The Sot-Weed Factor

by John Barth

  “I’ve shared your fear,” Ebenezer admitted. “Some isles are bare of men; others, like famed Cibola, boast wondrous cities. Some are like Estotiland, whose folk are versed in every art and read from books in Latin; some others are like her neighbor Drogio, where Zeno says the salvages eat their captives.”

  “Pray Heav’n this is not Drogio!”

  “We shall climb to the cliff top when we’ve eaten,” Ebenezer said. “If I can see the island whole, I may be able to name it.” He went on to explain that, while the location and size of islands varied widely from map to map, there was some agreement among cartographers as to their shape. “If ’tis the form of a great crescent, for example, ’twill of necessity be Mayda; if a small one, ’tis doubtless Tanmare, that Peter Martyr spoke of. A large parallelogram would be Antillia; a smaller one Salvagio. A simple rectangle we shall know for Illa Verde, and a pentagon for Reylla. If we find this isle to be a perfect circle, we must look farther for its inland features: if ’tis cut in twain by a river we shall know it for Brazil, but if instead ’tis a kind of ring or annulus about an inland lake, the which hath sundry islets of its own, then Heav’n hath smiled on us as ne’er on Coronado, for ’twill be Cibola, the Isle of the Seven Golden Cities!”

  “ ’Sheart, may we find it so!” said Bertrand, turning the fish to brown. “ ’Twere not like folk in a golden city to eat up strangers, d’ye think?”

  “Nay, ’tis more likely they’ll take us for gods and grant our every pleasure,” Ebenezer declared.

  “Marry, I hope and pray ’tis the Isle of Seven Cities, then; I shall have three and you the rest, to make up for losing Malden! Doth the book say aught of the women in these towns, whether they be fat or thin, or fair of face?”

  “Naught that I can recall,” the poet replied.

  “I’God, let us make short work of these fish, sir!” Bertrand urged, sliding them from the laurel spit to the clean-washed slates they had found to eat from. “I cannot wait to see my golden towns!”

  “Be not o’erhasty, now; this may not be Cibola after all. For aught we know it may lie in the shape of a human hand, in which case our goose is cooked: Hand-of-Satan hath such a shape, and ’tis one of the Insulae Demonium—the demons’ isles.”

  This final possibility chastened them sufficiently to do full justice to the perch and soft crabs, which they seasoned with hunger, ate with their fingers, and washed down with clam-shellfuls of cold spring water. Then they stuffed an extra soft crab each into their pockets, grease and all, and climbed through the ravine to the top of the cliff, whence to their chagrin they could see no more than open water on one side of them and trees on the other. The sun was still but forty-five degrees above the eastern horizon; there was time for some hours of exploration before they need think of dinner and a shelter for the night.

  “What course do ye propose, sir?” Bertrand asked.

  “I have a plan,” said Ebenezer. “But ere I tell it, what course do you propose?”

  “ ’Tis not for me to say, sir. I’ll own I have spoken out of turn before, but that’s behind me. Ye have saved my life and forgiven the harm I’ve done ye; I’ll dance to any tune ye call.”

  Ebenezer acknowledged the propriety of these sentiments, but took issue with them nevertheless. “We are cast here on some God-forsaken isle,” he said, “remote from the world of bob-wig and dildo. What sense here hath the title Poet Laureate, or the labels man and master? Thou’rt one man, I another, and there’s an end on’t.”

  Bertrand considered this for a rnoment. “I confess I have my preferences,” he said. “If ’twere mine to decide, I’d strike out inland with all haste. Haply we’ll find one or two golden cities ere dinnertime.”

  “We’ve no certain knowledge this is the Isle of Seven Cities,” Ebenezer reminded him, “nor do I relish walking overland without shoes. What I propose is that we walk along the shore to learn the length and shape of the island. Haply ’twill identify our find, or show us what manner of people live here, if any. Nay, more, we’ve paper aplenty here, and charcoal sticks to mark with: we can count our paces to every turn and draw a map as we go.”

  “That’s so,” the valet admitted. “But ’twould mean another meal of fish and soft crabs and another night upon the ground. If we make haste inland, haply ’tis golden plates we’ll eat from, and sleep in a golden bed, by Heav’n!” His voice grew feverish. “Just fancy us a pair of bloody gods, sir! Wouldn’t we get us godlets on their maiden girls and pass the plate come Sunday? ’Tis a better post than Baltimore’s paltry sainthood, b’m’faith! I’d not trade places with the Pope!”

  “All that may happen yet,” Ebenezer said. “On the other hand we might encounter monsters, or salvage Indians that will eat us for dinner. Methinks ’twere wise to scout around somewhat, to get the lay of the land: what do a few days matter to an immortal god?”

  The prudence of this plan was undeniable; reluctant as he was to postpone for even a day the joys of being a deity, Bertrand had no mind to be a meal for either cannibals or dragons—both of whose existence he might have been skeptical of in London, but not here—and so agreed to it readily, if not enthusiastically. They made their way down to the beach again, marked their point of departure with a stake to which was tied a strip of rag from Bertrand’s shirt, and struck out northward along the shore, Ebenezer counting paces as they walked.

  He had not reached two hundred when Bertrand caught his arm.

  “Hark!” he whispered. “Listen yonder!”

  They stood still. From behind a fallen tree not far ahead, a hackle-raising sound came down on the breeze: it was half a moan, half a tuneless chant, lugubrious and wild.

  “Let us flee!” Bertrand whispered. “ ’Tis one of those monsters!”

  “Nay,” Ebenezer said, his skin a-prickle. “That is no beast.”

  “A hungry salvage, then; come on!”

  The cry floated down to them again.

  “Methinks ’tis the sound of pain, not of hunger, Bertrand. Some wight lies hurt by yonder log.”

  “God save him, then!” the valet cried. “If we go near, his friends will leap us from behind and make a meal of us.”

  “You’ll give up your post so lightly?” Ebenezer teased. “What sort of god are you, that will not aid his votaries?”

  A third time came the pitiable sound, and though the valet stood too terrified to move, Ebenezer approached the fallen tree and peered over it. A naked black man lay there on the sand, face down, his wrists and ankles bound; his back was striped with the healed scars of floggings, and from myriad cuts and scratches on his legs he bled upon the sand. He was a tall, well-muscled man in the prime of life, but obviously exhausted; his skin was wet, and a spotty trail of blood ran from where he lay to the water’s edge. Even as Ebenezer watched him from above, unobserved, he lifted his head with a mighty effort and resumed his cry, chanting in a savage-sounding tongue.

  “Come hither!” the poet called to Bertrand, and scrambled over the log. The Negro wrenched over on his side and shrank against the tree trunk, regarding the newcomer wildly. He was a prepossessing fellow with high cheekbones and forehead, massive browbones over his great white eyes, a nose splayed flat against his face, and a scalp shaved nearly bald and scarified—like his cheeks, forehead, and upper arms—in strange designs.

  “God in Heaven!” Bertrand cried on seeing him. The black man’s eyes rolled in his direction. “ ’Tis a regular salvage!”

  “His hands are bound behind him, and he’s hurt from crawling over the stones.”

  “Run, then! He’ll ne’er catch up with us!”

  “On the contrary,” said the Laureate, and turning to the black man he said loudly and distinctly, “Let-me-untie-the-ropes.”

  His answer was a string of exotic gibberish; the black man clearly expected them to kill him.

  “Nay, nay,” Ebenezer protested.

  “Prithee do not do’t, sir!” said Bertrand. “The wretch will leap on ye the minute he’s free! Thin
k ye these salvages know aught of gratitude?”

  Ebenezer shrugged. “They could know no less of’t than some others. Hath he not been thrown, like us, into the sea to die and made his way by main strength to this shore? I-am-the-Poet-Laureate-of-Maryland,” he declared to the black man; “l-will-not-harm-you.” To illustrate he brandished a stick as though to strike with it, but snapped it over his knee instead and flung it away, shaking his head and smiling. He pointed to Bertrand and himself, flung his arm cordially about the valet’s shoulders and said, “This-man-and-l-are-friends. You”—he pointed to all three in turn—“shall-be-our-friend-as-well.”

  The man seemed still to be fearful, but his eyes showed more suspicion now than dread. When Ebenezer forcibly moved behind him to release his hands and Bertrand, at his master’s insistence, reluctantly went to work on the ropes that bound his feet, the fellow whimpered.

  Ebenezer patted his shoulder. “Have no fear, friend.”

  It took some labor to undo the ropes, for the knots were swollen from the water and pulled tight by the captive’s exertions.

  “Whose prisoner do ye take him for?” asked Bertrand. “My guess is, he’s one of those human sacrifices ye told me of, that the folk in golden cities use in lieu of money on the Sabbath.”

  “That may well be,” the poet agreed. “His captors must in sooth be clever men, and no mere salvages, else they ne’er could make such fine stout rope or tie such wondrous hitches in’t. Haply they were ferrying him to the slaughter when he escaped; or belike ’twas some sea-god he was meant for. Confound these knots!”

  “In any case,” said Bertrand, “ ’twill scarcely please ’em to learn we set him loose. ’Tis like stealing from the collection plate in church.”

  “They need not know of’t. Besides, we are their rightful gods, are we not? What we do with our offerings is our own affair.”

  That last, to be sure, he spoke in jest. They loosened the final knots and retreated a few paces for safety’s sake, not certain what the man would do.

  “We’ll run in different directions,” Ebenezer said. “When he takes out after me, the other will pursue him from behind.”

  The black shook off the loosened bonds, still looking warily about, and rose with difficulty to his feet. Then, as if realizing that he was free, he stretched his limbs, grinned mightily, raised his arms to the sun, and delivered a brief harangue, interspersing his address with gestures in their direction.

  “Look at the size of him!” Bertrand marveled. “Not e’en Boabdil was so made!”

  Ebenezer frowned at mention of the Moor. “Methinks he’s speaking to the sun now; belike ’tis a prayer of thanks.”

  “He is a very percheron stud!”

  Then, to their discomfort, the fellow ended his speech and turned to face them; even took a step towards them.

  “Run!” cried Bertrand.

  But no violence was offered; instead, the black prostrated himself at their feet and with muttered reverences embraced their ankles each in turn; nor would he rise when done, but knelt with forehead on the sand.

  “ ’Sbody, sir! What doth this signify?”

  “I would not say for certain,” Ebenezer replied, “but it seems to me you have what erst you wished: This wight hath bid his farewells to the sun and taken us for his gods.”

  “I’faith,” the valet said uncomfortably. “We did not ask for this! What in Heav’n would he have us do?”

  “Who knows?” the poet answered. “I never was a god till now. We gave him his life, and so he’s ours to bless or bastinado, I suppose.” He sighed. “In any case let’s bid him rise ere he takes a backache: no god keeps men upon their knees forever.”

  17

  The Laureate Meets the Anacostin King and Learns the True Name of His Ocean Isle

  “ONE THING IS CERTAIN,” Ebenezer said, when they resumed their exploration of the beach: “we must demand obedience of this fellow, if we’re to be his deities. That is the clearest common attribute of gods, for one thing, and the safest policy besides: he may slay the twain of us if he learns we’re mortal.”

  They had raised the black man up and bade him wash his wounds, which happily were no worse than scratches from the shells, and had moreover presented him with the extra soft crabs—cold and linty from their pockets, but edible nonetheless—and stood by while he made short work of them. Their charity provoked a fresh display of prostrate gratitude, which acknowledged, they had squatted with him some while on the sand and tried by words, gestures, and pictures drawn with sticks to hold converse. What was the name of the island? Ebenezer had asked him. What was his name? Where was his town? Who had bound his limbs and flung him into the sea, and for what cause? And Bertrand, not to be outdone, had added queries of his own: How distant from where they sat was the first of the golden cities? What sort of false gods had its citizens, and were the ladies dark or fair?

  But though the black man had heard their inquiries with worshipful attention, his eyes had shown more love than understanding; all they could get from him was his name, which—though it was doubtless from no civilized tongue at all-sounded variously to Ebenezer like Drehpunkter, Dreipunkter, Dreckpachter, Droguepecheur, Droitpacteur, Drupegre, Drecheporteur, or even Despartidor, and to Bertrand invariably like Drakepecker. For that matter it may have been not his name at all but some savage call to worship, since every time they said the word he made a genuflection.

  “What shall we do with him?” Bertrand asked. “He shows no mind to go about his business.”

  “So be’t,” Ebenezer replied. “Let him help with ours, then. ’Tis readiness to take orders that makes the subject, and readiness to give them that makes the lord. Besides, if we set him labors enough he can plot us no mischief.”

  They resolved, therefore, to let the big black man accompany them as food- and wood-gatherer, cook, and general factotum; indeed, they were given little choice, for he clearly had no intention of leaving and could if angered have destroyed them both in half a minute. The three set out northward once again, Ebenezer and Bertrand in the lead and Drakepecker a respectful pace or two behind. For an hour or more they trudged over pebbles, soft sand, and beds of red, blue, and egg-white clay, always with the steep unbroken cliff-face on their left and the strangely placid ocean on their right; every turn Bertrand expected to discover a golden city, but it would reveal instead only a small cove or other indentation of the shoreline, which in the main ran still directly north. Then, leg weary and footsore, they stopped to rest beneath the mouth of a natural cave some ten or twelve feet up on the cliff wall. The savage, to whom Ebenezer had entrusted the rude spear with which he’d caught their breakfast, indicated by brandishing it and rubbing his stomach a desire to forage for dinner; upon receiving permission he scrambled like a monkey up the rock-face and disappeared.

  Bertrand watched him go and sighed. “ ’Tis the last we’ll see of Drakepecker; and good riddance, says I.”

  “What!” Ebenezer smiled. “Thou’rt so soon tired of being God?”

  The valet admitted that he was. “I had rather do the work myself than lord it o’er so fearsome a wight as he. This very minute he might be plotting to spit the twain of us on his spear and fry us up for’s dinner!”

  “I think not,” said the poet. “He likes to serve us.”

  “Ah, sir, no man enjoys his bondage! Think you there’d be a servant in the world, if each man had his choice? ’Tis ill luck, force, and penury that make some men serve others; all three are galling masters.”

  “What then of habit, and natural predilection?” teased Ebenezer. “Some men are born to serve.”

  Bertrand considered these for a moment and then said, “Habit’s no first cause, but a child of bleak necessity, is’t not? Our legs grew calloused to the pirates’ shackles, but we wished them off us nonetheless. As for this natural bent to slavery, ’tis a tale hatched by the masters: no slave believes it.”

  “A moment past you spoke of doing the chores thyself,” Ebenezer sa
id, “but never a word of me doing them; yet ’twas I proposed we forget our former stations, since the wilderness knows naught of classes.”

  Bertrand laughed. “Then to my list of yokes add obligation; he’s no more mild a master.”

  “Call him gratitude or love instead,” said Ebenezer, “and watch how men rejoice in their indenture! This Drakepecker, as you call him, chose his present bondage when we set him free of a worse, and he may end it by his own leave when he lists. Therefore I fear him not, and look to have him serve us many a day.” He then asked the valet how he proposed to lord it over an entire city alone, if one subject shared between them scared him so.

  “ ’Tis god I want to be, not king,” the valet said. “Let others give and take commands, or lead and put down mutinies; I’ll stock me a temple with food and drink and sleep all morning in my golden bed! Ten young priestesses I’ll have for company, that shall hear confessions and say the prayers in church, and a brace of great eunuchs to take collection and guard the money.”

  “Sloth and viciousness!”

  “Would ye not do the same, or any wight else? Who wants the chore of ruling? ’Tis the crown men lust for, not the scepter.”

  “Who wears the one must wield the other,” Ebenezer answered. “The man men bow to is lead sheep in a running flock, that must set their pace or perish.”

  “Ye’ll rule, then, in your city?” Bertrand wanted to know.

  “Aye,” said Ebenezer. They were sitting side by side, their backs against the cliff, gazing idly out to sea. “And what a government would I establish! ’Twould be an anti-Platonist republic.”

  “I should hope, sir! What need have you of the Pope, when thou’rt the god?”

  “Nay, Bertrand. This Plato spoke of a nation ruled by philosophers, to which no poets might be admitted save those that sing the praises of the government. There is an antique quarrel ’twixt poet and sage.”