A Traveler at the Gates of Wisdom

by John Boyne

  “Will you come home with me, Jalen?” I asked, when he had settled down again. “When both our tasks are done, I mean. Will you come home and see our father before he dies?”

  He breathed in heavily. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Would he welcome me?”

  “I know he would.”

  “He might have forgotten me by now. It has been many years.”

  “I can assure you that that would never happen. The great sorrow of his life is that he lost you. He still speaks of you often and blames whoever is in his sight for your disappearance. In fact, in recent times, he has been speaking of you more and more, thinking that you are at home, that you are in the next room, that you have taken a walk by the shore, but I fear that his mind is playing games with him. Sometimes, he thinks that we are all still children again. He can’t seem to keep his thoughts straight.”

  “I will think about it, Brother,” he said. “But for now, I think it’s time for sleep, don’t you? We both have long rides ahead of us in the morning.”

  As we climbed into our beds, he put on a pair of fish-skin gloves to keep warm and I remembered how, when we were children, this was the time I dreaded the most, for he would wait until I was almost unconscious before crawling quietly toward me and jumping upon me, pounding me about the face or body with his fists, refusing to leave me alone until he had either made me cry or my father had come in to separate us. It was foolish of me to feel a grudge over such things after so many years—these were the antics of children, after all—but nevertheless, I felt a distinct sense of anxiety as I drifted off, knowing that he was only a few feet away from me and that his enormous body could be upon me in a moment, should he choose to attack.

  Still, the next morning, I felt disappointed to discover that my brother had left without even saying goodbye. When I inquired of our host, I was told that Jalen had risen at dawn, leaving a few coins in payment, before saddling his horse and riding off.

  “Did he leave any message for me?” I asked.

  The innkeeper shook his head. “Not a word,” he said.

  Had it not been for the fact that he had encountered him, too, I might have almost imagined that I had dreamed the entire reunion. Now there was nothing left for me to do but saddle my horse, collect my belongings and ride north, where a king awaited me.

  BULGARIA

  A.D. 710

  A WEEK LATER, having delighted the Khanbikeh and her fourteen children with the carved images that the Khan had commissioned, I returned from Varna with more than just a satchel of gold coins about my person; I also brought a wife.

  Katia and I had met only twice before I offered to commit my life to her, but from our first conversation a bond of affection and trust had existed between us and I knew that we could make each other happy. She was honest with me about her life up to now, brutal in her narration, and while some suitors might have found her history intolerable, I reserved my contempt for a man who would allow his daughter to be treated in such a despicable fashion.

  I passed her town on my journey home and we left together, under cover of night, Katia fretting over what might happen when her father discovered her absence the following morning. She had tried to run away once before, she told me, and her back still bore the scars of the whipping he’d inflicted on her. Leave me again, he’d said then, and I will hunt you down and strip the skin from your bones.

  We rode slowly back toward Madara, the better to get to know each other, and on the second day I recounted the story of how I had first become interested in carving images into stone. I had still been a boy at the time, tormented by the most vivid dreams of cities and people I had never visited or known, and felt a great urge to capture those visions before sunlight allowed the apparitions of night to dissolve into nothingness. I carved into the walls of our stone hut, and the huts of our neighbors, and each image, when completed, made me feel as if I had summoned up a memory from some undiscovered country that lay deep within my soul. I described some of these carvings to Katia and she seemed moved by my passion. She was not an artist herself, she told me, adding that her talents as a seamstress were also nonexistent so I should not presume my new wife would be able to mend my clothes with any great skill. None of that mattered, I told her, for she could embrace motherhood and spend her energies building a home for the family we would create together. I expected her to be joyful at this suggestion and was mildly disconcerted when she said that she hoped for more from life than this.

  “Of course I would like children someday,” she added, sensing my disquiet. “But other things are important to me, too.”

  “Such as?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure yet,” she replied. “I’ve never been given the opportunity to dream before, but might not my dreams be as vivid as yours? After all, cooking, cleaning and child-rearing are tasks that a man and woman can share.”

  I turned around on the horse to glance at her, wondering whether she was teasing me with such a perverse idea, and when I saw how well she contained her laughter, it made me smile. I liked the idea of a wife with a good sense of humor.

  “These are strange jokes,” I said. “If I am not careful, you will be calling me wife, and I calling you husband!”

  “We don’t need to go quite that far,” she said, her tone remaining serious. “But you must realize that I’ve spent every day of my life doing whatever men demanded of me. And my father, may his name be forever cursed, convinced me that I was put on this Earth for no other reason than to serve at their pleasure. Thanks to you, I’m free of all that now. But that doesn’t mean I want to exchange one form of servitude for another.”

  “I didn’t buy you, Katia,” I told her quickly so she would not misunderstand my intentions. “And I only want you to be happy. But when you say ‘free’—free to do what exactly?”

  “Something,” she said, laughing now at last. “Anything. Whatever can give my days some meaning. Don’t worry,” she added, wrapping her arms around me, for she could tell that I was growing anxious by her unexpected reach for independence. “I will be a good wife to you, I promise. Just don’t expect a delicious gyuvech stew or a tasty pogacha every evening when you return home. They’re completely beyond my abilities. But you will have no cause for complaint. You liberated me, Husband, and I’ll make sure you never regret that.”

  I remained silent. I was surprised by how deeply she thought about the world, but it pleased me, too, for I had always been drawn to strong-willed women. My sister Albena had once shown such fire in her belly but had allowed those flames to be extinguished since marrying for the second time, giving birth to four babies in four years and tying herself to a man who was unworthy of her. She had become a nag, regularly complaining about the mundanity of her days. Still, at least she hadn’t asked me to murder her new husband, which was progress of a sort.

  “We will be happy, I promise,” said Katia, her tone growing seductive now, and when she whispered my name into my ear, I grew aroused and pulled the horse to a stop so that we could rest awhile in the fields.

  * * *

  • • •

  When we arrived at my village, my family were immediately welcoming of my new love, with the exception of Albena, who was distrustful and hostile. I wasn’t surprised to find her there—she preferred to be in our father’s home than her own, where her corpulent husband, Xanthe, spent most of his time eating, planning his next meal or enjoying the memory of his last one. Xanthe had once been a soldier, like Marin, and it was our father who had imposed the match on his eldest daughter soon after her first husband’s suspicious death. There had been much misgiving about Albena’s role in his unexpected departure from this world and our father had convinced her of the wisdom of taking a much older man for a husband in order to restore respectability. Xanthe was so enormous that he was known as the Great Hippopotamus of Madara and we all assumed that he would not last more than a few month
s and then she would be free again. And yet, as year followed year, he continued to breathe and to eat and was obviously capable of undertaking his marital duties, as children kept appearing, much to my sister’s distress.

  Although I had only been gone from Madara for a few weeks, my mother embraced me like a long-lost son and even my father struggled to his feet, surprising me by how happy he was to have me home again. I was shocked, however, by his appearance, for he had aged considerably in my absence, growing gaunt, his illness stripping the fat from his face. I felt an urge to turn away out of respect for the strong and fearsome man he had once been. To see him reduced to a shadow of that intimidating warrior was upsetting, but I knew that he would despise any excessive emotion on my part and so I said nothing, simply bowing my head so he could lay his hands on me in a prayer of thanks for my safe return.

  “You journeyed back without difficulty?” he asked me.

  “A trio of bandits tried to rob us as we rode along,” I told him, hoping that he might be impressed by such daring, “but I outrode them.”

  “I knew you’d come back one day,” he said, his eyes filling with tears. “They said you were gone forever but I knew better. You’ve come home to say goodbye.”

  “He thinks you’re Javis,” said Albena, standing up and rolling her eyes as she directed him back toward his seat by the fireplace. “You may as well just pretend that you are, Brother, it won’t make any difference. This morning, he was convinced that I was Old Paravi, who churns the butter in the village, and she’s twice as old as me with a face full of warts. And yesterday, he mistook Floza for a goat.”

  “He did not mistake me for a goat,” said my mother, turning around and sounding annoyed by the accusation. Even now, after all these years of betrayal, she still defended her husband against all complainants. “He mistook the goat for me. There’s a difference.”

  “There was a goat and there was you,” replied Albena, rolling her eyes. “And he didn’t know which was which. It’s not as if—”

  “I’m not Javis, Father,” I said, stepping past her and kneeling down before him. “He was your first-born son. I am your second.”

  “No,” he said, looking irritated by my response. “You’re too strong to be that worthless creature. He ran away from home many years ago, may his name be forever cursed. No, you’re Javis. I’d know you anywhere.”

  My mother looked at me with an expression that suggested it might be kinder to leave him with his delusion.

  “I’ve brought a surprise with me,” I announced, standing up again and looking behind me, ready to introduce my new wife to them, but—I hadn’t noticed until now—she had remained outside, hesitant to come in until invited. “Katia,” I called, looking out onto the street and beckoning her forward. “Come in! You have a new family to meet.”

  She stepped inside shyly, her head bowed, and the room fell silent in surprise. Even Albena’s babies stopped their caterwauling for a few moments as they stared at this glorious apparition.

  “While I was away,” I said, turning back to them, “I had the great fortune to fall in love. Katia and I were married along the road from Varna.”

  My parents and sister looked at me in surprise, saying nothing at first, but then an expression of joy spread across my mother’s face and she stepped forward to embrace her new daughter, smothering her with kisses. Katia, moved by such an unexpected display of emotion, wept, and even Marin looked pleased that I had brought such a wonderful treasure home.

  “If I was a younger man,” he said, signaling her to come closer to him and patting his lap, an invitation that she declined, “it would not be my son’s bed you would be climbing into tonight.”

  “Father!” I cried, but Katia turned to me and gave a small smile, letting me know that she did not feel insulted. I had explained to her on our journey how my father’s mind had become disordered in recent times and that she should not be surprised if he made unsuitable remarks. In truth, she was accustomed to much worse slurs.

  “You’re a great beauty,” said Floza, smiling at her and holding her face in her hands. “My son is lucky to have found you.”

  “We’re both lucky,” she replied. “He’s been very kind to me. You brought up a man of great honor.”

  “You can’t have known each other very long,” said Albena, stepping forward now and looking her new sister up and down as if she were a dress that she was considering purchasing. “Are you with child? Is that why he married you so quickly?”

  “No,” said Katia, shaking her head. “Not yet.” She threw me a sly look, for while she may not have been pregnant when we left Varna, it was entirely possible that she was now.

  “Such a thing to ask!” said my mother, slapping Albena gently across the arm.

  “It just seems strange to me that he would wed with such speed, that’s all, considering how long he’s been in mourning for a girl he was married to for only a few hours. I thought that was the great love affair for the ages?”

  “We’re happy, Albena,” I told her. “I will always cherish the memory of my first wife but now it is time to set my sorrows aside and enjoy love once again. It’s what she would have wanted for me, just as I would have wanted it for her, had—”

  “Where was it that you met?” Albena asked, interrupting me and addressing her question to Katia.

  “A half-day’s ride south of Varna,” she replied.

  “And what did you do there? For a living, I mean? Who are your people?”

  Katia hesitated. We had agreed how she would answer such questions, but still, this would be the first time she would be forced to lie and I sensed that this, along with cooking, cleaning and housework, might be another skill that she lacked. “I worked in the marketplace,” she said. “Selling needles.”

  “Your hands are very soft for one who sold needles,” said Albena, reaching forward and grabbing them so sharply that Katia let out a cry of surprise. “Not a single scar. Most seamstresses have hands that look like cracked clay.”

  “She always wore gloves,” I said, stepping between the two and throwing Albena a look of annoyance. She had always been possessive toward me, but I wanted no trouble from her now.

  “Gloves,” replied Albena with a smile. “How clever of her.”

  * * *

  • • •

  A month later, settled back into life in Madara, I found myself out by the town walls, examining the stone. So pleased was Khan Terval by the images that I had fashioned in his palace that he had commissioned me to create more here, in my hometown, and I was planning something magnificent, an image that had appeared in my dreams repeatedly of a horseman spearing a lion while a dog ran behind, giving chase. I hoped to create my most intricate work yet and the Khan had promised to fill my coffers once again if I could complete it within six months, in time for the anniversary of his ascension to the throne.

  A sound distracted me from my thoughts and I spun around, surprised to see my father standing behind me, for he almost never left our home anymore.

  “You startled me,” I said, walking over to him. “How long have you been there?”

  “Not long,” he said. “I’ve been watching you, but you do nothing. You just stare at the walls as if you’re expecting them to speak to you.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m doing,” I replied. “If I stand here long enough, the stone will tell me what it wants from me.”

  “But why do you do it?” he asked. “What is it all for?”

  “For eternity, I suppose,” I told him with a shrug. “If I create something beautiful, then when people pass by our town in the future and witness what I left behind, they may feel as if they are being watched over by a ghost from the past. Don’t we all hope for some form of immortality? We might not be able to breathe forever but there are other ways to stay alive.”

  Marin sat down heavily on
a stone and sighed, wiping the perspiration from his face with the back of his hand. “I longed for a son different to you,” he said quietly, and there was no anger in his voice now, no recrimination, just sorrow. I sat opposite him and looked him directly in the eyes as he spoke. “I wanted you to become a great warrior. For you to bear our family name with honor. Instead, you take chisels and carve pictures into walls, like a child. When you were a boy, you were different. You were tough then, always getting into fights and always winning. But something happened to you. What was it, my son? I don’t recognize you anymore.”

  “No, Father,” I said, reaching out to touch him on the arm, where his once-solid muscle had now deteriorated into loose skin. “You’re confused. That wasn’t me. That was Javis.”

  “Javis,” he said, and something shifted inside his mind again as he looked up at me. “Will he ever come home, do you think?”

  “You will see each other again one day in the future,” I said, taking his hand now. “Perhaps not in this life, but certainly in the next.”

  “You believe in such fantasies?” he asked before turning away. There was something of the young Marin in him then. I could see the phantom of his youth in that strange smile. “I fought four men to win your mother’s hand,” he said after a long pause. “Did you know that?”

  “Yes,” I said, for this was a story he had told many times.

  “I took the heads off two guards quickly, then plunged my sword through the heart of the third. I wanted to spare the fourth boy, he was young and frightened and had asked for none of this trouble, but I was given no choice. And so, he lost his head too. But the reward was a good one, for your mother was mine by nightfall.”