"Custom exists to maintain the world in order. If we meddle with it, the world itself will perish."
The high priest looked about him. The heavens and the earth, the mountains and the valley, everything fulfilling what had been written for it. Sometimes the ground shook; at other times--such as now--there were long periods without rain. But the stars continued undisturbed in their place, and the sun had not fallen onto the heads of men. All because, since the Flood, men had learned that it was impossible to change the order of Creation.
In the past, only the Fifth Mountain had existed. Men and gods had lived together, strolled through the gardens of paradise, talking and laughing with one another. But human beings had sinned, and the gods expelled them; having nowhere to send them, they created the earth surrounding the mountain, so they could cast them there, keep vigil over them, and ensure that they would forever remember that they abided on a plane far inferior to that of the dwellers of the Fifth Mountain.
The gods took care, however, to leave open a path of return; if humanity carefully followed the way, it would one day go back to the mountaintop. So that this idea would not be forgotten, they charged the priests and the rulers with keeping it alive in the minds of the people.
All peoples shared the same belief: if the families anointed by the gods were removed from power, the consequences would be grave. No one now remembered why these families had been chosen, but everyone knew they were related to the divine families. Akbar had existed for hundreds of years, and its affairs had always been administered by the ancestors of the present governor; it had been invaded many times, had been in the hands of oppressors and barbarians, but with the passing of time the invaders had left or been expelled. Afterward, the old order would be reestablished and the people would return to the life they had known before.
The priests' obligation was to preserve this order: the world had a destiny, and it was governed by laws. The era of attempting to fathom the gods was past; now was the time to respect them and do their will. They were capricious and easily vexed.
If not for the harvest rituals, the earth would bring forth no fruit. If certain sacrifices were neglected, the city would be infested with fatal diseases. If the god of weather were provoked anew, he could cause wheat and men to cease to grow.
"Behold the Fifth Mountain," the high priest told the commander. "From its peak, the gods rule over the valley and protect us. They have an eternal plan for Akbar. The foreigner will be killed, or return to his own land; the governor will one day be no more, and his son will be wiser than he. All that we experience today is fleeting."
"We have need of a new chieftain," said the commander. "If we continue in the hands of this governor, we shall be destroyed."
The high priest knew that this was what the gods desired, in order to put an end to the writing of Byblos. But he said nothing; he was pleased to have evidence once again that, unwittingly or not, the rulers always fulfilled the destiny of the Universe.
WALKING THROUGH THE CITY with the governor, Elijah explained to him his plans for peace and was made his counselor. When they arrived at the square, more sick people approached, but he said that the gods of the Fifth Mountain had forbidden him to heal. At the end of the afternoon, he returned to the widow's house; the child was playing in the street, and Elijah gave thanks for having been the instrument of the Lord's miracle.
She was awaiting him for the evening meal. To his surprise, there was a bottle of wine on the table.
"People brought gifts to please you," she said. "And I want to ask your forgiveness for the injustice I did you."
"What injustice?" asked Elijah, surprised. "Don't you see that everything is part of God's design?"
The widow smiled, her eyes shone, and he saw for the first time that she was beautiful. She was at least ten years older than he, but at that moment he felt great tenderness for her. He was not accustomed to such sentiments, and he was filled with fear; he remembered Jezebel's eyes, and the wish he had made upon leaving Ahab's palace--to marry a woman from Lebanon.
"Though my life has been useless, at least I had my son. And his story will be remembered, because he returned from the kingdom of the dead," the woman said.
"Your life is not useless. I came to Akbar at the Lord's order, and you took me in. If someday your son's story is remembered, I am certain that yours will be also."
The woman filled two cups. They drank to the sun, which was setting, and to the stars of heaven.
"You have come from a distant country, following the signs of a God I
did not know but who now has become my Lord. My son has also returned from a far-off land, and he will have a beautiful tale to tell his grandchildren. The priests will preserve and pass on his words to generations yet to come."
It was through the priests' memory that cities knew of their past, their conquests, the ancient gods, and the warriors who defended the land with their blood. Even though there were now new ways to record the past, the inhabitants of Akbar had confidence only in the memory of their priests: one could write anything he chose, but no one could remember things that never were.
"And what have I to tell?" the widow continued, filling the cup that Elijah had quickly drained. "I don't have the strength or the beauty of Jezebel. My life is like all the rest: a marriage arranged by my father and mother when I was a child, household tasks when I came of age, worship on holy days, my husband always busy with other things. When he was alive, we never spoke of anything important. He was preoccupied with his trade, I took care of the house, and that was how we spent the best of our years.
"After his death, nothing was left for me except poverty and raising my son. When he becomes a man, he will cross the seas and I shall no longer matter to anyone. I feel neither hate nor resentment, only a sense of my own uselessness."
Elijah refilled his cup. His heart was beginning to give signs of alarm; he was enjoying being at this woman's side. Love could be a more frightening experience than standing before Ahab's soldier with an arrow aimed at his heart; if the arrow had struck him, he would be dead--and the rest was up to God. But if love struck him, he alone would have to take responsibility for the consequences.
"I have so wished for love in my life," he thought. And yet, now that it was before him--and beyond doubt it was there; all he had to do was not run away from it--his sole thought was to forget it as quickly as possible.
His mind returned to the day he came to Akbar, after his exile on the Cherith. He was so weary and thirsty that he could remember nothing except the moment he recovered from fainting, and seeing her drip water onto his lips. His face was very close to hers, closer than he had ever been to any woman in his entire life. He had noticed that she had Jezebel's green eyes, but with a different glow, as if they could reflect the cedar trees, the ocean of which he had often dreamed but never known, and--how could it be?--her very soul.
"I should so like to tell her that," he thought. "But I don't know how. It's easier to speak of the love of God."
Elijah took another sip. She sensed that she had said something that displeased him, and she decided to change the subject.
"Did you climb the Fifth Mountain?" she asked.
He nodded.