of a human presence, and sniffed once more the spilled blood of their offspring, then retreated, snarling and bristling as they went. They were never to return to that spot. But the story might have ended differently if,. instead of being a tale about foxes, it had been a tale about wolves. This also crossed Baltasar's mind, so, from that day on, he carried his sword with him, the tip of the blade somewhat eroded by rust but still perfectly capable of beheading a wolf and its mate.
He always went alone, and he was planning to go back on his own, when Blimunda said to him for the first time in three years, I'm going too, and this caused him some surprise, and he warned her, It's a long journey and will tire you out, but she had made up her mind, I want to know the route in case I should ever have to go without you. This made good sense, although Baltasar had not forgotten the danger of encountering wolves in that wilderness, Come what may, you mustn't go there alone, the roads are bad, the place is deserted, as you may remember, and you could be attacked by wild beasts, whereupon Blimunda replied, You should never say, Come what may, for something unexpected might happen if you use that expression, Very well, but you sound just like Manuel Milho, Who is Manuel Milho, He worked with me on the building site, but he decided to go back home, he said that he would rather die in a flood, should the Tagus burst its banks, than be crushed to death under a stone at Mafra for, contrary to what people say, all deaths are not the same, what is the same is to be dead, and so he went back to his native province, where the stones are small and few and the water is soft.
Baltasar was reluctant to see Blimunda make the long journey on foot, so he hired a donkey, and after making their farewells, they set off, they had not answered when Ines Antonia and their brotherin-law inquired, Where are you going, and warned them, This journey will cost you two days' wages, and if any crisis should occur we won't know where to find you, the crisis to which Ines Antonia referred was probably the death ofJoao Francisco, for death was already prowling around the old man's door, it took one step forward as if about to enter, then relented, perhaps inhibited by Joao Francisco's silence, for how can anyone say to an old man, Come with me, if he neither speaks nor responds but only sits there staring, confronted with such a stare, even death loses its nerve. Ines Antonia does not know, Alvaro Diogo does not know, their son, who is at an age where he is interested only in himself, does not know that Baltasar has already confided in Joao Francisco, Father, I'm going with Blimunda to the Serra do Barregudo, to Monte Junto, to see how the machine is faring in which we flew from Lisbon that time when, you may remember, people claimed that the Holy Ghost had flown over the building site at Mafra, it wasn't the Holy Ghost, but us, together with Padre Bartolomeu Lourenco, you remember the priest who came here to the house when Mother was still alive, and she wanted to kill a cockerel, but he wouldn't hear of it, saying that it was preferable to hear a cockerel crowing than to eat it for supper, besides, it would be unkind to hens to deprive them of their cockerel. Joao Francisco listened to these reminiscences, and the old man, who rarely spoke, assured him, Yes, I remember it well, now go in peace, for I'm not ready to die yet, and when the moment comes I shall be with you wherever you may be, But Father, do you believe me when I tell you that I have flown, When we get old, things that are destined to come about start to happen, and at last we're capable of believing those things we once doubted, and even when we find it difficult to believe that such things can happen, we believe that they will happen, I have flown, Father. My son, I believe you.
Giddy-up, giddy-up, giddy-up, pretty little donkey, no one could say that of this little donkey, which, unlike the donkey in the refrain, has sores underneath its saddle, but it trots along merrily, the load is light and is carried with ease wherever the ethereal, slender Blimunda goes, sixteen years have passed since first we set eyes on her, but an admirable vigour stems from this maturity, for there is nothing like a secret for preserving youth. No sooner did they reach the marshland than Baltasar set about gathering reeds, while Blimunda collected waterlilies, which she fashioned into a garland and arranged over the donkey's ears, it made a charming picture, and never had such a fuss been made of a humble donkey, it was like a pastoral scene from Arcadia, although this shepherd was disabled and his shepherdess the custodian of wills, donkeys rarely appear in such a setting, but this one had been specially hired by the shepherd, who did not wish his shepherdess to get tired, and anyone who imagines that this is any common hiring is clearly unaware just how often donkeys get irritated when some heavy load is dumped on their back to aggravate their sores and cause the tufts of hair to chafe. Once the willow canes had been bundled and tied, the load became heavier, but any load that is carried willingly is never tiring, and matters improved when Blimunda decided to dismount from the donkey and proceed on foot, they were like a trio out for a stroll, one bearing flowers, the other two providing companionship.
Spring is here and the countryside is covered with white daisies and mallows, where they cover the path the travellers cut through them, and the firm heads of the flowers are crushed beneath the bare feet of Baltasar and Blimunda, who both have shoes or boots but prefer to carry them in their knapsacks until the road becomes stony, and a pungent odour rises from the ground, it is the sap of the daisies, the perfume of the world on the day of its inception, before God invented the rose. It is a perfect day for their trip to inspect the flying machine, great white clouds pass overhead, and they muse how pleasant it would be to fly just once more in the Passarola, to soar into the sky and circle those castles suspended in mid-air, to venture where birds do not venture, by jubilantly penetrating those clouds trembling with fear and cold, before emerging once more into the blue and heading towards the sun, to contemplate the earth in all its beauty and exclaim, Earth, how beautiful Blimunda looks. But this route is dull, Blimunda looks less beautiful, and even the donkey has shed the lilies, which have become parched and withered, let us sit down here to eat the world's stale bread, let us eat and then travel on without delay, for there is still a long way to go. Blimunda commits the itinerary to memory as they go along, carefully noting that mountain, that thicket, four boulders standing in a row, six hills forming a semicircle, and the villages, now then, what are they called, Ah yes, Codecal and Gradil, Cadriceira and Furadouro, Merceana and Pena Firme, and on and on we go until we reach Monte Junto and the Passarola.
As in tales of yore, a secret word was uttered and before a magic grotto there suddenly arose a forest of oak trees that could be penetrated only by those who knew the other magic word, the one that would replace the forest with a river and set thereon a barge with oars. Here, too, words were uttered, If I must die on a bonfire, let it at least be this one, the demented Padre Bartolomeu Lourenco had once exclaimed, perhaps these bramble thickets are the forest of oak trees, this woodland in flower the oars and the river, and the distressed bird the barge, what word will be spoken that will give meaning to all of this. The donkey was relieved of its saddle and hobbled to prevent it from straying too far, and it began to eat whatever it could reach and fancied, if one may speak of choice within the simple confines of the possible, and meanwhile, Baltasar went off to clear a path through the brambles that would lead them to the machine, which was carefully hidden from sight, this is a task that, no matter how many times Baltasar does it, no sooner does he turn his back than the shoots sprout up again, a maze of entangled foliage that makes it almost impossible to clear a passage, to burrow through the brambles, but unless a path is cleared, there will be no hope of restoring the entwined canes, of protecting the wings that time has eroded, of raising the Passarola's drooping head, of supporting her tail, and of getting the rudders back into working order, it is true that we and the machine are grounded, but we are prepared. Baltasar worked for hours, hurting his hands on the thorns, and once he had cleared a path he called Blimunda, who found that she still had to crawl on all fours until she finally arrived, they were immersed in a green shadow that looked translucent, perhaps because of the fresh shoots that criss-crossed the blackened sail without entirely concealing it, because of the tender leaves that allowed the light to filter through, and above this cupola there was another one of silence, and above the silence, a vault of blue light, glimpsed in fragments, patches, and secret revelations. Climbing up the wing that was resting on the ground, they arrived on the deck of the machine. There, carved on a plank, were the sun and the moon, no other sign united them, and it was as if no other human being existed in this world. In certain places the floor had rotted, once again Baltasar would have to bring some planking from the building site, battens that were rejected when the scaffolding went up, for it would be futile to repair the metal plates and external casing if the timber itself was crumbling away. The amber balls glimmered dimly under the shadow cast by the sail, like eyes refusing to close or resisting sleep in order not to miss the hour of departure. But the entire scene has an air of desolation, withered leaves darkening in a puddle of water which continues to resist the first days of hot weather and were it not for Baltasar's perseverance, this would be a derelict ruin, the decomposed skeleton of a dead bird.
Only the globes, with their mysterious amalgam, continue to shine as on the first day, opaque but luminous, their ribbing clearly defined, their grooves precisely outlined, and who would believe they have been here for four long years. Blimunda touched one of the globes and discovered that it was neither hot nor cold, it was just as if she had clasped her hands to find them neither hot nor cold but simply alive, The wills inside here are still alive, they certainly haven't escaped, I can see the globes have suffered no damage and the metal is well preserved, poor wills, imprisoned all this time and waiting for what. Baltasar, who was working below deck, heard part of Blimunda's question or divined it, If the wills escape from the globes, the machine will be useless, and it will have
