Great Wits Jump

It Was a Good Day - Part 1

4/5/2021

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 amongst those whom they ruled...

“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!”

It Was A Good Day
by S. C. Gardner

~ Part 1 of 10 ~

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.

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