hedge-edged squares containing wheat, rye, and barley. There were rows of sturdy vines leaning on one anotherâs shoulders, fields of young sunflowers nodding their floppy heads, and meadows full of fresh, minty grass.
Beneath the window, the furniture was covered in dewdrops. Already spiders had gone to work spinning glistening strings from piece to piece like Christmas tree lights. A badgerhad moved into the crib, doves were nesting in the hair of the goddess Aphrodite, around whose plinth were shards of marble the shape of tears.
Fernanda Ponderosa released the family of turtles under the fig tree at the side of the house. The monkey, Oscar, sat up in the branches, watching as she dragged the statue of the goddess into the center of the yard and then hauled the rest inside the house. It was an eclectic collection, and one that jostled for position amongst the dust-covered stuff of her sister and brother-in-law. She didnât take pains with the arrangement. She knew she wouldnât be staying long enough for it to matter.
That done, she set out to find Maria Calenda, who lived in one of the outbuildings on the far side of the property, close to the piggery. Maria Calenda avoided the house as much as possible because she knew it was haunted. Sightings of Perdita Castorini, Primo and Fidelioâs long-dead mother, brought her out in monstrous swellings, and she had to plaster herself with a magic emollient before taking to her bed. Other ghosts produced different symptoms, and in the current crisis she just didnât have the time for allergic reactions.
A troupe of miniature goats danced around Fernanda Ponderosa as she crossed the fields. The pigs looked at her dolefully as she passed their pens. Not even the boisterous babies made a sound. Their dolor was because there had been a death in the family.
Fernanda Ponderosa made her way toward the buildings inthe distance. She could detect two or three figures working there. When she got closer, she realized there were only two people, Maria Calenda and a man, and between them, strung up on a frame of timbers and ropes, was the carcass of a pig. Maria Calenda was gathering into a pail the blood poring from a gash in its breast. She had an enormous boil on the end of her nose, which was throbbing like a beacon.
âGhosts are walking the earth,â she announced to Fernanda Ponderosa, gesturing toward her swelling with a hairy finger. âYou can depend upon it, the undead are amongst us.â
Perhaps she was right.
The man stood up as Fernanda Ponderosa approached. His eyes drank her like a draft of crystal water on a burning day.
He wore no shirt, only coarse waterproof pants and rubber boots, and his great broad, brown breast, which heaved at the sight of her, was smeared with the blood of the pig he had just killed. He was tall. So tall Fernanda Ponderosa had to tilt her head backward to look him full in the face. He was not fat, but built solidly of muscle, and his shoulders were wide. Afterward she could not tell which of his features had struck her first. Was it his hair, a thick and bushy growth of shiny black that had an existence all its own? It was alive. It rippled. It parted and reparted itself. If flexed and shimmied. Or was it his eyes? They were unlike any other eyes she had ever seen. Dark, practically black, like burning coals. They were the eyes of an animal, a wild animal.
Fernanda Ponderosa could feel them physically upon her,scorching her, but she was used to this. They rested on the puckers of her nut-brown cleavage, on her serpentine curves, on her plump mouth.
âSo youâre going to save us?â asked Primo Castorini quietly, for evidently it was he, Silvanaâs brother-in-law. His tone was even, offering respect or sarcasm depending on how you chose to take it. His voice was as deep as his eyes were black.
âIsnât that nice?â he added in the direction of Maria Calenda, who cackled while her
Beneath the window, the furniture was covered in dewdrops. Already spiders had gone to work spinning glistening strings from piece to piece like Christmas tree lights. A badgerhad moved into the crib, doves were nesting in the hair of the goddess Aphrodite, around whose plinth were shards of marble the shape of tears.
Fernanda Ponderosa released the family of turtles under the fig tree at the side of the house. The monkey, Oscar, sat up in the branches, watching as she dragged the statue of the goddess into the center of the yard and then hauled the rest inside the house. It was an eclectic collection, and one that jostled for position amongst the dust-covered stuff of her sister and brother-in-law. She didnât take pains with the arrangement. She knew she wouldnât be staying long enough for it to matter.
That done, she set out to find Maria Calenda, who lived in one of the outbuildings on the far side of the property, close to the piggery. Maria Calenda avoided the house as much as possible because she knew it was haunted. Sightings of Perdita Castorini, Primo and Fidelioâs long-dead mother, brought her out in monstrous swellings, and she had to plaster herself with a magic emollient before taking to her bed. Other ghosts produced different symptoms, and in the current crisis she just didnât have the time for allergic reactions.
A troupe of miniature goats danced around Fernanda Ponderosa as she crossed the fields. The pigs looked at her dolefully as she passed their pens. Not even the boisterous babies made a sound. Their dolor was because there had been a death in the family.
Fernanda Ponderosa made her way toward the buildings inthe distance. She could detect two or three figures working there. When she got closer, she realized there were only two people, Maria Calenda and a man, and between them, strung up on a frame of timbers and ropes, was the carcass of a pig. Maria Calenda was gathering into a pail the blood poring from a gash in its breast. She had an enormous boil on the end of her nose, which was throbbing like a beacon.
âGhosts are walking the earth,â she announced to Fernanda Ponderosa, gesturing toward her swelling with a hairy finger. âYou can depend upon it, the undead are amongst us.â
Perhaps she was right.
The man stood up as Fernanda Ponderosa approached. His eyes drank her like a draft of crystal water on a burning day.
He wore no shirt, only coarse waterproof pants and rubber boots, and his great broad, brown breast, which heaved at the sight of her, was smeared with the blood of the pig he had just killed. He was tall. So tall Fernanda Ponderosa had to tilt her head backward to look him full in the face. He was not fat, but built solidly of muscle, and his shoulders were wide. Afterward she could not tell which of his features had struck her first. Was it his hair, a thick and bushy growth of shiny black that had an existence all its own? It was alive. It rippled. It parted and reparted itself. If flexed and shimmied. Or was it his eyes? They were unlike any other eyes she had ever seen. Dark, practically black, like burning coals. They were the eyes of an animal, a wild animal.
Fernanda Ponderosa could feel them physically upon her,scorching her, but she was used to this. They rested on the puckers of her nut-brown cleavage, on her serpentine curves, on her plump mouth.
âSo youâre going to save us?â asked Primo Castorini quietly, for evidently it was he, Silvanaâs brother-in-law. His tone was even, offering respect or sarcasm depending on how you chose to take it. His voice was as deep as his eyes were black.
âIsnât that nice?â he added in the direction of Maria Calenda, who cackled while her
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