The Ghastengarda
Illustrations by Francesca Duo
That morning I woke up very early. I couldn’t sleep for the excitement: I would finally have a friend of my own age at the Basilica! Pietro had rested up well, and woke up full of energy, too.
“Today we’re off to the building site, aren’t we?” He asked.
“Of course. For school, first of all.” Said Matteo.
“You boys are,” said my father, “us grown-ups have a little journey to make. You know, Faro. One of those journeys.”
When she heard this, mum lifted her gaze from the pot where she was warming the curds and whey.
“Be careful, Faramundo.” She said in a serious tone. “And you will show your cousin everything properly, won’t you?”
I was burning with curiosity, but I said nothing. I’d already tried many times to persuade dad to let me go with him during one of those journeys, as he called them, but nothing worked. I was still too small, and dad wouldn’t budge.
After breakfast, as we walked to the Basilica, Pietro whispered:
“What is this journey, Faro? Is my father going away?”
“Just until this afternoon, it’s fine.” Poor thing, he was so nervous, his face full of worry.
“But Faro, I want to stay with him.” If you think about it, he had just seen his home destroyed, had fled to a different city, and hadn’t seen his mother and sisters for days.
“Oh… of course…” I felt embarrassed. He was looking at me with those big eyes of his, and I thought he might start crying any moment. “But we can’t go, dad won’t let me go with him, he says I’m too small. That means you are, too.”
“But your mother told them to be careful. That means it’s dangerous!”
“I don’t know, I’ve never been. You know, these journeys are a real mystery. Every time, dad sets off in the morning and comes home before evening, but as tired as can be, and hungry, as though he’d been travelling for days. After dinner he always tells us some wonderful new tale. That’s the best part of it. Then, at the building site, he starts work on a new block of stone, and carves the story of the new tale onto it.”
“I want to go with him.” Pietro was determined. What could I tell him? Now, I know what you’ll say: for me it was just an excuse to get into some strife, and you’d be a little bit right, but I swear, it really was moving to see how worried Pietro was. What was I supposed to do?
“Listen Pietro, I have an idea. When they leave the building site for the journey, why don’t we follow them in secret? They can’t be going far, anyhow, if they’re back by afternoon. It must be somewhere near the town. Are you rested enough to walk again today?”
“Yes, yes!” Now he was happy again. “Let’s do it! I don’t know my way around here, nor where to hide. You’ll be my guide, won’t you?”
“It’s a deal!”
Pietro regretted it as soon as he’d said it.
“We’re not getting ourselves into trouble, are we?”
“Don’t be silly…” I told him, matter-of-factly. “If the teacher catches us, he’ll just beat us. But that’s nice, soft wood, that stick of his, trust me, I’ve tested it on my backside many a time. If our fathers find out, it’ll be a kick or two on the rear end, but it won’t be too bad, they love us. The catastrophe is if mum finds out…” I made a frightened face, like a street-actor’s mask at Carnival: “No curds and whey tomorrow morning!”
Pietro forced a laugh. I could see he wasn’t the kind of boy who usually got into trouble, but the worry of being separated from his father was too much.
“Very well.” He said. “I’ll do it.”
Sometime afterwards, we were sitting on the ground at the back of the group of kids doing school I was keeping one eye on Maestro Paolo, the teacher, and one eye on my father, who was talking with his workmen. He was explaining to them that he was going away for the whole day, and listing all the things they should do while he was gone. Cousin Matteo was listening and looking at the unfinished works.
Then they set off. I would have got up straight away, if it hadn’t been for the way Matteo kept looking back at Pietro. I could see he was as sorry to leave his son alone for a day as Pietro was to be left alone. Only when they had turned the corner did I whisper to Pietro:
“As soon as the teacher turns around… ready… now!”
Stooping low, without a sound, we were off and away in no time.
“Come on, faster!” I kept saying to Pietro, as our feet went tap tappa tap, tap tappa tap on the cobbles. “Run, hur…” I cut myself off mid-word. We were passing Anselmo’s stall. Mum always bought things from him, fruit in the summer and nuts in the winter.
“Hello, Faro.” Said he, always kind and cheerful. “Why the hurry?”
“Oh, ah…” I stopped for a moment. Anselmo would usually give me something to nibble on when I stopped there with mother. What about if I stopped there with a friend? “I left something I need for school at home.” I told him, without taking my eye off our fathers, striding away down the crowded street. “Here, this is my cousin Pietro. He’s just arrived in town. And… well, he forgot something, too.”
“Oh, nice to meet you Pietro. Ah, so, are you a stonemason’s son, too? And how is the schooling going, boys? I hope you know how lucky you are. I never learnt letters myself.”
“Oh, I do.” Said Pietro, very seriously. “It really is the best of luck.”
“Mister Anselmo,” said I, “we really are in a hurry, I’m sorry…”
“Oh, of course, of course boys. Off you go. But first, why don’t you help yourselves to a chestnut each?”
Hooray! I thought. That’s my Anselmo!
“Oh, well, if you insist…” I really didn’t want to lose sight of our fathers, but those chestnuts looked inviting. I started seeking out the biggest. Anselmo was a kind man, but he knew me.
“Take whichever one happens to hand, Faro, and only one! The Good Lord is watching.”
Pietro had just taken the one nearest him.
I chose one of the biggest ones just the same, and with a: “thanks again, Anselmo, see you soon!” we set off after our fathers. And just in time, because they were just turning the corner down the far end of the street.
We ran, and we ran. As soon as we had our fathers safely in sight again, I offered Pietro a walnut. He looked at me, shocked.
“You took some walnuts, too? But he said the Good Lord was watching!”
“Don’t worry, the Good Lord was watching the chestnuts, not the walnuts.”
We had come to the street our fathers had turned off into. I knew it was a winding alleyway, covered in parts by houses built right across, over the street as though they were bridges.
We stopped, hidden behind the wall on the corner, and edged our faces out to peek into the alleyway. Our fathers were standing with their backs to us, looking up. We looked up, too. The buildings were close together, and not much sky was showing, but what we could see of it was blue and cloudless, with just a few trails of smoke from chimneys. We heard a caaaaw, caaaaw, and then the sound of claws and a beak on roof tiles, and wings beating. Black it was, as black as tar, an enormous raven with a long grey beak, wings like shadows, and eyes like deep wells.
It flew down from the rooftops and settled on a windowsill to one side of the alleyway. As it flew, it had left behind a trail of mist in the air, like the fine mist of early September mornings, so light you could barely see it.
The raven looked at my father for a long moment. Dad looked at the raven. It was as though they knew each other. The bird took flight in the alleyway again, flapping up and down, round about, settling on a windowsill from time to time, leaving snaking trails of mist as it went. The mist hung in the air and did not fade away. Actually, it seemed to grow. And the different trails, as they got larger and larger, began to merge one into the other, and fill up the alleyway, and the mist became thicker and thicker, until it was dense fog, and everything was white. Then the raven vanished into the fog, and our fathers followed. Pietro and I looked at each other. All the wonder and confusion I felt was also showing in his face. For a moment we spoke to each other with our eyes alone. Pietro’s eyes said:
What shall we do? Shall we go on, or go back to the building site? Maybe we should go back, all this is so strange…
My eyes were saying:
Come on! Go back to get a beating for a misdeed only half done? Let’s keep going!
Mine was the winning gaze. Silently, we followed them. Inside the fog it was easier not to be seen, but it would also be easier to lose sight of our fathers. Luckily, I knew that alleyway well. I knew, for example, that it turned first to the right, and then to the left, like so…
Hold on! It turned right again. That’s not how the street went, it should have gone left. What was happening? I stepped closer to the wall to follow it, and saw that, instead of the usual red bricks of buildings in Pavia, the wall was smooth, and plastered white. There were strange pictures, made with a paint that seemed to have no thickness, and without brushstrokes, as though the vivid colours had settled on the wall all by themselves. And so many pictures! Each stranger than the last, some large, some small… The first that struck me was a star that was also a rainbow, with glowing rays in front of… they looked almost like petals of colour, I wouldn’t know how else to describe it. Another painting seemed at first to be a tower, then a cross made of many coloured squares, and then I saw that it was a kind of portal. A little further along, we saw a sword of flame.
Once again, Pietro and I spoke with our eyes. His gaze said:
You don’t know where this is, do you? I can tell from your face. What on Earth is going on?!
Mine replied:
I haven’t the foggiest notion. Let’s not lose sight of them, I’m starting to get a bit scared.
In the meantime, our fathers had stopped further down the alley to study some paintings. Dad was saying:
“Look, Matteo, this is the deepest magic of the Ghastengarda. You have to find the right picture to open the passage toward the tale.”
“I’m trying to understand.” Said Matteo uncertainly. “Which tale.”
“There are three empty spaces in the west face that need filling, one for each portal. What I want to do is sculpt the three theological virtues.”
“Faith, Hope and Charity.” Matteo nodded. “Three ladies, the first bearing a cross, the second…”
“No, no… Or rather, maybe yes, maybe no. We don’t know that yet. We’ll only find out when the passage opens. He will show us. We’ll enter inside the tale that we’ll sculpt. Where shall we begin, with Faith?”
“Very well.” Was Matteo wondering if my father was mad? “Yes… Faith… she’s the first in order.”
“Good, and which of these pictures might be Faith?”
Matteo studied the wall. We couldn’t see which pictures he was looking at from where we stood. After a long moment, he pointed to a patch of wall, and said:
“It’s this one, I’m sure of it.”
Father nodded.
“I’m sure of it too. Come now, Matteo, place your hand on it, and let’s see.”
A little unsure, he reached out towards the wall. I couldn’t quite see what happened for the fog, but I heard a strange noise, the sound of air moving, like a long breath, almost a sigh. Then dad spoke again.
“You see? Are you ready?”
And next to me Pietro started when he saw my father take two steps forward, and… disappear inside the wall, followed by Matteo.
“Let’s go, quickly!” I whispered. Pietro didn’t need to be told, though. He was already moving.
Coming to the wall where they had disappeared, we found an opening in the shape of an archway. A soft, pale glow was coming from inside. Holding hands, we stepped inside.
It was a long, narrow tunnel, with a vaulted ceiling. Here, too, the walls were covered with the same pictures as before, but now I could see that the colours themselves gleamed. That was the glow we had seen from outside. We could hardly see anything by that light, but it was much better than having none at all. Ahead of us we could hear our fathers’ footsteps echoing, and we hurried to follow them, keeping our own steps as silent as possible.
“Is it always like this inside the Ghastengarda?”
It was Matteo. Pietro and I looked at each other. The Ghastengarda?
“It’s different every time,” said father. “That’s the magic of it. The place itself is the story… That why I was saying, if we want to go on we’ll need faith. Because this is the story of Faith. Do you see what I mean?”
After a pause: “I think so… to move forward in the dark.”
“Sometimes you need to, right?”
Matteo laughed, nervously.
“All the time, lately.”
On the one hand we were comforted to hear their voices ahead of us, but on the other the tunnel was windy, just like the alleyway before, and we had soon lost all sense of direction, and all sense of time passing. More and more, I felt that the only way was forwards.
After I don’t know how long, I heard: “It’s a lake. Or is it a river?” It was my father.
Water? In a tunnel? I shivered.
“Here, a little boat with paddles, you see?”
“I think we have to go across.”
“Towards… what?”
“Exactly. We don’t know. But don’t worry, our grandfather always used to say: in the Ghastengarda you just need to go forwards.”
Now we heard the gentle sound of water lapping against the wood of a boat, and of a paddle dipping into water. Soon we came to the shore, too. We were no longer in a tunnel. Actually, we weren’t even in a cave, because there was no longer any echo. There was only a vast sheet of water in the gloom, and a few round little boats, each with a broad, flat paddle.
“Have you ever used a boat?” I murmured to Pietro.
“never.”
“I have, a few times… on the Ticino… I didn’t use the oars, but it looked easy. You choose the boat.”
Pietro was a simple lad. He pointed to the nearest. We got aboard a bit clumsily, like two boys who aren’t used to boats, which is what we were. I took the paddle and pushed us away from the shore.
“Faro wait…” said Pietro, when I had already made the first push. “Which direction?”
It was too late; we were already adrift in the water. My face must have been a mask of fear. Pietro’s certainly was…
Just a moment. How could I see Pietro’s face? Where was the light coming from?
Peering about us, we saw something white reflected on the water. It looked just the way the full moon is sometimes mirrored on the river, rippling with the waves. But how could it be there if there was no moon to be seen? Having nothing else to do, I paddled the boat towards that light.
I was relieved to see the shape of our fathers in their own boat. They were nearing that same patch of light on the water.
As we drew closer, the light spread out, and rose up, shapeless, from the water, becoming a white, gleaming fog. First it swallowed up our fathers’ boat, and then after a short while our own. Around us everything was now white, not black.
My friends, you who read this, I don’t know if in your world, or your time as it may be, have anything like the fog we have in our Pavia. Everyone thinks they know what fog is, but when they come to Pavia they think again. Ours is special. It can be as white and light as you like, but it’s as bad as a moonless night, because you really can’t see a thing. I swear, not even the water beneath the boat. That’s why I reached downwards… almost to check the water was still there… Good Lord! I could no longer see the water because… the water was no longer there! Our boat was floating… on the fog itself!
In just that moment, a voice came from… from where?
The fog hangs, floating beneath the sun,
Over hills and plains, where rivers run,
Billowing blanket, white mystery shroud,
Whirling word-and-story cloud.
Master masons,
Fathers of sons,
Hurl yourselves headlong
Into the heart of my song!
“That’s Quis.” Said my father. Following the sound of his voice, I could just make out the blurred shadows of two men in a boat.
“But… is he telling us to jump into the fog?” Matteo was as shocked as we were.
“That’s it. Just what he says.” Dad said merrily. He was enjoying himself!
“But… it’s madness!”
“No, no, it makes sense. A leap of faith, you see?”
“You’re not joking?”
“Just as well we can’t see a thing below. Otherwise, I for one would never be able to…”
He trailed off.
“Able to do what?” Asked Matteo.
“This!” And one of the shadows… got up and… leapt from the boat and… disappeared…
I was so surprised, and so scared to see him disappear into the fog, that I started, and jumped to my feet, covering my mouth with both hands. Yes, that’s right, both of them.
I know, I know, what a fool! But as you know, I’m a city boy, brought up among the walls and streets and squares. A fisherman’s son would never have done it, not for anything, now matter how shocking. Fishermen’s sons know well that jumping to your feet rocks the boat like a mad seesaw, and the best way to keep balanced is with your arms out wide, not with your hands over your mouth. And so, I lost control and fell out of the boat. Poor Pietro, who had been much smarter than me and hadn’t stood up at all, tried to grab hold of me as I fell. Actually, he succeeded. But you see, he’s only small and skinny, while I am tall and thick set for our age. With my weight I pulled him down with me, and together we fell headlong into that magical fog…
Yarnspinning and Storyweaving 
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