Basically, what I see around me is a world exactly the same. No flying dragons, no self-stirring cauldrons, no crooked houses defying gravity. So much so that, for a moment, I think I've just tricked myself and never actually grabbed anything at all.
And yet… something is imperceptibly different. The light? The air? Who knows.
Fiore looks at me, satisfied.
Something moves a few meters behind him. At first, it looks like a little figurine hopping around at a creepily fast pace. But the closer it gets, the more I realize it's a tiny man—barely forty centimeters tall—dressed head to toe in red, right down to his ridiculously small pointy hat. Bouncing like a rabbit, he reaches our table and, with an Olympic-worthy double somersault, lands right on top of it. Our glasses clink dangerously.
Up close, I can really see him: a thick beard, hair that's clearly never seen a comb. On his wrinkled face, two eyes far too lively for a normal old man: piercing and mischievous.
He looks at me with pure contempt.
"'Bout time you came back here, boy. Lazy! Too easy staying in the Real World… where everything runs smoothly, where nothing nips at your ankles while you sleep. Don't know if I even want to help you now—oh no!"
My mouth drops open in a perfect comical O.
"Come on, Max, give him a break," says Fiore, conciliatory.
"Hell no, Fiorenzo! That good-for-nothing"—he points at me—"is the reason you keep dragging your feet about the current situation." The little man crosses his arms, pure theatrics.
"Hey!" I try to retort; the insult outweighs the surprise. Who does this pint-sized thing think he is?
"Listen, let's get out of here before we attract too much attention," says Fiore, getting up.
After paying for our drinks, we start walking behind the bouncy little gnome, who doesn't stop complaining for a single second.
"Zuan's had enough, I'm telling you! You can't keep dodging your duties to the Alliance."
Alliance? And who or what is Zuan? I don't understand a thing, but I keep trotting behind them — Fiore, carefree, arms behind his head, and the little man hopping in zigzags like a two-legged toad as he picks up his tirade again:
"Always with your tail between your legs when it comes to answering to the Alliance. But when it's about dragging him around, funny enough, you always find the time…"
"What a pain! Can't I be free to do what I want?" Fiore groans at the little man, then turns to me: "Milo, don't step in his tracks, or he'll hex you."
I don't need to be told twice and jump out of the way like the floor's lava.
"Remember that I have a binding link with Milo," Fiore goes on to the horrific little Santa Claus, "something I don't recall having with the Alliance. As far as I'm concerned, Zuan can do whatever he pleases." Then he adds lazily, "Now we're going anyway, to the Council. That way, if Zuan has something to tell me, he can say it to my face instead of sending the errand boy."
"Errand boy?! Me??" the little man swells up, scandalized. "Massariol is no errand boy!" He bursts out, stomping his foot.
"Well said! Come with us then, so you can tell him off in person. What do you say?"
"How clever you are, Fiorenzo. Really clever. You just want me to show your moroso* the way, isn't that it?"
"Hold on a sec!" I blurt out, my ears burning. "First of all: I'm not his… moroso. Are we serious right now!? And I have a name: Milo. Second of all, would you please stop talking about me in the third person? It's nerve-wracking."
The two of them turn to me in unison.
"I know full well what your name is… boy," the Massariol answers sideways. "As you wish. I'll show you the way, follow me…" He finally concedes, chuckling darkly, muttering to himself. Can he be trusted?
"Max… no tricks!" Fiore warns him. "I promise I'll talk to Zuan, come on. Even if I can already see the usual four hours of cosmic-nothingness talk, with herbal tea cups and pompous airs… ugh, obnoxious. Just… show Milo the right entrance, please."
We walk a little further toward the park that runs along the old Renaissance city walls of Padua. The Paduan walls are truly massive, but also very well hidden: they blend perfectly into the modern urban fabric, like sleeping giants that don't want to be noticed.
The Massariol leads us toward what I take to be the Bastione Alicorno, one of the round towers still intact. The tall trees of the shady walkway give me a moment of relief, and I let out a sigh.
Summer in the city isn't much fun, especially in Veneto. The humidity is high, and mosquitoes are everywhere, but those little green lungs turn into real oases.
We climb up the slope that leads to the top of the tower until the Massariol suddenly stops in front of what looks like a stone obelisk, just over three meters tall.
The monument is grayish, covered with moss and lichen, and on the front it bears an inscription, barely legible:
SCOPO MERIDIANO
DELL I • R • OSSERVATORIO DI PADOVA
ERETTO NELL'ANNO • 1842
"A sundial?" I ask, confused.
"Exactly so!" declares the Massariol.
"I remember this! I could see it perfectly from the Specola tower," Fiore exclaims.
"Milo, see here? The vertical line is perfectly aligned with the celestial meridian. Back in the day, it was used to tell the exact time of noon." Fiore smirks sideways. "Good times… more or less."
"What do you mean…" but the sentence dies in my mouth as I recall he's FIVE HUNDRED AND TEN YEARS OLD. In September.
Then Fiore turns to the Massariol. "I didn't know there was an entrance here."
"Exactly so!" the Massariol repeats once again.
"Yeah, okay, but now what are we supposed to do? I don't see any entrance," I say, uncertainly.
"But you should see some lights. They look like sparks. Those are the Directions. As soon as you see them, touch in sequence with one finger the three points of the inscription, and you'll see," the Massariol answers.
I look closely, and sure enough, faint golden sparks are flitting around the inscription, barely visible. Are these the so-called Directions? I reach out, touch the three points as instructed, and suddenly I hear a metallic snap, followed by a deep creak that seems to come from the very heart of the stone.
Beside the obelisk, as if conjured from thin air, a gigantic doorway shimmers into being.
The structure is wrought iron, black, cold, and sturdy, while the door itself is massive wood, carved with intricate, beautiful flowers. At the center, a triangular crest inside a circle: an animal paw, a sun, and a moon set at the corners, and in the middle, the initials "C.S.D.M.U."
As I stand there, almost hypnotized by the details, I feel a light touch against my fingertips. I startle and lift my gaze: Fiore is staring at me with those sharp, rose-tinted eyes, as if he wanted to catch every flicker of my hesitation. For a moment, I lose myself in those enchanted hues.
"Shall we?" he asks, his voice sweet yet resolute.
I nod without resistance, and our unlikely trio crosses the threshold of the High Council of the Two United Worlds.
*moroso: Venetian dialect way of saying "boyfriend".