by Dino Buzzati
Leander could have wept with rage! To think that he had been on the point of learning where Tony was! But it could not be helped. It would have been useless to wait for the following night, because there is a law which decrees that ghosts may only become visible once a year.
Chapter 4
Little Tony, King Leander’s son, was therefore “at the E—” But what on earth did the E stand for? What was it that old Theophilus’s ghost was going to say? Leander tried to guess. But so many words begin with E. At the Estuary of the river Nile? At the Emporium? Embassy? Excelsior Theatre? Equator? Oh, it was no good going on. Or did Theophilus mean that Tony was “at the End” of something, at the End of his troubles, perhaps, or the End of his life? (But that was a horrid thought). At last somebody said: “I wonder if the old bear meant to allude to the Eagle’s Nest Castle, the other fortress round here?”
King Leander had never heard of it, but some of those bears who always know everything explained to him that Eagle’s Nest was a grim fortress at the base of a narrow pass between the Pilgrim Mountains, three or four leagues away. The fortress was inhabited by an ogre called Troll who lived there all by himself.
Could the ogre have captured the bear cub? The only thing to do was to go and see. So King Leander organized an expedition with a battalion.
The ogre was asleep. He was now old and spent his time in bed, getting up only for a few minutes at mealtimes. As to his food, he had organized matters well. You should know that a long time ago he had succeeded in capturing the famous cat, Marmoset, who was nearly as big as a house. Marmoset the Cat was shut up in an enormous cage in the castle courtyard and forced to work for him.
Who has not heard of Marmoset the Cat? At one time he ravaged all Europe, devouring horses and men. The peasants would flee to the mountains or shut themselves up in their houses. Finally one day he came to the threshold of the Eagle’s Nest, and there the ogre was lying in wait for him, with a huge net made of witches’ hair. The cat was taken prisoner and shut up in the great cage.
And now to return to our story.
At the entrance to the pass the ogre had put up misleading signposts saying “To the Paradise Inn, food and lodging free, twenty minutes’ walk” or “Children! Free distribution of wonderful toys” with an arrow pointing the way, or else “Hunting forbidden” – and then of course hunters immediately went in that direction.
Thus travellers, disobedient children who ran about the countryside instead of going to school and hunters in search of game ended up at the Eagle’s Nest.
Then the raven sentinels would fly into the ogre’s room and peck him awake. Troll the ogre opened the trap door of Marmoset’s cage, and Marmoset shot out a paw and crushed the passer-by. Finally, Troll carefully picked out the most tender and tasty morsels and threw the rest to Marmoset.
The ogre, then, was sleeping. He had just gobbled up an appetizing little child called Johnnie Hardwinter, who was in the bottom class at school and who had played truant that morning. But in through the window at full speed came a raven, who flew to the ogre’s bed and began pecking his nose with all its might.
“What are you doing, you wretch?” growled Troll, without even opening his eyes.
“There are visitors, sir, there are visitors,” croaked the raven.
“Bother! Can’t they ever let me sleep in peace?” shouted the ogre, leaping out of bed.
And whom did he see approaching along the narrow road hewn out of the side of the precipice? Travellers or children or hunters, or anything good to eat? It was Professor Ambrose, all out of breath.
“Well, Death’s head,” cried the ogre, who had known him for many years, “what ill fortune brings you here?”
“Wake up, Troll,” said the magician, now standing underneath the window. “The bears are coming!”
“Good, good,” replied the ogre. “Bear flesh is excellent. A little tough, perhaps, but full of flavour. How many are there – a couple?”
“No, you wouldn’t say there were a couple,” sniggered the magician. “More than that.”
“Well, ten then? My cat will have a good feast.”
“No, you wouldn’t say there were ten.” And Ambrose, wonder to behold, burst out laughing.
“You infernal ruffian, spit it out!” shouted the ogre in a voice that made the mountains quake. “Just tell me, how many are there?”
“A battalion, if you want to know. There must be two or three hundred of them. And they are coming to pay a call on you.”
“The Devil they are!” exclaimed Troll, impressed at last. “So what should we do?”
“Set your cat free. Open his cage. He will see to it all right.”
Set Marmoset the Cat free? But suppose that afterwards he went off on his own affairs? Still, the idea was excellent.
And there was no time to lose, either. There, at the bottom of the deep valley where the road began climbing up the side of the mountain, a long file of black dots could be seen advancing – an endless file of them.
Troll went down to the courtyard and opened the cage.
It was a beautiful day. Panting a little, the bears were climbing at a good pace. Then suddenly the sunbeams were blotted out as if by a sudden storm.
The bears raised their eyes.
Good Heavens! It was not the darkness of a storm, but the shadow of Marmoset the Cat leaping down from the crags.
Magpies gadflies
Glow-worms dogs
Bats rats
Slow-worms hogs
Chimpanzees caterpillars
Fleas armadillos
The appetite whet
Of Marmoset!
Jameses Johns Adolfs Alphonses
Scullions sucklings dukes ducklings
Normans Nathaniels Davids Daniels
Spies doctors painters proctors
The appetite whet of Marmoset!
Carnage and blood,
Massacre, doom,
Earthquake and flood,
Slaughter, hecatomb,
The appetite whet
Of Marmoset!
The bears had never seen anything like it. Then, some cried for help. Some fled. Some tried to hide themselves and shrink into the crevices of the rock, some fired shots in a vain attempt at defence, some even leapt into the abyss rather than end their days as a mouthful for the fabulous monster.
Only one kept his head. He was a bear of humble birth called Merlin, whom the majority had so far considered a simpleton because he was a little deaf. But this time there was no need of good hearing. When he saw Marmoset the Cat wreaking havoc among his comrades, Merlin took from a bag one of the large hand grenades captured from the Grand Duke and, clasping it tightly in his paws, ran towards the monster’s gaping mouth.
“Merlin, what are you doing, are you mad?” they cried, but he ran steadfastly on, straight into the jaws of death.
The cat did not even have to put out a paw for him but found him right under his nose and gulped him down ravenously, hair and hide. Down went Merlin, head over heels into the monster’s stomach. When he got to the bottom he lit the fuse.
There was a blinding flash, an enormous black cloud, and a blood-curdling miaow. For a moment all was confusion. Then the wind blew the smoke away, and the bears began to dance about like mad creatures, singing songs of triumph.
There at the foot of the precipice, Marmoset the Cat lay dead with his stomach torn open. And a little further on, all scorched and bruised, lay the gallant bear Merlin who had sacrificed himself for his comrades. The explosion had blown him right out of Marmoset’s stomach, and by a stroke of luck he had landed in a great pool of water which softened his fall and put out his fur which was alight. He rose to his feet without aid, and even managed to walk alone. Bravo!
But now a voice could be heard crying: “Tony, my Tony! Where are you?” It was King Leander, who had rushed into the fortress in th
e hope of finding his son. Crossing the courtyard, he searched room after room. But not a living soul was to be seen. The ogre and the magician had fled to the mountains. Of the bear cub not a trace could be found. There was silence and emptiness everywhere.
But alas! The sad fact had to be faced. How much suffering there had been, to no purpose! How many bears had died in vain!
Chapter 5
At the gates of the capital stood the great Cormorant Castle, the fortress of fortresses, the most powerful stronghold ever known at that time. The road leading to the city passed through it, but if the doors were shut, massive iron doors, no one could enter. Whole armies had attempted to do so: for months on end they had bivouacked at the gates of the capital and continued firing heavy cannon to pierce the walls, but all in vain. Exhausted and disappointed, they had had to resign themselves to taking the road back again.
Now the Grand Duke had organized his defence within the castle and was as cool as a cucumber. The bears, indeed! If the bears should dare to make an attempt he would be very pleased, for mountains of bullets were ready to be fired at them. The sentinels on duty on the ramparts marched up and down with their muskets on their shoulders. “Watch out!” they cried in turn every half hour, and everything was going just beautifully.
But the bears were advancing through the valley singing their rough songs and thinking that their battles were over. The gates of the great city, so they thought, would be open to them: the people would come out to meet them carrying buns and jars full of honey. Brave and worthy animals that they were! Why should men not immediately make friends with them?
And behold: one evening there appeared against the sky the towers and silver domes of the city, all illuminated, with its white palaces and marvellous gardens – but before it, steep and terrifying as a precipice, rose the walls of the fortress. A sentinel saw them from a corner turret. “Who goes there?” he shouted at the top of his voice – and then, as the bears continued to advance, he let off a shot. A bear cub of three years old was hit in the leg and fell to the ground. Then the whole army halted, surprised and a little alarmed, and the chiefs called a council to decide what should be done.
Take courage, bears: there is just one more obstacle to be overcome and then all will be over. Inside the castle there are things to eat and drink and amuse oneself with – and perhaps it is even possible that the city may contain the King’s son Tony, the little bear kidnapped by hunters in the mountains. Tomorrow will be a day of battle. Tomorrow evening, victory.
But the castle had high walls – twenty times as high as any other walls. Hundreds of men-at-arms, armed to the teeth, stood at their posts on the edge of the ramparts; the black mouths of cannon gaped from the loopholes, and the Grand Duke, usually very mean, had distributed bottles of wine, brandy and gin to the soldiers to encourage them – a thing which had never occurred in living memory, even on days of national rejoicing.
At six o’clock the following morning, trumpeters gave the alarm from every direction. The bears, chanting their national anthem, hurled themselves into the assault. But… but… muskets and sabres against walls of stone and gates of iron? From above there came volleys of fire, flames, smoke, shouting – it was like Judgement Day. Someone from the top of the fortress was even hurling down boulders.
“Forward, my brave beasts!” cried King Leander, cheering them on to battle. But it was all very well: they were down below, the enemy above. And one by one the bravest of his warriors fell at his side and breathed their last. They were dying like flies, these magnificent mountain bears, and Leander himself did not know if he would ever come out of it alive. Some of them, digging their claws into the crevices, endeavoured to climb up at the corners – one would climb ten feet, another fifteen, and then a bullet would make them fall.
It was an utter disaster.
But if that is so, why is it that in the picture, which certainly corresponds to the truth, we see the bears climbing over the top of the ramparts – and some of them even on the roof tops of the fortress, even higher than the Grand Duke’s soldiers? Why does that drawing make it look as if the bears were winning? Why does the artist play this joke on us?
Because a week has gone by in the meantime, that is why – and after being badly defeated in the first attempt, the bears had prepared a second assault. An old bear called Marzipan, particularly gifted at mechanics, went to the King and said: “Your Majesty, things are not going well. At the first battle we came off worse. The same thing will happen at the second, Your Majesty…”
“I know, my dear Marzipan,” replied Leander. “It is very bad, shocking.”
“We were completely lacking in common sense,” continued Marzipan, who was a blunt, forthright sort of bear, “and we shall be again, unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Unless we can find fifty bears or so who are not scared of heights. Come and see, Your Majesty. I’ve put together a few things…” And he took him to see.
In a remote corner the brilliant Marzipan had erected a workshop and fabricated some strange machines out of contraptions picked up here and there during the journey. There was an immense mortar big enough to hold a bull – horns and all – there was a gigantic catapult; there were enormously long ladders and all manner of other devilish contraptions.
“With the help of these,” said Marzipan, after he had explained their use, “you will see how things will turn out.”
And they turned out well. When the bears returned to the attack, the Grand Duke did not even leave his rooms to go and watch, so sure he was that they would be decisively routed. He even changed his uniform and put on a white one embroidered with silver and purple, because he intended to go to the theatre that evening. All he did was to order another ration of spirits for the soldiers, to give them courage.
But wine and brandy did not help, for you can see for yourselves what happened.
They light the long fuse and the great cannon roars,
And swift as an arrow a gallant bear soars,
And riding astride on the cannon ball’s back
Looks as much at his ease as if riding a hack
(Such a steed was once used, so the legend avows,
on another occasion by Baron Münchhausen).
Now see the dreaded catapult,
Another bear within the spoon.
Will the brave creature get a jolt?
Will they not send him off too soon?
Like a great bird he cleaves the sky,
Then down the vaulted heaven he drops,
To land as cool as you or I
Among the fortress’ chimney tops.
What of the scaling ladders? Like great spi-
Ders they are ramping up the fortress side.
Some of them bend, some of them snap like straws
Beneath the weight of all those eager paws.
(Pray notice at the bottom on the right
A sad example of this very plight) –
And there’s a warrior pausing there a minute
To hold his head, which has a bullet in it.
But shortly he will take the field again
And press the siege with all his might and main,
Thus proving to the letter
“From good to better.”
Now while the fort commanders are consulting,
Some twenty-seven bears are catapulting,
Twenty-three more are firing off the gun
And more are climbing ladders one by one.
The Ducal soldiers, dazed and alcoholic,
Unused to these contraptions diabolic,
With too much brandy waltzing round their stomachs
Are in a flummox.
Now begins a hurly-bur-
Ly, shrieks and yells and “Sauve qui peut!”
One runs away, one leaps the ramparts
And falls into the ditch’s damp parts.
All shout orders contradic
tory,
Pride has a fall and the bears have a victory.
Chapter 6
Meanwhile, in the Grand Theatre Excelsior, urbanity, luxury and elegance reigned that evening for the gala performance in honour of the Grand Duke. A week earlier the bears had been driven back from the gates; that was an event well worth celebrating. The room was positively aglitter with precious stones and gorgeous uniforms. There was an Indian prince with his princess; there were officers of all the services in full dress; there were counts, viscounts, marquises, baronets and even a Landgraf – though we are not quite sure what this is; there were two high officials of the Persian court, and there was also Professor Ambrose, incognito (though how was he to remain incognito with a face like that, which one could recognize a hundred yards away?) He was all alone in a box wearing his inseparable top hat a yard and a half tall.
The programme, specially chosen for the Grand Duke, was as follows:
The ballet of the sycamore,
Six dancers and a blackamoor,
Clowns and Pierrots and their followers,
Fire-eaters, sword-swallowers,
Men who chew up packs of cards
With mouths that measure seven yards,
Lions and tigers, harmless beasts,
Conjurors, ventriloquists
(That is men whose stomach speaks).
Performing horses, mermaids, freaks,
Twenty dancing girls from France,
Sixteen piebald elephants;
Performing fleas will next excite you,
Though they are too well trained to bite you.
And last we have, to top the bill,
None but the bear cub Bobadil –
Small, it is true, but none the less
Sure of immediate success.
His act will make you wax lyrical:
Never was there such a miracle!
