Copyright © 2008 Mary Caponigro. All rights reserved. 

Regala gently set down the two wooden buckets of fresh water she had been carrying. The delicate fourteen-year-old rested her tired body under the shade of an olive tree on the warm Mediterranean hillside. In that tranquil moment, she gazed somberly upon her hometown of Pescopagano before continuing her journey back down to the little village. Each day Regala traveled to and from the spring on the other side of the hill without complaint. This morning most of her exhaustion was due to the anticipated dreaded news of the latest victims from the sickness that was ravaging the countryside. Over the last three months each new day brought the most recent account of those townspeople who had been taken by this fearful illness.

Just a year ago, life in this pastoral town outside of Naples was simple, yet cheerful, and the people here were all so content. At that time it had been rumored that a disease was devastating villages and cities in faraway places. A few months later there was talk that the epidemic was rapidly moving closer to Pescopagano. In a short time, the people of Regala's hometown began to fall victim to this fatal disease. Now there wasn't a house in her village that hadn't been touched by the deadly illness.

Slowly rising to her feet, Regala gathered her strength and carefully lifted the buckets trying to steady them so as not to spill any of the precious water. Although the source of the sickness wasn't known for sure, the townspeople took precautions in using only spring water from the other side of the hill to keep the disease from spreading. It was Regala's job to bring fresh water from the spring everyday and leave it in the village square for the taking. All day long she made trips back and forth filling empty buckets that were left at the square and returning them brimming with water for the villagers.

The town of Pescopagano was home to Regala, and it was the Sisters of Saint Agatha's Church who were her family. Orphaned since birth, the infant had been taken in by the nuns who christened her Regala. Her name meant gift, for this child brought to the sisters a world of happiness and fulfillment they had never before enjoyed in their convent.

Pescopagano had always been a friendly place to live where every family shared large Sunday dinners and holidays together at the pavilion just outside of town. All members of the village were considered part of one big family whether you were a relative or neighbor. It had been this way ever since Regala could remember---until the sickness crept into their lives.

At first, traders in the village square began to report stories of the fatal disease spreading through Pisa, Bologna, and Rome, extinguishing a majority of their population. When the deadly epidemic coursed through Florence and Venice it took with it more than half of their citizens. Because of this, the lord of the city of Milan commanded the city gates be closed and no outsiders were allowed inside. This wise measure spared the city and Milan was unaffected.

The good fortune of Milan, though, was not to befall Pescopagano. Regala recalled that it was Dominic, the town blacksmith, who had first come down with the fever. Amelia, an old woman with herbal healings, administered her strange medicines to him, but to no avail. Swellings that seeped blood started to appear all over Dominic's body. When more unusual symptoms began to appear, whispers of panic began rustling throughout the town. The village doctor rushed to his side and it was declared that no one was allowed near or inside the blacksmith's house. The next day Concetta, an elderly neighbor of Regala, showed signs of the illness and she, too, was banned from having visitors. Each day after that another member of the town fell to the pestilence. In a week's time, Dominic, Concetta, and six more of Pescopagano's citizens had passed away.

The illness struck villagers indiscriminately, heeding no age, taking casualties from infancy to the elderly. Some of the sick died within five days of the first symptoms, whereas others who went to bed well, were stricken with the disease during the night and passed on before sunrise. The epidemic spread so rampantly, it was said that anyone at the bedside of an ill one might catch the sickness and die before the patient.

It wasn't long before the deadly infirmity reached the convent. The sisters insisted Regala distance herself from those who were ill so as not to become infected with the plague. On her travels to and from the spring each day, Regala fervently prayed for the nuns, the family of Mothers who had raised her as their own. Despite her vigil, however, seven of the sisters succumbed to the dreadful sickness.

Now as the first rays of sun peeked over the distant horizon Regala traipsed into town with buckets of fresh water. Through her weariness she noticed black cloaks draping more doorways this morning, revealing the homes of victims taken during the night. Red cloaks had been hung over entrances where the sickness had just struck a member of that household. These mournful signs added to Regala's sadness. With each passing day the despairing citizens of Pescopagano clung to hope as they tried to carry on with their daily chores. All around them, however, were reminders of the vengeful sickness. Processions of death carts rumbled by, transporting bodies to Saint Agatha's Church which had been turned into a temporary morgue. Many of the sick had died so suddenly that graves couldn't be dug quickly enough to bury the dead. The death rate was so great that church bells ceased to toll. Emotions spent, no one wept when a loved one passed on anymore. Almost everyone expected death. The once cheery town filled with laughing children playing in the cobbled streets, merchants bartering in the square, and neighbors chatting, had turned into a silent desolate existence filled with fear and grief.

Santino, the groundskeeper of Saint Agatha's, had the unpleasant task of directing the death cart drivers to where the bodies should lie until enough graves could be readied. Inside the church, the aisle where young brides had radiantly walked, the baptismal font where newborns had been blessed, and the altar where dozens of children had received First Communion, were now littered with bodies of the parishioners of Saint Agatha. As Santino went through the motions of his daily chores, he couldn't help but gaze upon the faces of those lying in eternal rest throughout the chapel. He memorized their peaceful countenance, recalling happier times spent with the now deceased residents.

Taking a break from his grueling work in the cemetery, Santino leaned on the shovel before him. The saddened caretaker watched as Regala plodded from the hillside laden with buckets. His heart broke for the girl who wearily carried on with her duty of providing the town with fresh water.

The most recent victim of the epidemic was twelve-year old Paolo, a close friend of Regala. The two had been constant companions growing up, playing together, and working in the olive groves side by side. Until three days ago it was Paolo who had kept Regala company on their long walks to and from the spring.

Just a few days earlier Regala became alarmed when she noticed that the ordinarily energetic boy appeared tired and short of breath. Later that afternoon Regala saw that under Paolo's mass of dark curly hair, beads of perspiration were streaming down his sallow face. Although neither of them wanted to admit that he was becoming ill, more signs of the sickness began to appear.

When Regala helped the shivering boy up the stairs to his porch, she didn't realize that was the last time she would see her friend alive. Paolo fell asleep that night and never awoke.

In the days that followed, Regala was so consumed with anguish she had no desire to eat nor sleep nor could she even find the will to cry. As she trudged through her daily tasks her mind was blank, her eyes empty, and her heart heavy. This latest loss left the girl feeling numb inside and out. Regala spiraled into such a world of despair that she no longer cared for her own welfare and became worn by fatigue and grief. Each night as the weakened girl climbed into bed, her haggard body collapsed into a deep vulnerable sleep.

One morning when Sister Serafina's calling didn't rouse Regala, the nuns' greatest fear overcame them. Panicking, their sorrowful cries were heard throughout the town. If the pallid girl had any breath left in her it was too shallow for the frantic sisters to have noticed.

Regala had fallen into a tranquil dreamlike state. Although her body seemed unmanageably heavy, she felt as though she was floating on a cloud.

I feel so relaxed…so comfortable…I want to get up…but every part of me is so content…content to just lie here and rest…I haven't slept this well…not for such a long time…It's so quiet …I can't even hear the sisters…Sister Ignacia is always first in the kitchen…preparing for the day…Where is the warm scent of her bread dough?…My eyes want to open, but I'm still so very tired…Maybe I'll lie here for just a little longer…incense…Is that a whiff of incense?…Why do I smell incense?…Oh…What an acrid odor mixed in…How very heavy my eyelids are…But I must open them and begin the day…Flutter your eyes a little Regala…Try to open them just a bit…There…Maybe now I'll feel more awake…This ceiling above doesn't look like the convent…Sit up Regala, push yourself up to collect your thoughts and recognize your whereabouts…There's that odd aroma again…This place is familiar, but it's surely not my room…Oh how my head hurts so terribly…and my eyes can't adjust to the darkness…Where am I?…Is someone else here?…I don’t hear anyone…but I can feel a presence…I don't have enough strength to speak and call out…Arched windows…Arched windows across the room…with colored lights in them…church…church?…I'm in church…What am I doing in church? Why am I sleeping in church?…I have to try to sit up…Push yourself up Regala…Come on, you're almost there…Oh that smell is so strong…Someone is here…There is someone here…lying nearby…I know that silhouette…a child…dark, curly hair…there are others lying all around…that pungent smell…the sickness…I can smell the sickness all around me…the child…that child…Paolo!…It's Paolo!…What am I doing here with Paolo?!…and so many others who had the sickness?!…I'm not dead!…I can't be dead!…I can feel my hands…my legs…my face…I'm not dead!…I'm alive!…Please, someone, help me! I'm alive!…I'm not dead!…I have to get out of here!…They left me here!…They left me for dead!…I must get away from this place!…get away!…away from the dead!…I'm not one of them!…I wasn't sick!…I shouldn't be here!…Help me!…Someone please help me!…Help me out of here!…Please… help me…Please…please…please…

As the morning sunlight flickered across the grief-stricken town of Pescopagano, Santino methodically began the grim burden of carrying on with the burial of the departed. When he opened the massive oak double-doors to Saint Agatha's, a shocking scene unfolded before him that would remain etched in his memory forever. Among the rows of corpses lying side by side in the church, one frail body was so awkwardly awry that Santino felt his heart lurch. For a very long time he stood completely still in the entranceway. Hunched over, as if trying to clamber across the ranks of the dead, there was Regala, rigidly slumped over the end of a pew with one hand outstretched, a horrified grimace frozen across her face.