THE FLIGHT OF THE BIRD
WHEN Natale next opened his eyes he became very wide awake indeed, in
an instant. In fact, he did not know that he had been asleep at all,
until the moonlight, slanting in, showed Luigi’s long body stretched
upon the iron bed close by.
What could have waked Natale? For a moment he lay still without
recollection of the momentous plans made at his early bedtime. Then
he recalled a sensation of icy cold water about his feet, and he
remembered that he had dreamed of a sudden plunge into the river while
trying to find the stepping-stones. It must have been the chill of the
dream-water that had awakened him! He sat up and found that he was
still dressed and in his old clothes.
Ah! it was easy to remember all now, and after a breathless glance over
his shoulder at Luigi, who was comfortably snoring, Natale slipped out
of bed. Catching up his old hat and his shoes he stole softly over the
brick floor and down the stone stairs as quietly as any mouse would
have done.
Sora Grazia slept downstairs, but the door of her room was mercifully
closed, and Natale knew that she often locked it at night. He turned
his back upon it, therefore, with confidence, as he felt in the
darkness for the balcony door. He exerted all his strength to raise the
heavy bar of iron which guarded the door. Then he was very careful to
keep his hold on the bar, as it swung downward, lest it should rouse
the house with its usual clanging fall. The huge key was in the lock,
and Natale succeeded in turning it with both hands, although this was
much more difficult than raising the bar above the lock. It creaked
dully as it turned, and Natale’s heart leaped into his throat, and a
dozen noises buzzed in his ears.
Breathless, he stood with his hand on the latch, afraid to move lest
the door behind him should open, and everything come to an end. But
nothing happened, so he swung open the door, and without stopping to
close it behind him, he again caught up his shoes, which he had had to
set down, and ran along the balcony and out into the street, his feet
pattering softly on the stones.
In his haste he did not stop to think of the direction he should take.
His only impulse was to get out into the night somewhere, away from the
houses and street. So he ran swiftly along in the shadow cast by wall
and house, in just the opposite direction from that which would have
led him past the church tower and through the village, out upon the
downward road. Presently he crouched in a shadow to draw on his shoes,
then fled onward again.
Once away, he lost his bearings utterly and hurried on without turning,
past the small house with the Madonna painted on the wall, past the
large house where the white tablet to “Pietro Pacioni” gleamed in
the moonlight, and then downward, by a roughly paved path leading
to the Campo Santo. Perhaps he would have kept on aimlessly along
San Vito,--the fashionable promenade leading always higher along the
mountain side till it ended in an open plateau high up above the
valley,--if he had not heard steps approaching. Whether these steps
came from behind or from ahead he did not stop to discover. The
downward path offered safety, and a small pink villa threw a dark
shadow across its entrance, so Natale lost not an instant in scudding
down the friendly by-way.
On he trotted, past the shrine where the tiny Della Robbia Madonna sits
under her arch, the moonlight touching the shining blue of her hood,
the yellow of her robe and the pink of the baby on her knees with a
radiance that was almost startling on the edge of the shadow. Now the
path grew level, and the stones were left behind, and no more noise of
footsteps disturbed the quiet.
A few rods more, and Natale stood in front of the small mortuary chapel
outside the cemetery. The iron gates set in the wall of the cemetery
were locked, as Natale found on gently shaking them. He had paused to
peep through the slender grating into the inclosure where the moonlight
touched the white tomb of the foreign gentleman buried close under the
wall, and showed so plainly the numbers on the low stakes marking the
graves of the nameless poor. The shadows of the cypress trees lay like
long black fingers outstretched upon the wilds of weedy undergrowth,
and the wind stirred dismally on the exposed hillside.
One day, Natale and Olga had wandered together as far as these iron
gates. He remembered it now, and with the recollection he sprang away,
eager to continue his journey,--then stood still, uncertain as to his
path.
The way which had brought him downward came to an abrupt end with the
little chapel, outside the gates. It would not do to lose himself among
the chestnut woods in search of a path! Yet, how could he plunge down
the pathless slopes among the great trees, with nothing to guide him
but the murmur of the river far below? Still less was he willing to
return to the road above and turn about to take his way through the
village and so on out upon the road. He was almost sure that if he
could only see to find his way, some downward path from where he stood
would bring him to a river crossing, perhaps a long, long way below the
arched bridge, and therefore much farther on his journey.
Bewildered and tired, he was almost ready to give up his flight, and
to creep into the dark portico of the little chapel, and back into the
shade beneath the picture of the Saint with the skull in his hand, and
there end this strange night, which already seemed to him longer than
any night he had ever known. But he roused himself to one more effort,
and crept around to the back wall of the chapel. There, to his joyful
surprise, he came upon a semblance of a path!
All indecision was gone now, and he fairly slid down the rocky and
precipitous way, which was more gully than footway, being in fact a
watercourse for the torrents leaping down the mountain side, after
some storm of rain, as well as a short cut to the river for roughly
shod peasant feet.
More than once Natale stumbled, and once he fell headlong, bruising his
hands and knees, but he did not mind, for the rushing of the little
river down among the rocks was becoming very loud in his ears.
When at last he came out of the woods, and stood on the edge of the
waste of rounded stones loosely paving the river bed, he looked back
a moment to where the village must be, high above, a huddle of gray
wall and roof, with the square church tower in its midst. All seemed as
silent in the sleeping town as in the home of the sleeping dead on its
outskirts. Then, just as Natale again turned his back upon the mountain
side, where perched Cutigliano like a bit of gray lichen growing on
some mossy bowlder, the beautiful, bright, friendly moon slipped quite
over the mountain in the west, and darkness fell upon the valley,
where deep down in its darkest shadow Natale was ready to cross the
river. The light of the moon still touched the chestnut woods higher
up the slopes, but every moment the shadow would be creeping higher
and higher, until there would be no more moonlight on this side the
mountain, and only the stars would come peeping out at Natale.
After slipping off his shoes and leggings, the boy began picking his
way carefully over the large dry stones which were worn smooth and
round by slow wasting in the wet seasons, when the river flooded its
narrow course and spread to the grassy banks. The stones rolled under
even his light footsteps, but Natale kept his balance in crossing the
smaller stones, and clambered patiently over or around the largest
ones, and presently arrived at the edge of the black, rushing water.
The brawling Lima makes a great ado hereabouts, as it tumbles over the
rocks, for its bed slopes decidedly all the way to Lucca and beyond,
and there is no opportunity for it to moderate its pace, or calm its
chafings against the rocks.
With the first touch of the icy water upon his bared feet, Natale
recalled his dream. How long ago it had been since he had lain safely
in his bed under the slanting roof of Luigi’s house! Again and again
he tried to plant his foot firmly in the midst of the swirling water,
which was perhaps as much as twenty feet wide at that point, but
always it was deeper and colder than he had expected, and the stones
more slippery and unsteady. Then he began wandering up and down the
bank, in quest of the stepping-stones, which here and there certainly
crossed the river both above and below the arched bridge. Unsuccessful
in this, Natale finally exerted himself to make a reckless dash into
the current, where he found himself the next instant up to his waist
in the black water and clinging desperately by one free hand to a wet
rock, with the instinct of preserving himself from being carried off
his feet. Then miserably he felt his way back to the dry rocks on the
edge of the stream, and dropping down upon their harsh bosom, he began
to cry bitterly.
He had so hoped there would be a crossing place! If he could only find
it! His feet were sore with bruises now, and he felt as if he could
not walk another step. He grew cold as he crouched there, sobbing with
disappointment, for though the sun shines hot during the daytime on
the chestnut trees and the vines of the Apennines, the nights, even of
summer, are cool, and now a chill wind came sweeping down the valley
from the fir-crowned summits of Abetone.
Presently the little wanderer roused himself and stood on his feet.
Nothing could tempt him to try to find his way back to the house of
the priest, not even aching feet or shivering limbs, but he began to
think there might be a more sheltered place near by--this little boy of
the road, who had taken many a noontide nap curled up at the foot of
some wayside tree. Perhaps the earliest light of dawn would show him
the stepping-stones and the road, of which there was no hint now in the
blackness of darkness across the river. Painfully he crept back toward
the bank, where presently he curled himself into a knot at the foot of
a huge, distorted old chestnut tree, a short distance up the slope.
The grass was soft and springy about the roots of the old tree, and a
huge boulder near by shut off the wind from Natale’s shivering legs.
So, with a sigh of content, and for the first time tasting the sweets
of his new freedom, the little acrobat closed his eyes upon the stars
winking down at him from above the stirring leaves, and fell asleep for
the second time that night.