Again and again those learned in leech-craft (and the blood-sucking creatures were named after the craft, and not tother way around) would declare that, by all the tests demanded by the Pseudo-Theophrastus (to identify whom would be easier than to identify what song the sirens sang, a question which Averroes had asked his ministers in vain), the presence of flower, fragrance, and forgetfulness of woe, the alleged lotus in the garden of this magnate and that margrave, ought to be the Lotus … and, indeed, perhaps had ought to be; long journeyings and grave dangers risked — risked, and sometimes encountered — Tiberio torn by lionels, Duke Naimon carried off by a dragon, King Oliver lost to captivity: naming only a few notables by name — the endless numbers of the nameless brave, lost, like those lost before Agamemnon in the forgotten fields where even the asphodella does not grow — yet save for one thing nought was certain, and this the one thing certain: it was not.
The lotus, the lotus, i’seemed, alas, it would not traveclass="underline" like some “small wine” of distant provenance in the Over-Seas, much esteemed by embassadore, proconsul, viceroy or baill when in its native region, though said official (traveller, trader, captains of ships of burthen or ships of war), however well they poured it through filters into amphorae or kegs, however well-caulked or well-cooped or well-stoppled and well-smoked: what emerged, back home, was invariably a drink flatter than the Plains of Parthia, of less worth, even, than a good common vinegar — so with the rare and strange lotus of Lotusland, where dwell the gentle Lotophages: such wines could not be by any means preserved, and neither could the true and proper lotus.
And as for its other, and second-most common name, the Scarlet Fig, why, every other mage or sage one asked on it, would freely declare that, in truth, it was neither scarlet nor a fig: what, then, was it, and what was it, then? The other moiety of those wise in wisdom would but sigh and shrug, declare, I do not know. It was indeed said of the Emperor Marcus, that he himself had made that difficult voyage to the island where lived the gentle Lotophagoi, had eaten of the Scarlet Fig, had drunk of its juices and of the winey sap of its stalk in season; had lingered long enough to have need to eat of its roots or rhyzomes in season when there grew upon the branch no flowers, no fruit, nor flowed from its stalk any dewy sap or juice: the Emperor Marcus constrained (as he had in advance commanded and directed), was eventually obliged by men through gentle force to retire from Lotusland, weeping and sobbing like a small bairn removed from her Mother: what had, then, the very emperor to show to know for his stay there? Moonstones and tourmalines he had to show. Sweet memories of dulcet days and painless, without memories, he had to know, though could not show. Moonstones and tourmalines he had to show. And some slime, some sludge, some nameless slop at the bottoms of vessels — jars, jugs, kegs — he had to show … though actually he had not shown it, having handed them over to his leechcrafters, his apothercaries, and his alchymists, for to make assay and essay, and for to make try and trial of it: the results? … nothing that anyone could ever say was truly worthy of the time and triaclass="underline" though many were the rumors … and every rumor had its many tongues.
And so and after all of this, did anyone, lord or thrall, enquire: Is there no assoilment for my sorrow? Let then the priest or the philosopher or the wise woman in her secret grove, say several sundry conjectured things: yet at the end of all such, see them all hold up their hands and cast down their eyes: what say they then? No…. None … save thou go and eat of the Scarlet Fig that grows in the land of the gentle Lotophages.
Small comfort, then, to hear further such things, as, This was revealed in olden times by Polydamna, the wife of Thon, that if man and woman should eat and drink of it, though they had seen Mother, Father, Sister, Brother, Daughter, Husband, Wife, and Child slain by the pitiless sword, they should not let fall a tear upon their cheeks. Was it true? was true that the Scarlet Fig maketh cease from grief and the many pains that distress both mind and heart, maketh take consolation and be not afraid nor sicken in the soul?
It grew in far-off Lotusland which lay beyond the Columns of Heaven-Upholding Atlas, beyond the Pillars of Mercules, lost in the misty distance of the great grey green Sea of Atlantis; whither ne poor man could, ne no rich man would, adventure there to navigate …
It was not precisely scarlet, a tinge of crimson lay within its color. Rather larger, rather longer, even rather softer than the fig. From a middle distance one might say it was a pomegranate, but coming closer, plain one saw that no pomegranate it was. Its flower was richer than an empery of other flowers, both in color and in olor, more fragrant, richer. Its taste was, though one might call it holy, as more so than the holy eiobab which, though ever so holy compared to things profane, was yet (the eiobab) a thing confected: and the lotus grew, even as rank and common weed, shunned by the starvling asses of rough, scruff coats and coasts, grow: yet aside from that one single and certainly singular environ, grew it nowhere else; and neither it nor its taste nor fragrance nor its forgetfulness of woe might ever be confected.
That which was eat from the cymbal during the Mysteries of Attic Eleusis might be eat by anyone who had the Greek speech and the price of attending: who had “seen the Sun rise at Midnight” had seen perhaps the greatest sight there lay in not alone the Empery but in the Œconomion to be seen. Yet these Great Mysteries might be availed solely because certain men and women of known name and family had arranged for them to be availed. And besides, Vergil had already been some while ago made free of the Eleusinian bridehood and the groomhood, a mystagogue was he, of that and of other mysteries, perhaps lesser known, if not, who shall say: less worthy He had heard the oracles speaking, squeaking, sighing, soughing, groaning, droning from out the chauldrons high in high Dordona’s oakengroves.
And he had learned, through his stay amongst the Lotophages, that balm perpetual for sorrow there was not. Tempted by scent and taste, and with valor born of ignorance, he had drunk so deeply of the liquor of the Scarlet Fig (not yet knowing it to be just that) that he had not even cared upon observing that he had been cast away. Through repeated draughts of the enchanting liquid he had indeed forgot his native land; almost he had forgotten his own language. And for a while he had certainly forgotten the usages of civil man; of man in the complex and civilized world. True that when among the Lotus Eaters he had suffered neither sorrow nor pain, and he had forgotten not alone his concerns and longings and worries: he had forgotten the very conceptions of sorrow, pain, concern and worry. But something there was within him which would not allow him tarry among the naked gentle Lotophages, forgetful of almost all things. Even the Lotophages did long for the comfort of the fruit and drink of the lotus; even, they desired the comfort of the fire that burned at night — though precisely whence they had recovered fire when their own inexorable lentor allowed their single fire to fade away, of this he had little notion.