“Where?”
“Perhaps to Rome…perhaps to some farther country. I do not know.”
She shook her head. “I belong in the woods.”
“Think it over, my dear. We shall not leave for a few days.”
“I will not go.” She walked away.
Kotikokura approached me, out of breath, and pulled my arm.
“What is the trouble, Kotikokura? What has happened?”
He uttered some sounds which I could not understand, but I noticed that his hands were covered with blood. “What’s happened? Quick, tell me!”
He pulled me. “Ulrica! Ulrica!”
Ulrica lay upon the ground, her head thrown back. A stream of blood was flowing out of her chest, passing over her arm and one of her braids, and making a large, red pool that separated into several branches. In her right hand she held a short sword.
“Ulrica! Ulrica!” I bent over her. She opened her eyes, already blurred. “Cartaphilus,” she whispered, “when I was a princess, did I also kill myself?”
“I do not know, Ulrica. I went away.”
“You always go away.”
“I am he who wanders forever, Ulrica.”
She was about to say something, when her mouth filled with blood.
Kotikokura, bent almost to the ground, groaned.
“Come, Kotikokura. You must be a man. Men suffer less noisily.” He stood up and stared at me. “Or perhaps, a man should not suffer at all, seeing that he deals with mere shadows that flit across a frozen river.”
His jaw fell.
“Many birds shall perch upon the tree for a while…and fly away. The tree must endure forever.”
The loss of Ulrica pained me more than I had expected. There was a freshness, a purity in her that resembled the perfume of the fields after a rainstorm. I felt that I had not breathed deeply enough, that I had walked by quickly and a little absent-mindedly…and suddenly found myself upon a long, dusty road.
Kotikokura was shaving his body. He had become very skillful, and no longer needed assistance.
“Kotikokura, how long must a man live to learn how to live fully, so that he may not know the meaning of regret?”
Kotikokura grinned. Was he the incarnation of some grotesque sphinx? Did he know the wisdom of the ages, and therefore would not speak?
“Do the gods live in eternity, Kotikokura, because they find mere time insufficient?”
He grinned on.
“Or, is eternity as futile as an hour?”
“Ow-w-w!” Kotikokura tried to shave while looking at me, and cut himself.
“Thought, Kotikokura, generally produces pain,—in one form or another.”
He sucked the wound, and continued to shave, his eyes riveted on the razor.
He had acquired—or so it seemed to me—a much more human appearance. His yellow face, high cheek bones, small eyes, grinning mouth, reminded me of someone I had seen once.
“Who are you, really?”
“Kotikokura,” he answered gravely.
“One is always someone else. What ancestral ghost, swaying in tree-tops, speaks through you? What thoughts can you call your own?”
“Kotikokura.”
“From the beginning of things to the end of things… Kotikokura?”
“Kotikokura.”
“Kotikokura, be unto me as the handful of dust I once threw into the air, which indicated the path I was to take.”
Kotikokura rose and turned about me quickly, raising his knees almost as far as his chin. His gait became slower and slower, until he remained stock-still, his head stretched out. I understood what he meant. He was the dust. He was whirled in the wind for a while, then blown in the direction his head indicated.
“So be it, Kotikokura. The East! Life is circular, and our steps move always about its circumference.”
XXXII: KOTIKOKURA SCRATCHES HIMSELF—A FUNERAL PROCESSION
TO be a Roman was no longer an incomparable honor; no longer a magic word with which to conjure safety and protection. To be a member of any of the Barbarian tribes, however, was just as precarious. To be a Hebrew meant nothing. People had almost forgotten about Jerusalem or Judea. The cross might incur favor or animosity; the ancient gods likewise. The boundaries were no longer well defined; the roads no longer led to accustomed and secure spots.
“What shall we be, Kotikokura, as we travel through this cauldron of uncertainty?” Kotikokura scratched himself. It was his manner of indicating doubt or unconcern.
“Kotikokura, we must change our identity as the chameleon changes the color of its skin…remaining, nevertheless, unchanged… Cartaphilus and Kotikokura, doubters and laughers.”
He grinned.
“We must appear neither rich enough to excite envy, nor so poor that we become contemptible and pathetic.” He grinned. “Let us not seem strong enough to provoke conflict, nor too weak to defend ourselves. Mediocrity, Kotikokura, is the salt of the earth. In mediocrity, all things flourish. Below it they wither; above it they are struck by lightning.”
Kotikokura’s eyes slacked their pace.
“If you are a giant, Kotikokura, you must not rise to your full stature in public, or else the others will become weary of craning their necks to see you, and sooner or later, they will chop your head off that they may equal you in size.”
Nothing seemed as safe and agreeable as being a merchant of mediocre means, traveling to the nearest seaport with a small load of goods. A gentleman of leisure would have been suspected as a spy, and a poor pilgrim might have been forced into slavery. My caravan consisted of two large wagons, drawn by two teams of powerful oxen. I hired drivers, black-skinned men from one of the Roman colonies, who could not be suspected of taking an interest either in the military or political situation. Kotikokura and I rode on horseback. His dress was similar to mine, but of a cheaper material. It was advisable, always, to make him feel my superiority, for equality breeds contempt. He might think not of his advancement, but of my degradation. Did not Jesus, in spite of his democratic preaching, stand apart and remain unidentified with his followers? He had twelve disciples…but he was the master!
Melancholy pervaded all things: the sharp cries of migratory birds, the last feeble croaking of frogs, the large yellow vine-leaves dropping, dropping always, to be crushed by the hoofs of the animals and the heavy iron wheels of the wagons– —
“Kotikokura, we are a solitary funeral procession leading the dead year to its grave.”
Kotikokura tried in vain to grin. He was sentimental.
My horse neighed. The oxen bellowed. Kotikokura sighed.
XXIV: THE WALLS OF CHINA—I DO A MIRACLE—A CHINESE APOLLONIUS—FLOWER-OF-JOY
STANDING near the Wall, it was impossible to see the top. It seemed to melt into the sky. We moved away.
“Kotikokura, man is tiny, but he builds high walls.”
He grunted.
“Look at those pretty daisies and blades of grass, Kotikokura, which grow out of the crevices of the stone. Trifles like these proclaim Nature an artist, not merely a colossal ox pulling at the plow of life.”
Kotikokura measured the height of the wall with his eye, his fingertips moving as if they desired to try their prowess.
“No, no, Kotikokura, not that way must we enter this most ancient of countries. Besides, even if you should manage to crawl over, how should I?”
He scratched himself.
“There is a gate a little farther on. Watchman’s eyes are generally weak, and they close at the glitter of gold.”
The gate was narrow, and two yellow giants blocked its passage. At the sight of us, they pointed their long spears. I dropped, as if by error, a handful of gold coins. They looked, but never deigned to stir. They grumbled something which I could not understand; the tone of which, however, augured anything but hospitality. One of them raised his spear into the air and almost touched me. Kotikokura rushed to his throat.