Cazzo had finished with sending out letters. He got up from his desk and went to his wardrobe, flinging it open. Gingerly, he began to pull on the green leather duster from its hanger and brought it over to his desk and laid it flat. The leather had acquired some stiffness while it had hung for the past four years. Cazzo returned to the wardrobe and retrieved a bottle of oil. He poured some on the cloth wrapped around his right hand and returning to his old coat, began to massage it.
Pain shot up his arm from the wound on his palm. Arthritis had set into the fingers in his right hand and wrist, and his nerves squealed as he forced his hand to press the oil into the hide. Each stroke was agony, but he pushed on. His vision began to blur and several tears fell onto the leather coat. They were not born of the pain in his hand but of a deeper older pain.
"Barbagal left when it was still dark," Stroke, "dili din don dilidon poura mi." Stroke. "With his cap on his eyes and riding a horse." Stroke. "dili din don dilidon poura mi."
Lost in the song and the pain, Cazzo pushed on. His face was sent in a grimace so uncharacteristic of him, that when Amelia poked her head in his office to see what was happening, that for a moment, she thought that a stranger was at his desk performing some bizarre ritual. But it was him, and she was shocked at the change in his face. Deep lines stretched on his cheeks and furrowed his brow. Cold sweat glistened on his thinning scalp, and she saw the tears dripping from his nose.
"Papa!" She cried, and ran to him and grabbed his arm. She clasped it under hers and for a moment it seemed if he would continue his ministrations despite her holding it, but then the tension was gone from it. Gingerly she turned his palm upright and peeled the oil and blood soaked bandage off his right hand. The wound was open and angry beneath, twinged with red around it. She looked at the horror of it and was not afraid. Many girls her age would have run crying to their mothers or called for help, but not Amelia. Reaching into the pocket of her dress, she pulled out her own kerchief, and wrapped it around her father's hand tightly and deftly. Then, she looked up into his dark eyes.
"It hurts to play the mandolin, doesn't it?"
He let out something akin to both a sob and a sigh, and slumped down against his desk, cradling his face in his hands. Deftly, she planted a small peck on his forehead and rushed out of the room, only to return moments later with a pitcher, a basin, some linen towels and a slice of soap. She laid them out in front of him, along with a fine bristle brush produced from her apron pocket. Then she reached over and took her father's injured hand from his face.
Cazzo composed himself and let her work. She removed her kerchief and set it aside.Then she poured water over his hand and wet the soap and brush, after which she scrubbed around the wound in a careful fashion. She let the suds enter the wound and was secretly grateful when she felt him wince at that. Then she rinsed it and dabbed away the water. The blood no longer leaked from it, so she bandaged it up with the linen, wrapping between his fingers once and twice around his palm, before pinning the strip. Then she washed his other, whole hand.
Before she dried it, however, he reached out and held her cheek in his good hand. For a moment she was surprised, but did not resist, despite his still wet touch. Looking up, she saw his face and understood immediately that sometimes people couldn't wait to show you how grateful they could be for a simple kindness.
She leaned into his touch and closed her eyes, feeling the calloused fingertips against her jaw. Calloused by music, by strings pressing into the flesh of his fingers as he wrestled with melodies evoking both emotion and magic alike. It's all the same to him, she thought, everything is song to him.
And then his hand withdrew and she opened her eyes once more to gaze at him. For a long while they sat there in silent conversation. Then he spoke.
"Amilia, I have go find Milo."
She nodded, though in her heart, she sobbed. In a small voice, she replied. "I know." She knew because it was the only way forward for her father. Mama, the woman who she knew was actually her aunt Reyna, had been angry with her father ever since Milo had started adventuring. Angry, because she's scared for her son, and can't do anything to protect him. Ever since her father had received the letter, a dread cold fury had descended upon her aunt, who would no longer speak to Cazzo.
Amelia was caught between her father and surrogate mother. She knew better then to try and talk with Reyna in this state, but had been looking to help her father in any way she could. Sperenza and Obsidia were still too young to know what exactly was going on, and in many ways Amelia had been on her own in this matter, much like her father.
"I'm sorry." He said, and his face confirmed it. "There is just too much to fix. I can't do it here."
"I can." She whimpered, and felt ashamed of her tears now spilling down her cheeks. A thirteen year old girl ought not to cry by her standards, but here she was, all soppy...
And then he was holding her close to him the way he held her when they had been on the run, when they were on that strange boat that wasn't a boat, when he came home from adventures with dragons. He cradled her close to him in an embrace that promised safety and stability and home. And while she felt this now, she couldn't know that it was what he felt too, not for some time at least.
Afterwards, they prepared his gear together. As they sharpened and polished and stitched, he spoke of the old days with his first wife, her true mother. Spoke of her and of his brother Leonardo long into the night. She fell asleep with his boots in her lap, having polished them to a shine. He carried her up to her bedroom and laid her down and tucked her into her bed. His kiss on her forehead was felt in her dreams and she slept well for many hours.
But Cazzo did not sleep. He walked down into the basement of the taverna and entered the wine cellar. Pulling free a couple of the stones, he revealed silver hilted blade sheathed in a black hilt. As dawn crept into the eastern sky, he left town by the south gate.
In her bed, safe and sound, Amelia slept.
Pain shot up his arm from the wound on his palm. Arthritis had set into the fingers in his right hand and wrist, and his nerves squealed as he forced his hand to press the oil into the hide. Each stroke was agony, but he pushed on. His vision began to blur and several tears fell onto the leather coat. They were not born of the pain in his hand but of a deeper older pain.
"Barbagal left when it was still dark," Stroke, "dili din don dilidon poura mi." Stroke. "With his cap on his eyes and riding a horse." Stroke. "dili din don dilidon poura mi."
Lost in the song and the pain, Cazzo pushed on. His face was sent in a grimace so uncharacteristic of him, that when Amelia poked her head in his office to see what was happening, that for a moment, she thought that a stranger was at his desk performing some bizarre ritual. But it was him, and she was shocked at the change in his face. Deep lines stretched on his cheeks and furrowed his brow. Cold sweat glistened on his thinning scalp, and she saw the tears dripping from his nose.
"Papa!" She cried, and ran to him and grabbed his arm. She clasped it under hers and for a moment it seemed if he would continue his ministrations despite her holding it, but then the tension was gone from it. Gingerly she turned his palm upright and peeled the oil and blood soaked bandage off his right hand. The wound was open and angry beneath, twinged with red around it. She looked at the horror of it and was not afraid. Many girls her age would have run crying to their mothers or called for help, but not Amelia. Reaching into the pocket of her dress, she pulled out her own kerchief, and wrapped it around her father's hand tightly and deftly. Then, she looked up into his dark eyes.
"It hurts to play the mandolin, doesn't it?"
He let out something akin to both a sob and a sigh, and slumped down against his desk, cradling his face in his hands. Deftly, she planted a small peck on his forehead and rushed out of the room, only to return moments later with a pitcher, a basin, some linen towels and a slice of soap. She laid them out in front of him, along with a fine bristle brush produced from her apron pocket. Then she reached over and took her father's injured hand from his face.
Cazzo composed himself and let her work. She removed her kerchief and set it aside.Then she poured water over his hand and wet the soap and brush, after which she scrubbed around the wound in a careful fashion. She let the suds enter the wound and was secretly grateful when she felt him wince at that. Then she rinsed it and dabbed away the water. The blood no longer leaked from it, so she bandaged it up with the linen, wrapping between his fingers once and twice around his palm, before pinning the strip. Then she washed his other, whole hand.
Before she dried it, however, he reached out and held her cheek in his good hand. For a moment she was surprised, but did not resist, despite his still wet touch. Looking up, she saw his face and understood immediately that sometimes people couldn't wait to show you how grateful they could be for a simple kindness.
She leaned into his touch and closed her eyes, feeling the calloused fingertips against her jaw. Calloused by music, by strings pressing into the flesh of his fingers as he wrestled with melodies evoking both emotion and magic alike. It's all the same to him, she thought, everything is song to him.
And then his hand withdrew and she opened her eyes once more to gaze at him. For a long while they sat there in silent conversation. Then he spoke.
"Amilia, I have go find Milo."
She nodded, though in her heart, she sobbed. In a small voice, she replied. "I know." She knew because it was the only way forward for her father. Mama, the woman who she knew was actually her aunt Reyna, had been angry with her father ever since Milo had started adventuring. Angry, because she's scared for her son, and can't do anything to protect him. Ever since her father had received the letter, a dread cold fury had descended upon her aunt, who would no longer speak to Cazzo.
Amelia was caught between her father and surrogate mother. She knew better then to try and talk with Reyna in this state, but had been looking to help her father in any way she could. Sperenza and Obsidia were still too young to know what exactly was going on, and in many ways Amelia had been on her own in this matter, much like her father.
"I'm sorry." He said, and his face confirmed it. "There is just too much to fix. I can't do it here."
"I can." She whimpered, and felt ashamed of her tears now spilling down her cheeks. A thirteen year old girl ought not to cry by her standards, but here she was, all soppy...
And then he was holding her close to him the way he held her when they had been on the run, when they were on that strange boat that wasn't a boat, when he came home from adventures with dragons. He cradled her close to him in an embrace that promised safety and stability and home. And while she felt this now, she couldn't know that it was what he felt too, not for some time at least.
Afterwards, they prepared his gear together. As they sharpened and polished and stitched, he spoke of the old days with his first wife, her true mother. Spoke of her and of his brother Leonardo long into the night. She fell asleep with his boots in her lap, having polished them to a shine. He carried her up to her bedroom and laid her down and tucked her into her bed. His kiss on her forehead was felt in her dreams and she slept well for many hours.
But Cazzo did not sleep. He walked down into the basement of the taverna and entered the wine cellar. Pulling free a couple of the stones, he revealed silver hilted blade sheathed in a black hilt. As dawn crept into the eastern sky, he left town by the south gate.
In her bed, safe and sound, Amelia slept.
Comments
Post a Comment