Anna and the Tale of the Wolf

“The town of Arcamo is a parched, old place.” he began. “The hills are dry and empty, with patches of woods here and there, as you go deeper into them. The only water in the town comes from a well outside of the Baron's villa.
 “Who's the Baron? asked Tina. At her age, one would have expected her to be beyond the stage where every little detail had to spell out, but such was not the case.
 “The Baron owned a lot of the workable land in and around Arcamo. What I mean is, his family owned a lot of the land, as they had for generations before him. In Sicily, the title of `Baron' comes with the ownership of a lot of land, and the title is always given to the oldest son. If he marries, the wife's title is `Baronessa'” Then, he stopped. He turned and looked into the fire, his eyes seeming more wet and annoyed. Lifting his glass, he drained the remaining wine, spilling a little onto his chin.
 “Papa“, my grandmother interrupted, “Let her go. It's been so long. She's happier.” I looked at my sister, in the reproachful stare that only an older sister who has achieved the lofty stage of `know it all-ism' can give, and whispered. “See what you did, Tina? You interrupted him.” She returned my glare with the classic `You're not the boss of me' sneer, but before we could bring it to the next level, I turned to my grandmother and said, “Nana, who are you talking about?”
 “Well, Anna, you know that you had a great aunt.”
 “Sure. Aunt Rose. She's great!” Tina chimed in.
 “No, girls; not your aunt Rose. An aunt is the sister of your father or mother, like your mother's sister Rose. She is a great person and an aunt but she is not a great aunt. A great aunt is the sister of your grandfather or grandmother. Nonno had a sister who lived with him in Sicily. Her name was Gelsamina.”
 “She's the girl in the picture, isn't she Nonno?” I asked.
 “Yes,” he replied, with wistful sadness.
 “Tell us about her, Nonno.” The distant look in his eyes softened. He looked at each of us with melancholy and relented.
 “Outside of the town, past the well and into the hills, was the Baron's villa. It wasn't a big one, like the castles that you see in the movies. But it was pretty big for Sicily, and to us, it was enormous; certainly more grand than the church in Arcamo, and it matched the Baron very well. His name was Leonardo, and except for some servants (he called them his men), he lived there alone. He was the only child of parents who died when he was very young. From that time on, an uncle raised him, only to abandon him on the day he turned eighteen. We all thought that there had been an argument over money, but the uncle told people in the town that the family had been cursed. He refused to say any more and left angrily.
 In those days, the Baron was a good man. He was young, and just. He gave the people of the town permission to take water from the well whenever they needed it. And in bad times, he would often help them by offering the protection of his estate. That was until, well, I must tell you that the Baron was a hunter, but he did not hunt for sport. Most nobility hunted for sport in those days. They had falcons or visited hunting lodges where they could catch and kill much bigger game. The Baron had only one quarry: wolves. You see, in those days, wolves still lived and hunted in Sicily. In fact packs of wolves lived in the woods and forests of most of Europe. In the north lived big, furry wolves with dark brown or black fur that changed to a white in the snowy winters. Here and in much of southern Italy, a lighter colored brown or tan, to blend in with the tans and browns of the hills that surrounded Arcamo and towns like ours that were away from the coastline. Smart animals, cunning, and hungry, always hungry. There aren't so many now, but then the woods were full of them. And where there were farm animals that could be killed, there were wolves to kill them. And when there was no more livestock on the farm, well….
 And that is why the Baron hunted wolves. There was once a story that wolves, a great pack of them, had killed his parents late at night, in the hills outside of the town, but the uncle told everyone that it was a storm at sea that took them. That would explain why their bodies were never found. Still, people love stories. Maybe that's why the Baron grew so keen on hunting the wolves. He could almost tell when they were near. And he would never shoot to kill with his first shot. I had heard many stories of how he would wound it first, just to see it turn on him and try to attack, only to meet his eyes and then turn and run in desperation. Once, he tracked a wounded wolf for two days into the hills just to watch it slowly die. It was as if his rifle was not enough. He had to hunt it with his gaze to prove that he was its master. That is how the Baron D'Arcamo came to be known as the Master of Wolves.”
 “Nonno,” declared my grandmother, not needing to say more.
 “But,” he continued, “Sicily is an old place, and hardly any wolves live there any more.” Taking his cue from Nana, he looked down at his watch.
 “Oh my, look at the time. Girls, its time to get ready for bed. No more stories tonight.”