They did not tire me further that day but allowed me to ponder in peace on what I had learned. The following morning, however, they again summoned me before them, showed me a garment stiff with blood and suggested, “Feel this garment, close your eyes and tell us what you see.”
I closed my eyes as I gripped the garment and a horrible oppression came over me. Mistily as in a dream I saw everything happen, and related: “This is an old man’s garment. He is returning home from somewhere and although he is dusty and sweaty, he is cheerful and is walking briskly. A frenzied shepherd leaps from the bushes and hits him with a rock. The old man falls to his knees, raises his arms and pleads for mercy, but the shepherd strikes again. He robs the body while glancing around apprehensively. Then there is only mist.”
Sweat flowed from my body as I opened my eyes and dropped the fearful garment.
“Would you recognize the shepherd?” they asked.
I thought of what I had seen. “It was a hot day,” I said hesitantly. “He wore only a loincloth and his skin was burned a blackish brown. He had a morose face and a large scar on his calf.”
They nodded and said, “Do not trouble your mind any more. The judges could not find sufficient evidence against the shepherd. We indi cated the place where he had hidden the loot and he was pushed into a spring with a willow basket over his head for not having mercy on a helpless man. But we are glad that you confirmed his guilt. We do not willingly do this, for the possibility of error is too great. But sometimes we must. An undetected murder encourages new murders.”
To help me forget my oppression they placed in each of my hands an identical black cup decorated with identical reliefs. Without even closing my eyes, I immediately raised the cup in my left hand and said, “This is a holy cup. The other is unholy.”
They declared, “Turms, you are a Lucumo. Are you not ready to admit and believe it?”
But I was still perplexed. The old Lucumo explained, “You can read the past from objects. The less you think at a time like that the clearer will be your vision. Again because of this it is better that a Lucumo has reached the age of forty before recognizing himself, otherwise he would constantly be tempted to hold objects and develop this talent which actually is of little significance. Many ordinary people possess that same ability.”
“You may leave your body if you wish and see that which happens elsewhere,” they said, “but don’t do it. It is dangerous and your effect on events would only be seeming. Everything happens as it must happen. After all, we have our signs and our omens. Lightning, birds and sheep’s livers indicate quite enough of what we should know.”
They raised their arms to greet me like a god and said, “So it is, Turms; you are a Lucumo. Much is possible to you but not all of it is beneficial. Learn to choose, learn to discriminate, learn to restrict. Do not trouble yourself unnecessarily or torment the gods. For your people and your city it is enough that you exist. It is enough that an immortal is born as a human in their midst.”
The words made me tremble. Once again I raised my hands in protest and cried, “No, no! Can I, Turms, be an immortal?”
With deep earnestness they assured me, “It is so, Lucumo Turms. You are immortal if you but dare admit it. Tear the veil finally from before your eyes and admit your true identity.
“In every man there is the seed of immortality,” they went on. “But most men are content with the earth and the seed never germinates. Such a one is pitiable, but let him have the lot with which he is content.”
They said further, “Our knowledge is limited because we were born into a human body. We believe that the seed of immortality distinguishes a human from an animal, but we are not certain. Everything living is in the guise of her, the mutable. Nor do we even distinguish the living from the lifeless. In a moment of splendor you may feel how a hard stone radiates beneath your hand. No, our knowledge is imperfect, although we were born Lucumones.”
Then they uttered a warning: “When you have acknowledged yourself to be a Lucumo you will no longer live for yourself but for the good of your people and city. You are a giver of gifts. But the grainfields will not billow and the earth will not bear fruit because of you and your power. Everything merely happens through you. Don’t permit yourself to be annoyed. Do nothing merely to please people but only to benefit them. Don’t fetter yourself to trivialities. Laws and customs, judges, governors, priests and diviners exist to take care of them. Make your prison as pleasant as you can without hurting your people and aggravating others. Although you are the high priest, the highest legislator, the supreme judge, the less you are appealed to the better. Nations and cities must learn to live without Lucumones. Evil times are coming. You will return, but your people will never return once their allotted time has ended.”
They were compassionate in their teaching because they knew from their own experience what a crushing burden they were laying upon me. The old Lucumo of Volsinii placed a protective arm around my neck.
“Doubt will be your greatest torment,” he said. “In our moments of weakness we are all tormented. Everything occurs in cycles. There are days when your power is at its peak and you radiate joy and confidence. Those are blessed days. But the cycle turns and your power ebbs and everything around you grows dark. At such times remain silent, be submissive and meek. When your weakness is the greatest, temptation is the strongest.”
The Volterran Lucumo said, “Your power may increase and decrease with the phases of the moon. Or it may vary with the seasons. Or the weather. We all differ in that respect. Perhaps the weather rules us rather than we it, even though we can summon the wind and raise a storm. When my weakness began to oppress me I climbed to a precipice. Temptation whispered in my ear, ‘If you are a true Lucumo, jump off the precipice into the valley. The air will bear you lightly to the ground and you will not be injured. If you are not a true Lucumo, it matters little if you crush your head.’ That is what temptation will whisper.”
I looked at his brooding eyes and became curious. “Did you jump off the precipice?” I asked. “Tell me.”
The old Lucumo began to titter merrily. “Glance at the scars on his knees. Not many of his bones remained whole when the people of Volterra removed him from the foot of the precipice. He had fallen onto a bush growing out of a crevice and that slowed his fall. Then he was hurled into a pine tree and fell from branch to branch, his bones snapping together with the branches. If he were not a Lucumo, he would hardly be able to walk. Even so his back is stiff although he cannot be called a cripple. A Lucumo is never so seriously injured as to remain maimed, but he is occasionally reminded of mortality lest he forget that he was born into a human body.”
That also was true. I had experienced the dangers of war and the terrors of the sea, but at no time had I been seriously wounded or injured. It was as though unseen wings had protected me.
The Volterran Lucumo lowered his glance and confessed in shame, “I felt not the slightest pain as I fell. Only when the people lifted me from the ground and I regained consciousness did the pain begin. Truly I have tasted bitterly of human mortality, but it served me right and was a good lesson.”
His tale brought me so near the point of collapse that I felt my weakness as though the bones in my body had melted.
“Release me from this burden,” I begged. “I am only Turms. Must I acknowledge myself as a Lucumo and believe in myself if I would not?”
They said, “You are Turms, an immortal and a true Lucumo. You must admit it to yourself for you can no longer deny yourself.” But they added consolingly, “We understand you, for we ourselves have experienced man’s most dreadful suffering-doubt and the pangs of one’s own imperfection. But on the night of the twelfth day you may share with us the feast of the gods just as we shared it upon finding and acknowledging ourselves. There are still three of us to share it, but on the day of your earthly death, Turms, you must meet the gods alone.”