Great Wits Jump

It Was A Good Day - Part 4

4/2/2021

"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.

It Was A Good Day
by S. C. Gardner

~ Part 4 of 10 ~

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."

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