The Nonexistent Knight Read Online Free

weighing on his head. It was like an object that didn’t communicate human warmth, proximity, consolation or annoyance—and yet, he felt a kind of tense obstinacy spreading over him.

3
    CHARLEMAGNE trotted along at the head of the Frankish army. It was the approach march. There was no hurry and they were not moving fast. Around the emperor were grouped his paladins, reining impetuous mounts at the bit. In the trotting and jostling their gleaming shields rose and fell like fishes’ gills. Behind them the army looked like a long gleaming fish—an eel.
    Peasants, shepherds and villagers gathered at the comers of the road. “That’s the king; that is our Charles!” And they bowed to the ground at the sight, not so much of his unfamiliar crown, as of his beard. Then they straightened up at once to spot the warriors. “That’s Roland! No, that’s Oliver!” They never guessed right but it didn’t really matter since the paladins were all there, somewhere, so they could always swear to have seen the one they wanted.
    Agilulf trotted with the group, every now and again spurting ahead, then halting and waiting for the others, twisting round to check that the troops were following in compact order, or turning toward the sun as if calculating the time from its height above the horizon. He was impatient. He alone among them all had clearly in mind the order of march, halting places, and the staging post to be reached before nightfall. As for the other paladins, well, an approach march was all right by them. They were approaching anyway; fast or slow, it didn’t matter to them. And with the excuse of the emperor’s age and weariness they were ready to stop for a drink at every tavern. The road seemed lined with tavern signs and tavern maids. Apart from that, they might have been traveling sealed up in a truck.
    Charlemagne was still more curious than anyone else about the things he saw around him. “Oh, ducks, ducks!” he exclaimed. A flock of them was moving through the fields beside the road. In the middle of the flock was a man, but no one could make out what the devil he was doing. He was walking in a crouch, hands behind his back, plopping up and down on flat feet like web-toes, with his neck out, repeating, “Quà ... quà ... quà ...” The ducks were taking no notice of him, as if they considered him one of them. And to tell the truth there wasn’t much of a difference between the man and the ducks, because the rags he wore, of earthen color (they seemed mostly bits of sacking) had big greenish-grey areas the same color as feathers, and in addition, there were patches and rents and marks of various colors like the iridescent streakings of those birds.
    “Hey you, that’s not the way to greet your emperor!” the paladins cried, always ready to make nuisances of themselves.
    The man did not turn, but the ducks, annoyed by the voices, took alarm and all fluttered into flight together. The man waited a moment, watching them rise, beaks outstretched, then splayed out his arms and began skipping. Jumping and skipping and waving splayed arms, with little yelps of laughter and “Quà! ... Quà ...,” full of joy he tried to follow the flock.
    There was a pond. The ducks flew onto the surface of the water and swam lightly off with closed wings. On reaching the pond the man flung himself on his belly into the water, raising huge splashes and thrashing his arms about. Then he tried another “Quà! Quà!” which ended in gurgles because he was sinking to the bottom. He reemerged, tried to swim and sank again.
    “Is that the duck keeper, that man?” the warriors asked a peasant girl wandering along holding a reed.
    “No, I keep the ducks; they’re mine. He has nothing to do with them. He’s Gurduloo,” said the little peasant girl.
    “Then what was he doing with your ducks?”
    “Oh nothing, every now and again he gets taken that way, and mistakes himself for one of them.”
    “Does he think he’s a duck