Instead of giving up, they piled dry sticks around the base of the tree and set them on fire. In no time, the pine began to burn and blaze like a candle in the breeze. Seeing the flames rise higher and higher and not wanting to end up like a roasted pigeon, Pinocchio made a great leap from the top of the tree and began running again through fields and vineyards. The murderers gave chase and kept chasing, never tiring.
Day was beginning to break, with the murderers still in pursuit, when Pinocchio found his path blocked by an enormous ditch full of filthy water that was the muddy color of coffee with milk. What was he to do? “One, two, three!” yelled the puppet, and with a running start he leapt to the opposite bank. The murderers jumped, too, but not having judged the distance properly, they fell—kersplash!—smack in the middle of the ditch. When Pinocchio heard them flailing in the water, he shouted through his laughter, “Enjoy your bath, Mr. Murderers!” And he kept on running.
He was imagining them nicely drowned, but when he turned around to look, he saw that they were both still chasing him, still draped in their coal sacks, gushing water like a pair of upside-down baskets.
15
JUST AS the puppet, terribly discouraged, was on the point of flinging himself to the ground and giving up, he happened to look around and see, through the dark green of the trees, a little white house, gleaming in the distance like snow.
“If only I had strength enough to reach that house, perhaps I would be saved!” he thought.
Not wasting a moment, he started running at full speed again, toward the forest. The murderers were still behind him.
At last, after racing desperately for almost two hours, he arrived, completely out of breath, at the door of the little house, and he knocked.
No answer.
He knocked again, harder this time, for he could hear the rapid approach of footsteps and the loud, panting breath of his persecutors. Still no answer.
In desperation, since knocking wasn’t working, he began to kick the door and bang his head against it. Then a beautiful girl came to the window, her hair sky-blue, her face white as a waxen image. Her eyes were closed and her hands were folded across her chest, and without moving her lips she said, in a tiny voice that seemed to come from the world beyond, “There is no one in this house. They are all dead.”
“Open the door yourself, at least!” begged Pinocchio, weeping.
“I too am dead.”
“Dead? But then what are you doing there at the window?”
“I am waiting for the coffin to come and carry me away.”
As soon as she had uttered those words, the girl disappeared, and the window closed again without a sound.
“Oh, Beautiful Girl with Sky-Blue Hair,” yelled Pinocchio, “for pity’s sake open the door! Have mercy on a poor boy chased by murd—”
But he was unable to finish the word, for he felt himself being seized by the neck, and he heard two familiar voices growl menacingly: “You won’t get away again!”
The puppet, seeing death flashing before his eyes, trembled so hard that the joints of his wooden legs and the four gold coins hidden beneath his tongue all rattled.
“Well then,” the murderers asked him, “will you open your mouth or not? What, no reply? Never mind, this time we’ll make you open it!”
They each whipped out a nasty-looking knife, long and razor sharp, and stabbed him—whack, whack—right in the back.
Luckily, the puppet was made of very hard wood indeed, which explains why both blades shattered into a thousand pieces, leaving the murderers holding only the handles of their knives and gaping at each other.
“I know,” said the tall one, “we have to hang him! Let’s hang him!”
“Hang him!” repeated the short one.
They wasted no time tying his hands behind his back and slipping a noose over his head, and then they strung him up from a branch of a large tree called the Big Oak.
And then they waited, sitting on the grass below, for the puppet to stop kicking. But after three hours, his eyes were still open, his mouth still closed, and he was kicking more than ever.
Finally, tired of waiting, they turned to Pinocchio and sneered: “Goodbye until tomorrow. When we come back, let’s hope you’ll be so kind as to let us find you good and dead, with that mouth of yours wide open.”
And off they went.
Soon a violent north wind blew in, raging and howling and jerking the poor dangling puppet this way and that, making him swing as wildly as the clapper of a church bell on Sunday. The swinging caused him terrible pain, and the noose grew ever tighter, cutting off his breath.
Little by little, his eyes grew dim, and though he felt himself approaching death, he continued to hope that at any moment some merciful soul might yet come to his aid. But when, after waiting and waiting, he saw that no one was coming, no one at all, then he thought of his poor father—and there at death’s door he stammered, “Oh, if only you were here, Daddy!”
He lacked the strength to say another word. His eyes closed, his mouth opened, his legs straightened, and then, after a tremendous shudder, he went completely limp.
16
POOR PINOCCHIO: having been hung by murderers from a branch of the Big Oak, he now seemed more dead than alive. When the Beautiful Girl with Sky-Blue Hair came to her window again, she was moved to pity by the sight of that poor wretch, dangling by his neck, dancing a jig with the north wind. She brought her hands together three times, making three soft claps.
Her signal was followed by a great beating of wings, as an enormous falcon hurtled down from the sky and landed on the windowsill.
“What is your command, my lovely Fairy?” said the Falcon, lowering his beak in a gesture of reverence. (For it just so happens that the Girl with Sky-Blue Hair was nothing other than the kindest of fairies, one who had dwelt in and around that forest for more than a thousand years.)
“Do you see that puppet dangling from a branch of the Big Oak?”
“I see him.”
“Now then: fly to him at once, use your powerful beak to tear apart the knot that keeps him suspended in the air, and lay him out gently on the grass, there at the foot of the tree.”
The Falcon flew off and two minutes later returned, saying, “I have done as you commanded.”
“And how did you find him: alive or dead?”
“He looked dead at first, but he must not be thoroughly dead, because as soon as I loosened the rope around his neck, he sighed and murmured, ‘I feel better now!’”
Then the Fairy brought her hands together twice, making two soft claps, and suddenly a magnificent poodle appeared, and he was walking on his hind legs just as people do.
The Poodle was dressed as a coachman, in the finest livery. He wore a tricorn hat with gold-braid trim, a white wig of curly locks that hung down to his shoulders, a chocolate-colored jacket with diamond buttons and two oversize pockets for storing the bones his mistress gave him at dinner, a pair of crimson velvet breeches, silk stockings, little court shoes, and, behind him, a sort of umbrella cover, made entirely of sky-blue satin, that he put over his tail in rainy weather.
“Be a good boy, Lancelot,” said the Fairy to the Poodle, “and go harness the finest carriage in my carriage house and take the forest road to the Big Oak. There you’ll find a poor puppet stretched out half dead on the grass. Pick him up gently, lay him ever so carefully on the cushions inside the carriage, and bring him here to me. Do you understand?”
The Poodle wagged the sky-blue satin cover three or four times, to show that he understood, and then raced off like a Barbary steed.
Out of the carriage house, moments later, there came a beautiful little sky-colored carriage, padded on the outside with canary feathers and lined on the inside with whipped cream, custard, and ladyfingers. It was drawn by a hundred pairs of white mice, and the Poodle, up on the driver’s seat, was cracking his whip from side to side, like someone who’s afraid he’s running late.
In less than a
quarter of an hour, the little carriage was back. The Fairy, waiting at the door of the house, took the poor puppet in her arms and carried him into a small room with mother-of-pearl walls. Then she quickly sent for the most famous doctors in the area.
The doctors soon arrived, one after the other. The first was a crow, the second an owl, and the third a talking cricket.
“I would like you gentlemen to tell me,” said the Fairy, looking at the three doctors gathered around Pinocchio’s bed, “I would like you gentlemen to tell me whether this unlucky puppet is alive or dead!”
Hearing this request, the Crow stepped forward first. He felt Pinocchio’s pulse, then he felt his nose, then he felt his little toe, and when he had finished feeling all these things very carefully, he solemnly pronounced these words: “It is my opinion that the puppet is quite dead. But if by some strange chance he is not dead, then that would be a sure sign that he is still alive.”
“I regret,” said the Owl, “that I must contradict my illustrious friend and colleague, the Crow. I believe, rather, that the puppet is still alive. But if by some strange chance he is not alive, then that would indicate that he is, in fact, dead.”
“And you—do you have nothing to say?” the Fairy asked the Talking Cricket.
“I say that the best thing a prudent doctor can do when he doesn’t know what he’s talking about is to keep his mouth shut. And as for that puppet there, his countenance is not new to me—I’ve known him for some time!”
Pinocchio had been lying motionless, like a true piece of wood, but at these words he began shuddering feverishly, causing the whole bed to shake.
“That puppet there,” continued the Talking Cricket, “is a confirmed rogue.”
Pinocchio opened his eyes and quickly shut them again.
“He’s a ragamuffin, a lazybones, a vagabond.”
Pinocchio hid his face beneath the sheets.
“That puppet there is a disobedient brat who will cause his poor father to die of a heart attack!”
Now everyone in the room could hear the muffled sound of crying and sobbing. Imagine their reaction when, after peering under the sheets, they realized that those cries and sobs were coming from Pinocchio.
“When a dead person cries, it’s a sign that he’s on the mend,” said the Crow solemnly.
“It grieves me to contradict my illustrious friend and colleague,” added the Owl, “but I believe that when a dead person cries, it’s a sign that he doesn’t like dying.”
17
AS SOON as the three doctors had left the room, the Fairy went to Pinocchio’s side and discovered, by touching his forehead, that he was suffering from a terribly high fever.
She then dissolved a special white powder in half a glass of water and offered it to the puppet, saying lovingly, “Drink it, and in a few days you will be cured.”
Pinocchio looked at the glass, scrunched up his mouth, and then asked in a whiny voice: “Is it sweet or bitter?”
“It’s bitter, but it will do you good.”
“If it’s bitter, I don’t want it.”
“Listen to me: drink it.”
“I don’t like bitter stuff.”
“Drink it—and after you do, I’ll give you a lump of sugar, to take away the bitterness.”
“Where’s the lump of sugar?”
“Right here,” said the Fairy, extracting one from a gold sugar bowl.
“First I want the lump of sugar, and then I’ll choke down that bitter stuff.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
As soon as the Fairy handed him the lump of sugar, Pinocchio chewed it up and gulped it down. Licking his lips, he said, “Wouldn’t it be great if sugar was medicine, too? I’d take some every day.”
“Now keep your promise and drink these few drops, which will restore you to health.”
Pinocchio reluctantly took the glass from her hand and stuck the tip of his nose in it. Then he brought it up to his lips. But in the end he said, “It’s too bitter! too bitter! I can’t drink it.”
“How can you say that if you haven’t even tasted it?”
“I can tell! I smelled it. First I want another lump of sugar—then I’ll drink it!”
And so, with all the patience of a good mother, the Fairy put a little more sugar in his mouth. Then she gave him the glass again.
“I can’t drink it like this!” said the puppet, making all kinds of faces.
“Why not?”
“Because that pillow down there on my feet is bothering me.”
The Fairy removed the pillow.
“It’s no use! I still can’t bear to drink it.”
“What else is bothering you?”
“The door to this room—it’s open.”
The Fairy went and closed the door.
“The fact is,” yelled Pinocchio, bursting into tears, “I just won’t drink this nasty bitter stuff—I won’t, I won’t, I won’t!”
“You’ll be sorry, my boy.”
“I don’t care.”
“You’re terribly ill.”
“I don’t care.”
“In a few hours the fever will carry you to the world beyond.”
“I don’t care.”
“You’re not afraid of death?”
“Not at all! I’d rather die than drink that nasty medicine.”
At these words, the door flew open and four ink-black rabbits entered the room, carrying a little coffin on their shoulders.
“What do you want with me?” yelled Pinocchio, sitting bolt upright in fear.
“We’ve come to take you away,” replied the largest rabbit.
“To take me away? But I’m not dead yet!”
“Not yet, no. But you have only a few minutes left to live, since you’ve refused to drink the medicine that would have cured your fever!”
“Oh Fairy, oh Fairy,” the puppet began to howl, “give me that glass at once. And hurry up, for pity’s sake, for I don’t want to die—no, I don’t want to die!”
He seized the glass in both hands and emptied it in a single swallow.
“Well then!” said the rabbits. “We made the trip for nothing this time.”
And they lifted the little coffin back onto their shoulders and left the room, grousing and grumbling under their breath.
Indeed a few minutes later, Pinocchio hopped out of bed, perfectly healthy. Wooden puppets, you see, have the advantage of falling ill only rarely and of then healing quite quickly.
Seeing him running and romping around the room as spry and jolly as a young buck, the Fairy said, “So my medicine really made you feel better?”
“More than that! It brought me back to life!”
“In that case why did you make such a fuss about drinking it?”
“Because that’s what all kids do! We’re more afraid of taking medicine than of being sick.”
“Shame on you! Children should know that the right medicine at the right time can save them from a serious illness and maybe even from death.”
“Well, next time I won’t make such a fuss! I’ll remember those black rabbits, with that coffin on their shoulders—and then I’ll grab the glass at once and drink!”
“Now come sit over here by me and tell me how it happened that you found yourself in the clutches of murderers.”
“It happened because Fire-Eater, the puppet master, gave me five gold coins and said to me, ‘Here, take these to your daddy,’ but on the way I ran into the Fox and the Cat, two very nice fellows who said, ‘Would you like these coins to become a thousand or two thousand? Come with us and we’ll take you to the Field of Miracles,’ and I said, ‘Let’s go,’ and they said, ‘Let’s stop here at the Red Crayfish Inn, and after midnight we’ll set out again,’ and then when I woke up they weren’t around because they had already left. So I began walking in the middle of the night, which was so dark I couldn’t believe it, which is why I ran into two murderers in coal sacks who said, ‘Out with your money,’ and I said, ‘I
don’t have any,’ because I had hidden the gold coins in my mouth, and then one of the murderers tried to stick his hand in my mouth, so I bit it right off and spat it out, but instead of a hand it was a cat’s paw. And the murderers ran after me, and I ran and ran and ran, until they caught me and strung me up by my neck from a tree in these woods, saying, ‘Tomorrow we’ll come back, and then you’ll be dead and your mouth will be open, so we can get the gold coins you’ve hidden under your tongue.’”
“And where have you put the four coins now?”
“I lost them!” replied Pinocchio. But he was telling a lie—he had the coins in his pocket.
As soon as he told the lie, his nose, which was already long, suddenly grew two inches longer.
“And where did you lose them?”
“In the woods, nearby.”
At this second lie, his nose continued growing.
“If you lost them nearby in the woods,” said the Fairy, “we’ll look for them and find them, because anything that’s lost nearby in the woods is always found again.”
“Ah, now that I think of it,” replied the puppet, getting himself in deeper, “I didn’t lose the four coins, I accidentally swallowed them as I was drinking your medicine.”
At this third lie, his nose grew to such an extraordinary length that poor Pinocchio could no longer even turn his head. If he turned in one direction, he banged his nose against the bed or into the windowpanes; if he turned in the other, he banged it against the wall or into the door; if he lifted his head a little, he ran the risk of poking the Fairy in the eye.
And the Fairy looked at him and laughed.
“Why are you laughing?” asked the puppet, thoroughly confounded and worried about this nose of his that was growing by leaps and bounds.
“I’m laughing at the lie you told.”
“But how did you know I told a lie?”