Carcosa Bound

The Rialto bridge is one of the landmarks of Venice. It's a magnificent piece of architecture.

We crossed this a lot, as we explored the twisting mediaeval streets of this most unique city.

A local myth, directly aimed at tourists like me, suggests this is the outcome of a demonic pact.

The builder, Antonio da Ponte, was faced with parts of this huge, steep, conventionally – impossible bridge slipping into the canal overnight.

To correctly diagnose the problem, he spent his nights at the building site. There he met a tall, black man. Venerable texts like Grimorium Verum describe the chief Astaroth, should he deign to appear, in exactly this way, though no one mentions any names in the Venetian versions I came across.

This mysterious advisor told him the bridge would be impossible to build without his assistance, the price of which was the first soul to cross it. From desperation to complete this project, Antonio agreed, though throughout the build was haunted by the prospect of committing a fellow human to eternal damnation.

He devised a plan to drive a rooster, or a dog depending on your source, across the bridge, thereby cheating the devil his due.

The spirit lord would not be so easily tricked out of his consultancy fee, so either contrived to send a labourer to Antonio’s house on the eve of the bridge’s completion, or donned the workmanlike disguise himself. This labourer woke Antonio’s pregnant wife, saying there had been a terrible accident at the bridge; she ran all the way there, crossed the point of no return, and this demonic sovereign claimed not only one soul, but two: Antonio’s unborn son.

Further local legend has it, several hundred years later, a gondolier was travelling beneath the bridge, heard a sneeze, and shouted “bless you!”. The now-grown spirit child appeared on his boat, thanked him for releasing him from the conditions of his father's pact, and went on to fairer fields.

This a glimpse of the deep genius that abounds in this part of the world, the impression left by the numen of Geosophia. You can see its footprints on masterworks across time, like Argento’s Suspiria, or Verdi’s Macbeth. This deeply gothic sensibility is barely suppressed by the grid of Catholic churches that lock down the exuberant pandemonium of the place.

This episode poses wider questions too, on the nature of spiritual growth, as it were. If spiritual practices and experiences don't translate into temporal persistence – or at least action, what are they worth? What would you pay to achieve something impossible?