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[\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][\/et_pb_section][et_pb_section fb_built=”1″ _builder_version=”4.9.10″ _module_preset=”default” custom_margin=”||-2px|||” custom_padding=”0px||0px|||”][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.9.10″ _module_preset=”default” custom_padding=”0px|||||”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.9.10″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.9.10″ _module_preset=”default” text_font=”Josefin Slab||||||||” text_text_color=”#000000″ text_font_size=”16px” text_line_height=”1em” custom_padding=”|0px||0px||” hover_enabled=”0″ sticky_enabled=”0″]<\/p>\n
The night their sister was born, eight-year-old Shan and her older sister Lan awakened to their mother\u2019s groans. Mother lay on her bed, legs arched and open, breathing heavily, while Father wiped her with a cloth. A form emerged from between Mother\u2019s legs and began to cry.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cAnother girl,\u201d Father said, wrapping the baby in cloth. He handed the bundle to Mother and walked out of the one-room mud house they shared with a ghost woman the children called Auntie. Auntie waited until Father was gone, then whispered to Mother in her husky voice, one that evoked crying too loudly for too long. Mother nodded at Auntie and held the baby out toward her. Auntie waved her hands around it, chanting quietly, and the bundle began to shrink in size, deflating like a balloon until it vanished into nothingness.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Shan drifted into sleep.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n The rooster crowed, and the dawn chorus began. Father left to sell produce in the town, Mother to tend the backyard vegetables.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Shan and Lan rose from their bed. A cloth curtain hung between their sleeping area and the bed where their six-year-old brother Min slept. To disturb him was forbidden, as he was ill and needed rest, but on that morning a musty breeze filled the house and lifted the curtain. Shan glimpsed Min, limp on the bed, his arms bruised purple in splotches. Auntie presided at his bedside, speaking to him in her low tones. For an instant, his bruises became leeches, sucking Min\u2019s blood and energy.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 The girls crept outside cautiously. Besides the kitchen outbuilding, to one side of the courtyard stood a pigpen, and on the other a henhouse. The sisters hoped to avoid its rooster and his talons, but were startled by the sound of his flapping wings and ran for the streambank to search for wild vegetables and herbs to feed the pigs. Other days they went up to the woods to forage, or to the fields.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 The house was surrounded on three sides by the South China mountains, the one rough path a pale, twisting ribbon woven along the valley and through the pine forest. Streamers of cloud wreathed the nearby summits, obscuring the floating mountains nearby. Were it not for the fruit trees Father and Mother had planted on the hillsides, weeds would have swallowed the house long ago.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 While Shan and Lan filled their baskets with fodder, Mother washed clothes with Mrs. Chen, a neighbor who lived across the stream. Shan\u2019s and the Chen families were the only two hiding in the mountains. It was Shan\u2019s day to feed the pigs, so Lan went off to play with Mrs. Chen\u2019s ten-year-old daughter Wen.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 In the courtyard the rooster waited for Shan, perched on a lychee tree. \u201cCock-a-doodle-doo,\u201d he swelled with each crow, until he was as large as a dog. He galloped toward Shan, shaking his hackles.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 The hairs on the back of Shan\u2019s neck prickled with fear. She raised her sickle with one hand at the rooster and he froze. She sidled toward the pigpen, eyes locked with his, but when she tried to pass, the rooster flew up to peck at her eyes. Shan waved the sickle and he dodged, then attacked again. She shielded her face with the basket but the rooster\u2019s claws slashed her arm. She waved her sickle and kept waving it until she felt a chill wind.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cHe is gone.\u201d Auntie said. Shan trembled; her face wet with tears. \u201cLuckily, you are not injured.\u201d Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, Shan saw the rooster\u2019s red marks on her skin.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 After feeding the pigs, she rushed across the yard and did not stop until she reached the stream, only to catch Wen as she yanked her sister\u2019s ponytail and Lan tried to pull away. Shan ran at them, waving her hands, her fingers curled like talons. Wen released Lan\u2019s hair and stepped back.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cStay away from my sister!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cWe were just playing,\u201d protested Wan.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cSo I should pull your hair for you?\u201d Shan was smaller than Wen, but if they fought, she would bite the older girl.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cYou are so difficult! I don\u2019t want to play anymore.\u201d Wen shrugged, turned, and left.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Shan turned to Lan. \u201cWhy didn\u2019t you fight back?\u201d she shouted at her older sister. Mother and Ms. Chen\u2019s laughter carried to the sisters over the cicadas\u2019 chirping. Shan was, after all, a tiger girl.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Lunch was rice porridge with pickled radish. Lan hand-fed Min, so thin he was almost transparent. From somewhere they heard a piercing, stuttering, buzzy trill, raising in pitch. Lan froze at the unfamiliar sound.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cI will have a look.\u201d Shan moved to investigate the source of the noise, which seemed to be in the kitchen outbuilding. Father emerged from the kitchen in a soft straw hat, soaked with sweat, his face covered in dust, as he passed Shan on his way into the house. In the kitchen, Shan found Mother squatting beside a large cage divided into several square cells. Inside each cell was a creature with a small head but prominent crests curving around the eye to the base of the parotid gland.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cMother, w-w-what are they?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Mother did not look up. \u201cAsiatic toad. Chemo doesn\u2019t work. Toad blood is your brother\u2019s only hope.\u201d She held a kitchen knife as she removed a toad from its cell. Shan turned and ran back into the house where Father was now having his lunch.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cIt\u2019s toads wailing. Mother says their blood could cure him!\u201d She reported to her siblings, trying to catch her breath. Min chuckled, a disguise for his discomfort.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Mother approached from the kitchen with a bowl of rich, red blood.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cToad blood has cured hundreds of cancer patients. It must be drawn directly from a live toad. Min, my baby, please drink it,\u201d she encouraged, almost pale with excitement as she helped Min drink from the bowl. Shan looked away. The air filled with the scent of blood, the red liquid drizzling down Min\u2019s mouth like rain on a windowpane.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Shan and Lan lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the night. Cicadas ceased chirping. Frogs croaked amid a chorus of insects. Dogs barked in the distance; leaves rustled in the breeze. Rats gnawed at the corner cupboard. From the kitchen Mother\u2019s sobs ebbed on the wind, as the toads screeched \u201ccurr-curr-curr.\u201d Mother often cried in the kitchen so as not to disturb Father, her long, racking sobs draining her of vigor and joy.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Auntie whispered to the sisters, \u201cMin is so ill that toad blood can\u2019t cure him. He can\u2019t hold on much longer. Imagine how his death will devastate your parents.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Lan quivered at this, and Shan reached for her hand.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cOnly a son can heal a parent\u2019s broken heart. Don\u2019t you want to vanish like your baby sister and be reborn as a son?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cWhat happened to our baby sister?\u201d Shan asked very softly.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cYou saw. She vanished without suffering. You can do this too.\u201d Lan squeezed Shan\u2019s hand.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cDon\u2019t you ever wonder why Wen is the only child? Her mother gave me three newborn girls so I could make them vanish. No pain, no suffering.\u201d As Auntie spoke, Shan felt a cool breeze around her ears.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cYou must think I hate girls, but no, I love them. Of my mother\u2019s thirteen babies, only my brother and I survived. I lived because she needed help with household chores and the care of her son. And my eleven sisters born between us…\u201d Shan could barely breathe. \u201cSoon after they were born, my mother dumped them into a latrine pit. I stayed away from it because I could hear their faint cries rise from it.\u201d Shan remembered the time when a chick died, and she grieved. Auntie\u2019s mother must have felt very sad.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cI never saw my mother show any sadness. Life is harsh. Your baby sister didn\u2019t suffer. If you were sons, your family wouldn\u2019t need to hide in the mountains to escape the one-child policy. Think about it.\u201d Auntie floated away, and Shan slept until a noise stirred her: a rustling from under the bed, a scurrying.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Shan rose above her own form and drifted down the bed. A group of rats darted away like a roll of old rags, and she wafted after them into the yard. A giant rat led the mischief to the rooster, who pecked at the leader with lightning speed, driving it into retreat. The rat reconsidered its flight and with a vengeful scream, launched its body three feet high like a bullet from a gun and slammed into the rooster, positioned itself for another strike. The rooster\u2019s head reared back. He waited until the rat was within range, then stabbed at it with his beak. The rat fell heavily to the ground, blood seeping from its body. After a while, its limbs twitched, and the other rats scattered.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 A strange emotion welled in Shan\u2019s heart. She had always believed the rooster was evil, a bully, but that night she saw a different side of him, that of family protector. The rooster, whom she once feared and resented, could also be a righteous, reliable father.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Everything was hazy and dark that summer night, but at that moment the air was clear and fragrant. Fireflies flickered along the stream, in the grass, among the trees. They shot up and down into the air in pairs and trios, quiet and erratic, elves flying around with lanterns, radiating light. Shan flew among the fireflies, borne by unseen currents. She did not want to be reborn a boy, but if she could, she wanted to be a firefly, dancing, exploring, and lighting up the world.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n The following day, Shan was no longer half a head shorter but rather the same height as her older sister. Morning fog spread between the mountains, covering the landscape with a wet cloak as they walked to the woods to cut wild herbs. The sun\u2019s rays glistened through the rising mist as the fog lifted and all things were clear again. Birds hopped in the trees, and branches danced in the sunshine. Thrushes, larks, and mountain magpies sang, their music echoing throughout the mountains.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cI like having you for my sister,\u201d said Shan.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Lan stooped and swung her sickle, cutting off a handful of wild vegetables. \u201cI want to leave,\u201d she said, standing.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cWe\u2019ll leave and go to school together.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Lan moved down to a shady spot where vines had short petioles and oval leaves sharp at the tips. They couldn\u2019t name the plant, but knew the pigs liked it.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cYou heard what Auntie said. Mother will be heartbroken if Min dies.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cBut\u2014\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cYou heard how she cried day and night. She\u2019ll be better off without us.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 The memory or Mother\u2019s whimpering wrapped Shan and weighed her down. \u201cNo, Mother won\u2019t\u2014\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cYou fool! She will resent and even kill us, and we\u2019ll be stuck here forever.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Sunlight percolated through the leaves. Shan met Lan\u2019s eyes and was stirred by some deep memory she could not recall. \u201cYou should listen to Auntie, too. She cares for us.\u201d Lan\u2019s voice was low as she turned and cut the leaves.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Shan wanted to reply but was interrupted by a squeal. Mr. Chen must be slaughtering a pig, and they could no longer talk for the sound.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n In the afternoon, Shan took a bath. She was about to dress when she saw a snake on the floor, flicking its forked tongue. Shan stared at the snake. She felt a sudden chill, then Auntie\u2019s whispers, \u201cKeep quiet. Don\u2019t disturb it. Throw your clothes to get its attention, then run.\u201d Shan dashed towards the house and Auntie floated with her. Shan removed new clothes from the cupboard and donned them. \u201cDon\u2019t you want to leave this horrible place? No one deserves to be stuck here. Not you, not Lan, not your mother.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Min coughed in his bed, and Auntie drifted over to check on him.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cIs Min in pain?\u201d Shan\u2019s voice betrayed her concern.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cYes, he hurts all over. He has developed high fever with delirium.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Shan\u2019s heart ached. \u201cCan you make him vanish too?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cI\u2019m sorry, but my magic only works with girls.\u201d The room was quite except for Min\u2019s racking cough.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cHow does one become a ghost?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cEnough resentment and pain when you die.\u201d Auntie spiraled down next to Shan. \u201cMy family used to live here. I was seven months pregnant and certain that it was a boy and we could leave this place. But a wild dog attacked my young daughter, and she would have died without treatment. I loved her, so I took her to the hospital in town.\u201d Auntie rose in the air on the breeze and continued, \u201cThe doctor cured her, but I was caught by the family planning officers and was forced to have an abortion. Not long after I returned home, I died of infection. My husband took my daughter away, but I was stuck here.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 She drifted down looked Shan in the eye. \u201cMy only regret is that I didn\u2019t turn my daughter into nothingness before she left. It pains me to think that she will suffer and have a miserable life. Please let me help you and Lan.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cHow long will it take to vanish?\u201d Shan asked. She realized that Lan had already begun to shrink.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cIt depends on your will. The stronger you want to vanish, the faster.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cBut my baby sister vanished rapidly.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cYour mother wanted her to vanish, and she was too young to acquire a will.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Shan looked down. The toads\u2019 piercing shrieks from the kitchen resembled the cries of her baby sister. \u201cI love Lan. I don\u2019t want her to vanish.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cOf course, you love her. Don\u2019t you know why she is quiet? Let me show you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Shan\u2019s surroundings whirled around her, and the wind roared. When it stopped, she was in the courtyard. Mother slapped Lan, and she and Min were crying. They were younger and smaller. \u201cIt was three years ago. Your mother told your sister to look after you and Min, but she pushed your brother to the ground. He skinned his knees when he fell.\u201d Auntie shook her head and sighed as she explained. \u201cYour mother had just lost a son, stillborn. They had to throw him down the stream. She suffered terribly.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Mother slapped Lan again, shouting, \u201cHow could you push your brother?\u201d Lan shivered with silent tears. \u201cSay you won\u2019t do it again!\u201d Mother cuffed her, but still Lan said nothing.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cJust feel as Lan does,\u201d crooned Auntie, and pushed her into Lan\u2019s body. Mother grabbed her arm and dragged her to the stream.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cSay you won\u2019t do it again!\u201d Shan\/Lan shook her head. \u201cSay it!\u201d Mother yelled as she pulled her hair and pushed her head underwater. Water poured into Shan\u2019s mouth and nose, choking her with an intense, burning pain, making her cough. When the water reached the inside of her ears, it felt as if her head would explode. Shan couldn\u2019t bear anymore, and Auntie released her from Lan\u2019s body. Shan saw Lan burst out crying when her head emerged from the water.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cYour mother would have killed your sister. Imagine how Min\u2019s death will destroy your mother completely. Do you want your sister to die this way? Do you want to die this way?\u201d Shan clenched her fists to stop the trembling.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n That night even after Shan fell asleep, she still held Lan\u2019s hand.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 She woke with a start in the middle of the night. The rats ran under the bed, so Shan floated with them into the courtyard. The rooster raised hackle feathers on his neck, ready to fight.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Shan drifted into the kitchen where Lan\u2019s spirit hovered. Mother lifted her hands to her face, her thin shoulders shaken by sobs. As Mother wept, she asked herself, \u201cOh, Min, my dear, my baby. What shall I do?\u201d The toads cried as if in answer. Lan looked straight at Mother, her big front teeth clenching bloodless lips.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 The next morning when Shan got up, she found that Lan was half a head shorter than her, smaller even than Min. She took Lan\u2019s hand, so cold and dedicate. \u201cI understand how it feels to be almost drowned, but this time Mother won\u2019t\u2014\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Lan interrupted her. \u201cI feel like a ghost. I don\u2019t want to be stuck here like Auntie. Vanish with me, dear sister. Imagine how relieved Mother will be to get rid of us, her daughters.\u201d The room was so stuffy Shan felt suffocated. The rooster crowed, and Lan shivered with fearful eyes. Anger filled Shan, raising her hackles so that she thought she might explode. She wouldn\u2019t let the rooster bully them anymore\u2014she would fight him. She\u2019d show Lan that they could confront him, that together they were stronger than they thought they were. That they deserved to live.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 With sickle and basket in one hand, Shan took Lan\u2019s with her other and led her into the courtyard where the rooster stood. The rooster groaned at their approach and the frogs sang with an expanding energy. Shan lifted her head, blinked.<\/span><\/p>\n [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.9.10″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.9.10″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.9.10″ _module_preset=”default” text_font=”Josefin Slab||||||||” text_text_color=”#000000″ text_font_size=”16px” hover_enabled=”0″ sticky_enabled=”0″]<\/p>\n Huina Zheng<\/strong> was born and grew up in south China. She has worked as a college essay coach since graduating from college in China. Her stories were published in Brush Talks, Evocations Review, and The Meadow. She currently lives in Guangzhou city, China with her husband and a daughter, and is pursuing an online M.A. in English program at Arizona State University.<\/span><\/p>\n [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row column_structure=”1_3,1_3,1_3″ _builder_version=”4.9.10″ _module_preset=”default” custom_margin=”|auto|-100px|auto||” custom_padding=”0px||0px|||”][et_pb_column type=”1_3″ _builder_version=”4.9.10″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_image src=”https:\/\/variantlit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/08\/Color-Print-Logo-with-full-text-1.jpg”<\/a>; title_text=”Color-Print-Logo-with-full-text-1″ _builder_version=”4.9.10″ _module_preset=”default” positioning=”relative” vertical_offset=”50px”][\/et_pb_image][\/et_pb_column][et_pb_column type=”1_3″ _builder_version=”4.9.10″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_image src=”https:\/\/variantlit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/08\/ncwn-logo.jpg”<\/a>; title_text=”ncwn-logo” _builder_version=”4.9.10″ _module_preset=”default” positioning=”relative” vertical_offset=”50px”][\/et_pb_image][\/et_pb_column][et_pb_column type=”1_3″ _builder_version=”4.9.10″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_signup provider=”mailpoet” mailpoet_list=”Variant Literature|3″ title=”Subscribe to our Newsletter” _builder_version=”4.9.10″ _module_preset=”default” form_field_background_color=”#000000″ form_field_text_color=”#FFFFFF” header_text_align=”center” header_text_color=”#000000″ background_color=”#FFFFFF” custom_button=”on” button_text_color=”#000000″ button_bg_color=”#FFFFFF” button_border_width=”6px” button_border_color=”#000000″ button_border_radius=”20px”][\/et_pb_signup][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.9.10″ _module_preset=”default” custom_padding=”81px||4px|||”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.9.10″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.9.10″ _module_preset=”default”]<\/p>\n \u00a9 Variant Literature Inc 2021<\/em><\/p>\n [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][\/et_pb_section]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Ghost Children Huina ZhengThe night their sister was born, eight-year-old Shan and her older sister Lan awakened to their mother\u2019s groans. Mother lay on her bed, legs arched and open, breathing heavily, while Father wiped her with a cloth. A form emerged from between Mother\u2019s legs and began to cry. \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":159740901,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"on","_et_pb_old_content":" [et_pb_section fb_built=\"1\" _builder_version=\"4.9.10\" _module_preset=\"default\"][et_pb_row _builder_version=\"4.9.10\" _module_preset=\"default\"][et_pb_column type=\"4_4\" _builder_version=\"4.9.10\" _module_preset=\"default\"][et_pb_text _builder_version=\"4.9.10\" _module_preset=\"default\" text_font=\"Advent Pro||||||||\" text_text_color=\"#000000\" hover_enabled=\"0\" sticky_enabled=\"0\"]<\/p> [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][\/et_pb_section][et_pb_section fb_built=\"1\" _builder_version=\"4.9.10\" _module_preset=\"default\" custom_margin=\"||-2px|||\" custom_padding=\"0px||0px|||\"][et_pb_row _builder_version=\"4.9.10\" _module_preset=\"default\" custom_padding=\"0px|||||\"][et_pb_column type=\"4_4\" _builder_version=\"4.9.10\" _module_preset=\"default\"][et_pb_text _builder_version=\"4.9.10\" _module_preset=\"default\" text_font=\"Josefin Slab||||||||\" text_text_color=\"#000000\" text_font_size=\"16px\" text_line_height=\"1em\" custom_padding=\"|0px||0px||\" hover_enabled=\"0\" sticky_enabled=\"0\"]<\/p> Evenings when the tourists have gone and Fra\u2019 Giles and I have said Vespers and taken our small dinner of rice and wine, I find refuge in the ossuary. One by one, I take the skulls from their places and weigh them in my hand. I ask each to confess its sins, then I brush away the dust and replace it carefully. It is easy to lose track of the hour in a place where time fades into eternity and the only marker of its passage is the sunlight creeping up the walls of the airy sanctum. Fra\u2019 Giles takes perverse pleasure in catching me off-guard as I sit in the half-light, questioning my ancient parishioners. Once, he stole so quietly upon me that the first sign I had of his presence was the imperious hand that clasped at my shoulder.<\/span><\/p> \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cBrother,\u201d he said. \u201cIt is time for confession.\u201d<\/span><\/p> \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 I attempted to shake free of his grasp, but he was younger than I, and his hand remained where he had placed it. I would not look at him. \u201cI am working,\u201d I said.<\/span><\/p> \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Fra\u2019 Giles surveyed the ossuary. Scores of skulls arranged along octagonal walls rising toward Signor Ricci\u2019s murals of the good and the evil gathered in heavenly glory. The remains of long-dead victims of leprosy and plague. Criminals beheaded for their evils. He looked away, his face warped with disgust. \u201cThese bones can do nothing for us. They are in the Lord\u2019s hands now.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p> \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cWe pray over the souls of the dead, must we not tend to the physical remains that have been entrusted us?\u201d I asked.<\/span><\/p> \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cSurely you would not tend to these earthly remnants at the cost of your own soul?\u201d<\/span><\/p> \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cThe price of my soul is between me and the Lord.\u201d<\/span><\/p> \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Fra\u2019 Giles did not answer. The weight of his hand on my shoulder meted a quiet judgment. Mingled aromas of incense, ancient funerals, melted beeswax laced the crepuscular air. Outside, teenagers buzzed past the quiet sanctuary on Vespas. Fra\u2019 Giles released me and walked toward the vestibule, the shuffle of his sandals brushing among the evening bones.\u00a0<\/span><\/p> \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Three years before I was born, the man who called himself the Iron Prefect set himself as the sun over Italy\u2019s sky. The multitude of bones scattered across fields and farms and piled in mass graves by the unholy trinity of the Prefect, the Fuhrer, and the Generalissimo dwarfs the collection of the church\u2019s ossuary. My first memory: Pap\u00e0, dragged away from our farmhouse in the Provincia di Mantova by the brownshirts. Mamma, holding me on the threshold. A single gunshot. The startled, panicked bleating of goats, blending with our wails of anguish.\u00a0<\/span><\/p> \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 I joined the <\/span>partigiani. <\/span><\/i>I wish I could say I opposed the Prefect because I saw him for what he was, but the truth is I cared only for what I had seen him do to my father; to me, a child. But I was a coward who could not bear to face the consequences of my acts. I sniped. I skulked in trees and on rooftops and among dolomite columns. Like a god I held life and death in my hands and treated each as the smoke of a candle. Never did I hear the sigh of the soul expiring, the wail of mourners. Never did I feel my hands stained with blood. I mistook vengeance for justice, reveled in my own condemnation.<\/span><\/p> \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 It was April or May\u2014the dates run together, but the blossoms were on the grapevines, exquisite buds and threads sheltered beneath overarching leaves, the pale, floral scents of pear, apple, melon, the promise of wine. My fellow <\/span>partigiani <\/span><\/i>and I spent a week on the hill above the village, drunk on the heady air, grasping at a splendor we could not hold. The castle we had taken as our headquarters was nestled among forested hills. Men trooped back and forth along the dusty road that furrowed the valley, a constant <\/span>andirivieni<\/span><\/i> of marching to and from battle.\u00a0<\/span><\/p> \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 I was stationed in a shallow cave in the limestone cliffs overlooking the village square. I took twelve-hour shifts with a man I knew only as Gazza, his <\/span>nome di battaglia<\/span><\/i>. He was gregarious and popular among the men, attributes that seemed poorly suited to the silent, slinking vocation of the sniper, but his aim was precise and when we changed posts during the midday <\/span>pausa<\/span><\/i> and again in the darkness following matins, he greeted me with a lopsided smile and a recitation of opening and closing and a birdlike flittering of hands that always ended with a single finger placed below the deep green ring of his right eye: \u201c<\/span>Mi raccomando<\/span><\/i>,\u201d it said. \u201cThe <\/span>informatore <\/span><\/i>is mine.\u201d<\/span><\/p> \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 But for weeks, our man refused to appear in the <\/span>piazza<\/span><\/i>, and I passed the hours chewing the end of a cigarette for the nicotine and watching the slow rhythm of the people below. The tobacconist, the <\/span>gelataio<\/span><\/i>, the baker stepped from their shops to sweep the sidewalk, then disappeared inside to flip the signs that hung in their front windows. Children skipped to and from school in small packs. Old women shuffled out of the Byzantine maze of streets that emptied onto the piazza and crossed the paving stones to the church. (I did not wish to imagine what these pious <\/span>vecchiette<\/span><\/i> prayed for inside.)<\/span><\/p> \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 The man I was commanded to dispatch appeared just before the dinner hour, lurking at the edge of the piazza. A group of boys, just released from communion classes, spilled out the church and into the square and according to some inscrutable process shaped themselves into an impromptu soccer game. The man lingered a moment beneath the blue awning of the locked and quiet bakery, watching the <\/span>calciatori <\/span><\/i>and the streets that opened onto its expanse, then vanished again into the jostling dinnertime crowd. The moment of action had passed me by.\u00a0<\/span><\/p> \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Then, just before the bells rang for matins, the piazza dark and empty, a moonlit shadow appeared out of the narrow alley directly across from the church. Fedora, dark pants, starched white shirt. He leaned against the wall, heaving with the effort of running\u2014<\/span>il informatore<\/span><\/i>. I raised my rifle and his face filled the circle of the scope. He turned to speak to someone down the alley, then stepped into the street. I pulled the trigger and lowered my rifle and surveyed the piazza. The man was down.\u00a0<\/span><\/p> \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Another moonlight shape appeared at the cleft of the alley\u2014a small boy, hands at his mouth, his wail of agony too far away to hear. The throbbing aria of frogs, the scent of the grapes in the heavy, damp night air. A phrase hissed in my mind like an accusation: <\/span>Whosoever shall offend one of these little ones<\/span><\/i>.<\/span><\/p> \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 When I returned to my <\/span>squadra<\/span><\/i> and word made its way up to the leaders of the <\/span>divisione, <\/span><\/i>I was rewarded for my accomplishment with a letter of commendation that I folded into a tight phylactery and interred in the bottom of my trunk. The green-eyed sniper with whom I had shared my post in those weeks slapped me on the back and gave me my <\/span>nome di battaglia: <\/span><\/i>The Wasp. Our comrades roared with triumph and gathered around to offer their congratulations, but a memory held me fast: the boy\u2019s shattered expression when the man dropped to the pavement. The press of the throng around us pressed Gazza and I face to face, only inches apart, and I saw in the way those eyes fixed my own that he read in them the lamentation of my heart.<\/span><\/p> \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 This is what time and contemplation have made of me\u2014a man who sits alone among old bones and turns over old stories like silent penance. I hear the voice of Fra' Giles in the vestibule and pocket my cloth and screen myself behind a pillar of the <\/span>baldacchino<\/span><\/i>. He appears at the far end of the sanctuary, leading the dozen boys of the Holy Communion class. One by one, they stop at the font and dip a hand in the holy water and make the sign of the cross, then Giles leads them across the nave to the confessional. The children peer nervously into the stall as he speaks. I cannot hear his words at this distance, but the speech is as familiar to me as the faces of these young penitents. I have stood watch over generations of their families\u2014christened children, officiated over Holy Communions, sanctified marriages, seen new generations born to those children, and finally administered the Extreme Unction. In a few days, when Giles has finished with them, I will administer the host and the wine to these children, though I will not likely live to bless their progeny.<\/span><\/p> \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Fra\u2019 Giles\u2019s voice rises, and I can make out the words now. \u201cHe who sees all knows your hearts, children. You cannot lie to him, and you cannot lie to the priest at confession. You cannot hide what you have done.\u201d The children shrink away from him; a small boy at the back stares at his shoes, too scared to look the friar in the face. Fra\u2019 Giles ushers them toward the door and the children funnel out in a tight, quiet knot. I leave my <\/span>nascondiglio<\/span><\/i>Render
<\/strong><\/h1>Jefferson Slagle<\/span><\/h3>
![https:\/\/variantlit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/08\/Color-Print-Logo-with-full-text-1.jpg”<\/a>; title_text=”Color-Print-Logo-with-full-text-1″ _builder_version=”4.9.10″ _module_preset=”default” positioning=”relative” vertical_offset=”50px”][\/et_pb_image][\/et_pb_column][et_pb_column type=”1_3″ _builder_version=”4.9.10″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_image src=”](\"https:\/\/variantlit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/08\/Color-Print-Logo-with-full-text-1.jpg”\"){kind=link}
![https:\/\/variantlit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/08\/ncwn-logo.jpg”<\/a>; title_text=”ncwn-logo” _builder_version=”4.9.10″ _module_preset=”default” positioning=”relative” vertical_offset=”50px”][\/et_pb_image][\/et_pb_column][et_pb_column type=”1_3″ _builder_version=”4.9.10″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_signup provider=”mailpoet” mailpoet_list=”Variant Literature|3″ title=”Subscribe to our Newsletter” _builder_version=”4.9.10″ _module_preset=”default” form_field_background_color=”#000000″ form_field_text_color=”#FFFFFF” header_text_align=”center” header_text_color=”#000000″ background_color=”#FFFFFF” custom_button=”on” button_text_color=”#000000″ button_bg_color=”#FFFFFF” button_border_width=”6px” button_border_color=”#000000″ button_border_radius=”20px”][\/et_pb_signup][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.9.10″ _module_preset=”default” custom_padding=”81px||4px|||”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.9.10″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.9.10″ _module_preset=”default”]<\/p>\n\u00a9 Variant Literature Inc 2021<\/em><\/p>\n[\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][\/et_pb_section]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"Ghost Children Huina ZhengThe night their sister was born, eight-year-old Shan and her older sister Lan awakened to their mother\u2019s groans. Mother lay on her bed, legs arched and open, breathing heavily, while Father wiped her with a cloth. A form emerged from between Mother\u2019s legs and began to cry. \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":159740901,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"on","_et_pb_old_content":"[et_pb_section fb_built=\"1\" _builder_version=\"4.9.10\" _module_preset=\"default\"][et_pb_row _builder_version=\"4.9.10\" _module_preset=\"default\"][et_pb_column type=\"4_4\" _builder_version=\"4.9.10\" _module_preset=\"default\"][et_pb_text _builder_version=\"4.9.10\" _module_preset=\"default\" text_font=\"Advent Pro||||||||\" text_text_color=\"#000000\" hover_enabled=\"0\" sticky_enabled=\"0\"]<\/p>Render<\/strong><\/h1>Jefferson Slagle<\/span><\/h3>[\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][\/et_pb_section][et_pb_section fb_built=\"1\" _builder_version=\"4.9.10\" _module_preset=\"default\" custom_margin=\"||-2px|||\" custom_padding=\"0px||0px|||\"][et_pb_row _builder_version=\"4.9.10\" _module_preset=\"default\" custom_padding=\"0px|||||\"][et_pb_column type=\"4_4\" _builder_version=\"4.9.10\" _module_preset=\"default\"][et_pb_text _builder_version=\"4.9.10\" _module_preset=\"default\" text_font=\"Josefin Slab||||||||\" text_text_color=\"#000000\" text_font_size=\"16px\" text_line_height=\"1em\" custom_padding=\"|0px||0px||\" hover_enabled=\"0\" sticky_enabled=\"0\"]<\/p>Evenings when the tourists have gone and Fra\u2019 Giles and I have said Vespers and taken our small dinner of rice and wine, I find refuge in the ossuary. One by one, I take the skulls from their places and weigh them in my hand. I ask each to confess its sins, then I brush away the dust and replace it carefully. It is easy to lose track of the hour in a place where time fades into eternity and the only marker of its passage is the sunlight creeping up the walls of the airy sanctum. Fra\u2019 Giles takes perverse pleasure in catching me off-guard as I sit in the half-light, questioning my ancient parishioners. Once, he stole so quietly upon me that the first sign I had of his presence was the imperious hand that clasped at my shoulder.<\/span><\/p>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cBrother,\u201d he said. \u201cIt is time for confession.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 I attempted to shake free of his grasp, but he was younger than I, and his hand remained where he had placed it. I would not look at him. \u201cI am working,\u201d I said.<\/span><\/p>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Fra\u2019 Giles surveyed the ossuary. Scores of skulls arranged along octagonal walls rising toward Signor Ricci\u2019s murals of the good and the evil gathered in heavenly glory. The remains of long-dead victims of leprosy and plague. Criminals beheaded for their evils. He looked away, his face warped with disgust. \u201cThese bones can do nothing for us. They are in the Lord\u2019s hands now.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cWe pray over the souls of the dead, must we not tend to the physical remains that have been entrusted us?\u201d I asked.<\/span><\/p>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cSurely you would not tend to these earthly remnants at the cost of your own soul?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u201cThe price of my soul is between me and the Lord.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Fra\u2019 Giles did not answer. The weight of his hand on my shoulder meted a quiet judgment. Mingled aromas of incense, ancient funerals, melted beeswax laced the crepuscular air. Outside, teenagers buzzed past the quiet sanctuary on Vespas. Fra\u2019 Giles released me and walked toward the vestibule, the shuffle of his sandals brushing among the evening bones.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Three years before I was born, the man who called himself the Iron Prefect set himself as the sun over Italy\u2019s sky. The multitude of bones scattered across fields and farms and piled in mass graves by the unholy trinity of the Prefect, the Fuhrer, and the Generalissimo dwarfs the collection of the church\u2019s ossuary. My first memory: Pap\u00e0, dragged away from our farmhouse in the Provincia di Mantova by the brownshirts. Mamma, holding me on the threshold. A single gunshot. The startled, panicked bleating of goats, blending with our wails of anguish.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 I joined the <\/span>partigiani. <\/span><\/i>I wish I could say I opposed the Prefect because I saw him for what he was, but the truth is I cared only for what I had seen him do to my father; to me, a child. But I was a coward who could not bear to face the consequences of my acts. I sniped. I skulked in trees and on rooftops and among dolomite columns. Like a god I held life and death in my hands and treated each as the smoke of a candle. Never did I hear the sigh of the soul expiring, the wail of mourners. Never did I feel my hands stained with blood. I mistook vengeance for justice, reveled in my own condemnation.<\/span><\/p>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 It was April or May\u2014the dates run together, but the blossoms were on the grapevines, exquisite buds and threads sheltered beneath overarching leaves, the pale, floral scents of pear, apple, melon, the promise of wine. My fellow <\/span>partigiani <\/span><\/i>and I spent a week on the hill above the village, drunk on the heady air, grasping at a splendor we could not hold. The castle we had taken as our headquarters was nestled among forested hills. Men trooped back and forth along the dusty road that furrowed the valley, a constant <\/span>andirivieni<\/span><\/i> of marching to and from battle.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 I was stationed in a shallow cave in the limestone cliffs overlooking the village square. I took twelve-hour shifts with a man I knew only as Gazza, his <\/span>nome di battaglia<\/span><\/i>. He was gregarious and popular among the men, attributes that seemed poorly suited to the silent, slinking vocation of the sniper, but his aim was precise and when we changed posts during the midday <\/span>pausa<\/span><\/i> and again in the darkness following matins, he greeted me with a lopsided smile and a recitation of opening and closing and a birdlike flittering of hands that always ended with a single finger placed below the deep green ring of his right eye: \u201c<\/span>Mi raccomando<\/span><\/i>,\u201d it said. \u201cThe <\/span>informatore <\/span><\/i>is mine.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 But for weeks, our man refused to appear in the <\/span>piazza<\/span><\/i>, and I passed the hours chewing the end of a cigarette for the nicotine and watching the slow rhythm of the people below. The tobacconist, the <\/span>gelataio<\/span><\/i>, the baker stepped from their shops to sweep the sidewalk, then disappeared inside to flip the signs that hung in their front windows. Children skipped to and from school in small packs. Old women shuffled out of the Byzantine maze of streets that emptied onto the piazza and crossed the paving stones to the church. (I did not wish to imagine what these pious <\/span>vecchiette<\/span><\/i> prayed for inside.)<\/span><\/p>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 The man I was commanded to dispatch appeared just before the dinner hour, lurking at the edge of the piazza. A group of boys, just released from communion classes, spilled out the church and into the square and according to some inscrutable process shaped themselves into an impromptu soccer game. The man lingered a moment beneath the blue awning of the locked and quiet bakery, watching the <\/span>calciatori <\/span><\/i>and the streets that opened onto its expanse, then vanished again into the jostling dinnertime crowd. The moment of action had passed me by.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Then, just before the bells rang for matins, the piazza dark and empty, a moonlit shadow appeared out of the narrow alley directly across from the church. Fedora, dark pants, starched white shirt. He leaned against the wall, heaving with the effort of running\u2014<\/span>il informatore<\/span><\/i>. I raised my rifle and his face filled the circle of the scope. He turned to speak to someone down the alley, then stepped into the street. I pulled the trigger and lowered my rifle and surveyed the piazza. The man was down.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Another moonlight shape appeared at the cleft of the alley\u2014a small boy, hands at his mouth, his wail of agony too far away to hear. The throbbing aria of frogs, the scent of the grapes in the heavy, damp night air. A phrase hissed in my mind like an accusation: <\/span>Whosoever shall offend one of these little ones<\/span><\/i>.<\/span><\/p>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 When I returned to my <\/span>squadra<\/span><\/i> and word made its way up to the leaders of the <\/span>divisione, <\/span><\/i>I was rewarded for my accomplishment with a letter of commendation that I folded into a tight phylactery and interred in the bottom of my trunk. The green-eyed sniper with whom I had shared my post in those weeks slapped me on the back and gave me my <\/span>nome di battaglia: <\/span><\/i>The Wasp. Our comrades roared with triumph and gathered around to offer their congratulations, but a memory held me fast: the boy\u2019s shattered expression when the man dropped to the pavement. The press of the throng around us pressed Gazza and I face to face, only inches apart, and I saw in the way those eyes fixed my own that he read in them the lamentation of my heart.<\/span><\/p>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 This is what time and contemplation have made of me\u2014a man who sits alone among old bones and turns over old stories like silent penance. I hear the voice of Fra' Giles in the vestibule and pocket my cloth and screen myself behind a pillar of the <\/span>baldacchino<\/span><\/i>. He appears at the far end of the sanctuary, leading the dozen boys of the Holy Communion class. One by one, they stop at the font and dip a hand in the holy water and make the sign of the cross, then Giles leads them across the nave to the confessional. The children peer nervously into the stall as he speaks. I cannot hear his words at this distance, but the speech is as familiar to me as the faces of these young penitents. I have stood watch over generations of their families\u2014christened children, officiated over Holy Communions, sanctified marriages, seen new generations born to those children, and finally administered the Extreme Unction. In a few days, when Giles has finished with them, I will administer the host and the wine to these children, though I will not likely live to bless their progeny.<\/span><\/p>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Fra\u2019 Giles\u2019s voice rises, and I can make out the words now. \u201cHe who sees all knows your hearts, children. You cannot lie to him, and you cannot lie to the priest at confession. You cannot hide what you have done.\u201d The children shrink away from him; a small boy at the back stares at his shoes, too scared to look the friar in the face. Fra\u2019 Giles ushers them toward the door and the children funnel out in a tight, quiet knot. I leave my <\/span>nascondiglio<\/span><\/i>](\"https:\/\/variantlit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/08\/ncwn-logo.jpg”\"){kind=link}