Il Siciliano
The warm rays of the sun gently kissed the pale green olives clustered together in their groves. Now and then one that was overripe or withered and malnourished would slip from its stem and fall to the ground, into the sift, rocky soil below.
Alfredo cherished these groves. He had planted them himself; his sweat and blood watered their roots, they were his children. He walked through these groves, carrying a cloth pouch and putting every worthy olive in it. Such a task was not tedious to him. He reveled in the warm sunlight on his back and the dirt that clung to his leather shoes.
At ninteen, Alfredo looked older than his years. He was thin yet broad in the chest and his arms were a respectable size. This was the result of constant tree-climbing in order to obtain fruit and honey. His hands were calloused and ruddy and everyday new blisters were formed adn broken on his fingers. The hair on his upper lip was thick enough to constitute a small moustache. No girl ever deemed him unattractive. There were quite a number of them in the villa who looked at him with appreciative eyes and would gladly have changed their name to "Santino."
But Alfredo was already a husband, a faithful spouse to his beautiful groves. Their long, strong branches were prettier, more enticing than any woman he had ever seen.
Every branch was a part of his soul and every drop of oil that seeped from the olives was a drop of his own blood. All the people who shared his blood had been resting peacefully after tasting the lead of Spanish bullets.
Alfredo walked through the small villa only two days a week--on Tuesday to sell his oil and on Sunday to attend Mass where he would pray for the rain. Seldom for forgiveness (for the temptations of this world could not sway this lonely and ever-busy young man), but always for rain. One year during a terrible drought, he had actually saved his Communion wafers; instead of swallowing them in the priest's prescence, he had stuck them under his tongue and brought them home, where he buried them in his field, hoping that the body of Christ would be more than enough nourishment for his beautiful branches, his children.
Many people in the villa would say that Alfredo would make a wonderful Franciscan. Indeed, he certainly lived like one to begin with; all he needed was the habit. But Alfredo took it as a jest. Becoming a servant of Saint Francis would mean leaving the place of his birth. He would see to it that when his soul went back to God, his body would left to nourish his children. The soil of his field would be his beir, his resting place. The roots of his branches would drink his blood and never thirst. His blood would be the oil in his olives.