He sat on his improvised prayer mat upon the creaking wood floor of this hotel that had been raised with grandiose proportions in mind, but with hopelessly meat-fisted carpentry skills.
Yes, they need more Germans in this damned country if they are to get it built properly.
He had long ago said his third prayer of the day as he sat with his bearings upon Mecca. He had denied his Islamic credentials and had ceased practicing the supplication to Allah since coming to this catholic swamp of a continent. Mister Rice though, his superb 20th Century biographer—a great admirer from a great distance to be sure—had reminded him of his religious leanings, and of many things.
It is such a very odd thing to read one’s own story from such a distant yet sympathetic viewpoint.
At least the man was a traveler, no mere armchair commentator.
He had been pleased with the reading of his sword book; an adequate introduction to the subject and sadly the only literature of his on the subject to have survived. There were many things that rankled about the biography—though not the author’s treatment, which he thought even-handed, particularly where the subject of the Nile exploration was concerned. Honestly, he was shocked that evidence for his contraction of syphilis had survived the century between his death and the writing of the book. What bothered him the most was the prodding nature of the inquiry into his married life and the allusions to him buggering Swinburne in France.
It is the nature of these later day Americans who have apparently risen to world domination and have precious little to occupy themselves with beyond gossip. I can forgive the man, and thank him for the fair treatment. But…I simply cannot get beyond the feeling that I hold the bound pages of my own pyre between my fingers!
He lay forehead-to-matt for a long moment and then returned to the studied position.
And what of Isabel burning my works?
It is a miracle that anything that implicated my search for Gnosis remained.
She has been good to me though, and pines for my return even now, searching me out a worthy post in Syria. I cannot forsake her. I must return in the winter of 1869 to Lima Peru like they said and resurface. Perhaps I shall bring with me a completed treatment of the sword! Perhaps I shall translate the Kama Sutra and the Arabian Nights and return from the wilds seemingly like a literary Lazarus!
He closed the thick volume, having read it twice over the course of the day, and regarded the painted paper jacket that hid the bland cloth-board cover of the book itself. He looked upon his own devilish visage rendered in portrait some eight years hence by Lord Leighton.
Well you damned Gypsy, it is at least comforting to know that you were eventually knighted and that your frightening visage will grace the National Portrait Gallery in London for as long as Britannia stands, and perhaps beyond. Just think, one misstep, or merely some errant ancient arrow might take even these sops to your hubris.
Indeed, but the man that stands still steps backward, for the world moves on. It is simple, you must survive to return to her, and to your Queen as well, and bring back a case of manuscripts that would make a dozen men’s literary place.
It is settled then, off to the mathematics man and the murderer you go. They admire you, and by the end of this journey they shall be in your service .
Richard rose and folded his prayer mat around the two volumes, thinking that this might bring him luck. He then dressed and regarded himself in the mirror critically, not able to muster an inner thought, whether criticism or compliment. He turned toward the door, grabbed his two bags and his case, and eased open the door to the balcony that ran around the cavernous common area to the stairs. And there he stood—or leaned rather—Mister Randy Bracken his murdering backwoods boon companion, and painted American Hindu from the future, chewing on an unlit cigar.
The two men stood silently regarding one another, and then Randy approached Richard, proffered a cigar, and lit the both of them, before directing a small steward boy to take Richard’s bags down to the cantina.
Why, he did not even ask of your decision.
Might it be possible that it was not your decision to make?
They walked across the balcony to the stair, the little steward boy struggling behind them with Richard’s bags, as the gathered few below stopped their milling and conversations and stared; seeming to silently bear witness to the jingling spurs of a man who did not appear to own a horse, his discomforted companion, and the toiling boy in their wake.
