After all those lifetimes the Stranger descended from his wooden tower. He walked along the bank and across the cracked lands, still watching. There were no chapels yet. Leopards licked his feet. His solitude was perfect. He passed through the settlements, from Jerusalem to Constantinople to New York: a slow-moving, alien figure on the horizon. Patient. He sat for years with someone’s ancestor in a dusty room, he walked unnoticed beside pageants and riots held in his honour. Always beside. Bent and cloaked. Chapels were built with rocks of dubious origin, towers rose and fell in his name. Still his solitude is perfect, guarding against the terror.
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