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Twilight washed the sky in periwinkle, and Mafalda cuddled Lucia under a tree atop a hill. It had been days since Turi and his mother had turned her out, and Mafalda had no tears left to cry. She had left Porticello and was traveling along the northern coast, following the steep, rocky cliffs of Sicily’s shoreline, which dropped dramatically into the Tyrrhenian. She had never expected to be on her own, but Madonna del Lume watched over her, mother to mother.
Mafalda survived by foraging for wild chicory, berries, and mushrooms. Prickly pear cactus grew everywhere, and she picked its oblong fruit. She’d open the prickly pear with a sharp rock, eat its sweet magenta flesh, and suck out its delicious pear juice. She drank from random pools of rainwater or troughs for animals. She traveled at night to avoid being seen, scratching her ankles on nettles.
Tonight, she felt an unusual chill in the air, signaling atramontanawind, which meant a storm was on the way. She would need shelter, and her gaze traveled to the lights of Saint Elia, a fishing village like Porticello. She had been there once with Turi. A sliver of moon illuminated a few meters in front of her, and that was all the light she needed.
Mafalda rose and tucked Lucia into her sling, made from the baby’sblanket, then started walking. A cool breeze blew off the sea, which she had come to regard as a friendly guide. Living beside the Tyrrhenian afforded her a panoramic view of its majestic sweep, and the myriad variation in its colors came as a revelation, from showy turquoise to tonight’s rich purple-black, like a ripened grape. She had breathed sea air all her life, but now she detected its bold salinity as well as its fishy smells.
Suddenly Mafalda heard a noise behind her and turned around, but she didn’t see anything amiss. The moonlight ended in a raggedy fringe of darkness. She continued walking, but after a few paces, heard a noise again. She whirled around, alarmed. Nothing. She cradled Lucia and quickened her pace.
Mafalda kept her eyes on the ground, looking for a stick or a rock. She bent down and grabbed a rock without breaking stride. She kept going along the sea cliff, then heard the noise again. It was labored breathing, a primal animal sound that raised the hair on the nape of her neck.
Her mind raced. The other night she’d heard wolves howling, not far away. And a wolf could have been attracted by Lucia’s milky smells or her own earthier odors. Blood still leaked from between her legs from time to time.
Mafalda didn’t run, fearing the animal would chase her. She grabbed another rock on the fly, then dropped both into her pocket. She used to have good aim, playingboccewith her father when she was little.
Mafalda, don’t think about it. Aim the ball and let it go.
Mafalda kept going, gathering rocks along the way. In no time, she had two pockets full. The huffing of the wolf’s breathing grew louder. She bellowed at the animal like a man, but the wolf kept tracking her.
Mafalda reached into her pocket, grabbed two rocks, and threw them at the wolf. She heard the animal yelp, but it didn’t run away. She reached into her pocket again, whirled around, and threw another spray of rocks. No whimper. She had missed.
Her heart began to hammer as she hurried along. The lights of the town twinkled ahead of her, at a lower elevation. Its harbor was lit, and she could see fishing boats rowing out to sea, their oil lamps bobbing up and down. She wanted to get to the water, but the cliff was too high.
She took more rocks from her pocket, turned around, and whipped them at the wolf. The animal didn’t yelp, and Mafalda broke into a light run, holding the baby to her chest. Thorns scratched her ankles. She tripped, almost falling. She knew she mustn’t end up on the ground or she and Lucia were done for.
She threw one rock, then another, hurrying forward. Some found their target, most didn’t. She could hear the panting, closer and closer. She emptied one pocket of rocks and started digging into the second. Lucia began to cry, awakened by the motion.
Mafalda started to panic. She grabbed the leftover rocks and started throwing them at the wolf. She kept missing, and the wolf kept coming. She was getting nearer to the town and spotted what she had been hoping for. Around the harbor was a strip of beach.
She was down to one rock. She gripped it tightly, then broke into a run for the beach. She could hear the wolf panting louder, loping behind her.
Mafalda had one last chance. She threw her final rock. No whimper. She missed. She was out of rocks and out of luck.
She raced for the beach as fast as she could, her legs pumping and her skirt flying. She wrapped her arms around Lucia. She ducked under umbrella pines and tore through thornbushes.
The rocky shoreline turned sandy. The cliff sloped down, getting lower and lower until it wasn’t far above the beach. The beach was getting closer and closer, a light strip in the darkness.
The wolf huffed at her heels. Mafalda couldn’t let it take her down.
She raced to the lowest point of the ledge.
And jumped, wrapping her arms around the baby’s sling.
Mafalda landed on her kneesnear the water, with the baby on her lap. Her leg was stuck under her, but she hadn’t broken any bones.
The wolf didn’t follow.
A wave lapped at Mafalda, soaking her dress, and she wept with relief.
Lucia only gurgled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Alfredo led Beatrice along the sunny street, amazed at the crowd awaiting him on the piazza. Signora Tozzi was at the front with her ladyfriends, but the other women were new. They overran the tables of the vendors, and Giuseppe Dry Beans was moving his stand back. Antonio Wet Beans and Bernardo Greens stood together, unhappily eyeing the commotion.
“Madonna,” Alfredo said under his breath.
Signora Tozzi began waving, then so did her ladyfriends and the other women. Alfredo reached the piazza and started selling cheese before he was even in his spot. Women pushed money at him, and he pushed cheese at them. He sold out in no time, leaving the women who didn’t get cheese with frowns.
