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Pombo the idolater had prayed to Ammuz a simple prayer, a
necessary prayer, such as even an idol of ivory could very
easily grant, and Ammuz has not immediately granted it. Pombo
had therefore prayed to Tharma for the overthrow of Ammuz, an
idol friendly to Tharma, and in doing this offended against the
etiquette of the gods. Tharma refused to grant the little
prayer. Pombo prayed frantically to all the gods of idolatry,
for though it was a simple matter, yet it was very necessary to
a man. And gods that were older than Ammuz rejected the prayers
of Pombo, and even gods that were younger and therefore of
greater repute. He prayed to them one by one, and they all
refused to hear him; nor at first did he think at all of the
subtle, divine etiquette against which he had offended. It
occurred to him all at once as he prayed to his fiftieth idol, a
little green-jade god whom the Chinese know, that all the idols
were in league against him. When Pombo discovered this he
resented his birth bitterly, and made lamentation and alleged
that he was lost. He might have been seen then in any part of
London haunting curiosity-shops and places where they sold idols
of ivory or of stone, for he dwelt in London with others of his
race though he was born in Burmah among those who hold Ganges
holy. On drizzly evenings of November's worst his haggard face
could be seen in the glow of some shop pressed close against the
glass, where he would supplicate some calm, cross-legged idol
till policemen moved him on. And after closing hours back he
would go to his dingy room, in that part of our capital where
English is seldom spoken, to supplicate little idols of his own.
And when Pombo's simple, necessary prayer was equally refused by
the idols of museums, auction-rooms, shops, then he took
counsel with himself and purchased incense and burned it in a
brazier before his own cheap little idols, and played the while
upon an instrument such as that wherewith men charm snakes. And
still the idols clung to their etiquette.
Whether Pombo knew about this etiquette and considered it
frivolous in the face of his need, or whether his need, now
grown desperate, unhinged his mind, I know not, but Pombo the
idolater took a stick and suddenly turned iconoclast.
Pombo the iconoclast immediately left his house, leaving
his idols to be swept away with the dust and so to mingle with
Man, and went to an arch-idolater of repute who carved idols out
of rare stones, and put his case before him. The arch-idolater
who made idols of his own rebuked Pombo in the name of Man for
having broken his idols—"for hath not Man made them?" the
arch-idolater said; and concerning the idols themselves he spoke
long and learnedly, explaining divine etiquette, and how Pombo
had offended, and how no idol in the world would listen to
Pombo's prayer. When Pombo heard this he wept and made bitter
outcry, and cursed the gods of ivory and the gods of jade, and
the hand of Man that made them, but most of all he cursed their
etiquette that had undone, as he said, an innocent man; so that
at last that arch-idolater, who made idols of his own, stopped
in his work upon an idol of jasper for a king that was weary of
Wosh, and took compassion on Pombo, and told him that though no
idol in the world would listen to his prayer, yet only a little
way over the edge of it a certain disreputable idol sat who knew
nothing of etiquette, and granted prayers that no respectable
god would ever consent to hear. When Pombo heard this he took
two handfuls of the arch-idolater's beard and kissed them
joyfully, and dried his tears and became his old impertinent
self again. And he that carved from jasper the usurper of Wosh
explained how in the village of World's End, at the furthest end
of Last Street, there is a hole that you take to be a well,
close by the garden wall, but that if you lower yourself by your
hands over the edge of the hole, and feel about with your feet
till they find a ledge, that is the top step of a flight of
stairs that takes you down over the edge of the World. "For all
that men know, those stairs may have a purpose and even a bottom
step," said the arch-idolater, "but discussion about the lower
flights is idle." Then the teeth of Pombo chattered, for he
feared the darkness, but he that made idols of his own explained
that those stairs were always lit by the faint blue gloaming in
which the World spins. "Then," he said, "you will go by Lonely
House and under the bridge that leads from the House to Nowhere,
and whose purpose is not guessed; thence past Maharrion, the god
of flowers, and his high-priest, who is neither bird nor cat;
and so you will come to the little idol Duth, the disreputable
god that will grant your prayer." And he went on carving again
at his idol of jasper for the king who was weary of Wosh; and
Pombo thanked him and went singing away, for in his vernacular
mind he thought that "he had the gods."
It is a long journey from London to World's End, and Pombo
had no money left, and yet within five weeks he was strolling
along Last Street; but how he contrived to get there I will not
say, for it was not entirely honest. And Pombo found the well
at the end of the garden beyond the end house of Last Street,
and many thoughts ran through his mind as he hung by his hands
from the edge, but chiefest of all those thoughts was one that
said the gods were laughing at him through the mouth of the
arch-idolater, their prophet, and the thought beat in his head
till it ached like his wrists ... and then he found the step.
And Pombo walked downstairs. There, sure enough, was the
gloaming in which the world spins, and the stars shone far off
in it faintly; there was nothing before him as he went
downstairs but that strange blue waste of gloaming, with its
multitude of stars, and comets plunging through it on outward
journeys and comets returning home. And then he saw the lights
of the bridge to Nowhere, and all of a sudden he was in the
glare of the shimmering parlour-window of Lonely House; and he
heard voices there pronouncing words, and the voices were nowise
human, and but for his bitter need he had screamed and fled.
Halfway between the voices and Maharrion, whom he now saw
standing out from the world, covered in rainbow halos, he
perceived the weird grey beast that is neither cat nor bird. As
Pombo hesitated, chilly with fear, he heard those voices grow
louder in Lonely House, and at that he stealthily moved a few
steps lower, and then rushed past the beast. The beast intently
watched Maharrion hurling up bubbles that are every one a season
of spring in unknown constellations, calling the swallows home
to unimagined fields, watched him without even turning to look
at Pombo, and saw him drop into the Linlunlarna, the river that
rises at the edge of the World, the golden pollen that sweetens
the tide of the river and is carried away from the World to be a
joy to the Stars. And there before Pombo was the little
disreputable god who cares nothing for etiquette and will answer
prayers that are refused by all the respectable idols. And
whether the view of him, at last, excited Pombo's eagerness, or
whether his need was greater than he could bear that it drove
him so swiftly downstairs, or whether as is most likely, he ran
too fast past the beast, I do not know, and it does not matter
to Pombo; but at any rate he could not stop, as he had designed,
in attitude of prayer at the feet of Duth, but ran on past him
down the narrowing steps, clutching at smooth, bare rocks till
he fell from the World as, when our hearts miss a beat, we fall
in dreams and wake up with a dreadful jolt; but there was no
waking up for Pombo, who still fell on towards the incurious
stars, and his fate is even one with the fate of Slith.
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