“Christianity is the religion of woman, Prophet of Allah…woman glorified and forgiven.”
“Woman is the servant of man!” Mohammed exclaimed.
“Christianity belittles man. It condemns the sword. It sanctifies the eunuch!”
“What!” Mohammed stood up. Only then did I realize how tall and masculine he was, as compared to the Nazarene. He waved his clenched fist. “Christianity shall never pollute the East!”
“The East, then, shall continue to feel the joy of the senses. The East shall continue to sing of the lips and breasts of women; of the prowess of men in battle. The East shall exclaim forever ‘Allah is the only God and Mohammed is His Prophet!’ ”
Abu-Bekr raised my hands to his lips. “Stranger, your words are sweeter than honey, and your thought deeper than the ocean. You have opened the door wide, and let the light of truth fall at the feet of the Prophet—who was born in the desert and whose advent the ancient and sacred books of your great country announce.”
“Prophet of Allah, what is the symbol of Christianity…a cross…a man wriggling upon a tree, helpless and ridiculed! And to what purpose this suffering? Is it that a man may receive forever in Paradise an incomparable reward? Shall his joy make up for his agony?” I laughed. “The Paradise of the Christians knows neither man nor woman, but vague sexless wraiths, wandering aimlessly and disconsolately about, remembering how much more agreeable was the earth, even when enduring pain.”
“Who can accept such a religion?” asked Abu-Bekr.
“It is the creed of eunuchs and of women!”
Mohammed, his eyes burning with a curious mixture of passion and dream, stood gazing into the distance. Was he wrestling with himself to overcome the final doubt? Did he see beyond the walls of the room, his followers, lovers of the sword and lovers of woman, in endless phalanxes, march against the West, conquering the Nazarene,—the soft preacher of mercy and self-denial?
Closing his eyes, he spoke: “The sincere servants of God shall have a certain provision in Paradise…they shall be honored; they shall be placed in gardens of pleasure, leaning on couches opposite one another; a cup shall be carried around unto them filled from a limpid fountain, for the delight of those who drink. Near them shall lie the virgins of Paradise, refraining their looks from beholding any besides their spouses, having large black eyes, and resembling the eggs of an ostrich covered with feathers.”
He breathed rapidly, and tottered. We grasped him in our arms, and stretched him gently upon the couch. Two spots of foam dotted the corners of his mouth, and whitened his beard.
His breathing became gradually regular again. He opened his eyes. “Thus speaks Allah,—may his name be praised through Mohammed, his Prophet.”
“Allah is the only God and Mohammed is His Prophet,” we answered.
Mohammed stood up again and exclaimed: “Every spot of the earth that believes not in Allah and Mohammed shall from now on be darul harb,—a place of endless conflict!”
Mohammed turned toward the East and knelt. We did likewise.
“Thy will be done, Allah, God of the world.”
“Allah is the only God and Mohammed is His Prophet.”
XXXIII: KOTIKOKURA LOSES A FRIEND—MECCA GLOWS LIKE A RUBY—THE PROPHET CONQUERS—“I MUST GO, CARTAPHILUS”
KOTIKOKURA came running toward me. “Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha! The tortoise…the tortoise!”
“What about the tortoise, my friend?”
“Gone…gone! Ca-ta-pha!”
“Did you not watch your sweetheart, Kotikokura?”
He nodded violently as if to frantically deny my aspersion.
“Then how could the tortoise be gone?”
“Gone, Ca-ta-pha! Gone!”
Kotikokura seemed so disturbed that I promised I would help him search for it. We looked through the streets, in deserted gardens, in abandoned houses. Kotikokura called out from time to time: “Salome! Salome!” I asked many people if they had seen a tortoise. Most of them had never heard of such an animal, and my description only made them smile. “Can such an animal live?” they asked. One old woman hissed through her toothless mouth, “Tortoise? I saw one when I was a child. A tortoise lives forever…and always changes masters.”
“Were you ever in Persia?” I asked.
She walked away, grumbling.
Kotikokura’s eyes filled with tears.
“Salome deserts even her favorites, it seems, Kotikokura.”
“Salome,” he muttered.
I could not tell whether he meant the woman or the tortoise.
“Salome does not matter just now, Kotikokura. We are called by more important affairs. Christianity must be destroyed!”
Kotikokura grumbled, “Salome.”
“Mohammed, the true Prophet of Allah, shall vanquish the Man on the Cross.”
“Salome.”
“And we shall live, Kotikokura! We need no longer tremble before the name of Jesus! We shall live!”
“Salome.”
“Comfort yourself. We shall meet her again, Kotikokura. We have passed the bend of the road. Once more the path before us is endless…”
“Oh, that I had a daughter who might find favor in your eyes, Cartaphilus!” exclaimed Abu-Bekr, as I crossed the threshold. “Alas! My two remaining daughters are aged, and already married.”
“Cartaphilus considers you as a father, nevertheless, Abu-Bekr.”
He embraced me.
“Abu-Bekr,” I said, “does not blood always speak?”
“More powerful is blood than swords and spears.”
“And more enduring than rock, Abu-Bekr.”
He nodded.
“I am a Hindu, Abu-Bekr…but my ancestors came from a far-off country.”
“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.”
M
ohammed’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, breathless, 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.”
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“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.
My First Two Thousand Years; the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 16