Free The Madonna of the Almonds by Marina Fiorato

lying on a long table, padded with straw. The straw tickled his nose – here his bedding was golden, here it was black with blood. His blood. He was lying on his side, with his face inches from the wall; the wood he had first seen was the mainstay of the wattle, criss-crossed around the plaster panels of the daub. He tried to call out, to bring someone to aid him, but no sound came from his desert-dry mouth. The sweat of panic rimed his upper lip and chilled his forehead. He could not remember anything, not one thing; not how he came here or what had happened to him, nor where he was from or anything about his life. There was nothing in his memory before the wood that he saw as he woke – he was like a schoolboy’s slate wiped clean; a babe newborn. He knew his impression of the coffin was an error; the wood was a beginning for him, not an end. In the beginning was the wood. And yet, there must have been something before this; just as the wood that made the wallhad once been a tree that stood in a forest, in another life and another place. How could he know of seas and fishes and coffins and such, if he did not know his own name? How did he know the words for everything that he saw and felt, but could not speak one single syllable? He knew everything, yet he knew nothing. He saw all, but could say naught. The vessel of his consciousness, swelling at every moment like new-blown glass, was already brim-full with questions. How came he here? Why was he lying down? Why was he on his side? Selvaggio rolled onto his back and learned the reason; he was immediately pierced through with a million blades as if he had rolled onto a waiting bed of nails. He rolled again, in agony, away from the pain like a speared fish, and crashed to the floor. The sound brought Amaria running.
     
    When Amaria laid her hand on Selvaggio’s forehead, she knew he was out of danger. For a day and a night he had slept on their board on his bedding of straw; they had shoved the table against the wall to lessen the chance that he would roll off if he woke. And he did not wake; for as long as the bells of the Duomo chimed their nine times round. He did not feel his dressings being changed or the sting of the bitter salve that Nonna rubbed into his wounds. He did not hear Amaria make the polenta on the fire, no, not even when she dropped the pot. But when she placed her fingers on his head, there on the floor where he lay, sheknew he would live.
    Amaria told herself she wished to check for his fever. But in truth she wanted to feel his warm skin again. When his eyes looked into hers she started guiltily, then smiled. His mouth did not smile back, but his eyes did. She ran to fetch Nonna.
    Nonna was in the yard shooing the chickens with her stick. She grunted at the news that the wildman was awake, but secretly her heart unfurled within her. Since that first brief waking when they had brought him home, she had not allowed herself to feel, in case he should sink and be taken from them. She had kept herself still and close. But now she could hardly feign her indifference as she hastened inside behind her chattering granddaughter. She found the young man already raised on one elbow and the two women heaved an arm each to help him back on to his makeshift bed. Amaria rolled a sheepskin behind his shoulders for support, and lifted the polenta from the hearth, talking all the time.
    ‘Nonna, hold his head. Can you hold your head still? Can you open your mouth? Take a little of this. ’Twill do you good. Nonna, wipe his chin. ’Tis only polenta, but I made it thin with a little goats milk and olive oil and good parmesan. We have a little block of reggiano wrapped in canvas in the pantry, just for special occasions like Pasqua and Yule, and Saint Ambrose’s day. He’s our Saint you know – I mean Lombardy’s Saint; Milan’s Saint. And my special Saint,because I share his name. But the parmesan – I thought it might do you good. After all, when something