|
|
|
Prev
| Next
| Contents
THE INJUDICIOUS PRAYERS OF POMBO THE IDOLATER
Pombo the idolater had prayed to Ammuz a simple prayer, a necessary
prayer, such as even an idol of ivory could very easily grant, and
Ammuz has not immediately granted it. Pombo had therefore prayed to
Tharma for the overthrow of Ammuz, an idol friendly to Tharma, and in
doing this offended against the etiquette of the gods. Tharma refused
to grant the little prayer. Pombo prayed frantically to all the gods
of idolatry, for though it was a simple matter, yet it was very
necessary to a man. And gods that were older than Ammuz rejected the
prayers of Pombo, and even gods that were younger and therefore of
greater repute. He prayed to them one by one, and they all refused to
hear him; nor at first did he think at all of the subtle, divine
etiquette against which he had offended. It occurred to him all at
once as he prayed to his fiftieth idol, a little green-jade god whom
the Chinese know, that all the idols were in league against him. When
Pombo discovered this he resented his birth bitterly, and made
lamentation and alleged that he was lost. He might have been seen then
in any part of London haunting curiosity-shops and places where they
sold idols of ivory or of stone, for he dwelt in London with others of
his race though he was born in Burmah among those who hold Ganges
holy. On drizzly evenings of November's worst his haggard face could
be seen in the glow of some shop pressed close against the glass,
where he would supplicate some calm, cross-legged idol till policemen
moved him on. And after closing hours back he would go to his dingy
room, in that part of our capital where English is seldom spoken, to
supplicate little idols of his own. And when Pombo's simple, necessary
prayer was equally refused by the idols of museums, auction-rooms,
shops, then he took counsel with himself and purchased incense and
burned it in a brazier before his own cheap little idols, and played
the while upon an instrument such as that wherewith men charm snakes.
And still the idols clung to their etiquette.
Whether Pombo knew about this etiquette and considered it frivolous in
the face of his need, or whether his need, now grown desperate,
unhinged his mind, I know not, but Pombo the idolater took a stick and
suddenly turned iconoclast.
Pombo the iconoclast immediately left his house, leaving his idols to
be swept away with the dust and so to mingle with Man, and went to an
arch-idolater of repute who carved idols out of rare stones, and put
his case before him. The arch-idolater who made idols of his own
rebuked Pombo in the name of Man for having broken his idols--"for
hath not Man made them?" the arch-idolater said; and concerning the
idols themselves he spoke long and learnedly, explaining divine
etiquette, and how Pombo had offended, and how no idol in the world
would listen to Pombo's prayer. When Pombo heard this he wept and made
bitter outcry, and cursed the gods of ivory and the gods of jade, and
the hand of Man that made them, but most of all he cursed their
etiquette that had undone, as he said, an innocent man; so that at
last that arch-idolater, who made idols of his own, stopped in his
work upon an idol of jasper for a king that was weary of Wosh, and
took compassion on Pombo, and told him that though no idol in the
world would listen to his prayer, yet only a little way over the edge
of it a certain disreputable idol sat who knew nothing of etiquette,
and granted prayers that no respectable god would ever consent to
hear. When Pombo heard this he took two handfuls of the
arch-idolater's beard and kissed them joyfully, and dried his tears
and became his old impertinent self again. And he that carved from
jasper the usurper of Wosh explained how in the village of World's
End, at the furthest end of Last Street, there is a hole that you take
to be a well, close by the garden wall, but that if you lower yourself
by your hands over the edge of the hole, and feel about with your feet
till they find a ledge, that is the top step of a flight of stairs
that takes you down over the edge of the World. "For all that men
know, those stairs may have a purpose and even a bottom step," said
the arch-idolater, "but discussion about the lower flights is idle."
Then the teeth of Pombo chattered, for he feared the darkness, but he
that made idols of his own explained that those stairs were always lit
by the faint blue gloaming in which the World spins. "Then," he said,
"you will go by Lonely House and under the bridge that leads from the
House to Nowhere, and whose purpose is not guessed; thence past
Maharrion, the god of flowers, and his high-priest, who is neither
bird nor cat; and so you will come to the little idol Duth, the
disreputable god that will grant your prayer." And he went on carving
again at his idol of jasper for the king who was weary of Wosh; and
Pombo thanked him and went singing away, for in his vernacular mind he
thought that "he had the gods."
It is a long journey from London to World's End, and Pombo had no
money left, and yet within five weeks he was strolling along Last
Street; but how he contrived to get there I will not say, for it was
not entirely honest. And Pombo found the well at the end of the garden
beyond the end house of Last Street, and many thoughts ran through his
mind as he hung by his hands from the edge, but chiefest of all those
thoughts was one that said the gods were laughing at him through the
mouth of the arch-idolater, their prophet, and the thought beat in his
head till it ached like his wrists ... and then he found the step.
And Pombo walked downstairs. There, sure enough, was the gloaming in
which the world spins, and the stars shone far off in it faintly;
there was nothing before him as he went downstairs but that strange
blue waste of gloaming, with its multitude of stars, and comets
plunging through it on outward journeys and comets returning home. And
then he saw the lights of the bridge to Nowhere, and all of a sudden
he was in the glare of the shimmering parlour-window of Lonely House;
and he heard voices there pronouncing words, and the voices were
nowise human, and but for his bitter need he had screamed and fled.
Halfway between the voices and Maharrion, whom he now saw standing out
from the world, covered in rainbow halos, he perceived the weird grey
beast that is neither cat nor bird. As Pombo hesitated, chilly with
fear, he heard those voices grow louder in Lonely House, and at that
he stealthily moved a few steps lower, and then rushed past the beast.
The beast intently watched Maharrion hurling up bubbles that are every
one a season of spring in unknown constellations, calling the swallows
home to unimagined fields, watched him without even turning to look at
Pombo, and saw him drop into the Linlunlarna, the river that rises at
the edge of the World, the golden pollen that sweetens the tide of the
river and is carried away from the World to be a joy to the Stars. And
there before Pombo was the little disreputable god who cares nothing
for etiquette and will answer prayers that are refused by all the
respectable idols. And whether the view of him, at last, excited
Pombo's eagerness, or whether his need was greater than he could bear
that it drove him so swiftly downstairs, or whether as is most likely,
he ran too fast past the beast, I do not know, and it does not matter
to Pombo; but at any rate he could not stop, as he had designed, in
attitude of prayer at the feet of Duth, but ran on past him down the
narrowing steps, clutching at smooth, bare rocks till he fell from the
World as, when our hearts miss a beat, we fall in dreams and wake up
with a dreadful jolt; but there was no waking up for Pombo, who still
fell on towards the incurious stars, and his fate is even one with the
fate of Slith.
Prev
| Next
| Contents
|
|
|