The Etruscan

3.

Everything was calm. As the sunset began to redden the dark surface of the lake and the hazy mountain peaks behind it, the priests erected the holy tent of the gods. Before it women were turning grindstones in order to bake the gods’ cakes of new flour. Nets had been thrown into the water and the gods’ red-eyed fish had been caught. A bull calf, a lamb and a pig had been sacrificed and consecrated to the gods. Cooking fires were burning in the open while the priests conferred among themselves and repeated the sacred verses so that the cakes would be baked and the foods prepared in the traditional manner. A feast of the gods had not been celebrated in many years.

As the sun set I felt the coolness of the lake, the lingering warmth of the earth, the fragrance of baking cakes and herbs. Finally both the Lucumones arrived, their holy mantles tossed over their shoulders. Behind them were borne the holy dishes of the gods.

“Have you cleansed yourself?” they asked.

“I have,” I assured them. “My eyes are clean. My mouth is clean. My ears are clean. My nostrils are clean. All the openings in my body are clean. My head has been washed. My feet and hands have been washed. My whole body has been scrubbed clean. For the first time I wear a shirt woven of the finest wool.”

They said with a smile, “Tonight you are host at the feast, Turms. You are the giver of gifts. You may invite two gods to eat with us. Whom do you choose?”

I did not hesitate. “I owe the goddess an invitation,” I said. “I invite her, the mural-crowned. Turan is her holy name.”

The old Lucumo feigned amazement and said slyly, “You yourself have told us how the goddess Artemis has favored you and as Hecate taken care of your earthly well-being. You also owe much to the foam-born who is worshiped in Eryx both as Aphrodite and Ishtar, as you have told us.”

“They are the same goddess,” I said, “although she appears in different guises in different places to different peoples. Her real name is Turan and the moon her emblem. That I have understood. Her I choose. Her I invite.”

They said, “What of your second guest? Whom do you choose?”

With a glow I said, “I choose him, the mutable himself. Voltumna. I did not understand him earlier. Now I want finally to know him. For his sake the sea horse was already sacred at the dawn of time. His likeness is Chimera.”

The smile faded from their faces, they glanced at each other and cried warningly, “Do you realize what you dare?”

In the grip of a holy joy I cried, “I choose him. I invite him. Voltumna, be my guest!”

Then they drew open the sacred curtains of the tent. In the bright light of smokeless torches I saw the high couch of the gods with its numerous mattresses and on each of the double cushions the two holy white stone cones. A low couch had been prepared for each of us three and low tables stood beside them. The wine was in the mixing vessel and I saw the sheaves of grain, the fruit of the earth and the wreaths.

The Lucumones said, “Wreathe your heavenly guests.”

I chose an ivy wreath and wreathed one of the white cones. “For you, Turan. You as a goddess, I as a human.”

Unspeakable joy seized me. I took a roseberry wreath and wreathed the second cone. “For you, Voltumna. Any wreath is as you wish it. Take the roseberry wreath, you as a god, I as an immortal.”

Thus did I finally acknowledge myself to be immortal. Why and how it happened and why I chose just the roseberry wreath I cannot say. But my doubts disappeared like a mist and the sky of my heart radiated the glory of immortality.

We reclined on the couches and heavy garlands of autumn flowers, berries and leaves were placed around our necks. The pipers began to blow wistful tunes on their double pipes, stringed instruments sounded and dancers clothed in holy garments danced the dances of the gods before the tent. Food was served to us from old black bowls and as we ate we used ancient flint knives, although we were also given two-pronged golden forks.

Gradually the sound of the pipes and strings grew wilder as the dancers performed the earth dance, the sea dance, the heavens’ dance. They performed the dance of the virgin goddess and the love dance, the dogs’ dance and bulls’ dance and even the horses’ dance. Pleasant fragrances arose in clouds around us from the high-legged censers, and the wine warmed my body and rose to my head. But the further the feast pro-› gressed, the greater my disappointment when I looked at the two motionless cones on the gods’ high couch.

The old Lucumo from his couch to my right saw my glances and consoled me with a laugh. “Do not be impatient, Turms, for the night is long. Perhaps the gods are preparing for us just as we prepared to meet them. Perhaps there is hustle and bustle in the eternal halls of the gods as festive garments are carried to and fro and hair is anointed and braided. Who knows?”

“Do not mock me,” I said angrily.

He extended his old hand and touched my shoulder. “This is the most exalted night of your life, Turms. But the people also must share in it. They can see the cones which you wreathed, they can watch us eating and drinking, they can see the holy dances and enjoy the music. Only then will we three be alone. Only then will the curtains be closed and the guests arrive.”

Outside the tent, under a canopy of stars, thousands of silent people had gathered to look at the lighted tent. The breathing of the dense crowd could be sensed but not a sound could be heard for the people were careful of every rustle and were afraid even to move their feet.

The cooking fires were extinguished, the servants departed one after the other, the dancers disappeared, the music ceased and all became still. The white cones with their wreaths seemed to ascend to the dimness of the tent ceiling. Now the last servant set before me a covered dish, and I saw both Lucumones raise themselves and stare at me tensely. The servant removed the lid, I smelled the strong odor of herbs, and seeing the pieces of meat in the sauce, extended my fork and brought a piece to my mouth. It had no evil taste from what I could determine, yet I could not bite or swallow it but had to spit it from my mouth.

At that moment the curtains were lowered with a thud. Silently the servant hastened from the tent, leaving the open dish to steam before me on the low table. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, rinsed my palate with wine and spat it out.

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.