vines, which sustained his body, but also transported his mind to the timeless, painless realm of the ancestors and the spirits. Fuka-Kenta and his men broke the man’s nose and stuffed a small gourd into each nostril, so that when his nose healed and re-formed it was like their noses. They rubbed a poisonous ointment made from tree frogs into his scalp, which would forever keep him bald. They tied a heavy stone to his penis to stretch it and make it long like theirs. They used the slenderest of bamboo needles to prick every inch of his pale skin with a million holes, then submerged him for months on end in a pit filled with the dark juice of the yamba 11.
For nine full trips around the sun that the Good Padre later would have only a vague, dream-like recollection of, Fuka-Kenta chanted prayers, whispered secrets and worked his transformational magic upon the Good Padre—magic that widened his nose, stretched his penis and colored his skin. Magic that opened the Good Padre’s inner ear to the voice of the ancestors, the animals, the plants, the wind and lent him a power that he was entirely oblivious to. Magic that forever would confound the eyes and hearts of all the wayward pale ones and cause the Good Padre to appear an inexplicable shade of eggplant purple that reflected the light and laughter of the Great Mother upon every living thing.
11 A large jungle beet distinct for its purple-black color, nutritional potency and brilliant dye.
In which Temptation
Finds Two Takers
What?” Mari stopped the motion of her arm as she wiped down an olive jar and turned to face Benito. Benito was sitting on the wagon-bed doing nothing while Mari broke down the stand, and though she was looking and speaking right at him, Benito’s eyes and ears didn’t register a thing. All his cognitive senses were currently overwhelmed by an awful jealousy churning in his stomach and a little voice barking inside his head. He had seen it all, every appalling instant. The way Mari came to the Ebreo’s defense, the hesitant, amorous glances they shared, the way they both nearly smiled when the Good Padre invited the Ebrei to the feast.
“Good God, Benito,” Mari said sharply. “Had I a mirror, even you would be appalled.” Mari dropped her shoulders, let her posture slouch and her mouth fall open in mimicry of Benito.
“Huh?”
“You’re staring,” said Mari, “horribly staring.”
In response, Benito straightened his posture and turned his face away from Mari. Lifting the jug of wine at his side, he took a slug.
“Now, please,” Mari said, returning her attention to the stand, “move your ass off that wagon and get thee gone.”
“Well,” snorted Benito as he slid onto his feet, “after a long day’s work a mug of ale does beckon.”
Mari scoffed. “So the miscreant does reckon.”
“The what?” said Benito, a touch of upset in his tone.
“Oh, shut up, Benito.” Mari lifted an olive jar from the stand. “You heard well what I said and know well what I mean. A long day for you, maybe, but work, hardly.” Mari frowned at Benito as she set the jar on the wagon-bed. “’Tis a good thing the Good Padre was on hand and blood did not spill.”
“Is that what you think,” said Benito, “that I would commit such ill?”
“No, you, think? Hardly the wit and hardly the will. You are merely the mongrel who does his master’s bidding. Now, fetch off to the tavern. I’m sure there is a bone in store.”
“Benito does no man’s bidding.”
“Oh, good God, Benito, who are you kidding? Giuseppe doth keep you on a short, taut leash. And while you may be too deaf and blind a knave, ’tis a stupid fool who thinks he’s free when he’s a slave. Now, get thee gone. Your master awaits.”
A stupid fool, laughed La Piccola Voce from inside Benito’s head, she sure enough has you pegged.
“Vaffanculo,” Benito snapped back at the little voice.
“What did you say?” Mari turned around, her nostrils flaring.
Benito stood there with his mouth agape. He had not meant to speak aloud.
“You ingrate,” snarled Mari, “you pathetic ingrate. ’Tis cruel to a dog to compare you to such and a waste of my breath to argue as much. So get thee gone. Scurry off to the tavern. Lap up the words that rot your brain. Swallow as praise what should be shame. But drink down this with your roguish stout: what my father did kindly take in, I’ll one