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I.
The carriage arrives by the end of a merciless July, one copper-colored afternoon, with the evening sun spilling blood along the horizon’s edge.
A woman steps outside, and the coachman urges the horses to take off, eager to escape the searing sun shining down on the pebbled ascent to the sprawling property of the Della Serra family.
The woman barely looks older than Rosalia but carries herself with such poise and determination that the young lady can’t help but look up to her. Raven-black hair falls to the stranger’s hips like a cascade of night, loose strands swaying in the coastal breeze carrying a promise of relief through the sun-soaked scenery. Her steps are slow and measured, grey eyes scanning her surroundings, not just testing the proverbial waters, but taking the time to let them sink into her senses, almost as if tasting a new type of wine: The chorus of birds wishing for nightfall. The heavy aroma of rosemary and thyme lingering in the air. The weathered stone walls and the arched windows with drawn curtains — all except one.
The storm of the stranger’s eyes lingers for one moment too long where Rosalia stands, and Rosalia feels her pulse quicken.
II.
Chidera’s hands look dangerous handling the cutlery at dinner. Eerily precise with their grip on the silver, uncannily determined in their motions, tearing vegetables and fish to pieces. The oil lamps illuminate her sharp features, accentuate the drape of her olive green dress which falls in voluminous pleats from her waist, but hugs her figure perfectly above.
“Where did you live before relocating to Siciliy?” Rosalia’s mother asks.
“Africa,” Chidera explains. “Egypt was my most recent stop.”
“And what was your purpose there?”
“Missionary work.”
Chidera doesn’t seem like the kind of woman to spread the word of God to another continent, but Rosalia doesn’t comment. Once the polite chatter finally ceases, the young lady clears her throat. “Miss Chidera?”
“Yes?” She takes a sip of wine as her eyes find the Della Serra heiress, fixating on her like one would a gleaming piece of jewelry adorned with only the most expensive gemstones.
“Do you genuinely think you can help my Rosario?” Rosalia can’t bear to waste any more time; there is a reason the healer came, and it’s not a lavish dinner accompanied by meaningless conversation.
“Take me to him after dinner,” Chidera suggests. “I will do my best to help. I promise.”
III.
A long, scarring history of plague and death has brought deep-seated fear to the people of Palermo; a plague of an entirely new kind is no exception. When animals around the area started exhibiting unusual symptoms, concern spread quickly. Wealthy enough to afford the luxury of a specialized healer, the Della Serras contacted Chidera, who had only just begun to make a name for herself in northwest Sicily.
Now, she is observing Rosario in the stable. Black glass bead eyes stare into nothingness, encrusted around the edges. He barely notices the unfamiliar visitor slowly circling him.
“He refuses to eat,” Rosalia sighs, feeling useless as she stands by and waits for Chidera’s opinion. “Barely touches his water trough, either.”
“That’s fairly regular behavior for an ailing horse,” Chidera remarks. “What makes you think this is a case of an unknown plague?”
“There are no clear signs yet,” the young lady admits. “But we have seen it in other animals in the area. Dogs driven mad out of nowhere, blood running from their eyes. Sheep losing their wool and growing strange lumps all over their bodies instead. House cats going through sudden growth spurts despite being of adult age, showing claws and teeth most unusual for their species. Most were dead within a few days after the sickness first took over. That's why we rushed for your arrival. Palermo has encountered plagues often enough to tell when it’s facing a new one, Miss Chidera. We are not exaggerating this.”
“I see.” Chidera stops in front of Rosalia, looking her up and down. “You must love Rosario a lot if you took such troubles and expenses onto you just to get me here as quickly as possible.”
“I do.” Rosalia's eager nod speaks of both pride and fear. “They said you were a true miracle healer. I couldn't take chances with this. Rosario deserves only the best care the country can offer.”
A slight smirk tugs at Chidera's lips. “So you convinced your parents to hire a stranger based on promising rumors that preceded her?”
Rosalia lowers her gaze. “I named him Rosario because combing through his mane has felt like counting prayer beads from the very first day. When he carries me through the lands, I am free — so free it feels divine. His hoofbeats call to the Heavens for me, and they never fail to grant me that glorious feeling of making my own path in this world, guided by the Lord himself.” She doesn't dare look at Chidera, following the movements of her own fingers twirling her umbra curls instead. Not yet familiar with the omnipresent haunting that is death and not yet ready to face a loss so devastating, Chidera is her only hope. “He is my dearest friend, my most loyal companion, my holy guide to freedom. As a healer so intimately familiar with the nature and value of animals, you surely must understand?”
Somehow, she already knows that Chidera does.
IV.
Weeks go by, and Rosario does begin to recover.
Whenever Rosalia asks Chidera how she is achieving such results, the raven-haired woman smiles and says: “Magic.”
Her tone says she’s joking, but her eyes tell a different story, and over time, Rosalia comes to believe that the healer truly is capable of magic: The special food she’s feeding Rosario must be spiked with components pulsing raw energy. Her baths and washes cannot be infused with only herbs; there must be a divine power to them, too, unnoticeable to the untrained human eye. Rosalia doesn’t mention it to her parents, of course. In a city that named the original Rosalia a saint for her role in ending the plague a few decades prior instead of recognizing and celebrating her for the powerful witch she probably had been, it would be unwise to reveal such a benevolent magic user to the people as what she truly is.
Soon, the sickly warmth radiating from the stallion’s body recedes, his eyes become alert again, his pointy grey ears begin to react to sounds much more frequently than they did when Chidera arrived. No rare plague after all, just an infection that caused him pain and fatigue — or the witch they invited is simply powerful enough to avert even the worst of diseases.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Rosalia whispers, wrapping her arms around her stallion’s neck, breathing in his familiar scent with as much gratitude as one can only hold for something one has truly come close to losing.
And just like that, that gorgeous smile, always on the verge of spilling secrets meant only for the two of them, makes its way onto the witch’s face. “How about you take me along for a ride?”
V.
Chidera is silent the entire time they’re on the stallion’s back. She listens to Rosalia’s giddy laughter, peaceful as a cat rolled up on a window sill, an appreciative observer of the joy only freedom can bring.
Rosalia has never enjoyed sharing her free time with anyone but Rosario, but she is grateful for Chidera’s company reflecting her own happiness back at her, more honest than any mirror her parents’ mansion could offer.
VI.
Rosalia’s fingers comb through the stallion’s mane, bit by bit, untangling the strands their first ride in a long time left all knotted and wild. Chidera watches her, and the weight of her gaze reminds the young lady that the patience and affection with which she tends to him is a rare delight, eternally withheld from most humans.
When Rosalia flinches, Chidera startles. “Are you alright?”
“I am,” Rosalia assures. “But I’m not sure Rosario is. Look.” She points to the spot where she just parted the majestic mane, only to reveal a little knob with a sharp point to it, resembling a thorn. Blood is pooling at her fingertip, oozing from a pinpoint prick wound. “I cut myself on that. This doesn’t seem healthy.”
“Every rosary has its thorns,” the witch argues. “It's only natural, don't you think? Such vast amounts of beauty cannot go unchecked or unprotected. They need a dash of danger to complete them, or they would surely lead us all astray. Tempt us to destroy them, and maybe even ourselves in the process.”
A nervous smile plays on Rosalia’s lips. “I don’t think that is how the saying goes, Miss Chidera.”
Chidera chuckles. “It is true nonetheless.” Ever so gently, she takes Rosalia's hand, inspecting the tiny wound. Bringing it closer and closer to her face, she finally touches her lips to the bloody trail, laps at it with her tongue, takes Rosalia’s fingertip in her mouth for just a brief second, any semblance of pain disappearing beneath the gentle caress, dissolved in her saliva covering the wound.
With the healer looking at her from beneath heavy eyelashes, Rosalia can almost feel her thoughts melting into liquid, wine red and perfectly smooth just like the blood staining her skin, ready to be swallowed up as well, ravished and digested, never to be seen again.
“You should be more careful,” Chidera manages, her voice a bit hoarse, and Rosalia wonders what the blood feels like on her tongue. An iron-and-salt taste of longing is what she imagines, and the thought makes her shiver. “Danger appears to be inexplicably drawn to you.”
Rosalia huffs. “Is it really that inexplicable for something to be drawn to me?”
A soft laugh escapes Chidera’s lips as her fingers find Rosalia’s wrist, gently pulling her towards the house where her medical kit is, bandages and antiseptic tinctures and all. “Not at all, my sweet. Not at all.”
VII.
Rosalia leans against the stable door. “Lately, I find myself coming back here much more often than necessary.” Ever since that moment they shared after she cut herself on Rosario’s newly grown thorns, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to stay away and even more difficult to justify her constant absence to her parents. “It’s strange, isn’t it?”
“It may be. But I don’t mind.” Chidera shrugs, continuing to brush Rosario’s mane. “Please be as strange as you please around me. In fact, I’d feel insulted if you held any of your strangeness back.”
“As strange as I please?” A tender blush warms Rosalia’s cheeks. “The Lord would not endorse that, I’m afraid.”
“Do the strangest corners of your heart wish to bring harm upon anyone?” Chidera asks.
Rosalia shakes her head. “Oh my! Of course not. Never.” She swallows hard. “It’s not that.”
“Then I think The Lord would have mercy on your strange little sou. Doesn’t he love all of his creations? And didn’t he himself create you to be precisely the way you are?”
Rosalia ponders for a long moment. “You’re not wrong.” With newfound confidence, she straightens her posture and turns toward Chidera. “Well, then, Miss Chidera. Would you like to accompany me for a nightly ride after sundown?”
VIII.
Under the cloak of darkness, Rosario transforms into an even stranger version of himself. Where there were only thorns before, vines now sprout from his skin, such a muted, dark shade of green they almost appear black.
“He will be alright,” Chidera assures when Rosalia expresses her concern. “There is nothing dangerous about the changes Rosario is going through. In my experience, every being heals from extended struggle in their own way. Sometimes, one emerges from the depths entirely different than one once sunk into them. That is not a bad thing.”
Rosalia doesn’t know what to make of that. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. But he does seem happy and healthy.”
They both fall silent for a long while, laying back on the blanket they brought, looking at the starlight canopy above them.
“I was named after the great Saint Rosalia.,” Rosalia’s eyes stay fixed on the remnants of light Lord knows how far away, just bright enough to illuminate the night sky for them right now.
“I guessed as much.” She can practically hear the smile in Chidera’s voice. “And your name has led you right here, hasn’t it? Saint Rosalia saved Palermo from the plague. You saved your dear Rosario.”
“No. You did. I merely called for help when I needed it.” Rosalia sighs. “I wish I could be more like Saint Rosalia. She retreated into the mountains, you know? Left her noble life behind to follow her true calling and serve God the way he intended for her.” Rosalia can’t help but admire that. “It sounds … magical.”
“Have the mountains been calling out to you for a long time, Rosalia?”
Rosalia laughs, suddenly nervous upon the unexpected question. “Ever since I was a little girl,” she admits.
“It’s an absurd thought — that a thing as ancient as a mountain range is choosing to pull a being as fragile and naive as you towards them. That these woods might long for the soul and flesh of a human so delicate. And yet, they do. I can feel it in my bones.” Chidera’s eyes find her in the the midnight hour’s depth and darkness, pale in the dwindling rest of light speckled across the world, so diffused down here it’s barely more than a sheen grazing their skin. It’s a gaze so piercing it shatters something inside Rosalia’s ribcage. “In the roots connecting me not only to this place, but to all of nature: The mountains of Palermo are longing for you. And so am I.”
Rosalia takes a deep breath, lets it out in a sigh that feels heavy with an entire cosmos full of questions. “You call out to me in a way very similar to these mountains, Miss Chidera,” she admits, fully aware that her secret will be safe with both Chidera and the mountains. “You have since before I ever met you.”
IX.
The next evening, Rosario barely resembles the horse she remembers. Vines and thorns are now crowned by funeral-black roses. His fur has turned dark, too, and his eyes appear as bottomless voids now, shadows rising from them like smoke from a chimney.
“My God, what happened to him?“ Rosalia shakes her head. “He looks all wrong. These roses—how can this be?”
But, calm as ever, Chidera just smiles. “I made them bloom for you, Rosalia.” Chidera caresses the stallion’s snout, earning a satisfied little noise. “Don’t worry. Rosario is just fine. But he is not of this world anymore. Just like you. Like us.”
Rosalia steps closer, putting a hand on Rosario’s side. He feels more familiar than ever, and she closes her eyes in relief. “Why?” she asks anyway, cautious of the promise she suspects behind this transformation.
“So we can take him with us where we're going.”
“Where are we going, Miss Chidera?”
“Into the mountains, of course.” The hand that was just resting against Rosario’s fur now finds the stallion’s owner, stroking her cheek. It|s warm, inviting, and the young lady can feel her body turn soft and willing despite her mind’s protest — exactly the way flesh should be. “Isn't that what you always longed for, my sweet?”
X.
Come into the mountains with me, my dear Rosalia. We can look at the stars from the peak of Monte Pellegrino every night, if you so wish. You can finally take all the time you need for your favorite kind of prayer. Find me at the gate just before dawn and tell me what you decide.
Rosalia’s night is sleepless, but plagued by dreams nonetheless.
XI.
By dawn, Rosalia doesn’t hesitate anymore.
Her gloved hand reaches for Chidera’s, and she lets herself be pulled up, resting comfortably on the stallion’s back where his thorns can’t hurt her, arms wrapping around the witch’s waist.
“It must be fate that brought you to me,” she murmurs into the linen of Chidera’s dress, warm words reverently released into the world not to be heard, but to be consumed.
“Then you must be the maker of your own fate,” Chider laughs as Rosario begins to pick up a slow, steady pace, for they needn’t hurry: The mountains will wait for them as long as necessary. “You called me here, after all.”
Rosalia can’t argue with that. She did get her parents to hire Chidera. Little had they known that by trying to fight the suspected animal plague, they invited a different kind of contagion into their home, and that it would cost them a treasure much more precious than an exceptionally well-bred horse. They had no way of knowing the kind of missionary work Chidera does to has nothing to do with spreading the Lord’s word, but with holding people to theirs, getting them to follow their own truth for the sake of natural balance in the world.
“I must be an exceptionally good one.” Rosario’s sinister neigh fills the air, and the morning fog swallows them up, obscuring them from view as they disappear into a future of their own making. Rosalia’s heart lights up with something foreign she never knew was missing: Hope. The mountains have held it for her all her life, and now, with her glorious horse and her powerful witch by her side, Rosalia is coming to grab it.