“Just so. A terrible road—but a road of beauty, also.”
“I suppose. Yes.”
“Another question. Of the many names which you told me, there seemed to be one name which appeared more often than any other.” The gesture of apology. “It is difficult for me to pronounce. The—Natushishu?”
“Nazis.”
“Yes. Truly, a terrible tribe. Worse than the Utuku, even. Or, perhaps, simply more powerful. You said they swept across the land like a fire, leaving nothing but death and destruction behind.”
“Yes.”
“But you did not tell me what happened to them, in the end.”
Indira stared out the doorway.
“They came to a place called Stalingrad.”
“Another place of horror?”
Indira thought of the soldiers of the Wehrmacht Sixth Army, encircled by the Soviet counterattack. Over three hundred thousand of them, caught in a maelstrom they had never created. Years later, a few thousand would return to their families. The rest—part of the unknown multitude washed away into the ocean called History.
“No,” she said. “It was a place of glory, and beauty.”
“Did the glory last? And the beauty?”
She thought of Stalin’s purges. Of the Gulag.
“No. But—”
“It was a place when the road forked. And the right fork was taken. Horrors along that road, as well. But not so many as along the other.”
“Yes. Yes, but—”
Ushulubang made the gesture of understanding. “You are terrified, not by the agony alone, but by its inevitability. Not by the decision which fork of the road to take, but by knowledge that all roads must lead through horror. And that by choosing one fork it will be you yourself who creates the horror of that road.”
She nodded.
“Just so. Do you remember when I smashed the idol at Fagoshau?”
Again, she nodded.
Ushulubang whistled derision. “Did you think I was so foolish as to believe I could smash idolatry? Did you think I failed to understand that, after my death, new idols of Goloku would be erected?” Another whistle of derision. “And of me as well, I expect.”
Indira stared at the sage. “I did not . . . I don’t know.”
“Just so. Many years ago, Inudira, I found myself at a fork in the road. Much like the one which you face here. I saw the fork coming, long before I reached it. In my confusion and fear, I went to Goloku.
“I told her that the day would come, after her death, when the apashoc would be savagely persecuted. I thought that because of my position in the Ansha that I might be able to survive. I alone, perhaps, among my sisters. If I debased myself, and groveled, and wriggled through the anger of the clan leaders like a slug.
“The idea was—loathsome. But, I thought, perhaps it would be my duty. So I went to Goloku.”
“And what did she say?”
“She told me I had understood nothing of what she had ever said. She flailed me mercilessly, with words like stone.”
Ushulubang’s huge eyes were pitiless. Her mantle flashed black as night. Implacable.
“I shall now flail you with the same words. There is no Answer, fool. There is only the Question.”
Suddenly, Julius spoke.
“Do you remember the first time we met?” he asked Indira.
The question took her completely by surprise.
“What?”
“The first time we met. We had an argument. Do you remember what you said to me?”
Her mind was like a field of snow. Empty.
“I don’t—remember. Why?”
His rubbery face twisted into a grin. “How strange. I have never forgotten it.”
She shook her head, clearing away the confusion caused by Julius’ odd question. Then, suddenly, remembered.
If there is one thing that historians know, it’s that nothing great was ever achieved except by those who were filled with passion. Their passion may have been illogical, even bizarre to modern people. Their understanding of the world and what they were doing may have been false. It usually was. But they were not afraid to act, guided by whatever ideas they had in their possession. Do not sneer at such people. You would not be here without them.
Moments later, Indira left the hut and walked into the center of the village. Joseph was waiting. He stood alone, apart from the others of the council. Whatever decision Indira had made would now fall upon his shoulders.