Giovanni shifted his shoulder against the wall, stirred by the old resentment. This village, he thought for the thousandth time as he stared across towards the steps to the small church. Nothing ever happens. If only I could leave - go to Florence, or anywhere. Only his father would grumble and worse still Agata would nag and whine - on and on about having to stay and look after her parents. What a wife.
      He moved his back to a more comfortable position, just in the shade but in a good position to watch what went on. The sun was just lifting over the low byre beside the church and the square was slowly filling with people.
      Not that anything ever did happen. Some of the men might come round later for wine and to talk, but the morning stretched empty ahead of him. He heard Agata calling him to get some more logs for the fire.
      He shifted further along the wall where she wouldn't see him.
      There were the usual people for a Wednesday. People from the village but also people from the local farms driving sheep into the square or setting up stalls for the market. He knew many of them but he couldn't be bothered to call out the them. He just watched. He could see old Father Eduardo the priest pottering around in the dust beside the church doing something.
      Then he saw the woman.
      She caught his eye because of the way she moved - slow and stately, as though the rest of the crowd didn't exist. She was dressed in a black habit with crucifix hanging from her belt, but her head was bare.
      Giovanni saw a beautiful pale young face and fall of glossy black hair.
      Sedately the woman glided across the square towards the steps of the church. Her hands were pressed together in front of her in an attitude of prayer and her face was serene and distant, as though, he thought, she was communing with angels. It crossed his mind that she might be a vision. She could be an angel herself.
      The farmers and the townsfolk, and even the sheep, seemed to step respectfully out of her path so as not to impede her progress.
      At the steps she stopped.
      Falling to her knees on the lowest step she started to pray her voice clear and compelling, and high like a chant. 'Ave Maria, gratia plena, dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus…' The singing Latin phrases swept across the square so that people stilled to listen.
      She stood, advanced to the next step and knelt again.
      Again that beautiful voice soared out into the brilliant sunshine and Giovanni felt as though the dust and dirt and corruption of the air was swept clean by the music. He stood, took a deep breath of this purer air, and started to move towards her.
      On the third step of the church she knelt and sang again, the clear sweet music calling to the people, calling them to prayer.
      Now there was a small crowd round her, listening as though in a trance. Some of the men took off their caps respectfully and stood holding them.
      At the top step she turned and faced the people.
      'I am come,' she said, her voice high and ringing. 'Sent to you by the Blessed Virgin Mother who weeps for your suffering. Come and worship. She would heal you from your ills.'
      The holy woman is so beautiful, thought Giovanni, his heart swelling. She is like the Blessed Virgin herself, only made of warm soft flesh instead of cold plaster. He could see the colour of her lips, and how her lashes lay on her cheeks when she prayed.
      A man's voice from the back of the crowd began to pray with her, his deep tones mingling in counterpoint with her singing. Soon others joined in. Giovanni felt his heart begin to burst and his voice joined the others. He saw old grandmother Filata, her quavering voice joining the rest and tears in her eyes.
      When the singing stopped there was a stir at the back of the crowd.
      'Blessed Santa Giuliana hear me,' a man's voice cried out. 'You have healed others - heal my brother.' The voice was pleading. 'Take what money I have, heal him and I will light a thousand candles.'
      The crowd hushed, and the people moved back so that a passage opened between the man and the saint. He took a hesitant pace forwards.
      'Put away you money.'
      The woman's voice was high and clear, as though she was still singing. 'Put away your candles, God cares not about the goods of this world. Healing comes only from God and is not in my gift.
      'Yet bring your brother to me and I will bless him.'
      Giovanni could see the man now. He was tall, in the clothes of a scribe with a pen case at his belt. Beside him lay a poor contorted figure with his legs doubled under him. If he could have stood, the cripple would have been a big man, almost a giant, with a great black beard now sullied with straw and dirt.
      The scribe bent down and lifted the cripple with a hand under his arm, and thus balanced, the cripple was able to use his knuckles, on which he wore leather pads, to lift himself a hand span off the ground. Painfully he twisted his body this way and that, working himself slowly towards the steps, all the while supported by his brother who walked beside him.
      At the steps the cripple stopped and sat. Giovanni saw his hands join in prayer while his brother kept his hand on the cripple's shoulder to balance him so that he would not fall. The cripple's head bowed.
      Slowly the woman came down the steps and laid both hands on the cripple's head.
      She began to chant, in sonorous rhythmic sentences, using words that Giovanni couldn't understand, turning her head upwards to gaze into the clear blue sky as though pleading with God. Birds flew high overhead and the wind blew softly.
      Giovanni shivered and crossed himself. His skin prickled and the hair on the back of his neck seemed to stir. Something was going to happen. He could feel the tension building in the crowd around him. Something was going to happen.
      Slowly the cripple's hands came apart from their attitude of prayer and he spread his arms wide as though to balance himself, palms upwards. His head turned towards the heaven.
      'Oh Holy Father,' shouted the cripple in a voice like a bull. 'Oh Father, help thou my unbelief.'
      There was a pause and silence fell across the square. Even the sheep and the birds were silent. Then the cripple screamed and fell forwards onto his face.
      'No, no, yes,' he shouted, rolling over onto his back. His legs began to move, to kick out.
      'Yes,' he screamed, 'Father………..'
      He leapt to his feet, and Giovanni could see the fierce joy and wonder on the heavy bearded face.
      He jumped into the air and landed flat on both feet with a whoop.
      'I am cured. Oh blessed Jesus, oh blessed Mary mother of God, I am cured.'
      Looking wildly around him he ran straight at the crowd. Hastily they parted to give him passage, and he ran across the square and in between the buildings yelling at the top of his voice, 'A miracle. A miracle. I am cured.'
      The scribe ran hastily after him.
      For a moment it looked as though the whole village would run after him to see what he was going to do next but the holy woman on the steps called out .
      'Stay good people.
      'He has gone to give thanks to God for his cure. Let us now give thanks also.'
      Again her voice soared up and into the air and the people sang.
      'Cure me, blessed Santa Giuliana,' called the voice of a fat middle-aged woman in fussy clothes as soon as there was a pause in the singing, 'for I have the pains of hell in my head.'
      'Come, then, and kneel before me, good woman.'
      Again the touched hands and again the strange chant.
      Suddenly the woman cried out, almost a scream. 'I am cured. The pains have gone. I am cured.' She ran back to her neighbour, her face full of excited laughter. 'See sister, I am cured. Oh blessed Virgin…'
      Before the crowd could respond another voice called out, 'Cure me, blessed Santa Guiliana, cure me.'
      The crowd surged.
      'Cure me…'

- from 'Florentine Masque' - Copyright © David Caldo 2006
All Rights Reserved