Page 7 of The Stone Witch of Florence

SIX

THE WISDOM OF THE PEAR TREE

July 6th of 1348, Outside of Florence

G inevra pondered these early days—the terror of her encounter with the Eye, the ecstasy of Vermilia’s precious gift of coral—as she wandered through the disease-ravaged countryside with the orphan Piero. The more she thought about it, the more disappointed she became in herself. Vermilia had invested so much in her potential. So had many others. And what had Ginevra made of their gifts? Nothing but to become a mediocre and lonely woman. She looked over at Piero, who trudged beside her. He caught her glance and smiled, picking up his step. Never mind the past, never mind these black thoughts , she told herself. You are going to make it all right now.

Motivated by the unexpected lack of provisions, the pair had made good time and were close to their destination of Florence. Now, an acute anxiety invaded Ginevra’s mind: she was about to see a man who had made love to her and then left her to rot in prison, and there were a few things she needed to say to him. She began to invent entire conversations in her head in which Ludovico, astounded by her wit, begged forgiveness for his transgressions. She wondered (for the hundredth time) if his wife had died, and if that was what all this was about. She wondered again why a powerful man like Bishop Acciaiuoli was begging for an audience with her . Especially after he’d so carefully orchestrated her exile. So when they reached the river Arno before the city proper, she told Piero to make camp, even though the Porta San Gallo into Florence was just another hour’s walk. She needed one more night to think.

“Please, Ginevra, can’t we go on? I’m sick of sleeping on the ground and eating only old prunes.”

“Be grateful for those prunes, Piero,” replied Ginevra, who was just as sick of them. “It’s best to wait for morning. The gate might be closed for the day already, and we’d have to walk all the way back to avoid sleeping next to the rubbish piles outside the wall.”

Piero harrumphed off into the surrounding brush to find sticks for a fire in the gathering dusk.

Ginevra sat against a tree and watched the brown waters of the Arno swirl past them. A body bobbed by and she shut her eyes against it. She opened them again and saw a beautiful pear tree growing out of the rocky riverbank that she had not noticed before. It was covered with white buds tipped in pink. She breathed deeply and a light perfume filled her with calm. Pear trees were wise; they knew the answers to women’s troubles. She walked to the tree and the buds opened into fragrant blossoms. She touched a branch and the delicate petals closed, swelling into golden pears. The tree was speaking to her, of love that ripened over time: Ludo had asked her back to Florence and she came. They were bound to each other, still, by the golden strings. What joy! What relief! The sound of water drip-dripping on rocks pulled her attention. The corpse she had seen earlier crawled out of the river and stared at her pear tree. She yelled at it to go back in the water, but her voice came out as only a faintest whisper and the corpse did not listen. Instead, it reached into the branches and plucked a golden pear and swallowed it whole. It did this again and again until every single fruit was gone, and then it took the branches in its mouth and sucked the leaves off them until they were barren sticks. With a bloated belly, the corpse slid back into the river and floated against the current, toward Florence.

She awoke to Piero shaking her. The sun rose red. There was no pear tree on the riverbank and no corpse had crawled from the water. But the dream’s message was real enough: however he may have felt about her, Ludo was long dead and Ginevra was a fool for thinking otherwise.

She grabbed Piero close and wept bitterly into his shoulder.