Chapter 21: The Schullo Ranch
Suitcase in hand, Harry strode to the rear of the Fortuna cottage. The boast of a distant rooster sounded in the distance. The inky sky began to brighten, rays of sunlight poked over the hills. The wind unsettling the gray-blue haze swept through the tall grasses echoing the sound of ocean waves. Tugging the front brim of his fedora, the valor of Spartacus rekindled in his soul, Harry put his head down and trudged toward the hills and the Schullo ranch.

Melting snow from the distant mountains swelled a stream in his path. He sat on his suitcase, took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his pant legs, and stepped into the water. Icy shivers bolted up his limbs. Holding his suitcase in one hand and pressing his hat down with the other, he traipsed through the flowing creak on his toes like a ballet dancer. As he crossed, he noticed two girls and a boy using sticks to burrow into the sandy mud.

He sat on the bank, put on his shoes and socks, and called to them in Italian, “Hey, what are you doing?”

The smaller girl held up a pail and called out, “lumache.”

The older girl said, “Mama promised to make us a stew, if we find enough.”

Harry waved and called, “Buona fortuna!”

Even though it was morning, Harry was drained. During the night, questions darted through his mind: What should I say to him? Will he believe I’m his grandson? Will he love me?

He splashed cold water on his face, cupped his hands, and drank. He sat back watching the children poke their long sticks into the mud, gather shelled treasures and drop them into a bucket.  

The barefoot children finished snailing and waved good-bye. Harry returned the wave as they disappeared over a rise. He wondered about life in Vinco: What was it like to live on a farm or in a small village? Was the life of a shepherd boring with nothing to do but watch sheep? In a small place like Vinco, probably everyone would know you. There would be no secrets. Was this the reason my father left?

Harry rose, his back and legs muscles protested. He stretched hoping to silence the complaints.  He looked to the glistening hills, picked up his bag, and resumed his quest.Huffing his way through gangly trees and sputtering brush, reaching a bald patch at the top of the first hill. The rising sun scorched his eyes and baked his face. Yanking the brim of his hat, he attempted to shield his eyes. He scanned the landscape and traced an imaginary line that ran down to a sunken expanse, and then up the second, more challenging hill.

The descent down the backside of the first hill was steeper than anticipated. It became necessary to side step down the incline, steading himself after each step, careful to keep his weight on his back foot. Harry slid then threw his suitcase down to the bottom of the hill. It squished among the cattails. 
He side-stepped down the remainder of the slope skidding to a stop at the bottom. Muddy water wrapped around his ankles. The muck sucked at his feet.

Where the hell is that suitcase? He sloshed ahead, pushing aside hunks of cattails. “Damn,” he said, as he spotted the suitcase sticking in the mud. He pull it up, water speedily filled the impression. I really don’t like this place.

A scene from a Tarzan movie flashed his head. He saw a native porter’s fingers curling and then disappearing into quicksand. He quickly pulled up one foot, then the other, anxiously assuring himself he was in mud and not quicksand.

Harry squished into a patch of towering stiff grasses. The grass blades were sharp and thick. Sizzling sweat raced from every pour. He lifted his suitcase and used it to shield his face . A flock of red-winged black birds took flight. Mosquitos swarmed about his face. He took off his hat and waved wildly at the insects.

Ahead was the base of the second hill, a couple of football fields to go. Sun bullets riddle him, and the smell of the marsh so heavy he could barely catch his breath. Dizziness swarmed in his head. Blackness swoped in. He swooned, caught himself just before falling into the muck. He straighten up, shook the dizziness from his head and tramped on as grasshoppers, damselflies and other insects took flight.  

When he reached the base of the second hill, he climbed a bit and then sat on the slope. He gazed over the swampy area he just conquered. His shoes were soaked through and his pants were sopping wet. He itched like crazy. How did I ever get myself into such a mess? St. John, help me to find my family and my grandfather. Please, let him love me. Harry turned and looked over his shoulder, eyeing the climb he had to conquer. God, this damn thing’s not a hill, it’s a mountain.

The incline was steep, outcrops of gangly bushes, sticker weeds, and scattered rocks dotted the slant. He slipped, and then slipped a second time, barely catching himself before tumbling backward. His solution was to throw his suitcase uphill, and scrambled up the slope like a chimpanzee. A few times, he had to catch the suitcase as it hit then slid back down the hill.  Harry continued his clambering ascent for an hour.

Once on the crest, he observed a rolling plateau.  In front of him was a line of beech trees bordered a waving, wheat field. To the left was a green meadow with a few cows and groupings of sheep.  A stiff breeze shook the beech tree branches, nearly lifting his hat from his head. He grabbed the brim and firmly pulled it down. He stood, arms out and legs apart, wanting the breeze to swirl about him and dry his sweat-laden clothing. He lifted his arms and smelled his armpits. “Not good,” he said to himself.

He was clammy and dirty. His shoes were mud-caked and dirt and bits of gravel clung to the knees of his trousers. Taking out his handkerchief, he wiped perspiration from his face, neck, armpits and reached down his pants to dry himself. He wished he could fine water, but none was in sight. He sauntered to a long, gray rock shaped like the bow of a ship, scaled it, cupped his eyes and surveyed his surroundings.  A flash of sunlight caught his eye as it splashed off a shiny, red tile roof atop a rambling ranch house.

“That’s it, I know it,” he said.

Fingers of hope and fear simultaneously squeezed his stomach. His heart beat like an out of control metronome.  He scanned the layout of the ranch. To the south of the house stood a white barn, next to it, a red silo with a cone roof and just beyond a low-slung stable. A black horse and a big gray trotted about in a split-rail corral next to the stable. The black horse stopped and raised its head, seeming to stare in his direction.

Harry slid off the rock, opened his suitcase and took a pair of clean socks, then realized his shoes were still wet. He flipped the socks back into his bag, looped the shoe strings, and hung the shoes around his neck. He took a deep breath, called, “Forward ho,” and began his barefoot trek toward the ranch.
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