by Umberto Eco
Another time they really did encounter the basilisk, and it was, just as certain oft-told tales had narrated, undoubtedly true. It emerged from a cliff, splitting the rock, as Pliny had said. It had a cock's head and talons, and in the place of a crest it had a red excrescence, in the shape of a crown, yellow protruding eyes like a toad's, and a snake's body. It was emerald green, with silver glints, and at first sight it seemed almost beautiful, but everyone knew that its breath could poison an animal or a human being, and already at a distance you could catch its horrible smell.
"Keep away," Solomon cried, "and above all, don't look into its eyes, because they also give off a poisonous power!" The basilisk crawled towards them, the odor became more and more intolerable, until Baudolino realized there was a way to kill it. "The mirror! The mirror!" he shouted to Abdul. Abdul handed him the metal mirror he had received from the gymnosophists. Baudolino took it, and with his right hand he held it in front of himself like a shield, turned towards the monster, while with his left hand he covered his eyes to protect himself against that sight, and he measured his steps according to what he saw on the ground. He stopped before the beast, held the mirror out farther. Drawn by those glints, the basilisk raised his head and fixed his lizard eyes directly on this shining surface, exhaling his horrendous breath. But immediately his whole body trembled, he blinked his purple eyelids, let out a terrible cry, and sank down dead. All of them then remembered that the mirror reflects to the basilisk the power of his own gaze as well as the flow of breath he emits, and of these two wonders he himself remains the victim.
"We are already in a land of monsters," the Poet said, quite happily. "The kingdom is coming closer and closer." Baudolino no longer knew whether, in saying "kingdom," he was still thinking of the Priest's realm, or of his own, future, kingdom.
And so, encountering anthropophage hippopotami one day, and bats bigger than pigeons the next, they came to a village amid the mountains. At its foot stretched a plain with scarce trees, which at close range seemed immersed in a light mist, but then the mist grew more and more dense, gradually becoming a dark and impenetrable cloud, tranformed at the horizon into a single very black strip that contrasted with the red stripes of the sunset.
The inhabitants were cordial, but to learn their language, made up entirely of guttural sounds, Baudolino needed several days, in the course of which they were housed and fed on the flesh of certain mountain hare, abundant among those cliffs. When the people could be understood, they said that at the foot of the mountain began the vast province of Abcasia, which had four characteristics: it was a sole, immense forest where the deepest darkness always reigned, but not as if it were night, where at least you have the glow of the starry sky, but truly a solid darkness, as if you were at the bottom of a cave with your eyes closed. This province without light was inhabited by the Abcasians, who lived there comfortably, as do the blind in the places where they have grown up since infancy. It seems they oriented themselves through hearing and smell, but no one knew what they were like, because no one had ever dared venture into the region.
The friends asked if there were other ways to continue eastwards, and the people said yes, it sufficed to skirt Abcasia and its forest, but this, as the ancient tales narrated, would require more than ten years of travel, because the dark forest extended for one hundred and twelve salamoc, not that it was possible to understand how long a salamoc was for them, but certainly more than a mile, a stadium, or a parasang.
They were about to give up, when Porcelli, who had always been the most silent member of the party, reminded Baudolino that they, who came from Frascheta, were accustomed to proceed through fogs you could cut with a knife, which were worse than thick darkness, because in that grayness you could see, through tricks of your weary eyes, forms arise that didn't exist in the real world, and therefore even where you could have proceeded you had to stop, and if you succumbed to the mirage you changed path and fell over a cliff. "And in our fog at home, what do you do?" he said. "Why, you go ahead on your own judgment, instinct, guesswork, like bats, who are blind to everything, and you can't even follow your sense of smell, because the fog gets into your nostrils and the only thing you smell is the smell of fog. So," he concluded, "if you're used to fog, solid darkness is like walking in daylight."
The other Alessandrians agreed, and so it was Baudolino and his five neighbors who led the group, while each of the others tied himself to his horse and followed, hoping for the best.
At the beginning they advanced easily, because it really did seem they were in the fog of their home country, but after a few hours it was pitch black. The guides pricked up their ears to hear a sound of boughs, and when they could hear it no longer they surmised they had entered a clearing. The villagers had said that in those lands a strong wind blew always from south towards north, and so every now and then Baudolino moistened a finger, held it in the air, and felt the direction of the wind, then turned east.
They became aware of night falling because the air grew colder, and they would then stop to rest—a useless decision, the Poet said, because in such a place you could just as well rest in the daytime. But Ardzrouni pointed out that, when it was cold, you no longer heard animal noises, and you began hearing them again, especially the birds' song, when the first warmth arrived. A sign that all living things, in Abcasia, measured the day according to the alternation of cold and warmth, as if they were the appearance of the moon or the sun.
For many long days they sensed no human presences. When their supplies were exhausted, they stretched out their hands to touch the branches of the trees; and, groping branch after branch, sometimes for hours, they would find a fruit—which they ate, trusting that it was not poisonous. Often it was the acrid aroma of some vegetal wonder that gave Baudolino (whose sense of smell was the most refined) a clue to deciding whether to continue straight ahead, or to turn right or left. As the days passed all became more alert. Aleramo Scaccabarozzi known as Bonehead had a bow, and he kept it taut until he heard in front of him the flapping of some bird less swift and perhaps less airborne than our hens at home. He would shoot the arrow, and, most times, guided by a cry or a frenzied fluttering of dying wings, they could seize the prey, pluck the feathers, and cook it over a fire of twigs. The most amazing thing was that, rubbing some stones together, they could kindle the wood: the flame rose, suitably red, but illuminating nothing, not even the men gathered around it, and then it would break off at the point where, skewered on a bough, they set the animal to be roasted.
It was not hard to find water, because fairly often they heard the gurgle of some spring or rill. They advanced very slowly, and one time they realized that, after two days' journey, they were back at the place from which they had set out, because, near a little stream, as they groped around, they came upon the traces of their previous encampment.
Finally they sensed the presence of the Abcasians. First they heard voices, like whispering, all around them, excited voices, though still faint, as if the forest's inhabitants were pointing out to one another these unexpected visitors they had never seen, or, rather, never heard. The Poet let out a very loud cry, and the voices fell silent, while a stirring of grass and boughs suggested the Abcasians were fleeing in fear. But they came back, and resumed their whispering, more and more amazed by this invasion.
At a certain moment the Poet felt a hand graze him, or a hairy limb; he gripped something and heard a scream of terror. The Poet let go, and the voices of the natives moved off a bit, as if they had widened their circle, to remain at a safe distance.
Nothing happened for several days. The journey continued and the Abcasians accompanied them, though perhaps they were not the same ones as the first time, but others who had been told of their passage. In fact, one night (was it night?) they heard in the distance something like a roll of drums, or a sound as if someone were beating a hollow tree trunk. It was a soft noise, but it spread through the space around them, for miles perhaps, and they understood that with thi
s system the Abcasians kept one another informed, at a distance, about what was happening in their forest.
At length they became accustomed to that invisible company. And they were growing more and more accustomed to the darkness, so much so that Abdul, who had particularly suffered from the sun's rays, said he felt better, his fever almost gone, and went back to his songs.
One evening (was it evening?) while he was warming himself at the fire, he took his instrument from his saddle and resumed singing:
Happy and sad, at the end of my road,
I hope to see my distant love,
Will I see her? I don't know, where'er I go
I will be too far from her.
Hard is the pass and harsh my way,
Nor shall I ever know my destiny,
May the Lord's will be done.
But to me it will seem great joy, as I implore,
Through love of God, the distant refuge.
If she please, I will find refreshment there,
Near her, far though she be.
And this song of mine, faint and fine
If I have the joy to be near her,
This song will bring sweetness to my heart.
They became aware that the Abcasians, who till then had murmured around them without cease, had fallen silent. They listened in silence to Abdul's song, then tried to reply: a hundred lips (were they lips?) were heard whistling, piping charmingly like tame blackbirds, repeating the melody Abdul had played. Thus they found a wordless accord with their hosts, and in the nights that followed each group awaited the other, one singing and the other apparently playing flutes. Once the Poet roughly bawled one of those tavern songs that in Paris made even the serving wenches blush, and Baudolino joined in. The Abcasians did not respond, but after a long silence one or two of them resumed imitating Abdul's melodies, as if to say those were good and acceptable, not the others. In this they displayed, Abdul observed, a tenderness of feeling and an ability to tell good music from bad.
As the only one authorized to "speak" with the Abcasians, Abdul felt reborn. We are in the reign of tenderness, he said, and therefore close to my goal. Let's move on. No, Boidi replied, fascinated, why don't we stay here? Is there perhaps any place more beautiful in the world than this, where, even if something ugly exists, you don't see it?
Baudolino also thought that, after he had seen so many things in the vast world, those long days spent in darkness had reconciled him to himself. In the darkness he returned to his memories, he thought of his boyhood, of his father, his mother, of Colandrina so sweet and unhappy. One evening (was it evening? Yes, because the Abcasians were silent, sleeping), unable to get to sleep, he moved, touching the tree's fronds with his hands, as if he were seeking something. Suddenly he found a fruit, soft to the touch and very aromatic. He picked it and bit into it, and he felt invaded by a sudden languor; he no longer knew if he was dreaming or awake.
All at once he saw, or felt close to him as if he saw her, Colandrina. "Baudolino, Baudolino," she called him with an adolescent voice, "don't stop, even if here everything seems beautiful. You must reach the kingdom of that Priest you told me about and give him that cup; otherwise who will make a duke of our Baudolinetto Colandrinuccio? Make me happy. Things are not bad here, but I miss you so."
"Colandrina, Colandrina," Baudolino cried, or thought he cried, "be quiet: You are a ghost, a trick, the fruit of that fruit! The dead do not return!"
"Generally not," Colandrina replied, "but I kept insisting. I said: You gave me only one season with my man, only a taste. Do me this holy favor, if you have a heart. I'm fine here, and I see the Blessed Virgin and all the saints, but I miss the caresses of my Baudolino that gave me goose bumps. They've granted me very little time, just to give you a kiss. Baudolino, don't stop along the way with the women of those places, who maybe have nasty diseases that I don't even know of. Put your foot in the road and go towards the sun."
She disappeared, as Baudolino felt a soft touch on his cheek. He stirred from his doze, had peaceful dreams. The next day he told his companions that they had to go on.
After many more days they perceived a glimmer, a milky glow. Again the darkness was being transformed into the gray of a thick and uniform brume. They realized that the Abcasians, who were accompanying them, had stopped, and were bidding them farewell with their piping. They heard them standing at the edge of a clearing, at the confines of that light that the Abcasians surely feared, as if they were waving their hands, and from the softness of their sounds it was clear they were smiling.
They passed through the fog and saw once more the light of the sun. They were dazzled, and Abdul was again shaken by feverish trembling. They thought that after the test of Abcasia they would enter the desired lands, but they had to revise that idea.
Immediately, above their heads, birds with human faces were darting and shouting: "On what soil are you treading? Go back! You cannot violate the land of the Blest! Go back and tread the land that was given you!" The Poet said this was witchcraft, perhaps one of the ways the land of the Priest was protected, and he convinced them to go on.
After a few days' march over a field of stones without a blade of grass, they saw three animals coming towards them. One was surely a cat, with an arched back, bristling fur, and eyes like two firebrands. Another had a lion's head, roaring, a goat's body, and the behind of a dragon, but from the goatlike back a second head rose, horned and bleating. The tail was a hissing serpent, thrust forward to threaten the travelers. The third had a lion's body, a scorpion's tail, and an almost human head, with shapely nose and yawning mouth, in which they could discern, above and below, a triple row of teeth, sharp as blades.
The animal that most worried them was the cat, notoriously the messenger of Satan and the domestic ally of necromancers. You can defend yourself against any monster, but not against this one, who, before you can draw your sword, springs on your face and scratches your eyes. Solomon muttered that nothing good could be expected of an animal that the Book of Books had never mentioned. Boron said that the second animal was surely a chimera, the only one that, if the vacuum existed, could fly buzzing inside it and suck out the thoughts of living beings. The third animal left no room for doubt, and Baudolino recognized it as a manticore, not unlike the leucrotta, an animal about which some time ago ( how long was it now?) he had written to Beatrice.
The three monsters advanced towards them: the cat with agile feline steps, the other two with equal determination, but a bit slower, thanks to the difficulty that a triform animal has in adapting to the movement of its various composition.
The first to take the initiative was Aleramo Scaccabarozzi known as Bonehead, who now was never separated from his bow. He fired an arrow right in the center of the cat's head, and the animal sprawled lifeless. At this sight, the chimera made a leap forward. Bravely, Cuttica of Quargnento, shouting that at home he had been able to reduce enamored bulls to mild behavior, stepped forward to stab the monster, but it made a leap, fell upon him, and was tearing him with its leonine maw when the Poet, Baudolino, and Colandrino rushed to subdue the beast with slashes of their swords until it let go and sank to the ground.
Meanwhile the manticore attacked. It was confronted by Boron, Kyot, Boidi, and Porcelli, while Solomon hurled stones at it, muttering curses in his holy language. Ardzrouni retreated, black also with terror, and Abdul lay curled up, seized by more intense tremors. The beast seemed to consider the situation with a canniness both human and bestial. Surprisingly agile, it ducked those facing it and, before they could inflict a wound, it flung itself on Abdul, unable to defend himself. With its tripled teeth it bit his shoulder, nor did it let go when the others rushed to free their comrade. It howled beneath the blows of their swords, but firmly clenched Abdul's body, which spurted blood from a spreading wound. Finally the monster could no longer survive the blows inflicted by the four enraged adversaries, and with a horrible rattle it died. But it was hard work opening its jaws and freeing Abdul from their
grip.
At the end of that battle, Cuttica had a wounded arm, but Solomon was treating him with an unguent of his, saying the wound would not be serious. Abdul, on the contrary, was moaning faintly, losing much blood. "Bandage him," Baudolino said. "Weak as he was already, he mustn't go on bleeding!" They all tried to stanch the flow, using their clothes to stop the wound, but the manticore had bitten deep into his limbs, reaching the heart.
Abdul was delirious. He murmured that his princess must be very near and he couldn't die right at this very moment. He asked them to stand him on his feet, and they had to restrain him because it was clear that the monster had injected some unknown poison into his flesh.
Believing in his own deceit, Ardzrouni had taken from Abdul's sack the Baptist head, broken the seal, removed the skull from the reliquary, and placed it in Abdul's hands. "Pray," he said, "pray for your salvation."
"Imbecile," the Poet said to him scornfully. "First of all, he can't hear you, and, second, that head was God knows whose, and you stole it from some infidel graveyard."