The Witch House of Persimmon Point (7 page)

 

6

Nan in the Barn with a Boy

ITALY, 1900

Her beautiful mother sat in the sunshine and moved back and forth in her rocking chair. The creaking of it soothed Nan, though she didn't want to admit it. It was her birthday, she was turning sixteen, and what was she doing? Snapping the ends off green beans.

“I should be in Paris at a cafe, not here helping cook my own birthday meal,” she said.

Her mother smiled, tilting her face toward the sun and closing her eyes. Nan loved the way her mama's hair collected all the light of the afternoon.

“But don't you agree, Mama?” she asked, putting the bowl of beans on the table. She then kneeled next to her mother, putting her head on her lap so that the rocking chair stilled. “I love you, you know I would never go far away. I'm just terribly bored. And I don't even like beans. Mama, are you listening to me?”

“This chair,” said her mother, dreamily, “has rocked babies in our family for as long as anyone can remember. I rocked you right after you were born. The sunlight was just like this. I'd never seen anything more beautiful than you. We'd only just come to live here, and I was still trying to make a living selling the herbs and treatments. You are a wild soul, Anna. Much like I was. But you lack the fear I had. You've never taken any of my teaching seriously enough. You must start to learn the old ways, Anna. Without these skills, this community will not accept you when I am gone. I may have done you a disservice, allowing you so much freedom, so much safety.”

Nan, not caring for the moment that she had just turned sixteen, curled up in her mother's lap like a little girl. Mama only called her Anna when she was serious. “I'll never have to worry about that, because you will never leave me,” Nan said.

Her mother kissed the top of her head, and the two silently rocked back and forth together, looking out over the rolling hills and the dirt road that snaked its way to the horizon.

*   *   *

Nan's childhood had been like no other, at least not like that of the other children growing up in the small town of Stella di Perduto, where young girls were constrained by religion, the patriarchal culture, and violent crime attached to family pride.

The Amore family on the edge of the village was different. Ava Amore was as feared as she was respected. Her curing, healing ways were known all throughout southern Italy and perhaps beyond. Ava tried to teach her children, Nan especially, the healing arts, but be it laziness on their part, or business on her own, not one of them knew enough to keep her little family safe.

When Nan was older, during those moments she dared to look back to that time and that place, the sun was always bright in the sky. The landscape was gentle. There were gentle rolling hills, gentle flowing rivers, gentle breezes. Nan often lamented not absorbing any of those qualities.

Maybe if she'd spent more time appreciating the world surrounding her, instead of daydreaming about distant shores, she would have been less reckless. Maybe if she'd paid attention to the way her mother's hands lingered on her hair, she would have noticed the impermanence of safety.

We never really know how much we'll miss people and places until they're gone.

*   *   *

No, Nan wasn't gentle or nostalgic. She was more like the colors surrounding her, brilliant and vivid. Green treetops against a blue sky with white fluffy clouds, the purple of the sage, the yellow of the squash and daisies and dandelions. The light, fresh green of white grapes and the deep blackish purple of the red grapes, the dark green grape vines and orange stucco on her home that faded pink in the sunlight. And then there were the blue-gray stone pathways that led through high yellow and green grasses on the paths into the village proper. The colors made Nan long for a brighter light inside herself.

And the air, ocean saltwater with hints of garlic, grapes, hardworking men, lavender, roses … Nan loved the smell of roses. Her mother would pour her a tub once a week, and when the roses were in bloom, she would add the petals.

“May I get Florencia to finish snapping these, Mama? I want to have my bath.”

“I suppose so, but don't be mean when you ask her. You know she always feels I favor you.”

“That's because you do,” said Nan, kissing her mother on her cheek before flouncing outside and almost toppling the bowl full of beans.

*   *   *

See Nan in a metal washtub, her bare sun-kissed shoulders, her graceful legs. The tub is stationed just outside the kitchen, the door that overflows with herbs from pots and tangled window boxes.… See her floating just under the rose petal–dappled surface. Her eyes rest shut and she can smell the fragrance steeping, steaming, streaming out of each perfect petal. She dreams that she is in Paris, or any other fast city, and she is dancing, her hair wildly falling down against her back. She is the belle of the ball. The mysterious young woman from anywhere. See her sister, Florencia, and her brother, Vincent, spy on her from behind the sheets on the line. See her build a future that will never come.

*   *   *

Nan Amore had big plans. But she knew that to travel in the world, she'd have to pay her own way. She had no intention of marrying, so she was taking in sewing from those in the village. She didn't make much, but it was a start. As she sewed she thought of all the places she would go. First, France. Her father, before he died, always told stories about the coffee in France, how bitter … but what does coffee matter?

“Anna! Wash your hair!” her mother shouted through the window. To Nan she sounded a million miles away.

But Nan washed her hair dutifully, then called her mother to help her out of the tub. “Mama, you are the most beautiful of anyone I've ever seen.” Ava Amore was petite, smaller than Nan or her sister. She had red hair, bright red with no signs of gray. Nan and her siblings looked like changeling … black hair, black eyes, round curves, high cheekbones, young, taut skin. Her mother showed her age on her face and her hands. Frowning was her resting face, and the frowns had created deep creases in her mother's skin. Nan loved them; she would trace them when they would lie together in the fields after picnics or at night when her mother snuggled with them, telling them stories of the magical world they supposedly came from. Nan's only fear about her wonderful plans was being away from her curious, warm-hearted, ever-frowning magical mother.

*   *   *

A month after her birthday, Giancarlo began calling on Nan Amore.

When he came to the house, Nan made fun of him. He was such a dandy. He wore a fancy suit—the same one every time—and had a silly little half-grown mustache that seemed more like a smudge of dirt than a symbol of his manhood. And his hair was slicked back with too much oil. He may have been handsome, Nan didn't know or care.

She'd been furious when Mama gave him permission to court her. But whatever anger Nan felt paled in comparison to the rage Ava unleashed on her when Giancarlo left.

“You will
not
destroy this opportunity. Do you know how difficult it was to find a suitable man who isn't scared of coming too close to us? Or who doesn't assume you and your sister have already had relations with the devil? Do not laugh, children. This is what is on the minds of everyone you see. Don't fool yourselves. Sometimes the only way to stay safe is to simply agree. And that works both ways. Understand?” Her children nodded. “Nan, be kind to that boy. He is your future.”

“Mama, why are you entertaining this folly? Are you trying to marry me off, be rid of me?” asked Nan.

“Florencia, Vincent … go outside. Now,” said Ava. Then she turned, placing both hands on Nan's shoulders, and roughly pushed her against the wall.

“As a matter of fact, I am. You are not a child any longer. And you are not protected by the ways of our people. This is not your fault … I thought we'd have more time. I thought I could teach you, and then you would apprentice, and once I was gone you would simply take my place and protect Florencia and Vincent. Listen to me, Nan, I am running out of time. You will have to marry.”

“What do you mean, are you sick?”

“Not yet. I have some time. And I have some cures. But the chance, the real risk of it, helped me realize I will not be here forever. Just do as I say. I can't force you to marry him. But I
can
try to pave you a road. I did not raise children who are close-minded to ideas. Give this a chance.”

Nan agreed.

*   *   *

So Nan and Giancarlo courted under the watchful eye of her siblings. But, after a few weeks, Vincent and Florencia grew bored tagging along. They didn't believe this sweaty, insecure Giancarlo would try anything improper with their Nan, so they let them walk alone.

Only, it wasn't Giancarlo they had to worry about. If she was supposed to consider marrying him, Nan needed to know if she could love him. She wanted to be touched, to feel the romance, to have her body explored. She led him to the barn and laid herself on the hay. He stood there, looking at her, sweating and dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. “And what are you doing Nan? Taking a nap?” He laughed nervously.

“I want you to touch me.” She said it unafraid of how he would react. No one thought she was innocent anyway. And besides, she didn't love him. She looked at him as the first adventure of her life. He was on her in but a moment, hurried and grunting, squeezing and groping. “Slow down…” she said. He tried, but when his fingers found their way inside her, he just shoved and shoved until her entire body began to shiver. She arched against his hand, never wanting him to slow down again, and then she shoved his hand away. She could see the bulge in his pants.

“Please…” he seemed to squeak out of his throat. She didn't know how she knew what to do, but she did. She undid his pants and took his swollen thing into her mouth. It didn't take long. When he left that day, she thought he would never come back, that she had shamed them both somehow, but she was wrong. He came back the next week. This time he led her to the barn.

They repeated their encounter, all fingers and mouths, but took more time. He played with her breasts and kissed them while his fingers worked, and she shuddered harder and faster. But they knew not to go further; they knew they could not sin all the way.

“We could do it if you marry me,” he said.

“You don't want to marry me,” she said.

Because she didn't want to marry him. She didn't even like him. She liked the way his hands and his mouth felt on her body (her body
loved
him), but other than that, the mere thought of Giancarlo made her want to vomit. She just didn't understand. How can you not love someone and still want to do all of those things with them? How could you not want to marry someone who you want to force into mortal sin? It just didn't make sense.

Their trysts in the barn went on for a month. And then, one evening, it was just too much. They had grown bored with fingers and mouths. “Can I?” he whispered.

She was wet between her legs, and there was a throbbing so intense she could not catch her breath; an emptiness that needed filling. Her breasts were bared, nipples erect, and his lips and mustache and teeth were on her like an animal and she wanted him to rip them right off of her. “Yes,” she said, and it was done. It was glorious. He entered her and the fit was immediate, the whole world came into focus. They moved together, frantic to finally feel each other from the inside out; they moved as one and came together in unison, holding each other's mouths to hush the moans. Immediately she knew she had made a horrible mistake. She'd unleashed some deep sorrow inside of her soul. A sadness that nothing, not the blue sky, the green grass, or even her mama's clean-smelling hands could erase.

She refused to see him the following week, and the week after that. She had Florencia and Vincent turn him away at the door.

By the time the morning sickness started, she hated even the thought of him.

Her mother knew. She didn't want to know, but she did. She didn't say much, simply, “Now you have no choice.”

*   *   *

Nan stood in the small room above the butcher shop and surveyed herself in the mirror. Layers of lace could not hide the bulge at her waist. Her face looked older, her hair was brittle. “I don't make a good bride, Mama. I don't know why you would inflict this punishment on me. There were other ways.”

“Do you think I want this for you? I have spent the past months writing letters to everyone I can think of. No one is willing to help us. We are alone, Nan. Tell me, what other ways do you see?”

“I could run away to Paris and say I was a widow.”

“With what money? With what skills? You will end up in the streets selling your body and soul just to eat. And what about your brother and sister? Nan, be sensible. Once you are married and the baby comes, there are things we can do. But first we must make things right so these people will begin to accept you as one of them.”

“I don't want to be one of them.”

Ava stopped fussing with the dress. “You do not have to be. I would not want you to be. It is time you hear about our people. Not the fairy tales I've spun for you. The real truth. Most humans align themselves with blood. Chart their family tree through mothers and fathers. From as far back as we can recall, our people did not group ourselves by surname or lineage. We grouped ourselves by abilities. At the beginning of any society, people build upon commonality. Ours was not about land, or farming, or fishing, or war. Ours was simply safety. Each of those new societies had rules and beliefs, cultures that had no room for those who were able to do or see things no one understood. One seemed to be fine. A witch doctor, a healer, a soothsayer, a wise man … there was room for one such person, but not for any others. So, we were sent out, or we fled from the fires and the nooses and the stones. Slowly, over generations, we gathered in a stretch of land by the Black Sea. And we were safe. Can you imagine, Nan, a world where all the strengths of sight and alchemy and incantation were united? We were a powerful people, but we were smart, too. We stayed within the confines and waited for the world to catch up with us. Then, the plague. Word spread that there was a community where no one was dying. The irony is that there was nothing mystical in our survival, we simply understood how the virus worked. Many people came for help, and the elders of our clan chose, fatefully, not to share our knowledge. The price of pride, Nan, is death. Remember that. As more and more armies arrived, we were charged with the cause of the illness. And instead of waiting for our slaughter, we scattered. Used their own fear to create a mist that helped us escape to all corners of the world. And we stay that way all these many hundreds of years later. Alone and hiding amongst those that would kill us.”