Dark Shimmer by Donna Jo Napoli Read Free Book Online Page A

from. Anyway, the monks here are Franciscan. They sing with the animals, especially the birds. People say the monks understand the birds. Do you believe that?”
    I shrug. “Why not?”
    “Papà doesn’t believe it. Aunt Agnola doesn’t come with us to visit monasteries.” Bianca leans toward me. “I’ll tell you something…but don’t tell Aunt Agnola, ever. Promise?”
    “I promise.”
    “Papà is glad she doesn’t come. He says these visits are our chance to be alone. But she mustn’t know or her feelings would be hurt.”
    “I understand.”
    Bianca nods earnestly. Then, “Oh, I have an idea. I’ll be your mirror.” She stands stiff in front of me. “Ask me what you look like.”
    “I don’t look directly into mirrors.”
    “Why not?”
    I shrug.
    She steps very close. “I told you a secret. So you tell me one. Why don’t you look into mirrors?”
    “They show what I don’t want to see.”
    “I’ll be a good mirror,” says Bianca. “Go on, ask me what you look like.”
    “What do I look like?” I whisper.
    “A fuzzy head. Hands with pink fingers. I see what you are.”
    I swallow. “And what’s that?”
    “Treasure. And I found you!”
    My ears couldn’t have heard right.
    “Are you tired? My bed is ready—with clean linens.” She folds her hands in front of her waist. “You’ll let us nap together, won’t you? All clean and cozy.”
    I smile and follow her down the hall to her room.
    Somewhere outside I hear horns blow.
    What a strange and lovely thing is this dream of mine.

“ T ell me about yourself.”
    Bianca’s father has spoken, but every head at the table turns toward me. Black eyes—monks and Bianca and her father alike. Shining, attentive eyes.
    The table is outside, among pines and olive trees. The benches we sit on are rough pine. I run a fingertip along the spot beside me till I find a sharpness. I press hard. The setting sun paints the sky red beyond the rim of cypresses. The aroma of the sardines we just ate envelops me still. I float in this wonderland.
    The father clears his throat. “You must speak.”
    Bianca yanks on his sleeve. They exchange a look.
    “Say something,” says the father, in more of a plea than a command. “Some clue.” He hesitates. “Please, Princess.”
    I rest one hand on top of the other, palms upward. Blood drips from my right index finger where the splinter pierced it. “I float among monsters.”
    Eyes shift, alarmed.
    “We are not monsters,” says a monk, at last.
    “Of course we are,” says another. He lifts a finger. “Everyone is…in comparison.”
    “I’m not,” says Bianca. “Papà’s not. And you are not. Monks can’t be monsters.”
    “We aren’t monks,” says a third monk. “We are
frati
—brothers. We are the little brothers of San Francesco. Monks seclude themselves, for lives of contemplation. Franciscan brothers work among the people to help the needy, the poor, and the sick.”
    “You’re not among the people,” says Bianca. “You’re out here on this island.”
    “We are not secluded, though. You’ve heard us blow the horns every day. That’s an invitation to the faithful. They can renew their beliefs here, with us.”
    “Who comes?”
    “Nobles, like you. And holy men from everywhere. Even the pope, in 1466. He recommended us heartily, so for the past thirty years this island has had visitors.”
    Bianca’s face squinches with perplexity. “Why build a church so far away in the first place?” The child is dogged. I silently cheer for her.
    “San Francesco came here and founded this chapel hundreds of years ago. The island of Torcello was too crowded and noisy. So he made this chapel as a sanctuary for anyone who seeks it.” The brother leans toward Bianca. “Maybe San Francesco came because of the birds. Have you noticed the birds?”
    “That’s how I met Princess Dolce,” says Bianca. “We were watching a heron.”
    The brother looks at me. “You understand