The procession disappeared in the woods. We approached a tree.
“Wait a minute, Kotikokura. There is something carved upon this tree.”
I read: “No matter, Cartaphilus! Other gods have died before you. Other queens have been dethroned. Other high priests have been defrocked. Farewell. Salome.”
“She always precedes us, Kotikokura, and always knows our paths and our emotions. I am afraid of her.”
Kotikokura pouted.
“But the fear of her, Kotikokura, is more exquisite than all other love, all other joy.”
Kotikokura descended from the camel and carved upon a tree next to one on which Salome had carved her message:
“Wicked people—die—god Ca-ta-pha lives—lightning—broil you—devour you—cursed—high priest—Kotikokura.”
“Let us rest, Kotikokura, before we turn back for we have nothing more to do here. Give me my pipe and some opium, not tobacco.”
In the fumes that rose and curled gracefully, I saw—who was it—Willie or Salome? My eyes closed slowly. The smoke, white and dazzling like a lake beneath the rising sun, descended upon me.—”Salome, Salome!” Her lips pressed into my lips—her body mingled with mine.
I woke with a start.
“Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha!”
“What is the trouble, Kotikokura?”
“Look, look!”
The church was in flames. The cross upon it blackened and fell.
Bells rang, tom-toms beat, people screamed.
“You set fire to the church, Kotikokura, did you not?”
He shook his head.
“Who then?”
“Ca-ta-pha—god—lightning.”
“It is a lie, Kotikokura. You set fire to it. You smell of smoke!”
“Ca-ta-pha god always.”
“We have no time to discuss this matter, however. Let us flee.”
We mounted the animals and galloped away. The flames rose high and in the dawn appeared, like a setting sun overtaken suddenly by day.
Kotikokura took his flute and began to play.
“Nero!” I exclaimed.
LXXIV: THE BROKEN VESSEL—EUROPE IS SICK—THE NEW PROPHET
WE continued our journey, sadly, silently. Now and then, Kotikokura grumbled menaces and anathemas, waving his fists.
The camel-drivers whom we had left some miles away from our destination, to await our possible arrival within three days, were jubilant at our unexpected return. They kissed our hands, patted our animals, and blessed Allah and Mohammed, his true Prophet.
A snake showed his head out of the sand and vanished again.
“Look, Kotikokura! Do you remember?”
He knit his brows.
“Was it not the snake that perpetuated our friendship? Had he not bitten me, you would not have partaken of my blood. By this time, you would be less tangible than the sand our camels tread upon, leaving their zigzag imprints. As for me, I should have missed the most faithful of all companions.”
He pulled my hand to his lips and kissed it.
“There is neither absolute evil nor absolute good, Kotikokura. Venom may become divine ichor, and nectar cut the entrails like the sharpest of vinegars.”
He nodded. “Let us make the snake the coat of arms of the noble and ancient house of Kotikokura.” He rubbed his hands.
“Kotikokura, once Christianity was a vase too strong for any hammer. That the vase was not beautifully fashioned or acceptable to logic, is another matter. At least, it stood erect and motionless in a world of storms and hurricanes. But the vessel has been shattered to bits. Whatever essence it contained has been spilled and mingled with the mud. Each country, city, and petty community has placed upon its altar a fragment, shapeless, meaningless, and worships it, calling it the full vessel, the only true one. Whoever speaks of another fragment or recalls the full vessel, risks excommunication and the rack.”
Kotikokura nodded.
“It is more difficult to travel through Europe than to pirouette among eggs. We must be extremely wary, Kotikokura. We must imitate with utmost precision, every word and every gesture. Christianity has become more intricate than the Chinese language, and a sound placed slightly higher or lower on the Chromatic scale is an unpardonable blasphemy.”
Kotikokura nodded sadly.
“Jesus, my ancient countryman, is it not distressing to be god? Jesus, if I do not believe in you, at least I do not mock you as your believers mock you. If I do not worship you, I do not blaspheme you as your followers blaspheme you. You should not be the god of these barbarians, who love the sword more than they love you. You should have remained among your own or, better still, gone among the gentle Chinese or Hindus. They would not have mutilated your words.
“The Lamb has strayed among the wolves who worship him, but they worship him in their own fashion!” Kotikokura listened, his eyes darting to and fro,
We traveled slowly and cautiously, adopting the dress, the religion, the customs of the various countries. We shouted hurrah with the people on the public square upon the passing of soldiers or royalties. We crossed ourselves properly in the churches and upon general religious festivities. Our names and our appearances changed with the changing countries. We were clean-shaven. We wore pointed beards, full beards, mustachios.
“Each nation is clamoring for justice, Kotikokura. Do you know what it means by justice? It means a sharper sword. It means the ability to crush its neighbors. Each one prays to the Lamb. Do you know what the prayer is? “Make us more ferocious than tigers; more powerful than lions! Let our teeth be sharper than the teeth of all others, that we may tear our enemies to bits! Grant us victory, O Lord! We shall bring as sacrifice to Your Holy Name, O Perfect Lamb, the bleeding flesh of the vanquished!’ ”
Kotikokura nodded.
“Do not imagine, however, Kotikokura, that Europe will die because of its iniquities. Only in legends, such as the Bible, iniquity kills. In reality, only a grain of justice, of love, of intelligence, of freedom is required for existence, and that grain always exists by force of circumstances and despite religions or the volition of man. Europe will not die, for that would imply a logic which life does not possess.”
Kotikokura nodded.
“But if it will not die, it is nevertheless covered with ugly ulcers like a leper and the stench is unbearable,—particularly here in Germany. This poor country, once the seat of strength and robustness, has become the pleasure-ground of wild beasts and birds of prey. Let us not linger too long.”
Kotikokura nodded sadly.
“They say that there is still one country in Europe which has retained civilization and freedom.”
He looked at me inquiringly.
“Holland. I overheard, while you were engaged in fondling a kitten, two students who believed themselves safe since they spoke in Latin in an inn frequented by coachmen and soldiers, that in the capital of that country, there lives a man whose work in philosophy is beautiful and illuminating. They say he is a Jew, a polisher of lenses, who has refused to become a professor at the University or accept money from the prince. On the crest of a hill of dung, now and then a rose blossoms. Such is the strange way of life. The glory of a civilization is but the achievement of a few rare souls. The rest is manure.
“Let us seek out this new prophet.”