“The Prophet cannot die, Abu-Bekr.”
“Alas,” he whispered into my ear, “he was poisoned.”
“Has the news spread among the believers?”
“Not yet. At this very moment, millions are praying to the Prophet…but the Prophet is no more!”
Abu-Bekr seated himself upon the floor, his head between his hands. “The Prophet is no more! The Prophet is no more,” he groaned.
I seated myself next to him. “The Prophet cannot die.”
“What shall we do, Cartaphilus?” He pulled at his beard nervously, and knit his brows until his forehead seemed divided into two.
“A Prophet must die that he may live forever. He who lives too long dies in truth.”
“Cartaphilus, you have brought truth to the Prophet; bring truth to his followers.”
“Has the culprit been discovered?”
“Who knows? Should not the culprit be among the fifty who have perished in the river at dawn?”
“It is always wiser to include many, that the one may not be missed.”
He continued to groan, “The Prophet is no more! The Prophet is no more!”
“Abu-Bekr, return and announce to all that the Prophet has died.”
Abu-Bekr looked at me, dismayed. “Shall we survive when he is no longer?”
I continued, without answering his remark: “– —but that tonight, he shall be resurrected, and the Archangel Gabriel shall carry him to Paradise in his arms.”
Abu-Bekr remained silent.
“It shall take place, do not fear.”
“Have you the power to resurrect the dead? Are you a messenger from Heaven?”
“I am… Cartaphilus.”
He looked at me, his left eye half-closed. “My plan was different, Cartaphilus.”
“What was your plan?”
“To bury the Prophet secretly and permit one of the priests to assume his guise.”
“What man can be entrusted with so much power and so great a secret, Abu-Bekr? Should the faithful believe, are not the eyes of our enemies sharper than theirs?”
“It is true, Cartaphilus. Their eyes are sharper, and their ears wide open.”
“The Prophet shall rise to Heaven, Abu-Bekr, do not fear…and you shall be his Voice on Earth.”
“But can it really be done?”
“Abu-Bekr, the bee travels over a hundred fields, but returns at last to the hive. The bird flies over seas and mountains, but in the spring finds his old nest again. The ant builds palaces under the ground, and the mole considers the sun superfluous. Angels, invisible, visit the Earth and the souls of holy men rise to Heaven. Who shall fathom Life’s mysterious forces, Abu-Bekr? Who shall understand Allah’s will?”
Abu-Bekr nodded thoughtfully.
“The Hindus are an ancient race, and their priests are learned beyond all others.”
“Have you ever made a man rise, Cartaphilus?”
I related my entrance into China. He remained silent for a long while, his hands upon his knees.
He rose. “Allah himself inspires you.”
“Go then, Abu-Bekr,—announce the death and the resurrection of the true Prophet, and order all believers to come at sunset to the Mountain of the Light.”
“It shall be done as you say.”
“Then—return to me, unseen by the rest.”
“I shall return…unseen.”
The sky was heavy with clouds, and a storm seemed imminent. No more propitious moment could have been desired. The people, awed by the weather, attributed their emotion entirely to the great event which was about to take place. The old men remembered that on the day of the Prophet’s birth, the heavens were just as black, and a terrible storm followed,—but only the wicked were hurt, and their houses demolished. The good remained unscathed.
“Let the unbelievers purify their hearts now, and repent!” exclaimed, at intervals, the priests. “God shall have mercy only upon those who believe. So says the Prophet.”
Thousands sang, wept, or called to Allah to witness the anguish of their souls. Abu-Bekr, Kotikokura and I were hidden by a rock which had the shape of a great bowl, halfway overtipped. The body of Mohammed, dressed in a white silk robe, his face dazzling, lay outstretched in the open coffin at our feet.
Suddenly the clouds were rent as if by a long white whip. “Now, Abu-Bekr!” I whispered.
“The Prophet lives forever!” he exclaimed.
The priests burst into a wild chant. The people shouted: “The Prophet lives forever!”
The coffin began to rise out of the enclosure, overtopped the rock and remained in mid-air. A gasp, as if a colossal smothered abyss suddenly flooded with air,—and then a shout that stifled the thunder-clap.
“The Prophet ascends to Allah!”
“The angels are lifting him up!”
“Look! Look!”
“Allah is the only God and Mohammed is His Prophet!”
“He is rising! He is rising!”
“He lives forever!”
The lightning flashed in quick succession. The thunderclaps beat against the mountain like Herculean hammers.
The people fell upon their faces, weeping, groaning, singing.
“Allah is the only God and Mohammed is His Prophet!”
Still hidden by the rock, Abu-Bekr called out: “Hearken all!”
“He speaks! He speaks!”
“The Prophet speaks!”
“Hearken all!”
“The Prophet lives!”
“The Prophet speaks!”
“Hearken! Hearken!”
Out of a cloud of smoke rose the voice.
“Go forth among the rest of men and proclaim the Word of the Prophet!”
“We shall go forth, Prophet of Allah!”
“We shall go forth!”
“Accept all those who believe as brothers, and slay the infidels everywhere. So commands Allah!”
“Allah is the only God and Mohammed is His Prophet!” Abu-Bekr chanted.
“We obey the Prophet.”
“You have seen the Prophet rise.”
“We have seen him rise.”
“The angels are lifting him to Heaven, where all those who believe in him shall follow him.”
“We believe! We believe!”
Again, but more distant, the spectral voice proceeded out of the clouds.
“That you may never forget, I bequeath unto you the Kaaba upon which I have placed the crescent moon, taken from Heaven for a night. It is my gift to the faithful ones, that they may never forget.”
“We shall never forget!”
“Allah is the only God and Mohammed is His Prophet.” From the peak of the hills, the voice continued: “Return now, children of Allah. Let not your eyes gaze again upon the Mountain of Light, until the morning, lest you be stricken blind.”
“We return, Prophet of Allah.”
“Return!”
The priests sang:
The people repeated the refrain. Their voices mingled with the thunderclaps.
The coffin with the body of the Prophet descended slowly as if held by a rope. We carried it to a ditch which we had dug previously, and buried it, covering the grave with a rock. Suddenly, the clouds began to disperse, as if some over-industrious divinity had swept them into a corner. We mounted our horses.
“Behold I too can work miracles, Jesus of Nazareth! “I exclaimed. “Your name and your followers shall be as dust underneath the hoofs of Mohammed’s horses.”
“Allah is the only God and Mohammed is His Prophet!” Abu-Bekr shouted.
The resurrection of Mohammed gave his religion a new spiritual significance and united the followers as if a gigantic hand, stretching from the Red Sea to the outer rim of the desert, closed into a firm fist. There was no doubt that Mohammedanism—as the new sect was beginning to be called—would prosper luxuriantly as a young and powerful tree.
My work was accomplished. The Crescent would overtop the Cross, I was certain of it. Meanwhile, I could abide patiently my time, catching once more the thread of my soul, entangled among the recent events.