Enchanted Forests (50 page)

if he had been walking all night.

Mama crushed him against her in a hug. "Jono," she whis-

pered. Then she pushed him away, dried her tears, and straight-

ened her apron and dress. "I don't care what it costs. I am going

to send for the doctor."

"Is Stepha back? Was she hurt?"

All three adults examined him so closely that he became ner-

vous. Aunt Martina asked him to raise and lower his amis. Uncle

THE MEMORY OF PEACE

325

Martin jerked his chair closer to the bed and peered into

Jontano's eyes and ears and mouth, and listened to his chest.

"He's never had such a fit before," said Mama in a low voice.

"You didn't hear or respond to me, Jono, and you lying there

with your eyes wide open, seeing I don't know what. It's as if

you weren't there at all."

"I've seen it take soldiers," said Martin, "after they'd had too

much. They just go out of themselves."

"If only we had more food," said Aunt Martina. "The boys get

little enough as it is. They're all so thin. He needs more meat.

And milk. Ah, if only I'd been able to bring the goats. They'd

have done well enough on weeds. Then we could have had milk

and cheese every week."

Jontano knew he couldn't tell them what he'd really been see-

ing. He didn't know what they'd do, except he knew they'd take

the beautiful cards away from him. "I feel fine. I was just

asleep." He sat down on the bed and searched through the rum-

pled quilt. Finding the card, he tucked it into the drawer of the

sidetable—one that had escaped being broken up and burned for

fuel last winter.

"What's that?" asked Mama sharply.

"Only some cards Stepha found when she got the other things

at old Aldo's shop."

"What kind of cards?" asked Aunt Martina.

Uncle Martin shook his head. "Old Aldo had a way with

things- He wasn't the kind of man you cross, or he'd have his re-

venge, whether in little things or great. I remember the time

about eight years ago now, when the girl in his house got into

trouble. I don't know whether it was his daughter or grand-

daughter—no one did, and it wasn't the sort of thing you'd ask

a man like that. She'd come from the country when she was a

tiny thing, and he'd raised her. He doted on her, which we all re-

marked on since he was as ill-tempered as a caged wolf. He was

the kind of man who would as soon throw a rock at a boy as

give him a piece of candy."

He smiled his twisted grin, and Jontano wondered which of

the two had happened to Martin. Jontano's own memories of

Aldo were hazier, mostly his parents' prohibitions not to bother

the old man who stood in the dim doorway of a shop from which

wafted the most interesting and bizarre smells.

"But that girl—Lord, I don't even recall her name now—grew

into a taking thing. Even we married men liked to stroll down

the boulevard just to get a glimpse of her sweeping the sidewalk

326 Kate Elliott

or grinding herbs into pastes and such. She had two suitors. One

was the son of an officer in the Trient militia, a Trassahar boy,

back when there was a city militia that any boy from the city

could join ..."

"One of General Vestino's boys, wasn't it?" asked Mama. "He

had six or seven. No one could count them all."

"The youngest of them, yes, I think it was. It scarcely matters

now- The other was the son of a Marrazzano merchant, grain and

oil, if I remember rightly. That was the proof of how beautiful

she was, that sons of good family like that came courting her.

But she was a good girl, too, well-spoken, polite. She could read

and do figures, and some even said she had the touch of healing

in her hands."

"Yes," Mama's voice grew soft with remembrance. "People

would bring ailing children to her, and she'd make poultices and

drinks for them, and more of them got well than got sicker, as I

recall. Girls would go to her for love potions, which I heard she

never gave out, but if they would give a tithe to the church or

donate some bread for the poor, she'd tell them when they would

get married. I remember her."

"What happened to her?" Jono tried to remember a pretty

young woman stationed at old Aide's shop, but be could not,

only the old man standing in the doorway, and me musty, invit-

ing scents that came from the shop.

"It came to insults first, between the two suitors, and then to

blows. Alas." Martin sighed. "She broke into the fight, trying to

stop it, and by one means or another, she got a knife in her side

and died. Ah Lord, that was a bitter day. No one knew which

boy's knife had taken her. Perhaps they didn't either, but what

did it matter by that time? Old Aldo cursed them."

Mama rested a hand on Martin's shoulder, as if to stop him,

but he went on.

"He cursed them to be at one another's throats ever after, like

dogs worrying at a bone until there was nothing left to be had;

and only then would they find peace again,"

He lapsed into silence- Mama went to the window and looked

out over the city. In me distance, they heard me crack of musket

fire.

"Nine months later the war started," said Mama in a soft

voice, "as if it was a babe born of the curse. People shunned old

Aldo after that, but he stayed in his shop. I suppose he also had

nowhere else to go."

"Or nothing to go for," added Uncle Martin. "But the war got

THE MEMORY OF PEACE

327

him in the end. That's the trouble with curses. They're as likely

to rebound on you as to stay fixed on others."

"I haven't heard this story before," said Aunt Martina. "What

happened to the two suitors?"

"The Trassahar boy joined the militia and got himself killed in

the first month, defending Saint Harmonious Bridge before it

was blown to pieces. As for the Marrazzano boy—who knows?

He might be up in the hills now, firing down on us. He might be

rotting in his grave."

The adults had by now all gone to the window, to look out,

Martin bumping his chair over, following the well-wom

scratches in the plank floor—this was the window where Martin

sat with his musket. The lush greenery of carrots lapped over the

windowsill, and Aunt Martina absently thinned a few out as she

stared toward the center of the city. Their home stood on just

enough of a rise that they could see out over the rooftops below,

and the tall boulevard trees that had once obscured the central

city from view were now all cut down.

Downstairs, Cousin Gregory sang a counting song to his little

brother. From two doors down Jontano heard Widow Angelit

singing in her robust voice a tune from an opera popular when

he was little—when the opera house in town had still been open.

It cheered him, hearing her sing a rousing chorus, even if she

was off-key.

Uncle Martin laughed and turned away from the window.

"Lord, Martina, you'd want me to marry a woman who can't

sing?"

"Better a woman who can't sing than a woman who can't

cook, like that woman you courted last year."

"All to no use!"

"Better luck for us!" Martina tilted his chair back and dragged

him out of the room. A moment later Jontano heard him bump-

ing his way down the stairs while Martina followed with the

chair, hectoring him about his poor choice in sweethearts.

Mama remained. "I don't like you having things from old

Aldo's shop."

"Please, Mama. They're so pretty." He opened the drawer and

took out the cards, displaying them for her. "Look at the brush-

work. Doesn't it remind you of something Papa could do? Please

let me keep them."

"Some said the girl wasn't his daughter by the flesh at all, but

that he'd created her by sorcery. It's not safe to touch the things

of a man who might have worked magic." She sighed, handing

328

Kate Elliott

the cards back. "But these are just playing cards. I suppose no

harm can come from something like that."

"Thank you, Mama." He kissed her on the cheek.

She tousled his hair, men swatted him lightly on the back. "Go

do your chores. The rain has made the weeds sprout like flies on

a rotten apple."

So me days passed.

But every night, drawn by the lure of green trees and silent

paths, he took hold of the card and wandered in the forest. Only

now he made sure to keep track of the time; he learned to rec-

ognize the path mat would take him out of the woods back into

his bed, back into the damp spring air of Trient, back to the ser-

enade of intermittent explosions and musket fire, to the wailing

of the alarm and the waiting of the newly-grief-stricken, to the

constant guard they set over their well and garden.

No trees stood within the city now. It was only by walking in

the forest hidden in the card that he could watch the trees unfurl

their leaves to their full grandeur, only by squinting out over the

bare and broken rooftops that he could see the distant line of for-

est surrounding the city turn a deeper green. There, concealed by

the trees, now and again he saw the puffs of smoke that betrayed

Marrazzano cannon emplacements as they fired down onto

Trient.

"You're tired all me time," said Mama, looking worried, and

Aunt Martina braved the marketplace to look for decent cuts of

meat. They traded away me sidetable for a slab of pork. so he

had to hide the cards in his pillowcase.

Cousin Gregory turned fifteen and left to join the militia. Aunt

Martina wept. a little, but she told him to fight bravely, to protect

what remained of his father's heritage. Now there were only five

in the house, me three adults, the two boys.

Clouds rolled in and settled over the valley. It rained for days-

On the ninth day of torrential rain, when the streets ran with

water and the roof leaked, and even the clothes hanging in the

wardrobe exuded a damp odor, the Marrazzanos chose to launch

a new and brutal bombardment.

"It's taken them mat long to build shelters over the guns," said

Uncle Martin, "or they'd never fire in such rain. I don't know

how they manage it, even so."

Jontano leaned out me window next to Uncle Martin, watching

the flash of fire in me hills, hearing muted explosions and watch-

ing smoke rise, dense and packed heavy with moisture, and then

fall again, unable to catch fire, or to rise up into a sky drenched

THE MEMORY OF PEACE

329

with rainfall. "I heard from Bobo's son that the Marrazzanos got

a new kind of cannon, a better kind."

Uncle Martin only grunted. He peered out at the distant Nils.

He was renowned for his keen vision, sniper's sight, and now he

frowned and shifted the muzzle of his musket through the carrots

so that droplets of water sprayed down on his hands. "I don't

like it. They're closer man they were a month ago, new guns or

no. Our people have lost ground to them, the bastards."

Was he calling me Marrazzanos the bastards, Jono wondered,

or the Trassahar militia that had failed to do its duty? He thought

about asking, opened his mouth, even. The next instant he was

thrown to the ground.

The foundation of the house rocked beneath his body. Whim-

pering, he grabbed for a leg of Uncle Martin's chair and realized

that the chair had tipped over, spilling the legless man onto me

ground.

"Curse it!" swore Uncle Martin, scrabbling like a turtle to roll

himself from his back onto his chest. "That's taken the widow's

house to pieces. Run downstairs, Jono. Get the others into the

root cellar."

Even as he said it, a shattering noise deafened Jontano. The

wall beside him cracked, splintering.

"Run down, boy!" shouted Martin. "Those bastards have us

under their sights and they don't even know it!"

But Jontano grabbed Martin under the arms and dragged him

toward the stairs. Just as they got under the safety of the lintel

a ball crashed into the window. Dirt and carrots and glass and

shards of wood sprayed the room. Jontano yipped in pain. Uncle

Martin merely grunted-

Aunt Martina ran up the stairs. "Down, you fools! Can't you

come down any faster?" She shoved Jontano aside and heaved

Martin up and with him cursing and her shouting, their argument

drowned out by the rain of cannon balls on their house and the

neighboring houses, by the sudden onslaught of a driving rain,

got him down the stairs. They fled to the root cellar and there,

huddled together with only musty old potatoes and the few pre-

cious remaining bottles of wine and ale, with a finger's deep

pool of water turning the dirt floor into muck, they sheltered

while the bombardment went on and on and on. They listened to

their house being destroyed, and to the shouts and cries from

neighboring houses, and, later, to the silence, except for the end-

less drone of rain.

At last. when the light began to fade and the bombardment

330 Kate ElLott

had, seemingly, moved on toward a new neighborhood, they ven-

tured out. Jonlano tried to go out first, but Aunt Martina shoved

him back.

"I'll go," she said curtly. "I've had a life, a good one, before

this war came. You deserve a chance at a decent life, so we

won't go taking chances with you yet, my boy." She lifted Ro-

man from her lap, and he wailed and clung to Uncle Martin, sob-

bing as his mother pushed open the root cellar door and crawled

out into the gloomy, wet afternoon.

After a while, when they heard her footsteps overhead but

nothing else, she came back. Her face was drawn and white. Her

hair lay in wet strings over her dress. She was soaked to the skin,

and it still rained.

They crawled out, all except Martin. The house was destroyed.

One wall still stood its full height, but the others were shattered.

The roof had caved in. The stairs veered crookedly up to a non-

existent floor above.

They stood in silence for a long time, sheltering under a bless-

edly dry comer, and watched the rain pour down over what

remained of their home. Dimly, Jontano heard Uncle Martin call-

ing to them from the root cellar.

Finally, Mama shook herself. "There's no point in waiting

here. If we wait until the rain stops, looters may come- Roman,

you go down and wait with Uncle Martin, There's nothing he

can do until we've salvaged what's left."

"I'll walk down the street," said Aunt Martina. "Perhaps our

neighbors need help."

So Jontano and Mama picked through the wreckage. Of their

armament—two muskets and a pistol—one musket was dry and

still usable and the others were not too badly damaged. The pow-

der and shot had remained dry because they kept it in metal tins,

and those in a cupboard which had come through the bombard-

ment mostly intact. Mama set Jontano in the dry comer and put

him on watch while she filled bags and blankets with what re-

mained of their possessions: clothing, a few jars of pickled figs

that had gotten wedged into the comer of the cupboard, the kettle

and three unbroken plates, two pots, silverware, Roman's toy

horse and wagon not too dented from its fall from the upper

story, a bucket, a shovel, the last of the bread from the morning,

a length of silver ribbon, and the butcher knife- She piled the

bags and the single intact headboard next to Jontano.

After a while he realized that the street and alley were empty

and likely to remain that way. The bombardment had quieted and

THE MEMORY OF PEACE        331

moved back south again, and the rain had slackened to a steady

drizzle. He ventured out of the ruined house to the well. The lit-

tle roof had fallen in, and a few of the stones had tumbled out,

crushing turnips, but as he tugged the boards out, he saw that the

well itself remained intact. And though the garden was half cov-

ered with debris, as he picked up boards and tossed bricks aside

he found that a fair portion of the vegetables were only crushed

but not severed. He leaned the musket against the stones of the

wall and began to clean up the garden, his heart racing with ex-

citement each time he uncovered an unhurt plant.

Later, as it grew to dusk. Aunt Martina came back. "Widow

Angetit is dead. I helped Bobo Milovech pull his daughter from

the ruins, but I doubt she'll live. She lost one of her legs below

me knee. We bound it up as well as we could, but she's too frail

to sustain the loss of blood. Bobita went to see about a doctor,

but what's to do when everyone needs a doctor? At least none of

us were hurt."

Mama looked at her strangely for a long moment. "Ai," she

said at last. "I'm so tired, Martina." She was weeping, but qui-

etly, and Martina hugged her. They stood that way a long time

while Jontano watched over them, watched over the well and the

garden. Then, leaving Jontano on watch, the two women

crouched beside the root cellar stairs to discuss their predicament

with Uncle Martin.

Jontano stood in an eerie silence and listened to Roman sneeze

and cough, listened to me hopeless sobbing of a woman farther

up the street—Bobita Milovech, perhaps—to a single shot fol-

lowed by a second, then a third, echoing through the empty

streets.

"Water," said a child's voice, weak in the twilight. "Do you

have water?"

Jontano started around, raising the musket. A small girl stood

at the gate, a waif in tattered clothing. She held a battered tin cup

in one hand.

He peered down the musket at her, his hands shaking, waiting

for the adults who were with her to show themselves.

But there was no movement in the shadows, no threats,

whispers, or coughs. The girl had pretematurally pale hair—

Marrazzano hair, people called it—and gorgeous brown eyes and

a sweet face only partially obscured by dirt. She couldn't be

more than seven or eight years old. She was alone.

Jano glanced back toward the shell of the house, but one of the

walls hid the entrance to the root cellar from view. Hastily, he

332 Kate Elliott

dragged away the boards that protected the opening of the well

and lowered the bucket, having to winch it hard to get it around,

now that a stray hit had bent the axle. The bucket came up half

full of clear water, and he dipped her cup in and gave it back to

her.

"Now go," he said in a low voice. "I'm not allowed to give

any away. Don't come back."

Mutely, she drank the cup dry. He filled it again. This time she

padded off, barefoot, down the street, cradling the precious cup-

ful of water against her thin chest. Where were her parents?

Lost? Dead? But he heard Mama's voice, calling to him, and as

he turned round, he faced the dead house and knew that even if,

before today, they might have managed to feed just one more,

they had too little left to do so now.

"Martin is going to stay here," said Mama, picking her way

around the house. "We'll set him up in the comer, rig a blanket

to protect him from wind and rain, and he'll guard the well and

the fountain. The rest of us will have to find shelter another

place. Roman is getting sicker, the grippe. It's going down into

his lungs, I fear. We must find someplace dry and warm for him

tomorrow."

"I'll watch tonight," said Jontano. "It's clearing, and I'd rather

be up here than down in the cellar."

He caught her answering smile, a ghost in the twilight, and

then she went away. So he stood watch, but after the terrible

bombardment of the daytime, after the loud, pounding rains, it

was now oddly silent. It made him nervous, because unlike the

silence in the forest, it was an unnatural quiet-

In the morning, Jontano helped Aunt Martina haul Uncle Mar-

tin out of the root cellar. While Martin took the parts of several

broken chairs and repaired them into a semblance of one good

chair, Mama and Aunt Martina divided up their possessions. Ro-