The Corsican Woman Read online

  The Corsican Woman

  Madge Swindells

  © Madge Swindells 2017

  Madge Swindells has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Part One

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part Two

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Part Three

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Part Four

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Part Five

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Part VI

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Epilogue

  Chapter 90

  Acknowledgements

  Lawrie Mackintosh, Father Richard O’Rourke, Cobus Smit, Peta Sokolsky, Greg Morris, and Nellie Swindells.

  With my thanks to Larry Kirshbaum for his inspired editing.

  I am deeply indebted to Dorothy Carrington, whose magnificent book Granite Island, provided me with both inspiration and the background to write The Corsican Woman.

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  TAITA, CORSICA, 11 August 1960

  Sybilia Rocca sat motionless in a high-backed chair. Only her fingers gripping the table’s edge and the unnatural hunch of her shoulders betrayed her tension. The windows were shuttered, but beams of light shone through the wide cracks lending the stark room a deceptive mellowness. Sunbeams shone on the yellow varnished table reflecting on the woman’s upturned face so that she resembled a golden statue of the Madonna. Her stillness accentuated this impression, and so did her features, which were classically correct. Her deep blue eyes, usually warm and laughing, were glazed and swollen, but even then she was lovely, with a bruised, sensuous beauty that incites male aggression and the rancour of unfulfilled desires.

  In the village Sybilia was known as the putana, the whore, and she was despised, but she bore her reputation with dignity and a certain nobility that infuriated the men and drove the women to envy her. But here, in the solitude of her room, dignity had fled as she clung to the table and tried to stifle her sobs.

  Abruptly Sybilia stood up, flung back the shutters, and leaned out. It was noon: the sky was a luminous blue behind jagged peaks. Snow streaked and sun-drenched, the mountains were a shimmering backdrop of brilliant glare against purple shadows. Below was the deep dank green of ancient forests, pine, chestnuts, cork oaks, stretching to the distant azure sea.

  Beneath the window was a narrow terraced garden with an old stone wall where the land fell a sheer three hundred metres to the lake. Narrowing her eyes against the glare, Sybilia searched the garden, but it was deserted: straggling flowers, weeds, rubble, and a broken shed.

  Crossing the wide room, Sybilia flung open the shutters on the western side, which overlooked the square. The village of Taita had been hewn from an almost inaccessible cliff between the mountain and the lake. Granite against granite — a cluster of gaunt fortresses around a cobbled square. To one side of the square was the church of St Augustine, and a statue of the Taitan patron saint stood in the shade of a dense chestnut grove, beside a fountain where mountain water trickled into an old stone trough.

  Sybilia turned as if sleepwalking and, trancelike, walked down the stone steps to the living room. She shuddered as she took the rifle from the peg on the wall, but after only a moment’s hesitation, she loaded it and went outside.

  The air was oppressive, the trees motionless, the village lay becalmed. Even the birds were slumbering in the shady branches of chestnut trees. The throb of cicadas and the tinkling church bell were muted, almost inaudible in the sluggish heat. Dogs sprawled over cobblestones, and a sow with seven piglets grunted blissfully in a mud pool at the edge of the trough, where cool water from mountain streams gurgled lazily in deep, grassy gutters.

  On a bench in front of the church a man sat dreaming. Even in his sixties, he was still handsome with his harsh but regular features, his shock of wavy white hair, and his bushy white moustache curled at the ends as if in a perpetual sneer. He was a powerful man with bulging biceps and strong mountain legs. Over the years he had grown arrogant, and this showed in the curve of his mouth and the glint of his eyes.

  He heard footsteps, yawned, and sat up blinking and regretful. When he saw his daughter-in-law, Sybilia, approaching, his face became a trifle sterner.

  Father Andrews, who was climbing the steps to his church, paused and watched her. A strange tenseness emanated from the woman as she walked across the square, carrying a rifle awkwardly. The priest paused and then went on into the porch.

  At ten paces Sybilia swung the rifle to her shoulder. She took aim, but her hands were shaking and the image in the rifle’s sights swung wildly from the man, to the trees, to the cobbles. She saw him frown, open his eyes, and jerk forward. Sybilia gasped, steadied her hands as she held her breath, and pulled the trigger. The bullet shattered one arm he flung up to protect his body. She moaned softly. ‘Oh, God! Oh God!’

  The man fell sideways across the bench, then pushed himself up to his feet and lurched towards Sybilia. Sobbing, she struggled to control her shaking hands and find the courage to pull the trigger again. Another shot rang out, and a crimson stain appeared upon his snowy-white shirt. He staggered but kept on his feet. There was a look of shock and anger on his face.

  ‘No, Sybilia. Don’t do it.’ Father Andrews came running out of the church and down the stone s
teps into the square. He felt as if he were in a nightmare; it seemed to him that he was hardly advancing as he threw himself forward — but too late.

  He saw the woman fire again, then again and again. At each loud report the man. shuddered and jerked like a puppet with a clumsy manipulator until he collapsed spread-eagled on the cobblestones.

  The priest reached the woman and grabbed her, but she did not resist. ‘Holy Mother of God,’ he swore in his native Irish tongue without even realizing.

  Sybilia stood staring at the corpse and the blood, her mouth working as she gasped for breath. When the priest took her arm it felt icy cold. Suddenly she flung the rifle away and ran sobbing into the church.

  Father Andrews bent over Xavier Rocca to give absolution. Too late, he knew. By now Xavier was in God’s hands — or the devil’s.

  Part One

  Chapter 2

  Looking back, it’s hard to recall the events that enmeshed me with the destiny of the Roccas. I suppose it began years ago at Boston University, when I first broached my ideas to the head of the anthropology department, Professor Don Miller. Archaeology was a new science in the faculty, and I was regarded with a certain amount of skepticism. I wanted to link these two social sciences in a single project that was unorthodox and therefore suspect.

  I argued patiently for weeks: What do we know about Stone Age man in Europe? We know his tools, homes, burial sites, pottery, but very little about the guy himself — his beliefs, politics, ideals. We transfer data from contemporary primitive societies: aborigines, bushmen — degenerate cultures. A far better method would be to find an isolated European group, cut off for centuries by geographic barriers, and study their roots, aided by an on-site archaeological excavation.

  ‘It’s speculative, Dr. Walters.’ Miller told me time and time again.

  I shelved my project. Then one evening I found an old book gathering dust on the library shelves: British Essays in Favour of the Brave Corsicans, by James Boswell (1768). More research convinced me that Corsica was my goal.

  Isolated for generations, the islanders’ unique culture and beliefs had no parallel in Europe. I should be able to find traces of Stone Age man in the community’s legends and superstitions — a living legacy to study and record. Now that I was more sure of my objectives, paths were smoothed, doors were opened, and before year’s end I had a five-year grant to finance my research.

  I’d been right.

  My research had been even more successful than I’d hoped. The village I’d chosen, called Taita, consisted of a cluster of ancient stone houses, gaunt and enduring, built on a precipitous rocky cliff. On the mountain slopes above I’d found an ideal vantage point: a granite boulder whose concave top was smooth enough to sit on comfortably and high enough to see over the tangled undergrowth. From here the village appeared to be spread-eagled beneath me, neat and convenient as a living frog pinned for dissection: its heart the cobbled square, its soul the church, its conscience the indomitable Irish priest, Father Andrews.

  This satisfactory project was now completed. My published theories had brought me international acknowledgement. Two quasi-scientific books had made me financially independent. I had no cause for regrets. I was about to quit the island because I’d been offered the chair of anthropology, due to Don Miller’s early retirement. Yet that summer morning, as I gazed down at Taita, I felt regretful. I didn’t want to leave. Forcing my mind away from vague longings of what might have been, I considered the future.

  Professor Jacklyn Walters! (Jock to my friends). It sounded great, and I’d worked hard for it. I wondered how I would cope with wearing suits and ties. For the past few years I’d lived in shorts, hiking boots, and a watch that doubled as a compass. I’d miss the free and easy life-style. I’d miss Taita and the villagers. Most of all I’d miss Sybilia Rocca. We’d been close friends for the past year, and I had to admit I owed her a great deal. I’d never have found the ruins without Sybilia’s help. They’d been completely hidden by the maquis, that dense thicket of myrtle, lavender, thyme, cistus, and wild fig trees that covers half the island and chokes the torpid air with its heady, bittersweet aroma.

  I knew that she, too, was feeling sad. Did she regret my leaving? She had said very little on the previous evening when we had discussed my new appointment. This morning, as usual, she had arrived at the dig with our provisions. She’d been excavating in the cave for most of the morning, but she had left just before lunch. I’d noticed how tense she looked. What was it she’d said just before she hurried down the hill?

  I wish I had loved you more… Vm sorry I left it so long and wasted so much time. ’

  Strange that she should say that. It had sounded like a promise, but one that had come too late. For the past five years I’d lusted for Sybilia, but in spite of our friendship she had never acquiesced, never let down her defences.

  From the monotonous clang of spades against rock-hard gravel, I realized the diggers were slacking off for lunch. God, it was hot. If it weren’t for the workers, I’d take the afternoon off and go spear fishing. This was just the day for it. I could see the Gulf of Girolata twinkling in the distance. I grinned as I gazed at the distant blue sheen, remembering yesterday’s chase after a giant ray that had flapped halfway round the bay like a grotesque, hideous crow before I finished it off.

  The digging stopped, and there was silence. Siesta time! I glanced at my watch. It was noon. The men began opening their lunch baskets. I was hungry, too.

  I climbed down from the rock and walked toward the cave, one corner of which I’d converted into a small office. Sybilia had left my lunch there. Pausing at the entrance, I gazed back toward the site for which I had searched so painstakingly. I gloated at the statues: hewn from granite, they were three times larger than life, their features blunted, their eyes bored holes set close together as they glared down with sinister intensity.

  When the first shot rang out I was eating my sandwich. I wasn’t particularly startled by the shot. Almost every man, woman, and child in Corsica could handle a rifle, and hunting was the national pastime.

  When a second shot rang out it seemed that the sound echoed from the village square. Then I heard shouts.' I raced back to my vantage point and grabbed the binoculars.

  Three more shots rang out in rapid succession.

  I focused on the cobbles through a gap in the branches and saw the victim prone on the ground. Who was it?

  I was snagged by a moment’s indecision. This was my last chance to witness a traditional vendetta. My view was spoiled by the trees, but if I were to run down to the village, I would miss the next ten minutes’ vital observation.

  The priest ran down the steps from the church, and the villagers began to gather. Then a woman ran across the square toward the church. Her familiar stance sent my heart thudding against my rib cage.

  Could it be? No! Impossible! Not her!

  The woman stumbled and sprawled over the steps. Momentarily she looked back. It was Sybilia.

  ‘Oh God!’ My mind was in a turmoil. It couldn’t be happening — not to people you know. But Sybilia was Corsican.

  Why? Why had she done this terrible thing?

  As these thoughts flashed through my mind, I dropped the binoculars and raced down the slippery slope through the maquis. In spite of my panic, I was ironically aware that a lifetime’s discipline in detached, scientific observation was in danger of being hurled to the wind.

  Chapter 3

  By the time I reached the square I was too late to help anyone. Father Andrews had hidden Sybilia in the church and run back with an altar cloth to cover the corpse.

  The villagers were hurling abuse toward the church in a vitriolic outpouring of pent-up emotions that, I knew from experience, could turn them into a punitory mob within minutes. There was a sudden, high-pitched keening from the mourners:‘The whore… the shameless hussy… may she die in agony…"The voceri, or professional mourner, was singing, with a voice like an angel. The drumming was louder no
w. Oppressive!

  Father Andrews hurried over to me. ‘I’ve locked Sybilia in the sacristy,’ he mumbled. ‘I don’t know what we’re going to do.’ The priest hurried back to Xavier’s corpse: ‘Lord have mercy. Christ, have mercy, Lord have mercy, Holy Mary pray for him.’ His voice was in fatuous combat with the mourners who were giving full vent to their talents, their hair dishevelled, their dresses rent. Soon they would carry Xavier Rocca to his house, but the mourning would last aU night and well into the next day.

  I stared down at the solemn, waxed features and the massive corpse of Xavier Rocca, war hero, leader of the local Nationalist party, and village headman. To the authorities he was a wanted murderer who hid in the maquis when police squads arrived; to the villagers he was a ‘bandit of honour’, revered for upholding Corsican honour. What a magnificent figure of a man Xavier had been! Now his body would be reprocessed into this endless earthly ressurrection, as his soul would be.

  ‘Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy, Holy Mary pray for him.'

  Angry cries for vengeance mingled with the monotonous thud-thud-thud of rifle butts slammed on cobbles.

  Suddenly my arm was gripped. Father Andrews looked defeated. Glittering eyes revealed his panic. ‘It will take the police two days to get here,’ he muttered close to my ear. ‘What can we do? They’ll be coming for her tonight. She won’t see the light of day if she stays in the church.’

  ‘Someone must hide her.’

  He shook his head angrily. ‘Who in Taita would shelter the putanaV

  For a moment I couldn’t think. I felt dazed. I knew Sybilia as a warm and sensitive person. I couldn’t be wrong. Goddamnit, we’d worked together for months. I knew her well enough, didn’t I? Yet I couldn’t refute the evidence of my own eyes. Shafts of panic kept penetrating my guts. With this terrible act, Sybilia had put herself beyond help. She had shot down a man in cold blood in front of most of the villagers. What would they do to her — the villagers or the French authorities?

  ‘Listen to me,’ Father Andrews whispered. ‘They’ll use this Vendetta as an excuse to kill her. There are many people in this village who would sleep easier if she were dead. Without help, she won’t see morning. The poor girl,’ he added to himself.