Author's note: This is my entry for Postuhenin's Santa's Not-so-Little Helpers Contest. I chose The Befana from Italy as my subject.
Bologna, Italy
5th of January
Ella watched the fire flicker as another cold gust of wind struck the house. The dying embers gave little relief, really, from the terrible cold winter brought. Her dry throat was sore, and her stomach felt like it was on fire. Not the warm kind that fills you with a sense of relief, but the ravenous, hungry fire that ate away at your insides. There was no food at home, and there was nothing much a nine-year-old could do about that.
The skies darkened and the clock struck 10. Ella and her father were the only ones that called their place home. Her father, though, still wasn’t back home. Sometimes Ella wished he never would be. She was terrified of him, terrified of the monster that the bottles unleashed. All she remembered when thinking of her father was an excruciating pain in her belly, though the memories were strangely foggy.
She felt dizzy. She hated the medicine that Father put in the food she ate every day. He claimed it was to “calm her down”, but all she really felt was fatigue with a touch of nausea. But she couldn’t go to sleep. Not today.
For even when she didn’t remember her mother much, she did remember the stories she told her when she was much younger. Particularly the one about the Befana. The groggy old witch that would show up late into the fifth night of January and leave presents for children. Every year she received them, but never had she seen the Befana. Father always forced her to bed before the Befana showed up. But tonight, father didn’t seem to be returning home anytime soon. Ella knew he was out drinking with his friends. She knew the raging thing that would walk through that door and grab her by the neck. She knew what the bottles turned Father into.
The clock struck twelve and the fire died, startling Ella. She ran and hid behind the safety of her bed.
Thud.
She heard something open the chimney from above.
Thud.
She heard it shuffle down the chimney.
Thud.
A crouched figure, bathed in the soft moonlight, emerged from the fireplace.
Ella had to hold her mouth to stop herself from screaming. The Befana was everything that she thought it would NOT be. It appeared barely, vaguely human, but all the proportions were wrong. A human head rested on top of a very elongated spine that stuck out through her clothes, and grey, matted hair flowed down to her knees. She was tall, horrifyingly so, and her arms were still longer than her body. They dragged on the ground as she shuffled away from the fireplace. And the smell- oh the smell- Ella knew she wouldn’t, she couldn’t forget that smell till she died. A nauseous mixture of festering wounds and burning skin.
Ella remembered the part of the tale that described the not-so-pretty things that happened to the children who managed to sneak a glimpse at the Befana. And just as she was about to pretend to be asleep, the tall figure paused. The Befana stood stock-still for a moment, before turning around and looking right at her.
Ella froze, making a sound halfway between a scream and a cry. The Befana began running on four legs like an animal- some twisted hellhound- some abomination of a spider- until it was face-to-face with Ella. The Befana’s face appeared to be covered, a metal mask hammered into her face. It raised her hand high and Ella flinched, shaking head to toe. But the blow never came. Opening her eyes, she saw the Befana bring its hand down to hers. She slowly peeked into its hand.
Inside the twisted, elongated bones covered in blisters that seemed to heal and burst open again and again, lay a bright blue doll.
The last thing Ella remembered before drifting off to sleep was the Befana caressing her face in its arms.
***
Medieval Italy
A soft ray of light slipped its way inside the dingy shack. It fell and dissolved into a tired, sleepy face resting on the windowsill, waking her up. Eyelids fluttered open, revealing icy grey eyes under light eyebrows. She looked around for a bit, fatigued from sleep, and then ran to the next room where her father lay.
The old man that lay on the cot was skeletal, unnaturally so. The most striking thing was not, however, the individual bones visible through the skin, or the man’s pallid figure, but the massive outgrowth from his arm that almost looked like a head had grown on there. Cancer, the worst kind. Seeing her at the doorstep, the man smiled. And even in the terrible state he was in, the smile still lit up the room.
“Papa, how are you feeling?”
She stood near the man now and could see the strain his body took to even breathe. Chest heaving, every cord in his neck bulging, he moved himself to look up at his daughter.
“I think this all will end soon, and I’ll finally get to go see the big light in the sky!”
The cheery smile on his face made the fact hit even harder.
“Not if I can help it, Papa. I will not let you die.”
“But it takes you a lot of effort to do what you are planning to, my dear. I couldn’t ask for that. Save that energy for when someone else needs help, maybe?”
“Absolutely not. Nobody’s more important to me than my own father. Now sit up and let me do what I must.”
She closed her eyes, shut all the other sounds out and focused on her inner mind. She felt the familiar rustle, the sound of something flowing- she felt the inner wave of energy. Focusing on it, she reached for the bright stream and then-
A loud, repeated knock on the door broke her focus, and the energy slipped away. Feeling frustrated and extremely irate, she strode over to the door and slammed it open. Three people dressed in luxurious clothes stood before her. Perfectly trimmed beards and neat attire. And the crown on their heads. There was no mistaking them. The Magi. The members of the Royal Guard of the King and Queen.
Great. Just great. Royalty. The religious kind. And they definitely know about my… ability.
They seemed to be wrinkling their noses in disgust at the shabby shack and her own tattered attire. She stared back, keeping in check the rising fear in the back of her mind. Just last week was a woman burnt at a stake for the crime of being a witch. And her powers would definitely fall under the Queen’s definition of “witchcraft”. The Magi finally broke the silence.
“We believe we are looking for Fana?”
“You’ve come to the right place. What do you want from me, Sir?” She added as much malice as she could into the last word. She suspected the reason for their unannounced visit. The Magi frowned.
“We know about your healing powers and what you’re capable of. However, Her Highness has, in her infinite kindness, decided to forgive your heretical misadventures if you assist her in the birth of her holy Son, which may happen upon us very soon.”
“As much as I’d like to help Her-highness whatever, I have a father who requires urgent and intensive care. It takes me a lot of energy to perform a healing. I’m sorry, I cannot help you. Wish you a good day, Sir.”
She tried to close the door but the Magi caught it, their strength overpowering her own. They smiled hideously, and she decided she couldn’t choose what looked worse on their faces, a frown or a smile.
“You seem to be under the impression that Her Highness is requesting your help. This is no request. Either you help her, after which you can live to your heart's content in Her infinite grace, or… you can join that charred body over there tomorrow.”
If they expected Fana to flinch at their stare, they were sorely disappointed. The look of utter disgust that she took startled the Magi, though they did not show her that she had gotten to them.
“Very well, then. We’ll let Her Highness know about the… situation. Personally, though, we suspect you’d be lucky if you lived to see the next week.”
They turned, mounted their horses, adjusted their saddles and rode off furiously. Fana slammed the door and stormed back inside. She drank some water, then took some for her father. Brushing aside his worried questions, she gave him some water and put him to sleep.
***
The Court was filled with a sense of foreboding. The Magi trembled before the two thrones. From their occupants came a sense of fury. They seemed to ooze power, royalty through and through. A giant of a man spoke from the silver throne on the left, his voice a deep rumble.
“Hast thou no honor? Fetching a maiden, a task fit for a lowly peasant, and you still return unattained? Now how shall I face Her Highness in her time of need? Thy shame is a stain on our noble House. Thou shall-”
A silky, clear tone interrupted the King’s tirade:
“Burn it.”
King Joseph turned; his mouth opened wide in shock. A thin, slender hand, pallid and smooth, rose up from the rightmost and golden throne. It clenched into a fist, and luscious curls of hair rolled down onto the floor from the head of the Lady sat there. The Magi looked on, horrified, at the Queen’s unsettling beauty.
“Queen Mary, my dear, do you not think that is a bit too harsh of a measure to-”
“Burn. It. Anyone who opposes the Holy Birth of this Son of mine must be, will be, eradicated.”
“But this maiden has a natural gift of healing. Maybe, if we offer her something she might-”
“My decision is final, Joseph. Witchcraft and sorcery must not be allowed to exist. Make arrangements for forging the Pyremask, or suffer my… displeasure.”
She stood up from her throne of gold, smoothing out her many layers of clothing. Cradling her stomach, she turned to leave.
“He comes soon. I expect you not to disappoint me, King Joseph. Same goes for you, I expect better next time from the Magi.”
King Joseph looked troubled, but convinced nevertheless. The Magi bowed low and exited the massive hall. They had to suppress a shudder. Queen Mary reminded them of a serpent with her silky-smooth accent and pallid complexion. They headed for the Royal Metallurgist to have made a Pyremask by sundown.
***
The fighting spirit of Fana’s father went down like the evening Sun that day. The complications began by late noon, with heavy wheezing and a terrible cough. By sundown, there was nothing she could do to help her dear Papa. She didn’t try to heal him, he begged her not to. It was his time, and he was ready to go. Fana sat there, shattered and sobbing, cradling his body in her arms. She soon drifted off to sleep.
She was startled awake by a huge clamour outside her shack. She looked up, and her roof was burning. She reached for the door, and a battering ram knocked her into the air. She flew backwards and crashed into the table from the force. Dazed, she looked around to see smiling faces everywhere, holding torches and pitchforks. Even those people she had healed a few weeks back.
When a good witch hunt is on the line, people forget gratitude.
She stood up slowly and defiantly. The Magi walked in, grabbed her arm and gently brought her outside. They were pushed aside by the townspeople, who seized Fana’s hair and dragged her on the ground. She refused to cry out in pain or fear.
I won't give them the satisfaction.
She bled out a path from her home to the town centre. She could hear hooting and jeering from everywhere. People threw dead mice and other filth at her. She saw the Town Chieftain’s son, whose leg she had healed back together after it was ripped off in the tilling season, approach her and stamp her nose into the ground with the very same leg. She held her deadpan expression throughout.
She was thrown onto a table. The Royal Clergy appeared with the Pyremask, a glorified metal face those burnt as witches had to wear to their afterlife so that ‘God would send them to Hell.’ They forced the mask on her, tied her down and pulled out the hammer and the long nails. One by one, they hammered the nails through the mask into her face. One by one, blood spurted forward from each hole. One by one, the crowd cheered for every blow of the hammer into her face. Finally, the mask was on.
She could see the crowd cheering at something through narrow slits in the mask. She turned to see the wooden stake being brought to her. Her arms were forced to the sides and she was tied up to the dry wood. Her hair, once beautiful, now lay caked in her own blood. She had nearly bled out; she could feel herself losing consciousness. Then a voice shouted-
“ALL HAIL HER MAJESTY, HER HOLINESS, QUEEN MARY AND HER SON, HIS HOLINESS!”
The crowd bowed down to a slender female figure that walked towards Fana, a bundle of clothes in her hand. A baby. Her Son. Then, her voice of icy cold rang out across the town, captivating the excited townsfolk.
“Here we are gathered to witness the purification of evil! Raise our voices and our spirits in favor of our Lord, for he shall cast this devil down to Hell! Command yourself to be loyal to your new Lord and Savior!”
She held up the baby for everyone to see. A loud roar rang out through the town. People chanting, screaming, war cries as they witnessed the baby. The baby then looked Fana in the eyes and Fana gasped in concern. The child had grey eyes, exactly like Fana’s, and she could feel the flow of energy from the child. She knew, immediately and deep within her heart, this was one who had the same healing powers as her. Her heart went out to the poor soul. She knew what would happen to the baby once it grew up.
The Queen grabbed a lighted torch. Baby in one hand, the lighted torch in the other, she walked towards the stake and lit it on fire. Pain, waves of pain, pain beyond pain washed over her. She could feel the skin start to cook, the water inside her begin to boil. The heat was overwhelming and the smoke suffocated her. The metal mask on her face let out a hissing sound as it burnt her face alive.
The pain oh the pain make it stop please make it stop oh God-
She locked eyes with the infant once again, and something seemed to stir in His eyes. She felt a rush of healing energy flow into her. She felt a presence enter her mind. The Voice was comforting, and it spoke two words that roused her from her helplessness.
“Find me.”
She dove into the raging river of that energy in her mind, feeling herself drowned in it. It flowed into every pore and every orifice. The fire seemed external now, as if someone was merely tickling her with a feather. Her body began to glow a divine, angelic blue light. Shouts of panic from the crowd just added to her fury. At the crest of the wave of this newfound power she felt her body twist and transform, arms lengthening, spine extending and her organs squirming inside her as her body fought to regenerate itself from the fire. She tore her arms free from the now crumbling stake and looked around for the Divine Son.
Queen Mary had abandoned the town at the first sight of trouble. Townspeople ran like headless chickens, frightened at her appearance. She walked up to them, drew herself up to her now extreme height and swatted them away with her long arms like she would to the flies that annoyed her in summer.
She had to find Him. She knew the infant had some power within Him, knew it was Him who saved her from the fire. She took off into the dark woods, never to stop till she found Him.
As she ran, she heard His voice one last time in her head. It called her name in a single soothing word and faded away.
Befana.
A solitary tear ran down her metal face as she ran off into the darkness.
***
Present Day
When Ella woke up again, she was alone in her bedroom. She thought it all a dream, till she turned around to see the little blue doll sitting next to her. Even in the pitch black of the hour past midnight, the doll seemed to be glowing a blue light. She took the doll into her arms and hugged it tight. It felt comforting to her.
The front door burst open as her father rushed into the house, spilling his alcohol everywhere. In a drunken rage, he hit his head on the door and in retaliation gave it a kick that just about ripped it off of the hinges. He sat down furiously at the table and downed the rest of his bottle. Looking up, he saw the trail of ashes leading out from the fireplace, and then little Ella watching him fearfully.
“Ella, you good-for-nothing creature, oh now you’ve completely messed up, haven’t you?”
His trembling voice and body betrayed his attempt at a calm tone, and that made it all the more ominous. Ella knew what he was about to do. She stammered out apologies and stumbled back into the bedroom.
“NOT SO FAST YOU LITTLE-”
The alcoholic threw his empty bottle, and it shattered on her head, piercing her with a shower of glass pieces. The girl cowered at the foot of her bed as he approached. She couldn’t see her father behind the red watering eyes or through the fog of bootleg rum. He was lost to the world.
“Now you’ve gone and done it, haven’t you!”
He kicked her, hard, into the bedpost. The blow connected with her nose, and she fell back, bleeding. He grabbed her by her hair and lifted her up, screaming and kicking. Plain fear etched out every corner of her face as she struggled in pain. He threw her onto the bed and strangled her. He ripped off his shirt, threw it onto her and started unbuckling his belt.
“Have you got no respect for your father? I’ll SHOW you how you deserve to be punished, you little! - what in the world is that sound?"
A low rumble had filled the room when he had thrown Ella like a ragdoll. He looked around in confusion and then his face paled. Ella turned her face, and through a curtain of red saw the dark figure of the Befana rising up from the dark corner, her glimmering eyes the only thing separating her from the surrounding black.
The Befana drew herself up to her towering height and lifted up her long arms. Ella watched as she lurched towards her father. He seemed to be terrified now, trying to bargain with the Befana running at him.
“This isn’t what it looks like, I swear! Put that thing down, now, won’t you, my sweet Feli-”
Ella saw her father thrown back into the wall in a spray of blood. He tried to stand up but slipped back down on his own innards. The Befana grabbed him and lifted him up, only to throw him back down in a red mist. He sat down, unable to get up. His lower body had been turned into a pulp. He looked into the Befana’s eyes, seemed to smile a little, before the Befana raised her hand again, and his head burst open, painting the wall behind him crimson.
Ella felt the effects of the medicine her father had force-fed her that day, as he did everyday, start to fade away. She fought hard to try and stay conscious. The Befana, now covered in blood, didn’t seem so huge anymore. She seemed to be shrinking down to about the same height as her father. Her arms looked like they were warped back into normal length and so did her hair. As the Befana kneeled next to her, Elle reached out with her hand and slowly pulled her metal mask off.
She saw someone that looked startlingly similar to her. The Befana seemed no longer gruesome. Elle realised she had the same eyes, the same hair, even the same face shape as her. She looked down at her hands, and the Befana’s now smooth skinned hands were holding something that looked like two tubes. The Befana gently tucked her into bed. Elle no longer felt afraid of her. As she finally fell into slumber, a fleeting memory came to her. She remembered a woman just like how the Befana now looked, a woman who she felt a warm glow from before her father had taken her away.
She managed to get one last word out before falling unconscious.
“M-mother?”
***
THE FOLLOWING DOCUMENTS ARE THE EXCLUSIVE PROPERTY OF THE POLIZIA PENITENZIARIA. UNAUTHORIZED PUBLICATION IS PUNISHABLE BY LAW.
ANNEXURE - I
REPORT ON: THE BEFANA
The Befana is a fictional character that appears throughout Italian folktales. She is described as a witch-like old woman, who travels on her broomstick to carry presents to all the children of Italy on the day of Epiphany Eve, the 5th of January.
Origin:
The tale of Befana speaks of an old Witch who provides shelter to the three Magi on their sojourn towards the star. The Magi asks her to join them on their pilgrimage, but she refuses stating that she had a lot of housework to finish and people to treat. After the Magi leave, however, she seems to have a change of heart, and sets off into the night to find baby Jesus. She carries gifts with her as she believes the act of generosity to children will get her closer to finding baby Jesus.
Commentary:
The story seems to have been influenced by the Witch Trials of the Medieval age. Indeed, elements of witchcraft and repentance are present throughout the folktales that mention the Befana.
It is currently not known if the story of the Befana refers to one particular personality or has evolved through the successive merging of multiple folktales, as is the custom of most such folklore.
The widespread narration of this story is possibly the reason for the outlandish and absurd claims made by the child regarding the events. The minds of children suppress memories of intense trauma, and the psychedelic drugs may have added on to this.
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ANNEXURE - II
CRIME REGISTRY REPORT
NAME OF OFFENDER : Brenn Rossi
AGE : 49
OFFENCE : Serial Domestic Abuse of Fiore “Ella” Rossi (Daughter)
M.O. : Hallucinogenic Administration, Battery, Psychological Torture
MARITAL STATUS: Divorced
STATUS: Deceased (by point-blank shotgun blast)
FURTHER INFORMATION:
- The offender, Brenn Rossi (49) was living with his biological daughter, Fiore Rossi (9), at a small cabin near Bologna.
- The accused was a repeat offender and has multiple charges of violent domestic abuse against him.
- The offender was a severe alcoholic with a history of substance abuse.
- The issues mentioned in 2 and 3 led to his divorce with his wife, Felice Rossi (40). Custody of child was given to the offender on the basis of Feline Rossi lacking a stable income.
- It is noted that the offender is guilty of severe parental neglect to his daughter, often harming her in alcohol fueled tantrums.
The offender was found dead by multiple shotgun blasts to the face and lower body. His daughter, Fiore, who witnessed the murder claims the involvement of the Befana from folklore (see Annexure - I). However, there are unexplainable marks that look like nail scratches, as well as blister fluid collected from the chimney. It is currently unknown who this belongs to.
---
ANNEXURE - III
CRIME REGISTRY REPORT
NAME OF OFFENDER : Felice Rossi (nee Fermi)
AGE : 40
OFFENCE : Murder of Brenn Rossi (Husband)
M.O. : Double Barrel Shotgun
MARITAL STATUS : Divorced
STATUS : Alive, in custody
FURTHER INFORMATION:
- The offender broke into the Rossi residence at 00:07 through the chimney that opened into the fireplace.
- She gave Fiore Rossi, her daughter, a blue doll which has subsequently been seized.
- The offender hid in Fiore Rossi’s bedroom till Brenn arrived at the residence.
- On arrival, Brenn Rossi was ambushed by the offender as he attempted to cause injury to their daughter. Brenn was shot thrice, in the chest, in the abdomen and in the head.
- The witness Fiore Rossi, under the influence of the psychedelics, hallucinated Felice to be the Befana from Italian folklore (see Annexure - I), which is reflected in her witness statement.
- Felice Rossi had been divorced from Brenn Rossi due to repeated domestic violence, but failed to gain custody of her daughter due to her unemployment. The motive of the murder was to regain custody of her daughter.
- Felice Rossi is under custody and awaiting trial. Fiore Rossi has been moved to foster care and is being provided with urgent healthcare.
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Written by Sadguybluu
Content is available under CC BY-SA