December 14, 1349 – the feast of St. Nicasius, the golden martyr.
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They burned her, the foreign woman. That was horrible, but, somehow the burning of all her cats was worse. They seemed pleasant enough little animals, not even fighting when people picked them up and stuffed them into baskets. The mob sought my help, but I feigned illness and they quickly passed me by. 'Tis the best road to be ignored in this town, which has been so decimated by the plague.
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I hid, and watched as they dragged her from her little cottage and bound her with ropes. They threw her face down in the mud while they gathered her pets; “familiars†they called them. One of the women kicked her and screamed that “she's calling her master, Satanâ€, but I think she was reciting something from La Comedia*, perhaps “Adhesit pavimento anima mea..**,â€
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When all the cats were confined in baskets, the people dragged her back to the cottage, tied her to the open door and piled the baskets around her. I thought of the hours I have spent in that clean, bay-scented cottage, petting a warm lapfull of cat and listening to stories of a man's journeys through hell to redemption; her countryman Dante Allegheiri. For one moment, her eyes met mine, in horror, then seemed to focus on something behind me. Nervously, I glanced around, but there was nothing. Perhaps the martyr saint was there to bring her comfort? She cried out something, “Benedicti qui lugentâ€. Was this addressed to me?
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Women, with burning rushes, lit the rush cages. Instantly the flames rose and cats began screaming. I hope never to hear something so foul and terrifying again in this life. Then, above the horror, another; her voice rose.
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“St. Nicasio, me guarda. ST. NICASIO, ME GUARDA! ...AAAHHAIA... ADHESIT PAVIM...MENto anima...†her voice dissolved into ragged coughs.
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The shrieking crowd drowned her words. “BURN, WITCH! TAKE THE PLAGUE BACK TO THE DEVIL, WITCH!â€
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“I wish thee still to teach me
And make a gift to me of further speech.â€***
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I turned and slunk away. “Benedicti qui lugent†(Blessed are they that mourn). I don't feel blessed.
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*Before 1355, Dante's “Divine Comedy†was known simply simply as “Comediaâ€
*** from the Purgatorio (the Divine Comedy)
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Comments: 19
Thanks for this. It's a pleasure. Thanks for being part of Sunday Gather Writing Essential!
Thank you.
The rest, well, I'm somewhat blown away. Thank you, again.
Child of Hekate,
sweetness and light?
Where is the mark
of your entombment?
Buried prematurely,
to strive for growth
in dark enclosure
striving for a breath
of the pompously negligent
Sun,
of the blushing Moon
of the squabbling sons and daughters,
of daylight's pleasures.
Striving, tenderly
twisting around corners
aching for an unknown touch.
"Tell me, sir, then, how's it going now?"
Looking up narrowly from a tepid meal,
all at once remembering
playfellows on the schoolyard
running, out of breath,
filled with pride
a jolly good game.
Always someone begging
my attention,
but it wasn't really me,
just a story to steam off
or a butt to joke on.
All the silly give and take;
only time is taken
and that in big hungry chunks
of no tomorrows.
One long day
now the part all groggy
waking from fevered napping.
It wasn't supposed to be a tomb
nestled in Transylvanian bloodlines.
It was meant to be a child's cot,
freshly laundered cotton lace.
But the rats got in,
once the cats had been slaughtered.
Slowly wakening
I strive again to find my footing.
Learning to walk
was never as easy
as forgetting to fly.
(c) Feb. 26, 2006 Laurie Corzett