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 this 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
