“I think I need a few minutes to close my eyes,” she said. “Rocky found an article on it. Let her read it to you. You’ll see the rest for yourself once we get there.”
Rocky must have found either a blog post or a website with details on Triora, because she was reading verbatim.
“In the Ligurian hinterland, in the province of Imperia, at 765 meters above the valley of the Argentina stream, there is the small village of Triora, a historically very important place from a strategic, military and religious point of view. Located on the border of Piedmont, it had five fortresses, accessible through seven gates, and its military force actively participated in the campaigns of the Republic of Genoa. The name, of Latin origin, means ‘three mouths’ and refers to the three food resources produced locally: wheat, wine and chestnuts.”
She gave a little more information on the village. Then she switched gears. “This is from an Italian blogger who’s been. She says Triora is known as the village of witches. The trials happened between 1587 and 1589. She says Triora was suffering from a terrible famine at the time, and ‘people were dying in numbers, and residents became convinced that only the work of witches could have caused such a horrible event’—wait.”
It took her a minute to continue.
“The first article reads a bit differently. It says this about the witches:The spirits of the population flared up to the point that, in a short time, the people accused of witchcraft became two hundred, in what was a real all-local witch hunt. In reality, it was an excuse for the families of Triora, poisoned by old grudges and personal hatreds, to wage war with each other. The Inquisition then sent a special commissioner and initially thirteen women were imprisoned, then six more plus a man, all accused of witchcraft and subsequently sent to the prisons of Genoa. One of these women died under torture, and another killed herself by throwing herself into the void, so the Republic of Genoa involved the Holy Office in Rome, which took two years to condemn the witches to abjuration. Meanwhile, five other women had died in prison in Genoa and seven in Triora. Although there was no burning of the bodies, like usual death sentences performed, the deaths were numerous, and the trials ended with prison sentences.’”She paused. “There are a few festivals too—not just for witches. And they’re known for two types of wine, a red and a white, and bread! Do you think we can try some?”
“I still remember how to make it,” Kitty mumbled from the front seat. “In case the one place in town that makes it is out.”
“Do you think you’re related to any of the accused, Kitty?” Rocky asked.
Out of respect for her age, we all would have called her Mrs., but only Georgia was able to get away with it because Kitty thought the way she said it was cute.
“Mamma told me we were. We were good with herbs and things like that for healing.”
“With a name like Canta, I can see it,” Georgia said.
“Canta means beautiful song in Italian,” Lidia said.
“You girls are spoiling me too much,” Kitty said, her eyes seeming to close tighter as a hot beam of sunlight hit them through the cracked window. It showed every line and crease in her face, but it also made her silver hair glow, and I thought she’d never looked more like a diamond.
“Never,” Georgia said with a big smile on her face, but it didn’t seem as natural as it usually did.
As the car continued climbing higher and higher, the turns sharp and the roads narrow, our conversation took the same turn. It seemed like all our thoughts were free to roam in the air, and they were heavy. Some of that could have been how high we were climbing. Lidia and Kitty were the only two who didn’t gasp as we made the trek.
Triora wasn’t far from Liguria, but we were moving up, and the sea disappeared with how high we’d climbed, swallowed up by mountains and woods. When Rocky had mentioned the void one of the accused witches had jumped in, I could see how that would be possible here. Woods, nothing but greenery, surrounded us. The village itself was so charming, though. A place where tourists would flock to findil paese delle streghe(the village of the witches) and celebrate their festival during August, but on a regular day…it seemed like it was only us and the locals.
All of us, it seemed, watched Kitty’s face from time to time, to see how it changed as she studied places she’d seen through a young girl’s eyes. Rocky was full of questions, and some Kitty would answer and some she wouldn’t, but one of them stuck with me.
“Do you ever visit?” Rocky asked. “This place is so…real.”
She’d go as far as Portofino, she said, to the hotel, but she hadn’t returned to Triora since she was sixteen. She said there was nothing to return to.
No family, I took it. We didn’t meet anyone on the street she might have known, or visited the place she grew up in. Or where she was born. She said she was born at home. Back then, she said, that was the way of things.
Mostly, though, we had a great time. And after the tours we took, we switched out our shoes and found a table to enjoy the snacks we bought. We were able to try the bread—which was delicious—and we all shared a few bottles of red and white wine. Georgia and I weren’t going to have any at first, because I was sticking with Georgia on the cancer fighting diet she was on, and because I didn’t drink out of respect for Big, but Kitty said while in Italy, drinking wine was like bathing in hot springs or throwing a coin in a fountain.
“Besides, a glass of red wine a day is good for the heart, like olive oil is good for more than just food.”
We all lifted our glasses and toasted.
Georgia sighed into hers after taking a sip, then stood from the table, stretching. I watched as she walked to the edge of the mountain and looked out over the rolling valley below. While Kitty, Lidia, and Rocky were chatting, I went after her.
“Hey,” I breathed when I got close.
“Hey.” She kicked a rock that was close to her foot and watched as it tumbled down.
“What’s going on, George?” I asked. I hadn’t had a moment alone to talk to her, and Georgia was even more stubborn than me when it came to sharing. She was usually trying to grease my problems out of me so she could help, but when it came to her, she hit the brakes. I sighed when she didn’t answer. “Tell me about Rocco.”
“What about him?”
“Anything.”
“He’s stunning—you’ve seen him. I think besides your brothers and your husband, I’ve never seen a man so beautiful.”
