“Then why did you wish to depose him?”
“I am weary of men-gods.”
“Is not God always…man?”
“The womb of woman gives birth to man!”
“Perhaps God is both man and woman in one…” I suggested.
“Cartaphilus, at least, is a master of gallantry.”
She touched my hand gently. I was too delighted to discuss gods or creeds.
XLIII: THREE IMMORTALS RIDE THROUGH THE DESERT—SLAVES OF THE MOON—CONFESSIONS—KOTIKOKURA PLAYS ON A REED
OUR camels rocked like tall weird boats, shaken by a sea slightly ruffled. Salome rode at my left, and Kotikokura behind us. The sky seemed like a luminous desert covered with stars instead of sand.
Salome chuckled a little.
“The Queen is amused?” I asked.
“Somewhat.”
“By what?”
“By Ca-ta-pha, Kotikokura, and Salome,—the three immortals, riding together into the desert.”
We rode in silence for some time.
“Did you think that a nation ruled by women could maintain itself permanently?” I asked.
“Why not?”
“Man’s rule is based on the laws of nature…”
“Cartaphilus,” she exclaimed, “you are incorrigible! Woman was the first ruler. Her rule was before man’s, whatever legends man may devise to soothe his vanity.”
“I am humble, Salome.”
She laughed. “Cartaphilus humble!” Her teeth glittered, her curls struck lightly her checks. Sparks seemed to dance from the fire within her eyes.
“Cartaphilus is vain only because Salome rides at his side.”
“I do not deny that you are gallant, Cartaphilus, and however childish flattery may be, I cannot but be pleased by it. Alas, I am a woman.”
“Alas?”
“Yes, for you are right, after all. Woman must remain man’s inferior while she is enslaved by her body.”
“Oh!”
“She is the mother, the bearer of progeny. Even when her organism is not engaged in the function of reproducing the race, she is weakened by the rhythm of her purification. As the moon waxes and wanes, nature draws the blood from her brain into the organs of procreation. Every month she gives birth to a bud destined in most cases never to blossom. Every month her body goes through the agony of childbirth without child. Man is free to go his way. She is the slave of the moon!…”
“Many of your women, Salome, seemed more robust and more capable than the men.”
“Those women, alas, are neither women nor men, they are a disinherited sex. Even they are pleased to be slaves once more. Had I remained among them for many generations—I could have established a new type perhaps—but I was bored. Like Cartaphilus, I feel the irresistible urge of wandering. If I had really desired to remain Queen of the Land of the Sacred Parrot, I would not have been overthrown.”
“Even your women were enraged because you violated their most holy traditions.”
Salome laughed.
“You are referring to my refusal to sleep for a week with the corpse of one of my husbands…?”
“Yes.”
“That would have been a little uncomfortable, of course, but it would have been easy to make the situation tolerable by the use of a little magic… Cartaphilus ought to know… He is a god.”
I laughed in my turn.
“What a curious notion this, to sleep with a dead man, and gather the worms of the corpse!”
“Not so curious, Cartaphilus. A little disgusting, no doubt, but quite rational. Is not the soul supposed to lodge within the body?”
“Such seems to be the essence of most creeds.”
“Man attempts to preserve the soul…”
“Undoubtedly—he even preserves the ashes of the dead.”
“There is more life in the worms than in the ashes that he guards with such care. Their writhing persuades the savage mind that the soul is a living reality. It continues to live in the worm! Man, Cartaphilus, is always logical. Whatever he does, proceeds from reason. The customs of your people, while nasty, are logical.” She laughed ironically.
“And life,” I replied, “continues to remain beyond logic and reason,—a whimsical thing, wriggling its thumb upon its nose and laughing uproariously.”
“How very true, Cartaphilus.”
Kotikokura laughed, slapping his thighs.
“Why do you laugh, Kotikokura?” I asked, turning around.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“What makes you so merry, my friend?”
He continued to shrug his shoulders.
Salome smiled, her eyes half closed. Was she thinking of the time when she had rejected me for Kotikokura?
Salome laughed a little.
“Cartaphilus still is angry at me a little.”
“How shall he hide his emotions before Salome? It may be true, he may be a little angry, or a little sorry…but he is happy that Salome rides at his side.”
The stars were dimming like old eyes covered with thin cataracts. Salome yawned and laughed. “Salome must yawn now and then, Cartaphilus. Sleep is another form of slavery.”
“Kotikokura,” I called, “the Queen is weary. Raise the tent, that she may sleep quietly within it, and not be disturbed by the Sun, when that great Slaughterer of Dreams stamps his golden feet upon the sand.”
Salome stretched out her arms. I helped her descend from the camel. Her hands were small and white, as a child’s almost. I kissed and caressed them.
“The desert makes us sentimental. The realization of our cosmic insignificance stirs pity in us, and creates new measures of values, purely human. We become important to one another, when we no longer matter to the universe.”
“Yes, Cartaphilus. Besides, are we not both children of that strange race, most bitter and ironic, and yet how sentimental?”
We watched Kotikokura arrange the tent.
“And who is Kotikokura?” I whispered. “Is he perhaps also one of us,—a scion of the Lost Tribe?”
“He is the link that unites man to animal, Cartaphilus. He is yourself, perhaps, as you were a thousand generations ago…”
“I love him, Salome.”
“I have vainly sought a woman companion like him! I tried to discover one whose blood could mingle with mine…”
“Is your blood, too, poison to others?”
She nodded.
“Some day,” she added, “I may find a vessel strong enough to bear life of my life.”
“A blossom of your own body?”
She shook her head.
Kotikokura grinned and clapped his hands. The tent was ready. I wished Salome happy dreams, and withdrew.
Kotikokura stretched out beside me.
“Are you sorry that you are no longer the High Priest of Ca-ta-pha?”
“Kotikokura always High Priest of Ca-ta-pha.”
“Tell me, are you not curious to know where Ca-ta-pha has been these many years, and what he did?”
“Ca-ta-pha was in Heaven.”
“In Heaven?”
He nodded.
“Don’t you remember the time we were both shipwrecked?”
He nodded.
“And you believe that Ca-ta-pha went to Heaven?”
He nodded vigorously.
“Who carried him to Heaven?”
“Ca-ta-pha is God.”
“And how did you get back to Africa?”
“Ca-ta-pha carried me.”
I meditated on the curious mechanism of the human mind.
“Oh, by the way, Kotikokura, what became of the belt I gave you? There were enough precious stones within it to purchase a caliphate.”
Kotikokura laughed a little, like a small dog barking, and pointed to his waist.
“You still have it?”
He explained how he showed the belt to his tribesmen as a proof that Ca-ta-pha had sent him to be his High Priest. The belt remained on the altar. Anyone but himself touching it, died. But since Ca-ta-pha had come in person, it was no longer necessary to leave it there. Besides, the sacred parrot would remind the worshipers of their God.
“Kotikokura, you are too subtle for an honest man!” I exclaimed.
He laughed.
“Tell me, did anyone ever touch the belt and die?”
He nodded.
“How did he die?”
He made a motion which indicated that he had strangled him.