Alobar couldn't believe how calmly, serenely even, she had spoken the unspeakable. Icy fingers tickled the harpsichord keys of his vertebrae. “You — you don't know what you're saying. Here, let me pour you some tea. You aren't awake yet, that's your problem.”
“I am awake, darling. I have been awake most of the night. And the night before. I have thought about this through more sleepless nights than you could shake a tambourine at. And I am ready, willing, and actually eager to settle down in one place like normal people, and grow older like normal people. I am.”
Alobar held back, refusing to speak until his vocal cords could be trusted not to quiver. Alas, he waited too long, overshot the mark, and heard his voice go well beyond evenness into petrification. The finest stone carver in France would have been proud to chisel his mark on any word in the following sentence: “Aging seems a high price to pay for normalcy.”
“I do not care. I am willing to pay it. Besides, if I do not like getting older, I can always stop.”
“Can you?” Simple little question chipped from solid basalt. “How do you know for sure?” Six words weighing in at a ton, not including punctuation. “We believe that we can start it and stop it at will, but the fact is, we have never tried. What if you cannot stop it, what if you just keep on growing older until, until. .” The voice had become so rigid that it cracked. That's how molecules behave today, and that's how they behaved back then, though in those days nobody blamed molecules for brittleness any more than they credited them for plasticity.
“Until what? Until I die? First of all, Alobar, neither you nor I is convinced that aging has to automatically lead to death. We have talked about that many times. Where is the courage of your convictions? It is not aging that leads to death, it is the belief that aging leads to death that leads to death. Do I speak rightly or wrongly?”
“You are probably right,” squeaked Alobar, in his newly broken voice. “We do not know for certain.”
“There is only one way to find out.”
“But what if—”
“What if I die? Then, by Shiva, I die! Dying does not strike me as such a horrible fate anymore.”
“I cannot believe you are saying this. You are reverting. You are regressing. You are—”
“I am facing the truth,” Kudra interrupted, “and the truth is, there is nothing so almighty wonderful about this long life of ours.” He recoiled as if she'd spit on him. She took his hand, kissing each spear-nicked finger in turn. “Darling,” she said, “look at us. We are a couple of Gypsies, running from the dogs of authority. From town to town we go, fair to fair, sleeping in fields, eating those awful mangel-wurzels, selling pretty smells to hypocrites, and hard-ons to yeomen. Where is the value in that? What is the purpose of—”
“We are alive!” shouted Alobar. “And there—”
“And there is not another couple like us on this whole round planet. Well, so what? Our uniqueness doesn't make the ground softer or give the beets flavor. It doesn't improve feudal conditions or reduce violence or contribute to the welfare of the people. What important thing have we accomplished in all these past six hundred years?”
“We have beaten death,” said Alobar, and his tone was as firm and even as it had ever been. More than that, it was proud. “We have beaten death. What everyone who has ever been born since the beginning of time has longed to do, we have done. What could be greater than that?”
“To what end have we beaten death? We can't teach others how to beat it, or else the Church would come down on us and wipe us out, and those we taught in the bargain. We can't sell this grand knowledge, for the very same reasons. We are forced to hide our supreme accomplishment as if it were a shameful crime. Where is the glory in that? Our lives are selfish and covert and none too easy. Methinks that you had a greater life back when you were mortal. You were a kind then, Alobar, a leader of men, and every day, every hour, was charged with significance.”
“And threatened by the Reaper. Charged, but threatened, because to the Reaper a king is no less fodder than a slave. In my clan, a king was actually an easier harvest.”
“Threatened by death you may have been, but look what a life it was that was threatened! And look at it now, my ragged Gypsy—”
“We are about to move to Paris!”
“Yes. I to ply the incense maker's trade, you, noble warrior, to be my assistant.”
She paused. Together, they watched the sun break through the morning fog, coming back to the deserted fairgrounds like a dandy returning to the boulevard, prepared, when the moment was right, to strut some stuff. With a clover stem, Kudra traced the pathway of Alobar's veins, through which such endless tides of blood had run; she kissed the forehead that had been greeted by so many rising suns.
“For you,” she said, “longevity for longevity's sake is enough. That is no longer satisfactory to me. Is there a position in the Kama Sutra that we have not mastered, a recipe for mangel-wurzel that our cook pot hasn't memorized? Oh, darling, I know that life is good, and that it still holds surprises for me, but maybe death is good, too; certainly it offers some surprise. Relax, now, don't get upset. My destination is an incense shop, not a tomb. But if I must age to have a happier life, then I will. And should aging lead to death, then I shall explore the planet of death awhile. Certainly I have been on the terrestrial voyage a nice long while. Long enough, frankly, that despite my love for you I do grow bored.”
“I will wager that death be a million times more boring than life.”
“If so, I shall come back to life. If we are truly immortal, we ought to be able to travel back and forth between both sides.”
“Ha!” scoffed Alobar. “Yes, we ought to be able to. We ought to, all right, and if we had remained in the caves long enough, we probably could. We might have been able to dematerialize and rematerialize at will. But we cannot. At least, there is no hard evidence that we can. You talk about facing truth. The truth is, Kudra, we hardly know what we are doing. There is so much more to this immortality business, so much more we might have learned from the Bandaloop, but, no, you had to go and see the world, you could not wait, so here we are half-educated and half-assed, conducting the greatest experiment in human annals and not fully qualified to conduct it correctly, just groping in the dark like mice in a bin. Why, oh why, did I let you talk me into leaving the caves before we had all the answers? Well, I can tell you one thing, you are not going to talk me into aging. If you want to risk it, go ahead, but you are stupid.”
Kudra released his hand. “I may be stupid,” she said, “but I am not a coward.”
And the sun pulled a cloud down over its ears. And the wind set to whistling a distracting tune. And crows that had been breakfasting on fairgrounds crumbs glanced at some clock or other and realized that they were late for work. And the cookfire flames retreated into the soundproof cellar of ashes. And the tea in the teapot nearly broke its neck in its haste to evaporate.
There's an old axiom: “A couple's first quarrel is Cupid's laxative.”
The next worst thing to a quarrel is a compromise. They made one at once.
Since Alobar had been nearly forty chronological years older than Kudra from the start, it was agreed that Kudra could permit herself to age for four decades, more or less, stopping when she had “caught up” with her mate. If she could stop, that is. As for Alobar, he would cross his bridges as he came to them.