The Etruscan (63 page)

Both Lucumones watched me expectantly. “Why don’t you eat, Turms?” they asked.

I shook my head. “I cannot.”

They nodded and confessed, “True. Neither can we, for it is the food of the gods.”

With the golden fork I stirred the pieces of meat floating in the sauce. They did not look unpalatable, nor did the steam arising from the dish smell bad. “What is it?” I asked.

“It is hedgehog,” they explained. “The hedgehog is the oldest animal. With the coming of winter it curls into a sleep and forgets time, and in the spring it awakens again. That is why it is the food of the gods.”

With his fingertips the old Lucumo picked up a boiled and peeled egg which he held up for me to see. “The egg is the beginning of everything,” he said. “The egg is the symbol of birth and return, the symbol of immortality.”

He placed the egg in the hollow of the shallow sacrificial cup, and the younger Lucumo and I likewise peeled our eggs and placed them in our cups. Then the Volterran Lucumo rose, carefully took a sealed clay jar, opened the stopper, dug out the wax with a flint knife and poured the bitter herb wine into our sacrificial cups.

“The moment has arrived,” he said. “The gods are coming. Let us drink the drink of immortality to enable our eyes to withstand their radiance.”

I emptied my cup as did they and the drink burned my throat and my belly became numb. Following their example I then ate the egg that I had peeled.

The old Lucumo said in a low voice, “You have drunk the drink of immortality with us, Turms. You have eaten the egg of immortality with us. Now be silent. The gods are arriving.”

As the three of us tremblingly watched, the two white stone cones began to grow before our eyes. The bright flames of the torches seemed to dim and the cones glowed more brightly than the flames. Then they disappeared and I saw her, the goddess, taking shape and resting lightly on the couch, lovelier than all earthly women. She smiled lest we fear her and her oval eyes radiated glory. But her tresses wriggled alive and on her head was the fearful mural crown.

Then he appeared, the mutable. At first he trifled with us. We felt him as a cold blast and the yellowish dull flames of the torches flickered violently. Then we felt him as water and we struggled as though drowning to breathe through the invisible water running through our nostrils and mouth to our lungs. As fire he felt our skin and limbs until we thought we would be charred alive. But not a mark remained and he cooled us until our skin grew as cold as though we had been anointed with mint ointment. His form floated in the air above us as a gigantic sea horse. Finally the goddess Turan tired of his play and extended her divine hand. Voltumna grew calm and descended as dazzling light to behave like a human in our company.

I did not have to serve them, for the hedgehog dwindled until the bowl was empty. But how they partook of the meal I cannot explain. The level of the wine in the mixing vessel likewise fell lower and lower until the final drop disappeared and the vessel was dry. They were not hungry since gods do not feel hunger and thirst like humans, but having arrived as our guests in recognizable guises they ate the holy meal and drank the holy wine as an indication of friendliness.

The earthly food appeared to please them and earthly wine to rise to their heads as happens at a feast, for the goddess smiled capriciously and looked temptingly at me with her oval eyes as she absently wound her arms around Voltumna’s neck. He, the mutable, looked at me intently as though he were tempted to test my endurance.

“Alas, you Lucumones,” he said suddenly, “perhaps you are immortal, but eternal you are not.” His voice rang like metal and rumbled like a storm, yet it held incalculable envy.

The goddess Turan stroked his hair soothingly and forbade him to seek a quarrel. “Be not afraid of him,” she said in a voice that rang like silver bells and cooed like a dove. “He, Voltumna, is a restless god. But understand him. We others appear in many guises and rest in our holy images, but he has no permanent form. Ceaseless changing, expanding then contracting, warming then cooling, storm then calm, makes him restless.”

Voltumna’s outline began to waver and glitter, but Turan hastily placed her hands on his shoulders, kissed the corners of his mouth and eyes and said, “This guise is the most beautiful and complete in which I have ever met you. Remain so and do not make me nervous by suddenly changing into something entirely different.”

Apparently Voltumna’s self-esteem was flattered by the admiration of the brilliant goddess, although he well knew that in his mutability he was the supreme god since he created all that existed and lived on earth while the other gods merely affected in their own ways that which he created. Seeing that, I understood at last the vanity and rivalry of the gods and why they could be persuaded and bribed with promises and offerings.

As the thought formed in my mind I suddenly felt the warning pressure of slender fingers of fire on my shoulder. Turning, I saw to my amazement that my guardian spirit’s winged being of light was sitting behind me on the edge of the couch. For the second time in my life she appeared to me and without a word I knew that now I must take more care than ever before. Seeing her I knew in my heart that I had longed for her more than for anything on earth. I felt her living nearness as though molten metal were surging through my body.

When I looked around I saw that both the other Lucumones’ guardian spirits had also appeared to shield them with their radiant wings. The spirits looked at one another inquisitively as though comparing one another, and their wings quivered. But in my eyes my guardian spirit was the fairest.

Voltumna extended a beckoning hand and said accusingly, “Alas, you Lucumones, what cautious hosts you are in calling your spirits to protect you. What do you fear?”

The goddess Turan likewise said, “You insult me as a goddess and offend me by preferring to loll on the couches with your guardian spirits rather than with me. You yourselves invited me and not I you. You at least, Turms, must send away your guardian spirit immediately. Perhaps I shall descend for a moment and lay my hand on your neck.”

The wings of my guardian spirit quivered with rage for she was very hot-tempered. The goddess Turan looked at her critically as a woman looks at another woman and remarked, “Undoubtedly she is fair, your winged creature, but surely she cannot compete with me. After all, I am a goddess and as eternal as the earth. She is only an immortal like you.”

I was distressed, but as I looked at the radiant face of my guardian spirit I felt much closer to her than to the goddess. “I cannot send her away since she arrived uninvited,” I said quickly. A sudden perception made my voice tremble. “Perhaps someone even higher than you has sent her.”

I could not continue, for at that very moment a motionless being taller than mortals or gods took shape in the middle of the tent. A cold mantle of light covered him and bands of cloth circled his face so that it was invisible. He was he whom even the gods do not know—he whose names and numbers no one knows, neither humans nor earth-bound gods. When I saw his motionless form both the earth gods faded to shadows and my guardian spirit covered me with her wings as though to indicate that we were one, she and I. Then I tasted metal in my mouth as though I were already dead, a storm roared in my ears, I smelled the odor of ice in my nostrils and fire blinded my eyes.

I awakened to consciousness on my low couch. The torches had gone out, wine had splashed onto the wooden floor of the tent, grain had dropped from the sheaves, crushed fruit lay on the floor. Both the cones rose whitely from their cushions on the gods’ high couch and I realized that they were lighted by the gray dawn that shone through the cracks. But the wreaths around them were faded and black as though scorched. I myself seemed as faded and scorched as though I had lost years of my life during that single night. My limbs were numb and stiff with cold.

We awakened, I think, at the same time and sat up holding our heads. Finally we looked at one another.

“Did I dream?” I asked.

The old Lucumo of Volsinii shook his head. “No. It it was a dream, we all had the same dream.”

The Vblterran Lucumo said, “We saw the veiled god. How can we still be alive?”

“It means the changing of an era,” the old Lucumo surmised. “The former is ending and a new begins. The veiled god has never before appeared during a feast of the gods. But as Lucumones we recognized him. Perhaps we are the last Lucumones and that is why he came.”

The Volterran Lucumo lifted the curtain and peered out. “The sky is cloudy,” he said. “It is a raw morning.”

The servants came immediately, bringing us a steaming morning drink of hot milk and honey. I drank greedily and the drink warmed my body and made me feel better. They brought us water so that we might wash our faces, hands and feet. I noticed that my shirt was smeared and that my nose had bled. My belly smarted as though I had eaten deadly poison.

The old Lucumo came to me. “You have shared a feast of the gods Turms; you have drunk the wine of immortality. You are no longer your former self. Soon you will realize that nothing is the same. Now do you recognize and acknowledge yourself, Turms, the son of Porsenna the son of Larkhna?”

“Not so,” I said quietly. “The earth is my mother, the heavens my father. The sun is my brother, the moon my sister. I acknowledge myself. I was born a Lucumo among humans. I am Turms the immortal. I acknowledge that I have returned and that I shall return again. But why, I do not yet know.”

“Remove your soiled shirt as you will some day remove your earthly body like a worn garment. Step out of the tent of the gods as naked as when you were born into a human body. Kiss your mother. Raise your face to your father. We greet you, you Lucumo, you immortal.”

They drew aside the curtains. Beneath a gray cloudy sky I saw the silent faces of the people. A gust of wind blew in my face and the curtains fluttered as I doffed my shirt and stepped out of the tent. I knelt to kiss the ground and as I did so the clouds were rent and the sun burst upon me with warm rays. Had I still doubted I could have done so no longer. My father, the heavens, recognized me as his son. My brother, the sun, embraced me with gentle rays. A miracle had happened.

Stronger than the roar of the storm the cry burst forth from the crowd, “The Lucumo, the Lucumo has come!” The people waved their garments and shouted again and again. The other two Lucumones, my guides along the path, stepped out of the tent and spread the holy mantle of a Lucumo on my shoulders. With the mantle blessed peace and joy enfolded me and melted my heart. I was no longer empty, no longer naked, no longer cold.

Nor have I anything else to relate. Pebble by pebble I have held my life in my hands and dropped the pebbles back into the simplest black vessel that stands before the image of the goddess. In them I will recognize myself, from them I will remember myself when I return and as a stranger descend the steps of the tomb and pluck the stones into my hand. Perhaps the cheap vessel will be broken. Perhaps the dust of centuries will have covered the floor of my tomb. Perhaps the sarcophagus with its beautiful sculpted images will have disappeared and my body become dust among dust. But the pebbles will remain. Who will read them?

Thus I know that I shall recognize myself as I stoop to pick the smooth pebbles from the dust of centuries. I shall ascend the narrow stairs back to the light of earth. With living eyes I shall see the lovely cone of the goddess’s mountain across the valley from my tomb. I shall know and remember myself. And then the storm will rage.

So I believe, I, Turms the immortal. Although this that I have written may disappear, though the ink may fade, the papyrus decay and the languages in which I have written be no longer understood, by writing I have bound to every pebble of my life that which I wish to remember.

My hands are trembling, my breath is beginning to rattle. The ten years are ended and finally the moment of my death is near when I may be liberated from my body of clay. But my people thrive, the cattle have increased, the fields have borne harvests and mothers have given birth to healthy children. I have taught them to live correctly even after I am gone.

If they asked me for omens I said, “For that there are augurs, harus-pices and lightning priests. Believe them. Disturb me not with trifling matters.”

I let the council enact the laws and the people ratify them; the judges judged and the officials carried out just sentences. I merely warned them, “The law must protect the weak against the strong. The strong do not need protection.”

But as I spoke I remembered Hanna, who had loved me, and my child as yet unborn whom she had taken with her. They were weak and I could not protect them. As soon as possible I had sought them from the ends of the land and even in Phoenicia. But no trace of them could be found.

I felt the ache of guilt and prayed, “You supreme being above the earth gods, you who cover your face, you immovable, only you have the power to erase my crime. You can call back time, you can raise the dead from the bottom of the sea. Make amends for my cruel deed and give me peace. Although I tire of this body’s prison I promise to redeem the allotted ten years from the earth gods for the good of my people. But let nothing bad have happened to Hanna and the child because of my cowardice.”

I did not make an offering. How could one sacrifice to the veiled gods whose names and numbers no one knew? I merely prayed. I, a Lucumo, through whom blessings flowed on my people, could not help myself.

And then a miracle occurred. When I had lived among my people as a Lucumo for many years, two simple wayfarers sought me. Unexpectedly, without omens, they arrived. I saw Hanna and recognized her immediately although she bowed her head humbly before me as did her husband. She had grown into a beautiful country woman in the prime of life. But her eyes were sad when she raised her face to look at me.

Her husband’s face was kind and open. They had wandered far for my sake and now held hands tightly in fear.

“Lucumo Turms,” they said, “we are poor people but we had to come before you to ask a great gift.”