The grave was shallow, but it was the best Goldmund could do. He used a board torn from the side of the carriage to dig it. The horses died from dehydration. A fire made from more torn off parts of the now useless carriage sat under skewers of horse meat. Goldmund thought of burning his friend, but he had already dug the ditch. He sat next to the stiff, tearing meat off in chunks with his teeth, reminded of Chesterfield's feast. The horse carcasses looked unappetizing across the rising embers, but they were impossible to reconcile with the smoking brown food his teeth grinded mindlessly. The cooked and rancid meat aromas mixed in the warm air, the smell emitted so awful Goldmund cried, and cried, and wept, and chewed.
The sticks stuck gnawed and bared at attention over the dirt and what lied underneath. The sun set and sent a blood red sheet of oil over the invisible canvas of the atmosphere, soaking it in its cerise misery. The charred remnants of the carriage smoked, and the smoke plumed straight into the sky. Goldmund grabbed a black piece with little bits of fire still hopping off and pressed it against the skin of his forearm, screaming at the silent night as his skin burned, and burned, and burned.
Why had he met this strange traveler? Why had he saved his life? Why was it of such value to him? Why did Goldmund love this cockroach? Why was such belittlement of the dead necessary to get over them? To convince ourselves that truly nothing is lost, yet the gap remains, covered only by a thin floor of lies, like leaves spread over a ditch filled with eager pointing spears. Goldmund flung the crackling char from him and stomped on the ashes and beat them with his fists, tears still rolling like clouds over a new horizon.
The ground behind him exploded, knocking his face into the pulverized ash. Goldmund quickly rolled around and saw a white bony hand wrapped around Gregor's funeral sticks. The whole earth trembled, a crack formed, and a steaming, emaciated corpse lunged out of the dirt, sending clumps of mud onto its awed spectator and the ground surrounding. The corpse's eyes were alive and found Goldmund on the ground, quivering in shock.
Gregor extended his hand.
Pushing himself up, Goldmund ignored the hand, staring into the corpse's blue, unchanged eyes. He frowned after a moment, looked down at the hand, a splinter in its thumb, and pushed it aside, embracing his friend.
Gregor had no heartbeat and could not travel in daylight, but that did not matter; he was alive. The two friends traversed treacherous mountains without fear, for Gregor's cockroach ability allowed him to swoop down and grab Goldmund if he fell, not that he ever did, but the safety net was there. During the days they camped in crevices where they could watch the blue and icy clouds rove the skies in cyanotic packs, blacking out the sun so that it was rarely visible, and never strong.
Weeks later they stood on the docks over the Ural River. Well, Goldmund stood, holding a crate on his left side he had bought the day before and which contained a specimen of an extremely rare species of cockroach, dead but still in great dissecting condition. Money pilfered by an insect during the dead of night jingled in his pocket, anxious to be in the hands of a gracious sailor. Eventually it got what it wanted, and Goldmund found himself sleeping in a rickety cot during the day and sweeping the deck at night, a task many of the other sailors couldn't believe he could accomplish so well night after night, with no help at all. It was easily a two man job, but Goldmund did it without complaint or seeming to overwork himself. No one ever questioned what the able traveler kept in his little crate. Man's possessions were not exactly sacred on the seas, but the sailors respected this old man. By the end of the trip, the captain of the ship refunded Goldmund all of his gold, plus a bit extra for the help he gave on the trip. Goldmund accepted this after once politely declining, and then bought a small sailboat and sailed south along the coast of Asia, and then into the open ocean.
During the intermediate hours of dusk and dawn the friends spoke of past times, dreams, and reality. Gregor told his friend he would stay in New Zealand after this was finished, and Goldmund was welcomed to stay with him, but Goldmund shook his head.
"I've lived past my time already. We have been good friends, and shall continue to be, but the afterlife is calling me. One day you shall join me there, for we believe in the same heaven, but we must part after I end this war, if you wish to stay on the island. Perhaps one of us will change their mind about this by the end, perhaps not."
A shoreline became visible on the horizon, and light began to shine from behind it. Goldmund put his friend in the crate and sailed yonder.
