by James Morrow
“We ain’t no harem,” said Rebecca indignantly.
“Ah, then you’re a seraglio,” said Solange.
“That’s right,” said Miriam emphatically. “A seraglio.”
“Which would make you all sultanas,” noted Chloe.
“Exactly,” said Rebecca.
Chloe told herself it didn’t matter how many wives the local emperors possessed, so long as they helped her foil the rector.
Ralph said, “Good ladies, we seek word of H.M.S. Antares and her illustrious passenger, the Reverend Mr. Hallowborn, who has untoward designs on this archipelago.”
“We know all about the Great Winnowin’,” said Rebecca. “The way Orrin heard it from the Governor, last year a couple of parsons over in England took to doin’ some serious theologizin’ and decided these islands was once the Devil’s playground.”
“Mrs. Eggwort, do you think it possible Mr. Hallowborn has arrived and the slaughter already begun?” asked Chloe.
“Heck, no, they wouldn’t do no harrowin’ without Orrin’s say-so. He’s the only Supreme Emperor in these here parts.”
An immense serenity spread through Chloe, a happiness such as she’d not known since her epiphany in Manáos. No slaughter. Not yet.
“We should like to meet your husband.”
“Then it will come to pass,” said Rebecca.
For the next half-hour the maroon pioneer and her cohorts guided the Covenant’s company through the foothills of Mount Pajas, then around the volcano to a three-story stone keep encircled by a brick wall. Armed with a carbine, a uniformed sentry manned the blockhouse, its wooden tower rising from the grounds like a candle set atop a casket. A gallows occupied the center of the exercise yard, its crosspiece devoid of nooses: the naïve observer might have thought it a device for drying clothes—but Chloe, hanged one hundred and six times as Pirate Anne, knew otherwise.
“Mephistropolis, I presume,” she said.
“Orrin don’t take much interest in our penal colony,” said Rebecca, nodding, “exceptin’ when Kommandant Hengstenberg stages an execution—then we all turn out to watch. Well, not ever’body. We leave the young ’uns at home. I reckon Hengstenberg’s got about two dozen convicts in there, human sludge from the Guayaquil barrios. An odd duck, Hengstenberg—odd and old: he deserted from the Prussian army at Waterloo and ain’t stopped runnin’ since.”
Waterloo, mused Chloe—the battle in which her grandfather had wielded his bayonet before it became Pirate Anne’s dagger. “I’m glad you don’t bring children to the executions.”
“The other wives and me, all us sultanas—I do like that word of yours—we used to think a boy should be at least eight afore he sees a hangin’ and a girl at least ten. Orrin, though, he went and had hisself a revelation on the matter, and it turns out Heaven’s amenable to startin’ boys off at six and girls at seven. You ask me, the Lord God Jehovah is full of peculiar views, but it ain’t my place to judge.”
* * *
As the tropical breeze wafted across Charles Isle, raising clouds of ash that rode the sticky air like phantom wasps, Chloe, her companions, and Orrin Eggwort’s wives continued their march, entering a fissured basin littered with pumice and broken by patches of anemic pumpkins, weary turnips, and feeble sweet potatoes. Men in flaxen shirts and women in cotton bonnets ambled amongst the crops, tending them with rakes and watering cans. Beyond the gardens lay Minor Zion, and minor it was indeed, a cluster of forlorn shacks with thatched roofs and clinker walls, facing a plaza that, being planted with orchids and lilies, was apparently intended to be mistaken for a village green (although the flowers did no more to mitigate the general bleakness than would a nosegay tossed upon a slag heap). Everywhere Chloe glanced, children cavorted, trundling hoops, kicking balls, skipping rope. Scrawny goats and underfed hogs roamed the settlement at will. The only substantial building was a squat clapboard affair, its front yard displaying a sign reading WHITE HORSE PROPHECY TABERNACLE, its terra-cotta roof boasting a bell tower surmounted by a wooden cross.
Rebecca directed her charges into the vicinity of Emperor Orrin Eggwort, a bony and angular man wearing a straw hat and red homespun shirt, a braided black beard swaying from his jaw. He lay socketed in a hammock suspended from the porch roof of the nearest hovel, sipping water from a silver goblet whilst reveling in the breeze generated by a triad of palm-leaf fans, the motive power being, in each case, a wife. After introducing this second set of sultanas—Constance, Charity, and the pregnant Martha—Rebecca presented the troupers as “Perfessor Cabot, anthropologist, Lady Omega, faith healer, and Miss Quinn, her beneficiary, all of ’em interestin’ and harmless English folk newly arrived from Peru on that big boat anchored in the bay.”
“Welcome to Duntopia.” Orrin Eggwort swept a spindly arm east to west in a gesture encompassing the whole island. “I am master of all I survey.” A bright smile broke through his beard. “Thou hast comely wives, Perfessor.”
“They aren’t my wives,” said Ralph. “Did I hear you correctly? Duntopia, not Utopia?”
“Dun—the dullest of all possible colors,” said Eggwort, nodding. “Shall I tell you what’s wrong with most communities built from scratch? They strive fer perfection, that’s what. They go a-whorin’ after excellence. Therein lies a recipe fer frustration, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I believe I follow your logic,” said Ralph.
“Here in Minor Zion, we don’t eschew ambition—we fight it tooth ’n’ nail. We don’t avoid mediocrity—we practice it. I daresay that during the past ten years we’ve achieved the by-Jiminy pinnacle of diminished expectations.” Eggwort clapped his hands. “Cleavewife Rebecca, our visitors look parched.”
The maroon pioneer disappeared into the hovel, returning with an earthenware jug and four tin cups.
“Shortly after I decided to let like-minded folks settle on my island,” the Emperor continued, “I started castin’ round fer a religion that harmonized with my personal philosophy. Unless your experimental community’s got the Lord on its side, chaos ’n’ anarchy will soon come a-callin’.” He flourished a leather-bound volume titled the Book of Mormon. “And then one day I stumbled on the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, cooked up a quarter-century ago by a confidence man with the auspiciously lackluster name of Joseph Smith.”
Rebecca decanted the water, providing each of her English guests with a full tin cup, then passed the fourth cup to Ascumiche, instructing him to share it with his fellow Peruvians.
“After Joseph Smith died, the Latter-Day Saints started splinterin’,” said Eggwort. “The Prairie Saints stayed in the Midwest. The Rocky Mountain Saints followed Brigham Young into Utah Territory. And the Galápagos Saints—that is, myself, the lesser emperors, and our wives—we come here. Ever read the Book of Mormon?”
“My tastes run more to Omar Khayyám,” said Ralph.
At a nod from her husband, Rebecca refilled Eggwort’s goblet, whereupon he began describing how the Latter-Day Saints’ sacred text had been set down centuries earlier by Mormon, “a semi-divine personage who spent his life a-listenin’ to ghostly prophets and spectral historians,” their preoccupation being the immigrant Jews of the New World. Eventually Mormon etched these sundry revelations onto gold plates in a language “long since chewed to oblivion by the teeth of time.” Then came the momentous autumn of 1823, when the angel Moroni led Smith to a New York mountain, Cumorah, where all fifteen plates lay buried. Though not a literate man, Smith had little trouble deciphering the Reformed Egyptian hieroglyphics, and his friends were happy to act as scribes while he translated the plates aloud.
“And what a wonderfully benumbin’ story they tell,” said Eggwort, “page after page of transplanted Hebrews spoutin’ Jeremiads, encounterin’ Jesus, and fightin’ epic battles. Show me a more violent book on the face of the Earth, and I’ll by-God eat it.”
Chloe winced internally, disoriented by the resemblance between the Latter-Day Saints’ sacred text and her Lost Thirteenth
Tribe scenario. The question, of course, was whether this coincidence would give the lie to her masquerade or provide it with additional credence.
Eggwort deposited the Book of Mormon in Ralph’s hands. “I promise you, Perfessor, exceptin’ fer some lines swiped from the Gospels, there ain’t a single verse herein a man might call galvanizin’, upliftin’, or edifyin’. Go ahead—take the test.”
Opening the volume at random, Ralph read, “‘And it came to pass that a long time passed away, and the lord of the vineyard said unto his servant: Come, let us go down into the vineyard, that we may labor in the vineyard. And it came to pass that the lord of the vineyard, and also the servant, went down into the vineyard to labor. And it came to pass that the servant said unto his master: Behold, look here. Behold the tree.’ Jacob chapter five, verses fifteen through sixteen.”
“Mormon ain’t let me down yet,” said Eggwort breathlessly.
Ralph passed the Book of Mormon to Solange, who cracked the spine, shut her eyes, and set her finger on a verse. “‘Wherefore, all things which are good cometh of God,’” she read, “‘and that which is evil cometh of the Devil; for the Devil is an enemy unto God, and fighteth against him continually, and inviteth and enticeth to sin, and to do that which is evil continually.’ Moroni chapter six, verse twelve.”
“See what I mean?” said Eggwort. “It’s as if Mormon done writ the whole thing with Duntopia in mind.”
Solange returned the volume to the Emperor. “How clever of Smith to realizeth that Reformed Egyptian should be renderedeth in the English of King James the First.”
“I’m confused,” said Ralph. “You hold Smith’s cult insipid, yet you’ve brought it to these shores in toto.”
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints ain’t no cult, Perfessor,” said Eggwort in a reproving tone. “We’re the most accurate edition of Christianity yet vouchsafed the human race. Just because a revelation is tedious and tiresome, that don’t make it false. The more I read these stultifyin’ stories, the more convinced I become that the author enjoyed intimate spiritual relations with the Lord God Jehovah Hisself. It would’ve been easy as pie fer Smith to hire some fancy poet to fix up his book, tossin’ in glittery words and highfalutin phrases, but our prophet done kept the sentences just the way they come a-gushin’ from his mouth, which fer my money proves their authenticity. Now, I assume you didn’t sail all the way from Peru out of any special hankerin’ to join our church—but you’re welcome to do so anyway, likewise your wives and brownie slaves, providin’ ever’body’s willin’ to swear an oath to me.”
“These women aren’t my wives,” Ralph reminded their host. “The Indians aren’t my slaves,” he added.
“When we spotted your vessel this afternoon,” said Eggwort, “Rebecca and Naomi took to speculatin’ it might be the Reverend Mr. Hallowborn’s brig, but then I realized that couldn’t be true, not such a queer-lookin’ thing. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that fat boat of yours was the ark of Noah, rigged fer ocean travel. So what sort of ship is the Covenant?”
“The ark of Noah,” said Ralph.
“Rigged for ocean travel,” added Solange.
“Here in Duntopia, we don’t make jokes at the Supreme Emperor’s expense,” said Eggwort.
“These brownies, as you call them, hail from a race living on the Rio Jequetepeque, direct descendants of Jacob’s forgotten son Serug,” said Ralph. “Two millennia ago the Serugites boarded Noah’s ark and journeyed from the Near East to South America, hoping to find a New Canaan. In other words, Your Excellency, you are hosting a delegation from the Lost Thirteenth Tribe of Israel!”
“You just said a mouthful,” Eggwort noted.
“I’m aware of that.”
“If this Serugite exodus really happened, it would be in the Book of Mormon.”
“Evidently Smith lost track of a gold plate or two,” said Ralph, a retort Chloe thought rather resourceful.
The Emperor frowned, apparently wondering whether to reject Professor Cabot’s narrative as a hoax or embrace it as a missing chapter from Smith’s epiphany. “These Indians are Jewish?” he said at last. “I’ve always appreciated Jews. In that regard, I’m rather like God.”
“After putting down roots near Puerto Etén,” Ralph continued, “the Serugites set about guarding the Covenant, performing their task so faithfully that God gifted them with a prophet, the woman in white who stands before you.”
Languidly Eggwort extricated himself from his hammock and, hooking his thumbs under his latex braces, swaggered up to Chloe. “You fancy yourself a prophet?”
“In the crucible of my bones all truths are fused,” she said, using the voice she’d devised for the wraith in The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, “dust becoming clay, clay becoming flesh, flesh becoming spirit. Myriad orbs of vision lie embedded in my being. I am Lady Omega of the ten thousand eyes.”
“Here in Duntopia,” said Eggwort, “we don’t take kindly to visitors holdin’ themselves superior to the Supreme Emperor.”
“Before the Almighty all creatures stand as equals, be they emperors or indigents, prophets or pariahs, caliphs or outcasts,” said Chloe. “Rest assured, Your Excellency, I did not come to imperil your earthly kingdom.”
Eggwort issued a hum of satisfaction leavened with skepticism, then strutted up to Solange. “If you’re not the Perfessor’s wife, then who are you?”
“Bianca Quinn, aerialist, born in Tunbridge Wells but raised in the West Indies,” Solange replied using her weirdest sea-witch voice (not an ideal choice, Chloe felt). “Eventually I ended up working for a circus in Lima. During my last performance I fell thirty feet to the ground. I feared I would never walk again, much less on a tightrope, but then my friends bore me by donkey cart to Lady Omega, who laid a hand on my splintered spine, and I was healed.”
The Emperor clucked his tongue, then marched back and forth before the Indians like a Turkish general reviewing his janissaries. “Lost Thirteenth Tribe, you say? Keepers of the ark?”
“With God’s guidance, we sailed the holy ark across the sea,” recited Cuniche, casting a beatific smile on Chloe.
“Century after century, we have guarded the sacred vessel,” said Yitogua, according his teacher a loving glance.
“Lady Omega has forbidden us to eat our enemies’ ashes,” said Pirohua.
“Lady Omega taught us not to shrink our enemies’ heads,” said Rapra.
“Cain asked his Creator, ‘Am I my brother’s coat of many colors?’” said Ascumiche.
As Chloe grimaced, Ralph declared, “He intended to say—”
“I know what he intended to say,” interrupted Eggwort. “I prefer the brownie’s version.”
“Because his wife disobeyed, God changed Lot’s jolly rod into a pillar of salt,” said Nitopari.
Ralph hastened to add, “By which he meant—”
“I know what he meant,” Eggwort insisted.
Cuniche began, “As punishment for the Towel of Babel, God rained foreskins on Sodom—” But before he could finish, Chloe pressed her hand against his lips, then turned to Eggwort, offering him the same smile a Times critic had once called the most luminous object on the London stage, not excluding limelight.
“One stormy night I was walking along the banks of the Jequetepeque when of a sudden my ten thousand eyes began to spin,” she said. “From each orb fell scores of tiny tear-shaped lanterns, streaming to Earth and showing me numberless lizards and countless tortoises, and lo, I beheld ninety and two shackled men, and lo, they drew forth their swords and fell upon the reptiles, and in the glow of the lightning and the gleam of the lanterns I beheld the blood of the beasts, that it was blameless!”
“No, those creatures are all hellspawn,” Eggwort protested. “Governor Stopsack showed me a letter from Bishop Wilberforce. The Great Winnowin’ will be a kick in the teeth to the Devil hisself.”
“Wilberforce has slandered the Encantadas fauna,” said Chloe. “His theology offendeth our
Creator. You must join me in thwarting the slaughter.”
Eggwort scratched his head vigorously, as if to recruit every brain cell into interpreting the prophet’s words. “Know what I gotta do? I gotta see the brownies’ boat up close. If I judge it to be the true Genesis ark, I’m a-thinkin’ that my thoughts will become the clearer.”
“You may visit the Covenant at your earliest convenience.”
With one hand Eggwort brought the Book of Mormon to his chest, as if applying a poultice, using his free hand to brush Chloe’s sleeve. “Art thou truly a Heaven-sent messenger?”
She laughed and said, “I am what I am.”
* * *
With the coming of darkness Chloe, Ralph, and Solange climbed into the longboat, whereupon Cuniche and Nitopari rowed them across the bay, the other Huancabambas following in the cutter. The Indians pulled mightily against the current, the watery path illuminated by a full moon shining through a winding-sheet of cirrus clouds. Speaking over the boom of the surf and the splash of the oars, the English adventurers soon reached a consensus: the rehearsal had gone swimmingly. True, Lady Omega’s followers had garbled their lines, but the Emperor hadn’t seemed to mind. The Serugites were a storytelling people, after all, not bookish like their Israelite forebears, so naturally their recollections of Holy Writ would have degenerated over the centuries.
The following morning, shortly after dawn, Eggwort appeared on the weather deck, having been ferried to the Covenant in a dinghy rowed by Rebecca and Hagar. Solemnly he marched from fore to aft and back again, caressing the sacred sails, fingering the holy shrouds, turning the consecrated helm. His tour complete, he sank to his knees, prostrating himself before the mainmast like a pagan worshiping an oaken idol. He pressed his lips to the planks, bringing to this devotion the same ardor he might have invested in kissing the feet of Joseph Smith.
“Orrin’s mighty impressed,” Rebecca told Chloe.
“This here ark’s as genuine as the gold plates of Cumorah,” added Hagar.