Sicily, a nation which could once tread with a sense of pride in its stride has now been ravaged by poverty due to its later neglect. Sicily, decorated with Byzantine, Lombard and Sarecen lineage was harmonized by the iron fist of the Norman King, Nicholas II. It is in this golden age that the intellect of the nation towered above the rest. This haven of multiculturalism was eventually tainted by paws of various power hungry nations, which is now cradled by the king of Aragon.
This action is an echeo of the many nations before it, a government that did not understand the current matters of the overruled party and who could only introduce their authority through fear and violence. The kings authority is now being uprooted by the presence of the disease and is being challenged by many nobles who attempt to usurp the role of being the country's savior...
Hours passed and my head continued to rest upon her lap while her hand and bristles of the willow tree brushed over.
The gentle breeze and bobbing bough of trees added to the serenity. If one were to question if I ever were at peace, I would maintain a chaste silence and let the crashing waves be my reply. However, an unsettling feeling lingered upon my shoulder. A sense of nostalgia.
Cheeks, now parched from the salt within my tears, felt encumbered by her charity.
My bulk, now being nursed by her tenderness, felt powerless to combat her. I felt as if I were a child being gifted with my mother grace once more. Her head tilted over and she questioned me regarding the future I had planned. The plan on what to do with my life.
However, I had no plan. I did not want to grow old, I simply wanted to be young.
To be young...for as long as I could be, unshackled by the role I was expected to play simply because my age dictated it.
Mother always complained about the aches in her back that accumulated from her years, so to save my children the complaint of, "don't grow old", I simply wish to stay young.
And yet...
To be young is a childish endeavor.
To be young is a childish endeavor that adults wish to bear. Such an adult is childish, but we often forget that adults are children themselves.
For example:
When you were young, even the most foolish adult seemed wise, it was only until you reached the age of your parents that you realized that the mind of your child self and adult self had no distinction. Your ability to handle a situation as an adult is similar to that of a child, and this forced you to question as to how your parents made it seem so easy.Your child-self and adult-self both want to be catered to, both would be grateful if they were offered kindness and both feel entitled by the charity offered by others if that charity became abundant, like a spoiled brat . It is a challenging train of thought, but the true challenge, is accepting that such actions are in our nature. It is because we refuse to grow old that we attempt to live as if we were about to die, yet die as if we had never lived. That is why we should yoke the responsibility of adulthood, so that our life feels complete.
I then responded to Catherine,
"If I were to plan something with my life. It would be to live in a garden where blissful ignorance is a constant practice.A place where I live as a child unblemished by the reality the world has to offer. What about you? "
Surprise cracked from her brow, since dismissing her was a norm. She seemed eager to respond. Yet, her usual articulatant manner of speech was now decorated with Uhmmm's and Ahhh's, in short, her long platitude showed me that she had no plan for the future either.
She claimed that she planned to live a life in the country side and uptake a husband before her passing. She then offered me the position, attempting to tease me, but I simply sat up and inquired about the rumors thay she may have heard regarding a cure to the plague.
She attempted to divert the flow of conversation by speaking about Sicily's history and how it fell victim to the disease.
A repeated story that seemed to bore than excite. Her wall of words held nothing, so I believed she was hiding something.
She was apprehensive in her response. Her eyes were fixated to the blades of grass, and she rolled her index fingers over each other with such vigour that it seemed as if she had something to confess. I remained silent and heard her circling conversation for hours before I found truth in her response.
Eventually, she gave in.
She claimed that a slave imported from Venice fell victim to the disease with greater intensity than any of the locals and stated that the slave had suddenly been cured a day before its purchase, despite creeping on death's door.
This left some questions.
Even if it was a cure, not a single vial of medicine was capable of casting away an illness in a single day, or night for that matter. Was it divine intervention? Were the slaves of Venice and Geona pardoned from our torment? Despite my need for an urgent answer, it proved to be a remedy. Perhaps my clumsiness in executing the deed of putting the horse to sleep offered life to my mother, and it was perhaps put there by God's will, so that I may be spared from having to choose to suffer the guilt of murder.
She was delaying the following details, however, the silence that I had pressured her with forced her to sing like a bird. She stated that slaves admitted to the church underwent blood transfusions as a possible counter measure to the disease. However, the king of Aragon, already incapable of administering his authority in the land of Sicily, feared that he would be ousted as the king if the nation were to grow too dependent on the church, and prohibited the church from their practices. The church now attempts to conceal their actions of blood healing by utilizing slaves as future missionaries, to heal the townsfolk. The church will act out their next form of blood administration in the night that follows, but the church is still weary of those who are not akin to the pope and vowed that trespassers are to be executed .
Catherine seemed disturbed by mentioning the church and she seemed to be grieving when I asked if she knew the location. Her eyes were now etched with the despair of stubbled graves and her voice was now swollen with regret. The deafening whispers of the shrewd wind was outdone in volume by the passionate "NO! " that thundered from her cracking voice.
I was silent. She knew I disagreed with her and that to reason with my iron-will was a vain endeavor. However, there was a secondary reason behind my silence.
What did she know about the church for her fear to be muddled with the beads of sweat dripping from her brow?
Catherine loathed my brashness and overstated her warnings, "If we were to enter without possessing the blood akin to the pope, we would be executed on the spot. If we were to enter and meddle with purchased goods such as the slave we desire, we would be executed on the spot. If we were to speak to others about the location or concept of the transfusion , then we would be hunted, trialed by the pope, and have our throats cleaved open in our sleep. Then those who conversed with us, even for a moment, would be executed on the spot. Your mother would be a victim of an unholy murder caused by shadows who claim to have holy hands. Are you still willing to go?"
I greeted her gaze with a blank stare and garnered my response.
"you hold no authority over me. "
She was on the verge of tears. Scared because of my recklessness and scared of how calmly I spoke to her, as if I dismissed her presence in the same manner I dismissed my mother's cries.
I offered her closure by tucking the strands of hair that sheathed her beauty and found myself more enthralled by her spirit. She was never the type to bend to the tune of her emotions, so it must be dangerous to meddle with the affairs of the church.
The toll of bells wept the streets before she could utter her confession, and the nightly reminder chanted by the kings men, "Bring out your dead, Bring out your dead. For hope is gone and despair is in its stead", brought our peaceful night in the meadows to a close.