in those caves all winter. My father knew this and came to that same spot each year. I stayed close to my father, following in the deep tracks he made in the snow.
“We climbed and climbed until we came to the caves. My father bent and picked up part of a chestnut left with the boar’s droppings in the snow. ‘There’s one close by,’ he said, and made his way to the mouth of a cave. I held back, watching him, listening. I wanted to see how he aimed, how he shot. I wanted to see if he flinched when the boar charged.
“It was then that I saw a movement in the trees. I flipped my rifle onto my shoulder and steadied it, taking aim. And there it was, staring at me. Its eyes enormous, blue, so big I couldn’t look away. The brow was low, heavy, and the nose large and flat. White fur covered it from head to toe, so that it seemed to emerge from the snow.”
“What was it?” I asked.
“It was an ape,” he said. “But a man, too. An Iceman, whose eyes were blue as crystal. It was very big, so large that I had to raise the muzzle of the rifle to take aim at its heart. I only heard my father cry for me to stop after I pulled the trigger.”
I stared at him, trying to understand what he was saying. There are many wild animals in our region, but no apes. The creature he described could not exist. It was impossible, his story. Impossible.
“The beast has been known in these mountains for generations, my father told me. They were here before us, even before mankind. They are from an earlier time, perhaps before the Flood. These are their mountains.” A wave of pain washed over him. He clenched his teeth together until it passed. “There is a village of them somewhere above Nevenero. I have not seen it myself, but there were men in my family who have been there.” He paused. “And once, very long ago, there was an instance of . . . crossing.”
Ambrose glanced at me, to be sure I understood.
I stared at him, aghast. Could he possibly be telling me that some part of his noble family—the fine and ancient line of Montebianco—was infected with the blood of this strange creature? That our child, our poor deformed Vita, was the product of such beastly stock? I could not believe it.
“That is not possible,” I said at last.
“It has long been talked about in the village,” he said quietly.
“But it is a legend,” I said. I wanted to dismiss what he was telling me. I wanted him to die rather than continue. “A village legend.”
“My grandfather, Leopold Montebianco, the youngest son of Alberta and Amadeo, and described by my father as a strange and eccentric man, discovered the village of Icemen in the mountains in 1812. He lived with the creatures for two years, studying them, making notes of his experiences, and when he returned to Nevenero, he brought with him a child, a son named Vittorio. This Vittorio was my father.”
“Your father was like our Vittoria?” I asked, anger rising in me like mercury in a tube, hot and quick. Why had he not told me before? Why let me torture myself all these years?
“No,” he said, grasping my hand. “There was nothing unusual about my father, Vittorio. And nothing, as you well know, in my nature resembles these creatures. But I knew the taint existed in our blood. I never wanted to continue the curse. And yet, I loved you. I could not keep myself from marrying you. Our child, however, has unmasked the truth: with Leopold, the Montebianco lineage became intertwined with these Icemen. Vita’s forebears were creatures of the mountains. She carries the traits of this ancient race of beasts.”
“Vita is one of them?” I asked, my cheeks stinging with shame, although some deep part of my being was joyous to have this explanation of Vita at last.
“Yes,” he said, raising his eyes to meet mine. They were filled with terror. “She is one of them. But she is also human.”
As I finished reading Eleanor’s memoir, I took a deep breath, folded the pages, and put them back into the book. There was a tension pulsing through my chest, a pressure so constricting, so tight, that I stood and walked back to the window to get some air.