“A tortoise, Kotikokura! Is this Salome? Was the Chinese philologist right? Was it this animal with whom you spent the night?”

Kotikokura grinned.

“We shall take it with us. Its name shall be Salome, in honor of the magnificent Princess.”

I inquired about Salome of many people. No one had ever heard of her. The castle had been in ruins for generations. It was a place haunted by evil spirits and queer beasts, but as I insisted that I had seen and spoken to a beautiful Princess there, whose retinue was enormous and magnificent, that peacocks spread their gorgeous fans at our approach, and monkeys hung on the branches of palm trees, the people smiled or laughed, and as I turned my face, pointed to their foreheads significantly.

One old woman, thin as a skeleton, with eyes as dazzling as the beads of a stuffed animal, hissed: “Salome? A witch, who died three hundred years ago.”

I would have considered the whole matter a dream, a nightmare, had I not found the little obscene divinity upon the bed. “And the letter!” I exclaimed suddenly. “You brought me a letter from her, did you not, Kotikokura?”

He nodded. As I reached for the missive, a thin stream of ashes fell to the ground, and I remained empty-handed.

For a very long time, I could think of nothing save Salome. I was quite certain that I had actually met her and that, much better versed in magic than I, she had been able to transform ruins and death into life and magnificence for a night. But why had she treated me so disdainfully, preferring an ape’s caresses to mine? Was I he whom she must shun?

Perhaps—and this pleased me and comforted me more than any other idea—she feared that if she yielded herself to me, her personality, weaker than mine, would be submerged and conquered.

Perhaps possession would slay desire.

No! Seeking was better than finding…

I laughed aloud. Kotikokura, frightened, crouched behind me.

XXXI: THE ELOQUENT HAMMER—KOTIKOKURA DISCOVERS TEARS—MOHAMMED OR JESUS?—I REACH THE OUT-SKIRTS OF MECCA

“HE is the Prophet!” shouted the horseshoer, dropping the animal’s leg, which he held in his lap.

“He is not the Prophet!” shouted back the owner of the horse, placing his foot into the stirrup.

“He is the Prophet!”

“He is not!”

A crowd gathered. The two men shouted back and forth their absolute convictions, adding insults, dealing with their physical appearance, their professions, their morals, their intelligence, and the probity of their ancestors.

Infuriated, the horseshoer struck his opponent a powerful blow. The man fell, his face covered with blood. The horseshoer raised his hammer over the victim’s head. “Do you believe he is the Prophet?”

The man grumbled, “I believe.”

Turning to the rest, his hammer still in the air: “Is there any man here who does not believe that he is the Prophet?”

No one answered.

“Is he the Prophet?” he asked Kotikokura, who was grinning.

Kotikokura nodded.

He glared at me. “Is he the Prophet?”

“Certainly he is. How could it be otherwise, when I see so much zeal! Is not zeal the sign of truth? Could a lie inspire such passion?”

The horseshoer replaced the hammer upon the anvil.

“Stranger,” the blacksmith said, “you deserve a place with the true believers in Paradise, where soft couches, delicious fruit, and beautiful virgins await us. So says the Prophet.”

“Whatever the Prophet says is truth.”

“The unbelievers refuse such delights, but we shall find ways to persuade them. Where kind words fail the hammer shall speak.”

“The eloquence of the hammer is indisputable.”

Kotikokura walked behind me, his body bent, his arms dangling. Since the affair with Salome, I had neglected him, and he was unhappy.

“Forgive me, Kotikokura,” I said.

He kissed my hands. His eyes filled with tears,—for the first time it seemed to me.

“If Mohammed is truly the Prophet, Kotikokura,—who knows…perhaps…we shall be parted forever.”

“Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha!”

I took his arm. “Kotikokura, you have been a great consolation to me.” Kotikokura threw his head backward and walked upon his heels, his face radiant.

Rumors of the new Prophet had reached me from many quarters. These rumors strangely disturbed me. Could it be Jesus returned to earth? Was it the second coming of the Messiah which John and Mary ceaselessly prophesied?

“Tarry until I come” he had said. If the second part of his command should prove as true as the first my pilgrimage was at an end. I was not prepared for such an issue. Every year had added new zest to my life. I did not want to relinquish it now. Nevertheless, some force beyond my own volition drew me inexorably to Mecca.

Soft couches, delicious fruits and beautiful virgins?

It could hardly be that the Paradise of Jesus was so earthly. It was possible, even probable, that the horseshoer had misinterpreted his words. Even Paul and Peter and his immediate disciples had misunderstood him; why not this simple fellow, whose arguments were the fist and the hammer?

I tried to visualize Jesus, to hear his voice. I could recall nothing save his luminous eyes, which I preferred not to remember. We reached the outskirts of Mecca and it began to rain,—a heavy perpendicular rain. We struck up our tents.

Kotikokura was snoring. The tortoise stretched out its thin head at intervals and munched the large leaf of cabbage in front of it. The rain beat upon the canvas.

Should I turn back? Could I avoid my destiny? Was I master of myself? Why should I fear? Was it not ridiculous to think that Jesus had returned? And yet…was it more impossible than the miracle of my own existence?

I remembered suddenly Nero. I could see him arrange the folds of his toga. He was dust. I remembered John and Magdalen, Lydia, Damis, Asi-ma, Ulrica, Flower-of-the-Evening. All were dust. Should I become dust as well? I shuddered. No! I must live on! I had permitted life to pass me by as a dream. From now on I would grasp at realities! I would begin to live!

The night was interminable. I yearned to pray. Who was my God? I could not choose from the long array that passed before me—old gods, new gods, even myself riding upon the camel, on whose head, like a crest, the parrot perched, screeching: “Carr-tarr-pharr… Carr-tarr-pharr…!”

Toward morning the rain stopped. The sun shone like the eye of some mischievous young divinity. Kotikokura continued to sleep. I descended, patted the animals, and offered them food. Kotikokura woke up with a start, and jumped off the cart.

“Come, my friend, we must face our destiny, whatever it may be. Life…death…who knows the difference?”

Kotikokura yawned, stretched, breathed deeply.

“Being accustomed to the earth, Kotikokura, one hates to leave it. There is something delicious in merely existing.”

Kotikokura rubbed the long noses of the bullocks.

“The earth is beautiful. The earth is like the lap of one’s mother. Who can leave her, Kotikokura, without weeping?”

Kotikokura knelt and took my hands. “Ca-ta-pha, Ca-ta-pha! Live…always.”

“But after all, should we disdain death, Kotikokura? May she not be as beautiful as life? May not her kiss be as delicate as the kiss of a virgin?”

“Live always… Ca-ta-pha. Live always.”

“Better than either death or life is the calm acceptance of fate.”

“Live always, Ca-ta-pha.”