Poets From Tomorrow

“The piazza in Florence is far larger and more beautiful than Verona’s,” Dante muttered to himself.

He stood at one of the entrances of the piazza, scanning for his friend Giovanni.

“Today is the XIII day of Julius-Luglio, year MCCCVIII,” the notice board read.

It was a warm, pleasant evening with a moderate crowd. While looking for his friend, Dante saw a lady similar in appearance to Beatrice Portinari buying bread. The sight of her brought a smile to his face. A group of Scaliger family soldiers, his hosts in Verona, entered the piazza from the opposite end. The sight of them pulled him back to Florence, to the accusations of corruption, the trial, and the exile that had brought him here. He muttered curses under his breath at Pope Boniface VIII and the Black Guelphs. Dante and Giovanni had made a plan for an evening of drinking at the Osteria della Piazza.

Giovanni was late as usual, and to deal with his impatience, Dante decided to look around the piazza and maybe muster up some courage to talk to the lady he had seen earlier. He walked to the fountain to look at his reflection in the water, but the group of teenagers running around the fountain and throwing pebbles into the water made it impossible. He noticed a fine shop nearby displaying the latest indulgence of Verona’s wealthy families: glass mirrors.

He stopped before one, though he knew he could never afford it. The reflection confirmed what he feared. Time had begun to mark his face. He was XLIII. He looked around the piazza for the lady until he heard Giovanni calling his name. Moments later, they were both inside the osteria with mugs filled to the brim with local wine.

Two rounds later, Giovanni noticed his friend had grown quieter than usual.

“Mio amico Durante degli Alighieri, tell me, what is troubling you?” said Giovanni.

“I cannot end my life here unnoticed,” Dante said after a pause.

“I need… perhaps one final work. Something before time consumes me.”

“Are you writing anything now?” asked Giovanni.

“No, I have tried, but nothing of value,” replied Dante.

“Haven’t you circulated before?” asked Giovanni.

“Yes,” Dante said. “But not like this. I need something better. Something that will endure.”

A couple of hours later, as twilight settled over Verona, Dante, warmed by wine yet still in full command of his senses, ended the day with Giovanni and decided to return home. The nature of his next work lay heavy on his mind on the way back. Halfway toward home, the feeling that someone was following him hardened into certainty.

His footsteps slowed, then stopped. Dante turned and stood in the middle of the street, lit by oil lamps and torches.

“I know you are following me,” he said calmly.

“You can stop. You can return to Florence and tell the Black Guelphs that I am still here.”

The stranger behind him spoke, “I am not one of the Black Guelphs. I have been watching and observing you for a while now. It is time I talk to you. I have something you might want to see.”

Dante turned around and looked at the man. Even though visibility was low, he knew right away that the man was not from around there.

Three things gave it away. His clothes were unlike anything Dante had ever seen. Strange objects were fastened to his body, smooth and dark, without ornament or purpose he could recognize. And when the man spoke, the words were clear, yet the cadence felt wrong, as if they belonged to another place entirely. The stranger came closer, making his appearance clearer.

Dante knew right away that the man was not only foreign but also not from the current time.

“Do not be afraid, mio amico. I have been watching you for a very long time, but today, when I heard your conversation with Giovanni, I knew I had to finally reveal myself and give you your book,” said the stranger.

Dante was too stunned and shocked to speak.

“I am a traveller of time, and this is the book you will go on to write,” the traveller said and handed Dante a book.

The cover page read: Commedia — Dante Alighieri.

He opened the book and read a few lines down the first page. “Original language: Tuscan vernacular.”

His breath caught as his eyes moved lower.

“Reprint year: MMMCMLII.” He turned the pages with trembling hands and read the opening line: “Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita mi ritrovai per una selva oscura.”

The book was DCXIV pages long. A bright light flashed, followed by a buzzing sound. A horrified Dante looked up, but the traveller was already gone.