The Eye Stone

by Roberto Tiraboschi

  Without realizing it, he found himself on the edge of a dense forest of alders and oaks, where there was a church with a large portico surrounded by fishermen’s houses. Just beyond the village, it was possible to glimpse a wide canal navigated by galleys, freight boats, and sandoli with sails. The place inspired a sense of peace. Simple houses, gathered around the church, fishing nets spread out to dry, boats pulled ashore. An idyllic landscape which, for a moment, made him forget his torments. He sat down on a low wall next to the portico.

  There was a woman huddled near the entrance to the church, totally covered by a black cloak, muttering a short prayer and stretching out her hand.

  “Excuse me,” Edgardo asked. “Can you tell me where I am? I’m lost.”

  The cloak quivered, the hand pulled back, and a head covered in crusts with but a few locks of yellowed hair popped out of one of the folds. “You’re in San Nicolò dei Mendigoli. It’s called that because this tiny stretch of land is inhabited only by very poor fishermen and beggars who live off kind folks’ charity.”

  Edgardo could not restrain a horrified grimace. Most of the woman’s face had been eaten away by leprosy. Her nose had been reduced to a growth of shapeless flesh, she had bluish gums instead of lips, and her ears had disappeared, as had her eyelids, which could no longer conceal two protruding, bloodshot eyeballs. Around the mouth that had been corroded by the disease, the gnawed flesh exposed the jawbone in which teeth were set. Half skeleton and half body, as though death itself were performing its task day by day, with the patience of a skilled craftsman.

  “Thank you, my good woman,” Edgardo stuttered. “God be with you.”

  He would have liked to give her a coin, but lacked the courage.

  “Come closer, let me get a look at you.” Her voice echoed as though in a cave, suggesting an empty chest. Edgardo did not move.

  “Come on, don’t be scared, I’m not dangerous.” A laugh crackled through her few remaining teeth. “Come on, boy, let me show you something, have no fear . . . ”

  Fear, fear, fear . . . The word echoed in his ears, flooded his mind, throbbed in his heart. Once again, his brother’s astounded face, when he had seen him flee from the enemy, flashed before his eyes.

  “Come on, be brave,” the old woman insisted.

  He could turn and run once again. It was possible, and it would free him. Always run away. He resisted his first impulse and took a step forward.

  “Well done. You see, you can be brave if you want to. Let me give you a hand.”

  Once again, she laughed and stretched out a shred of blood-streaked flesh, a ridge of bones and tendons at the tip of which hung long yellow nails. Edgardo took another step forward, bewitched by this monstrosity.

  “There we go . . . Now you can finally look your fear in the face.”

  As she spoke, the leper woman took off her hood, uncovering the whole of her head. Edgardo immediately recognized the features, the shape of the head, and the eyes. He saw his own reflection in a puddle of muddy water, rippled by the wind. He recognized his hump, his deformed bones, the remaining locks of hair, the shreds of transparent skin hanging from the cheeks. A picture of horror, a crooked demon. He was his own fear. Fear was inside him and he could not escape it.

  He made another effort, reached his hand out, and had almost managed to touch himself when his tunic grew suddenly limp and he felt his chest being pierced through by a red-hot blade.

  For a moment, he was stunned, unable to move. The leper woman had disappeared. He looked around. He was alone. His wound was still burning.

  In a field almost clear of blood, Kallis was pushing the scaula amid the shoals that surrounded the islands of Aymanas and Costanciacum.

  When they had reached Metamauco, she had used the pretext of going to find food to keep the boat, and had gone to the abandoned convent of San Lorenzo.

  The scirocco wind had brought a humid, sticky blanket that made it hard to breathe and move about. White bubbles full of vapor had appeared around some of the small islands, and were gushing out from the bottom, bursting on the surface, filling the air with a nauseating smell of rotting flesh. Inexplicable phenomena she did not remember ever seeing before. The scaula passed the monasteries of Sant’Agata, then San Filippo and San Giacomo. When she reached San Lorenzo, she realized that, since she had last been here with Edgardo, the water had risen further, submerging portions of the shore and flooding fields and woodland.

  Walking through the ruins of the convent, she saw frightened snakes hide under stones or in the cracks of walls. The air was unbreathable, swarms of insects whirred about aimlessly, as though driven crazy, while seagulls and redshanks circled overhead, shrieking relentlessly.

  She passed the tower she had made her secret refuge and walked across the cloister as far as the dilapidated church, behind which, on a tiny plot of land, a few headstones stuck out, some lying on the ground in pieces.

  Kallis snapped a laurel branch from a bush, then rummaged in the grass until she found a tiny, rusty iron cross. She knelt, pulled out a few clusters of grass, and stuck the laurel branch into the soil, as though it were a flower.

  “Rest in peace, Mother. I know that you’re finally free and happy, but I miss you so much . . . I really need your advice. You know every one of my thoughts, my most intimate feelings, even those I’m not aware of. Please tell me—what should I do?”

  Kallis bent toward the cross, as though afraid not to be heard.

  “I made you a promise, I know, I swore it on your grave, but so much has happened now . . . I don’t understand anything anymore . . . I’m confused. Please tell me, what path should I follow? I don’t want to betray you, and up to now, I’ve always followed the preordained path, step by step. But now my heart is hesitating and I’m full of doubts.”

  Kallis prostrated herself on the grave and hugged the piece of land marked with the cross. “Time is running out. Help me, Mother dearest. Tell me what to do.”

  XXVIII.

  THE FORMULA

  He spent the night praying, just as he had seen his father do before a battle. He had always wondered if prayers were for asking God to keep your life safe, or a need, through invocations, to feel Him at your side before going to face death.

  Kneeling in a corner of the foundry, Edgardo had listened to the words coming out of his mouth: the word of God. Words and set phrases he had learned by heart but of which he had forgotten the meaning, and which filled his heart and his head until he was in a daze. Was this their meaning? Was it to be drugged with litanies, with invocations, until you stopped thinking and forgot your fear? Filled with vacuous, truthless faith, he prepared to face his enemy: a ghost created by his mind.

  They were ringing Lauds in the nearby church of San Giacomo di Luprio. Edgardo left the foundry and went to the well by the mill. He stripped himself bare and began to wash, rubbing himself with a wet cloth. He wished he could wear clothes worthier of his first battle, but all he had were his garzone rags. The scirocco wind dried his wet skin, leaving a layer of steam around his body.

  Segrado was waiting for him in Metamauco. He pictured the meeting, the danger, the possibility that he might be killed, and tried to read the deep motivations of the soul.

  He drank a sip of water, got dressed again, and returned to the foundry. He felt purer, ready to face whatever event God had chosen in order to put him to the test.

  He took the eye disc contraption from the workbench, wrapped it in a rag to protect it from any knocks, and put it at the bottom of his sack. He would shortly start writing again and that made him nervous.

  Before going out, he thought of his brother. He wished he had him at his side, heard their horses’ gallop blend into a deafening thud, and his voice, so full of assurance, inciting them to victory. Since he could not go back in time, Edgardo decided to dedicate his small, insignificant act of courage to Ruggero. He looked at himse
lf: he was a decidedly lowly knight.

  He was already at the door when he heard a creak bite into the deep silence of the night. Broken salt crystals, crushed by heavy footsteps coming from behind the mill. An uncontrollable shudder ran down his skin. He tried to restrain it. The footsteps grew louder in the dark, approaching. Edgardo knew that there was a time when he would have gone back in and bolted the door. Now, instead, he remained on the threshold, waiting motionlessly. The sound of footsteps ceased and silence returned. The mill sail moved imperceptibly, squeaking, pushed by the wind.

  A shadow appeared before him. Edgardo thought he recognized his brother. Perhaps the latter had heard his call.

  “Ruggero, brother,” he murmured with a broken voice. “It’s me—don’t be afraid.”

  The shadow materialized into Segrado’s bearlike body.

  The unexpected apparition made him take a step back and put him on the defensive.

  “Maestro,” he said, “I was about to join you in Metamauco. That’s what we’d agreed.”

  Segrado breathed out heavily. The steam turned white, like a cloud of smoke.

  “I decided to come to you, instead. It’s safer.” He walked into the foundry.

  This unexpected change of plan threw Edgardo. He tried to put his thoughts in order. Why had Segrado come to him? Was it so that he could be alone and act undisturbed? In Meta­mauco, he would have had to take Kallis into account, whereas here, after he had finished dictating, it would be easy for Segrado to eliminate him and then throw him into the canal, just like he had done with Zoto. Or else he could leave him to soak in the saltworks, like Niccolò. Where was Kallis? Did she know he was here?

  Without paying attention to Edgardo, the master moved calmly and naturally. He had put the leather knapsack on the high-backed chair, and was in the process of rekindling the fire.

  “I’ve brought everything we need.”

  On the workbench, he lined up a sheet of parchment, a horn filled with ink, and a goose quill.

  “I hope I haven’t forgotten anything.”

  Edgardo glanced distractedly at the tools, and asked, “Did Kallis stay in Metamauco?”

  “Yes,” Segrado replied abruptly. “It’s better if it’s just the two of us.” His reply did not reassure Edgardo. “So, are you ready? Do you have your eye glasses?”

  “Maestro, I’d like to make a request before we start.”

  Segrado turned abruptly. “What kind of request?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about Kallis.”

  Segrado emitted a kind of animal grunt from the depths of his bear soul. Then he shook himself and swelled his chest as though to sweep the world away with a powerful growl. Edgardo expected to see anger in his eyes but, instead, there was just an expression of deep sadness.

  “What are you imagining? You know nothing.” Segrado stopped, not sure if he should continue. “It’s all such a muddle. Don’t think of Kallis now. There’ll be time later. Let’s get down to work now.”

  He brought the stool close to the workbench and handed Edgardo the goose quill. Edgardo approached and prepared to write again, perhaps for the last time.

  Confused, violent feelings shook his chest. Two contrasting passions clashed within him. On one hand, the joy and exaltation of being able, once again, to guide the subtle quill on the page, and to see the formation of those miraculous signs that could inspire thoughts, images, emotions, dreams, and logic. On the other hand, the awareness that the success of his writing could mean his death.

  He picked up the quill and held it tight. His fingers were shaking. He opened the horn with the ink and put it on the table. The clean, untouched parchment awaited him like an expanse of sand swept by the wind, never dented by human footsteps.

  “Are you ready?” Segrado asked solemnly.

  “Yes . . . No, just a moment.”

  He had forgotten the most important step. The one that had allowed him to return to life. He pulled the parcel out of his sack and unwrapped it. The glasses gave off an unreal light, like the glow of a comet cutting through the night. The transparency and purity was like that of crystal. Segrado looked at them with satisfaction, proud of his work. Edgardo slowly brought them up to his nose, supporting them with his free hand. Then he drew his face close to the parchment, bending toward the table until he had found the right distance that allowed him to see the lines marked on the sheet clearly and precisely.

  “Now I’m ready,” he said.

  Segrado sat on the bench beside him. “I’ll dictate slowly, so you have time to write. I’ll try and find the right words, so that everything is as clear as possible. Whoever reads this formula mustn’t have any doubts. Let’s start with the title: ‘Formula for Making Perfect Crystal.’”

  After dipping the quill in ink, Edgardo drew close to the parchment, and prepared to trace his first letters. For a moment, he had the impression that the ink was melting and that the signs on the sheet were running, like waves on the water’s edge. He bowed his head, squinted a little, and at last, new, clear, precise writing appeared through the glasses. Maybe he was a bit slower, but he could read what he was writing.

  His eyes shut, focusing, as though revisiting the various stages of preparation, Segrado continued:

  “First of all, you must make sure that the furnace is set to a light-colored flame, without smoke—not like when you use fresh, green wood, or when you don’t stoke the fire and the flame fails. Equally, you mustn’t stoke the fire too much or carelessly, because that can cause great damage to glass and, in particular, to crystal. Instead, you should stoke it little and often, so that the oven remains light, smokeless, and also uses up less wood. Now take the proper quantity of crystal pieces, coarsely pestled, put them into the oven in a crucible, and leave them there for twelve hours without stirring. Keep a tub of fresh water ready, where you’ll pour the crystal from the crucible. After it has cooled down, wash the crystal several times, until the water runs nice and clear. Then pestle the glass in a stone mortar and wash it once again. You do this in order to remove some of the salt that would otherwise damage the crystal and make it dark. After washing, put it back into the crucible, always making sure that the flame is light-colored and smokeless. Allow it to melt for a maximum of four days, then stir with a rod.”

  Segrado stopped, uncertain whether or not to continue. Edgardo lifted his hand from the page, and studied his work. It was as perfect as the filigree of a leaf, rich as a miniature, sweet as honey, fragrant as a field of lavender. It was his handwriting once again. He felt a flush in his chest. He forgot his fear and the danger of death. It was as though he was proudly and resolutely galloping toward the enemy.

  Kallis woke with a start to find Segrado’s bed empty. She leapt to her feet. She was too agitated to think or act. The master had left in the middle of the night, secretly, without waking her. She could well imagine why, and where he had gone. He had never meant to wait for Edgardo in Metamauco. He had planned something quite different: to find him at the foundry in order to have a free hand and dictate the formula without her being present.

  A powerful anger went to her head. She had thought herself cunning, she had thought she had studied every move of his, but she had been wrong. It had happened before, when she had trusted him and he, in return, had ruined her life. A treacherous, violent man.

  She had to catch up with him and stop him before he started dictating. Maybe she was still in time. Perhaps he had not been gone long. She slipped on her tunic, wrapped herself in her cloak, and ran out to a sandolo that was moored at a nearby rio. A scirocco wind was still blowing and its close heat drained you of strength and made your mind obtuse and idle. A gloomy darkness spread across the sky, and in the first pale light of day an army of low clouds scurried, lapping at the waters.

  Kallis started to row, trying to reach Venetia as quickly as possible. Although the wind was not strong, breakers
rose tall, forming long, wide waves. An acid, metallic smell rose from the waters, and crackling sparks spread over the surface, like sea lightning.

  It was an enormous effort trying to keep the boat on the right course, and several times Kallis thought she would not make it. Sudden currents tossed her about, shifting the bow like the tip of a needle and making the keel slide as though it was on a sheet of ice. A deep roar rose from the depths of the lagoon, and the waters quivered with a muffled sound. The birds were squawking and fluttering restlessly, while eels darted out of the water.

  Kallis did not remember ever seeing anything like this, not even before a storm. There was the breath of something suspended in the air, as though awaiting imminent catastrophe. She had never felt so anxious, as if she were shut up in a well, deprived of air and unable to move. With every stroke of the oar, she felt weaker, her mind uncontrollably numb. She struggled to advance just a few fathoms at a time.

  It was pointless fighting. She would never get there in time. Edgardo was lost.

  A favorable current tossed her toward Spinalunga and she finally saw the shores of Dorsoduro. The cumulus clouds were so low they concealed the tops of belfries and towers, and it was barely possible to make out the outlines of the churches. The galleys, chelandions, and warships moored in front of the dock of San Marco were rocking so violently that the tips of their masts touched.

  With a final effort, she managed to take shelter inside the Rivus Altus, where the waves were not as powerful and the currents gentler. Drenched in sweat, her muscles aching, she rowed mechanically, refusing to think that she might be too late.

  “And now we come to the most important part,” Segrado continued. “Write it down exactly as I say it. ‘Then take a little finely-sifted manganese, pour some into the glass, and let it dissolve. You must know that all glass naturally tends to be green, but manganese lightens it. However, be careful not to put too much in, or the glass will turn purple, in which case you’ll need to add as many crushed and sifted crystal pieces as it takes to make the crystal light, white, and beautiful again. But it’s much better to add manganese a little at a time. There isn’t any determined rule or quantity, so you have to keep checking as you go along that your crystal is becoming light and as transparent as water, and then you’ll have reached the right moment. Until you see that the glass is clear, keep adding manganese little by little, as I said, to avoid it turning purple. However, bear in mind that this kind of crystal needs to be worked very carefully, on a low flame (it doesn’t require a large flame, like ordinary glass) and always on a light-colored, smokeless fire, stoking it little and often. Moreover, it has to be worked in a clean environment, with no dust, because it can easily get dirty if you’re not careful.’” Segrado paused, his eyes drifting over the tools, the furnace, as though looking for confirmation, then added, “There. I’ve finished. This is my formula for making perfect crystal.”