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Chapter 1 – The Last of the Mazzeri
The mazzera stood
erect, a solitary scarecrow of a figure, swathed in black rags whipped to and fro by the wind, exposing stick-thin legs stained
by barely-dried trickles of blood, no doubt a scarring reminder of her recent journey through the barbed maquis covering much
of Corsica. The narrow
dirt road that served as both front yard and thoroughfare for the sparsely settled hamlet of stone homes coughed up swirls
of dust. The only relief in this bleak landscape was an occasional strip of whitewash
encasing a window. The inhabitants were nowhere to be seen. The men were likely off tending their sheep on some high plateau, gone for the summer season. But the women? Did they so fear this lonely old woman that
they had retreated behind their rough-hewn oaken doors? At this very moment were
they peeking out windows and crossing themselves?
Though well into her seventies, the mazzera came toward the strangers with
a spring in her step. When she arrived within speaking distance, she let go of
the black scarf covering her lower face, the fabric held in place by her teeth, and revealed a high-bridged nose and deep-sunken
eyes, the color of blue Arctic ice, blazing out beneath the swath of bandana still hiding her brow. The notorious, piercing stare of the mazzera looked through,
not at the strangers, as though fixed on a destiny known only to her.
A white tape across her brow, mimicking the whitewash on the windows, suspended her only decoration…a small gold
earring. She fingered it as she spoke her first words, “To ward off evil
spells on my eyes. I need my eyes.”
Yes, thought the strangers, she indeed needs her eyes; eyes that
perceive in dream-animals the faces of the living, those doomed to be taken from this world within the year, more often within
days.
The mazzera spoke,
almost chanted, like a mad gypsy intoning some incomprehensible magic incantation. Her
cryptic words were spoken in the Corsican language, but with barely a trace of the harsh tones affected by those frequenting
the urban areas of this scented Isle.
She revealed more than the strangers expected to hear. She needed no prompts. She anticipated their questions. Her ageless spirit, her penetrating gaze commanded them to listen, to understand the
unfathomable.
“It happens that I go out at night…over there, on that
mountainside. I tear my flesh and my clothes.
The need to hunt is stronger than I. The blood wills it so. Often I see the moon run its course and the sunrise without shutting my eyes. I hunt but I am not a killer. May the Blessed Mercy hold me
as a witness, I speak only what is written.”
She pointed across the valley dotted with holm oaks and chestnut
trees and littered with granite outcroppings, an expanse now darkened by the shadows of early evening. “There…I hunt there.”
Suddenly, her body became tense, her movements restless as she looked
back to the spot at the edge of the village where she had first stood. Without
explanation, she strode away, off through the maquis, the aroma of its thick brambles of rosemary, thyme, arbutus, lentisk,
and incense-scented immortelle unable to mask the stench of death in the nostrils of the strangers.
Chapter 2 – Professor Nicoli
The screen in the lecture hall flashed a series of reversed numbers as the film reached its end, flapping
noisily in the projector. As the lights came up, Elizabeth Rettig squirmed in
her seat, with an apologetic smile to her neighbors for having slipped in next to them during the showing. She checked to make sure the suitcase and backpack she had dragged in with her and stowed against the wall
were still in their place. The last thing she wanted was for someone to trip
over her luggage and call attention to the fact that she had overslept at her hotel in Ajaccio,
Corsica’s coastal capitol, and stupidly missed her train to Corte, in the heart of the island. Catching the next train meant that she didn’t have time to check into her hotel
before the lecture. Instead, she rushed straight to the University
of Corsica campus from the train station.
Running into the darkened lecture hall, out of breath, her long brunette hair had escaped its braid and ended up plastered
to her sweaty neck.
Assured that all was in place, Elizabeth turned her attention
to the speaker for the evening, the world-famous expert on Corsican culture and the occult, Professor Sylvia Nicoli. No one understood the mystique of this fig-shaped island, dropped into the Mediterranean
just above Sardinia, than the Professor.
At least she hadn’t missed Professor Nicoli’s filmed encounter with
a real mazzera, recorded some forty-five years before. She hoped that Professor Nicoli, the diminutive, gray-haired woman, hadn’t noticed her late arrival. The entire purpose of coming to Corsica was to meet and interview
the Professor as part of her research project on occult practices in the Mediterranean world, a study that Elizabeth
had first undertaken two years ago. She knew that the resulting publications
could elevate her from lowly Assistant Professor to Associate and then on to Full Professorship in the Department of Cross-Cultural
Studies at UC Berkeley. Being thirty-two and female, the chances were slim even
so.
Professor Nicoli’s low-pitched, melodic voice floated out over the appreciative, almost adoring
audience. Men and women, young and old, seemed entranced by her words, as was
Elizabeth.
“What struck me most about this woman, this mazzera,”
the Professor was saying, “was the sense of nobility that her words engendered.
She was so enslaved to her calling that she had suffered social exclusion, even physical maltreatment
at the hands of the villagers, without a thought to her own well-being. If
she had believed that she was possessed by some kind of evil power, she could have sought exorcism. But, no, she felt her dream-hunting, this strange power to bilocate, to be asleep and, at the same time,
be out hunting wild prey by taking on the form of an animal herself, was ordained by God, a Christian God to whom she owed
obedience. When, in a flash of vision or prophecy, the face of her prey turned,
in death, to the face of an acquaintance, even a relative, she feels she has received a message from that God, a message she
is obligated to pass on to the living victim, even though that person is being given notice of his or her impending death. My photographer and I found out that she had nearly been
killed when she had prophesized the year before that two coffins would leave the same house within the week. When two brothers died of the Spanish flu almost simultaneously, their relatives dragged her to a nearby
stream and tried to drown her. Only her incredible strength and agility allowed
her to escape.”
Elizabeth, having read all of Professor Nicoli’s
books was familiar with most of the details given during the remainder of the lecture.
She debated whether the reception to be held afterwards would be the appropriate time and place to introduce herself. She had written letters to the Professor, but they had remained unanswered. But knowing her own colleagues as she did, she realized that professors were a strange, entitled bunch
with their noses buried in books and could easily overlook or dismiss a request for an interview that might distract them
from their work.
As she mused, she noticed a striking, dark-haired man with coarsely handsome features watching her. His six-foot plus frame was casually propped against the wall not far from her suitcase. With a smile aimed vaguely in his direction, she recalled the offhand remark of their
young, department secretary the day before her departure.
“Dr. Rettig, just think, maybe you’ll meet some Corsican hunk!
“Highly unlikely,” Elizabeth had replied. At thirty-two, she had become quite comfortable with her unmarried status. Who had time for men when more exciting academic pursuits were in the offing/
She regretted the smile almost immediately for now the man raised his eyebrows in recognition, their
eyes meeting for only a brief second before she looked away. Having read about
the chauvinism of most Corsican men, she felt she had opened herself up for trouble.
Perhaps he recognized her as easy prey for his Mediterranean charm.
Elizabeth hadn’t made a final decision about whether
to meet the Professor when the room burst into applause. The entire audience
rose to its feet en masse. The elderly man and woman next to her, both attired
in tweeds and cardigans which seemed much too warm for a summer evening, both beamed.
Elizabeth’s suspicion that they were neither Corsican nor French
was confirmed as the woman spoke, revealing a clipped and very upper class British accent.
“She was just as marvelous as last year,” the woman said to Elizabeth, who was busy pushing
errant hairs off her forehead. “Don’t you think, dear,” the
woman said to the gentleman seated next to her.
As the applause died, the audience started moving off to the reception. Elizabeth took the opportunity to introduce herself, her curiosity
having been aroused by the presence of an English couple at a lecture at L’Université de Corse, hardly the center of
the academia.
“I’m Elizabeth Rettig, from Berkeley, California. I’ve had an interest in Professor Nicoli for years.”
“So pleased to meet you, my dear. I’m Mrs.
Standhope and this is my dear husband, Mr. Standhope. We’re from Cambridge. Well, originally Coventry before Mr. Standhope
accepted his post on the History Faculty. Don’t
tell me you teach at Berkeley.”
“I do.” Elizabeth
said, forgetting about her unkempt appearance and the dark-haired stranger as she began to connect with the Standhopes.
“Are you traveling on your own, Miss Rettig, or is it Doctor Rettig? I do so admire you American women for your independence. Why,
I wouldn’t go to the greengrocer without my sister or Mr. Standhope.”
Mr. Standhope peered over his wife’s shoulder and smiled benevolently.
“Just Elizabeth, please.” She had never been comfortable with the formality of being called doctor,
although professor had a nice ring, especially associate
professor. “You’ve heard Professor Nicoli before then?” she
asked.
“Most certainly. This is our fourth trip to
Corsica, isn’t it, Mr. Standhope? Of course, we
only met the Professor last year.”
Elizabeth began to wonder if Mr. Standhope was ever able
to get a word in edgewise. His wife’s questions to him seemed rhetorical. But this time, he spoke, his voice as rough as the tweed
of his jacket. “Yes, love. The
first in Sixty-Five right after Marjorie’s nuptials. Then in Seventy-two
to locate the menhirs, and again last year and our trip to see the…”
“You’ve seen the menhirs?” Elizabeth
interrupted, excited to discover another common interest with her newfound friends. Dozens
of these carved stone statues from the Megalithic era had been discovered in the southwest portion of the island. “They are definitely on my list of must sees.”
“I love the ones with the little faces carved on them,” bubbled Mrs. Standhope. “Like ancient soldiers rising up out of sacred ground ready to speak their minds. But so difficult to get through the maquis. If our guide, Jean Cesari, hadn’t been there with his machete, I think we might have given up.”
Elizabeth thought back to the film. “Did you notice how the mazzera’s legs were freshly bleeding from running through the maquis in her dream-hunt? Imagine Professor Nicoli arriving just
at that point in time.”
“Imagine, indeed,” said Mrs. Standhope, her voice acquiring a snippy, superior tone. “You know, that’s precisely why Mr. Standhope and I are here.”
“I don’t understand.”
Mr. Standhope cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should
explain to Miss Rettig what the Professor said to you last year.”
“I was about to do just that, dear,” she said, giving him a tut-tut look. “It was nonsense, of course, but, I mean, I am simply terribly intrigued by all these legends about
the mazzeri. The Professor can sound
ever so convincing. You did notice, of course, that it was her voice dubbing
the film.”
Elizabeth did wonder how the Professor and her cameraman
had gotten anything but a silent 8 mm camera to that remote site back in 1948.
Mrs. Standhope continued, “Anyone, I mean, anyone with a thimbleful of common sense knows it
can’t be true. Of course, the rural, less educated, superstitious people
of this island, who were born believing in fate and destiny, could be easily persuaded.
The mazzeri, both men and women, were extremely odd creatures and quite
intense. I imagine they could put a good fright into most anyone.”
“But the mazzeri themselves, dear, don’t you
think they believed that their nighttime hunts were more than mere dreams?” As
he spoke, Mr. Standhope gently took his wife by the elbow and led the three of them from auditorium toward the reception area
outside.
“Oh, I suppose. I’m even quite sure there
were enough coincidental deaths to give the legends their staying power. I’m
not saying they were charlatans…but, really, dear, after last summer, how could one think otherwise.”
Standing in the long reception line, waiting to greet the Professor, Mrs. Standhope started waxing
poetic about the particulars of their visit the summer before.
Chapter 3 – The Signadora
Mrs. Standhope had taken her husband’s arm as she lifted
her ample frame from the Renault sedan. She rubbed her hand over her derriere,
numbed by the jolting three-hour ride to this bleak, rural village in the remote mountainous Niolo region of Corsica. She wondered what had possessed her to beg Professor Nicoli to bring them to this place, even though it
was rumored to be the home of the last known signadora. But this might be Mrs. Standhope’s last chance to visit,
possibly even converse with, the last of the dying breed of traditional healers. Not
that she expected some miracle for her arthritic hip. She did, however, have
a burning curiosity about the occult, a hobby developed while her husband toiled long hours correcting papers and preparing
history lectures at Cambridge University. Their separate intellectual interests,
combined with a love of travel, had brought them to Corsica, an island now belonging to France but with a troubled history of
countless invasions and foreign occupations, political unrest, and mystique galore.
Before them stood an uneven row of small square houses built of rough-hewn
stone. Each had one opening for a door and an occasional isolated window. They gingerly stepped over the rocky ground, Mrs. Standhope steadying herself on Mr.
Standhope’s arm, aiming toward a house distinguished by intricately carved window ledges. Entering the poorly lit interior, it took them several seconds to discern the simple but massive furniture,
carved by local artisans from the chestnut trees. An open cupboard was filled
with jars and boxes containing an assortment of dried herbs, leaves, and whole plants.
The Professor whispered to them, “I will ask the signadora to assess your physical and mental health to determine if you are suffering from the
Evil Eye.”
Mr. and Mrs. Standhope exchanged a wink as they sat at the table
across from the elderly peasant woman with a lined, leathery face and dressed in a simple dark skirt and blouse. Mrs. Standhope tried to hide her disappointment that the woman was not more exotic in appearance, perhaps
swathed in swami-like robes and sporting deep, kohl-lined eyes, more fitting for her station in life as a mysterious healer
and teller of fortunes.
The signadora poured
cold water into a white soup bowl, making the sign of the cross above it three times.
Then she dipped her little finger into a receptacle of oil, heated on the wood stove, and dropped three drops of oil
into the bowl. She motioned for Mrs. Standhope to hold the bowl between her hands.
Mrs. Standhope looked to her husband for reassurance then cupped
her hands around the bowl. The signadora’s eyelids drooped.. She seemed to be entering a state of trance. Barely audible
prayers emerged from her thin lips. As the oil dispersed, the signadora tried
to make it coalesce with her finger. Then the old woman spoke in Corsu, the Corsican
tongue.
The Professor translated for the Standhopes.. “May such a thing
never come into the home of any family.”
Suddenly, the signadora
hurled the bowl out through the open window. Mrs. Standhope’s eyes grew
wide as saucers when she heard the bowl break into bits on the stones outside.
“Very obscure, of course,” the Professor had whispered
to her.
Chapter 4 – Revelations
“My dear, you must explain the rest so that Miss Rettig understands,” said Mr. Standhope. They were still a dozen bodies away from the Professor in the reception line. During Mrs. Standhope’s telling of the story, Mr. Standhope had fetched glasses
of wine for each of them. Elizabeth
sipped hers and listened as Mrs. Standhope continued in a voice lowered to add to the suspense.
“After our visit, the Professor called with rather shocking news.
According to her, she had discovered that the signadora was also a mazzera, a rare occurrence. The old woman told the Professor that
my face had appeared on the visage of a dead fox which she had killed during a dream-hunt the very night of our visit. The Professor seemed quite agitated in the telling.
We assumed she takes this mazzera business quite seriously.”
“At least we don’t, my dear,” said Mr. Standhope.
“You see, Miss Rettig, we are being quite mischievous turning up again this year.
We’re here to prove that my dear wife is alive and kicking.”
Elizabeth smiled.
“She certainly is.” Elizabeth
wondered if she’d be as spry and spunky when she reached their age.
When Professor Nicoli finished her conversation with the guests in front of them, Mr. Standhope guided
everyone forward and spoke right up, “Professor Nicoli, so good to see you again.
You recall, of course, our visit last year?”
The Professor blinked rapidly and looked into both of their faces.
To Elizabeth’s dismay, no one made a move to introduce her.
“Mais oui…of course…Niolo,” the Professor said.
“It is good to see you well, Mrs. Standhope.” The frown on
her face and agitation in her voice belied her words.
Mrs. Standhope was pleased as plum with herself. “I
am fit as a fiddle, Madame Le Professeur. To be certain, you gave me a moment’s
start with your dire prediction last year…”
The Professor interrupted, “Not a prediction, Madame, only an announcement.”
Mrs. Standhope seemed perturbed. The Professor switched
her attention to the unidentified stranger in their midst…Elizabeth. She asked for no introduction, in fact, said nothing as she stared hard and deep into
Elizabeth’s eyes, a fraction of a second beyond comfort. Elizabeth felt a chill go up her spine. Then, the Professor’s eyes flitted about the room. She
seemed to be searching for an avenue of escape. “You will excuse me. So many people. I am very tired. Age is no longer my friend. Au revoir.”
As the Professor scurried off, clutching her lecture materials, Elizabeth
spoke. “My goodness, Mrs. Standhope.
She seemed a bit distressed that you aren’t dead.” She wondered
to herself what that penetrating stare had been all about. Was she also critical
of a lone American woman’s arrival in Corsica? She
sadly gave up all hope that the Professor would ever agree to an interview.
“Of course, it hasn’t been quite a year,” Mr. Standhope interjected, trying to insert
a note of levity.
“It hasn’t?” asked Elizabeth.
“Tsk! Tsk!
Details!” said Mrs. Standhope.
But Elizabeth thought she saw a spark of concern in Mr.
Standhope’s eyes.
“Come, dear heart, we must let Miss Rettig get to her hotel.
You do have reservations?” Mr. Standhope asked. By then he
had guided them back to find Elizabeth’s luggage in the lecture hall.
“Yes, I do.”
“Will you share our taxi? Our hotel is near the
train station.”
“Oh, no thank you. My hotel is near the city center. After sitting all day, I could use a walk in the fresh air. It’s still light. I can find my way.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to change your reservation to our hotel? It’s quite modern and always has vacancies,” Mrs. Standhope added.
“And perhaps much safer for you, Miss Rettig,” said Mr. Standhope.
“No…no…the Hotel Colonna sounded just perfect for me.”
“Well, at least we shall meet us for breakfast,” said Mrs. Standhope. “There’s a delightful boulangerie on the north side of Place Paoli. Green striped awning. You can’t miss it. Is eight too early?”
“Not at all. I’m an early riser,”
said Elizabeth, hoping she hadn’t just told a lie. All this traveling was wearing her out.
Chapter 5 – Hotel Colonna
Parting company with the Standhopes, Elizabeth joined the
trickle of folks returning to their homes along the Avenue Jean Nicoli leading toward the center of Corte less than a kilometer
away. Elizabeth, dragging her wheeled
suitcase, her backpack on her back, wondered if the Professor and the honoree of the Avenue were related. But as insular as Corsica has been over the centuries, many share the most common
surnames. She ruminated about another means to meet the Professor. And given the reaction of the Professor to the Standhopes, they certainly wouldn’t be an asset in
soliciting an interview with her.
Stopping to rest, Elizabeth heaved a deep sigh and shifted
the pulling handle of her suitcase to her other hand.
“Excuse me, Mademoiselle. Can I be of assistance?”
said a deep male voice behind her.
Elizabeth turned her head and saw that the voice belonged
to the man with the curly dark hair and eyes so darkly brown they were almost black who had been staring at her in the lecture
hall. Without her assent, he grabbed the suitcase out of her hand and slipped
the backpack off her shoulders.
All she could sputter was, “How did you know I spoke English?”
He laughed a deep hearty laugh. “I overheard you
at the lecture talking with your English friends.”
Elizabeth wondered just how much he had heard. Did he think she was some wacky American woman with two nut cases for friends? Had she set herself up to be easy prey for some sinister purpose with her smile? Although, on second glance, his dark good looks were startling enough to warrant taking that chance. Was this her time in life to loosen up?
“Where are you staying?” he asked.
“The Hotel Colonna,” she answered, biting her tongue for being so forthright. But years of trekking back and forth to the University of California
along Berkeley’s Telegraph Avenue,
with its jewelry and T-shirt vendors and aggressive homeless population, had inured her to the advances of strangers. Perhaps too much for her own good.
“Ah…excellent choice!” he said, breaking into a broad smile that oozed sex appeal. At least he wasn’t planning to lead her off to some obscure hole-in-the-wall.
Elizabeth, regaining her sense of decorum and independence,
reached for her suitcase. “Really, I can manage very well myself. I was just taking a breather.”
“Perhaps Corsican men are more hospitable than American men?” he teased.
Was he reading her mind? She tried to recall the last
hospitable American man she had known and none came to mind. With a reluctant
smile, she said, “Lead on.”
The Hotel Colonna was located above the Place Paoli at the top of several flights of stone steps. Elizabeth was more than relieved that
this strong man was carting her luggage. Feminism has its limitations.
Corte, the ancient capital of Corsica
located in the heart of the island, was built on a knob of land jutting up from a valley surrounded by a ragged range of granite
mountains. At its pinnacle lay a Citadelle, a military bastion sporting a granite
prow, giving it the appearance of a battleship atop one great tidal wave of rock rising above a placid green sea of farmland.
The exterior stucco of the Hotel Colonna, fractured here and there from age, was terra cotta. Due to the late hour, the small lobby was unpopulated.
A bar of dark oak ran the length of one wall next to a few scattered tables, their chairs arranged upside down on top
of the tables in preparation for nightly cleaning.
“If you will excuse me, Mademoiselle, I will find the owner.” As he turned to leave, he paused and added, “Forgive my manners.
My name is Antoine…Antoine Scafani. And yours?”
Elizabeth hesitated.
“For your registration.” His smile indicated
he had guessed what her concerns might be…what with a handsome stranger intruding suddenly into her life might mean.
A flush of embarrassment spread up over Elizabeth’s
face. “Of course…it’s Elizabeth Rettig.”
Antoine returned in several minutes, accompanied by a small, sinewy woman with wirey dark hair. She appeared to be in her early 30s and in quite a bad mood, if the frown across her
brow and words whispered through clenched teeth was any indication.
Elizabeth berated herself again for missing her train and
not arriving at a decent hour. “I have an open-ended reservation,”
she mumbled, as the woman, whom Antoine had introduced as Arlette, sifted through a small stack of reservations on the corner
of the bar.
“Oui, Madame, your chambre is on the third etage—pardon, it is the fourth in Etats Unis.” Her mixture of French and English was mottled by a heavy accent, which Elizabeth
suspected was Corsu.
Antoine stepped forward and interrupted. He spoke in Corsu
to Arlette who looked daggers at him but acquiesced to whatever he had said.
Antoine turned to Elizabeth. “You are in luck, Mademoiselle Rettig. There is a better
room, one with a view of the Citadelle, across the street in the Annex.”
“Thank you, but I have a limited budget. I’m
sure the third floor will do quite nicely.”
“Lucky again, Mademoiselle. It is the same price. We…er…they are more than happy to accommodate you. You have traveled very far to see our country. You should
have the best view.”
Elizabeth thought she caught Arlette rolling her eyes and
didn’t fail to notice Antoine’s slip of the tongue. We? she wondered. Did he own this hotel?
Arlette, in her still sullen mood, grabbed Elizabeth’s
suitcase and backpack off the floor and shooed Antoine away, indicating in no uncertain terms that she would escort Elizabeth
to her room. Oh, God, thought Elizabeth,
is she his wife? Am I caught up in the middle of some family drama? It popped into her mind that the word vendetta was the only
word from Corsu that had found its way intact into the English language.
Dumping her suitcase on the sole luggage rack, Arlette left with no indication that she either wanted
or would accept a tip. The window was shuttered from the outside. Elizabeth found herself so tired that she could barely don the oversized sleep-shirt garnered from Puerto
Vallarta’s Senior Frog restaurant before crashing onto the single bed with its iron frame and falling dead asleep. The view would have to wait until morning.
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