by James Morrow
“Not the ideal fraternité for our purposes,” said Léourier. “I fear Monsieur Darwin’s argument will elude them.”
“Let us remember that Christ’s disciples were likewise an inauspicious lot,” said Malcolm. “Just as the Galilean turned twelve unpromising Judeans into Christians, so shall we turn twelve unpromising Christians into transmutationists.”
“In fact, the odds are better in our case,” said Miss Bathurst. “We’ve got our tortoises and our iguanas, our mockingbirds and our finches, and all Jesus had were some gaudy miracles and his supposed descent from on high.”
Without saying a word, Malcolm sidled towards his expert witness and, forming his arms in a loop as wide as the Colnett barrel, embraced her. What he most admired about Miss Bathurst was that she never stopped being a little bit mad.
* * *
Although Galápagos was cooler than the majority of tropical archipelagos, or so Mr. Darwin’s travel journal asserted, the noon hour brought waves of blazing heat to the White Horse Prophecy Tabernacle. Seated at the defense table, talking amongst themselves, a perspiring Chloe and her equally damp colleagues considered how they might counter evangelical Deism, that formidable argument whereby, far from being displaced by the Tree of Life, God lay immanent in its every leaf.
Suddenly Mr. Chadwick clucked his tongue and, fanning himself with his straw hat, informed Chloe and Capitaine Léourier that he might, just might, have the answer.
“I recall a gathering of the Oxford rakehells at which somebody read from Lucretius’s On the Nature of Things, a long first-century poem celebrating Epicureanism—Shelley’s preferred philosophical system. The passage concerned the outrageous death of Iphigenia.”
“Sacrificed by her own father for a fair wind,” said Léourier. “Trojan War stories have always held a particular fascination for me.”
“Arguably our species once stood at a crossroads,” said Mr. Chadwick, “a moment when, owing to Lucretius, Homo sapiens might have acquired a modest cast of mind, refusing to fancy itself a phenomenon of abiding interest to the gods. We know what came to pass. The Roman poet lost. The Roman Church won. But events might have unfolded otherwise. In my reimagining of human history, our species has adopted Epicurus’s humble materialism, which Democritus so memorably anticipated. ‘By convention bitter—’”
“‘By convention bitter, by convention sweet,’” quoted Léourier. “‘By convention hot, by convention cold. But in reality: atoms and void.’”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Chadwick. “Now suppose that one fateful day a bearded prophet stumbles out of the wilderness, claiming that a supernatural entity, at once immaterial and very human-like, inhabits the laws of Nature and makes them happen. Do our atomists face a philosophical crisis? Well, no. Do they worry about harmonizing the prophet’s worldview with their own? Certainly not. Bound by their ideals of humility and reason, they listen carefully to the hairy visionary, then politely inform him that his argument would be impressive were it not absurd.”
“Though it remains to be seen whether our jurymen are likewise bound by ideals of humility and reason,” said Chloe, “I believe your Epicurus may have saved the day.”
Brow gleaming with a tiara of sweat, Rebecca Eggwort burst into the room and announced, to Chloe’s great relief, that the wayward Tower Isle iguanas had been found, after which Miriam, Sarah, and pregnant Naomi entered carrying ceramic pitchers and tin cups. Bustling about the tabernacle, the sultanas supplied the court personnel with fresh water, not excluding the jury foreman—Joe the poacher—and his colleagues, chained together in three ranks and seated uncomfortably in a gallery constructed of cheese casks. Next to appear were Eggwort’s five remaining wives, bearing copper tureens filled with crab chowder, which they served in wooden bowls to the jurymen. With noisy passion the twelve devoured their lunches. Obviously they’d not had a proper meal since leaving England.
No sooner did the jurors finish eating than dozens of Minor Zionists, children as well as adults, swarmed into the tabernacle, eager to be entertained by Duntopia versus Cabot and Quinn. Taking their places in the spectators’ pews, they set about improvising fans from hats, bonnets, palm fronds, and catclaw leaves. Now Jethro Tappert and Linus Hatch arrived, gaggles of progeny in tow, including the thirty-six Eggwort offspring. Collectively these boys and girls impressed Chloe as more sedate and domesticated than the Down House children, though perhaps rather less at home in the world.
Judge Eggwort struck the bench with a roofing mallet, calling the Court to order. The doors swung back, and Capitán Machado led the two defendants, dressed in burlap tunics and matching skullcaps, towards the defense table. Ralph looked as though he’d just crawled away from a second wreck of the Lamarck. Solange appeared not so much injured as sickly, as if she’d contracted some insidious equatorial disease.
“One hundred and fifty days in Perdition,” said Ralph, fingering his tangled beard.
“Five months that lasted forever,” rasped Solange, blinking her bloodshot eyes. “They stole my ruby pendant and what remained of my dignity.”
“My dear and noble Ralph,” whispered Chloe. “My poor suffering Solange.”
The instant the defendants assumed their chairs, Mr. Chadwick told them, sotto voce, “I’ve been appointed your barrister. Léourier is my assistant. Miss Bathurst is our expert witness. I suggest you accept our services.”
“How can you be a witness?” said Solange to Chloe. “You weren’t even there.”
“We have a strategy,” said Chloe.
“Doubtless involving all your most precious hallucinations,” said Solange.
“Is it true they’re determined to send us to the gallows?” muttered Ralph.
“Yes, but I am equally determined to set you free,” said Mr. Chadwick.
Judge Eggwort sneezed, sipped water, and said, “We shall begin with a reading from the Book of Mormon. Mr. Tappert, please favor us with Third Nephi, chapter two, verses thirteen through sixteen.”
The chief prosecutor opened the holy book, then declaimed in a thundering voice, “‘And it came to pass that before this thirteenth year had passed away the Nephites were threatened with utter destruction because of this war, which had become exceedingly sore. And it came to pass that those Lamanites who had united with the Nephites were numbered amongst the Nephites. And their curse was taken from them, and their skin became white like unto the Nephites. And their young men and their daughters became exceedingly fair, and they were numbered amongst the Nephites, and were called Nephites.’”
“And it came to pass that Miss Kirsop vomited forth her breakfast,” Solange muttered.
“Mr. Hatch, you will read the indictment,” said Eggwort.
The deputy prosecutor rose, smoothing a sheet of crumpled paper against his Book of Mormon. “‘On the evenin’ of September the twenty-first, 1850, shortly before midnight, Professor Edward Cabot and Miss Bianca Quinn boarded a three-masted vessel called the Covenant, then anchored off Indefatigable Isle. The accused proceeded to set said vessel aflame. Because the object of their arson was built to specifications laid down millennia ago by God Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth, this behavior must be reckoned an egregious act of blasphemy.’”
“Good jurymen, allow me to embellish the charges by addin’ that the torched vessel was well and truly the original Genesis ark,” Eggwort told the twelve. “Earlier this year I walked its decks, and I knew straightaway that every plank had been nailed in place by Noah hisself under Jehovah’s supervision. The Court will admit no testimony aimed at impugnin’ the vessel’s authenticity.”
“Impugning the vessel’s authenticity—isn’t that the essence of our case?” asked Ralph in a low voice.
“We’ve got something bigger up our sleeves,” Mr. Chadwick replied.
“We’re going to prove God doesn’t exist,” added Chloe.
“I don’t like it,” said Solange.
“This isn’t a bloody meeting of the Shelley Society,” said Ralph.
“Eggwort will allow no other strategy,” Chloe explained.
“You should’ve left me on St. Paul’s confounded rocks,” said Solange.
“Here’s a fact to soothe you,” said Chloe. “I’m now one of those freethinking materialist atheists we hear so much about these days.”
“And I’m Josephine Bonaparte,” said Solange.
“No, really,” said Chloe. “I’ve parted company with eternity.”
“If we turn but six jurymen into transmutationists,” the vicar informed Ralph and Solange, “you won’t be meeting the hangman.”
Judge Eggwort cast a fiery eye on the chief counselor. “Mr. Chadwick, the Court wishes to know how your clients plead.”
“Not guilty!” shouted Ralph.
“Innocent, in fact!” cried Solange.
“Mr. Tappert, you will now explain to the jurors why the defendants must go to the gallows,” said Eggwort
The chief prosecutor rose and, clearing his throat, announced that he had in hand an affidavit from the Governor, “a document that he dictated with one palm set squarely on Scripture and the other on the Book of Mormon.” Tappert proceeded to read the deposition aloud. On the night in question, Stopsack had “arrested and shackled Edward Cabot and Bianca Quinn” as they stood on the beach of Black Turtle Cove “hurling curses at their Creator and watching the Covenant, which they knew to be the Genesis ark, sink beneath the waves.” Stopsack had added that he hoped a full measure of Duntopian justice would be visited upon the defendants, their guilt being unequivocal.
“There you have it, gentlemen, the grit and gristle of the prosecution’s case,” said Tappert, facing the jury box.
“I say we hang ’em!” cried Nathan the pickpocket, rising.
“So do I!” declared Walter the forger.
“Jurymen, I appreciate your zeal,” said Eggwort, “but the trial’s not over.”
“I have yet to examine the arsonists,” added Tappert.
“And the defense hasn’t made its case,” noted Mr. Chadwick.
“But I’m bored already,” grumbled Nathan, resuming his seat.
“The prosecution calls Edward Cabot,” said Tappert.
Despite his infirmities, Ralph hobbled briskly towards the witness chair and assumed it with considerable panache. Linus Hatch pressed the Book of Mormon into his grasp and said, “Do you swear that the testimony you’re about to give will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothin’ but the truth, so help you God?”
“That depends on what you mean by ‘God,’” Ralph replied.
“No, it don’t,” said Hatch.
“The Court is satisfied that the defendant has promised to speak truthfully,” said Eggwort.
“Listen carefully to my first question, Perfessor, as your life will be teeterin’ in the balance,” said Tappert. “What possible motive could a sane man have fer destroyin’ one of the holiest objects in Christendom?”
“It wasn’t one of the holiest objects in Christendom,” Ralph insisted. “Ask our Peruvian Indians. Their ancestors built it a century ago.”
“The jury will disregard Perfessor Cabot’s mendacious history lesson,” said Eggwort.
“I shall be happy to explain why we sank the thing,” said Ralph. “I wanted to keep Governor Stopsack from taking it to England and using it to claim the Shelley Prize.”
“And what, pray tell, is the Shelley Prize?” asked Tappert.
“Ten thousand pounds to the first contestant who can verify or refute the existence of a Supreme Being.”
“In other words, you thought it would be a terrible thing if somebody proved that God exists?” said Tappert.
“If that verification turned on fraudulent evidence—yes,” said Ralph.
Chloe bit her lip and waxed pensive, pondering the uncomfortable fact that not long ago she’d pictured Jonathan Stopsack and herself hauling the Huancabamba ark to England.
“The jury will disregard the characterization ‘fraudulent evidence,’” said Eggwort.
“Be honest, Perfessor,” said Tappert. “The reason you didn’t want Stopsack to collect this so-called Shelley Prize is that you believe God is an illusion—am I right?”
“I’m on trial for blasphemy, not atheism.”
“Ah, so you do believe God is an illusion.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“How would you put it?”
“The Covenant was no more Noah’s ark than a woodcutter’s privy is Her Majesty’s throne.”
Eggwort said, “The jury will—”
“Disregard the defendant’s last statement,” said Mr. Chadwick drily. “We’re miles ahead of you, Judge.”
“No further questions,” said Tappert.
“Mr. Chadwick, you may cross-examine the defendant,” said the chief magistrate.
“Because you won’t allow the jury to hear opinions concerning the sunken vessel’s provenance,” the vicar replied, “I have no questions for the professor.”
Next Jethro Tappert put “Edward Cabot’s notorious co-conspirator” in the witness chair. For the remainder of the afternoon he questioned Solange’s alter ego, Bianca Quinn, in a spirit that for Chloe evoked the Inquisition scene in Bulwer-Lytton’s worst melodrama, The Curse of Torquemada. Why did Miss Quinn hate God? (She didn’t, Solange insisted.) Why did she burn Noah’s ark? (It wasn’t Noah’s ark, she averred.) Why did she burn the vessel specified in the indictment? (So that the Shelley Prize wouldn’t be awarded on fraudulent grounds, she explained.) In other words, you’re an atheist—am I right, Miss Quinn?
“Well, everybody’s an atheist of one sort or another,” she replied. “You’re an atheist when it comes to Apollo. Judge Eggwort’s an atheist in the case of Isis. I just happen to believe in one god fewer than the Latter-Day Saints in this courtroom.”
“As you just heard, the defendant has takin’ to convictin’ herself out of her own mouth,” said Tappert to the jurymen. “No further questions. Your witness, Mr. Chadwick.”
“I waive the privilege of cross-examination,” said the vicar.
“Then the prosecution humbly and respectfully rests its case,” Tappert asserted.
“I say they’re guilty!” shouted Nathan the pickpocket.
“Guilty in spades!” added Walter the forger.
“Hold your horses, jurymen!” cried Judge Eggwort, whacking the bench with his roofing mallet. “The Court is adjourned until nine o’clock tomorrow morning!”
* * *
Shortly after completing Wall on Wall, which he’d wrought as planned by dipping his brush in drinking water and covering his cell’s northern surface with a transparent wash, Granville Heathway concluded that painting no longer satisfied his creative urges. He needed a new pastime. The answer, he soon realized, lay in the happy fact that his dovecote, once as barren as Christ’s crypt on Easter morning, now contained a half-dozen winged messengers.
Six—a veritable circus troupe, waiting to astonish audiences from Edinburgh to Brighton with acrobatic feats. In his mind’s eye he beheld the whole spectacle: pigeons swinging on trapezes, balancing hazelnuts on their beaks, and climbing atop one another to form a wondrous feathered pyramid. If Heathway’s Columbine Carnival proved half as magnificent as he imagined, Dr. Earwicker and Dr. Quelp might even declare him cured.
He began by creating a tightrope act, teaching his most agile birds to walk along a string stretched above his head, one end tied to the transom, the other to his escritoire. No sooner had Achilles and Guinevere mastered this trick than a seventh pigeon swooped through the barred window, the stately Calpurnia. Granville seized his quizzing-glass, unstrapped the capsule, and removed the scroll. Glancing at his son’s handwriting, he immediately saw that Bertram was in low spirits, for how else to explain the jagged crosses on his t’s and the jittery swerve of his commas?
Dearest Father,
I shall make no effort to conceal my spiritual condition. From my spidery scrawl you will infer that your son has grown
melancholic. I cannot say which news caused me greater woe—the failure of the Ararat expedition or the fate of Dr. Rosalind Franklin—but I shall begin with the former disaster.
Mr. Dalrymple’s semaphore message to the Grand Vizier was as terse as it was discouraging. NO ARK ON AL-JUDI EITHER. PERPLEXED AND DESPONDENT. RETURNING IMMEDIATELY. I am truly sorry, Father. I know how fervently you wanted us to recover the sacred vessel.
Upon her arrival in Constantinople, Dr. Franklin sent word to the palace. As I confessed earlier, she has aroused in me feelings of an affectionate nature, so you can imagine my dismay when I walked into the hookah-den and beheld the shriveled sack of bones wherein now dwelt my once vibrant water-pipe companion. Her smile has lost its light, her hair its luster, her eyes their fire. She sucked up the Cannabis with the avidity of a person in great physical distress.
“I suppose I should wax poetic now,” she said, “and insist that my real anguish is intellectual—all those experiments I’ll never be able to finish—but what’s the point of lying? All I want is for the pain to go away.”
“I understand,” I said.
At this juncture I noticed three young men hovering in the shadows, exuding an aura of protectiveness towards Dr. Franklin. She identified them as her research team, presently investigating helical and spherical viruses at her Birkbeck College laboratory. “I hope to attend the Brussels World’s Fair next week,” she said, gesturing towards her guardians. “Ken Holmes here, also John Finch and Sam Scheiner—the whole Birkbeck group, in fact—they’ll be presenting our findings in the Science Pavilion. I built the exhibit myself, a five-foot-high model of the tobacco mosaic virus. Why does God hate me so?”
