I would like Partestrada to know me before I die. To know how I have cared.”

“We know.” Macchiata squirmed around to lick her master's bony hand. “All your friends know.”

Damiano flinched, for he had just been reflecting that, although he was very friendly, he had not many friends.

By the early dusk they had reached a region of upland hills similar to those of home. Grass and wild corn stood exposed in sodden patches, and the steady north wind had bent the stalks of the corn until they trailed the ground like willow. Here the road widened. Damiano spied a shape trudging through the distant, soggy fields, bent almost double beneath a load of faggots. Whether this was man or woman or child he could not tell, and he did not hail the creature, for it was enough to know there were people in the world who had nothing to do with war.

“The road tends south,” he remarked to the dog, who sat awkwardly and stiffly before him. “We've climbed almost out of the snow.”

Macchiata snuffed. “There are too many mountains, Master. And they are too high.”

Damiano laughed. “We barely touched them, little dear. The Alps continue northward, far beyond the most distant peaks we could see, where burghers perch their houses in valleys higher than the tops of our hills, and they speak not only French and Italian, but German as well. In the west the mountains continue into France, while in the east...”

“I'm tired,” said Macchiata.

He hugged her in quick contrition. “I'm sorry, Macchiata. Both you and the horse deserve a rest. But I wanted to leave memories behind.

“And we've done so, for I don't know where we are at all. Let's find some brush out of the wind and make a real camp; it'll be our first!”

Damiano snarled pine boughs into the living branches of a
berry
bush, and over this he flung a length of smelly oilcloth. He wove more of the slender, resinous evergreen as a mat over the half-frozen earth. He gathered a tinder of dry oats and sparked it between his cupped hands. The fire he nurtured was more suitable for a harvest bonfire than for the night's camp of a single traveler, but Maachiata appreciated it, and even the black horse sidled in towards the warmth.

He picked through his sizable store of cheese, bread, dried meat, fruit, and fish. He could afford to be choosy. He picked out an apple, pink and withered like an old woman's cheek, a hard Romano, and a strip of salted pork. He shredded a bite of the pork and found himself controlling his stomach with effort.

“Gah! I can't eat flesh! I shouldn't even try.” He flung the entire strip to Macchiata, who looked quite sorry for him as she gulped it.

“Monks survive without it,” mumbled Damiano. “Or they are supposed to. And after all, how is my life different from a monk's? I have no money, no home, no family... and no mistress.”

“You have me.” The dog's tail punctuated her statement.

Her master blinked. “True, Macchiata, and that's quite a bit. Remind me again if I forget.” He divided the cheese in two.

After dinner, Damiano took out his lute and examined it by firelight. The finish had gone milky over the inlay of the back, but that always happened in the dampness. A good dry day would cure it. All the strings were sound. He plucked a sad melody he had made up himself a year since.

He was out of practice and his fingers stumbled.

“This won't do,” he said to the basking dog. “It is a musician's duty to find time daily for his instrument.”

“You've been busy,” Macchiata yawned, already half asleep.

“I'm always busy,” answered Damiano. “That's no excuse.” And he practiced the modes till his own yawns screwed his eyes shut.