Page 30 of I Will Always Find You
Thered-hairedstatement meant that everything she had envisioned was moving forward; Pietro’s dark destiny was assured.
Pietro often found ways to use his witchcraft to help his family. Everything he did was selfless; he always used his knowledge and abilities altruistically. He made his great-grandmother incredibly proud, astonished even at how quickly he took to magic and how effortlessly he advanced in power.
At thirteen, Pietro wanted to create a spell to enrich his family’s soil and ensure that no other olive grove in the region could produce crops as perfect as theirs each year.
Pietro set out to work his spell in secret, without any aid from his mentor, using only his imagination and the knowledge gained through his instruction in witchcraft. To compose his spell, he used the blood of a newborn goat, drawn from the afterbirth rather than by slaughter; volcanic ash from the nearby Mount Amiata; and the manure of his family’s closest neighbours’ strongest Chianina bull.
Pietro created a potent liniment by combining these ingredients with herbs such as rosemary, sage, and thyme, as well as crushed roots from a healthy olive tree.
Upon the witching hour, he slathered the concoction all over his body. Then, he buried himself in the earth of his family’s land, leaving only his face uncovered for breathing. As he lay awake throughout the night, he prayed to both Hecate and Terra, Mother Earth, for their blessings.
In the morning, he dug himself out and waited to see the results of his spell.
To Pietro’s delight, his papa’s next harvest was astonishingly abundant; every olive gleamed with perfection, plump and unblemished, each a testament to the care and dedication poured into the orchards, including his magic.
The trees were heavy with their vibrant fruit, creating a breathtaking scene of nature’s bounty. Pietro was proud of his achievement but not arrogant; he was simply joyous to see that his first major enchantment had worked perfectly.
This mystical advantage allowed his papa to sell his olive oil at a higher price, as demand for the high-quality product tripled. As a result, he had the funds to acquire more land and address the many issues plaguing their home, which had been steadily falling into disrepair.
At fifteen, Pietro, on the cusp of adulthood, faced a daunting challenge: saving his younger siblings from the deadly grip of a severe brain fever. Abriana, accompanied by her grandsons—Pietro’s papa and his uncle Amadeo—had travelled to the shores of the Tyrrhenian Sea; she wished to feel its waters one last time before her eventual passing. With the great healer absent when the illness struck, Pietro was left to confront the crisis alone.
Again, he turned to herbology and logomancy.
In secret, Pietro blended fungi, cypress bark, salt, fresh milk, and, most importantly, an oil distilled from oleander and rueto brew a potent potion. Over it, he whispered ancient healing words found in his great-grandmother’s grimoire. The tonic eased his siblings’ suffering, but it was not enough to conquer the seemingly incurable fever.
Frantic and running out of time, a teary-eyed Pietro knew he had to do something drastic, something he had never been taught, onlyfeltwas possible. This was his final hope.
Though it took some effort, he convinced his reluctant and terrified mamma to wait outside the house while he bled the children. He had no intention of doing that barbaric act, of course, but he knew his mother’s weak stomach would get her to leave.
Once alone in the room, Pietro did something he had never before attempted: he reached deep within himself, past fear, past doubt, and called forth the magic at his core. Placing his hands on the fevered brow of the eldest of his younger brothers, Pietro channelled his own life force into the child to drive the illness out completely, as if compelling the sickness to surrender to his love and will alone.
As his deep, dark eyes transformed into a ghostly white, a wave of heat radiated from his skin, infusing the air around him with intense energy. With a resolute focus, Pietro summoned all his willpower to eradicate the infection.
In that moment of unwavering determination to heal one he loved at the cost of his own life, as radiant light began to envelop his body, Pietro triumphed over his adversary; the illness vanished like shadows at dawn, leaving a renewed vitality and strength behind for both him and his sibling.
The young witch had never felt so alive, so strong, magically and spiritually. As he had no idea how long this euphoric, empowered state would last, Pietro moved quickly to his other siblings, healing them one by one.
Upon curing the last child, the young witch collapsed onto the floor, completely spent and exhausted. Yes, his breathing was laboured, his body filled with aches and pains, but none of it mattered to him. He felt a deep relief knowing that his siblings were healed and alive.
Pietro’s parents and everyone in the community believed it was a miracle sent by God, and the young witch was okay with letting them think that. He told only his great-grandmother what had actually occurred.
Only that revelation had not been necessary. Abriana had glimpsed the events in her mind’s eye while walking in the waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea. The second the vision ended, a profound sadness washed over her, for she had sensed the profound stirring within her beloved great-grandson, even from such a distance.
Pietro’s actions, tapping into the well of power within his soul, initiated the transformative process. Abriana knew it was only a matter of time now—a short time—before the Romani witch, dormant but no longer unconscious, would awaken.
Then, finally, on Pietro’s sixteenth birthday, the day after Abriana said she had nothing more to teach him, the Romani witchawoke.
Just past midnight, the celebration of his sixteenth birthday long-since ended, and while everyone in the house was asleep, the Romani witch quietly crept out of bed. It was time to leave; he was determined to focus on finding Aeneas in his new host body. The search typically took years, and he could not afford to waste time.
He was still worried about his great-grandmother, though, who had spent the entire day crying in bed. He turned aroundand paused to look at her. She was sleeping with her back to him, facing the wall, a heavy, embroidered quilt covering all but her long, silver hair.
No, she is Pietro’s bisnonna. Stop thinking of these people as your family. That was another’s life.
Now that he had regained all his memories, the Romani witch had no interest in these strangers despite recalling who they were and what they had meant to Pietro. He was not that man.
As always, no emotions clung to the memories; they were nothing more than cold information. Pietro’s personality, emotional resonance, and consciousness had drifted into the afterlife. Or perhaps they simply ceased to exist altogether. The Romani witch was uncertain what had truly happened, and, frankly, he did not really care.
Still, the Romani witch could not help but appreciate how beautiful Abriana’s aged locks looked in the moonlight streaming through the open window. It was a hot summer night, and the gentle breeze flowing into the stuffy room provided the only relief.
