The Telegram
August 18th 2008 10:12
The Telegram
"Ninno!"
The cry reverberated through the dense foliage of their village backwoods.
"Ninno!"
Birds scattered from dense treetops.
But in a small clearing, a disheveled young man continued hacking away at large logs, making them manageable enough to tie up and bring home. He spat into his hands and rubbed them vigorously together. Then, wiping the dirt and sweat from his brow with the tattered sleeve of his only tunic, Ninno clutched his axe and taking a deep breath swung –
"Ninno!"
Rabbits scampered from the underbush causing him to lower his axe.
"Ninno."
Exhausted and flushed from running, Ninno's wife, Rosanna, stepped forward and, without looking at her husband, handed him the tear sodden telegram.
Ninno read the two words – aloud. "Mamma morta."
He looked at his wife imploringly. Could it be? How could his mother be dead when he had just spent the morning with her?
Rosanna just stood wringing her apron and crying.
It couldn’t be, Ninno thought to himself.
He looked at the pile of wood that he'd almost finished cutting, and at the axe still clutched in his hand, and at the telegram now crushed in his other hand.
He had just left her. It couldn't be.
Without another word, Ninno turned and walked back to his village, stomping on the very delicate fauna he had that day avoided. It couldn't be, he kept saying to himself.
And he kept walking, through thick follage and dry entangling twigs until he reached the edge of his village where he marched, with a purposeful stride, past the town gossipers, sitting outside the village gates, past his mother's neighbour leading his donkey to drink.
He marched on. He had just had breakfast with his mother, he continually thought to himself.
And his wife followed.
And the gossipers followed, intrigued.
And the donkey followed, with its owner in tow.
And one by one the villager's would leave their homes and follow.
Until finally, Ninno stopped at the front door of a small cottage.
His wife bumped into him, but he didn't move.
His mind now screamed out – what if it's all true.
And as if in answer, the door was flung open and a stout elderly woman with a large straw broom stepped forward. "Ninno," she said, confused. "What is this?"
And from sheer elation, Ninno cried out. "Mamma! You're not dead!"
The old woman raised her broom. "You want me dead?" she asked, horrified, and smashed the broom against her son. "After all I have done for you?"
"No, Mamma," Ninno begged, fending off the straw slaps and walking backwards away from his mother's house.
"A week I screamed in pain with you," Ninno's mother reminded him, still walking and hitting him. "A week of agony,"
"I know mamma."
And behind Ninno –
His wife had straightened her apron and walked briskly home.
The donkey settled into the pig's trough to drink with his owner watching on.
The villagers one by one returned to their homes; some nodding their heads; some smiling.
The village gossipers spoke quickly and animatedly to one another while returning to their usual resting place.
And –
Perched atop the highest thatched roof, two young men roared with laughter, stopping briefly to congratulate each other on their combined efforts.
"Ninno!"
The cry reverberated through the dense foliage of their village backwoods.
"Ninno!"
Birds scattered from dense treetops.
But in a small clearing, a disheveled young man continued hacking away at large logs, making them manageable enough to tie up and bring home. He spat into his hands and rubbed them vigorously together. Then, wiping the dirt and sweat from his brow with the tattered sleeve of his only tunic, Ninno clutched his axe and taking a deep breath swung –
"Ninno!"
Rabbits scampered from the underbush causing him to lower his axe.
"Ninno."
Exhausted and flushed from running, Ninno's wife, Rosanna, stepped forward and, without looking at her husband, handed him the tear sodden telegram.
Ninno read the two words – aloud. "Mamma morta."
He looked at his wife imploringly. Could it be? How could his mother be dead when he had just spent the morning with her?
Rosanna just stood wringing her apron and crying.
It couldn’t be, Ninno thought to himself.
He looked at the pile of wood that he'd almost finished cutting, and at the axe still clutched in his hand, and at the telegram now crushed in his other hand.
He had just left her. It couldn't be.
Without another word, Ninno turned and walked back to his village, stomping on the very delicate fauna he had that day avoided. It couldn't be, he kept saying to himself.
And he kept walking, through thick follage and dry entangling twigs until he reached the edge of his village where he marched, with a purposeful stride, past the town gossipers, sitting outside the village gates, past his mother's neighbour leading his donkey to drink.
He marched on. He had just had breakfast with his mother, he continually thought to himself.
And his wife followed.
And the gossipers followed, intrigued.
And the donkey followed, with its owner in tow.
And one by one the villager's would leave their homes and follow.
Until finally, Ninno stopped at the front door of a small cottage.
His wife bumped into him, but he didn't move.
His mind now screamed out – what if it's all true.
And as if in answer, the door was flung open and a stout elderly woman with a large straw broom stepped forward. "Ninno," she said, confused. "What is this?"
And from sheer elation, Ninno cried out. "Mamma! You're not dead!"
The old woman raised her broom. "You want me dead?" she asked, horrified, and smashed the broom against her son. "After all I have done for you?"
"No, Mamma," Ninno begged, fending off the straw slaps and walking backwards away from his mother's house.
"A week I screamed in pain with you," Ninno's mother reminded him, still walking and hitting him. "A week of agony,"
"I know mamma."
And behind Ninno –
His wife had straightened her apron and walked briskly home.
The donkey settled into the pig's trough to drink with his owner watching on.
The villagers one by one returned to their homes; some nodding their heads; some smiling.
The village gossipers spoke quickly and animatedly to one another while returning to their usual resting place.
And –
Perched atop the highest thatched roof, two young men roared with laughter, stopping briefly to congratulate each other on their combined efforts.
[ Text and original characters copyright © 2008 by Teresa Strati ]
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