Lamekis

by Charles de Fieux

  Struck by all these mysterious experiences, my soul expanded with so much energy that it generated the heat that my senses had destroyed: I regained consciousness with this life-giving strength. My eyes were barely open and the first thing I did was to look at the throne. Imagine my surprise to see Falbao there talking earnestly with all the animals as if they were making some important decision. I did not recognize their language, but I guessed that their attitudes and gestures embodied their spoken ideas.

  I was marveling at these things when a human cry made me jump to attention. “Come close and see,” the voice yelled. I thought I recognized it. I approached and would you believe it? Falbao, the extraordinary dog, suddenly changed shape: his shaggy head slowly lost its animal form and became human. The rest transformed almost imperceptibly, but I soon recognized the Armenian whom I had traveled with and who is mentioned in the Preface to Part 1. At the same time all the animals took on human form and by their clothes I could tell that they were from different countries.

  Completely flabbergasted by this fabulous event, I stood there gaping, like I was about to scream, when the Armenian imposed silence by putting his finger to his lips. “Listen to me,” he said. “Don’t interrupt or it will be your ruin. Right now you can become like all the wise men whose happiness you must imagine by everything you just saw; it’s up to you to get there like they did. Listen carefully to me now.”

  Dehahal appears to the author

  I am the philosopher Dehahal whom you talked about in your story of Lamekis. You were sure that you made it all up while writing, but you did nothing except remember things that really existed and still exist. The great Scealgalis allowed me to appear to you during the trip, you remember, to clear up your clouded understanding so that you can teach men how good their sovereign is. It was I who has inspired you so far and whom you secretly called the Intelligence. Take advantage of my teachings, the time has come when my spirit will leave you. Only a furrow left behind by my departure can remain in your soul. May it please the Highest Power that it be enough to lead you to the good I desire for you and that, in the end, you deserve, unless you rely on your poor senses more.

  De Mouhy, it was I who was driven by sacred desire to be transported to the divine Island of the Sylphs; I who came up with the idea to fill up the bladders with dew212 so that the heat of the Sun would lift them from the Earth. By my inspiration you described how I was horribly eaten by the great bee and by what miracle, after being digested, I came back to life and regained my natural shape. You did not forget that I owed my preservation to the Sylph protector who snatched me away when the great bee was about to gobble me up again and that I was able to pass courageously through the awful torment of initiation by letting myself be skinned alive and engraved with the sacred characters of Scealgalis. I would criticize you for not having told the rest of my story as I inspired it in you if I did not know about the obstacles preventing you.213 I could have supplied (I even wanted to) the missing parts by writing them myself, but I was advised by those around me that the subject was too lofty and abstract and a little too indelicate to honor earthly men with it. I wanted to appear to you to explain my intentions in person because the care you have taken until now to inspire mortals with virtue and knowledge of the greatest good made me want the best for you. Now it is in your hands. Choose—you can end up being initiated among the fortunate. You know how I came to the greatest good. A burning desire will lift you up. Speak. They are ready to skin you alive, to engrave the sacred marks of initiation on your heart with the burning stylus. The great bee will obey and you will be eaten. These are the favors that I can offer, you only have to consent and it will be done.

  The book writes itself

  Dehahal waited quietly for my answer. Everyone around the throne was looking at me, ready to congratulate me, figuring that I was going to jump at such a kind offer. But I was so far from feeling this! Just the thought of it made me shudder in fear. How could I endure it? I answered with courage and respect that I was not fortunate enough to enjoy the goods purchased in such cruel places.

  I had barely finished speaking when Dehahal, his court, his throne and the room disappeared and I found myself back in bed, shaking and covered in cold sweat with a roll of paper in my hand. It took me a while to get a hold of myself, but there was nothing else wrong with me but shock. I slowly came back to my senses and thanked heaven for the present it gave me in its extraordinary way. I had no doubt that the roll of paper contained the rest of the adventures of Lamekis. I opened it and was stunned: it was written in a strange, unknown language. Yet, judging by some of the marks and the arrangement of sentences I guessed it was Chaldean. I felt better knowing that I could find a translator.

  I went to find a specialist in oriental languages and I showed him the manuscript. He examined it and said to me, “I don’t recognize these characters. They don’t look like anything men have ever used.” I went home sad, thinking that I would never succeed in my project.

  More than six months went by without thinking any more about it when one morning while I was working on a book of piety214 I heard a sound in my office like a mouse gnawing away at something (or someone trying to dig his way out of prison). I opened my drawers with gloves on ready to catch it if I could. It was useless. The noise continued but I could not find what was causing it.

  I stopped looking and listened carefully. It sounded like my papers were moving around. I opened all my drawers again but everything was completely undisturbed. I was dumbfounded. Finally, when I got to the bottom drawer, just as I was opening it, I jumped back: one of the manuscripts there was leafing back and forth like a fan in the hands of an annoying flirt—perpetual motion. What was I to think about such a wonder? I sat there for two hours like a rock, not being able and not daring, I admit, to change the situation.

  I tried to pluck up the courage and determination to pick up the shuffling manuscript, but my hands refused the noble deed. All I could do was stare at the miracle—it changed soon. The book suddenly jumped out of the drawer, onto the left side of my desk and lay still. The change made me feel better. I was bending over to see which of my works was acting so strangely when another wonder made my hair stand on end. One of my pens rose up out of my writing case like a needle drawn by a magnet, dipped its nib in the ink and then started writing on the paper that had been prepared to continue my next work. It looked like the pen was tracing French letters; I even made out some words. It also looked exactly like my handwriting—there was no mistaking it.

  I was so amazed by all this that I could barely breath. But the pen stopped writing all of a sudden and went to the open manuscript. It made some corrections on the open page and when it was done the page turned, ready for the next. “Well,” I let out, “either the devil’s mixed up in this or I’m dreaming.” (I didn’t have control over this exclamation). “Neither one,” answered a voice that seemed to come out of my desk. “Don’t be scared, sit down, watch and write.”

  If everything that had just happened filled me with fear and panic, imagine how I felt when I heard that voice coming from I know not where. I was scared to look at my desk. The pen was still writing and continued to do so for more than three hours. By this time I had slowly gotten used to everything and felt calmer. I was patiently waiting for the end of this extraordinary adventure.

  Nevertheless, I was starting to grow tired of my attitude when that voice spoke again, “That’s enough. See you tomorrow.” The pen stopped immediately, solemnly dried itself on the sponge and lay back down in the writing case. The manuscript slid off my desk and went back into the drawer. After this the drawer closed by itself and sounded like it was being locked.

  Only the book on which the marvelous pen had written stayed there, apparently undisturbed and unmoving. I dared to look and was amazed to read a title written in capital letters just like I used in Lamekis with a slight change: Part 5. I sat down and read. It really was the next volume, written so like my own hand that if I d
id not see it being written, I would have sworn that I had written it myself. I found 20 pages of writing in my style and except for a few unfamiliar ideas everything followed the previous parts to a T. My imagination was on fire with so many extraordinary things that it compelled me to open the drawer to try to clear up, as much as I could, this incredible phenomenon.

  No sooner did I make this brave decision than I carried it out. I opened my desk. The manuscript that was put there looked the same as the one with the unknown idiom given to me in the vision of Dehahal. I tried to take it, but it jumped, got away and rolled up into the back of my desk.

  “Stop!” cried the same voice that spoke before. “It’s not time yet.” I backed away and ran out of the room thinking that if I never returned it would be too soon.

  Eight days went by before I could bring myself to go back, but I was forced by absolute necessity to return. At eight in the morning I went to the room and wonder of wonders! A young woman, divinely pretty, was sitting in my armchair, writing. Every other vision was forever far away. I should not have stared at her like I was bewitched, but beauty has this effect—it pulls you in instead of pushing you away. My first reaction was to run away, my second held me back. Should I be afraid of such a beautiful woman, I wondered? If the Intelligence that was always with me looked like this divine person or if this was it, what did I have to fear? Convinced by this I looked at her more boldly.

  She was blonde, had a dazzling white complexion, charming features and curly hair that fell over her shoulders. She wore a white silk dress pressed with a pale blue design; a scarf made of extremely fine chiffon hid part of her throat. Her perfectly formed arms were almost bare; the sleeves of her dress came only to her elbows and were bound by heavenly-blue silk that gave a limitless brilliance to her finery. I could not see her eyes because she kept them lowered, intent on her work.

  I would really have liked her to look up. I was in serious trouble. Come on, I told myself, could I run away from such stunning charms? Could it be that my fear and lack of courage had blinded me to the point of missing out on such precious moments?

  I barely had time to think this because the lovely woman sitting at my desk looked up and gave me a smile that struck me to my soul. What a face, great god! What beauty! My senses sparkled and I ran to her. Nothing could hold me back; I would throw myself at her knees. I opened my mouth to spill out my heart, but the divine beauty lowered her head, put it into one of the drawers and slipped in as easily as a fox in its hole. That was all I could take. I stood there with my arms outstretched, my mouth open and my eyes glued to the desk in utter astonishment. What else could I do?

  A fit of righteous anger shook me out of my stupor. “It’s too much!” I shouted. “Whoever you are—Intelligence, invisible woman, devil—stop playing with me. What do we have to do to sort this out?”

  A burst of laughter came out of my desk, telling me that it wanted to have fun with me more than to hurt me. “Go ahead,” I said, holding myself back so that I would not show my fear. “Laugh. If I had the same abilities maybe I would do worse.”

  “Work, work,” the voice cried out. “Time lost is gone forever.”

  “Let’s work, then,” I answered, still angry going up to my desk. “I just have to make up my mind whether I feel well enough to obey.”

  More laughter answered me. I was getting used to it, so it did not bother me.

  Finally, to put an end to this unprecedented adventure, I took the pen and got down to writing. As soon as I put pen to paper the book in front of me started shaking. I was about to get up, but the voice said, “Nothing to be afraid of. Read what is written to the end. The Spirit will do the rest.”

  I did what it wanted, took the manuscript and read. I was just getting to the last line when a sudden inspiration took hold of my imagination; I started writing with amazing speed and did not stop for a month and a day. At the end of this time I was hungry, left off the work and took care of my physical needs. I ate and drank for 31 hours without stopping. After that I slept for three days and nights and on the fourth I woke up. Everything that had happened to me seemed like a dream and I have thought it so ever since.

  What is certain is that when I returned to my desk I found Lamekis finished. The public can believe what it wants about the wonders. It would be too hard for me to try to convince it. Whatever it was, here is the rest of Lamekis that the public seems to want. I’ll be happy if the work keeps me in its favor. And if good intentions deserve sympathy, there is no author in Paris who deserves it more than me.

  Continuation of the story of Lamekis

  The philosopher Dehahal stopped short then, looked up at the sky, presented himself and was raised up, ordering me to do the same. His order was carried out. “Lower your eyes,” he told me, “and listen as closely as you can. The truth itself will speak from my mouth. Whatever prejudices you still have will disappear. Your soul has been worried about its destination until now—all its doubts will end and it will be serene. Lamekis, what wonders await you! Will you be able to experience them without dying of pleasure? Worship the Almighty. May He be praised forever.

  “O Noc-kha-dor, Being of Beings, Mover of the universe, do not let me profane your sacred story by leaving anything out. And you, divine Scealgalis, inspire me…The Heavens open, the holy rays beam down and heat me. Let me begin…215

  After Dehahal finished this wonderful story, he resumed his own.

  Decide for yourself, Lamekis, if my soul was enthralled by so many wonders and truths. I felt already initiated in the Universal Being that they had just described to me so perfectly. Who could have done that but the Being itself? It was not a God depicted by puny mortals who cover him with all their passions, who fill him full of vengeance and jealousy, who make him cruel and make him revel in the eternal loss of those he created. In the portrayal given to me I recognized a Supreme Being whose eternal happiness needed nothing but itself to make it solid and lasting. The world created by its omnipotence and incomparable bounty had only one goal: grandeur and generosity. To pull living things out of nothingness to make them happy without making them buy their happiness—this seemed to me to be the true attribute of the divinity. Its admirable laws were dictated by the same spirit, striving to pay back their observations by different rewards appropriate to their perfection, and seemed to have been given not to make people wretched but to raise their hearts by recognizing their divine legislator. The loss of these promised rewards by forcing the offenders to assume a new life on Earth to start everything over again is the only punishment announced to those who are not found worthy of the graces offered to their virtue. That is a wisdom and kindness belonging only to Noc-kha-dor. In fact, nothing is greater than this conduct; a mortal pays the tribute to nature when he has not earned the good given to the practice of virtue. Noc-kha-dor created him to make him happy and this weak mortal, by acting against the spirit of his creator, makes himself unworthy. Then he takes on another body and enters on the lists again. The experience engraved on his soul teaches him that it was his own fault he lost the good that belonged to him. He is forewarned that he can still get it if he acts differently than before by worshiping and glorifying the supreme kindness. He agrees that he was unworthy and by this act of humility, born out of the sense of justice in his heart, he gets Noc-kha-dor to pour out enough grace to give him the strength that he previously lacked to reach the blessed state destined for him since the beginning of time.

  Oh lucky Lamekis, did you really understand that grand passage that announced to man that he was not created to be eternally lost and that the words “eternal” and “forever” are only a fleeting moment for the great Noc-kha-dor? Do you realize the majesty of this passage and the dreadful blasphemy of those who have limited the omnipotent by giving him the passions of revenge, mercilessness and fury against the creatures fed by his august hand and warmed by his eternal breath? Noc-kha-dor explained himself: that he is great and good, Lamekis, and he said nothing about rewards and pu
nishments. Didn’t they explain his grandeur like that to make it worthy of our adoration?

  I was deeply affected by what I had just heard (Dehahal continued). Only a while afterward did I notice my wound was bleeding again—the triple roll with the divine history written on it had just been put back in the sanctuary when it started up again. One of the Sylphs holding me up by my feet handed me over to his partner and forced open my mouth, stuck his hand inside, grabbed my tongue and led me around the Island in triumph. All the people were waiting to congratulate me on the glory I had just received. The universal acclamations and praises given to me calmed the bitter pain that I was starting to feel again, which disappeared completely in that special honor I received.

  The Loug-hou-kou planted a stake in the earth with his holy hand. At the end of the stake was an iron hook to which he fastened my tongue. This was the final ceremony. All the Sylphs of the Island came up in fours to congratulate me. Each gave me the customary ceremonial honors: the first, the oldest, advanced backward until he was next to me, then he plucked out a hair from my beard and slapped me. He went back crying out, “Ab-kal-hous.”216 The second, armed with an iron rod, hit me on the head saying the same thing. The third slapped me on the ears, put his fingers up my nostrils and pulled at my nose, making me sneeze hard. The fourth, less privileged, only had the honor of spitting in my mouth, but with as much spit as he could muster.

  After all the Sylphs and the Loug-hou-kou had paid me their homage, the Loug-hou-kou grabbed the stake and at the same time four Sylphs grabbed me around my body and the Secretary of State yanked out my tongue. I felt no pain during this last honor. A tongue three times bigger, filling up my whole mouth, instantly grew in and took the place of the one that was so ceremoniously extracted and was carried now on the end of a staff. I had to follow it like everyone else and when it was put in the temple, everything stopped and I became like you see me now.