Matteo and Mariuccia

In the town of Vijanello, there lived a young girl named Mariuccia and a young man named Matteo. The girl was so beautiful that no one called her anything other than "the beautiful Mariuccia." And the young man was the most agile, strong, and brave among his peers. It was no wonder that, upon meeting, the two young people fell in love. And once they fell in love, it wasn't long before they were planning their wedding. At Mariuccia's parents' house, everything was already prepared for the wedding feast. A lamb as white as snow, two rams, a dozen hares, and more than a hundred partridges had been slaughtered and roasted. According to old tradition, two woven baskets filled with sweets were placed near the spot where the young couple would sit. After the wedding feast, the bride and groom would shower each other with candies, so that their life together would be as sweet as the honey from which the treats were made.

Relatives and guests were arriving from all directions. Suddenly, a rider on a lathered horse galloped down the street. He kept shouting one word over and over, a word that filled the hearts of the townspeople with dread.

"Saracens! Saracens!" the rider cried. Immediately, from the top of the hill overlooking Vijanello, the voices of Colombo and Pellico—two enormous seashells—rang out. In times of peace, they remained silent. But whenever Corsica was in danger, the watchmen would raise them to their lips. Then Colombo and Pellico would sing out over the valleys, calling the sons of Corsica to battle. All the men—from beardless youths to gray-bearded elders—would rush to meet the enemy upon hearing their call. Not one of them shirked their sacred duty as warriors. And if there had been any who dared to do so, they would never have been able to wash away the shame of cowardice for the rest of their days.

And so it was this time as well. Before Colombo and Pellico had even fallen silent, the men, leaving behind their weeping wives and children, rushed toward the sea where the Saracens had landed, their weapons clanging as they ran. And at the forefront, riding a fine steed, was Matteo.

The battle was fierce. But the courage of the defenders could not save the town, for there were ten Saracens for every inhabitant of Vijanello. The enemy hordes stormed into the town, destroying everything in their path.

Poor, poor Corsica! The villages lay in ruins, the fertile valleys were ravaged, and its beautiful daughters were being taken into slavery.

Mariuccia did not escape this tragic fate. Her beauty struck the leader of the Saracens himself. He seized the girl and threw her over his shoulder like a wolf carrying a half-strangled lamb.

Soon, the Saracens, laden with plunder, began making their way back to the shore where their ships rocked on the waves.

Meanwhile, Matteo lay beneath a large fig tree that grew by the side of the road. Blood flowed from his wounds, and the light in his eyes was fading.

And then the Saracens passed by him, carrying their rich spoils and their beautiful captives. Among the captives, Matteo saw, to his horror, his bride.

The young man leapt to his feet, drawing his sharp blade halfway from its sheath, but his strength failed him, and he fell.

The Saracens passed by without even glancing at the unfortunate man.

Soon, twilight descended over the empty Vijanello. Night fell. And on the field where swords had clashed and sparked during the day, the ruler of the Kingdom of the Dead appeared. Black crows circled above his head, cawing. The ruler moved slowly from one fallen warrior to another, lightly touching each with his staff. And those he touched became his subjects. He approached Matteo, but after looking into the young man's face, he said:

"This one is not yet under my power. He will soon recover from his wounds; he is destined to live a long, long life."

"What use is life to me," groaned Matteo, "when my hometown has been plundered, and the one who is dearer to me than life itself has been taken into shameful captivity?"

"Do you mean to say, mortal, that love is dearer to you than sunlight and warm bread?"

"Without Mariuccia, the light will be unbearable, and bread will mean nothing to me," replied Matteo. "And how can I face my fellow townsmen? I failed to avenge them."

"And if I help you, will you agree to die before your appointed time?"

"Why do you even ask? Of course, I will."

"Then remember, exactly one year from now, you will die!" said the ruler of the dead, passing his hand over Matteo's prostrate body.

Immediately, the young man's wounds closed, and he sprang to his feet, rushing in the direction where the Saracens had taken Mariuccia. The ruler of the dead stopped him.

"Where are you rushing, foolish one? You cannot defeat the Saracens alone."

He struck the gnarled trunk of the fig tree with his staff. The tree shook from its roots to its crown, and fruits and leaves rained down from its branches. The fruits fell to the ground with a dull thud, and where they landed, warriors clad in armor sprang up. The leaves turned into embossed shields, and the stems became sharp spears. Before Matteo stood a thousand-strong army. And the old fig tree crashed heavily to the ground, crushing and breaking its already dead branches.

Matteo waved his hand, and the army followed him.

The Saracens, drunk with victory, had set up camp on the shore within sight of their ships. In the predawn hours, they slept soundly by their campfires, leaving only a few sentries on watch.

When the sentries saw the army approaching, they sounded the alarm. A fierce but brief battle broke out. Only a handful of the enemy managed to reach their ships; the rest fell on the shore.

Matteo rushed to the bound captives. With a sharp knife, he cut the ropes that bound them. And there was Mariuccia! The young man embraced his beloved passionately and turned to thank his comrades. But the warriors had vanished, as if they had melted into the air...

Grief and joy mingled in the town of Vijanello. They rejoiced because the enemy had been defeated and the girls had returned to their homes. But they wept because in many families, the place at the table where a husband, brother, or son once sat now remained empty.

But life went on. The grief faded, and the sorrow on the faces of the people of Vijanello was increasingly replaced by smiles.

And now, Mariuccia and Matteo were preparing for their wedding once more. The brave young man had been dubbed "the son of Vijanello," for he had saved the town. And if a young man has a father like no other—an entire town—then the wedding must be celebrated in such a way that the children of today, when they become old, will tell their grandchildren about it.

The day for the wedding was chosen by the whole town and set for the anniversary of the victory over the Saracens.

Matteo was so happy that he even forgot about the promise he had made to the ruler of the dead. Everything that had happened that night seemed like a distant dream to him.
And so the appointed day arrived.

From early morning, the streets were filled with people. The townsfolk dressed in their finest clothes, though here and there among the festive attire, dark mourning garments could be seen. The bells announced that the wedding ceremony had begun.

Matteo placed a ring on his bride's finger and extended his hand so that she could place a ring on his. Suddenly, a terrible whirlwind swept in, a black tornado surged over Vijanello, seized Matteo, and carried him away.

None of those standing around saw what Mariuccia saw: it was not a tornado but the ruler of the Kingdom of the Dead himself who had abducted Matteo.

"Oh, Matteo, how could you leave me neither a wife nor a bride!" exclaimed the girl. "The wedding ceremony is not yet finished. But I will not yield you to anyone. Even in the Kingdom of the Dead, I will find you."

The girls of Corsica are as brave and resolute as the men. Mariuccia set out to search for her Matteo.

Soon, the last houses of Vijanello disappeared behind her. Mariuccia stopped. Where should she go? In which direction lies the Kingdom of the Dead?

Just then, a crow hopped and skipped sideways toward Mariuccia.

"Pretty little ring. Give me the ring, girl."

"I cannot," said Mariuccia. "This ring was placed on my finger by my betrothed, Matteo."

But the crow persisted.

"Then give me the other ring, for you have two."

"Ah, sister, the second ring I must place on the finger of my betrothed, Matteo, in the Kingdom of the Dead. I will give you an earring instead."

Mariuccia took an earring from her tanned ear and handed it to the crow.

The crow snatched the earring with its clawed foot and flew away. As it flew, it turned back and called out:

"The Kingdom of the Dead lies where the sun sets. Walk straight toward the sunset, girl. Do not turn aside."

Mariuccia turned her back to the east, faced the west, and set off.

For the first few days, she passed through villages. Then came wild places. Mariuccia walked across a sun-scorched, empty plain. Sharp stones cut her feet, and hot sand burned them like fire.

Day turned to night, night to day, day to night again. But the girl kept walking.

Ahead, she saw mountains. Beyond them, the sun set, and from behind them, the moon rose.

Soon, or perhaps not so soon, Mariuccia reached the first mountain, covered in a cheerful forest. From tree to tree—she didn't even notice how—she found herself at the summit. There, in a small hollow, lay a lake, round and gleaming like a mirror.

Mariuccia leaned over the water to wash her face and immediately recoiled. Staring back at her from the water was a wrinkled old woman with gray hair.

"But this is my reflection!" cried Mariuccia. "Could it be that not days, but years have passed since I left my home? Or perhaps grief has aged me before my time. How can I face Matteo like this?"

The girl sat down on a stone by the shore and wept.

She did not know—how could she?—that this was a magical lake. It reflected everything in reverse. If an old woman looked into it, she would see herself young and beautiful. If a girl gazed into it, she would be frightened, just as Mariuccia was. It was as if it were time for her to be tending grandchildren, not dancing with young men at the village outskirts.

Mariuccia wept for a while, then decided:

"Even if Matteo no longer loves me, I will still find him in the Kingdom of the Dead."

She wiped her tears and began to descend the mountain.

In a valley at the foot of a tree, a spring bubbled up. Mariuccia couldn't resist and looked into it, then laughed brightly.

"No, Matteo will not turn away from me. I am still as beautiful and young as ever!"

Joy gave Mariuccia strength, and she set off once more.
A lot of strength was needed because a second mountain, taller than the first, had risen before her. The mountain was rocky and steep. However, it was no coincidence that Mariuccia was born in Corsica. Where a mountain goat can pass, a Corsican girl can pass too. The summit was already close, just two or three more ledges, and Mariuccia would conquer the mountain. Suddenly, thunder was heard, and a wall of flame rose from the ground. In vain, Mariuccia darted around searching for a passage. She couldn’t find one anywhere.

Mariuccia was a brave girl, but still, she was just a girl. So, she wept bitterly once more. One of her tears fell into the fire. The fire hissed, pressed itself to the ground, and went out.

Mariuccia reached the summit and saw that beyond this second mountain, a third one rose. It stood like a gloomy giant, its head hidden in the clouds. No, no one could climb such a steep slope. She could fly over it, but Mariuccia had no wings on her shoulders.

Then Mariuccia heard a plaintive cry. She looked and saw a white dove struggling in the grass, its foot tangled in a long blade of grass, unable to free itself. Above the dove, a female dove circled, now swooping down to the ground, now soaring up again, crying so pitifully, as if weeping.

“Oh, poor thing,” Mariuccia said to the female dove, “we share the same sorrow. You want to save your dove, and I want to save my Matteo. I’ll help you, but it seems no one will help me.”

The girl bent down and carefully tore the blade of grass. The dove flew up, made a wide circle beside the female dove, and returned to Mariuccia.

“How can I help you, girl?” it asked.

“You cannot help me,” Mariuccia replied sadly. “I need to get over that tall mountain.”

The dove soared upward and disappeared. Less than a minute later, the air trembled with the flapping of swift wings. A thousand doves arrived. They grabbed Mariuccia by the waist with their red claws and carried her over the mountain. There, they set her down on the ground at the entrance to a gorge.

“A safe journey! A safe journey!” they cried as they flew away.

Mariuccia stepped into the narrow passage between the cliffs.

The girl walked through the narrow gorge. Stone cliffs rose on either side, blocking the sunlight; it was damp and dark in the gorge. High above her head, a strip of sky ran, guiding Mariuccia further and further. The gorge grew narrower and deeper. The strip of sky was barely visible above.

Suddenly, the cliffs parted, and the girl emerged on the bank of a river. The river did not flow or murmur; its waters heaved heavily, like black mercury.

Mariuccia was tormented by thirst. She wanted to drink, but suddenly she remembered what they said in Viganello. There is a river that separates the Kingdom of the Living and the Kingdom of the Dead: take one sip of its water, and you will forget everything. Perhaps this was it, the river of oblivion. And Mariuccia did not drink.

Then a boat approached the shore. It was steered by an ancient, old ferryman.

“Hello, grandfather,” Mariuccia said, “take me to the other side.”

The old man replied:

“The living have no business in the Kingdom of the Dead. I will not take you.”

“But I am searching for my Matteo,” the girl pleaded. “Look, this ring he placed on my finger, and this ring I must place on his. How can you say I have no business there?”

“Very well,” said the old man, “get into the boat. But remember my advice: when you find your betrothed and lead him back, stay silent and do not look back.”

The old man lifted the heavy oar and, slowly rowing, guided the boat across the river. The oar rose and fell, but no splashing of water was heard.

When Mariuccia stepped out of the boat on the other side, she saw a gate, and above it an inscription: “This threshold shall not be crossed twice!” But the girl was not afraid. She stepped over the threshold and found herself in the Kingdom of the Dead.

There, she was surrounded by shadows. They were so alike that Mariuccia grew confused.

“Holy Madonna,” she thought, “how will I find my Matteo, how will I recognize him?” For a long time, Mariuccia wandered through the gloomy Kingdom of the Dead. There was neither day nor night, no birdsong, no fragrant scent of grass. Suddenly, the girl’s heart trembled. Before her stood a shadow, as gray as all the others, but something familiar shone through its indistinct features.

Mariuccia quickly placed the ring on the shadow’s finger. And lo, a miracle—before her stood not a shadow, but Matteo, her Matteo! The girl grabbed his hand and ran toward the exit from the Kingdom of the Dead.

Ahead, the bright light of day became visible, and the heavy waters of the river gleamed. The gates were open, but the exit was guarded by a seven-headed monster. Each head spewed smoke and flame.

Mariuccia pressed close to Matteo, and they slipped past. Just three or four more steps, and they would return to the world of the living.

Suddenly, the girl felt a scorching breath on her back. She turned and saw that the monster had raised its middle, largest head and was reaching for Matteo, aiming to attack from behind and swallow him.

“Beware, Matteo, my beloved!” Mariuccia cried in mortal terror.

Oh, why did she turn, why did she cry out! At once, the spells protecting them both shattered. The heavy gates slammed shut, and Matteo and Mariuccia became shadows. A storm swept them up and whirled them around like fallen leaves.

And so they drift, driven by the wind, not thinking of the future, not remembering the past. But they are still together, holding each other’s hands tightly. On Mariuccia’s finger shines Matteo’s ring, and on Matteo’s finger—Mariuccia’s ring.

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Matteo and Mariuccia

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