"You, my little Anna, have my blood in your veins." Nonno said proudly. You think like a Del Forno. Yes, my mother told us stories about the wolves, but never to frighten us. To us, at that time, the wolves were just a fact of life, like a storm or people you had never met before and really just didn't understand. With wolves, one needs to learn, and having learned, one needs to adapt. It all revolves around Anna. 1965- Anna Del Forno was fifteen when she and her sister visited their grandparents at the farmhouse outside of Binghamton, New York. When a storm forced them to stay longer than expected, her grandfather, a reserved, almost reclusive man began telling them a story, one that he had kept to himself since his youth in the 1920's in Sicily, with his sister Gelsamina, and the baron D'Arcamo, and the wolves. 1980- Fifteen years later, Anna finds herself returning to the now abandoned farmhouse, only to discover clues and messages that begin a journey that takes her from Binghamton, all the way to Sicily. A journey that all along, she was intended to make. Some called it a legacy, others a curse. Gelsamina, the young woman in the portrait, can only offer so many clues. The rest, Anna must discover by herself. And yet, Gelsamina is always there, sharing a meal, sharing what she knows, sharing the legacy. And when she hears the wolves howling l'anelito, the longing, Anna understands what she must do. There comes a point in time when, wanted or not, ones family gives them things. There also comes a time when one must accept them.

Anna and the Tale of the Wolf

By A. C. Nicholas

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2010 A. C. Nicholas
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-2050-1

Contents

Chapter I Fire and the Night..................................1Chapter II A Request..........................................13Chapter III The Banquet.......................................21Chapter IV The Red Ribbon.....................................35Chapter V A Little Detective Work.............................51Chapter VI Anna, the Little One...............................91Chapter VII Preparation.......................................119Chapter VIII A Visit..........................................137Chapter IX Chelsea Goes to the City...........................141Chapter X Conversations.......................................151Chapter XI Life Lessons.......................................157Chapter XII Palermo: There and Back Again.....................173Chapter XIII O Canada.........................................189Chapter XIV Merry Christmas to Us All.........................193Chapter XV A Visit to Yesterday...............................211Chapter XVI Local Lore........................................227Chapter XVII Meditation and Revelation........................249Chapter XVIII Resolution......................................265Epilogue Gina's Story.........................................275

Chapter One

Fire and the Night

My grandfather never spoke that much. Often, when we would come to visit at the little farmhouse in upstate New York, he would smile faintly and retire to another room as my parents spoke in animated tones with my grandmother. This would have been around 1965. My sister and I were usually sent outside to play in the yard that stood just in front of the vegetable garden. Sometimes we would see him from a window, staring vacantly out or pondering, deep in thought, over a chalk portrait that hung on the wall in the back bedroom.

The portrait was of a lovely young girl with deep brown eyes, and long hair the color of burnished walnut. Her small, sad smile was, in a way, reassuring, especially for one so petite as she. We had been told that she was our great-aunt, my grandfather's sister, and that she had died in an accident before he immigrated to America from Sicily in the 1920s. We were never told any more than that. "Nonno," as my grandfather was called, would stop or change the subject and walk away.

When we were very young, we never really thought much about it. Then one year, late in the fall, my parents (who were both teachers) were asked to attend an educational conference, and my sister and I were sent to spend the weekend with my grandparents. While we enjoyed the thought of spending time with my grandmother, we were, even then, at the ripe old ages of fifteen and thirteen, reluctant to be with Nonno. We loved him, inasmuch as granddaughters love their grandparents, but the deeper bond that sometimes arises between the generations never had formed.

By the time we arrived, the evening had already grown cold and dark. Pockets of wind swirled leaves into frantic little games of tag all around us as we marched up the front walk, suitcases in hand. In the small living-room fireplace, my grandfather had built a fire. Its flickering blaze, although not very big, was a great contrast to the moonless chill outside. As the hour was late, we all sat down to dinner. My parents had already left, dropping us off and continuing on to the airport for their flight to the conference. After dinner, Nonno returned to the fireplace, stoking it back to life. Nana gave us fruit and popcorn to nibble on as we all sat around the revitalized fire.

"I know!" exclaimed my sister, Tina. "Let's tell stories ... scary ones!"

"No," I said. "Tell us about Sicily."

Perhaps it was the wine that he had been drinking, perhaps it was just his mood, but Nonno put down his glass and looked at us. As he raised his hands to help conjure up pictures of the old country, his eyes glistened in a way I'd never seen before. I couldn't tell if their wide, animated gleam was a reflection of the flames in the fireplace or some inner torchlight.

"The town of Arcamo is a parched, old place," he began. "The hills are dry and empty, with patches of woods here and there as you go deeper into them. Maybe a few wildflowers grow, but even they fade into the dust at the foot of the hills. The only water in the town comes from a well outside of the baron's villa."

"Who's the baron?" asked Tina. At her age, one would have expected her to be beyond the stage where every little detail had to be spelled out, but such was not the case.

"The baron owned a lot of the workable land in and around Arcamo. What I mean is, his family owned a lot of the land, as they had for generations before him. In Sicily, the title of baron comes with the ownership of a lot of land, and the title is always given to the oldest son. If he marries, the wife's title is baronessa." Then he stopped. He turned and looked into the fire, his eyes seeming more wet and annoyed. Lifting his glass, he drained the remaining wine, spilling a little onto his chin.

"Papa," my grandmother interrupted, "let her go. It's been so long. She's happier."

I looked at my sister, with the reproachful stare that only an older sister who has achieved the lofty stage of know-it-all-ism can give, and whispered, "See what you did, Tina? You interrupted him." She returned my glare with the classic you're-not-the-boss-of-me sneer, but before we could bring it to the next level, I turned to my grandmother and said, "Nana, who are you talking about?"

"Well, Anna, you know that you had a great-aunt."

"Sure. Aunt Rose. She's great!" Tina chimed in.

"No, girls, not your aunt Rose. An aunt is the sister of your father or mother, like your mother's sister Rose. She is a great person and an aunt, but she is not a great-aunt. A great-aunt is the sister of your grandfather or grandmother. Nonno had a sister who lived with him in Sicily. Her name was Gelsamina."

"She's the girl in the picture, isn't she, Nonno?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied with wistful sadness.

"Tell us about her, Nonno." The distant look in his eyes softened. He looked at each of us with melancholy and relented.

"Outside of the town, past the well and into the hills, was the baron's villa. It wasn't a big one, like the castles that you see in the movies. But it was pretty big for Sicily, and to us, it was enormous—certainly more grand than the church in Arcamo. And it matched the baron very well. His name was Leonardo, and except for some servants—he called them his men—he lived there alone. He was the only child of parents who died when he was very young. From that time on, an uncle raised him, only to abandon him on the day he turned eighteen. We all thought that there had been an argument over money, but the uncle told people in the town that the family had been cursed. He refused to say any more and left angrily.

"In those days, the baron was a good man. He was young and just. He gave the people of the town permission to take water from the well whenever they needed it. And in bad times, he would often help them by offering the protection of his estate. That was until ... well, I must tell you that the baron was a hunter, but he did not hunt for sport. Most nobility hunted for sport in those days. They had falcons or visited hunting lodges where they could catch and kill much bigger game. The baron had only one quarry: wolves. You see, in...