“Arabia?” he asked, anxiously.
“From Arabia, also, but more recently from Palestine. My ancestors were Jews, Semites as your people, speaking a language akin to yours and worshiping the same God.”
Abu-Bekr raised his arms: “May Allah be praised, and His Prophet live forever!”
“I was drawn to your country, as the water of the rain is drawn by the thirsty earth. The country of my fathers has been destroyed, Abu-Bekr. What part of the world is left me, save Arabia?”
“Arabia is your country, Cartaphilus.”
“Arabia is my country, and Abu-Bekr my father.”
“As true as Allah is the only God, and Mohammed is His Prophet.”
I stood up. “My country has been razed to the ground, and my people dispersed by those who profess the weak and effeminate religion of the Nazarene. Abu-Bekr and the Prophet shall avenge us!”
He stood up in his turn. “They shall avenge you, Cartaphilus, I swear it by Allah, and the beard of the Prophet!”
We reseated ourselves.
“Mohammed is wiser than all men, and nearer to Allah,—but for that reason, a little visionary.”
“Very true. Had it not been for me, he would have gone into the desert to speak with the angels, while our enemies slaughtered his followers.”
“It is for us, then, to attend to all practical affairs.”
“Yes, Cartaphilus.”
“It is not meet for me, a stranger, however, to be too much in evidence.”
“That is true.”
“Let it be known, then, that the Hindu merchant has bought all your camels and your wheat, and that he has gone home. Let the people see the animals laden, driven through the streets by many slaves. But the faithful slaves at night shall drive them back. Our enemies will think us weakened, and will attack us. Then shall Prophet of Allah triumph, and conquer the world!”
Abu-Bekr was silent.
“I understand, Abu-Bekr. You need the gold. That is why you wished to sell the animals. Well, you shall have both gold and animals.”
He raised my hands to his lips. “Allah has sent His angel Gabriel to His Prophet, that he may tell him the truth, and his other angel Cartaphilus, that the truth may be heard by all men.”
Mohammed’s camp seemed deserted. Many of the believers were sent about the town, instructed to look dejected and humble. Our enemies jeered at them, shouting: “Where is your Prophet, fool? Has he spoken to the angel again? What did the angel say to him?” Frequently, they slapped their faces or spat upon them. The believers, more Christian than the followers of the Nazarene, bent their backs and grumbled, “Mercy, masters.”
Meanwhile, Abu-Bekr, and ten chiefs, planned the attack. I moved into a secluded house on the outskirts of the city, where I received daily reports. From time to time, Abu-Bekr came to consult me. I suggested some of the methods used by the Romans, and illustrated them by means of chess.
Abu-Bekr presented me with two virgins, that time might not weigh too heavily upon me. “Woman is after all the best toy that Allah has invented, provided she is obedient and faithful,” he said.
Abu-Bekr decided to attack the enemy at night, as I had advised. Thanks to my gold, his men were well equipped and the granaries filled to the brim.
The people, considering themselves quite secure henceforth, slept peacefully. A few watchmen wandered about the city, calling out from time to time: “I see you! I see you!” Novices only trembled, but the more experienced thieves laughed in their beards, knowing that human eyes could not pierce the heavy black curtain which Night, their friend and benefactor, had lowered over the earth. Nor were they afraid of the dogs that barked disconsolately, answering one another, like endless echoes. They could easily be bribed by a piece of meat, dipped in poison, or be silenced by a firm grip about the throat.
We stood upon the top of one of the hills. A crescent moon, sharp and dazzling as a scimitar, and a star like a diamond upon the hilt, hung above us.
“Day shall break much sooner than usual, Cartaphilus. Allah will shorten this night for the sake of His Prophet, Mohammed.”
Masses of flames began to appear at many angles of the city. The black window of Night cracked, as if large rocks had been hurled against it.
“Allah be praised, and His Prophet live forever!” Abu-Bekr exclaimed, and looking at the moon, began to intone an ancient Arabic war-song:
“We are the children of Allah,
When our spears grow rusty,
We make them bright
With the blood of our enemies.”
‘Is he Nero?’ I thought. ‘Am I witnessing once again the burning of Rome?’
The officers sang the last words of each verse. I hummed.
Mecca glowed like an enormous ruby in a dark hall. The singing mingled with the wails and lamentations of men and women, and the weird and desperate howls of animals.
“Allah is the only God, and Mohammed is His Prophet!”
“Assassins!”
“Scoundrels!”
“Incendiaries! “
“Allah is the only God, and Mohammed is His Prophet!”
“We are the children of Allah,
When our spears grow rusty,
We make them bright
With the blood of our enemies.”
The flames paled in the morning lights, while the smoke became darker and heavier.
For two days, messengers dropped at our feet, and when their voices became articulate, exclaimed: “Allah be praised! Our enemies wallow in their blood like slaughtered oxen! Allah is the only God and Mohammed is His Prophet!”
Upon a tall, white steed Mohammed, dressed in a cloak of white silk and a turban shining with jewels, rode slowly through the city. In front of him, a hundred priests chanted, and exclaimed from time to time: “Allah is the only God, and Mohammed is His Prophet.” Behind him, Abu-Bekr, the staff of officers and I, rode on small black horses, and for a few miles in our rear, men, women and children walked or rode, singing martial airs and screaming from time to time, at the top of their voices: “Allah is the only God, and Mohammed is His Prophet.”
“This was the ambition of Jesus,—to ride triumphantly amid believers, proclaiming him the King of the Jews. But instead, he dragged his cross, hooted and mocked by the populace,—for it was ordered by Allah that only his true Prophet should be victorious.”
“Allah is just and His mercy is eternal,” answered Mohammed.
“The Prophet of Allah is not only the King of his people, but the King of the world.”
“Kings become old and die.”
“Their kingdoms remain.”
He turned and looked at me, his eyes dazzling like ebony ablaze. “I must go, Cartaphilus, but thou wilt tarry…”
I was startled. Was my destiny reiterated and reinforced? Was this the echo of the anathema, softened into a blessing?
As a hurricane that uproots mighty oaks, crumbles houses, and whirls in the air huge animals like withered leaves or feathers dropped from sparrows’ backs, were the fury and the might of the Prophet’s army.
The Word always succeeded the Sword, and the conquered were either persuaded of the truth, or considered it more prudent and more profitable to pretend belief. Thus all Arabia shouted: “Allah is the only God and Mohammed is His Prophet.” The desert and the mountains trembled with the echo.
XXXIV: CATASTROPHE—I WORK A MIRACLE—I RAISE A COFFIN—ABU-BEKR PAYS HIS DEBT
KOTIKOKURA turned his face to the East, and bowing several times, grumbled: “Allah… Mohammed.”
“Kotikokura, what is the meaning of this? Have you forgotten that Ca-ta-pha is the only God?”
“Ca-ta-pha is God. Allah is God. Mohammed is God.”
“Heathen! Barbarian! Are you not ashamed to have more than one God?”
He looked at me, startled.
“Perhaps you are right, Kotikokura. If there is one God, why not many?”
He grinned.
Abu-Bekr entered, breathl
ess, his beard disheveled, and his hands trembling. “Cartaphilus, the Prophet is dead!”
“The Prophet cannot die, Abu-Bekr.”
“Alas,” he whispered into my ear, “he was poisoned.”
“Has the news spread among the believers?”
“Not yet. At this very moment, millions are praying to the Prophet…but the Prophet is no more!”
Abu-Bekr seated himself upon the floor, his head between his hands. “The Prophet is no more! The Prophet is no more,” he groaned.
I seated myself next to him. “The Prophet cannot die.”
“What shall we do, Cartaphilus?” He pulled at his beard nervously, and knit his brows until his forehead seemed divided into two.
“A Prophet must die that he may live forever. He who lives too long dies in truth.”
“Cartaphilus, you have brought truth to the Prophet; bring truth to his followers.”
“Has the culprit been discovered?”
“Who knows? Should not the culprit be among the fifty who have perished in the river at dawn?”
“It is always wiser to include many, that the one may not be missed.”
He continued to groan, “The Prophet is no more! The Prophet is no more!”
“Abu-Bekr, return and announce to all that the Prophet has died.”
Abu-Bekr looked at me, dismayed. “Shall we survive when he is no longer?”
I continued, without answering his remark: “– —but that tonight, he shall be resurrected, and the Archangel Gabriel shall carry him to Paradise in his arms.”
Abu-Bekr remained silent.
“It shall take place, do not fear.”
“Have you the power to resurrect the dead? Are you a messenger from Heaven?”
“I am… Cartaphilus.”
He looked at me, his left eye half-closed. “My plan was different, Cartaphilus.”
“What was your plan?”
“To bury the Prophet secretly and permit one of the priests to assume his guise.”
“What man can be entrusted with so much power and so great a secret, Abu-Bekr? Should the faithful believe, are not the eyes of our enemies sharper than theirs?”
“It is true, Cartaphilus. Their eyes are sharper, and their ears wide open.”
“The Prophet shall rise to Heaven, Abu-Bekr, do not fear…and you shall be his Voice on Earth.”
“But can it really be done?”
“Abu-Bekr, the bee travels over a hundred fields, but returns at last to the hive. The bird flies over seas and mountains, but in the spring finds his old nest again. The ant builds palaces under the ground, and the mole considers the sun superfluous. Angels, invisible, visit the Earth and the souls of holy men rise to Heaven. Who shall fathom Life’s mysterious forces, Abu-Bekr? Who shall understand Allah’s will?”
Abu-Bekr nodded thoughtfully.
“The Hindus are an ancient race, and their priests are learned beyond all others.”
“Have you ever made a man rise, Cartaphilus?”
I related my entrance into China. He remained silent for a long while, his hands upon his knees.
He rose. “Allah himself inspires you.”
“Go then, Abu-Bekr,—announce the death and the resurrection of the true Prophet, and order all believers to come at sunset to the Mountain of the Light.”
“It shall be done as you say.”
“Then—return to me, unseen by the rest.”
“I shall return…unseen.”
The sky was heavy with clouds, and a storm seemed imminent. No more propitious moment could have been desired. The people, awed by the weather, attributed their emotion entirely to the great event which was about to take place. The old men remembered that on the day of the Prophet’s birth, the heavens were just as black, and a terrible storm followed,—but only the wicked were hurt, and their houses demolished. The good remained unscathed.
“Let the unbelievers purify their hearts now, and repent!” exclaimed, at intervals, the priests. “God shall have mercy only upon those who believe. So says the Prophet.”
Thousands sang, wept, or called to Allah to witness the anguish of their souls. Abu-Bekr, Kotikokura and I were hidden by a rock which had the shape of a great bowl, halfway overtipped. The body of Mohammed, dressed in a white silk robe, his face dazzling, lay outstretched in the open coffin at our feet.
Suddenly the clouds were rent as if by a long white whip. “Now, Abu-Bekr!” I whispered.
“The Prophet lives forever!” he exclaimed.
The priests burst into a wild chant. The people shouted: “The Prophet lives forever!”
The coffin began to rise out of the enclosure, overtopped the rock and remained in mid-air. A gasp, as if a colossal smothered abyss suddenly flooded with air,—and then a shout that stifled the thunder-clap.
“The Prophet ascends to Allah!”
“The angels are lifting him up!”
“Look! Look!”
“Allah is the only God and Mohammed is His Prophet!”
“He is rising! He is rising!”
“He lives forever!”
The lightning flashed in quick succession. The thunderclaps beat against the mountain like Herculean hammers.
The people fell upon their faces, weeping, groaning, singing.
“Allah is the only God and Mohammed is His Prophet!”
Still hidden by the rock, Abu-Bekr called out: “Hearken all!”
“He speaks! He speaks!”
“The Prophet speaks!”
“Hearken all!”
“The Prophet lives!”
“The Prophet speaks!”
“Hearken! Hearken!”
Out of a cloud of smoke rose the voice.
“Go forth among the rest of men and proclaim the Word of the Prophet!”
“We shall go forth, Prophet of Allah!”
“We shall go forth!”
“Accept all those who believe as brothers, and slay the infidels everywhere. So commands Allah!”
“Allah is the only God and Mohammed is His Prophet!” Abu-Bekr chanted.
“We obey the Prophet.”
“You have seen the Prophet rise.”
“We have seen him rise.”
“The angels are lifting him to Heaven, where all those who believe in him shall follow him.”
“We believe! We believe!”
Again, but more distant, the spectral voice proceeded out of the clouds.
“That you may never forget, I bequeath unto you the Kaaba upon which I have placed the crescent moon, taken from Heaven for a night. It is my gift to the faithful ones, that they may never forget.”
“We shall never forget!”
“Allah is the only God and Mohammed is His Prophet.” From the peak of the hills, the voice continued: “Return now, children of Allah. Let not your eyes gaze again upon the Mountain of Light, until the morning, lest you be stricken blind.”
“We return, Prophet of Allah.”
“Return!”
The priests sang:
“We are the children of Allah
When our spears grow rusty
We make them bright
With the blood of our enemies.”
The people repeated the refrain. Their voices mingled with the thunderclaps.
The coffin with the body of the Prophet descended slowly as if held by a rope. We carried it to a ditch which we had dug previously, and buried it, covering the grave with a rock. Suddenly, the clouds began to disperse, as if some over-industrious divinity had swept them into a corner. We mounted our horses.
“Behold I too can work miracles, Jesus of Nazareth! “I exclaimed. “Your name and your followers shall be as dust underneath the hoofs of Mohammed’s horses.”
“Allah is the only God and Mohammed is His Prophet!” Abu-Bekr shouted.
The resurrection of Mohammed gave his religion a new spiritual significance and united the followers as if a gigantic hand, stretching from the Red Sea to the outer rim of the desert
, closed into a firm fist. There was no doubt that Mohammedanism—as the new sect was beginning to be called—would prosper luxuriantly as a young and powerful tree.
My work was accomplished. The Crescent would overtop the Cross, I was certain of it. Meanwhile, I could abide patiently my time, catching once more the thread of my soul, entangled among the recent events.
I decided to leave. Abu-Bekr did not persuade me to remain. He had begun to think of me in terms of the superhuman, and accepted my word as irrevocable. Perhaps, too, he feared me. Could I not, if I wished, claim to be Mohammed returned to life, or his appointed successor?
True to the word of the Prophet, however, he paid his debts with a large interest, and we took farewell of each other, promising to meet in Paradise, and sit on opposite couches, rejoicing in the bounties of Allah and His Prophet, Mohammed.
XXXV: I SEEK MY SOUL—BAGDAD CHATTERS—I HIRE FIVE HUNDRED CRAFTSMEN—ALI HASAN AND MAMDUH BARAZI—THE MULTIPLICATION TABLE OF LOVE
“KOTIKOKURA, I must find my soul. Cartaphilus cannot live without a soul, or with a soul, entangled among trifles, like the roots of a tree. Cartaphilus must hold his soul in the palm of his hand, like a perfect crystal. He must watch the shadows of his existence dance upon it, and guess what strange things are the realities casting them.”
Kotikokura grinned.
“But my soul, Kotikokura, will not stay motionless upon my palm. It is quicksilver, not crystal. It slides off, breaking into many pieces. I must gather them together, and it is not easy.”
“Ca-ta-pha will find.”
“Where? Once—long ago—you whirled about me, Kotikokura and your head pointed the way; but it is not wise to address Fate twice in the same fashion. She remembers, and being a woman of caprices, may purposely misguide us. This time, my friend, we must reason our path…and what is more fallacious than reason? Here, however, we cannot remain. Come! Let us wander aimlessly, and perhaps our feet, wiser than our heads, shall tell us whither to go and where to stop.”
In front of us four slaves urged the oxen that pulled the two carts filled with our belongings,—mainly books, curious bits of art and part of my gold and precious stones hidden in statuary and vases.
[The Wandering Jew 1] - My First Two Thousand Years the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 17