RCG-I Seasonal Salon

The 13th Day of Solstice

Home, the old womon sighed with relief. Befana pushed open the cottage door, set her empty bag down on the floor, sighed again. She carefully unwrapped dampened sage leaves that held a smoldering bit of coal, added some small sticks for tinder and gently blew until the flames started.

Befana sunk softly into her bed and pulled the comforter around her shoulders. The fire from bristling sticks would warm her old bones.

"Non vale la pena," It isn't worth the pain, she whispered as flames went higher. Minutes passed. Hours. She finally fed a dried log to the fire as she drew both heat and energy from its flames.

Befana's ancient body ached from this journey across the land. Grace had empowered the 12th Night ride to all the houses where children slept. Befana whispered in their ears, "You are a holy child", swept clean their rooms and left pieces of dolci as a token of her sweet love.

Holy. Sacred.

Yes, Befana's work was holy and sacred. But tonight as it waned into the morning of the 13th Day of Solstice, it seemed to her "non vale la pena", not worth the pain .

Her hand mindlessly brushed against her eyes, over her temple and down through her hair and touched her aching neck.

I am old and all the world has moved beyond respect for my old ways, she sighed into the darkness. Why do I bother? I cannot keep up with all that I have to do anymore.

Centuries ago, when she was younger, bonfires were lit on every hillside. She smiled remembering the joyous dancing and the wimmin who would watch the winter winds carry the smoke and then make predictions about the weather for the coming year.

No one builds bonfires in the cities.

People used to gather around the Piazzas with a great sounding of instruments marking joy in this time of year for Befana's journey through the land. You could hear the echo of the rhythms of the crowds, the calls of the Piazza barkers and strains of the barrel organ. People walked to the town square from their cozy homes in friendly groups, laughing and chatting along the way. In those days, they knew each other by name.

Not in this day. In this day, everyone is a stranger. One womon or man sits alone, speeding across freeways or caught up with work and outside activities, with no time to share even with their family and friends.

This year had been another extravaganza of faked goodwill and redundant gifts. One more winter season was a whipped up commercial frenzy followed by the inevitable let-down and too much to drink by New Year's Eve. This let-down was contagious and it consumed her tonight.

Befana sat immobilized in front of the fire and began to close her heart. "Non vale la pena" she chanted. It is not worth the pain.

Next year, I bring them all coal! City people have no use for coal. Next year. Maybe I won't even make the trip.

Warmed finally by the flames in her hearth, the old womon drifted off to sleep.

Tinkle, tinkle, tink, tink, tinkle. Bells and more bells in the distance.

Befana stretched her weary limbs and moved slowly to her window to see the source of the bells. She quickly grabbed her broom and went out her door.

It was a loaded caravan of camels, a whole tribe of people coming her way. She began to sweep, just in case someone on the caravan needed her healing services or wanted her to tell them their fortune.

Closer. They were coming closer. She could see the color of their skins now and knew they had come from a long distance.

Mist clouded her vision and everything sort of shifted and swirled colors blending and shapes changing.

The caravan. Men dressed as fine as Kings. Wimmin veiled and hidden in the nomadic camel train, while children and slaves pushed the herds forward.

What was it they wanted? Suddenly she felt cold.

Befana groaned, still bone weary. She woke shivering and sighed. A dream. It was all a dream.

Oh yes. I remember now, she said to no one in the room as she looked into the embers. I made a promise to find the Holy Child. And that was so long ago.

A whole day had passed as she had sat in front of her hearth, sleeping and dreaming. Day turned into night. This was the 13th Night of Solstice, the one she saved just for herself.

Befana poured water into her washbasin. She leaned into the water to see her reflection and smiled at the vision in the bowl smiling back at her.

Old womon, you are still beautiful somewhere behind that tired and wrinkled face. You have done a sacred work in the world. No matter that none of them remember the old ways. No matter that they cannot even see you any more.

She dipped her hands into the water and splashed it on her face. Water refreshed her face and her spirit. I will go again one more time. Maybe next year will be different. Maybe they will remember.

To each one, I will whisper in their ear....you ARE a holy child.

Maybe next year, someone will hear me.

Author’s Note: LaBefana is the gift-bringer celebrated by Italians world-wide. Our "Season of the Witch" begins at Shadowfest or Hallows and ends on January 6 when She makes Her ride in the night. The original pre-Christian story my grandmothers told me was quite different from the mainstream version. I have written a new story about Her each year, and this is one of them.