—Do you know of anyone in this village who is a witch, or a Malandante?
A second voice now, a man’s, with the airy accent of Vincenza. His tone neither threatening nor pleading but almost playful, rehearsing a well-known part with an actor who had perhaps forgotten her lines.
Of witches I do not know any, nor even of Benandanti. The girl laughed throatily; but a moment later went on, her voice rising. Father, no. I really do not know. I am not a Benandante, that is not my calling. And certainly I am not Malandante. I do not know whether any child in our village has been bewitched.
At the word Malandante Balthazar shuddered as though a sentence had been pronounced. The voice of the inquisitor rang out, more sternly this time.
—-Yet you saw the son of Pietro Ruota.
I went to see the sick child…The girl hesitated, then went on. The father asked for my help, but I could do nothing. I told him I did not know anything about it. I—I have not invited anyone to the games to which the Benandanti go. She laughed again, a sound like rope fraying.
—Why did you laugh? the man demanded; and Balthazar’s throat burned as he felt the same words welling inside him: O Giulietta, why did you laugh? He saw her again, a tall girl with bold eyes, uncanny ice-blue eyes that had already stained her with the epithet strega; that and the fact that she rinsed her hair with Egyptian herbs to give it color and strength, and lay with men but had never borne a child.
—Why did you laugh? repeated the inquisitor.
Balthazar heard her feet shuffling against the bare wooden planks as she swore beneath her breath and finally said,
Because these are not things to inquire about, because they are against the will of God.
—And how would you know what is the will of God? the inquisitor cried.
Silence. Then, in a clear sure voice the girl answered, It is said that when they assemble, the Benandanti must fight for the faith of God, and their enemies fight for the Demi’s.
—But for the faith of what God do they fight?
Silence. Balthazar’s heart pounded and he moaned aloud. All around him was the darkened stall swept clean of hay and dung. A single small clay lamp had been thrust into an alcove to send shadows skittering up the splintered cedar walls and greasy smoke spiraling toward the mud-daubed ceiling. Beneath the stench of burning oil he could smell her, a faint musk of salt and fennel stalks, her auburn hair scrubbed with sand that still reeked of the river-bottom. Even from across the room, even from across the centuries, he could feel that she did not flinch, as the inquisitor thundered once more.
—For the faith of whose God do they fight?
In his corner the scrivener’s quill snagged upon the parchment in front of him. Still the girl said nothing. After a moment the inquisitor took a deep breath, and asked, —Then tell me the names of their enemies, of the witches. The Malandanti.
The girl lifted her face. Tangled auburn curls fell back from a high forehead, and her eyes burned white in the darkness as she calmly replied, Sir, I cannot do it.
—Yet you say that they fight for God. I want you to tell me the names of these witches.
Balthazar shuddered. As though she sensed him there the girl trembled, too. She rubbed her hands along her bare arms and glanced around the room, not nervously but with great care, as though tracking a mouse by the sound of its footsteps. And then she found him; recognized him, even though his face was hidden by the sooty folds of the domino. Her linen shift made a sound like the wind in the cornstalks, counterpoint to the scratching of the procurator ab actis where he sat in a corner transcribing her words, his face lost within the domino’s hood. He would not look up to meet her eyes. The girl’s gaze remained upon his hunched figure, and Balthazar could see hopelessness settle on her thin shoulders like a rook.
I cannot name nor accuse anyone, she said at last, tearing her gaze from the scrivener. She shook herself, then gave him a thin smile. Whether he be friend or foe.
—Tell me the names of these Malandanti.
Boldly the red-haired girl met the inquisitor’s eyes. I cannot say them.
The inquisitor pounded his hand against the wall, the folds of his domino flapping like black sails.
—For what reason can’t you tell me this? he cried. In a neighboring recess a horse whinnied. —For what reason?
The girl’s voice rose angrily. Because we have a lifelong edict not to reveal secrets about one side or the other!
—You assert that you are not one of them—why are you obliged to obey them? The inquisitor stepped away from the wall. Dust curled around his booted feet like smoke, and reddened the hem of his robes. He lifted his cloaked head and inclined it very slightly to where the scrivener was bent over his lap-desk, his breath clouding the autumn air; and across all those intervening years Balthazar could feel the malice of that hidden gaze, a cudgel crashing onto his back.
Because, of course, the inquisitor cared nothing about the girl. His only concern was that villagers claimed that she was a strega, and so might have corrupted her lovers; and one of those lovers was under his care. She was seventeen, too young to have been taken by the Benandanti as one of their own. Besides which she was a girl, and women rarely gained entry to the Benandanti’s libraries and refectories, and then only as servants. The inquisitor himself knew this, because he was a Benandante, as was the girl’s lover. He sought only to learn if her young cicis-beo had betrayed the Benandanti’s secrets to her; but now the girl had betrayed herself. He raised one white hand to his cloaked face, the fingers long and slender and seemingly bloodless as bone, and slowly shook his head.
—Giulietta Masparutto, he said. The words came out quickly now, his tone grew distracted, even bored. Your words condemn you as Malandante. Our land is full of witches and evil people performing a thousand evils and a thousand injuries against their neighbors. There is an abundance of such misbegotten people, and I have been chosen to act as inquisitor general and judge over cases such as yours. With the counsel of those who are expert in the laws of God and Good Men, you, Giulietta Masparutto, are arraigned in my presence and will now hear the penance to be imposed, as follows:
First, I condemn you to a term of twelve months in a prison which we shall assign to you….
What have I done? the girl shouted. Her cheeks flushed as she tossed her head furiously. I have done nothing, you know that I have done nothing—
—We reserve to ourselves the authority to reduce these penalties or absolve you, in whole or in part, as we may deem best…
With a cry she whirled, to turn accusatory eyes upon the hooded figure whose quill moved unrelentingly across his parchment. But the scrivener did not look up, and the girl quickly turned back to her questioner.
Please, she cried, I am needed here, my cousin Ilario is ill—
But already there was the scraping sound of the barn door being pulled open behind them. Sunlight slashed through the narrow stall, blinding her; a few yards away the horse whinnied again in excitement. Two barefoot young men in the soiled brown robes of cenobites stepped uncertainly through the doorway, frowning when they saw the girl.