The Miracles of Santo Fico (11 page)

“Are there light bulbs in the lamps for the Mystery?” Father Elio chuckled, “Light bulbs? In the lamps? Of course.” He chuckled again and patted Leo on the back, but even in the shadows Leo could see the old man’s mind racing. Finally, “I don’t know . . . Maybe not . . . I don’t think so. . . No.”

“We’ll go out to the garden first, to the Miracle. See if you can find some light bulbs.”

Father Elio nodded. “It’s better when you go to the garden first, isn’t it?”

Leo shrugged in a way that seemed to say, maybe, but what’s to be done. Father Elio nodded his agreement and returned his shrug. Leo stepped out of the hallway and Father Elio followed him into the nave. For the first time the priest saw the size of the group waiting—there were about a dozen strangers and at least twice that many villagers. Apparently when the tourists departed the restaurant, the curious villagers followed them and those who were mid-meal just brought their plates of food and glasses of wine with them. So even though the natives were becoming friendlier toward the foreigners, smiling and nodding at every opportunity, the strangers still wore the frozen gaze of those who wished some giant elevator doors would open and they could gratefully step off onto their floor.

As Leo moved up the center aisle he smiled broadly and with a generous wave of his arm he called, “Welcome to the Cattedrale di Santo Fico!” It was pushing it a bit to call this mishmash of incomplete architecture a cathedral, but he was counting on poetic license. With another sweep of his arm he directed their attention toward the timid little shadow standing behind him, grinning self-consciously and fidgeting like a schoolboy.

“And’a this is Father Elio, who has been the priest of Santo Fico for . . . oh, at least two . . . three hundred’a years now.” For their part, the tourists were Christian and the old man was, after all, a priest, so Leo’s little joke received polite nods and chuckles. Their predicament wasn’t his fault and he looked like a nice enough chap—besides, he seemed so anxious to please.

“Benvenuto!”
Father Elio wanted to kick himself. He knew the English word once, what was it?

Leo called to them, “He says welcome.”

Father Elio clapped his hands and pointed at Leo. That was the word! And he called again with almost frightening enthusiasm, “
Si! Si!
Wel’a-come! Wel’a-come!” He took a deep breath and tried to settle down. He knew he was too nervous. It had been so many years since he’d seen this many strangers in his church. In fact, he rarely had this many villagers in his church, apart from certain high holy days, or weddings, or christenings, or funerals.

Leo spoke to the group again in English and Father Elio had no idea what was being said, but he could occasionally pick out certain words. He clearly understood references to Cosimo de Medici and so he knew that Leo was telling them something about the history of the little church and the foreigners actually seemed to understand him! Like the rest of the village, Father Elio was proud of Leo’s mastery of this strange language.

Leo chattered away as he conducted the group down the center aisle, turning them toward the door by the northern transept—and as they disappeared out into the courtyard, he quickly hissed a harsh whisper at Father Elio.

“Light bulbs . . . !”

Light bulbs? Ah! Light bulbs . . . Yes! Father Elio knew for sure that there was at least one by his bedroom and another in the bathroom.

The sunlit courtyard was a small rectangular affair, probably fifteen meters in width and not much more than that in length. Two of its walls were the exterior side of the northern transept and apse, while the other two borders were exterior courtyard walls obviously built after the original church, but still hundreds of years old. There wasn’t much in the small enclosure to distinguish it as even a garden, much less a shrine to some miraculous event.

The visitors shuffled along a stone path that trailed through clumps of herbs, always pressing forward—trying to make room enough for everyone to fit into the modest space. Fortunately, for some lucky ones there were a few stone benches placed rather haphazardly. In the center of the courtyard was an olive tree that bestowed a surprising amount of shade. The combination of the tree and the fact that they were on the north side of the building made the rustic courtyard a shady and not wholly unpleasant place. It was a simple arrangement: paths, benches, random clumps of rosemary, basil, sage, lavender, lemon balm, thyme, the olive tree—and in the farthest corner of the exterior walls, surrounded by a low border of obviously ancient stone, was a withered and blackened tree stump. The dead stump was no more than two meters at its highest point and from all appearances it should have been pulled up years ago. A little more than halfway up two split and warped branches reached painfully upward and had the surprising effect of making the entire area seem more untidy than it actually was. That awkward twist of dead wood, like some mummified, agonized letter
Y
, gave the space a disheveled appearance and all of the fastidious English gardeners in the tour secretly longed for their trusty garden shears and pruning saws. It was obvious even to the most horticulturally obtuse that the trunk was dead, but few would have guessed its demise was counted in centuries. Leo sat on the low wall that surrounded the dead tree and absently pulled at a brittle weed as his odd mixture of soft, pink English tourists and sturdy, tanned villagers worked their way in. When finally he cleared his throat the courtyard became silent. His calm voice drew the listeners in as he outlined the history of this promontory, before there was a Santo Fico, before a small band of Franciscans built a monastery sometime in the thirteenth century. It wasn’t difficult to imagine this craggy point overlooking the sea prior to that time—with pastures and shepherds, and fruit trees growing everywhere.

As Leo spoke, few of his listeners noticed that his thick Italian accent, before so quaint and charming, began to thin. Leo had spent enough years in America that his English was actually quite accomplished, but he’d found early on that there were occasions when it was beneficial to play the role of the simple
paesano
. It had gotten him out of more than a few tight spots and occasionally saved him some money. In the restaurant he had laid the accent on a bit thicker than necessary for the sake of rural charm, but now the story was taking on a life of its own and he couldn’t be bothered.

Leo told them of Saint Francis. Of the weary and pious saint plodding the Italian countryside with a loyal band of friars who had heeded his call and followed his vision—traveling on foot to palaces and hovels, no matter the season or inclement weather. Leo told of how, one warm spring day, the good saint found he had occasion to travel south from Livorno along the coast on his way to Roma.

“It was the spring and everything was beautiful as the blessed saint and his disciples followed the same road you traveled, along the cliffs above the sea—they too were on a journey south. Now in those days, there was a shepherd that had his home somewhere near this spot. He used the pastures down by the sea for his sheep and his goats.

“It so happened that Saint Francis and his companions, walking along the road, passed by this shepherd’s cottage. The shepherd did not know who they were, but wandering monks and holy men were not uncommon. The good shepherd apologized for his poverty and welcomed them to his little home. He offered to share all he had with them. This blessed Saint Francis, who was’a both tired and sick . . . He asked the shepherd, if it might not be too much trouble, could he and his companions stay and rest for a few days before they continued their journey? The shepherd said he would’a be honored. Well, can you imagine that poor shepherd’s surprise when he discovered that the man who was sharing his cottage was’a none other than Saint Francis of Assisi? Of course, he wasn’t a saint then, not’a yet, but even in his own life he was famous and many people knew his miracles.

“Now, not far from the shepherd’s cottage, up on top of a hill that overlooked the sea, there was a beautiful fig tree. Every day Saint Francis would walk up that hill, sit beneath that tree, and cool himself in its shade. He would look out to the sea and watch the gulls swoop around the cliffs and dive into the ocean. He would’a watch the winds wave the pines on the hills behind him or blow great white clouds over the distant mountains. And, every now and then, he would reach up and pull a fig off’a that beautiful tree and he would eat it. And so, he rested and prayed, and slowly his strength began to return—and it’s a good thing too. Because, it didn’t take that shepherd long to tell his neighbors who was staying in his little hut. And those neighbors told their neighbors.

“It started’a slowly, just a few peasants hoping for a
benedizione
. . . sorry, a . . . blessing. But soon people were coming from all over for the blessings from’a the man who was touched by the hand of God. Saint Francis did not mind. He was so full of the love. He loved the people. He loved this spot high above the sea. And, he loved the fig tree.

“But one day he was saddened to see that there was no more fruit on the tree. Between himself and his companions and the many visitors—they had picked the poor tree clean. The story goes that Saint Francis sat on the ground beneath the branches and he embraced the tree, tenderly—like a papa would hold a child or a child would hug its mama— and he thank’a the tree for its generosity. And he apologized that they took all the fruit and left none for the birds.

“The next morning, when Saint Francis returned to his spot beneath the tree there was already a big’a group of pilgrims waiting for the blessing and prayers of the humble man. But, there was also something else. The fig tree was full of fresh fruit. Overnight the tree had’a borne fruit and it was ripe. Well, as you can guess, that morning, among his morning prayers, Saint Francis offered a special prayer for his’a new friend, the
santo fico
. . . the blessed fig tree.

“And so he stayed here at this place for many days and in that time pilgrims from all over came to this place and there were many miracles. People who could’a not walk, left here leaping for joy. People who could’a not speak, left here singing hymns’a to God. People who could’a not see, left here wondering at the glories they beheld. And every day, throughout that whole spring all of the people would eat’a the fruit of the fig tree. And every morning they would find its branches filled with new, fresh fruit.

“At last Saint Francis had’a to leave for Roma. Even saints don’t keep’a the Pope waiting too long. But, he left something behind. The fig tree, she continued to bear fruit. And in the years that followed, no matter what’a the season, no matter what’a the weather, the tree kept offering its fruit. It was a miracle for sure.

“But, people are
strani
, eh . . . funny. When a miracle becomes’a
ordinario
. . . ordinary . . . eh, common . . . it’a stops being a miracle. And so, after a while the people made up their own reasons why the tree bore the fruit. ‘There must’a be something wrong with the tree,’ they would say. Or ‘It’s something in’a the dirt,’ or ‘The stupid tree is’a just confused!’

“In time, the people forgot about the tree and its miracle. But not the old shepherd. Every day, first thing in the morning, he would walk up the hill and thank’a the tree for its fruit, and he thank’a God for his blessing. And the old man always shared whatever he had with his neighbors and he even look’a for the poor so he could’a share with them.

“One cold morning, when the frost was on everything, the kind old shepherd came out of his cottage and hiked up the hill as usual. But he discovered that the tree was not just bare of fruit, it’a was bare of leaves. Overnight the tree had withered and died. The old shepherd blamed himself and he wept over his tree.

“It was weeks later that some travelers told him the news. On’a the third day of October that year, Saint Francis had’a died. When he heard’a this news, the old shepherd went to what was left of the tree, and knelt before it, and thanked his old friend, the withered fig, for being faithful to the end.”

Leo turned and for the first time gently caressed the smooth, dry trunk of the blackened old stump behind him.

“. . . For, you see, the third’a day of October was the very day the blessed fig tree also had died.”

The courtyard was hushed. A few of the English tourists shivered off a wave of goose bumps. Some of the older ladies quietly dabbed their eyes. The locals studied the sky or their own hands. They judged from the silence of the foreigners that Leo had told the story well—although many were sure that he had undoubtedly left out important details.

Leo sat on the low wall and fiddled with the lichen on the stones. He was quite proud of himself; he had recalled many of the touching details and phrases, even a few dates, although he hoped no one wanted to check on them.

The sound of someone politely clearing her throat brought him back. He could gloat more later—right now he had to finish up; it was hot and he wanted a cold beer.

Leo looked up to meet the watery gaze of an elderly woman whose voice barely rose above a whisper, but she asked the question that was on everyone’s mind. Leo knew the question before it was asked and it astounded him how some things refuse to change. He felt that he had, as always, made himself perfectly clear, but here was that maddeningly predictable first question.

“Is that the, eh . . . That is to say, is that what’s left of the . . . ?” For some reason she couldn’t bring herself to say
fig tree
—as if uttering the name would be some sort of desecration. Leo nodded, smiled, and finished the phrase for her. “This is all that remains of the blessed fig tree.”

With that, he stood up—because now two things were going to happen rather quickly. First, someone would venture the alternate most popular question, to which he would nod and step aside. Then, as they all pressed forward to touch the sacred stump, maybe on some spot that Saint Francis had once touched, other questions would begin—slowly at first, but they would quickly pick up pace until they began to overlap. He had barely gotten to his feet when, as if on cue, a tall large-boned woman (who might have been the blue-haired twin of the horsy gentleman) spoke out boldly with the alternate most popular question.