Peter Dickinson - Tears of the Salamander

Well, maybe. He would ask the salamanders about it sometime.

The mules seemed relieved to be caught but it took a while to coax them close enough to the lava flow to make a start down the path, scrambling every so often round or over tangles of fallen branches. The flow had now ceased moving, but there were places where the twists of the path took them too close to stand the heat and they had to pick their way down through the trees. The sun was setting by the time they came out onto the old driveway and made their way home along it.

But Casa di Sala was gone. The lava had reached it, buried it and then piled itself up on the terrace below and there finally solidified. There was no sign of the explosion in the furnace room, so that must have happened just before the lava covered everything. Nothing was left. The mountain had made it all part of itself.

They gazed at it for a while and then, without a word, headed on downhill. Alfredo found he was thinking more coherently. What next? Take the mules to the inn. Find Annetta, if possible. Then Signor Pozzarelli. Tell him just enough of the truth to make him understand that the mountain still had a Master. …

As it turned out, Annetta found them, climbing up toward them through the dusk, leading the third mule. Toni ran to meet her, and she flung her arms round him and hugged him, sobbing with relief. After a while he took her by the shoulders and gently pushed her away from him and stood erect, gazing down into her face. His mouth worked. The syllables when they came were slow and grating, like the hinges of a long-closed door, but the word was unmistakable.

“Mama.”

Her face turned white under its tan. Her mouth fell open. She stared at Toni, who simply stood there, smiling and confident. She turned to Alfredo.

“The tears of the salamander,” he said. “My uncle could have done it long ago. He was a horrible man. He killed my family and my friends on the Bonaventura . He was going to steal my body from me. But what he did to Toni—I think it’s worse than anything. His own son!

“Casa di Sala is gone, Annetta. All gone. The mountain’s buried it. We’re going on down.”

It was dusk when they reached the town. It was still in an uproar, windows smashed in by the blast from the furnace, roofs stripped of their tiles, bells stopping and starting, people standing in the streets guarding piles of their precious possessions, ready to flee, others dragging loads toward the harbor in the hope of finding space on some boat, yet others just standing around exchanging rumors. At the inn Annetta made as if to stay with the mules, but Alfredo said, “No. You’ve got to come too.”

One tower of the church had fallen. The square in front was crowded, groups of people standing waiting for news, others hurrying on errands, others on their knees praying. Alfredo pushed and wriggled his way through and up the steps to Signor Pozzarelli’s door and banged the knocker.

“You’ll get a flea in your ear, sonny,” somebody called. “Doesn’t know any more than anyone else.”

And indeed the door was opened by Signor Pozzarelli himself, his face red with anger, his mouth opened to yell.

“Signor di Sala is dead,” said Alfredo firmly.

Signor Pozzarelli bit himself short and stared. He obviously hadn’t recognized Alfredo till he spoke, and no wonder, a filthy boy in torn peasant clothes, Toni just as bad, and equally unrecognizable, and the dumb servant woman.

“Where…? What…?” he stammered. “The mountain…”

“Can we come in? I’ll tell you what happened.”

“The woman? The idiot?”

“Yes, please. He isn’t an idiot. And he was there.”

Signor Pozzarelli snorted, shaking his head in bafflement, but let them through and led them into his office. Both windows were smashed in. Glass littered the floor. Without offering any of them a chair he settled himself behind his desk.

“Well?” he snapped, trying to take control of the situation.

Alfredo wasn’t put out. He’d thought this all through on his way down the mountain.

“My uncle was a very bad man,” he said. “You know that, don’t you? But everyone was afraid of him, because he was Master of the Mountain. He was the only one who could control it.”

“Peasant gossip,” said Signor Pozzarelli.

“You didn’t think so when we came here to make my uncle’s new will,” said Alfredo. “You knew that if he wanted he could have made the mountain burn this whole town to the ground. He pretty well told you that his heir would be able to do that too, didn’t he? And it’s true. Only I’m not his heir.”

Confidently he crossed to the fireplace and lifted the screen away. The fire was laid and ready for lighting. He looked at Toni and nodded.

Toni merely glanced toward the hearth and paper, and kindling and logs were instantly ablaze, and flames roaring up the chimney.

“Signor Pozzarelli,” said Alfredo formally. “Let me introduce Signor Antonio di Sala, my uncle’s only son, his true heir. You knew that, didn’t you? He was the person my uncle named in his old will, wasn’t he? He is now Master of the Mountain. The mountain destroyed my uncle and chose him instead. He has all my uncle’s powers. He put the mountain back to sleep after it had destroyed my uncle. I saw him do it, I was there. Toni isn’t a fool, Signor Pozzarelli. You understand? Look at him.”

In fact Signor Pozzarelli was already doing so, and now watched Toni hold up a warning finger and simply nod. His smile was only half humorous. Signor Pozzarelli understood.

“You’ve still got the old will, haven’t you?” said Alfredo. “I was right about Signor Antonio being named as heir? And the new one? My uncle had copies, I suppose, but they’re gone—the mountain’s buried them.”

“In that case I have the only copies, Signor Alfredo.”

“May I see them, please.”

Signor Pozzarelli rose and crunched across the splintered glass to rummage among the pile of folders on the shelves behind him. He handed the two wills across. There was a sheet of paper attached to the old one with a note saying that it had been superseded by a new will dated last Tuesday. At the back of the new one was the list of Uncle Giorgio’s properties that Signor Pozzarelli had mentioned that day. Alfredo glanced through it. It looked as if Uncle Giorgio had owned practically half the town, and a lot of farms, too. The inn had belonged to him, and so had Signor Pozzarelli’s own house. He detached the list and put it at the back of the old one.

“Would this still be valid if the other one disappeared?” he said.

“Indeed yes. But…”

Alfredo turned and placed the new will and the note that had been with the old one on the burning logs and stood and watched them burn, thinking about his next move.

“I’m sorry,” he said, turning back. “You were going to tell me something.”

“Er, well, yes. It was that the willful destruction of a valid legal document is a serious criminal offense, but perhaps, since you were the named beneficiary…”

“It didn’t happen,” said Alfredo. “There’s two other witnesses here. But there was something else…Signor Antonio will be twenty-one next year, won’t he? And then he’ll be able to turn a tenant out of his house if he wants?”

“Not if he thereby breaks the contract of tenancy,” said Signor Pozzarelli anxiously. His own contract had only a couple of years to run, Alfredo had noticed.

“Yes, of course,” he said. “But suppose somebody’d been a loyal servant to the di Salas for ages, he could give them their house as a reward.”

“Indeed yes, he could.”