In short?
In short she was as magnificent a creature as God ever made, and there was no question she would test all my powers.
I'm tired already.
Ha. I went to work and at the end of ten days one of the princess's handmaidens tiptoed in to see how matters were progressing. She whispered into the ear of my female continent, whose eyes now seemed slightly more open, slightly more alert.
Has he tired yet? asked the little girl.
Nooooooooooo, came the rumbling gurgle from deep down in the mountain beneath me.
Is that the truth?
It is, O'Shea. And when the little girl returned again at the end of twenty days, she could see without asking that my continent's eyes were round and bulging, glassy and unfocused.
Oh my God. At the end of thirty days what further developments?
That's when it began. First a muffled groan from the hinterland, then one vast prolonged spasm moving down her central ridge. And so it was to continue for the next ten days, O'Flaherty, ten full days without rest or interruption. Eyes clamped shut, screams and gurgles and hiccups shaking the jungles and mountains and deserts for ten full days. So long had she been waiting for that moment that when it arrived, it arrived with force and duration.
Amazing.
Yes, O'Regan. Then on the fortieth day, spent, she rolled over and began to snore at last.
At last I say, at last I repeat, agreed. What an ordeal. And the princess accepted you after that?
She did.
Lovely.
It was, O'Leary. In fact it was incomparable.
I can believe it.
Joe stood and lit a cigarette. He walked up the bank.
I think it's going to rain, he said.
Haj Harun turned and gazed at him. He smiled.
What do you mean, O'Geraty? It is raining.
Joe shrugged.
You're right. You know maybe it would be better if you called me Prester John after all. Maybe I could keep track of myself better that way.
As you wish.
Yes.
See here, said Haj Harun as he climbed up the bank and looked back at the muddy pool. Do you realize those adventures I had while winning the heart of the princess were the talk of Jerusalem for centuries?
I didn't, no, but I can understand it. Spectacular, that's what they were.
Later on they even wrote them down as stories in books. But do you know they never once mentioned my name? Not once? They always attributed those adventures to others, to people whose names they made up.
Maybe it's that way, said Joe. Maybe we never hear about the real heroes. Maybe that's what being a hero is.
Like the dents in my helmet, you mean?
How's that?
No one knows how they got there except me.
True.
Curious, murmured Haj Harun.
Hold on there, said Joe, I just thought of something. Haven't you always told me that it was during the Persian era when you began to lose your influence in Jerusalem?
That's right.
Well did it have something to do with the princess and your heroic exploits on her behalf? Were you just completely worn out or something like that? Staggering exploits after all.
Haj Harun sighed.
It wasn't my physical condition that caused me trouble during the Persian occupation. It was the fact that as a result of those sexual experiences, I was incoherent for the next hundred years. I was totally preoccupied with visions of sex, which severely limited my vocabulary. When I opened my mouth the only words that came out were things like cunt and lick and fuck and suck. They hadn't been bad words when the princess and I were whispering them to each other, but afterward, with the general public, their connotations seemed to change. They no longer seemed acceptable. To be frank, I could only use about a dozen words in all.
Limited, yes. I see.
And after a hundred years of that no one took me seriously anymore. Especially my speeches in the marketplace. Before then it had been my oratory that swayed people and made me influential in Jerusalem, but during that hundred years when I was using only a dozen words, people got in the habit of laughing at me.
I see.
So by the time I could speak normally again my credibility was gone. Not that I blame my fellow citizens, it was my own fault. After all, if you said good morning to a person and they always answered by shouting cunt, and then you said good afternoon to them and they always shouted lick, and you said good evening to them and they always shouted fuck, and you wished them a nice weekend and they always shouted suck, how would you view them after a while?
Not too optimistically.
And after it had gone on for a hundred years?
Pessimistically.
Of course, said Haj Harun with a sigh, and that's what happened to me. But if I could go back I'd do it all again, I wouldn't change a thing. I'd love the princess just as I did then, even though I knew it would cause my ruin.
True?
Haj Harun smiled shyly. He nodded.
Oh yes, Prester John, absolutely. We're holy men now, you and I, and our concerns are spiritual ones.
But even a single night with the princess is worth a century of incoherency.
Ah, now that's a fine sentiment.
And it's worth the twenty-three centuries of abuse and ridicule and humiliation.
Fine, very fine.
Yes, Prester John. If we were young again, I tell you, the ladies would know it. They'd hear our knock on the door and see the gleam in our eye and know our intent.
We'd be lusty, you say? Not taking no for an answer? Doing a proper passionate job in Jerusalem?
Giving the dear sweet souls God's gift, murmured Haj Harun. Unabashedly giving them love.
Unabashedly, I say. Why not.
But unfortunately we're no longer young, Prester John, and we have our mission before us.
Before us, yes, along with a rainy March day in 1925. Well I do feel like I'm going the other way sometimes, but do you know how old I am according to the calendar?
Younger than I am, certainly.
True. Soon to celebrate my twenty-fifth birthday to be exact.
But of course that's apparent age, which doesn't mean anything here.
I do know it. That information was passed on to me during my first foodless days in the Holy City. By the baking priest who gave me this uniform and awarded me the Victoria Cross and set me up in residence at the Home for Crimean War Heroes. Take the uniform and the medal for bravery, he said, apparent age is no problem in Jerusalem. So said the former MacMael n mBo, baking priest and my first benefactor here.
Haj Harun leaned over and picked up a flat worn stone. He peered into it.
The baking priest, you say?
That's who he is, the very article. And when I ceased to be a Poor Clare nun upon my arrival here and joined the ranks of the Jerusalem unemployed, outcasts on the summit, he was the one who put me on my feet.
I know him, announced Haj Harun, still peering into the flat worn stone.
You do?
He always bakes his loaves of bread in the same four shapes, I believe.
That's him all right.
One in the shape of his homeland and one for his God, a third in the shape of the land where he gave up fruitless strife, and a fourth in the shape of Jerusalem where he found peace.
All true, that's him. Ireland, the Cross, the Crimea and Jerusalem.
And that's all he does. He bakes and bakes his four shapes in the Old City and is content.
Very true. But how do you happen to know him?