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.
4.
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.”
Hanna related how she had jumped into the sea one night from the Phoenician slave ship near Greek Poseidonia to escape the fate that Arsinoe had planned for her. But the waves had carried her gently to shore where she had met a friendly shepherd. He had concealed her and protected her and after the birth of my son he had cared for the boy as well. In time she had realized that she loved him.
“Good fortune came to us with the boy,” said Hanna, “and we have our little house, our fields and vineyards and also cattle. But we have had no other children, so that we still have only your son, Turms.”
The man looked at me pleadingly. “The boy believes me to be his father, thrives with us and loves the land. He has learned to play the pipes and to compose songs. He has not an unkind thought. But we have grieved because of him, not knowing what to do. Finally we had to come here before you. Do you demand your son or will you permit us to keep him?”
Hanna said, “You are a Lucumo. You know better than we what would give the boy happiness.”
With a quivering heart I asked, “Where is he, your son?”
I followed them outside and saw a curly-haired youth playing the pipes on the edge of the market place. So beautifully did he play that people had gathered to listen. His skin was burned brown and his eyes were large and
