“Master, must you conceal the path even from those that love you?”
“If a man cannot conceal his life, should he not at least conceal his death?”
“Master, speak not of death!”
“Life is a symbol. Death is a symbol.”
Damis threw himself into his arms. “Master!”
I kissed his hands.
“Apollonius, although we are of the same age, I think of you as my father…a father whom I love. I understand better than Damis what you mean. You must go. Damis, make not our Master’s departure difficult.”
“Shall we meet again, Master?” Damis asked.
“The moon begins as a crescent and grows until it becomes a perfect disk. The clouds tear it, then, and smother it, until it vanishes. But the moon is born again…and grows again…eternally. Is it the same moon always—or is it a new one?”
When we looked up, the white head of Apollonius was disappearing in the distance.
XIV: DAMIS FALLS ASLEEP—ETERNAL COMRADES—THE MARRIAGE OF THE BLOOD—“YOUR BLOOD IS POISON!”
TOWARD morning, Damis fell asleep in my arms. He clutched at me, muttering: “Don’t go! Don’t go!” I do not know whether his invocation was addressed to Apollonius or to me. He woke up with a jerk, and looked about, bewildered. “The Master is gone, Cartaphilus,” he said hopelessly.
“Your loneliness is not comparable to mine, Damis.”
He caressed me shyly, pressing his lips against my cheek delicately like a younger brother.
“Do not carry the past like a chain about your neck, Damis.”
“You speak like the Master.”
“His voice would have been gentler,” I said, “and his words more beautiful.”
“Your voice, too, is gentle, and your words are beautiful, Cartaphilus.”
“Damis, if I could share with you the strange vitality that defies the years! What marvelous vistas would unfold themselves if we wandered, eternal comrades, arm in arm through the centuries!”
“Even if it were possible, Cartaphilus, would it be desirable? Who knows what changes time may work in us? Who knows if our friendship so dear to us now, would not become a chain about our necks?” He remained silent for a while, then continued: “Besides, unlike you, I could not endure the loss of those I cherish. My heart would be bruised. I would pray for death…and death would not come.”
“One learns to forget and to laugh, Damis,” and I laughed almost unwillingly.
Silence descended upon us with brooding wings.
After a while, Damis asked: “Will you ever desert me, Cartaphilus?”
“How shall a man be certain of the future, my friend? Are we the masters of our fate? But if my heart desired ever to fly away from you, would I consider it a joy to make you my traveling companion on my pathway to infinity?”
Damis placed his head upon my shoulder. Again silence nestled about us. “Cartaphilus, is it really possible for you to transfer to another something of the mysterious gift that sets you aside from all human beings?”
“I do not know, Damis. If it were, would you wish to face eternity with me?”
“The thought frightens me, Cartaphilus, but it also lures me. The gift of eternal life may be a blessing to you and to me a curse, and yet who can refuse a drink from the cup of the gods? But am I strong enough to bear the deep darkness and the fierce light of the path where the immortals wander?”
I caressed his head, soft and tawny like John’s. “It is difficult to be strong. The heart, like the athlete’s muscle, does not harden except by blows.” He smiled at me through the tears that rolled down his cheek.
“Come with me, Damis. Let our destinies mingle and merge together!”
“So be it, Cartaphilus.”
A small house on the outskirts of the town was the home of the most celebrated doctor in Delhi. The door was low, and we bent our heads in order to enter.
The doctor was a tiny old man, whose long white beard constituted almost half of him. The physician, satisfied that his services would be handsomely rewarded, begged us to sit down, treated us to sweets and water, and recounted his marvelous deeds. He had given life to the dead, limbs to the crippled, sight to the blind, virility to those shipwrecked on the tides of love.
“But, Doctor,” I finally managed to interrupt him, “can you prolong human life? Can you stretch its span indefinitely…?”
“I have cured people of mortal diseases. Thus their span of life– —”
“Can you make a man live for centuries…?”
He looked at me quizzically. “The gentleman deigns to mock me.”
“Is it not possible?”
“Everything is possible, sir. In medicine, however, one must deal with what is at least probable. Experience is the Father of Knowledge.”
“Is the prolongation of life by divers magics and devices an unknown scientific phenomenon?”
“No, I have heard of a few extraordinary cases of longevity. I cannot see the benefit of such a state, since a man must re-don the garments of the flesh again and again until at last, by saintliness, he enters Nirvana.”
‘Does man pretend to scorn long life,’ I thought, ‘because the grapes are beyond his reach? Does he simply console himself? Or is there in the depths of our being, a will to die as well as a will to live? Does all life yearn for the perfect peace of the womb…?’
“Doctor,” I said smilingly, “I am much older than you.”
He laughed, his beard dancing upon his chin.
“Older perhaps in wisdom, but not in years,” he cackled drily. “Surely you exaggerate your age.”
I remained silent, noting the strange instruments, many-shaped knives and multicolored phials that crowded the room. Pleased by my curiosity, the physician explained their manifold uses.
“Doctor,” I said, “I did not exaggerate when I said that I am much older than you.”
“It is possible to look younger than one’s age,” he answered, straightening up. “I look older than mine.”
I shook my head. “I am probably twice your age. I have lived more than a century and still my vitality continues to burn with undiminished intensity.”
He frowned, then smiled, his eyes almost closing. “I hope your years have brought you joy.”
“Joy is the sister of pain,” I remarked, careful not to arouse his jealousy. Man might be envious of anything that another possesses—even his cross!
“I am very lonesome, Doctor. My friends die, and I remain to mourn always.”
He looked at me quizzically, still uncertain if I was telling the truth, or if I was jesting. Perhaps he doubted my sanity, although miracles were commonplaces in India.
“Lonesomeness, Doctor, is a canker that gnaws at the heart.”
He sighed sympathetically.
“Doctor, is there a means by which I could communicate my vitality to another?” The Doctor pulled at his beard and coughed, at a loss for an answer. “My companion, because of the friendship he bears me, is willing to brave fate with me, to walk with me to the end, if there is an
end…”
“Friendship is a priceless jewel,” he remarked sententiously.
“If you can devise some way by which I can give half of my life to my friend I shall make you as rich as a Rajah,” I continued quickly.
He waved his hands. “That is a mere incident. I serve Truth and Science first.”
“Is there a way, Doctor?” I asked anxiously.
“I am not certain.”
“Wisdom always wavers at first– —”
“Perhaps…” He spoke to himself. “Perhaps…”
“– —but triumphs in the end. Am I not right, Doctor?”
After a long silence, he said: “I must meditate for nine days; for nine days I must read the secret books of India and of Egypt; for nine days still, consult the stars, and go into a long trance. On the last day of the full moon, I shall know definitely if I can conscientiously take your case.”
“Very well. Meanwhile, I know that books are expensive, and the stars will not allow themselves to be consulted, save by means of costly charts. Therefore, permit me, Doctor, to ease your task.”