Fantastic Tales

by Iginio Ugo Tarchetti

  The Lake of the Three Lampreys

  (A Popular Tradition)

  LA SILA is a colossal forest in Southern Italy. Its holm oaks, ancient as the world, its swarthy, centuries-old larches, its common oaks, venerable with majesty, invest it with a frightening, savage appearance. These trees grow alone here, uncultivated, untouched by human hand. Here nature is sad and solitary, and a dreadful silence prevails. Only in the final hours of the day, near sunset, does the eagle sometimes rise amidst the trees and clouds to turn his solemn, measured circles and emit his melancholy shriek from on high, while packs of youthful wild boar crash through the thickets, splitting the saplings and rousing all the echoes of the forest. Here is no bird’s flight, no woodsman’s song. If you sound your voice, a long, sustained echo repeats your words. It seems as if this sound reverberating in the vault of the towering oaks will never fade, evoking an emotion akin to fear in any person who occasions it. These places are memorable for their antiquity and their popular traditions. Here flows the old Busento, whose waters bathe Cosenza and have roared over Alaric’s grave in the nearby Crati Valley for fourteen hundred years. (He had such a magnificent tomb in this riverbed: they diverted the current and excavated an elegant sitting room, closer to a bridal suite than a grave, and after lowering the king into it, they brought back the waters.) From there extends the forest with its huge linden and white plane trees. At first, the trees grow sparsely and without underbrush like garden trees, and the surrounding area is inhabited by small birds, charming robins with their mobile tails, hopping yellow wagtails, and wrens the size of butterflies. Near these trees, several streams, with sources that lie somewhere in La Sila’s still unexplored cliffs, create foaming waterfalls and small pools, whose banks are populated by frogs, thin green snakes, large speckled lizards, and little ribbon-shaped tarantulas, all content to dwell in those delicious, solitary margins. Within the wood, however, the spectacle is different, harsher, and more imposing. A light rustling of leaves now and then is the sign of a wild goat passing by, unobserved; an indistinct sound of voices is the confident, malicious yelping of wolves, and a harmony suffused with harplike melancholy is the buzzing of a bee or a dancing dragonfly. Here nature seems to have gathered what is most charming and most terrifying.

  On one occasion, I entered this forest, and without realizing that I was traveling a very long distance, I found that I had penetrated deeply among the trees, and the sun was about to set. I became aware of the time from the last rays of sunlight, which obliquely colored the broad leaves of the alder and oak trees. Reluctantly, I prepared to return, anxious about the night and my unfamiliarity with the place. I had, moreover, already taken many steps toward the clearing. The path appeared to me and certainly was the same. I flattered myself with the thought that I had nearly reached the neighboring cotton fields, when having stopped to pick a certain flower that caught my eye, I noticed that I was still in the very place I had just left! Worried—no, astonished at this development—I retraced the same path for the second time; the thought of being overtaken by nightfall in that forest was frightening me—I walked with precipitate steps, it looked as if the trees were thinning out, I had a private laugh at my dismay and stopped to see how much distance remained to be traversed. But…oh, no! Who would believe it? I still had not moved a single step. I found myself precisely in the original place where I had resolved to turn back.

  “This is without doubt an incomprehensible fate,” I said to myself. “I shall not be able to return until tomorrow, I shall spend an entire night here, and heaven knows what will happen!”

  Thus, I sat down along the path, entrusting myself to my destiny, and without in the least despairing that someone returning from the forest would rescue me from my solitude. I did not have to wait long. In fact, I soon discerned a woman coming toward me, traveling down my own path. Here a romantic storyteller would not hesitate to introduce us to a comely farm girl, a wood nymph, or who knows what. Yet she was no more than an ordinary woman, a country woman, with a sweet smile and vivacious southern eyes.

  “Good Cosenzian,” I said to her, “would you show me the path that leads out of this forest? I have been here for many hours, and I cannot figure out how to get back.”

  Instead of answering me at once, she lowered her eyes to the ground and turned about as if she wanted to find something she had mislaid. Then, with a peculiar smile, so incomprehensible as to reduce science to Johann Kaspar Lavater’s mystical physiognomics, she said to me, “Are you a foreigner?”

  “I am,” I replied. “Why do you ask?”

  “You have stepped on the malign herb. It grows in great quantities near these circles and around the lake of the three lampreys. Follow me, if you like, and I will lead you out of the forest.”

  This reply piqued in me all the curiosity of an inexperienced traveler.

  “Here is a pleasant development,” I said to myself. “What do you mean by malign herb? And what are these circles, this lake? I do not see any of these things.”

  “Observe,” she resumed, and bending to the ground, she plucked several leaves from the foot of a tree. “Here is a stem. This is the malign herb. It grows for the most part around these circles, which we call witches’ circles. Do you see these swarms of flies dancing over it with weary wings? And these lizards wandering around it constantly? Their destiny is decided, they will die here, because they will be unable to draw away from it. You yourself would have remained here a long time if I had not met you, and you might have died if this had happened in an unfrequented place. When someone steps on the malign herb and he has never heard of this herb, he is no longer able to leave the place where he happens to be, and it is necessary for another person, who first makes the sign of the cross three times (the same as the number of lampreys in the lake), to lead him back to the place where he set out. That person, however, will not be able to save more than seven others from this danger during her entire life. You are my first one, and I am most happy to render you this service.”

  I examined the herb carefully. It had the same leaves and the same shade of green as the yellow buttercup (Ranunculus sceleratus, Linnaeus), and the alleged witches’ circles were only circular elevations in the earth with much greener and thicker grass, the same circles recalled by many travelers and named “greensour ringlets” by the English. They occur frequently in many parts of Europe, particularly on British beaches.

  “The shepherds,” the woman continued, “are most careful not to let the goats go near the herb, since they would not give milk anymore. Only merino sheep can graze there without harm. Do you also wish to visit the lake of the lampreys? Many people come to see it every day. It is not very far from our path, and on our way back to the town, I shall tell you the story of this lake. It is a most singular story.”

  In a few minutes we arrived at that pool, since it is not reasonable to call it a lake. Truly, its appearance was rather sad, despite the clearness of its waters. The only ornaments on its banks were some fuchsia scattered here and there, nightshade and rushes, and some common water lilies.

  “This is the miraculous lake,” the woman resumed. “Draw closer to the bank and look carefully now: do you not see the three lampreys?”

  “I cannot see anything.”

  “That is not strange, because they tend to multiply or vanish when they are observed. This was the punishment meted out to guilty men. Let us get closer to the town, night is not far off, and I shall tell you the story of these lampreys.

  “My mother, who came from the village of Nogliana, told me that about four hundred years ago this forest had already existed from time immemorial, yet to enter it was difficult and dangerous. The wild boars killed children, the eagles snatched the merinos and the geese, the circles and the malign herb grew in such great quantities that they detained travelers who were never seen returning. At that time, the villagers needed to erect a church, and there were several people who recommended that it be
built within La Sila; thus, they hoped to avoid the impediments of nature with a sacred place, and this counsel was accepted. A church and a monastery were erected where a small spring previously stood. In this way, the forest was free and consecrated, and the poor people easily gathered sorb apples and wild grapes, much to the improvement of their condition. But the three hermits who went to live in the monastery were perverted men, and their impious and extraordinary deeds were recounted. Not much time had passed when a long drought dried the waters of the wells and springs. The sands in the river were burning, brooks were parched, trees withered, men and birds died. In this frightful state of things, only the spring at the church in the forest had not dried up; it still gave some trickles of water, and dying men gathered here from afar, seeking one more hour of life. Nevertheless, it did not take many days before this spring too gave only a few drops, and the three hermits who were living in the monastery walled up their doors in order to reserve this treasure for themselves alone. In vain did the thirsty come to beg a single, paltry sip of water; they died unsuccored near the walls of the sanctuary. But listen how the Lord’s punishment could strike down the guilty. One evening an old pilgrim appeared among the others; he had a venerable countenance, and a long, snow-white beard descended down to his waist. He knocked at the monastery door and implored a hermit, who had looked out of the window, for a single drop of water, since he was on the verge of dying. The hermit was adamant in his refusal and closed the window in a fury. On the next morning, however, while everyone despaired of living any longer, the wells and springs began to gush so much water that the streets were flooded, the rivers exceeded their banks, and the forest brooks covered the meadows like lakes. Then the curate of Cirò immediately ordered a procession; everyone went to the monastery to celebrate such a great miracle, and…would you believe it? They looked for the church but the church was no longer there; the monastery had also disappeared; and where that spring existed they found the lake with the three lampreys, which you have seen. Those lampreys were the three hermits in the monastery, and that pilgrim was the Lord.”

  [1868]

  The Elixir of Immortality

  (In Imitation of the English)

  16 DECEMBER 1867.—This is a most memorable anniversary for me. Today I complete my three hundred and twenty-ninth year of life.

  Am I perhaps the wandering Jew?

  No. More than eighteen centuries have accumulated on his head; in comparison to him, I am still quite young.

  Quite young! But shall I never grow old, then? Am I truly immortal? This is a question that I have pondered indefatigably for three hundred and twenty-nine years now, and I still cannot answer it. This very day I discovered a gray hair on my head, a discovery which might induce me to believe that I am beginning to age…Yet it may have in fact remained hidden there for three hundred years; after all, many people are positively white before twenty.

  I would like to relate my story.

  By writing these pages I shall contrive to waste several hours of this my long existence, this eternity that has grown so wearisome to me. Eternity! Forever! Can it be? To live forever! I have often heard of enchantments endowed with the power of producing a profound sleep, a drowsiness lasting many centuries, after which the people who were its victims awoke as youthful as before. I have also heard discourses on the Seven Sleepers: this species of immortality could not be so oppressive; the certainty of an end had to lighten the burden of such a prolonged existence. But…alas! To live forever, forever! To live a life that cannot end! To witness this tedious passage of the hours in their slow, silent, serene succession! Ah! It is all too terrible!

  But let us proceed to my narrative.

  There is no one, I believe, who has not heard of Cornelius Agrippa. His memory is as immortal as his artifices have rendered yours truly immortal. The fame of his prodigies has spanned the centuries, just like his prodigies themselves—I who have lived for three hundred and twenty-nine years bear witness to this fact.

  Many people have also heard of his pupil who, having inadvertently conjured up a malign spirit in his master’s absence, was killed by it before anyone could come to his aid. The report of this accident, whether true or false, was accompanied by many inconveniences for the renowned philosopher. All his scholars abandoned him at once; his servants disappeared. He did not have a single man near him to heap coal on his always blazing fires while he slept or to observe the changing colors of his medicines while he stayed awake studying. All of his experiments failed, one after the other, because two hands were insufficient to complete them—the Prince of Darkness mocked him with the sneer that he was not capable of retaining a single mortal in his service.

  I was then very young, very poor, and deeply in love.

  I had been, for about a year, Cornelius’s pupil, but I was absent when that disaster occurred. On my return, my friends entreated me not to return to the alchemist’s house.

  I trembled as I listened to the terrible tale they told me. I did not wait for a second warning: when Cornelius appeared to inquire about my work, offering me a full purse of gold if I consented to remain under his roof, I felt as if Satan himself had come to tempt me. I refused energetically and quickly evaded the philosopher’s insistence by fleeing. Even on that occasion, my steps headed toward the place where they headed every night for two years—a place full of enchantments, a vast expanse of grassland with a spring whose water gushed forth in a melancholy gurgling. Next to this fountain sat a forlorn young girl, her radiant eyes fixed on the path I was accustomed to travel each day.

  I cannot recall a moment in my life when I did not love Ortensia. We were childhood playmates; our affection was nurtured by habit. Her parents, like mine, were of very humble means, and for them our attachment had been the source of many pleasures, the occasion of many plans for the future. But misfortune did not delay in striking poor Ortensia, whose family was destroyed in a few months by a terrible epidemic—the girl was left an orphan.

  She could have found help under my father’s roof, but unfortunately the old gentlewoman of a nearby castle who had known her from infancy and was very wealthy, alone, and childless declared her intention to adopt her. Ortensia’s happiness stopped us from opposing the lady’s plans. From that day on, Ortensia lived in a sumptuous palace, dressed in luxurious clothing, commanded servants and carriages, and was considered a girl highly favored by fortune.

  Nonetheless, in her new situation, among her new friends, she remained faithful to her humble childhood companion and frequently came to visit my father’s cottage. And when forbidden to go there, she deliberately strayed into the forest and waited for me, seated at the edge of the fountain.

  Quite often she declared to me that she did not feel bound to her new protectress by any duty equal in sanctity to that which bound us. Her attachment had surely not weakened, but I was too poor to take a wife, and she was weary of being tormented by my uncertainties.

  Ortensia had a kind but haughty disposition, impatient with delays. The obstacles that opposed our union had also slightly cooled our hearts and proved to be the reason we did not see each other for quite some time.

  I embraced her again after this very painful separation; the need for intimacy and solace had brought me back to her. She had not suffered any less during my absence; she complained bitterly about it to me and started to blame me, in effect, for being poor.

  I responded rashly, “I am, however, honest, if I am poor; were I not, I would soon be rich!”

  These imprudent words and the insistence with which she demanded an explanation of my meaning forced me to reveal the whole truth. Then, casting a disdainful look on me, she said, “You pretend to love me, but you fear to face these dangers for my love!”

  I protested that in refusing Cornelius’s offer I was counseled only by the dread of offending her. Although I knew I was lying, I insisted and swore that I would accept. Encouraged by her, provoked by sh
ame, enticed by love and hope, nearly smiling at my previous fears, I returned to the alchemist with bold steps and a tranquil heart and was instantly installed in my office.

  A year passed. I became the possessor of a considerable sum of money. Custom had banished my fears. In spite of the most painful vigilance, I had never detected the trace of a cloven foot, nor at any time was the melancholy silence of my sojourn disturbed by infernal screams. I still continued my prohibited interviews with Ortensia, and hope sat near me, deluding me—hope, but not perfect joy, since she fancied that love and absolute confidence in love were enemies, and she took pleasure in keeping them divided in my breast.

  Although her heart was faithful, her behavior often possessed something light, something fatuous; her affability was so easy, so ready with everyone, that it made me jealous and was the ground of many terrible sufferings. She delighted in punishing me for it by accusing me of offenses I did not commit; and abusing the influence she exercised over me, she forced me to ask her forgiveness. She often fantasized that I was not sufficiently submissive, and then she would promptly trot out some stories of rivals favored by her protectress. Ortensia was surrounded by young men who were rich, happy, carefree, charming. With what kind of triumph could Cornelius’s poor student flatter himself in competition with them?

  On one occasion, the philosopher requested me to prolong my occupations near him, so that it was impossible for me to keep the rendezvous that was my daily custom.

  He, meanwhile, was absorbed in a portentous undertaking which he had been working to complete for many years; and I was forced to remain at his side day and night, feeding the fires of his furnaces, watching over his chemical preparations. In vain did Ortensia await me at the fountain, and her proud spirit resented this neglect.

  When I left the alchemist’s workshop for an instant, during the few, very brief moments allotted to me for sleep, and dashed to our meeting place, hoping to be consoled by her, she welcomed me, then dismissed me with scorn. She vowed that her hand would be won by any other man but me—who could not be in two places at the same time for her love.