John Barth - The Sot-Weed Factor

"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! Think 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."