The Carpet Makers (5 page)

The preacher sat on one of the stone pedestals between which the stage was erected for festivals. A crowd of people of every age and social standing had gathered and was listening to his words.

“In my wanderings far and wide, I meet people in every city who say they are miserable; they are suffering, be it from hunger or poverty or at the hands of their fellow men,” he shouted in the psalmodic intonation of itinerant preachers, which carried his voice a considerable distance. “They tell me this because they hope I can help them—perhaps with good counsel, perhaps with a miracle. But I can perform no miracles. I also have no good counsel, at least none you couldn’t better give yourselves. All I do is to remind you of something you may have forgotten—namely, that you do not belong to yourselves, but to the Emperor, our Lord, and that you can only live if you live through him!”

Somebody brought him a piece of fruit as an offering, and he interrupted his sermon to accept the gift with a thin-lipped smile and to place it with the other things he had piled up next to him.

“And if you are suffering,” he continued in an imploring tone, “you are suffering for only one reason: because you have forgotten that truth. Then, you try to think for yourselves, and the misfortune begins. Oh!” He raised his right hand in a sign of warning. “It is so easy to forget that you are the Emperor’s. And it is such a difficult job, to remind you of it over and over again.”

Strangely gaunt, his arm protruded up out of the sleeve of his ragged habit toward the sky. Parnag watched the scene with a somber gaze. He couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that he had made a mess of his life.

“Why do you think that everywhere on this world we expend so much effort and are engaged in nothing but the tying of hair carpets? Do we do that just so the Emperor doesn’t have to place his foot on bare stone? There must surely be other, easier solutions. No, all this—all the rituals—are nothing but the merciful gifts of our Emperor to us; they are his means of helping us, of preventing us from becoming lost to him and running headlong to our destruction. That is the sole purpose. With every hair the carpet maker picks up and knots, he is thinking, I belong to the Emperor. And the rest of you, you herdsmen and farmers and craftsmen, you are the ones who enable the carpet maker to do his duty. As you perform each of your chores, you have precisely the same right to repeat that thought: I belong to the Emperor. I am doing this for the Emperor. And as for me,” he continued, folding his hands in a meek gesture across his chest, “when I wander from place to place and shout ‘Remember!’ to all I meet, I am only another humble tool of his will.”

Parnag felt uneasy. He thought of the long list of houses he still had to visit to collect tuition, and it seemed a waste of time to stand around here. But he couldn’t very well just leave.

The preacher looked about him, his eyes glistening with passion. “And therefore I must also speak of the unbelievers, of the doubters and heretics, and I must warn you who are true believers about them. The unbeliever is like someone with a contagious disease. He isn’t like you who occasionally forget the truth—that is human, and it only takes a reminder to revive your faith. The unbeliever has not simply forgotten the truth, but rather, he knows it well and willfully ignores it.”

A flush of heat rose in Parnag. It took effort to maintain a neutral expression. It seemed as though the haggard, bearded man were suddenly speaking to him alone.

“He does that because he expects some advantage from it, and he devises all kinds of cunning doubts and arguments to justify himself. And these doubts are like poison for the heart of a simple man, who can be led astray and in whom the unbeliever sows the seeds of doubt and, therefore, of destruction. I say unto you, if you suffer an unbeliever in your community, then you are acting like one whose house is burning and who sits calmly next to the fire.”

Parnag had the feeling that some of the city folk were looking over at him, inspecting him suspiciously. His seditious questions had still not been forgotten, even after twenty years. Surely some of them were remembering now and wondering.

And they were right. The doubts were still inside him, like a seed waiting to bring forth destruction, and he was incapable of ripping it out. He had seen the way he had sent others tumbling into disaster, and he himself was persisting in a life of shapeless, gray days strung together one after another. Once doubts arose, they couldn’t be made to disappear again. He was no longer able to think with the performance of each of his duties: I am doing this for the Emperor. He could only think, Does the Emperor even exist?

Who had ever seen the Emperor? They didn’t even know where he lived—just that it had to be on a very distant planet. Naturally, there were the photographs, and the face of the Emperor was more familiar to everyone than the faces of his own parents. But, as far as Parnag knew, the Emperor had never yet set foot on this planet. It was said that the Emperor was immortal, that he had lived since the beginning of time and that he ruled all human beings.… So much was said and so little was known. Once you started doubting, it became an evil inner drive to continue.

“Be forewarned against the voices that preach doubt and unbelief. Be forewarned against lending your ears to heretical talk. Be forewarned against anyone who tries to convince you that you must find out the truth for yourselves. Nothing could be more false! The truth is much too big to be comprehended by a single, weak, mortal human being! No, only through love for and obedience to the Emperor can we partake of the truth and be guided safely—”

The preacher paused and scrutinized Parnag. Parnag returned his stare, and like a sudden bolt of lightning, the realization shot through him that he knew this face! He knew the preacher from somewhere and from so long ago that he couldn’t at the moment recollect where. Then the sudden recognition was mutual; Parnag sensed that the other man recognized him, and he saw something like panic flash in the other man’s eyes. But only for an instant, and then the eyes burned with a fanatical hate, with thirst for revenge.

Parnag felt sick. What might the ragged preacher be remembering? He felt his heart race, heard the blood rushing in his ears. He was only indistinctly aware that the preacher was continuing to speak. Was he challenging the crowd to stone him? He couldn’t understand a thing.

He had doubted the Emperor and had brought misfortune down on others. Was it his turn now? Was his destiny catching up with him, despite all his regret and repentance?

Parnag fled. He heard himself say something to his senior pupil, probably that he should see that all the children got home, and then he left, felt the stones crunching underfoot and heard the sound echoing from the walls of the houses as his steps got faster and faster. The corner of the first house was like a lifesaver. Just disappear, get out of sight!

But then he suddenly remembered from where he knew the man. He stopped abruptly and let out an inarticulate sound of surprise. Could that be possible? This man he had known—a preacher? Although he knew deep inside that he was right, he had to turn around and return to be sure of himself. He stopped behind the corner of the building that had just served as his escape and peered out into Market Square.

There was no possible doubt. This man sitting in the circle of a reverently attentive crowd, dressed in the hair shirt of a holy wanderer, was no other than the man with whom he had directed the school in Kerkeema when he was young. He recognized the way he moved and now he recognized the facial features again. Brakart. That was his name.

Relieved, Parnag exhaled and only now did he sense how mortal fear had constricted his chest as though with steel bands. He had been afraid the man had identified him as a doubter, an atheist. He had run away because he was afraid of being stoned as a heretic. But he had nothing to fear. The other man had recognized him and had seen that Parnag knew who he was—so he realized he had come across someone who knew his secret. His dirty secret.

It had been almost forty years ago: Kerkeema, the city on the rim of the dormant volcano crater—with the long view across the plain and the bizarre shadows cast by every sunset. They had run the school in the city together, two young teachers; and while Parnag was thought of as friendly and sociable, Brakart soon had a reputation for strictness and severity. Hardly an evening went by when he didn’t keep someone after class for individual instruction, and most of them were girls; he said they were less attentive in class than the boys.

The years passed until one day a case of illness, many tears, and a confession revealed that Brakart had used one of his female pupils for lascivious purposes, and that this had been the real reason for his rigid discipline. He fled headlong in the middle of the night before the enraged citizens could do anything to him, and Parnag then had to endure so many unpleasant hearings that he finally left Kerkeema, as well. That was the reason he had come to Yahannochia.

And now they had met again. Parnag suddenly felt miserable. Part of him was exulting that he was safe and that he had the other man in his power, but another part of him found it depressing: Would he really get off so easily? He had doubted and with that doubt he had killed a young man. He was hopelessly addicted to doubt, and the man who could have avenged that guilt was now in his power. It was a cheap victory without honor. No, not a victory—just an escape. His skin had been saved, but his honor was lost.

*   *   *

On this afternoon he stayed home. The stingy carpet makers would not be sorry to keep their money one day longer. He paced back and forth in the house, randomly cleaned one thing or another, and remained lost in his thoughts. Gray. Everything was gray and desolate.

He stood for a long time in front of the leather satchel that hung on a hook in the entryway, lost completely in the sight of it. The satchel had once belonged to Abron. On his last visit, the boy had hung it there, and forgot it when he left. It had hung there ever since.

Later he had a sudden impulse to sing. With a cracking, untrained voice, he tried to start a song that had impressed him as a child. It began with the words: “I submit my all to you, my Emperor.…” But he couldn’t remember the rest of the text and finally gave up.

Sometime later there was furious knocking at the door. He went to open it. It was Garubad, the herdsman, a short, gray-haired fellow in weathered leather garb. Twenty years ago, Garubad had also been a member of his discussion circle.

“Garubad…”

“My greetings to you, Parnag!” The bullish herdsman seemed to be in a fine mood, almost cheery. “I know it has been forever since we last spoke, but I absolutely have to tell you something. May I come in?”

“Of course.” Parnag stepped aside and let him enter. He was oddly touched that this man would show up just now. They had had nothing to do with one another for years, actually since the herdsman’s daughter had graduated from school.

“You’ll never guess what happened to me,” Garubad rattled on without a pause. “I just had to come to tell you about it. You remember those discussion evenings we had here at your place—when we were all still young? And all the things we talked about, right? I still remember it well; you taught us everything about planets and moons, and that the stars are very distant suns.…”

What’s going on? thought Parnag. Why is everything from that time surrounding me today at every turn?

“Well, first I have to explain that I have come directly to your door from a rather long drive with my herds. Somebody, I think it was one of the itinerant peddler women, told me that for several weeks there had been water flowing in the old riverbed. Since things don’t look good at the moment around the city, I drove my keppo sheep down there in the hope of finding grazing land and so on, you understand, right? Well, it was a trip of three days driving the sheep down there, and one day back alone.”

Parnag fortified himself with patience. Garubad loved to hear himself talk, and he seldom got to the point without long detours.

“And here’s the good part: On the way back, I made a side-jaunt to Schabrat Rock—after all, I was in the area anyway—just to see if I could pick up a few of those crystals people sometimes find there. And I am just starting to search, when he comes out of the cave!”

“Who?” Parnag asked, somewhat irritated.

“I don’t know. A foreigner. He wore very odd clothing, and the way he talked! I don’t know where he comes from, but it must be quite far away. Anyway, he comes up to me and asks who I am and what I do and where the closest city is and lots of other things like that. And then he tells me a bunch of the strangest things you can imagine, and finally he explains to me that he’s a rebel.”

Parnag had the distinct feeling his heart had skipped a beat. “A rebel?”

“Don’t ask me what he meant by that, I didn’t understand everything he said. He said something about being a rebel and that they had deposed the Emperor.” Garubad giggled. “Imagine … he said that very seriously. Well, then I had to think about you, you know, and about your friend who came that afternoon and talked about rumors in the Port City—”

“Who else did you tell about this?” Parnag asked with a voice he hardly recognized as his own.

“Nobody yet. I just thought it would interest you. I just got back to the city—” He was already getting impatient; he had lost control of his story and wanted to continue. “By the way, what’s going on here right now? The whole city is out and about.”

“Probably because of the preacher who’s been in town since yesterday evening,” Parnag answered. He felt tired, confused, and overwhelmed by the things of the world. On a sudden impulse, he told Garubad that he knew the preacher and from where. “He’s probably going around as a holy wanderer to free himself from his sins.”

When he saw Garubad’s face, he knew he should have kept all that to himself. Apparently it had touched a nerve with the herdsman, whose joviality changed suddenly, with no transition, into frosty politeness.

“I don’t want to contradict your memory, Parnag,” he responded stiffly, “but I think you should look again more closely. I’m almost certain that you must be wrong.”