I Will Always Find You, page 13
Once, when she asked Pietro if he felt lonely, he replied that his family was enough for now, though one day he would make room for companionship. He wanted to wait for that special person he believed the universe was destined to create just for him.
And when Pietro ended that conversation by stating that he hoped his future mate had red hair, Abriana forced a smile, suppressing the gasp of shock that wanted very much to escape.
The red-haired statement meant that everything she had envisioned was moving forward; Pietro’s dark destiny was assured.
Pietro often found ways to use his witchcraft to help his family. Everything he did was selfless; he always used his knowledge and abilities altruistically. He made his great-grandmother incredibly proud, astonished even at how quickly he took to magic and how effortlessly he advanced in power.
At thirteen, Pietro wanted to create a spell to enrich his family’s soil and ensure that no other olive grove in the region could produce crops as perfect as theirs each year.
Pietro set out to work his spell in secret, without any aid from his mentor, using only his imagination and the knowledge gained through his instruction in witchcraft. To compose his spell, he used the blood of a newborn goat, drawn from the afterbirth rather than by slaughter; volcanic ash from the nearby Mount Amiata; and the manure of his family’s closest neighbours’ strongest Chianina bull.
Pietro created a potent liniment by combining these ingredients with herbs such as rosemary, sage, and thyme, as well as crushed roots from a healthy olive tree.
Upon the witching hour, he slathered the concoction all over his body. Then, he buried himself in the earth of his family’s land, leaving only his face uncovered for breathing. As he lay awake throughout the night, he prayed to both Hecate and Terra, Mother Earth, for their blessings.
In the morning, he dug himself out and waited to see the results of his spell.
To Pietro’s delight, his papa’s next harvest was astonishingly abundant; every olive gleamed with perfection, plump and unblemished, each a testament to the care and dedication poured into the orchards, including his magic.
The trees were heavy with their vibrant fruit, creating a breathtaking scene of nature’s bounty. Pietro was proud of his achievement but not arrogant; he was simply joyous to see that his first major enchantment had worked perfectly.
This mystical advantage allowed his papa to sell his olive oil at a higher price, as demand for the high-quality product tripled. As a result, he had the funds to acquire more land and address the many issues plaguing their home, which had been steadily falling into disrepair.
At fifteen, Pietro, on the cusp of adulthood, faced a daunting challenge: saving his younger siblings from the deadly grip of a severe brain fever. Abriana, accompanied by her grandsons—Pietro’s papa and his uncle Amadeo—had travelled to the shores of the Tyrrhenian Sea; she wished to feel its waters one last time before her eventual passing. With the great healer absent when the illness struck, Pietro was left to confront the crisis alone.
Again, he turned to herbology and logomancy.
In secret, Pietro blended fungi, cypress bark, salt, fresh milk, and, most importantly, an oil distilled from oleander and rue to brew a potent potion. Over it, he whispered ancient healing words found in his great-grandmother’s grimoire. The tonic eased his siblings’ suffering, but it was not enough to conquer the seemingly incurable fever.
Frantic and running out of time, a teary-eyed Pietro knew he had to do something drastic, something he had never been taught, only felt was possible. This was his final hope.
Though it took some effort, he convinced his reluctant and terrified mamma to wait outside the house while he bled the children. He had no intention of doing that barbaric act, of course, but he knew his mother’s weak stomach would get her to leave.
Once alone in the room, Pietro did something he had never before attempted: he reached deep within himself, past fear, past doubt, and called forth the magic at his core. Placing his hands on the fevered brow of the eldest of his younger brothers, Pietro channelled his own life force into the child to drive the illness out completely, as if compelling the sickness to surrender to his love and will alone.
As his deep, dark eyes transformed into a ghostly white, a wave of heat radiated from his skin, infusing the air around him with intense energy. With a resolute focus, Pietro summoned all his willpower to eradicate the infection.
In that moment of unwavering determination to heal one he loved at the cost of his own life, as radiant light began to envelop his body, Pietro triumphed over his adversary; the illness vanished like shadows at dawn, leaving a renewed vitality and strength behind for both him and his sibling.
The young witch had never felt so alive, so strong, magically and spiritually. As he had no idea how long this euphoric, empowered state would last, Pietro moved quickly to his other siblings, healing them one by one.
Upon curing the last child, the young witch collapsed onto the floor, completely spent and exhausted. Yes, his breathing was laboured, his body filled with aches and pains, but none of it mattered to him. He felt a deep relief knowing that his siblings were healed and alive.
Pietro’s parents and everyone in the community believed it was a miracle sent by God, and the young witch was okay with letting them think that. He told only his great-grandmother what had actually occurred.
Only that revelation had not been necessary. Abriana had glimpsed the events in her mind’s eye while walking in the waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea. The second the vision ended, a profound sadness washed over her, for she had sensed the profound stirring within her beloved great-grandson, even from such a distance.
Pietro’s actions, tapping into the well of power within his soul, initiated the transformative process. Abriana knew it was only a matter of time now—a short time—before the Romani witch, dormant but no longer unconscious, would awaken.
Then, finally, on Pietro’s sixteenth birthday, the day after Abriana said she had nothing more to teach him, the Romani witch awoke.
Just past midnight, the celebration of his sixteenth birthday long-since ended, and while everyone in the house was asleep, the Romani witch quietly crept out of bed. It was time to leave; he was determined to focus on finding Aeneas in his new host body. The search typically took years, and he could not afford to waste time.
He was still worried about his great-grandmother, though, who had spent the entire day crying in bed. He turned around and paused to look at her. She was sleeping with her back to him, facing the wall, a heavy, embroidered quilt covering all but her long, silver hair.
No, she is Pietro’s bisnonna. Stop thinking of these people as your family. That was another’s life.
Now that he had regained all his memories, the Romani witch had no interest in these strangers despite recalling who they were and what they had meant to Pietro. He was not that man.
As always, no emotions clung to the memories; they were nothing more than cold information. Pietro’s personality, emotional resonance, and consciousness had drifted into the afterlife. Or perhaps they simply ceased to exist altogether. The Romani witch was uncertain what had truly happened, and, frankly, he did not really care.
Still, the Romani witch could not help but appreciate how beautiful Abriana’s aged locks looked in the moonlight streaming through the open window. It was a hot summer night, and the gentle breeze flowing into the stuffy room provided the only relief.
How I used to love to twist my fingers around your silver hair, bisnonna, as we—no, no, no! Stop! You did not do that. You are not him!
The Romani witch found he had difficulty separating himself from Pietro’s experiences; this had never happened before with any other pre-existing consciousness.
Breathe, it will pass. The Romani witch took several large breaths. It did help settle him. Why are you wrapped in that cocoon of heavy wool on such a stifling night, woman?
The Romani witch was deeply concerned about Abriana, even though it felt like he had just met her that morning. It was always a disconcerting experience to finally be himself while still feeling overwhelmed by the memories of another’s life, no matter how short that life had been. This uncomfortableness was why he always left as quickly as possible from any family or situation he found himself in upon awakening.
Something is wrong with her, though I sense nothing physical, no ailment of the body. Her aura shows no turmoil, but she is a powerful witch and could be masking it. Yes, leaving now, before she can sense anything amiss about me, is the sound action.
That morning, when the Romani witch opened Pietro’s eyes— now his eyes—and knew immediately who he was, he had noticed the older woman was also awake and staring intently at him from her bed. She held such a pained expression, with tears in her eyes.
As he got out of bed and came toward her to offer some solace, still led by a haunting sense of familial concern and connection, Abriana had turned away from him and sobbed into her blanket.
She had remained in that state all day until finally falling asleep at dusk.
I recall your remarkable ability to lift people’s spirits with your contagious laughter. I am truly sorry, great lady, but I do not know how to help you, and time is not on my side to figure it out. I must leave. I hope you find yourself with a merrier spirit in the morning.
After the Romani witch collected a few articles of clothing, he went down the creaky wooden stairs to the main living area.
Upon reaching the bottom, he scolded himself for not thinking to use his gifts. He could have cast a simple levitation spell or summoned his will to move matter—his own body, in this case—to glide silently above the stairs as he willed himself downward.
Luckily, it appeared no one had awakened from the noise.
Grateful for the moonlight streaming through the windows, illuminating the space, the Romani witch quickly gathered enough food from the cupboards to last him a week.
He placed his clothes and the foodstuffs into the leather satchel Pietro kept hanging on a peg next to the front door, alongside his coat. He intended to take both items, along with Pietro’s sturdiest boots, with him on his long journey.
Finally, feeling prepared enough to start his adventure, the Romani witch moved toward the oak door.
“Do we mean so little to you that you would leave like a thief in the night? Not even a brief letter explaining your departure? Do you care nothing for our feelings of loss nor the crushing pain in our hearts that will follow your disappearance?”
The Romani witch turned to see Abriana at the foot of the stairs, holding a lit candle and staring at him. The flickering flames illuminated her heavily-lined face as she gazed at him with eyes full of sorrow.
“Bisnonna, I can explain, I—”
“You may cease your performance,” Abriana declared boldly, interrupting the Romani witch. “I know who you are, Romani. I am quite aware of what has transpired.”
The Romani witch shot a bewildered glance at the old woman. However, his stunned demeanour lingered only momentarily before realizing he was silly to seem so surprised by this revelation. “Your gift of foresight. Of course. I want you to know that I mean you no harm. I understand how difficult it must be for you to accept that Pietro is gone, and for this I am deeply sorry.”
Abriana shifted her gaze away from the Romani witch, fighting to keep her tears at bay. Though a mixture of grief and anguish clawed at her very soul, she managed to press her despair down into the dark recesses of her heart.
Clenching her fists, Abriana gathered the strength to voice the words that weighed heavily on her tongue before the enigmatic stranger, draped in the shadows of her home, left forever, taking the body of her beloved Pietro with him.
“I know he is dead and that you have killed him, though without malice or evil intent. I discovered and accepted my beloved Pietro’s fate long ago. There was nothing I could do to change it. Make no mistake, Romani, I did try to destroy you! How I tried.”
A few tears slipped down Abriana’s cheeks.
“You are of The Craft, like me, great lady, though not of Romani witch-blood. I take no offence at your attempt to change Pietro’s fate. In truth, I respect it more than you realize. For I, too, once did something similar for myself. You could never have changed this outcome, so do not burden yourself with the thought that you have failed Pietro. When I altered my own fate, it was through a potent magic, one that defies the very Wheel of Destiny.”
The Romani witch kept Hecate’s name and her direct involvement to himself.
Abriana took some solace in the confirmation that it had been something far beyond her power that thwarted her magic. It still did nothing to assuage her pain of defeat and the loss of her beloved Pietro.
“There is something I cannot get my head around,” the Romani witch stated plainly. “You trained Pietro in the ways of your magic from a young age. You must have seen in your visions that I would come to possess this power, all the knowledge of your witchcraft and Pietro’s skill in utilizing it, though I am not of your people or your coven. Why would you do this? Am I not the usurper to be hated, not empowered?”
As silent as a phantom, Abriana approached her chair, where she did her needlepoint and reading; she was one of the few women in the area who could read. She sat down, taking her time, and when she was comfortable, she placed the candleholder on the small table next to the chair.
With a heavy heart, she folded her hands, took a deep breath, and recounted to the Romani witch what had occurred in her vision, the one given to her the day Pietro turned nine.
She dulled no detail, no matter how gory or dreadful. However, for the moment, she withheld one crucial piece of information: the location of the Romani witch’s demise.
“The man with the red hair in your vision, Abriana, is my Aeneas, my heart, my soul, my everything. I have found a way to return to him, lifetime after lifetime, for the Wheel of Destiny would have us separated for all eternity. And I will not have that.”
Abriana asked the Romani witch if he understood why she had used Pietro as a conduit to impart her witchcraft to him.
He nodded solemnly. “Despite all my power and all the wondrous magical knowledge acquired over centuries, I was still not strong enough to save us from this monster.”
This revelation cut deep. One of the reasons the Romani witch continued studying magic in each new life was to grow in power, to prepare for the inevitable day he would again face the immortal demon from Britannia, who had withstood and conquered his most powerful spell at the time. That damnable blood-drinker who had killed the lovers so brutally, ripping the beating heart from the chest of each.
The symbolism of it did not escape the Romani witch; it filled him with a seething rage. He wanted revenge.
The Romani witch had accumulated many powerful new spells in his magical arsenal over the centuries. Additionally, he had concealed several enchanted weapons imbued with potent magic throughout the land, ready to be retrieved and used against his enemies, particularly the blood-drinker. To discover that none of these had been enough to best this sorceress, immortal or not, tormented him. What more could he do? What more could he learn? How much darker must his witchcraft become?
“You wish to aid me, Abriana, the great witch of the Tuscan hills, to help my love survive this beast’s attack. But is it only about what is right, what is good? Light triumphing over darkness? Or was it seeing the body of your beloved Pietro savaged and consumed by that monster that stirred you to action?”
“Can it not be all of those things?” Abriana asked sincerely.
The Romani witch proffered the older woman a friendly smile, his dark eyes in the glow of the candlelight reflecting a deep understanding of the woman’s struggles and hopes, all that intertwined with the selfless gift of her witchcraft—the culmination of a lifetime’s magic. “Yes, it can.”
Something close to warmth flickered across Abriana’s weathered face as she returned the Romani witch’s smile. Although it appeared to lack the strength of conviction, her offering of thoughtful emotion was genuine nonetheless.
“Abriana, please know I do not take this gift or your family’s sacrifice lightly or without empathy—your pain especially. I appreciate that you bear no hatred toward me due to my fate, my resurrection, and Pietro’s role in it. Understand that I hold no power over the choice of consciousness of the individual with whom I briefly share a soul—my soul.
“And that you show no cruel judgment toward my heart’s desire, my love for Aeneas, well, you cannot know what this means to me, especially in these hateful modern times, ruled more and more by religious zealots.”
Abriana waved her hand in the air as if dismissing nonsense.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of. Nor did my Pietro. Love, like magic, is all around us, varied in appearance, understanding, and application. Like our witchcraft, it is tied to our very being, as I told Pietro not too long ago when I saw that his heart was in torment from solitariness and suppression despite his words to the contrary.
“We hugged so tightly that day, do you recall? Oh, the freedom he found, not just in knowing my understanding and acceptance but his own, seeing at last that he was perfect just as he is—was.”
Choking up, Abriana felt the sting of her fateful word choices like a dagger to her heart. More tears streamed down her cheek. She could no longer maintain her composure or hold back her heartache.
Before the Romani witch could offer solace with gentle words or a comforting embrace, Abriana pressed on, her voice trembling but with unwavering strength and conviction.
“He would have loved one like your Aeneas as you do, Romani. Through you, your life, your love, I shall experience Pietro’s passion, his affection, his tenderness—the romance that age, opportunity, and The Fates denied him. That is why you must survive this coming darkness.
“Do you see, Romani? Through you, I will remain connected to my Pietro until my time on this plane ends, even if I never glimpse your face again. I will know. I will feel him. Even when departed, we are all connected in The Craft. Blessed Hecate, praise her.”
