Beyond the Wicked Willow: Chronicles of a Teenage Witchslayer

THE TRIBE OF THE INTRAPPOLATI

From the outside, the tribal hut was virtually undetectable. It looked like nothing more than a large mound of earth, covered with various types of undergrowth, of which a good portion was lilac-colored flowering vervain. Inside—where Frankie and the others, for the time being, abided—the distinctive structure was expertly crafted. In the shape of a perfect dome, the hut was constructed of especially thick basket woven vines, which were strong enough to withstand the crushing weight of earth and flora overhead. Rooms were separated by woven vine partitions that stretched from the beaten earth floor to the gently arching ceiling.

Sam, Beef, Bookworm, Ambroggio, Giacomo, and Capricia stood within the main room speaking with Italus, who looked to be well into his eighties. He had a dignified air about him and deep lines in his face that told of a hard life. He was richly adorned with jewelry crafted of feathers, walnuts, snail shells, and vervain. From among these, the most distinctive was a large necklace weighed down with the fangs of a myriad of beasts. He stood before his guests with authority.

"I am Italus, Chief Medicine Man of our tribe, the Intrappolati. I am descendent of King Italus, King of the tribes of our ancestors; the Enotri, Itali, and Siculi."

"I am Ambroggio. We are here—"

"To slay the Strega," Italus finished Ambroggio's sentence, nodding. "We were sent message of your coming from the Befana."

"Then you know the importance of the witchslayer's survival," replied Ambroggio.

"I have done all that I can. Now, it is up to him," said Italus. "He is battling for his life," he continued. "Come," he said, as he led them to another room.

Within the room imbued with ancestral spirits, Frankie lay unconscious on a healing cot. Four-foot high, the cot was crafted from reeds and vines, and cushioned with a thick mat of thatch. At the foot of the cot—in a stone-lined pit upon the floor—smokeless charcoal embers burned a glowing red. A prickly pear cactus sat beside the burn pit, bursting with bright orange and yellow flowers.

Shirtless and sweating profusely, Frankie shivered uncontrollably. A walnut talisman necklace hung around his neck, and a medicinal compress made from a variety of macerated plant matter had been applied to the snakebite directly over his heart. A bouquet of freshly gathered vervain rested upon his abdomen. Frankie's friends looked on with expressions of grave concern.

"Will he live?" asked Bookworm quietly.

"If he dies, it's my fault. I wasted the Sacred Spring water," said Beef.

"Don't say that. It's not your fault," said Sam.

Beef looked at Italus desperately. "Will he survive?" he asked.

"Within his veins runs the blood of a warrior. But, his battle will be an arduous one," answered Italus.

Italus took out a small wooden case from a pouch hanging at his waist, carefully lifted the lid of the case, and took out a long curved viper fang. The fang was brilliant white and needle sharp. At the thicker end, a small hole had been bored and a thin strip of dried reed was strung through like thread through the eye of a needle. At Frankie's waist, where his lower body had been draped with his robe, Italus inserted the fang into a fold in the fabric and began to sew.

The others looked on in silent curiosity and never once took their eyes off the old medicine man's every move. When he came to a certain point in his task, he left the needle and thread hanging in the fabric and picked up the wooden case again. This time, Italus drew a fat lively millipede from the case. It was no less than nine inches long. He took the healthy insect and slipped it within the pouch he had sewn into the fold. Once it was in, Italus sewed the opening completely closed. The fabric protruded and jumped and moved as the millipede crawled and wriggled.