The Eye Stone

by Roberto Tiraboschi

  He was panting with terror and tried to control his breathing. The crunching footsteps continued in different directions for a while. He heard them approach, then walk away, until they finally vanished in the distance. Whatever, whoever, it was, had gone. There was a stench of trough in the air and he wondered if he had been pursued by a sow, but no, it had been a man, of that he was certain. He could not have been so frightened by a pig. He felt ashamed, closed his eyes, and remained crouching in the hut, waiting for it to get light.

  He was awakened by the squeaking sound of the mill sails turning in a strong wind. The white glare of the salt hurt his already painful eyes. He had fallen asleep without noticing. The sun was high. He crawled out of his shelter and looked around. The salt workers were gathered in a basin, raking up the crystals left by the evaporation. Other workmen were finishing the framework of a dam with strips of reed and clay. Nobody had noticed him. He walked determinedly to Segrado’s foundry and entered without knocking.

  He was somewhat startled to see Kallis in front of the furnace, wearing an apron, about to take some molten glass from the crucible with a blowing pipe. Her movements were confident and harmonious as though she had always blown glass.

  Edgardo had seen her perform humble tasks and never imagined she could be familiar with the art of masters. In spite of his presence, Kallis did not interrupt her work but grabbed the pipe and started blowing the small ball of incandescent glass, which immediately turned into a hollow body. Every so often, she turned the soft mass on the marble slab to stop it from losing its shape. When she noticed that, in between one breath and another, the mass was hardening, she would stick it back into the furnace to soften it. In just a few moments, she had forged a pale yellow glass. Using a jack, she detached the crafted object from the cane with a sharp gesture and placed it on a plank to cool. Then she looked at Edgardo, satisfied.

  “You’re as good as Maestro Segrado,” he said.

  Kallis shook her head, but kept her proud smile. “The maestro isn’t here,” she said. “He’s gone to pick up materials on the mainland.” She indicated the glass debris piled up in a corner. “They broke in and smashed everything. They were looking for something.”

  Edgardo looked around, embarrassed, as though feeling responsible.

  “You mustn’t be seen here. It’s not safe after what happened to Niccolò. Zoto could see you and report you to the constable.”

  “I’ve come to take my leave . . . to say goodbye. I’ve decided to go back to my monastery in Bobbio. I’m sorry the maestro isn’t here.”

  The muscles of Kallis’s face tensed with shock. She put down the tools and approached. “You promised you’d teach me to write.” Her voice was hard and resolute, like someone who has been betrayed.

  “You’re right.” Edgardo pulled out the parchment and goose quill from under his habit. “I want to leave you these as a gift . . . so that they might bring you luck. You’ll find someone else to teach you.”

  Her body, graceful as a thread of wool, now seemed transformed into the blade of a sword.

  “Are you making fun of me? Do you think it’s easy to find a scribe who’ll teach a slave?”

  “I know but . . . ” Edgardo tried to find a reason to justify his decision, “my presence here can put the Abbot of San Giorgio in an embarrassing situation.”

  “Do you fear for your life?” Kallis asked, provoking him.

  Edgardo did not have the courage to be completely honest. “It’s not my life that is at risk . . . at least I don’t think so . . . ”

  “I can take you to a secret place where you’ll be safe. Nobody would find you there.”

  “You’re very kind, but I can’t hide forever. And I don’t want to hide.”

  “Only in case it’s necessary, in case you must run away, there’s a hiding place nobody knows about. Come with me.”

  Edgardo tried to resist, but Kallis took his hand and squeezed it. At that moment, he lost all willpower, the reasoning of a wise mind got mixed up with the babblings of a madman and the warmth of his hand being squeezed flooded him with happiness. It was as though he had been bound with a chain of fire and there was nothing he could do except follow her.

  The scaula was moored in the stream behind the foundry. Kallis slid the oar out from the bottom, leaned it on the rowlock, and, standing in the bow, started rowing. Edgardo watched her in awe. She moved with assurance, using strong, precise strokes, and in a few minutes they were out of the labyrinth of streams and canals and going toward the Vigano canal. Just as had happened before the furnace, Kallis looked completely transformed to Edgardo: she was not just a strong woman—of that he already had proof—but independent and determined: characteristics that were generally attributed to men.

  With Segrado not there, she seemed finally able to express herself and set her true spirit free. Her slim body that seemed so fragile had taken on unexpected authority and dignity, and he allowed himself to be led without putting up any resistance, as if under a spell, stunned by her beauty and regal demeanor.

  He did not want to know where they were going. He asked no questions and abandoned himself to a soft and languid pleasure, as though the moment had finally come to give up fighting for survival and trust the path that had been preordained.

  They left the island of Spinalunga in the south, passed San Giorgio, and cut across the canal at Olivolo to reach the north of the lagoon.

  It was a cold January morning and the air was so pure and insubstantial that you could almost touch the peaks of the mountains on the horizon. Edgardo saw Amurianum and, for a moment, thought that Kallis was taking him to the rio of the glassmakers, but then noticed that the bow was facing east, past the island of glass manufacturing, toward the interior of the marshes.

  Kallis was rowing calmly, with a slow, constant rhythm, almost absentmindedly, lost in her own world, a world Edgardo would have so much liked to discover and share with her. She had a relaxed expression, and for the first time her eyes lit up her face with a serenity that bordered on joy. Edgardo felt the same: it was just the two of them, alone, lost in the meanderings of the lagoon, far from all turmoils and fears, on a journey he wanted never to end.

  The landscape was different now. Wide expanses of tidal shallows alternated with shoals that surfaced just above the water. Here and there, on more substantial protruding islands, forests of elms, willows, poplars, oaks, Mediterranean pines, and brooms stood out. Wide expanses of marsh reeds and rushes bordered streams and canals. Past a large area of reed beds, they reached a piscaria, a big, shallow stretch of water closed off with artificial borders made of poles and netting that prevented young fish from leaving the basin once they had grown. The surrounding lands were cultivated with vines and vegetables. Edgardo would never have expected to find such luxuriant crops in an area that seemed dominated by insalubrious marshes and stagnant waters. He felt as though he had arrived in a kind of promised land.

  He was even more surprised when he saw the silhouettes of towers and many belfries rise on the horizon. As they advanced, all around on the land above water, surrounded by fishermen’s huts, sprouted churches and vast monasteries. He had never seen such a large number of holy places in such a small area. It was as though all the priests, monks, and hermits had gotten together and agreed to build places of worship on that stretch of muddy sea.

  By now they had reached a large, densely-populated island crisscrossed by streams and canals. Kallis pushed the boat along a man-made canal that ran horizontal to the natural streams and crossed the whole of the inhabited area. The surrounding lands were cultivated and there were small herds of cows grazing in the fields. Outside the huts, along the bank, barges were moored loaded with hay, and nets were drying everywhere, hanging from poles. In the distance, large expanses of salt glistened.

  They passed palaces, two monasteries, and a church, following the canal until they reached the district�
�s main campo. Edgardo noticed that it had nothing to envy the wealthiest Venetian campi.

  Surrounded by two-story patrician houses and buildings made of stone and marble, the center was dominated by an imposing cathedral, a circular baptistry, decorated with a tub fed by jets of water that flowed from the mouths of symbolic animals, and a small church laid out like a Greek cross and surrounded on all five sides by a portico. The religious complex, in its harmony, conveyed a sense of spirituality and profound peace.

  Edgardo could never have imagined that there were islands besides Venetia—considered the main religious and political center of the lagoon—so densely inhabited, so wealthy and important for trade, business and farming, that you wondered if the civilization of the gens venetica had been born and developed precisely in this periphery.

  “What’s the name of this island?” Edgardo asked in awe.

  “It’s called Torcellus,” Kallis replied, continuing to row.

  “It’s a place where you can hear the voice of Our Lord.”

  Kallis turned her face to the sky as though searching for that voice. “Sometimes Our Lord is silent and distant, or perhaps he simply doesn’t condescend to talk to slaves.”

  Edgardo had never heard her speak with such bitterness.

  They left Torcellus and other churches and monasteries behind, and went deeper into an area of shallow, slimy waters, grass-covered shoals that sank or emerged depending on the tide, giving the impression that perhaps once upon a time these islands had all been connected to dry land.

  “We’re nearly there!” Kallis exclaimed. “Those islands you see are Costancianum and Aymanas. Many years ago they were all the same land but now the rising waters have separated them.”

  On a small stretch of land, on separate islands along the main canals, Edgardo counted two churches and ten monasteries. The boat went toward one of these, which stood on a tiny island.

  When the scaula finally touched shore, Edgardo realized that the abbey was totally abandoned. Kallis tied the boat to a willow.

  “This is the convent of San Lorenzo. The nuns who used to live here have gone. The lagoon grew so much that they were completely isolated and every time the waters rose, they were completely submerged.” She set off for the convent. “It belongs to me now,” she said, walking in the tall grass, “me and my fellow snakes.” She laughed, satisfied.

  Privet, beds of reeds, and rushes had invaded everything. The paths had been erased, submerged by mud.

  Kallis skipped from one protruding stone to another with animal agility. With his clumsy, crooked demeanor, impaired by his habit, Edgardo tried to keep up with her.

  Inside, the church was completely devastated. There were only a few slabs left of the marble floor. The altar, broken in two, was lying on the ground, caked with salt and shells from the sea, a sign that the water had reached that far. On the walls were a few frescoes that crumbled with every gust of wind and torn pieces of mosaic, as well as bas-reliefs and tiles with barely recognizable patterns. A Jesus Christ carved from a log watched from the apse, powerless, as his house went to ruin.

  “They’ve taken everything away,” Kallis said with contempt. “They come from Venetia and take stones, marble, and even the pillars, so they can build rich people’s houses.”

  They crossed the central nave and came out into an inner cloister at the back. There were only a few poplars left in the garden, the other trees having been cut down for timber, and medicinal herbs had invaded every corner. The roof of the refectory and the chapter had collapsed, leaving a heap of logs, reeds, and bricks inside.

  “Be careful, it’s full of snakes,” Kallis said, almost flying across the vegetable garden now corroded by sand and brambles. They reached the foot of the tower behind the church. “Wait here, I’ll be back soon.”

  Edgardo watched her disappear behind the church, toward a small, fenced-off campo strewn with uprooted slabs of stone. The tower was the only building left that was still in good shape. Built from solid Istrian stone, it had withstood the devastating tides that had eaten away at the rest of the convent. Shortly afterwards, Kallis reappeared. She looked sad and her eyes glistened as though she had been crying.

  “Come, let’s go up.”

  The inside staircase was steep and narrow, and stank of saltpeter and mold. They reached the top and entered a circular room connected to the belfry by a trapdoor. Two slits let in the light. The walls were bare, with heaps of straw on the floor, and only a table and stool against the wall.

  “This is my hiding place,” Kallis announced proudly, looking around as though showing a guest the hall of a palace. “Nobody knows this place exists.” Her voice cracked. “Not even Segrado. You’re the only one who knows. Everything is abandoned here. The peasants stay away because they’re afraid of the snakes. I’m the mistress of this island—a slave mistress . . . ”

  She burst into a fierce, almost unnatural laugh, which chilled Edgardo’s blood. She approached the slit. “Look, from here you can see the whole lagoon, the mountains, the river mouths, the sea, Venetia, and all the islands and dry lands. You can see the whole world from here.”

  Edgardo’s eyes wandered as far as the horizon. A luminous strip quivered above the waters, transforming the landscape into a vision of unreality, like a painting discolored by rain.

  “When I’m here I feel as free as a bird. I have no master and no remorse. My soul can fly through the air.”

  Her voice was now warm and sweet as a songbird’s. Edgardo could have listened to her forever.

  “Come,” she said, sitting at the table. “You promised to teach me to write. I’m ready.”

  It was he who was not ready now. He had not expected this. A little awkwardly, he sat next to her, unrolled the parchment and picked up the goose quill. He bent over the sheet, but stopped.

  “We have no ink . . . ”

  For a moment, Kallis looked at him, puzzled, then stood up decisively and took from under the straw a small box of coarse wood that was all cracked. She opened it, took out a cloth wrapping and a glass jar, and put them on the table. The box was full of colored beads and she poured them out. “They were my mother’s,” she said, gesturing toward the beads and the wrapping. “It’s all I have left of her.” She remained with her hand in the air, transfixed, staring at the little beads rolling around freely.

  “Is she dead?” Edgardo asked.

  Kallis’s eyes narrowed. Two black slits, like cuts, as though she had been stabbed in the chest. She nodded.

  “Where do you come from?” Edgardo continued.

  “From the Orient. My mother was abducted by Saracen pirates and was supposed to be sold in Alexandria. During a clash with the Venetian fleet, the pirates were all killed and my mother was brought to Venetia, as a slave.”

  Edgardo did not dare ask anything else. Kallis unfolded the wrapping, a piece of linen dyed with indigo. Inside, she had a knife with a thin, long blade. With a sharp gesture, she ran the tip across the crook of her arm. Blood began gushing out. Kallis placed the jar under her arm, to collect it. When the jar was full, she pushed it toward Edgardo.

  “Here. Now we have ink.”

  Then she tied the piece of cloth securely to stanch the wound. It had all happened too fast for him to stop her. Besides, it would have been futile. Edgardo had read in her gestures a determination nobody could have stopped. It frightened and overwhelmed him. He said nothing and, with a sense he was performing a primitive rite of initiation, he dipped the quill in the dark liquid.

  “The Latin alphabet is made up of twenty-six letters, five vowels and twenty-one consonants. We’ll begin with the vowels. Watch carefully.”

  With difficulty, he drew close to the sheet to make a start, and began drawing the letter a on the parchment.

  “Now it’s your turn. You must copy the whole alphabet, and then learn it by heart.”

 
He handed Kallis the quill. At first, she was almost afraid to touch it. The long, tapered fingers remained suspended in midair, spread out and quivering, then she plucked up the courage and gripped the quill. She dipped the tip into her own blood and rested it on the sheet. She looked into Edgardo’s eyes, waiting for his approval. He smiled at her.

  “Go on.”

  The quill creaked, moved forward a little, but then everything precipitated, and the hand slipped down and lost its balance.

  “Not like that. Lightly. It must be a light touch.”

  Without thinking, Edgardo put his hand on Kallis’s, in order to guide it.

  “Let’s try again. This is an a.”

  Kallis’s arm became soft and tender and her hand turned into a tangle of warm, welcoming wool. Trusting in his ever more uncertain eyes, he led her to draw a vague, unsteady vowel.

  “You’ve chosen a terrible teacher who can’t see anymore.”

  “Again.” Kallis’s voice was thin and childlike.

  “Now let’s try an e. Repeat after me: e.”

  The pupil repeated, and once again the teacher took her by the hand and guided her on the sheet and as he did so felt her hand melt, open, and change shape and consistency . . . That blood letter assumed body and heat. The writing became alive and slid under his skin like a shock. Everything blended into an unstoppable vortex. Kallis’s languid eyes led him to the land of madmen and, in an instant, the hand became a mouth and the mouth became a body. Edgardo felt limbs merge and blur. His mind turned to liquid and slipped out of his head, distancing itself from his will.

  Swept along by an unstoppable wave, his body melted with Kallis’s. He lost his arms, his legs, his stomach, his head. Everything was topsy-turvy, broken, sinking into a salty, aqueous humor.

  For the first time, Edgardo discovered the wonder of flesh, skin as soft and smooth as silk, eyes full of desire caressing his naked belly, breathed in the moist, pungent scent of a deep well, and heard words in a foreign tongue pouring out of Kallis’s throat.