In ogni paese della Carnia si raccontano le stesse storie. Racconti della Carnia, come quello di Silverio sul Moscardo o delle Streghe sul Tenchia. Ma poi ci sono anche i racconti propri di ogni paese, legati a situazioni e fatti particolari, che ne hanno caratterizzato la storia. Il mio paese, Cazzaso, è noto come il paese in frana. Nel 1851 il monte Diverdalce è franato ed ha travolto il paese che sorgeva alle sue falde. Ma quelli di Cazzaso sono persone che non la danno vinta facilmente. Neppure alla montagna hanno voluto darla vinta, e sono tornati a costruire il paese, lì where it was before, just above the landslide. And 'natural then that the stories of particular country are somehow related to the landslide. Even the event of the landslide is somehow become a story. My grandfather would often say to me, swearing that he had heard directly from his grandfather, who had lived through those terrible moments. I do not know why but in Carnia, the stories are passed from grandfather to grandson, rather than father and son. It almost seems that fathers are too busy doing and do not have time for their children. The task of maintaining and transmitting the memory is then left to grandparents. At the bottom is a smart way of giving the elderly an important role in the community. I apologize for
these sociological digressions and returning to my grandfather, I said that when I was a kid used to tell me how the landslide had occurred, repeating, he said, the story of his grandfather. My grandfather was one who liked to tell ... I remember him telling in the pub, and everyone around him to listen. I remember during the long winter evenings. But the most vivid memory is always set in the cool evenings of May. In the large courtyard in front of the house, while the evening breeze brought the muffled sound of the valley, those sounds, those voices that rose from the river, gave the impression that there really was another world living in another dimension, and the words of his grandfather gave voice to the world, reconstructing the threads that bound us to the characters still the country's history.
There was a stone courtyard in square on which he used to sit, watching the valley, the chain Sernio behind which was extinguished the last breath of light, as if the landscape were to take the words and the story, and took a He was talking about ... and chewing tobacco, so that the words took on different nuances of sound, and it seemed that there was more to tell him but someone else with a voice, really back from the past. His story about the landslide, always started the same way, with the same phrase: it was a November night ...
was a November night and it rained for days. As is normal in November, precisely the period of the "mountain of sans." The meat, as we know, is one of the wettest places in Italy. You usually have periods of rain understandings, which in local dialect took its name of "mountain." Are recurring periods of rain annually, on the occasion in some way predetermined. That of the beginning of November, the feast of Saints, is one of the applicants. But this year, my grandfather went, was something truly exceptional. It seemed really should go back the flood. It was raining hard for a week and did not give the impression of wanting to quit. The river Laune which flows over the country pareva un diavolo scatenato. S’era ingrossato come mai prima d’allora. Come una furia scatenata trascinava sassi, sradicava alberi. Da un momento all’altro ci si aspettava che tracimasse e travolgesse il paese. Gli uomini stavano a guardia e il sacrestano sul campanile si teneva pronto a suonare l’allarme.
Ciò che si temeva alla fine avvenne. Erano le otto di sera, del giorno dei morti. Le campane avrebbero dovuto suonare per accompagnare la processione per la visita di preghiera al cimitero. E invece suonò soltanto la campana “grande” quella che suona l’ Ave Maria quando muore qualcuno. Suonava “a morto” come non aveva mai suonato, come se anche lei sentisse che non si trattava della morte d’una person, but around the country ...
The creek had overflowed and extravagance turning into torrents of mud roads of the country. But there was worse, the water had seeped under the town, and the whole country was moving, was sliding downhill. At the sound of the bell all the people had fled, retreating up the hill to the cemetery to the land of Fuse, because everyone knew that the one safe place. To underline the moments of greatest dramatic intensity of the stories, my grandfather pulled out a spit of tobacco, and made a break. At this point he used to spit a stronger than usual, and a longer pause ... to emphasize the exceptional event. Resumed, it would take a Russian novelist to be able to make the drama of the moment.
The people who would go to the cemetery to pray for the dead was crowded among the graves looking down the country that was moving slowly, slowly dying. Almost as if nature wanted to make fun of those poor people, the rain stopped for a while. On the Diverdalce tore the clouds for a while and went to the moon. And the inhabitants of the cemetery Cazzaso could see their country going down in the movement of the landslide houses left and then writhing with chirps come apart with dismal flops. The country seemed like a great wounded beast incapable of resisting the force that drew him to the mountain valley, and in a lament exhaled the last breath. One by one bent upon themselves all the houses and the country did not see a pile of rubble. The clouds closed again, the moon disappeared, and the inhabitants were left alone and helpless in the midst of the graves of the dead. Even the living, more dead than alive, with a heavy heart for having lost everything. They shook their families around the graves of their dead, asking for help to the dead and a hope. The children clinging to mothers who kept their arms in younger children. The fathers side, incapable of speech and gesture. But when it is reduced to place hope in the dead ...
thank God because we are all safe, however, continued to repeat the priest, turning from grave to grave. But at some point had a start, like when something suddenly comes into your head. "And the Turks?" He cried. They looked around looking for her, but she was not there. They thought that he had saved them all, but had forgotten in Turkey. It was too late to think about it, no doubt had been swept from the rubble of his house.
Turkey was very old and a widow without children. He lived in the house's poorest country, a shack than a house. When there was talk of witches in the country, to come to terms with the idea was always thinking of her. Not that he showed signs of special ability of magic. But all dressed in black, closed head in a large white handkerchief from which came a face lean, with a hooked nose and prominent chin, was the very image of a witch. "Nobody would be surprised to see her one night to fly a broom" had become a joke in the applicant country when it came to her. Even the nickname that somehow seemed to have something to do with Turkey, increased the mystique around him. But his name was not his, but came from the husband who swore like a turkish and this was finally dubbed the "Turk" the turkish, and consequently she was over to become the "Turkish".
His shack was in the center of town, but she almost never went out except to go to work in a small garden that le aveva lasciato il marito, e dal quale ricavava quel poco che le era necessario per sopravvivere. Era anche terribilmente sorda, ed anche questo difetto aveva finito per isolarla sempre più. Non aveva parenti, non aveva amici, conoscenti…era insomma sola. Sola e sorda, quella sera non aveva sentito la campana suonare l’allarme ed era quindi stata travolta dalla sua casa e dalla frana. O forse era ancora in vita sotto le macerie e quindi si sarebbe dovuto organizzare una squadra di soccorso. Ma sarebbe stato un suicidio entrare nella frana ancora in movimento e quindi prevalse il suggerimento del prete di pregare per lei perché potesse salvarsi.
Il lento movimento della frana continuò per alcuni giorni e gli abitanti di Cazzaso had found a temporary guest in the homes of Fuse. When she finally returned in good weather and it was realized that the landslide had finally settled, before seeing what was left of their homes was sought between the ruins of her home in Turkey. He was not dead and that it remained the funeral. The press of time when talking about the landslide of a dead man, without making the name. It was the Turks who without name became important, because a natural event such as a landslide or an earthquake without even a dead man, seems something of little importance. The dead man, instead, gives importance to the event. And in fact there were public intervention to help the people of Cazzaso to build a house on the edge of the landslide in Salaries, where there was already a shed. Thus was born Cazzaso new.
But either because the residents of Cazzaso then and now are stubborn, or because the new country was uncomfortable because it was built on a slope too steep, or because it remains tied to the place you were born a few years later when the landslide was finally settled, it was decided to rebuild the country where it was and as it was. As they did in agreeing on the boundaries in a field that had been distorted by the landslide, is a mystery. But somehow he found the agreement, called a main road crossing the landslide connecting two squares, the fountain and that of Ciaveç. The ruins of the house Turkey are on the roadside to the south. Were the gallows and the grave of old, nobody would have dared to touch them and to build on something. But when the country was already almost completely rebuilt and no longer remembered the earthquake, came from a lady married to a rather Friuli, and asked to build a house on the rubble. The Turkish had left no heirs, and no country objected, in fact they were all happy that someone had the courage to clean up the last remnants of the landslide. The Furlane it was immediately dubbed the newcomer, with the help of her husband reluctantly, he put his hand to the building. He used part of the stones of the existing hut, but made a good home larger than the previous, far more modern and comfortable. The husband knew about the history of Turkey and that he thought the other villagers on the stones there was any curse, he had recommended. But women know Friulian be obeyed. He was forced to follow ... But when his wife, and had just come to live in the new house, was found one morning stone dead in bed, even the Furlane began to wonder if he really was a good idea to get the house, the place where there had been a violent death. Her husband had died next to the bed with his eyes wide as if in a dream he had had great fear ... And one night he finally confirmed ... Her friend who came from Gorizia (which is why he took the name of Gurizàne), who lived near his house, above the road, she heard shouting at the top of his voice: "Let go, do not touch me!" He saw her then run up, seeking help in her nightgown, like a possessed person.
He opened the door, took her to the house, made her sit. He lit the fire to boil an infusion of chamomile and meanwhile asked to speak. But Furlane looked frightened, unable to say the word, as if a great fear had made changes. It was only in the morning when he heard the sound of the bell of the Hail Mary that seemed to wake up, as if that was to sound an alarm.
"If I knew things have happened tonight
!..."" I'm asking you to tell hours, "replied the Gurizane.
He looked surprised as if he had not previously realized even for being in the home of a friend, and began to tell ...
"I woke up suddenly, but I was in my room ..."
"It will be a dream, a bad nightmare! "
No. She was sure to be awake and in the place of his beautiful house was a hovel, with the track-side and a fireplace in the center consists of three stones placed on three sides. Was on the fire that heated a small pot hanging by a wire leading down from the ceiling. Next to the fireplace sat an old woman dressed all in black with a little face shrunken by the years. It was getting toasted barley with the proper tools. He was holding a long rod of iron at the other end had a sort of iron ball, which was barley. Slowly turning the tool for the barley is cuocesse without burning.
"If you wait a bit, 'he said at one point, we' take a coffee" as if he knew of its presence is considered normal thing.
"Who are you? Where am I? "She asked.
“Sono la padrona di casa”, le aveva risposto la vecchia. “Sei a casa mia” aveva aggiunto commentando la frase con una risata sinistra.
“Voglio tornare a casa mia!” aveva ribattuto lei.
“Ma sei a casa tua!” rise la vecchia sarcastica. Brutta era brutta. Ma quando rideva era orribile. Sopra il mento prominente le si apriva la fessura della bocca con qualche raro dente. Era ciò che aveva sempre pensato potesse essere una strega!
“Ma come a casa mia?” chiese la Furlane.
“Hai pur voluto costruire la casa sulla mia! Ora quindi ciò che tuo è mio ciò che è mio è tuo. Tuo marito me lo sono già preso, ed ora sono venuta a prendere te. But there's no hurry! Before we can get a coffee. Prepare the barley for the next time but the coffee is already in the pot and immediately bubbles. Not be long now ... "He understood
then in a moment that her husband was right when he insisted that they should not make the house into a cursed place. "They are all nonsense," she said to her. Now he realized that unfortunately were not lies. He was then taken back to the door to try to escape, but the old woman had left the machine and the barley was coming meeting, raising his hands to take it. "Let's! Do not touch me "then she had cried, and in an instinctive gesture of defense raised their hands chest. And that gesture as if he had found in his hands the medal of Our Lady of the Rosary. The touch of his hand with the medal he had worked a miracle: the old was gone, the hut had disappeared and she was back in his bed.
"See that was just a dream," said the Gurizane.
"I say no," insisted the Furlane. "I used to dream about! But that last night was not a dream. The Gurizane remained convinced that it was a dream, but also to calm her friend advised her to repeat the story to the priest, and coaching at the rectory.
imagined that she might know that the priest had a treaty and dream, the old priest believed her at once, almost one expected the resurgence of the soul of Turkey.
"But what can I do?" Asked the Furlane.
"Today we will say a Mass for the repose of the soul, and tonight Ave Maria will come to your house to give a blessing. The news of the reappearance of Turkey at a time spread from door to door around the small town and everyone rushed to church for the memorial mass. All it felt a bit 'guilty for failing to remember that Turkey's being deaf could not hear the bell had sounded the alarm when the landslide. In the evening, then, curiosity won over fear, and the whole country was around the house Furlane to follow what had already defined as an incantation.
The priest had arrived at dusk, he had donned the purple stole, had taken the next Furlane holding the bucket of holy water as if it were an altar boy. She kept ready in hand to the Prayer Book of the Dead with a finger stuck between the pages by way of a bookmark. At the first bell tolls for the Hail Mary, opened the book and began to recite the De Profundis. He had just finished the first verse Furlane the house began to tremble. All those present thought the earthquake. In fact it was as if he had gone really an earthquake, but was only interested in that house. For the priest and the other hand Furlane Home si era trasformata nel tugurio della Turche, e lei era di nuovo là come la sera prima, che faceva bollire il caffè mentre tostava dell’altro orzo.
“Perché sei tornata?” le chiese il prete.
Lei scoppio in una risata. “Non sai che è casa mia?” aggiunse poi.
“La tua casa è nel regno dei morti!”
“Non c’è pace per me nel regno dei morti.”
“Perché?”
Alla domanda del prete, come la sera prima lei lasciò lo strumento per tostare l’orzo e fece per avventarsi contro di loro due. Il prete fu lesto a tirarle addosso con l’aspersorio dell’acqua santa. Lei si fermò come sorpresa, e lui allora la benedì facendo con l’acqua il segno della croce e recitando per quattro volte il requiescat in pace. Appena toccata dall’acqua santa, lei si sciolse come un refolo di nebbia al raggio del sole, e con lei si sciolse l’immagine della sua casa.
Lo scongiuro per la Turche è stato poi raccontato così sia dal prete che dalla Furlane. Gli altri infatti non avevano visto e capito niente. Avevano sentito le parole del prete, ma non quelle dell’anima della Turche. Soltanto alla fine, quando il prete aveva dato la benedizione ed anche tutti loro si erano fatti il segno della croce, avevano visto uscire dalla porta della casa da Furlane un uccello spaventato. Per la velocità con la quale era uscito e perché era already almost night and no one knew what kind of bird it was.
When the finishing touches on the sound of the bell is first dispersed in the shadows of the night. From the large walnut growing in the meadow below the house of Furlan, came the mournful song of the owl. Everyone thought then that the bird was an owl out of the house, it was Turkey, forced to beg from leaving the house, but not yet ready to abandon the country.
the centuries have passed, but the big nut, at night, sits an owl and sometimes even in his mournful lament continues to remember the history of the landslide and Turkey.
