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Authors: Paul Fleischman
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Zorelli. “Why here, of all places?”
“
I
wasn’t consulted in the matter,” snapped the ghost.
Zorelli guided the horses off the road and into a rocky meadow.
“Dead ahead, there. Aye, that’s the spot.”
The wagon banged and bounced over the ground, till Zorelli brought it at last to a halt.
“Fine!” exclaimed the spirit, hopping down. “The earth being soft as it is from the rains, I thought you could tip out the statue feet first and let it plant itself in the ground.”
Zorelli climbed into the bed of the wagon, anxious to be rid of the statue and its subject. He breathed in deeply, and with the sum of his strength shoved the sculpture along the bed till it teetered, swung upright, and plunged into the earth.
“Well done,” cheered the spirit. “Well done, indeed.” Smiling, he studied the statue before him, running his fingers over the forms.
“Perfect!” he whispered. “Already I can feel it!” Blissfully, he gazed at the marble.
“Is this to be your gravestone?” asked Zorelli.
“In a manner of speaking,” murmured the spirit. He reached into a pocket, pulled out a coin purse, and handed it to Zorelli.
“The rest of your payment. You’ll find it all there.”
Zorelli watched, flattered and awed, as the ghost returned his gaze to the statue. Mounting the wagon and grabbing the reins, the sculptor felt suddenly loath to leave.
“If I might ask but one question,” Zorelli spoke up. “Why was it you wished to be shown feeding an infant?”
The spirit turned. “I wasn’t
feeding
the tyke.” He fixed his eyes on the stone carver. “On the contrary, I was murdering it.”
“Murdering?”
gasped Zorelli.
“That’s right. The cup I put to its lips held poison.”
Zorelli stared at the ghost, speechless. He felt suddenly weak. His hands took to trembling. A murderer — celebrated in stone? Stone that he, Zorelli, had carved?
“Whatever — possessed you,” stammered the sculptor, “to pay to have such a scene depicted?”
The specter smiled, “A peaceful sleep. I was murdered myself, you see, that same night. Before I had time to get home to my cat and properly confess my crime.”
Zorelli’s thoughts whirled. “The cat?”
“That’s right.” The spirit’s eyes brightened. “The one you carved. Oh, he was a fine companion, and whenever I did something that troubled my sleep, I told him about it. Aye, and slept sound.”
Zorelli’s gaze rested on the cat, then slowly traveled up the statue.
“And the infant?” he faltered, struggling with the words.
“Just six months old. Alessandro, they called him.”
“His full name!” the stone carver demanded, determined to know the full truth of the crime.
“Alessandro Ferrante.”
The sculptor paled. “Lorenzo’s nephew?”
“Aye, that’s him.”
“Impossible!” Zorelli jumped to the ground. “He died of a cold! A chill in the night! I carved the tomb for the child myself!”
The specter snorted. “A chill, was it now?” He grinned, revealing his crooked teeth. “It was Lorenzo himself who paid me to do it. Paid me those ducats I gave to you.” He glanced at the rip down the front of his doublet. “And him who had me stabbed, as well.”
In disbelief, Zorelli plucked out the coin purse and gaped at it in horror.
“Lorenzo Ferrante?” he murmured hypnotically. Wide-eyed, the stone carver stared at the coin purse, begging to disbelieve his own words.
“Aye.” The ghost chuckled. “That’s the one. How else could he come to rule Genoa?”
Zorelli stood motionless. He felt chilled and stiff, as if his own flesh were turning to stone.
Slowly, he climbed back onto the wagon and settled his gaze on the ghost. Dazed and disoriented, Zorelli finally took up the reins, shook them, and left the ghost behind.
As if spellbound, the stone carver bounced along. While he entered Genoa, the moon rose in the east, illuminating the Boccas’ mansion, before which Zorelli paused awhile. It lit the
“
I
wasn’t consulted in the matter,” snapped the ghost.
Zorelli guided the horses off the road and into a rocky meadow.
“Dead ahead, there. Aye, that’s the spot.”
The wagon banged and bounced over the ground, till Zorelli brought it at last to a halt.
“Fine!” exclaimed the spirit, hopping down. “The earth being soft as it is from the rains, I thought you could tip out the statue feet first and let it plant itself in the ground.”
Zorelli climbed into the bed of the wagon, anxious to be rid of the statue and its subject. He breathed in deeply, and with the sum of his strength shoved the sculpture along the bed till it teetered, swung upright, and plunged into the earth.
“Well done,” cheered the spirit. “Well done, indeed.” Smiling, he studied the statue before him, running his fingers over the forms.
“Perfect!” he whispered. “Already I can feel it!” Blissfully, he gazed at the marble.
“Is this to be your gravestone?” asked Zorelli.
“In a manner of speaking,” murmured the spirit. He reached into a pocket, pulled out a coin purse, and handed it to Zorelli.
“The rest of your payment. You’ll find it all there.”
Zorelli watched, flattered and awed, as the ghost returned his gaze to the statue. Mounting the wagon and grabbing the reins, the sculptor felt suddenly loath to leave.
“If I might ask but one question,” Zorelli spoke up. “Why was it you wished to be shown feeding an infant?”
The spirit turned. “I wasn’t
feeding
the tyke.” He fixed his eyes on the stone carver. “On the contrary, I was murdering it.”
“Murdering?”
gasped Zorelli.
“That’s right. The cup I put to its lips held poison.”
Zorelli stared at the ghost, speechless. He felt suddenly weak. His hands took to trembling. A murderer — celebrated in stone? Stone that he, Zorelli, had carved?
“Whatever — possessed you,” stammered the sculptor, “to pay to have such a scene depicted?”
The specter smiled, “A peaceful sleep. I was murdered myself, you see, that same night. Before I had time to get home to my cat and properly confess my crime.”
Zorelli’s thoughts whirled. “The cat?”
“That’s right.” The spirit’s eyes brightened. “The one you carved. Oh, he was a fine companion, and whenever I did something that troubled my sleep, I told him about it. Aye, and slept sound.”
Zorelli’s gaze rested on the cat, then slowly traveled up the statue.
“And the infant?” he faltered, struggling with the words.
“Just six months old. Alessandro, they called him.”
“His full name!” the stone carver demanded, determined to know the full truth of the crime.
“Alessandro Ferrante.”
The sculptor paled. “Lorenzo’s nephew?”
“Aye, that’s him.”
“Impossible!” Zorelli jumped to the ground. “He died of a cold! A chill in the night! I carved the tomb for the child myself!”
The specter snorted. “A chill, was it now?” He grinned, revealing his crooked teeth. “It was Lorenzo himself who paid me to do it. Paid me those ducats I gave to you.” He glanced at the rip down the front of his doublet. “And him who had me stabbed, as well.”
In disbelief, Zorelli plucked out the coin purse and gaped at it in horror.
“Lorenzo Ferrante?” he murmured hypnotically. Wide-eyed, the stone carver stared at the coin purse, begging to disbelieve his own words.
“Aye.” The ghost chuckled. “That’s the one. How else could he come to rule Genoa?”
Zorelli stood motionless. He felt chilled and stiff, as if his own flesh were turning to stone.
Slowly, he climbed back onto the wagon and settled his gaze on the ghost. Dazed and disoriented, Zorelli finally took up the reins, shook them, and left the ghost behind.
As if spellbound, the stone carver bounced along. While he entered Genoa, the moon rose in the east, illuminating the Boccas’ mansion, before which Zorelli paused awhile. It lit the
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