Each time, Brother Hugo sprinkled the camp site with Irish road dust that kills snakes, for he knew that Ireland had been rid of reptiles, thanks to prayers from Saint Patrick. That country’s soil is so unbearable for those scaly creatures that even toads carried in on a ship burst as soon as they are tossed onto the Irish shore. The dust, which the forward-thinking Franciscan had gathered in Ireland, continued to work, protecting the travelers in the Alps, too.
After tying the donkey to some distant bushes, Brother Hugo had a chance at camp to calmly tell how the Apennines suppress the heat of a southern wind and how the Alps’ crags stop the cold northern winds, Boreas and Arktos. He also knew a little something about the Hyperborean Mountains in the Far North: their surface is as smooth as glass, allowing them to easily reflect the sun’s rays. The mountains’ dish-like form forces the rays to converge in one point, warming the air. The height of the mountains does not allow that air to mix with the Arctic cold, and it is precisely that which makes the climate remarkably pleasant. This is why the Hyperboreans who reside there reach such an age that they tire from life naturally and then throw themselves into the sea from high cliffs for no apparent reason whatsoever, thus putting an end to their existence, which is, of course, a sin.
When he found an opportune moment, Hugo would tell his new acquaintances about other mountains, too. He shared his knowledge about Olympus, which beholds the clouds from on high; about Mount Lebanon, which is covered by forests; and about Mount Sinai, with its peak reaching the very clouds, making it impossible for regular people to climb. As a Franciscan, of course the monk reminisced about Mount La Verna, where Saint Francis came for a retreat, blessing the mountain just as he had formerly blessed birds. Brother Hugo’s attention did not overlook a mountain that Alexander the Great had passed: it turned men of courage into cowards and cowards into men of courage. Alexander was a selfless traveler and the road simply unrolled beneath his feet.
Sometimes I feel like Alexander, Arseny told Ustina, and the road unrolls itself under my feet. And like Alexander, my love, I do not know where it leads.
One day a rockslide came down on the caravan. Rocks flew, echoing a thousand times in the gorge, and that was frightening. When everything had quietened, they all saw a horse thrashing and wheezing in the bushes beside the road. The horse was frantically kicking her hooves in front of herself, and they could hear the sound of branches cracking under her rump. Arseny stopped those who intended to kill the horse to spare her suffering. Approaching the horse from the side of the bush, he placed a hand on her mane. The horse stopped pounding her legs. Blood was visibly running from a front leg. Arseny walked around the horse and felt the wounded leg.
This is not death throes, said Arseny, the horse is thrashing not because it is dying but from unbearable pain. Her leg is badly bruised but not broken. Give me some pieces of linen and I will wrap the leg to stop the bleeding.
Take it but be careful, they shouted to him from the caravan, because she could kill you with a hoof. Keep in mind, too, that the caravan cannot wait for a horse to recover.
Arseny wrapped the horse’s leg and carefully drew his hand along the linen as he sat beside her. The horse got up a little while later. She walked with a limp, but walked. The merchants thanked Arseny, not so much for saving the horse as for giving them something unusual to witness. They understood this was not about the horse. The caravan moved along.
In the wide, bright gorges where the road allowed three horsemen to ride abreast, Brother Hugo’s small donkey invariably ended up between Arseny and Ambrogio’s horses. A staccato clopping reminiscent of a toy drum accompanied the horses’ measured gait. Brother Hugo’s cheeks and chins joggled in time with that staccato. The horses and the donkey walked side by side, despite the difference in their strides: this was a matter of honor for the donkey. For the brother, it was important only that both conversation partners could hear him equally well.
When it rained, Brother Hugo would tell them about the nature of various clouds; in good weather, he spoke of belts in the heavens, where daytime and nighttime luminaries float. When observing quick changes in the Alpine weather, the Franciscan did not hide from Arseny and Ambrogio his knowledge of how climate influences a person’s character. Based on the climactic particularities of lands, he concluded validly that Romans were gloomy, Greeks fickle, Africans crafty, Gauls fierce, and Englishmen and Teutons sound of body. The strong mistral in the Rhone Valley led to people being flighty, airheaded, and not keeping their word. The migration of peoples, along with a change in climate, inevitably led to a change in disposition. Thus the Lombards who moved to Italy lost their severity in part, of course, because they married Italian women but mostly, one might think, because of climactic conditions.
Brother Hugo, there are many useful things, said Arseny, that we would never have learned had we not met you.
Moving around within an expanse enriches our experience, the brother modestly said.
It compacts time, said Ambrogio, and makes it more spacious.
A person journeying in the Alps is similar to a person moving through a labyrinth. He zigzags along the bottom of gorges, following their form, and his route is never direct. Gorges merge together at times, giving the traveler an opportunity to transit, unimpeded, from one to the other. But mountains, which are primarily an ordeal for a person, do not always offer the convenience of transitions. Situations where mountains completely shut off a gorge are not uncommon. In those situations, there is only one route: up.
That was exactly what lay ahead for the caravan. The road went along the gentlest of slopes and the caravan was slowly gaining altitude. Whenever the ascent was not too steep, Brother Hugo told of the astonishing nature of glaciers, which not only slip down between cliffs but are also in constant internal motion, meaning their upper parts gradually sink and their lower parts rise to the surface, causing the bodies of those who have fallen into crevasses or deep cracks to be discovered only afterwards, when they have risen to the surface of the ice. Brother Hugo also imparted knowledge of avalanches set loose by the slightest shout, speeding away, growing like an enormous, shapeless lump, and rolling into themselves everything that comes across their path—people, horses, and carts—and then nothing that was caught up in the avalanche can come to the surface, for an avalanche stops for the ages after its descent.
The incline grew ever steeper with each hour, making the ascent not only difficult but also unsafe. The air was already appreciably colder. The road narrowed. A sheer cliff rose to the walkers’ right; to the left, a stream roared at the bottom of the gorge, a rainbow glistening in its spray. Snow began to fall after they’d climbed higher, and drops and vapor from the stream settled and froze on the road, making it slippery.
Brother Hugo’s donkey’s legs kept splaying and even the shod horses were slipping noticeably. The donkey fell on its front legs several times and Brother Hugo dismounted. He was no longer telling stories and he walked, panting, ahead of Arseny and Ambrogio. The width of the road now only allowed two to ride abreast. A little later, those who rode horses dismounted and led their horses by the bridle. Those who owned wagons pushed them from behind because the oxen’s legs had begun helplessly scrabbling at the ice.