It was a good day.

   Though not particularly interesting in any way, just another common, uneventful day filled with the chores of life. I wasn’t drawn to what happened in any manner, having gone about events as I usually have, for the sheep were in need of being herded to a slightly higher pasture as the approach of warmer weather drew near. The fresh pickings from the valley had been devoured by the mostly docile creatures, and I needed to mend my dried sandals as a lace had finally split for the final time, and merely binding them with another knot proved of little help.

     Our small hamlet far below the favored rolling hills in which I had dwelt upon for several weeks was closer than it had been for days, and my supply of flattened bread and dried fruit needed replenishing before moving the herd to higher ground.  So I did what was necessary.  Early that morning, I gathered a few meager bits of bread and a small satchel of water from the small stream nearby, and began the nearly half days trek to our small village, leaving my two obedient dogs to guard the flock until I could return later that evening.

     I was born in the year of 1282, in the very early spring, just outside the Sicilian city of Palermo, but had no recollection of it since my father had fled with his small family soon after my birth.  Though the province at the time was mainly Sicilian in race and culture, it was then ruled by French monarchs, whose presence often caused an air of resentment among those whom they ruled.

     My father had lived and prospered in Palermo since his youth, and as he often told me and my slightly older sister, Phoicia, that it was a “magnificent place, Palermo, full of culture that one could taste in his soul.”

     Though my sister and I had no memory of the place, we would listen to his stories of its Phoenician beginnings, its famous ports that brought in trade and prosperity to the region, and the diverse relationships with various conquering kingdoms of Normans, Arabs, and French influences that swelled there.  But the most interesting to us as children was the reason for our small family’s quick departure from the region.

     “Listen my infant ones,” father would dramatize, waving his arms frantically while in the telling.  “We fled out of fear for all that was ours, for our very lives we would forfeit if it were not so. Oh, the death that rained about our very feet that day!”

     Now I must confess, though my Father was a most interesting story teller, it felt at times as I grew older that the stories tended to be more, and more—how shall I say it so as to imply a true sense of my feelings of the matter?  Yes, that is it—the stories became more embellished as time progressed.

     We learned much from father’s tales, my sister and me, despite his flavor-able descriptions, and gradually pieced together a small portion of what prompted our living in this small, peaceful village.

     I remember at times after the telling, my Father would become distant, as though the recollection sparked some conflict within that he somehow had tucked tightly away.  There was some untold truth that he ne’er imparted to us which seemed to plague his mind.  It was at times like these that our Aunt and caregiver, Tanythe, would attempt to console our father.  “Hush Hush,” she would oft repeat to our Father, “you must remember why.”  This made me ponder more each time.  What hidden mystery lay at the base of these tales?

     But today was a good day, and as I rounded a small grove of Saracen Olive trees with their protruding gnarled trunks, twisted and tangled in bizarre shapes, a small pleasant breeze greeted me.  The sweet sense from the ripened olives spread across my nostrils reminding me of my hunger.  Yet, as I stopped to ponder which of the fruit to eat something different and uniquely out-of-place overpowered this wonderful scent.  Mixed with the scent from the olive trees was something a bit different and totally unexpected—the smell of smoke.

     I was but fifteen years, and coming into my strength, beginning to perceive greater meaning from my surroundings then when in my mischievous adolescent years. Like my father, my arms were strong and lightly golden, and though my father’s skin was becoming wrinkled and dry, mine was smooth and resilient.  My dark, long curled hair fell over my shoulders and rested slightly on the tanned shepherd’s clothing that all in the village wore in similar fashion.  And like my father, my intuition was sharp, though inexperienced, and it was currently fully aware.

     Though the curiosity of such events still remained a mystery to me, I was sensitive enough to understand the difference between the aromas of a cooking fire created through the flumes of home fire stacks, and the crisp raspy wild burning of brush, wood, and flesh.

     Quickly I snatched a few ripened olives and resumed my trek.  With each step the force of the ill flavored aroma grew, and the surrounding air began to fill with a light haze thrown my way from the flickering breeze it drifted upon.  I rose up upon the crest of a hill still a distance away from the village and saw through the small stocky trees a darkened whisk of smoke simmering over the valley floor.

     I started to move down the slippery slope of the hill with its loose shale and sandy footing and found a clearing with a better view of the distant horizon.  From here the details were only vaguely beginning to separate themselves, yet the main bulk of the rising smoke was most definitely hovering over our small, peaceful village.

     I began to move more urgently.

     For some reason, a memory struck my now troubled thoughts.  A curious phrase that Aunt Tanythe would oft repeat when in times of personal stress.  She had a way with words but never in a rambling manner like my Father—and not as numerous.

     I was told that she once held the eye of all that looked upon her, in which her beauty was finally attuned to catch the attention of all she passed.  But sadly, years and experience had chiseled her fine features into a thoughtful, more respected viewing, which attracted a more whimsical demeanor.  One of my father’s confidants that visited us oft told me Aunt Tanythe was “now sought after for the wisdom of her thoughts then the pleasures of her flesh.”

     Yet the Tanythe I knew and loved, had always been to me the mother I had never known, and a source of comfort whenever I was in need.  That is why my thoughts spread toward the phrase I so often heard her whisper, as though a comfort to herself then a spark of instruction to myself and my sister, Phoicia.  It held a message that I dare not understand, or more reasonably came to understand as her method of concealing her true thoughts from my youthful discernment.

     “Be not blighted,” she would whisper, “by the scant tricks of youth.  They fade with experience, replaced by the fate of years.”

     There was more reflected in her words then I could understand at that time, but the trials I was about to unknowingly embark upon would soon strengthen those words and force their meaning into my soul.

     What happened next as I approached our small, normally placid village turned my good day into something vastly different.  For as I rounded the last few hills that obstructed the view of my home, I came to an abrupt stop upon the well flattened path a mere two-hundred paces from a horrific seen.  Through the bellowing fog of smoke, I saw a vista of destruction, littered with mangled animal carcasses, crumbling huts, broken stables, smashed pottery, and sprinkled with a few charred-lifeless bodies—and all of them smoldering.  The smell was horrific.

     My name is Jacabus.  I am the son of Tebaldus.  My mother was known as La signore bella Adelasia de’ Luchinus.  And this is where my attempts at the telling of my story begin.

     The stench hung thick, putrid, disarming, as a rigid fog smoldered through my thoughts, dismantling my youthful ignorance.  For a moment I stood frozen, unsure of the reality that lay before me.  Images of Phoicia, Tanythe, and my father raced across my fears, as though they lay before me upon the ground, their souls crying out in agony and fear.  I panicked and stumbled into the destruction, my eyes watered, my throat dry, seized from the foul taste that coated it.

     The first body I came to I recognized immediately.  Girardus, a quiet man, whose hands had molded the most beautiful pottery in the region but now were blackened and lifeless tools.  Once he had given me a small medallion etched with the image of a fishing boat, a reminder of the port of Palermo, an “image of the home yet to be seen,” he had said, which I still wore and cherished.  My youthful repugnance boiled over at the sight, my limbs shook as an uncontrolled spasm wrenched my soul, a forced bile taste came forth as my body convulsed with this new reality.

     After a moment I raised my head and forced some sense of trembling control to my mind and body, regaining a small spark of calm to my soul as the world around me smoldered through this fogged dream.

     The despair that surrounded me was fresh, untouched after its violent construction.  From where I stood the hopes and lives of those who had dwelt here swept across my fevered mind in one collective vision, and the first understandable emotion I felt was shame.  Shame that I was not here to repulse the force that so ignorantly impaled my village, my home, my family.

     “Be thoughtful,” I remember my Father teaching me early one spring morning many years ago, after one of the lambs had been mangled by some unknown predator.  “Do not rush to repulse that which frightens you, face it, confront it, control it, dominate it.  For what you may imagine may not be the reality.”

     A small fresh breeze drifted past, helping me regain some sense of my youthful imagination.  I breathed in this fresh aroma, fearing it would soon be replaced by the surrounding gloom.  Several other bodies lay nearby as I swept my gaze about the smoldering village.  Many of the dwellings had been reduced to their stone foundations, unusable, forlorn, melting remnants of a once peaceful and fruitful community.

     Again, my thoughts raced toward my family, my home, as I rose from this induced stupor and stumbled through the ashes.  Crackling sounds from the once strong timber posts that had supported the thinly latched roofs continued to snap and smolder as I neared the ruins of what was once our peaceful dwelling.

     None of the bodies I had passed were those of my family, yet each lay deathly still among the well-worn paths that separated our home and communal structures.  Those that were not blackened, scorched and charred, like Girardus, lay impaled with long pikes protruding from their lifeless bodies, or slashed and dismembered, displaying festered open wounds which now were dried by the heat of the burning sun.

     I moved through the crumbling stone entryway to our home, as visions of a once secure, protective structure pulsed across my memory.  My Sister, Phiocia, would place various collections of wildflowers in sturdy vases along the small wooden tables that we scattered throughout our once peaceful home.  She loved the colorful displays, the fragrant scents, and the joy these creations brought into our lives.

     My Father often called them a “multitude of breath,” remarking sadly how it reminded him of the many spacious Chalet’s that were the flavor of Palermo culture.  “They brought a sense of calm,” he would remark, “bright, beautiful, enduring; a steadiness to one’s life, a candor of expression that places the soul with thoughts of life’s constant resurrection, of the newness of the spirit.”

     A small, murmured groaned drifted towards me, emanating near the hearthstones that lay to my right.  There, prostrated under various debris of fallen timbers and small stone slabs from the crumbing cooking furnace, was Tanythe, soiled by the soot that still fell all about.  She was alive, but barely.

     “Tanythe!” I cried, attempting to move the various obstructions that were littered all about her.

     “No,” she painfully cried.  “Stop,” she wrenched, a hurtful expression cried from her soul.  Quickly I searched about her troubled body and found one of the splintered beams was lodged deep, impaled and seething through her bleeding side.

     “Jacabus,” she moaned, a flicker of troubled relief settling through her voice.  “Oh, Jacabus,” she whispered, reaching blindly for my hand, which I grasped and knelt consolingly beside her.  “They came, took your Sister, I could not stop…” she coughed, grimacing, pain littered her face and controlled her body.

     “Why?” was my impulsive reply.  “Father, where is Father?”

     “There is much that must be said, though we have tried to teach you,” she stammered.  “While keeping you ignorant of many things.”

     “How can I understand that which I do not know,” I cried.

     “Tis’ not that we desired this,” her paled expression yearned to reach out, tell a tale yet unspoken, but life was fading from her being.  “Under the foot-stone,” she murmured, her breath gasped.  “Rinuccia,” she painfully moaned and drifted into death.

     My eyes clogged with a despair that was inconsolable.  I was lost and alone, tethered to a tale that was yet to be spoken.

     “There are times,” Father once told me and Phiocia, not many years ago, while seeing that our understanding was more defined than in our innocent adolescent years, “when what one knows is only a veil that covers the truth.  Perception is that minds eye that forms a foundation, the beginning, the crutch that feeds the well of knowledge.”

     “How can we know what is, Father,” Phiocia had injected.

     He smiled at her question.  “Truth is fleeting, twisted by what realms we see.  Men whisper their creeds as though each has been privy to wisdom and thus hold the right to that truism that others are said to be ignorant of.  Do not be deceived, hold to true foundations, those that are built upon words of stone, otherwise they dissolve and flake away when the storms of men’s wisdom leak through your ears.”

     Now I knelt mournfully beside the Mother of my youth, whose lifeless frame troubled my thoughts and interfered with the peace that had so often been given by her.

     A shadow drifted high overhead as the slight breeze grew stronger.  Looking upward, I noticed the soiled clouds swiftly moving toward me and began to feel small droplets piercing my tearful face.  After a few moments, the droplets began to fiercely fall upon the ground, splattering the charred wood and mixed the blood-stained dirt into pools of mushed soil.  I slowly rose and let the droplets drench my skin, aware of the fear that engulfed this once lively village.

     Tanythe had said with her last breath a word that had not made sense.  The footstone, which had lain upon our doorstep since my thoughts and mind could comprehend. Turning, I retraced my path to the entrance and looked down upon the red slab-stone with its smooth, well worn rock, a curious object to contemplate at this moment, yet it must hold some significance she wished to pass forward.

     The edges where rounded, smoothed by use and time.  The sides, though taller than most stone of its kind and purpose, displayed nothing of unusual importance.  I knelt closer as the rain began to turn the surrounding dirt into pools of slimy, clogged mud, and observed a small stream of rainwater trickle down one side and disappear through a small, unnoticeable opening.

     I was about to discover the beginning of the mystery and step upon a path for the truth of who I truly was meant to be.  My horizons were about to be challenged in a reality that my very soul would learn to fear more dreadfully then this day.

     It was not a good day!

     There was a time I remember which freshly licked my perception, when we had traveled to the coastal regions of the thriving port city of Terranova di Sicilia, my Father having some business with a local merchant involving the wool market. I was but eleven, timid, yet impulsive, and wide-eyed at an adventure that I rarely was allowed to undertake, even though my Father had done so often.

     The fresh early July climate was enticing, the breeze gentle after the brisk winds that had infested the area during the cold, chilled winter season, which made the approaching summer warmth more favorable. The newness of this undertaking was an overwhelming taste of smells and aromas that were vastly unfamiliar to my senses; an eclectic collection of sensations that charmed the untried flavors of my palette, suffering me to indulge—when permitted—in this barrage of the unknown.

     The many multicolored boats that sailed in and out of the hustling port stayed with my memories for years, packed with a taste of mystery and terror as they navigated the crisp clear blue-green waters off its coast. Images of terrifying creatures invaded my imagination since then, engulfing each boat in the snares of their tangled tentacles, dragging both men and cargo to the rocky depths of the sea. I dreamed of traveling the seas to tell my own story, to learn from my own terrifying tales!

     We had gone there to meet a man my Father said was an old friend, trusted and wise in things that were of importance; and also, one who had mastered an art my Father laughingly referred to as a "persuasive gatherer of information." It was only years later that I came to discover what the true meaning of persuasive really meant.

     Today, I cared not about our purpose, but only about completing our task and returning to this undertaking of enjoying that which surrounded my senses. My Father laughed at my enthusiasm, yet cautioned me, saying that "to much of the pleasures of life can bring soured bellies and exhausted hearts."

     We entered the market tavern near the north edge of the port docks, it's brightened Heath and broadened chamber, filled with hard wooden tables and brim-hat men telling grinning tales, enlightened my ears and blushed my soul. The sparkle of music that echoed from the dueling mandolins spun my joyful head, as images of dancing sprites twisted through my thoughts. The tavern maids were boisterous, broad, and flowing with their charm and offerings of strong drink. "Tempting pleasures," my Father whispered. "Thus, not for men of respectable honor," he winked as we found our place near the back, a more subdued area of the establishment.

     As we sat, our backs against the darkened wall, a young girl approached our table.

     "What may you desire, my Lord," she shyly spoke.

     "A Passito for myself, and grape wine for the boy," he gestured, watching the hall cautiously before him as she moved off to fill the order.

     Before we departed our humble village, Tanythe had quietly pulled me aside, a worried, intimidating expression bent the lines of her edged face.  My joy was suddenly soiled by the fear that voiced itself in her agitated words.

     "Jacabus, you stay close to your Father," she commanded, brushing some unknown dirt from my clean linen garment.  "Du' su' i putenti, cu' avi assa e cu nun avi nenti."

     Sometimes I was perplexed by her sayings.  They held meaning, that I knew; I had learned to pay heed to her wisdom, even though not direct in their teaching, she had a way of crafting her language, her sentiments, her desires, into expressions that conveyed truth, both meaningful--sometimes for their joyful pleasures--and at others as a warning.

     At the saying of it I paid little heed, but it would be soon that her thoughts would convey an expression that even my eleven-year old self would come to comprehend.

     "There's two types of powerful," she had said, "Those who own too much, and those who don't own a thing."

     The young girl, her long, dark hair, with its slightly curled tips which partially fell over her light-brown complexion, brought three mugs and placed them on the small table.  She also carried an oblong bowl with a twisted loaf of bread, a slap of stretched-curd cheese, and a parcel of goat’s butter.  I was confused, but grateful when my Father began, unconcerned by this unexpected arrival, to feast on the offering laid before him.  I too reached out and began to indulge, realizing how hungry I had become.

     A sudden commotion rattled from the far side of the room, a dispute of some kind, as all eyes seemed to shift in that direction.

     "Enjoying your feast," a low, unknown voice spoke near them from a darkened corner of the tavern, close and rude.  My Father took a sip from the flask before him, wiped his mouth with his light-brown shirtsleeve, and replied without looking up, down, nor sideways, "You are a damn fool if you thought I didn't see you there, skulking like a waif begging for my scraps."

     I stopped chewing mid mouthful, the sternness in my Father's voice carried an image that threatened the tranquility of the meal before us.  A chair rustled from the darkness, the lone intruder was rising, I could hear his footsteps moving in our direction.  A tall, scruffy figure emerged from the shadows and slowly pulled the empty chair from our table, calm and deliberate, as it cruelly scratched the floor; his clothes soiled, his unkempt hair and shaggy beard crusted with the dust from a long journey, he lowered himself upon the chair with a slow, indignant air, as my Father continued to taste the bounty before us, intentionally baiting this fiend.

     I turned pale and belched in fear.  They both laughed, amused at my stress.

     The stranger took the third cup and eagerly drank from its content.  "Falecia!" He bellowed, with a slight air of irritation.  "Felecia, bring another round, the good stuff this time!"

     The young girl nodded with a shy smile.

     "My daughter takes from her Mother's wisdom, I am afraid, not mine,"

     My Father turned to me as I am sure pure confusion was riddled across my face as a fit of the hiccups began to seize my body.  "My friend Binidittu, this is Jacabus, my son."

     "Indeed," the other man bellowed.  "Must gain his good looks from his lovely Mother I am afraid, Tebaldus, because you still reek of sour grapes and have the face of a dried prune," he spoke, slapping my Father ruthlessly on the back while grabbing a handful of bread and cheese, and hungerly gulping it down.

     The girl, Felicia, returned with a large corked bottle, and a spacious plate generously full of sizzling pork, chicken, and lambs’ meats, as the smell of garlic drifted across my senses.  I hiccupped with embarrassed delight, wide eyed at the wonderous feast before me, my fears dissolved, replaced with lustful hunger.

     "Your travels went well, productive I would hope," my Father spoke, eyeing him expectantly.

     "All as we feared, my friend.  There is much that needs our attention, and I wonder if they will resist much longer before they seek your humble company."

     "The conflict still wages," he continued, "strong and forceful along the northeast mainland of Italian, in the Port city of Calabria, which continues to divert their attention, but you are always on their thoughts.  Whispers tumble from those I have encountered, some from friend, most from foe."

     I was ignorant of what they spoke of, confused by the tone and gesture of their voices as my feasting slowed to a crawl.  I was used to being spoken around, as a child one learns to expect such behavior, yet some sense of the foul contention that played itself out elsewhere intrigued my youthful imagination.

     "We must retain our vigilance then," Father concluded.  "We do not want to be caught unawares."

     "True," the scruffy looking friend of my Father's spoke as he gnawed on the meats before him.  He looked at me between splattered bites and swigs of his drink, "This is my Tavernetta, thanks to your Father's friendship, along with several other establishments to the north, one even along the portside lane in Palermo, my largest and most profitable adventure.  Though this one I call home now."

     I smiled, trying to instill a small portion of my gratitude for the joys I had just devoured, but my eyes fell heavy, my thoughts clouded, as all I craved for now was a warm bed and a long, dream filled rest.  Instead, I continued to hiccup, which brought continued laughter from the pair of men before me.  My cheeks blushed at the attention as the young girl, Felicia, once again came to our table and rolled her eyes at my discomfort.

     "My Lord," she addressed my Father once more, which now caused my mind to ponder why such respect.  She turned toward Biniditto and delivered her message, "Papa, your wife desires your attention, so she has told me."

     He gulped another tasting, rose, and scurried off with a grin.  "I have been summoned; we will continue this soon, now I must feast my eyes on other things of vital importance."

     I remember very little of the evening after that but the look on my Father's demeanor.  It wasn't discomfort, nor fear, nor even a look of foreboding, but one of a coming storm that he had little control at protecting those around him from.  I dreamed that night of veiled men, with growling facades, pricking my skin with pointed sticks, as though I was the grizzled feast they were trying to devour.

     But now I sat upon the rain-soaked ground staring at the red skinned footstone before me, my heart twisted, covered with both fear and anger at the life that now sat upon my shoulders.

     "Someday," my Father had imparted to me as we had made our way home from the portside of Terranova di Sicilia the following day, words that now pricked my soul with some foreboding hint to other evils I should encounter.  "The winds of eternity shall tear at the fabric of our life's, and you may be thrust toward trails you have no knowledge on how to navigate.  Rely on wisdom, be vigilant, trust only that which you know is truth, and avenge the graves of those who have sacrificed all for our lives and peace.  There is nothing more sacred then family!"

     I reached down and pride the foot-stone's cover, fearful of the mystery that lay beneath it.

     The rain continued to splatter my soiled skin.  I felt drained from its constant intrusion yet gave it as little heed as I could while trying to loosen the footstone.

     At first, I tried tugging at one side, prying my fingers under the smooth, slick slab, but it was either too heavy or too stuck from the mud and moisture that now sealed it into place.  I ventured through the rubble of our once peaceful dwelling, avoiding the spot where Tanythe lay trapped and lifeless, and found a large roof pole, along with a round cooking stone, then pride and hoisted the footstone.  It finally dislodged with a sucking plop that dully rasped through the drenched air around me.

     My breath heaved from the effort, my muscles ached from the strain and cold rain, my hair clung over my eyes like a shroud as I tipped the stone to one side with all the effort my troubled body could endure.  There, beneath the path I had trodden thoughtlessly over all these years, sat a metal box of fine craftsmanship.  Though it appeared slightly tarnished its condition looked firm and solid.  It was about four palm lengths long and three wide, and as I tilted my head from one side to the other I noticed handled rings on each of the long sides, which I reached down and easily hoisted the treasure from its long tomb of captivity.

     The rain began to slow to a trickle, and as its fierceness eased the faint smells of chard wood and rotting corpses began to take its place in my mind.  Yet, I pushed the thoughts of my surroundings aside and focused on the task before me.

     My sister, Phoicia, often teased that my mind was so easily distracted, that "a soft whisper of the wind" could divert my thinking in an instant.  It was true, for my active imagination was constantly gnawing at my thoughts, shifting from one fanciful idea to another.  Even now, as I stared at this mysterious box a thousand possibilities of what it contained swarmed across my vision.  I knelt there for a moment both stunned and numb as to its true nature.

     A brief shard of sunlight broke through the gray rain clouds that slowly drifted above and graced across the damp ground I knelt upon.  Its shaft of warmth seeped through my body, waking me to the reality of my surroundings once again.  As it passed by the now open footstone hole, a glint of metal shone once more.  Another box.

     I sat the one I had just dislodged aside and leaned over the opening once more.  In fact, there were two more containers, one of a similar construction as the first which lay further under the stone entryway which led into our burnt and destroyed dwelling, and another, larger trunk of some nature that had been laid beneath the others.

     Sitting back exhausted, my thoughts swam with confusion.  The routine and serenity of my life had already been shattered, yet now it was a mixture of shaded thoughts, horrid death, and subtle secrecy, all perpetrated by my Father and dead Aunt Tanythe.

     I hoisted the second box upon the muddy soil, which was much heavier than the first, then reached down, doing the same for the remaining container.  Though it was larger than the other two, and made of some type of polished hardwood, its weight was relatively easy to maneuver from the protective enclosure that had guarded it for all these unknown seasons.  The cleverness of this vaults design had kept and preserved these containers from decay, a well thought of hiding place that I had never suspected, and whose making must have been completed before my sister’s or my awareness could perceive their existence.  But why?

     I was soon to find out.  Or at least begin to grovel in the mystery that now surrounded me.

     "Observe the signs, Jacabus," my Father spouted not more than a month hence, his demeanor taking a more serious, more stoic tone than usual.  "Be cautious of what you see.  Be aware of the winds that blow across your perception, do not let them sway you toward fruitless paths.”

     “What is it, Father,” I remember replying, watching a troubled expression flow across his face.  He suddenly looked old, worried, and distressed by some distant memory.  He often had a melancholy air about him, and I had learned to give him a wide berth in those times of worry, but he seemed to have a need to express his thoughts that day.

     He beckoned me to follow him, which I did obediently.  We entered the back shed where the mule was grazing on a fresh stack of hay.  The bedraggled grey beast paid little attention to our intrusion, giving us only a mild snort as he intently consumed his meal.

     We went to the back of the shelter, past the small dark wood cart that carried the sheep’s wool to market, where my Father began to move the small bench and several tools that rested against the old wood paneled wall.  We hung our pitchforks, axes, shearing tools, and mule harnesses, tools which clanked against the solid panel wall whenever a brisk wind shifted through the enclosure.  The back of the shed rested against a small mound or hill, this helped to sturdy the structure, making it more steadfast against the elements that constantly beat upon it. 

     Then, to my amazement, my Father moved the rear panel, slowly opening what appeared to be a small, hidden door that led into an enclosure that I had never perceived before.

     “There is something I must show you,” he said, looking back at me with a slight mischievous grin.

     Of course, I was now intrigued and very confused.  This subtle secrecy had been here all these years, and I never even suspected, nor did my sister, Phoicia, or she would have blurted it out, she is the worst to keep a secret.

     "How long has this been here," I said in a surprised tone, entering behind my Father into the dark abyss.

     "There are many things that are a mystery in life," he responded, lighting a small table lantern.  He turned and faced me, holding the flickering oil lamp as a more serious expression fell upon his visage.  A strained demeanor I had only seen upon his face when he was "deep in the remembering," as Tanythe would often say.

     He did not respond but moved about fifteen paces further into the depths of this cave, placing the lamp on an old rectangular wooden table.  It was not a large enclosure, and I could see through the dull flickering glow there were several shelves aligned along the back-stone walls and on the side opposite the table.  They were full of various scrolls and ledger books that I had seen my Father thoughtfully glean through on several occasions.

     He reached for a small scroll from the back shelve, then hesitated.  His back was to me, I could not see the expression on his face, yet his shoulders slightly sagged, and his usually firm frame seemed to quiver just a touch.  After a moment of thought my Father changed direction and moved over a few steps and grasped a much larger rolled bundle from the upper shelf.

     "It is time for you to take on more understanding," he spoke, moving the large scroll from the shelf and placing it on the table.  He unrolled the stiff parchment and secured it with several small stones on each corner.

     He paused.  I could tell his thoughts were far off, troubled, dislodged from the here and now, contemplating what to impart to my soul.  I impatiently waited with as much restraint as I could, having learned it was better to let his paused silence drift through the moment, whereupon he would impart whatever knowledge he wished when his mind and heart was ready.

     "When we lived in Palermo," he began, "We lived in a fine chalet."  He continued and slowly moved his sun-dried hand across the face of the scroll.

     "Our Family, as you know, was well off in the things of life," he continued now lost in the telling.  "I had the fortune of being brought up in a fruitful family of merchants and artisans.  But what you and your Sister do not know, what you have not been told, is that of your Mother's family trade.  For their influence throughout the region was far greater."

     The drawing before me was a very detailed representation of a city, scratched across the whole breath of the parchment.  Buildings of all sizes were displayed, with winding roadways weaving throughout.  Also, symbols for places of worship, merchant shops, large chalets, palaces, fountains, and many other distinguished landmarks.  The was even a seaport to the north with a few sailing crafts drawn in for some sense of realism.  I knew what city this was but had never seen such detail.

     “This is Palermo,” he quietly spoke.  “There are five Distrettos in the city, sections that are divided based on their purpose or social standing.  My family lived in the upper area of Patitellorum, near the walls of the Cassaro district, due to our merchant dealings.  Our shop was down by the Ports, where the foreign merchants would transport their wares for trade."

    I noticed a thoughtful demeanor settle upon his withered face once more.  One that gleaned with content memories yet was clouded by some unknown demon.

     "We dealt, traded, and forged in ceramics, or Majolica, earthenware of the finest quality.  I was graced with the craftsman's skill and used my talents to adorn the plates, jugs, jars, and statuaries with images of the vibrant life that flowed throughout Palermo."

     He pointed at another section of the scroll.

     “Your Mother was from Cassaro itself, a more prestigious and grander region of the city.  Large ornately adorned Palaces and Cathedrals, aligned by broad gardens and graceful fountains, proudly flowed through the district.  Here is where the ruling class dwelt, where the fine marketplace sat, and where the sub-quarter of Galca stood upon the high point of the region, where the Royal Palace was located.”

     Father looked up from the parchment, and through the dimly flickering light of the lantern he told me the beginning of a tale that would eventually take me a whole laborious year and a long treacherous trek across the whole Sicilian landscape to learn of its true meaning.  To learn of the consequences of my birth and of the tragic fate of my Mother, Adelasi de’ Luchinus.

     But at this time, all he told me was this.  “Your Mother's family” he stated with a quiver to his voice, “were members of the Cambio, or money changers guild, her Father being a wealthy and influential Prior, who spoke for the district of Cassaro.  He was not a man one would take lightly, for his wrath was quick to anger and his memory long reaching."

     Then, looking straight into my eyes, my Father almost whispered as a longing sense of despair spread through his words, "He disowned our family on the day of your Mother's tragic death.”  His eyes teared, his voice quivered, and his countenance seem to shatter.  Then, he finished with words that even now haunt my memory.  He said, “and on the day you came into this world, the day of your birth."

     The rancid smells that surrounded me awoke my mind from its reminiscing and sparked my thoughts back into the reality of this new life.  The evening sun was slowly fading, dipping behind the westerly mountains, and the dampness that filled the air made my soul shiver with dreadful cold.  I needed shelter from the night as this emotional darkness was draining my strength.

     I could see through the dimming light that the Mule shed still stood about a hundred paces beyond our now shattered home, probably an insignificant structure to those Ladrones, or bandits, that ravaged my village.  It took three trips to get my mysterious treasures across the grazing field and into its protection.

     Though my curiosity was strong, my exhaustion was greater, so I found the old mule blanket, covered myself with its rough smelly fabric and collapsed upon the scattered pile of hay and fell into a fitful sleep.

     Darkness filled my mind as I slipped into a chasm of chard dreams.  Dark thick smoke drifted past my subconscious, its rancid odor filled my senses and dulled my mind.  For a time I was lost, disoriented, traveling aimlessly through a dream of thick fog.

     Then, an almost silent breeze began to part the smokey air around me.  At first, I thought I saw ghostly figures staggering before my path, but as the winds picked up I saw leafless branches dangling all about, like long menacing arms reaching as if to grab for my immortal soul.

     The wind rose heavily and howled through my subconscious.  I shielded myself with a foul-smelling tattered cloak which gave little comfort as fear pierced my heart.  I stopped suddenly as I was pelted by the sounds of my Sister's screams!

     "Phoicia!" I cried, "where are you?"

     Again the screams found my ears and tore at my soul, but from what direction it came I could not guess.

     "Phoicia!"

     The howling winds suddenly stopped and thick smoke rose in its place.  Charred bodies lay smoldering all about, piled in random stacks, disregarded beings whose value was of little worth.  I collapsed to my knees on the ashen ground and sobbed while the crisp crackling sound of burning flesh seethed all around me. 

     "What do you seek," a calming voice whispered.  I looked around this dream world but could not see where the voice came from, yet it's melodic female sound was eerily familiar.

     "You strive to become that which is otherwise not yourself.  And For what purpose?" She continued.  "Meaning is not found in an impossible journey, nor in the pursuit of some thirstful destination.  For as we wallow in our weaknesses, we shade the paths before us.  Inadequacy is a mindset found through discouragement, mistrust, despair and defeatism, attitudes which plaque the human soul.  We hope for the purity of thought that may come, for the peaceful resolution, for purpose, while we dwell on the unproductive."

     I was swept away by the thoughts that crossed my subconscious, as the land around me shifted.  What was once a dreary destructive place which surrounded me was dreamingly replaced by the evening breeze of the mountains region where my sheep grazed, and my faithful dogs watched over them with protective diligence.  The melodic voice continued to sweep through my mind, flowing through the air around me.

     "Do not sleep on the unknown dangers that spread through your thoughts, where it can thrive and grow into an imaginable thing, which is ghostly unreal and sets like a millstone upon one's shoulders.  For as a tiny acorn grows into a monstrous oak so shall the fear that seeps through the tiniest cracks of your soul swell and choke you into despair."

     Again, the scene before me changed and dissolved, replaced by the sounds of an active city.  Stone covered paths littered the ground as carts loaded with various wears clanked past, and people dressed in fine attire quickly rushed towards one destination or another.  Their indistinguishable chatter filled the air as the image of a trickling fountain peacefully sat to one side, and a row of brightly colored red flowers garnished a path which led toward a strong, purposeful structure with a rounded archway cut of stone.  The chiming of a deep sounding bell rang through the evening air.  I looked up and saw the symbol of a large cross above the archway, with worshipers going in and out of its enormous entryway.

     The instructive voice continued to pierce my dream thoughts as I stared at what I knew was the city of Palermo.  Its grand facades and palaces aligned the land around me, where the sounds of life echoed with busy purpose.

     "Let hope be your guide.  Let faith fill your thoughts," the female voice continued.  "Be clear in conscious understanding and filled with light where darkness cannot find root.  The challenge is not to be free of the unknown, but to welcome the knowledge as it is revealed so that your path becomes clear and the destination is gladly welcomed."

     A scream once again pierced the air, a fearful, intent, painful sound.

     "Phoicia," I yelled once more, looking all about.  Where was she, what was wrong, I needed to find her, to help her, but she was nowhere to be found.

     "Are you dull of hearing," my Father spoke now standing by my side.  His forehead was bleeding slightly and trickling down his left cheek, as his matted hair clung tightly to one side of his soiled face, and though a fogged expression dampened his eyes and his body appeared worn, tired, and defeated, his voice was strong and penetrating.

     "Look," he spoke, raising both his tanned shackled hands and pointing towards the Cathedral.  "She is there!"

     "Espèce de pute sicilienne," he disgustingly muttered, "vous êtes toutes des prostituées!"

     I could not understand the words, but the implication was plain.

     I attempted to run to her aid, but my progress was slow, impeded, and extremely sluggish.  With all my effort I strained to move but could only make small laborious progress in her direction.  The Soldier released his grip upon her, whereupon she slumbered to the ground in pain.  The Menace spat upon her, turned, and laughingly cursed under his breath as he defiantly walked away.

     Those near the commotion, mostly Sicilian citizens of proud standing and social prominence, noticed the defilement, but instead of assisting the fallen soul, began to rail and berate the Soldier who continued to sunder proudly away.

     After a time, I somehow struggled to the young lady's side, who looked up with redden eyes and a swollen cheek.  To my surprise it was not my sister Phoicia, but a young woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, her brown Sicilian skin shone brightly with the beauty and grace of a finely crafted sculpture, delicate and pure.

     "Jacabus," she pleaded through tearful eyes.  That is when I recognized her.  It was Tanythe, my beloved aunt in her youth.

     The vision instantly shifted as darkness clouded my vision.  I began to shiver from a cold wind as the smell of burning flesh slapped my senses once more.  A smokey fog rose before me, filled my thoughts with dread as the reality of this new life filled my senses.

     Again, the screams from my sister, Phoicia, echoed through the air, yet far more distant than before, lost and bewildered, troubled, disturbing, and full of fear.  I felt helpless.

     To find her was my only thought, to rescue her my only need.  Yet where was she?

     Suddenly, her high-pitched screams changed to a cry, a bellow, and a wet snort.

     I woke and looked straight into the snout of a beast.  He was munching loudly on the bits of straw that surrounded me, its foul early morning breath filled my senses as I instinctively raise my hands and pushed his large head away from my own soiled face.

     Stiffly I rolled over and rose to my feet as the early morning sun barely began to rise in the distant easterly sky, lending its warmth to the surrounding awakening air.