|
Here's a little taster...........
THE HOKEY POKEY MAN
PROLOGUE
Carla waited some way along the path, keeping a discreet distance
between herself and the old man. A lump came to her throat as she
watched the frail, slightly stooped form labouring on the winding path
that led upwards and away from the mountain-top cemetery. He paused now
and then to take off his hat, wiping away droplets of sweat that merged
into little rivulets on his forehead, only for them to reappear almost
immediately in the unforgiving heat of the sun. Since he had heard the
bad news, Carla thought, he seemed to have shrunk in stature, retreated
inside his own body.
She could never remember seeing him like this before, it was almost as
if a light had gone out. He was nearer now, one last effort and he would
be there. But things were far from over for him. Earlier, Carla’s heart
had almost broken as she watched him stand forlornly on the edge of the
little group of people, head bowed in resignation and regret as the
coffin slid into place. Things were done differently here, in this
remote, mountain region of Italy; some graves in the ground, but mostly,
slots in the wall, three or four high, where ancestors slept together in
eternal silence. His weathered face had crumpled visibly as he turned
away.
But no, it wasn’t over yet. Carla knew there was still one more thing he
had to do, one more ghost to lay to rest. She reached out her hand to
him as he came alongside, gently guiding him towards to the car. He sat
in silence and she made no attempt at conversation either, knowing him
well enough to understand instinctively he would prefer to be left alone
with his thoughts. They drove a short distance up the rough-made road
that led to the village before turning off sharply to the right,
crunching onto a narrow lane that gradually petered out into a stony,
dry-crusted track. The whole journey took just a few minutes. Carla
stopped and turning off the ignition, looked around. She knew this was
the right place, but there was nothing much to see; partly obscured by
ancient olive trees, three steps leading upwards to nowhere stood
expectantly alongside a heap of rubble. At the end of an overgrown path
was a small ‘rustico’ - a ruined farm cottage, roof dipping ominously,
window-shutters rotted and drunkenly askew. A few lizards clung lazily
against the warmth of its thick stone walls. Just to the side of the
same path stood a little cappella, or shrine. This, too, had suffered
the ravages of time; roofless, and the once cornflower-blue plaster
faded and peeling to a dingy, mottled grey. At the back, a metre-high
alcove still curved gently as if to embrace the religious statue of a
Madonna that had long since gone. Carla sighed softly.
For
the second time that day, she stood back and watched the old man get out
of the car; she knew her presence would not be welcomed beyond this
point. He stood motionless for a moment, quietly taking in his
surroundings; things had changed so much in the intervening years.
Slowly, he turned his attention to the cappella. Someone had bolted a
rough stone slab onto the wall near the top; it carried a roughly-hewn
inscription, a curious combination of Italian and the local dialect.
With shaking hands, he adjusted his glasses, pushing them right to the
top of his nose. Squinting against the light, he read:
‘Built for my dear son, Sabatino, in penance and atonement for all he
was forced to give up for his family. If only he were still here with us
now. May God and Our Lady grant me forgiveness. Built in this year AD
1900’.
A tear trickled from the corner of the old man’s eye and his legs gave
way beneath him. Kneeling before the cappella, he buried his face in his
hands. Bent shoulders, once broad and strong, now shook uncontrollably
and the single tear became a torrent as he wept like a child.
CHAPTER 1
Sabatino awoke to the sound of birds squabbling and a shaft of sunlight
streaming through the one and only window in the barn. In fact, it
wasn’t even a proper window, just a gap that had been left deliberately
at the apex of the rough Majella stone barn, providing ventilation for
stored crops and animals. Little had changed in the countless years
since it had been built by long-forgotten ancestors; certainly the barn
itself remained the same, good, local stone, still solid and timeless
despite enduring the rigours of several earthquakes and extreme weather
conditions. The surrounding land rolled into the infinity of the valley
below, wild and untouched. Eyes still heavy with sleep, the boy blinked
a few times and rolled lazily on his back, arms raised behind his head,
quietly inhaling the comfortingly familiar smell around him.
It
was a good smell; a heady mix of warm, sweet earth and hay mixed with
the musky scent of animals – goats, pigs, two donkeys and numerous
chickens that shared the barn with him; the three pigs, though, together
with a small flock of sheep, stayed outside in the warm weather. He
smiled lazily as his hand made contact with the body of another, living
being – his favourite goat, Tina – which, of course, he would have named
Tino, like himself, had it been born male. He had hand-reared it almost
from birth, after it’s mother had become sickly and died. The goats
especially were his pride and joy, it was his job to look after all the
animals and for him it was a labour of love. Papa often laughed at him
for being too soft – ‘molto sensibile,’ he would mock, especially when
it was time for one of Tino’s precious charges to be slaughtered for the
table; but Sabatino did not care and would just shrug his shoulders
nonchalantly, so that Papa would not notice the tears in his eyes. He
absently tickled a sensitive spot just behind the goat’s ear and was
rewarded when a wet nose gently nuzzled his hand.
“Tino, Tino! Time to get up!” Mamma’s voice penetrated his thoughts, as
she called across from the little house where the rest of the family
slept. Sabatino’s name had long since been shortened into a more
manageable form by everyone except the local priest up at the village,
and Mara. Ah, Mara! A smile flickered across his lips as he thought of
the lovely young daughter of one of the neighbours. So far, just a smile
here, a shy glance there; but one day, he promised himself, Mara would
be his wife.
“Tino, Get up, you lazy boy! Pigro ragazzo!”
“Coming, Mamma, coming,” he called back, swiftly pulling on his rough
cloth trousers not a moment too soon, for the stocky figure of his
mother was already rapidly approaching the entrance to the barn. He
fumbled hastily with his clothing. All this familiarity was fine when he
was a little boy, but he was thirteen now, approaching fourteen fast,
and almost a man, growing taller and stronger by the day, the hard work
on the land tightening his muscles and turning the colour of his skin
from olive to a deep, golden brown. It was late Summer, the weather
stayed hot despite the cooling mountain breezes and Sabatino slept on a
bed of hay, naked and without covers. It really wouldn’t do for his
mother to see him like that; a faint flush of pink coloured his cheeks
at the thought.
Lena D’Abbruzzo was a handsome woman, a tiny yet imposing figure framed
in the doorway, a faceless outline silhouetted against the dawn sky. It
was uncanny how such a small woman could convey such a remarkable
presence that seemed to envelop everyone and everything in sight, and
that included Tino. Hips swayed menacingly and plump arms folded over an
ample bosom. Tino knew that pose well, and realised he was in trouble.
“Well, hurry up now, Tino – it’s late and I need you to get water from
the spring,” she grumbled, head bobbing up and down comically like a
puppet. “Trouble with you, mio ragazzo, you’re always too busy
day-dreaming to do your work properly.” Tino felt an urge to laugh, but
he didn’t dare. “Those smelly goats, that’s all you care about. Never
mind that your Mamma needs her water! Paah!”
“Mi dispiace, Mamma, I’m sorry’, Tino mumbled, still struggling with his
trousers. “I will go right away.”
Grabbing two pails from against the barn wall, he sidled warily past his
mother and out into the open air. He skirted a little stone well to the
right, near the farmhouse itself. Yes, there was water there, but Mamma
insisted that it was not pure enough for her cooking, only good for the
animals and irrigating the crops. He would have to go further down the
mountain slopes to reach the spring, where the water was crystal clear
and on certain days, when the air was still, it would sounded like
tinkling bells as it tumbled over pebble and rocks.
He did not dare look at his mother; he knew the deep brown eyes would be
even darker with menace. No one could afford to sleep late when they
lived off the land, there never seemed to be enough hours in a day to do
all the tasks as it was. Maddalena herself worked as hard as anyone
else, too, doing more than her fair share of the chores. She was a good
wife and mother to her family. There had been nine children in all, but
of those only six still survived - Tino was the fourth eldest, after
Francesco, Carlotta and Emilia. She had taken the death of her children
hard and it showed in the deep furrows imprinted on her forehead and the
fine streaks of silver that stood out in stark contrast against the
blue-black hair. She was still a long way off forty but looked much
older. Arms still folded, she watched her son running barefooted down
the hill; if he had stopped for just a moment to glance back, he would
have seen the corners of her mouth curling upwards in a smile, and the
unadulterated love that lit up her eyes.
Once out of his mother’s sight, Tino gradually slowed his pace to an
ambling walk, and his thoughts turned to other things. He wondered idly
whether he would see Mara today. Sometimes, he would see her with her
Mamma at the spring. He hoped she would be there today. It was not yet
Sunday, so he knew he could not see her in the little church at the top
of the hill, as he did most weeks. He began to whistle, a little out of
tune, but even so he was proud of his whistling ability, because when he
really tried, it could be heard from quite a long way off. He and his
friends would have competitions to see who could whistle the loudest and
more often than not, he would win.
He smiled. Today was Friday. Even if Mara was not at the spring, there
was just tomorrow to go and then it would be Sunday anyway. His spirits
lifted, as they always did when he was out in the open air. He loved
this land. It was still very early, but already the sun was climbing
higher in the sky, bathing the mountains in its soft pink glow. The
warmth seemed to penetrate his very being and little droplets of
moisture appeared on his forehead in response. He looked back up the
path; right behind, Colleruta, where his family had farmed for
centuries; renowned for it’s olive groves, fruit orchards and the
fattest, ripest figs and cherries anyone could wish for; even further
back, hidden by trees and higher up the mountain the little village of
Picinisco, with it’s pretty mediaeval church and towering castle; across
the valley and hidden by dense trees, San Gennaro with Villa Latina just
below.
Dotted all around were other villages and hamlets – Le Serre, Il Cervo,
Vallegrande - often no more than a few ‘rusticos’, farmhouses, huddled
together intimately. When he had been very small, Tino had the strangest
notion that these little houses were talking to each other, whispering
age-old secrets, especially when the chill winds blew through the
mountains and made all kinds of strange, creaking and groaning noises.
Some people said the mountains were haunted, but Tino didn’t believe
that for one moment. There were wolves and snakes, though, and despite
the warmth, he shuddered slightly at the thought.
Some
of the older villagers, who had travelled in the past told tales of how
on a clear day, from the top of towering Monte Meta behind him, you
could even see Vesuvius in the far distance. He wondered if that was
true; he didn’t really know much about Vesuvius, except the little he
learned from the priest, who taught most of the children in the village;
that it was a volcano that had erupted and buried a whole town of people
beneath molten rocks and lava. It all sounded a bit too far-fetched to
him, fire and rocks coming out of the top. Tino had never been right to
the top of Monte Meta, but it did sometimes feel like it was very high
up in the world even here, and the summit was much higher again. The
furthest he had ever been was to the little market in Atina, where he
and Mamma sometimes loaded up the donkey and took along cheeses and
other food items to exchange for clothing. Tino loved it all, the
sights, the smells, the sounds; his love of this beautiful, primitive
land was buried deep inside him, an integral part of him. He didn’t want
or need anything beyond his immediate surroundings, and although he was
sometimes curious, why worry about places he would never need to go?
Please email Anita with your comments she'd be happy to hear from you. |
