Read Online Damiano by R. A. MacAvoy - Free Book Online Page B

looking at that,” he added, pointing at the staff, which rested like a baby in the crook of Damiano’s left arm. “You use it just to walk?”
    Under the combined stares of four pairs of eyes the black wood hummed. Damiano stroked it, embarrassed, as he was at any mention of his witchhood.
    â€œNo, although it is very useful and sturdy in that way. I use it as a focus for my concentration, because otherwise the—power—roams free in the body and clouds the mind.”
    â€œYou’re a witch?” breathed Paris, and the room froze.
    â€œA wizard,” contradicted Damiano, immediately wondering why on earth he had said that. The three students huddled like birds before the eyes of a snake, and Damiano blushed harder.
    â€œDomine Deus, my friends, there is no need to be afraid of me for that! I am a scholar and a Christian!” But still they sat, and they sat very still. In a moment Damiano was sure someone would say “but the devil can quote Scripture,” a proverb that always made him wince. He groaned deeply and rose from his chair, placing his staff by the wrapped lute in the far corner of the room from the fire.
    â€œThere, Signori Clericale. My power is there and I am here. I cannot hurt you now even if I would. Is that enough?”
    Till Eulenspiegel relaxed, wiping the sweat from his pale forehead. The poet sighed once more, and Pierre Paris reached for the green wine bottle, a conciliatory smile on his round face.
    The staff boomed a warning, alone and helpless in the corner, as Paris lifted the bottle and brought it down with force on Damiano’s head.
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    Chapter 4

    Damiano awoke to cold and pain and a feeling of being stifled. This last was due to Macchiata, who was lying on top of him, her nose anxiously denting his face. “Master, Master. Get up and move!” she crooned. “Or you’ll die and freeze and leave me alone always!
    â€œPlease!” she cried, her voice like the neighing of a horse, in his ear. His arms moved to placate her, to ward her off.
    â€œCan’t breathe,” Damiano gasped, and the effort of this sent waves of nausea through his body. His eyes closed again.
    â€œMaster!”
    Damiano turned, bringing his hands under him. He remembered the golliards and the bottle against his skull. His head rose and his poor eyes peered through the little hut, at the table, with its remains of bread and cheese, the hearth, where the fire still blazed (thanks be to God), the shape in the corner that must be his lute. That glint of silver along the floor meant his staff was intact; had any of them tried to touch it, woe unto them. His mantle lay upon him where Macchiata had dragged it, off-center and with the lining upwards.
    â€œWhere are they?” he asked the dog, his voice as shaky as that of an old man. He sat up and wrapped the mantle about him. Her response was a growl as preternaturally ominous as the sound of an avalanche in the distance. Damiano turned his head with difficulty and looked at Macchiata, who stood stiff as wood and spiney all over. All her teeth showed, as yellow as the tushes of a boar, and in her eyes was a rage he had never seen before. He began to shiver.
    â€œThey are far away, Master. So far I can’t hear them or smell them. They will never hurt you again.”
    Through his haze of misery he tried to understand. “Did you... kill them, Macchiata? All three?”
    â€œThey were not dead when they ran down the hill and down the road. But there was only one of them without a hole in him.” The ugly dog softened. She lifted one paw up to Damiano’s shoulder and licked his eyes, one after the other.
    â€œGo sit by the fire, Master. It will make you feel better.”
    Pulling his garment tighter, Damiano obeyed her, but first he fished across the floor for the length of his staff. With this in hand, he sank gratefully down on the ashy stones of the hearth. In passing he noted