DEAD LEAVES
Through bleak and desolate stretches Francesco spurred his steed, as
if to outstrip his mastering agony.
Ilaria had gone from him. Nothing mattered any longer. He had no
longer the sense that there could be duty for him. Even in his wish
for freedom there was cowardice; his soul cried out for rest, for
peace from the enemy; peace, not this endless striving. He was
terrified. In the ignominious lament there was desertion, as if he
were too small for the fight. He was demanding happiness, and that his
own burden should rest on other shoulders. To his demand Fate had
cried its unrelenting No. How silent was the universe about him! He
stood in sheer and tremendous eternal isolation.
Ruin was everywhere, black, saturnine, solemn. The flames of Ninfa in
the Pontine marshes, of distant Alba dyed the night crimson, while
Norba, the papal robber-nest on the ragged crest of the Lepinian
mountain, bristled behind her cyclopean walls. The Provencals had been
here,--the Pontiff's champion. A strange silence encompassed the
world. The wind had passed. The storm blasts moaned no more.
Ever to southward Francesco held his course, towards the mountain
fastnesses, which harbored the Duke of Spoleto. To him he would open
his heart, enlist his services in the cause of Conradino and his
friends. Himself he would join the ranks of the discarded, for, to his
life, there was but one purpose now, and that accomplished, he would
go whence none might bid him return.
As Francesco rode through the darkening woods, through the desolate
stretches, he bowed his head and was heavy of heart. The bleak trees
along the storm-swept sea were outlined against the deeper gold of a
memory, a melancholy afterglow, weird yet tender. Childhood and youth
came back once again; Ilaria's sweet eyes and the dusky sheen of her
hair.
Ilaria! Ilaria!
For the nonce he forgot the grim, grinding present, forgot the tens
and thousands, who had been here, had laid waste the land, driving
clouds of dust from the ashes under their horses' feet.
As night came on apace, the full moon hung tangled in a knot of pines.
The turrets and bastions of Norba stood black against the shimmer of
the night.
Drawing rein on the brow of a hill, he saw a river gleaming below in
the valley, shining like silver set in ebony, as it coursed through
the blackened country. He hardly knew the region, so great was the
havoc and desolation wrought by Anjou.
His eyes roved over the desolate stretches, the sepulchral trees, the
sun-scorched grass. Francesco seemed as one dizzy, his face the face
of a starved ascetic. His eye strained towards the towering crags
where the Duke of Spoleto held solitary court. The light of the moon
still wavered through the gloom. To the north rose the dome of the
great pine-forests, and into the opaque darkness of the giant-firs
Francesco spurred his steed.
Onward he rode as a man who has battled at night through a stormy sea.
And ever as he rode his heart hungered for Ilaria, for that dusky
head bowed down beneath the pathos of the past. He remembered her in a
hundred scenes; her deep eyes haunted him, her rich voice pealed
through the silent avenues of his thoughts. And while his lips moved
in silent prayer that he might again look upon Ilaria's face, a dreary
hopelessness bowed him down with the certainty that on earth they
should meet no more.
The moon had risen higher, and the forests spread their green canopies
against her silver disk.
Francesco shook himself free from the benumbing agony of his heart. A
firm resolution was burning in his eyes; his very soul seemed enhaloed
about his face, as he rode at breakneck speed through the silent
forest-aisles. He was guided by the shadowy contours of the distant
hills, for he had noted their shapes on that summer day, when he
journeyed from Viterbo into Terra di Lavoro. To the west gaunt crags
rose above the trees, towering pinnacles, huge and grim, natural
obelisks cleaving the blue. It was past midnight when he saw water
glimmering in a blackened hollow. The moon went down and the light
went out of the world. Francesco tethered his steed to one of the
giants of the forest and slept till the east was forging a new day in
its furnace of gold.
The gray mists of the hour before dawn made the forests gaunt like an
abode of the dead. Francesco opened his eyes, heard the birds wake in
brake and thicket. He saw the red deer scamper, frightened, into the
glooms, and the rabbits scurrying among the bracken.
The face of the sky grew gray with waking light, and the hold of the
stars and of night relaxed on wood and meadow. The gaunt trees stood
without a rustling leaf in a stupor of silence. A vast hush held, as
if the world knelt at orisons. Soon ripple on ripple of light surged
from the hymning east. About him rose the slopes of a valley, set tier
upon tier with trees, nebulous, silent, in the hurrying light.
His feet weighted with the shackles of an impotent fear, Francesco
remounted his steed. About him the flowers were thick as on some rich
tapestry; the scent of the dawn was as the incense of many temples. As
he rode, his steed shook showers of dew from the feathery turf.
Foxgloves rose like purple rods amid the snow webs of the wild daisy.
Tangled domes of dog-rose and honeysuckle lined the blurred track, and
there were countless harebells lying like a deep blue haze under the
green shadows of the grass.
Francesco had ridden for some hours and a craving for food began to
assert itself. He had not touched a morsel since he had left Ilaria,
and now he began to look about for some wayside tavern, the hut of a
charcoal burner or some other evidence of human life. He began to fear
that he had gone astray in the dusk of the forests, for not a sign did
he encounter pointing to the camp of the duke.
A voice, coming from somewhere, caused him suddenly to start and rein
in his steed with a jerk. The animal snorted, as if it scented danger,
and Francesco loosened the sword in the scabbard anticipating an
ambush, when he pushed it back with a puzzled look. Before a wayside
shrine, almost entirely concealed by weeds, there knelt a grotesque
figure at orisons. He either had not heard the tramp of Francesco's
steed, or ignored it on purpose, for not until the latter called to
him did he turn, and with much relief Francesco recognized his former
guide from the camp of the Duke of Spoleto.
"Where is the camp of the duke?" he queried curtly, impatient with the
man's exhibition of secular godliness.
"Many miles away," replied he of the goat's-beard, as he arose and
kissed a little holly-wood cross that he carried.
"Lead me to it!"
The godly little man flopped again, scraped some dust together with
his two hands, spat upon it, then smeared his forehead with the stuff,
uttering the names of sundry saints.
Francesco had come to the end of his patience.
"Get up, my friend," he said, "we have had enough praying for one
day!"
The goatherd offered to anoint him with dust and spittle, pointing a
stumpy forefinger, but Francesco was filled with disgust. He caught
the man by the girdle and lifted him to his feet.
"Enough of this!" he said. "Is the devil so much your master?"
The goatherd blinked red-lidded and pious eyes, while he scanned the
horizon. Then he pointed with his holly staff to a blue hill that rose
against the eastern sky.
"How far?" queried Francesco.
The goatherd was anointing himself with spittle.
"Each mile in these parts grows more evil," he said, tracing the sign
of the cross. "It behooves a Christian to be circumspect!"
Francesco prodded him with his scabbard.
"How far?"
"Some ten leagues," replied the gnome. "The day is clear, and the
place looks nearer than it is!"
It occurred to Francesco that there must be some human abode close by,
as the goatherd, entirely familiar with the region, would not wander
too far from habitations of the living. And upon having made known his
request, the little man preceded him at a lively pace. At a lodge in
the forest deeps they halted, and here Francesco and his guide rested
during the hot hours of noon, partaking of such food as the liberality
of their host, an old anchorite, set before them.
After men and steed had rested, they set out anew.
The goatherd's inclination to invoke untold saints, whenever there
seemed occasion and whenever there was not, was curbed by a hard line
round Francesco's lips, and they plunged into the great silence. A
sense of green mystery encompassed them, as they traversed the green
forest-aisles. The sky seemed to have receded to a greater distance.
Everywhere the smooth dark trunks converged upon one another, sending
up a tangle of boughs that glittered in the soft sheen of the
sunlight. Withered bracken stood in thin silence, and here and there a
dead bough lay like a snake with its head raised to strike.
The silence was immense, and yet it was a stillness that suggested
sounds. It resembled the silence of a huge cavern, out of which came
strange whisperings; innumerable crepitations seemed to come from the
dead leaves. Francesco fancied he could hear the trees breathing, and
from afar he caught the wild note of a bird.
The sun was low when they came at last to the edge of the forest and
saw a hill rise steeply against the sky. It was covered with silver
birches, whose stems looked like white threads in the level light of
the setting sun. And rising against the sky-line from amidst the
fretwork of birch-boughs Francesco saw the well-remembered outlines of
the ruined tower wherein he had spent a memorable night.
The valley before them was flooded with golden light, and, as they
crossed it, Francesco felt a curious desire for physical pain,
something fierce and tangible to struggle with, to drown the
ever-pulsing memory of the woman who had gone from him.
As the dusk deepened they went scrambling up the hillside amid the
birches, whose white stems glimmered upwards into the blue gloom of
the twilight. Francesco's thoughts climbed ahead of him, hurrying to
deal with the unknown dangers that might be awaiting him. He had to
dismount, pull his steed after him; but the scramble upwards gave him
the sense of effort and struggle that he needed. It was like scaling a
wall to come to grips with an enemy, whose wild eyes and sword-points
showed between the crenelations.
At last they had reached the high plateau. A dog barked. The wood
suddenly swarmed with bearded and grotesque forms. They did not
recognize in Francesco the monk who had spent a night in their midst.
The goatherd had maliciously disappeared, as if to revenge himself for
his interrupted orisons. With glowering faces they thronged around
Francesco, a babel of voices shouting questions and threatening the
intruder.
He waved them contemptuously aside, and his demeanor seemed to raise
him in their regards.
At his request to be forthwith conducted into the presence of the
duke, one pointed to a low building at the edge of the plateau. Wisps
of smoke curled out of it and vanished into the night.
"The duke and the Abbot are at orisons," the man said with a grimace,
the meaning of which was lost upon Francesco. "He will not return
before midnight."
"I will await him here," said the newcomer, dismounting and leading
his steed to a small plot of pasture, where the grass was tall and
untrodden. Then, spent as he was, he requested food and drink, and as
he joined the band of outlaws, listening to their jokes and banter, he
thought he could discern among them many a one whom Fate had, like
himself, buffeted into a life, not of his forming, not of his choice.