Read Galapagos Regained Online
Authors: James Morrow
I sucked on my pipe. Today's featured blend was especially stimulating, making me desirous of further communion with Père Teilhard's supple mind. “Do you accord the Genesis flood the same skepticism you bring to the Garden of Eden?”
The priest puffed and said,
“Oui.”
I was tempted not only to tell him about the Diluvian League but to inquire whether, in light of his
ex post facto
knowledge of nineteenth-century history, the ark hunt had succeeded, but Yusuf ibn Ziayüddin forbids his patrons to seek such information. Instead I asked Père Teilhard how he reconciled his Catholic faith with his insistence that the world's first man was not an unruly Adam but an unlettered ape.
The priest offered a seraphic smile. “There is no contradiction in ascribing to our species both a divine origin and a simian descent, for the universe is itself an all-encompassing and ever-changing organism. It is
le Tout,
the All. In fulfilling our need to come closer to God, paleontology often serves better than prayer.” He grasped the smallest skull. Had he claimed that it belonged to an infant chimpanzee, I would not have disagreed. “The Taung baby of South Africa was found and named in 1924 by the anatomist Raymond Dart, who recognized that she was neither human nor ape but something in between. My colleagues believe
Australopithecus africanus
flourished about three million years ago.
Three million.
Shortly after Dr. Dart published his startling conclusions, the paleontologist Robert Broom burst into his laboratory and knelt before the Taung baby, âin adoration of our ancestor,' as he put it.”
“An idolatrous response, by my lights.”
“The Holy Office would agree with you. But in Broom's place I would have done the same.” Père Teilhard pointed to the second fossil, which to my untutored eye suggested the skull of an orang-utang. “
Pithecanthropus erectus,
the famous Java Man unearthed in 1891. Another missing link, at least a half-million years old, perhaps a million, manifestly much closer to our own species than to
Australopithecus
. These fossils all have voices, Bertram. Their oratorios resound in my soul. I hear cantatas of an evolving cosmos.”
“If a skull ever sang to
me,
I should begin to doubt my sanity.”
“I spent most of the decade following the Great Warâ”
“Great War?”
“We must not speak of it. I spent that decade as an exile, banished by Rome to the Jesuit school in Tientsin. But I had the last laugh, for I soon joined my fellow paleontologists in looking for fossil primates in the Choukoutien caves. Late in the winter of 1929 we came across this fellow”âTeilhard seized a skull evocative of Java Manâ“
Sinanthropus pekinensis,
Peking Man, who roamed Asia perhaps thirty thousand years ago. I believe
Sinanthropus
and
Pithecanthropus
are different races of the same species, but that controversy won't be settled soon.”
“I wish you could meet another Romish acquaintance of mine, Gregor Mendel, but he's presently indisposed, residing in the Moravia of 1868. When he and I shared the pipe, he told me of his struggle to solve the riddle of heredity. Does your own era know of him?”
Père Teilhard's smile rivaled that of his
Sinanthropus
skull. “No biologist would dispute that our modern understanding of genetics rests on Mendel's work. Two months ago, after lecturing in Philadelphia at a symposium on early man, I was awarded Villanova University's Gregor Mendel Medal.” The priest's smile collapsed. “Of course, Mendel himself never received a Mendel Medalâor any such recognition. He died in obscurity, his great paper ignored until the turn of the century.”
“Your news saddens but does not surprise me. An aura of loss clung to the man.”
“Mendel's breakthrough was so dramatic it prompted many scientists to declare that mutation is the essential engine of evolution,” said Père Teilhard. “Anti-Darwinists argued that profound alterations in germ cells could lead to correspondingly radical changes in a species's genotype, though now we know that sweeping benevolent mutations are rare. Modern evolutionary theory is headed towards a synthesis of natural selection and Mendelian genetics, with the result that Darwin once again occupies the center of the biological universe.”
“When the monk and I last talked, he told me he'd given up on impressing his colleagues, but he did hope to hybridize a superior strain of hashish.”
“As far as I know, he never achieved that laudable goal.” Père Teilhard took a puff, then indicated the next fossil in line, not unlike the skull of a gorilla. “The sacred wheel turns, until at last a true man appears. In 1856 the Neander Valley near Düsseldorf yields a skull fragment from
Homo neanderthalensis,
who lived in Europe three hundred thousand years ago.” He pointed to the last skull and stared into its eye sockets. “The epic continues, bringing forth a mighty hunter, named for a Cro-Magnon or âgreat big' cave in the Dordogne, where the first such skeletons were found. Some fifteen thousand years ago the Cro-Magnons painted astonishing images of bison, mammoths, and bears on the walls of their caves.” The priest pitched his voice to a poetic timbre. “Of course, the phenomenon of Man does not terminate in our own species.
Le Tout
remains in flux, and our descendants' descendants' descendants will know a quality of consciousness we cannot begin to imagine. Since first placing my hand on the brow of Peking Man I have understood that
Homo sapiens
is being pulled forward as if by a preternatural magnet, bound for a nexus outside time and space, an ineluctable Omega Point where now and forever God brazes the nodes of infinity to the axis of eternity!”
Spellbound, I said, “What an enthralling idea.”
“You think so? You aren't simply appeasing my ego?”
“Never, Father. Flattery is a sin.”
“My dear Anglican, your praise is balm to my aching soul. This past year has been a tribulation. The newspaper accounts of my Philadelphia lectures were
très stupides,
a travesty from which thousands got the impression I believe humans emerged from modern monkeys. Monkeys!
Sapristi!
When I traveled to Boston College, I learned that I would not receive a
Doctor Honoris Causa
after all, thanks to the machinations of the city's Darwin-hating archbishop. And then, once back in France, I was reprimanded by my provincial for allegedly calling too much attention to myself.” The priest inhaled a dose of
Cannabis
. “But now you have healed me, Bertram. Tomorrow I begin my return trip to Lyon, there to write my
magnum opus
. If I can explicate my philosophy with sufficient lucidity, the superior general will realize I'm more orthodox than he imagines.”
“A splendid plan, Père Teilhardâso splendid that it calls for more
Cannabis
. This time you must allow me, not the Rockefeller Foundation, to fund our euphoria.”
The following morning my friend packed up his skulls and left for France. After his
magnum opus
is published, he will again visit Constantinople and present me with a copy. I wish him luck. I have never before met anyone like this cosmically inclined
curé
. We don't have mystics in the Church of England, do we, Father? More's the pity.
Your admiring son,
Bertram
Antique skulls, future Omega Points, the eternal majesty of
le Tout
: this latest pigeon missive, thought Granville, was the most enthralling yet. No less compelling were Father Teilhard's references to “the English scientist Charles Darwin,” almost certainly the same Darwin with whom Granville had once corresponded via carrier pigeon. Apparently the universe was as rife with coincidence as with ancient bones.
After placing his son's fourth letter in the nightstand, Granville enjoyed an unexpected visitation from his Muse. “This latest vision of yours, this
Nativity of Gregor Mendel,
is sublime, and in time you will paint it,” the golden-haired Mireille informed him. “For your present project, however, you must illustrate Teilhardian philosophy.”
As his patron goddess hovered near the dovecote, Granville stared (and stared and stared) at the blank canvas, until at last the solution flashed through his brain. He freed his brush from the spiderweb, loaded the bristles with white pigment, and touched the tip to the canvas. And so it was that his third painting came into being,
The Eye of God:
a white dot on a white backgroundâinvisible to ordinary human perception but available to Granville, for whom the Omega Point had become as real as the wart on his thumb.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
It was all most ironic. Having spent the morning dispatching snakes in a manner guaranteed to cause their slaughter, Chloe now renewed her preoccupation with the salvation of other reptiles: the Galápagos tortoises and iguanas. All during the airship journey from the fallen fortress to the Dominican mission, she wondered precisely what moves on her part might checkmate the Reverend Mr. Hallowborn. When no strategy came to mind, she set about helping Philippe Léourier and André Hervouet deflate the silk envelope and mend the bullet holes. But her heart remained with the jeopardized animals, whose dire situation she continued to ponder long after the balloon was healed and the moon had risen.
Her somber musings occurred in an incongruously joyful atmosphere, the
carnaval de la victoria
that the local aborigines, the
ribeirinho
militia, and the rescued rubber tappers were staging that night within the mission walls. At the core of the celebration a bonfire crackled and roared, throwing quivering shadows on the statue of Santo Domingo, Padre Valverde's fighters swaying in joyous circles around the flames whilst inhaling draughts of
epená
and eating prodigal quantities of fish and caiman, the bellow of the burning logs counterpointing the thunder of Bawuni drums, the squeal of Yamuna panpipes, and the wailing of Ucharu flutes. Chloe guessed that perhaps two-thirds of the fighters had joined the
carnaval,
the others having absented themselves either voluntarily (being in mourning for fallen friends and relations) or pursuant to a command: guard these prisoners, secure that coffin, dig this grave, go to the hospital and do as Dr. Ruanova tells you. Sadly but predictably, Padre Valverde was amongst those missing from the festivity, his malaria having grown so acute that on the physician's orders he'd retired to a private sickroom.
It occurred to Chloe that the
carnaval
might be a trifle premature, as the final fate of the Huancabambas was not yet decided. The present plan called for Princess Akawo and Princess Ibanua to guide the liberated
seringueiros
through the mountains and thence home to the Rio Jequetepeque valley near Puerto Etén, an arduous but feasible exodus (assuming the fugitives encountered no federal troops authorized to shoot Indians on sight). At the same time Comandante Cuarón would march the Marañón valley tribes and the
ribeirinho
militia into the plantation settlements, freeing the workers and imprisoning the district governors, after which Prince Gitika would lead the remaining Huancabambas home to the sea. Presumably this campaign would be little more than a mop-up operation, accomplished with minimal fighting and light casualties, but Chloe could not but recall Antony's most sardonic line in
Siren of the Nile,
“If you want to make the gods laugh, tell them your plan for winning a war.”
Sitting in a circle of
epená
aficionados, whilst amber sparks shot from the bonfire, and the faces of her English and French friends shone like the golden calf of the Israelite apostasy, she alternated her gaze between the frenzied dancers and the quiescent airship. The
Jean-Baptiste Lamarck
lay moored beside the church, the newly inflated envelope looming above the wicker carriage like a gigantic
bola
being cured on an immense spit. Contemplating the Man in the Moon emblem, she suddenly realized that her best hope for getting her fellowship to the sea consisted not in joining the princesses on their trek through the Andes passes (a journey certain to entail hunger, cold, exhaustion, and maddening delays) but rather in chartering the
Lamarck
.
“I once heard a rumor that El Dorado lies near a Peruvian coastal townâPuerto Etén, as I recall,” she told Léourier. “Perhaps you should look
there
for your fabled city.”
“I am not acquainted with that theory,” the Frenchman replied.
“Neither is Miss Bathurst,” said Ralph.
Léourier grasped the syringe and inhaled a puff of virola resin. “Mademoiselle, if you wish to avail yourself of my ship and its crew,” he admonished her, “simply say so.”
“I wish to avail myself of your ship and its crew.”
“Granted!” cried Léourier. “How to explain my courtesy? Call it chivalryâa French word, as it happens,
chevalrie
from
cheval,
horse. My
cheval du ciel
is at your disposal.”
“
Monsieur le Capitaine,
you are my aeronaut in shining armor!” exclaimed Chloe. “The sooner my company reaches the Pacific Ocean, the sooner we can hire ourselves out to a brigantine headed west along the equator.”
“And if you fail to secure such a passage, I shall consider transporting you to Galápagos myself,” said Léourier. “You see, mademoiselle, your desire to save the Encantadas creatures touches me deeply. Like yourself, I am a lover of the natural worldâfor why else would a man christen his airship the
Jean-Baptiste Lamarck
?”