The Damiano Series by R. A. MacAvoy Read Free Book Online Page A

didn’t she come in?”
    â€œBecause I didn’t let her in,” explained the dog. “You said you were not to be disturbed. I offered to take a message, like always, but she just stared and ran off. She’s timid as a cat, that one.”
    Damiano’s happiness was such that he had to hug someone. Macchiata gave a piglike grunt. “Timid? Ah, no, little lady, she had courage, or she would not have come at all. If that lout Denezzi knew she had come alone to the house of Delstrego, he would… well, I don’t exactly know what he would do, but he would be very angry. And she must have had endless matters to attend to: sorting and packing and settling with all the tradesmen. Oh, don’t say she is timid, Macchiata.”
    The dog stuffed her nose down among her folded paws in meaningful fashion and said nothing at all.
    When Damiano awoke, the cave walls were chalky with diffuse sunlight. He was warm, but very hungry. Macchiata was gone, but he heard her at the entrance to the cave, snuffling among the shrubbery. Rolling onto his back, he dug into his sheepskin bag and found the waxed wrappings of a cheese, which emitted a tiny crackling.
    Along the path of the rivulet he heard a frantic scrabble, and Macchiata slammed her broad head smartly against the end wall.
    â€œMother of God, what is it?” demanded Damiano, blinking down the length of the tunnel.
    â€œBreakfast. Maybe?” she answered, wagging everything up to her shoulders.
    Damiano laughed. “Maybe,” he admitted.
    He divided the cheese expertly in half, as was his custom, knowing that although she was much smaller than he was, he had never had an enthusiasm for eating that could equal Macchiata’s. (It was for this reason that Damiano was thin while his dog was fat.)
    He washed down his bread and mozzarella with wine. Macchiata lapped snow. Gathering his gear and cradling the lute against his stomach, Damiano crawled out of the cave.
    It was a beautiful morning. The sun beat gloriously over snow a foot deep, and the occasional pine trees wore blankets and hats. Not a print marked the road, which ran smooth as a plaster wall upward toward the north. In the distance, beyond the foothills and even beyond the black band of forest, a jagged rim broke the horizon.
    The Alps, clean and sharp as puppy teeth. Even Damiano’s eyes could distinguish them.
    â€œBy John the Baptist and by John the Evangelist and by John the Best Beloved!—if they are indeed three different Johns—this is magnificent!” He clambered down the slope, showering snow. “A good night’s sleep, a full stomach, and the road spreading before us like a Turkey carpet! Were it not for the plight of the citizens of Partestrada, I would have nothing else to desire.”
    Macchiata peered up at Damiano, her brown eyes puzzled, a lump of snow on her muzzle. “But you could have slept in the cave anytime, Master. You didn’t need to be thrown out of your house to do it.”
    Damiano grinned from ear to ear and sprang over the little valley where the stream ran down from the hill. “You’re right, little dear. And you know what? I think you are very wise.”
    Macchiata’s ears pricked up. It was not a compliment she had known before.
    â€œWe live our lives bound by our little tasks and possessions and never know how free we could be unless God sees fit to pry us away from them. You know who knew true happiness? I’ll tell you—Giovanni di Bernardone, whom our Holy Father has sanctified under the name of Francis. He had nothing in the world, and the world had nothing in him, and he used to walk barefoot in the snow, singing.”
    Damiano himself began to sing, though he was not barefoot but instead wore soft leather boots with woolen linings. He found it difficult to sing and climb at the same time.
    â€œYou have a lovely voice, Master,” said Macchiata, feeling that one good compliment