Great Wits Jump

It Was a Good Day - Part 3

4/3/2021

"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."

It Was A Good Day
by S. C. Gardner

~ Part 3 of 10 ~

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.

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