Chapter 9: Face to face with past 2
Il silenzio polveroso fuori dalla cappella era soffocante, rotto solo dal lontano clangore del martello di un fabbro e dal fruscio inquietante dei Fantacorvi che si muovevano sul loro trespolo. Lo sguardo di Ezra, evitando gli sguardi torvi provenienti dalla piazza, si posò sui tetti di terracotta fino a un pendio dove file di viti nodose si aggrappavano al fianco della collina, le cui foglie di un verde polveroso contrastavano con la terra sbiancata dal sole. Le viti sembravano catturare la sua attenzione con la gravità di un ricordo sepolto.
La varietà specifica, il modo in cui i filari si incurvavano seguendo il tracciato del vecchio acquedotto, squarciò due decenni di oblio praticato. Le sue narici si dilatarono dietro la visiera, percependo non il fetore della città, ma il profumo fantasma di terra riscaldata dal sole e foglie di vite schiacciate.
Le sue narici si dilatarono dietro la visiera, percependo non il fetore della città, ma il profumo fantasma di terra riscaldata dal sole e foglie di vite schiacciate. Il ricordo si dispiegò con la violenza improvvisa e vivida di un bicchiere che cade a terra.
Il ricordo si dispiegò con la violenza improvvisa e vivida di un bicchiere che cade a terra.
La luce del sole, più antica e gentile del bagliore di Serpico, filtrava attraverso un pergolato di legno carico di frutta. I suoi piccoli zoccoli raschiavano sulle lisce lastre di pietra, la sua mano stringeva il ruvido lino della gonna della zia. Un uomo e una donna dai volti sfocati dal tempo sorridevano, le loro voci un caldo e indistinto mormorio di benvenuto.
«E questa è Mira», aveva detto sua zia, la sua voce che lo spingeva dolcemente in avanti. La ragazza che si fece avanti da dietro i proprietari del vigneto era minuta, con grandi occhi liquidi e due piccole corna ricoperte di velluto che spuntavano dalla massa disordinata di capelli castani. Lo osservava con aperta curiosità, uno zoccolo biforcuto che tamburellava sulla pietra.
Ezra si immobilizzò, sentendo improvvisamente le sue corna in via di sviluppo enormi e grottesche. Si nascose dietro le gambe della zia, il lino ruvido contro la sua guancia. "Avanti, Ezra," lo incoraggiò dolcemente lo zio, posandogli una mano sulla spalla. "È proprio come te."
Non riusciva a parlare. Aveva la gola chiusa. Mira fece un passo esitante verso di sé, offrendo un timido sorriso che lasciava intravedere uno spazio tra i denti. "Ciao", sussurrò.
«Saluta, tesoro», lo incoraggiò la zia. Il silenzio carico di aspettativa degli adulti si trasformò in una pressione, in una gabbia. Lui affondò il viso ancora di più nella gonna, annusando lavanda e polvere, desiderando che la terra lo inghiottisse completamente.
Mira non indietreggiò. I suoi piccoli zoccoli raschiavano delicatamente le lastre di pietra mentre iniziava a girare intorno alle gambe della zia, inclinando la testa nel tentativo di incrociare i suoi occhi nascosti. "Perché si nasconde?" chiese agli adulti, con voce non accusatoria, ma sinceramente perplessa.
I quattro umani – i proprietari del vigneto e i suoi zii – osservavano questa piccola scena con sorrisi calorosi e incoraggianti che al piccolo Ezra sembravano riflettori puntati addosso. "È un po' timido, tesoro", spiegò la zia, posando delicatamente una mano sulla sua testa. Quel tocco era inteso a confortarlo, ma lo immobilizzò.
Mira completed her circle and crouched down, her chin nearly on the ground to peer up under the skirt’s hem. He saw her upside-down face, her wide eyes blinking. She held up a single, perfect purple grape she’d plucked from the pergola. “Do you want it?” The offering was a tiny, violet planet in her small, dirty palm.
The pressure of the adult gazes, the terrifying kindness, the impossible similarity of this other creature—it all crested inside his small chest and broke. He unpeeled himself from the linen, his movements stiff. He didn’t take the grape. Instead, he reached out one trembling, red-furred finger and very carefully poked the velvety nub of her antler.
It was soft.Warm. Real. “You have them too,” he whispered, his own voice strange to him.
Mira giggled, the sound like shaken bells, and tapped a finger against the base of one of his own budding horns. “Yours are pointy.” She popped the grape into her own mouth, then grabbed his hand.
She popped the grape into her own mouth, then grabbed his hand. Her grip was startlingly firm, her palm slightly damp from the fruit. “Come on,” she said, as if they’d already agreed on a destination, and pulled him from the sheltering adults toward the stone farmhouse.
The vineyard owners, a couple named Rosa and Enzo, ran a modest boarding house alongside their vines. The common room was dark and cool, smelling of rosemary and old wine. The landlady, Rosa, watched the two children with a kind, calculating eye. She wiped her hands on her apron, glancing from the antlered girl to the horned boy now clinging to each other’s hands. “Mira, cara,” she said, her voice a gentle nudge. “Why don’t you show Ezra your special book? The one with the pictures you like.”
Mira’s eyes widened, a flicker of doubt crossing her face. She looked at Ezra, then back at Rosa. “But it’s… it’s just my book.” “I’m sure he would think it’s wonderful,” Rosa encouraged, her smile unwavering. The unspoken plea hung in the air: Make him feel normal. Make him stay.
“Do you want to see it?” Mira asked, turning to him. Her earnestness was a tangible force. “It’s got magic in it. Well, drawings of magic.” Ezra, whose world had just shrunk to the warm pressure of another creature’s hand, simply nodded. Anywhere she led was safer than the silent, smiling scrutiny of the adults.
She led him down a short, shadowy corridor to a small bedroom she shared with several other boarder children, though it was empty now. Sunlight cut in through a lone window, illuminating dust motes dancing over a straw-stuffed mattress on the floor. From beneath it, she carefully slid a worn, cloth-bound ledger, its pages swollen with humidity.
She sat cross-legged on the mattress, patting the space beside her. He settled slowly, the straw crunching under his weight. With reverential care, she opened the book.
With reverential care, she opened the book. The pages were not filled with printed text, but with sprawling, enthusiastic drawings done in charcoal and what looked like crushed berry juice. They depicted fantastical creatures with horns and tails dancing amidst great swirls and spirals.
"See?" Mira whispered, her finger tracing a looping, red-stained line that erupted from a drawn figure’s hands. "That's the fire-whispering. Grandma showed me in dreams." She looked at him, her expression deadly serious for a six-year-old. "It's our magic. Not the wizard kind."
He stared at the crude, powerful drawings, a strange heat blooming in his own small chest. It was a feeling he had no name for. "Can you really do it?" he asked, his voice hushed.
Mira glanced toward the door, listening for adult footsteps. Hearing none, she grinned, a flash of playful defiance in her eyes. She closed the book and held out her hands, palms up, her face screwing up in concentration. For a long moment, nothing happened.
Then a tiny, perfect ember, no larger than a pea, winked into existence just above her right palm. It hung in the air, pulsating with a deep, inner light. Ezra gasped, leaning forward. The ember grew, spinning lazily, drawing warmth and light from the very air until it became a globe of pure, golden flame the size of a small apple.
It emitted no smoke. It made no sound. It simply was, a contained sun held in the space between her hands. Mira giggled, the strain on her face melting into delight. "Watch this," she breathed.
Her brow furrowed again. The orb of fire flattened, stretching and morphing. It became a spinning ring, then a flickering, four-pointed star. With a final, sharp gesture of her fingers, the fire condensed and solidified. It was no longer mere flame. It was a small, radiant bird crafted entirely from solid, gleaming fire, every feather distinct and shimmering with trapped sunlight.
It hopped from her palm to her finger, its weightless heat making the air around it waver. It turned its head, seemingly looking right at Ezra. "It doesn't burn us," Mira said, as if commenting on the weather. She reached out with her other hand and gently stroked the bird's back; her fingers passed through the fire as if through warm water.
Ezra’s world narrowed to that impossible creature. The fear, the strangeness, the weight of being other evaporated in its radiant heat. This was not a curse. This was a secret. A glorious, terrifying, beautiful secret that belonged only to them. He reached out, mesmerized, his own finger trembling toward the fiery sparrow.
His claw tip neared the shimmering surface. The heat was intense, but it was a welcome warmth, like standing near a hearth, not a punishing burn. Just before he made contact, a heavy footstep sounded in the corridor outside the room.
The fire-bird dissolved into a shower of harmless, fading sparks that vanished before they hit the straw. The room was suddenly just a room again, dim and dust-moted.
The room was suddenly just a room again, dim and dust-moted. The footsteps passed, and Mira let out a shaky giggle, her shoulders slumping. “We have to be quieter,” she whispered, but her eyes glittered with shared triumph. Ezra just stared at his hand, at the space where the fire had been, a hunger he didn’t understand settling in his bones.
“Do it again,” he breathed, leaning closer. “Make something bigger.”
Mira bit her lip, glancing at the crude drawings in her book. “I don’t know how to make bigger things. Grandma only showed me little dreams.” She traced a wild, sweeping spiral on the page that hinted at a torrent, a geyser of power. “That one looks… loud.”
“You can do it,” Ezra insisted, his voice tight with a six-year-old’s absolute conviction. He poked the drawing. “It’s just more of the little fire, right? Just… push it.” His encouragement was clumsy, a product of desperate want rather than understanding. “I bet you can. I’ll watch for the grown-ups.”
That sealed it. The chance to show off, to explore the edges of this glorious secret with an awestruck audience of one, was irresistible. Mira nodded, a serious expression overtaking her face. “Okay. But we have to go outside. To the lemon tree.”
They scurried out through the kitchen’s back door into the walled garden, where a single, spindly young lemon tree struggled in a patch of sun. Mira positioned herself before it, assuming a stance she’d likely seen in another dream, her small hands held out decisively. Ezra crouched behind a rosemary bush, his heart hammering against his ribs.
She took a deep breath, her brow furrowing in profound concentration. The air around her hands began to waver, heat haze rising from nothing. A tiny ember sparked, then another, multiplying like agitated fireflies. “More,” Ezra whispered fiercely from his hiding spot.
The embers swirled, coalescing not into a shaped form but into a churning, unstable ball of orange and yellow. It grew rapidly, far faster than the gentle orb from before, emitting a low, threatening whine. Mira’s expression shifted from concentration to alarm. “It’s… sticky,” she grunted, her arms trembling as she tried to contain the swirling mass.
With a sound like tearing cloth, the spell discharged. It wasn’t a controlled flow. It was a raw, barking belch of flame that shot from her palms, a searing lance that completely missed the lemon tree and instead slammed into the base of a gnarled old olive tree five feet to the left.
The blast was shockingly loud in the quiet garden. Bark vaporized in a cloud of splinters and smoke. A furious orange bloom of fire clawed up the dry trunk, instantly engulfing the lower branches. The heat washed over Ezra, crisp and terrifying.
Mira screamed, stumbling backwards and falling onto her bottom. For one eternal second, the fire roared, claiming the ancient tree. Then the back door flew open with a bang. Rosa stood there, a bucket of wash water in her hands. She didn’t yell. She didn’t freeze.
With a practiced heave, she flung the entire bucket’s contents in a wide, soaking arc across the base of the tree. The fire hissed violently, steam billowing up in a great white cloud that smelled of ash and wet charcoal. A second bucket, this one from Enzo, followed, drenching the remainder of the flames into sullen, smoking submission.
Silence returned, heavy and acrid. The olive tree stood scorched and dripping, a blackened scar marring its side. Enzo dropped his empty bucket with a clatter. Rosa turned slowly, her gaze finding Mira, who was weeping silently in the dirt, then cutting to Ezra’s wide-eyed face peeking from behind the rosemary.
Rosa’s expression wasn’t angry. It was deeply, profoundly tired. “Inside,” she said, her voice flat. “Both of you. Now.”
They stood in the vineyard’s main room, the smell of wet charcoal and guilt clinging to them. Ezra’s aunt and uncle arrived first, summoned by the commotion, their faces pale with concern that hardened into dismay as they took in the scorched tree through the open door. The man from Mira’s household—a stern, travel-worn carter named Leo who was her guardian for the journey—arrived last, his boots heavy on the stone floor.
He took one look at Mira’s tear-streaked, soot-smudged face, then at the visibly trembling Ezra, and his thick eyebrows crawled toward his hairline. “What,” he stated, his voice devoid of all inflection, “is the meaning of that tree?”
Rosa let out a long sigh that seemed to deflate her entire frame. “The children were… practicing.”
“Practicing arson?” Leo asked, still terrifyingly calm.
“Pyromancy,” Mira squeaked, staring intently at her hooves. “It was an accident. The fire-whispering got… loud.”
A beat of silence hung in the room, thick enough to choke on. Then Ezra’s uncle, a usually jovial man, made a strange sound—a choked snort that he desperately tried to swallow. It escaped as a high-pitched wheeze. He turned abruptly, pretending to examine a hanging bunch of drying herbs, his shoulders shaking.
Ezra’s aunt pressed her lips into a thin, trembling line, clearly fighting a similar battle. She looked from the mortified children to the grimly amused adults, and the sheer, ridiculous tragedy of it all—the hopeful visit, the secret magic, the expertly torched olive tree—seemed to overwhelm her. A single, helpless giggle escaped her, sharp and unexpected as a hiccup.
That did it. Leo’s stern facade crumbled into a deep, rumbling chuckle that shook his chest. Rosa buried her face in her hands, her own laughter muffled and weary. The room was suddenly full of the soft, relieved sound of adults trying and failing to contain their amusement at the sheer magnitude of the disaster.
Ezra and Mira stood in the center, islands of utter humiliation. Their great secret—their powerful bond—had been reduced to a joke. Ezra felt his face burning beneath his fur, hotter than any flame Mira had ever conjured. Mira looked as though she were on the verge of melting into the floor.
"Well," Leo said finally, wiping his eye with a thick knuckle. "I suppose we can add 'property damage caused by thaumaturgy' to the list of reasons why we keep moving." His tone was lighter, yet an underlying weariness was like a pebble in the flow of their laughter. The sound faded, leaving the children standing in the ensuing silence, their embarrassment a cold, shared feeling.
The sound faded, leaving the children standing in the ensuing silence, their embarrassment a cold, shared feeling. Rosa’s laughter died first, her expression settling into something practical and grave. She looked from the scorched tree outside to the two small demons before her. “That is a hundred-year-old olive tree,” she said quietly, not as an accusation, but as a simple, crushing fact.
Mira’s lower lip wobbled. Ezra found he couldn’t look at the blackened scar on the trunk anymore.
The adults convened in a tight, murmuring circle near the hearth, their voices a low drone of consequence. Words like “dangerous” and “uncontrolled” and “liability” slipped out, sharper than others. Leo rubbed his temples, casting a long, complicated look at Mira that was equal parts worry and exhaustion. “This is why we have rules, little spark,” he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear.
Ezra’s aunt knelt before him, her hands on his shoulders. Her face was soft, but her grip was firm. “We cannot stay after this, Ezra. It isn’t safe.” He wanted to argue, to say it was an accident, that the magic was beautiful before it was loud, but the words clogged in his throat. He just nodded, a hard knot forming beneath his breastbone.
The packing was a swift, somber affair. The cheerful hope of the morning had been packed away along with their travel clothes. The late afternoon sun slanted through the kitchen window, painting long, guilty shadows across the floor where Ezra and Mira were made to sit, away from the adults. They didn’t speak. The air between them hummed with the echo of the blast and the weight of ending.
Outside, the blackened tree wept sap onto the charred earth.
“It’s time,” Ezra’s uncle said, his voice gently final. He shouldered their pack, avoiding everyone’s eyes. The goodbyes between the adults were clipped, polite, strained by the unspoken agreement that this visit would not be repeated. Leo shook hands stiffly. Rosa offered a parcel of bread and cheese for the road, her smile thin and sorrowful.
Ezra’s aunt gave him a slight push toward the garden where Mira stood waiting, scuffing one hoof in the dirt by the wounded olive tree. The others tactfully looked away, giving them a moment.
He approached slowly, the gravel crunching under his boots. The smell of wet ash was overwhelming up close. He stopped a few feet from her, unable to lift his gaze from the ground between them. His horns felt unbearably heavy.
“We have to go,” he finally said, the words barely a whisper.
“I know,” Mira replied. She kicked a pebble. It skittered and vanished into the rosemary bush.
Another silence stretched, vast and awkward. A bee droned past the scorched bark. Ezra clenched his fists, digging his claws into his palms. He wanted to say something about the fire-bird, about the drawings in her book, about the feeling in his chest when the ember first appeared. All of it stuck behind his teeth.
Mira looked up at him, her large eyes shiny. “It was fun, though,” she said, her voice small but deliberate. “Before the tree.”
The knot in his chest loosened, just a fraction. He risked a glance at her face. The soot was still smudged on her cheek. He gave a single, jerky nod. “Yeah,” he managed to exhale. “It was.”
He swallowed hard, forcing the rest out. “It would be nice. To see each other again.”
A genuine, wobbly smile broke through on Mira’s face, chasing away the shine of impending tears. “Yeah,” she echoed, her own nod vigorous. “It would.” She took a half-step forward, then hesitated, glancing back toward the watching adults. Instead, she raised her hand, fingers slightly curled as if still cradling a tiny, invisible sun.
Ezra understood. He raised his own hand, mirroring her gesture. For a second, in the space between their palms, the ghost of that shared warmth flickered.
“Ezra!” his uncle called from the gate, not unkindly.
He let his hand fall, the moment dissolving. He turned and walked toward his family, the image of her hopeful smile and the scent of burnt wood etching itself permanently behind his eyes.