Arcadia Awakens (22 page)

“Zoe’s idea, really.” Even as she said it, she realized what he was getting at. “You mean Florinda persuaded her to do it? Of course Florinda and Zoe always kept in touch with each other—and two years ago Florinda asked Zoe to come here. And then, when I was in such a state, she must have made Zoe…” She groaned in annoyance. “Florinda planned it all. To have the two of us close to her.”

Alessandro nodded. “It’s much easier to keep the whole thing secret here. And so much dirt has been swept under the rug in Sicily over the last hundred years that we have plenty of experience covering things up.” He frowned, and his dimples deepened. “Can you imagine how tricky it was keeping something like that secret in an American boarding school!”

“Didn’t anyone warn you in advance?”

“Yes—Tano, of all people, but I didn’t believe him. The first time it happened to me I was captain of the track team. I’d broken my leg, there was some kind of contest and I couldn’t take part, so I lay in bed furious with myself…. Don’t look at me like that, it’s the way things are in a boarding school! Anyway, it would have been even more of a shock if Tano hadn’t told me anything at all.”

Rosa thoughtfully wound a strand of damp hair around her finger. “Arcadians,” she said slowly. “So they’re everywhere?”

“In other areas and other countries the dynasties went underground or simply disappeared. The Russian bear clans, the Hundingas—dog-headed people of ancient Germania—even the fox families in China were originally descended from Arcadians. But here on Sicily it was particularly easy for them to maintain the power of the dynasties and still look like a federation of clans to the outside world. The Carnevares are Panthera—big cats of several kinds, not just panthers—and you Alcantaras are Lamias, snake women. For some reason it affects only the women among you, never the men.”

Why didn’t that surprise her?

“I was told,” he went on, “that boys born to the Alcantaras seldom get old. And when one of them does grow to adulthood, the change stops.”

“Seldom growing old meaning that they die young? Or … or they’re killed?”

“I don’t know,” he said. It didn’t sound convincing.

She tried to work out the connection for herself as well as she could. Her father had died young. And her own child, her son… No, she wasn’t going to follow that train of thought to its end.

“So the Mafia,” she asked, trying to come up with something else, “is really nothing but a front? A masquerade to give the Arcadian dynasties a kind of official cover?”

He shook his head. “No, when the Mafia started up in the nineteenth century—secret societies of large landowners in Sicily—the Arcadians were drawn into it by chance at first, because of their history. Many of them belonged to the old landed nobility, your family and mine and several others, so they became part of something that at first they didn’t even want. They were afraid that attention paid to their documents and files would bring far more to light than just a few illegal business deals. But in the end the dynasties realized how easy it was to use Cosa Nostra for their own purposes—and that if they weren’t part of it, they would lose their influence over the politics and society of Sicily to the Mafia. It’s only three or four generations ago that the Arcadian dynasties merged entirely with Cosa Nostra. Only a few of the Mafia clans are Arcadians, but all the Arcadians of Sicily belong to the Mafia.”

A heavy swell lifted the yacht. Rosa almost slipped out of her chair and snuggled even farther back in it. “Those lions and tigers on the island … were they—”

“No, they were ordinary animals,” he interrupted. “Like the snakes in your aunt’s greenhouse. The dynasties once believed that after death the soul of an Arcadian passed into an animal related to the same species, so they kept live specimens as totems. They venerated the creatures and offered them sacrifices.”

Rosa wasn’t sure she wanted to know what kind of sacrifices.

“Many Arcadians, mostly the older people, still believe that the spirits of all their dead live on in animal form. And when the animal dies, the Arcadian’s soul passes into the nearest newborn baby. If that were true, then every descendant of Lycaon would still be alive somewhere in the world, in some species of animal.”

“So would Lycaon himself.”

“Many think he is. Some even believe he may have been reborn to take command of all the dynasties.”

She vaguely remembered what Fundling had said to her on that first drive to the yacht.

“The Hungry Man,” she murmured.

Alessandro blinked. “Then you’ve already heard of him?”

“Only in passing.”

“Yes, that’s what Lycaon was called, not in his lifetime but later, when the myth of the cannibal king of Arcadia was passed on from generation to generation.”

“And the dynasties are afraid of his return?” Fundling had suggested that, as well. Was he an Arcadian himself? Was that why the Carnevares had taken him in?

“You have to distinguish,” said Alessandro, “between the original legend of the Hungry Man and what was made of it later.”

“Meaning what?”

“For many years the
capo dei capi
, the boss of bosses, the supreme head of the Mafia, has also come from the Arcadian dynasties of Sicily. And the predecessor of the present
capo dei capi
called himself the Hungry Man as an honorary title, bolstering his claim as head of all the dynasties and Cosa Nostra as a whole.”

Another heavy wave met the
Gaia
on the starboard side. Alessandro adjusted his position in his chair. “The police arrested him almost thirty years ago. He’s still in prison, not on Sicily, on the mainland.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But for some time there’s been a rumor that the new government in Rome may pardon him. And that’s exactly what most of the families fear: the Hungry Man coming back to Sicily to reclaim his old powers. No one knows how many are still on his side and will support him as soon as he sets foot on the island. That could lead not only to a power struggle within the Mafia but also a war between the families.”

Rosa threw back the blanket and pulled the bathrobe together over her knees. She wasn’t freezing anymore; now she felt hot. Alessandro’s glance lingered on her bare legs for a moment.

“There’s only one problem,” he went on. “The origin of the dynasties … well, it’s only a myth. And unfortunately myths aren’t necessarily true. They tell us what people thousands of years ago thought was possible. But not much more… Do you believe in God?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“You don’t, do you? Nor do I. So how can we believe there really was a god called Zeus who laid a curse on the Arcadians?”

She was finding it hard enough to accept the existence of human beings who could take animal form. But of course he was right. Believing in something totally crazy that she’d seen with her own eyes was one thing. Believing in the gods of ancient Greece was quite another.

“But if the story of Zeus’s punishment of Lycaon is only a legend,” he said, “what
really
happened? How did the Arcadian dynasties come into being in the first place?”

“Well, if you don’t know…”

“I’ve no idea,” he admitted, shaking his head. “And I don’t know anyone who’s ever found another explanation.”

She slowly shook her own head. This was too much all at once. She could only listen, and at most absorb it all. Particularly as there was another and much more pressing problem.

“What’s happened to Iole?” she asked quietly.

I
T WAS TOO LATE
to regret anything now.

Too late to get on the next plane and fly home to the States.

Too late to take the new life she’d hoped to find on Sicily back to the New Lives store and exchange it.

Instead, she decided to go on the offensive. The course she didn’t take was the obvious one of asking Florinda and Zoe to explain themselves. She wasn’t ready for that yet. They could have told her all kinds of things—so could Alessandro, if she was honest with herself—things that might be the truth or might be another lie, or a mixture of the two intended to reassure her.

But only real answers could do that. She had a right to know about her family and her origins. About what might happen to her over the next few weeks or months.

She had come back to the Palazzo Alcantara, deathly tired, in the early hours of the morning, stealing quietly into her room and closing the door. Still, she hadn’t escaped notice, and inevitably there’d been trouble out in the corridor: Florinda working herself up into the expected fury, Zoe—of all people—saying she wanted to have a serious talk with her.

To make sure she was left alone, Rosa had wedged the back of a chair under her door handle, and put the pillow over her head. After that she slept soundly.

When she woke late in the morning there was a breakfast tray outside her door. A note in Zoe’s handwriting told her that Florinda had flown to Lampedusa, an island between Sicily and North Africa, on urgent business. Zoe herself had an appointment, she wrote, and wouldn’t be back from Catania until afternoon. Next to that she had drawn a smiley face surrounded by sunbeams.

All forgiven and forgotten? That was hard to imagine. Rosa went down to the kitchen with the tray, brewed herself another coffee so strong it would have made even Fundling blanch, and was just taking her second bite of a sweet pastry when she had an idea.

After she had showered, put on fresh bandages, and buried the golden cell phone deep in the drawer of her bedside table, she set off along the path into the forest.

Still feeling exhausted, but curiously euphoric, she climbed the mountain above the Alcantara property. The sun shone through the branches, and a warm wind wafted up from the plain below. The air smelled of resin and warm pine needles.

Even when she passed the place where the tiger had threatened her, she felt only a slight sinking in her stomach. Had Tano been planning to kill her, even at the price of breaking the concordat? Or had he just wanted to scare her so that she would go back to where she’d come from as quickly as possible?

She suppressed the thought of him, of Alessandro, even of Iole when she finally reached the ravine in the forest and continued eastward along the edge of the rock.

Beyond the trees the run-down farmhouse came into sight. Its yellow walls lay in shade, and there was an outbuilding entirely covered by dense undergrowth and climbing plants. The place looked even more dilapidated by day than it had in the darkness. Only when she looked more closely did she see that half of the sagging roof was a little higher above the crumbling walls than the other half, and was probably propped up inside. The shutters over the windows were closed, and hadn’t been broken off their rusty hinges long ago, which also suggested that someone lived here. Not to mention the electric cable that she’d noticed even in the dark.

She didn’t try to hide her presence, but walked straight up to the house, knocked on the door, and hoped that no one was going to blast her head off with a shotgun the moment it opened.

But it stayed closed. No one answered her knock.

She tried again.

The stained wood was smooth and solid under her fingers. It had been treated with something to make it look old and weather-beaten.

“Good day, Rosa,” said a voice. Not on the other side of the door, but among the trees to her right.

She turned around, very slowly. No sudden movements. Nothing hasty. The gun she had expected to see in the doorway emerged from the shadows. Double-barreled, a sawn-off muzzle. Hands marked by brown age spots, sinewy and dark-veined under skin like parchment. A brown woolen sweater fraying at the hem and neck. A pair of dirty jeans worn with boots.

His hair was white as snow, tied back behind his head. She had always felt that old men with ponytails were suspect, even without a gun. This one also wore a patch over one eye, and she instinctively wondered if it was just for show, like the artificially weathered door and the ruin where he lived.

“You know who I am,” she commented.

“You’re Rosa. Zoe’s sister.”

She was wearing one of Zoe’s leather jackets with her jeans and T-shirt. He could have recognized it and drawn the right conclusions. But something told her that he hadn’t needed to do that. Because he knew not only her name, he knew her face and God knows what else about her. Suddenly she felt like the piercing gaze of his eyes was stripping her naked.

“Are you going to shoot me?”

“No,” he said, but the gun was still pointing her way. “You’re not afraid of that. Good. From all I’ve heard of you, I felt sure you were a real Alcantara.”