(256) The abracadabrante story of Child Moon

 

 

On the literally infinite stage of a paper theatre, Don Carotte and Sang Chaud engage in a battle of words in unison, unable to settle upon the slightest meaning of the riddle held by the tiny yet impudent grey donkey.

 

Continued from page (255)

 

DON CAROTTE

(his gaze lost in the distance, having slowly lowered his staff)

 

By all the saints, tell me, Sang Chaud, I implore:

 Who is this I am that haunts me evermore?

 

SANG CHAUD

(bowing, then turning towards the path)

 

I know not, sire. But the donkey's far away;

He walks without an answer, needing none upon his way.

 

Don Carotte remains motionless, his staff hanging low, while above him the curtains and branches seem to stir, though not a breath of wind disturbs them. He looks at Sang Chaud as though discovering for the first time a man whose face he had never truly known.

 

DON CAROTTE

(in a barely audible voice)

 

But… if the donkey knows how to live without knowing his name, Why must I account for mine, and answer to its claim?

 

SANG CHAUD

(with a reverent bow)

 

It may be, my Lord, that before you can know yourself, You must endure the anguish of no longer wishing to be yourself.

A long silence. Then, high among the foliage, a cracking sound is heard, followed by a shower of leaves. Don Carotte raises his eyes as though someone had just spoken his name, but Sang Chaud, having heard nothing, moves a few steps away.

 

DON CAROTTE

(suddenly, in a thunderous voice)

 

Ho there, Sang Chaud! Come back! By my faith, a thought! If he whom I am now is not the one I was, And if tomorrow I am other than today, Must I at last cease being the one I thought I ought to be, that another may come forth? Will that victory still be mine, or his by right?

 

SANG CHAUD

(without turning around)

 

I cannot promise you, my Lord, a glory That, to be fulfilled, must renounce its very story.

 

DON CAROTTE

(And Don Carotte, finding for the first time so little to say in reply, remains speechless.)

 

How am I to understand this? Already, knave? Have I achieved nothing but speaking from so high?

 

SANG CHAUD

(with disarming innocence)

 

You welcomed the question, O noble Lord; Already what approaches you begins to know you.

 

DON CAROTTE

(recovering himself, though not without embarrassment)

 

So be it! But begin again, repeat those words; I paid scant heed to such frivolous shadows. My spirit, wholly pledged to battles yet to come, Lent but half an ear to your unruly latitudes.

SANG CHAUD

(resuming with solemnity)

 

“Who am I, when daylight drives away my night, Yet brings an ancient dream's unwearied shade to light? ‘I am,’ a voice declares, ‘the spy of another me,’ And that other, my Lord, is none other than me. But if I am the one who speaks unto himself, Who receives these words, and who sends them forth? If I both speak and hear, am I one or two? And if we are two, which one speaks for them?”*

 

DON CAROTTE

(freezing, his forefinger raised towards the heavens)

Hold! By all the saints! I see a dawning light! What yesterday I knew escapes my grasp tonight! There lies, then, buried deep within our being, Another captive, watchful, only half asleep! One speaks and one hears! One slumbers, one keeps watch! One borrows a mouth, the other lends an ear! One rules within, the other serves without, Yet each believes he holds his body's sceptre! But which is master, and which serves as slave? Who holds the golden key, who gnaws upon the chain? If I proclaim, I am myself, by my blood, what do I know? Who whispered me those words I claim as mine alone?

SANG CHAUD

(with the utmost thoughtful caution)

 

Perhaps, my Lord, the mind is split in twain, Between the things it knows and those it keeps in chain. What speaks by daylight knows nothing of its sleep; What speaks within our nights the sun's bright rays must fear. And what we thought long dead, in memory laid, May hold the secret threads by which our lives are played. Thus he who rules may never understand That some other living being guides his hand.

 

DON CAROTTE

(seized by a shudder, then growing furious)

 

'Sblood! I smell enchantment, trickery and snare! A man within another man! Each laying siege in there! Is this not witchcraft, or some ancient spell, To make a mighty Lord a scoundrel's plaything? Answer me! You vile deceiver! Are you mocking me? Would you drag my glory through the deepest mire? Have you, beneath the guise of serving your great Lord, Smuggled some lying demon into my mind?

 

SANG CHAUD

(stepping back, both hands outstretched)

 

May God Himself bear witness! I did but convey What came unasked, unbidden, without knocking on its way. I am no sorcerer, no doctor, nor a seer; Those words reached me by some path whose course remains unclear.

 

DON CAROTTE

(striding beneath the tree)

 

But what! If I am I, who proves it so? Might my own name be all the freedom I can know? Don Carotte! That name, when I pronounce it loud, Am I the one who calls it, or does it answer me? For if my name names me before I think it, Am I not then the subject of its power? If I believe I bear it, yet it bears me too, Who, then, is the knight? And who the tale that tells him? Upon my faith! Suppose, O dreadful thought profound, That someone else invented my arrival in this world; That he bestowed this name, these arms, this noble rank, And placed his very words upon my speaking tongue! Then, when I fight, is it truly I who strike? And if I fall, is it indeed myself whom death will take? And when I say I am, in a great sovereign tone, Who, then, pronounces I within this uncertain flesh?

“Who am I if, waking again and again, day after day, I am pursued by the echo of words heard in my sleep: ‘I am an infiltrator inside a schizophrenic double agent who is myself.’ Who am I if I am the one who says it, and who am I if I am merely the one who hears it?”