by John Crowley
He rode down into a grove of cedars, wherein he expected—tho’ indeed he could not have said he expected—a fountain of good water—not a heavy water as the Albanians say but light—for they can assess the various waters they taste as nicely as a connoisseur his various Clarets. There was the fountain, in a cairn of stones—and as Ali came in sight of it, he saw also a number of people—men, on one side, and women, upon the other, and a dispute in progress. Stopping where he could observe and not himself be seen, Ali determined that the dispute concerned who had rights to draw water there, the men forbidding the women to come near, and they contesting this, loudly and manfully indeed, so that it seemed there could be no settling of Claims—and then there came into the grove a Youth—for his face seemed yet beardless—who bore a long gun, and a pistol too thrust into his belt. Ali observed how, at this one’s approach, the women seemed cheer’d, and the men abashed—and with a brief word, and a gesture, the youth disposed the Case—the men (tho’ with a few curt words and warlike gestures, meaning nothing) withdrew, to let the women fill their jugs. The youth stood apart, as though to watch over them—his gun he slung across his shoulders, an arm resting over either end, as an Albanian with a long gun will do.
When the women, jugs balanced upon their heads, wended up the far path and away, Ali went down to where the youth remained—and who now, his attention caught by the stranger’s approach, turned to face Ali, and greet him—and Ali fell of a sudden silent.
Beauty is no respecter of sex—the Fairer having not the advantage, if the case be judged by some Tiresias of wide experience, and practised eye. And yet rarely are the two kinds confused—indeed, insofar as they may be, just so far is the Beauty lessened—on either part, though surely upon the Female. A nice question, certainly, but it was not the question before Ali, who knew in but a glance that the youth before him was a maid—and a fair one—so fair, indeed, that his mouth was stopt, and his hail died upon his lips. The Maid, nothing discomfited, and putting aside her weapon, held out to Ali her right hand in greeting, as any man would do to a stranger—her look, frank, her face composed, her eye with an aloof assessment regarding him—’twas the very look that every boy Ali had known, and every Youth with whom in the old Pacha’s service he had consorted, was at pains to cultivate. And yet she too, as Ali did, fell silent as he came near to her—silent, and wondering—and that for a reason not like his.
‘Stranger, do I know thee?’ said the Maid-Man at length, and her voice was low and stricken with a surmise Ali could not guess at.
‘I think you cannot,’ said he, ‘for though long ago I lived here, I have for many years been gone, and who I was then is not this man you see.’
‘No—no!’ quoth she—‘Not this man—nor was I this man you see. Tell me your name.’
‘My name is Ali.’
‘Why then,’ she said, and sat again, as though she must, and could not longer stand. ‘Then I will not say my own—no, I will not!’
Nor did she need to say the name thou, Reader, wilt have guessed a page or more ago—Ali was behind thee in perceiving, for indeed he knew not (nor ever could know) what sort of tale this was he figured in, as surely thou dost! Yet as the knowledge dawned upon him, he too sank to sit beside her—and looked upon the woman warrior—and spoke not further.
By some ancient authors it is believed—or supposed—that the Amazons of lore dwelt in these regions we now designate Albania, and old Euhemerus, were he to consider the case, might guess that the tales of woman warriors arose at first, from a certain Practise common there, which indeed may go back to Hesiod, for aught I know. For among that stern people, what is not black is white, and what is not Female is Male—female being subject in every particular to male—a beast of burden at necessity, and at birth a Commodity, sold to her future husband as soon as she is weaned, at so many paras in payment down, the rest due upon delivery at a convenient age. (In such cold calculation were the marriages of Kings and Queens once made, and they may still be—though affinity was surely paramount in the considerations of Britain’s Monarch.) The marriages so contracted in swaddling-clothes are not at nubile age to be repudiated—a spurned Wife, or Husband, would be a stain to honour, to be washed clean only in blood. And yet—patience, I pray, the reason for my Sermon will be made clear, even while Ali and the Maid in men’s garb still look amazed upon one another—I say, it may happen that a girl, having reached the age at which she may be wed, refuses the husband chosen for her. And if she prove adamant, and courageous, and defy all duress, and all threats even to her life, then she may be excused—but only upon one condition: that having rejected the husband, and the house, to which she was first contracted, she solemnly vow before the Council of Elders that she will contract with no other, ever! Then—since she will ever after remain unwed, unbred, unsubjected—she may no longer be accounted a woman at all, and must therefore become a Man—for she cannot be nothing. Her clothes, her manner, the weapons she bears, the duties she attends to (or shirks), the horse she rides, are all as a man’s—she is in all apparent particulars wholly a man—let whoso forgets it, beware!—for not one house but two are watching, jealously—and the Maiden herself is armed, as well!
Ali now of a sudden has recalled to mind this strange system of life, and remembered an old woman he knew as a child, who dwelt thus as a Nun alone and unhusbanded—and now he understands both what and who the maid before him is.
‘Iman!’ breathes he. ‘ ’Tis thou!’
She turns away, then, as though ashamed that he should see her thus—though when alone, she had stood in proud sufficiency, and gazed about the world as one in possession of it. Anon she raises her head, and looks to him—she, who was first to recognize him, the companion of her childhood—and she laughs—so changed is he—and he too laughs—and says that in his heart and mind she is still a Child—still as he last saw her—she too avers the same—then they must needs look long, on eyes and lips, hands, heads, and all, which are the eyes, lips, hands, &c., of the one each knew, and of another, whom they know not, at the same time—and they cannot speak, or speak but cannot say. At last with a soft and hesitant gesture—a gesture from which all the man is gone away—Iman pushes up Ali’s loose sleave, to show the old mark upon his arm that she remembers being made. And when she has seen it, she turns back her own sleave, and there upon her arm is the same mark—self-made, more roughly drawn, as though half-remembered—but the same. Then all the years that have divided them dissolve as though they had not passed, and they two are as they were, one soul that passes between two beings, without let or hindrance! And yet when Ali moves to take the hand that once he would not relinquish but at need, she draws away from him, as from danger.
‘Tell me,’ Ali beseeches. ‘Does our old Grandsire live? Tell me what befell you, that you are as I see you. Was there no one to protect you?’
‘He is dead,’ she replies. ‘Dead long ago—I will show you the place where he lies. He never ceased to grieve for your absence. Until he died I was permitted to live alone and serve him, but thereupon the Elders contracted a marriage for me—an old Widower eager for a Handmaid—and I refused.’
She had when taken to the Widower’s han refused his advances—fought him like the tyger Ali knew her to be—and as soon as opportunity presented itself, fled into the Desert alone—not caring if she died. Captured again by people of her own, she fought them, too, with fierce resolve—swore that if they returned her to her proposed fiancé she would flee again, or slit his throat as he slept, or do such things—what they were she knew not, but they would be ‘the terror of the earth’. They bound her in straps of hide to keep her from running away, and she bit through the bonds, and so escaped again—was caught again—and thereupon, though without sponsor or ally, she demanded to be allowed to take the vow of Chastity that one such as herself was permitted by their laws.
‘Did you so hate that old man, as to give up all to quit his claim on you?’ Ali asked—and she answered, ‘She had not ha
ted him—nor any man—did not hate—no, ’twas not that,’ and she cast all down her eyes, and tugg’d her hood forward, that he might not see her face.
Then had she never loved? Had all those years, the Spring of her own life, been spent in nun-like renunciation? Had no Youth, of all those fine young men who guard the flocks, and ride for the Pacha, or hunt the Boar, caused her to regret what she had done, what choice she had made? ‘Why, what choice?’ said she then. ‘Little choice had I—to live a life with one I did not love, or to die. I chose not to die—’tis all—and thus—’—Here she lifted her head, and he saw she smiled, and her eyes were amused—‘Thus it is I who ride, I who hunt, I who speak in council. Is not this much? Is it more than love? Tell me.’
‘Little enough I know of love,’ responded he—‘except its cost—I know not what it may be traded for. Iman! Now I have found thee—and thou me—I see thou art lost to me as surely as if I had never returned from that curséd land where I was taken!’
Iman made no answer—she stood then, and summoned him too to rise. A great tenderness suffused her features, and a great sadness the eyes that gazed upon him—orbs that were unchanged, of all that belonged to her. ‘Come,’ said she. ‘I will take you to our Council, and my fellows will make you welcome—for you were thought to be dead, and you are returned. Ask no more!’
Silent they were, those stern Herdsmen, at the Prodigal’s return, when Ali made himself known to them—most expressed no delight—nor disapproval neither—one, tho’ unsmiling, took his hand—another wondered at his mount, and baggage, what it might contain, and asked to see his sword, mark of the old Pacha’s favor—but another turn’d away and refused his Salute, for the same reason, that Ali had been (last this fellow heard) a soldier of that Pacha who had despoiled their clan. He tried to describe to them his adventures among the Infidels, but they could little understand him—they laughed, as at a joke, or an extravagance—or grew bored by the Impossibility they perceived—and so he left off. Nevertheless his place among them was not disputed—he found shelter, and (when his soft hands had toughened) would find work to do too.
With Iman indeed ’twas otherwise—with her he opened, as it were, a book long closed and clasped, the time of his earliest youth—some pages he had forgotten, or misremembered—some he still had by heart. In a dim vale they lay together as they had once lain, to listen to the sleepy noontide—and remembering what he had then felt, yet had then no name for, Ali experienced the breaking-open within him of old sealed springs of purest serene. Now indeed he knew a name—knew whither his feelings then had tended—and so did Iman too—yet they were kept as chaste now by her vows, as they had been then by childish Ignorance—still as delighted, but now not satisfied. Her hand slipt into his—and as soon withdrew—her eye fell from his—yet her smile remained—and he sighed, and stirred—and anon they must depart from those solitudes—they must, and they know it.
When it appeared (as soon it did) that all Ali cared for was to be near Iman—and that she had changed—and cared for naught but to wake him in the morning, and ride with him at noon, and laugh with him at night—then the tempers of those clansmen darkened. The story of how he and she had been as one when they were but kids was remembered—at Fountain and Fire-side they were watched as suspiciously, and as closely, as any two Youths in silks and broadcloth are, who conspire together at a Ball or a Masquerade in London or in Bath—more, for the consequences were the more fatal, the punishment being singular, and each man an appointed Executioner, hand upon his weapon even as a smile is upon his lips. In the nations called Civilized, only those transgressions that involve two who are truly of one Sex, no matter how dressed or appurtenanced, are at risk of a hanging—there, the Law is otherwise. Nor in that well-trod and naked land were there those hundred convenient spots where a man and his leman might avoid the judging Eye—wherever she and he sat down, and spake their hearts, within an hour by the Sun would appear one as though by chance, to pass by in seeming indifference, yet note every particular of their suspicious retirement. Unbearable did it soon become to them—who were a world to each other, and yet could not shake the world from them!
‘Then I will be gone,’ Ali declared to her at last. ‘I bring nothing but danger to you here. Better far that we be parted—as before we were!—than that I should bring death upon you.’
‘Then be gone!’ cried Iman, starting up. ‘Now when thou hast found me, leave me! Yet know that that, too, is death to me!’
‘And to me—yet do not die—be what you were—let me go, and forgive me!’
‘Dost thou fear death? I do not!’ And here she drew forth the Pistol at her waist—prepared (Ali had little doubt) to make an end of him, and then herself—an absolutist, like all her people! Yet she allowed him to take the weapon from her gently—and in his arms like a girl she wept.
‘Iman,’ spoke he then. ‘If you will brave death—then seize life—it demands as much Courage—yet the reward is more than night & the Pyre—if it be had.’
‘What thou wilt dare, I will dare,’ cried she, and her dark eyes were alight as a tyger’s, all resolve, all courage. ‘Never doubt me!’
‘Never did I,’ said he, ‘and never shall. Now attend!’
So matters stood when Ali made it known publicly that he wished to address the clan’s general Council of Elders, who passed on all matters of importance, and settled all questions. His petition was not answered immediately, but, after some doubtful Consideration, was admitted—and, when still further time had passed to allow for the gathering of some far-flung personages of rank, the Council was duly called. A proper Solemnity soon obtained, and when a pipe had been smoked in thoughtful silence, Ali was invited to speak. He began by paying the company such high compliments as he could retrieve in his first tongue, and then gave to their Excellencies his humble apologies, that he had not sooner come before them, to make obeisance—a sentiment they received with grave demeanour, as befitting their dignities. Next he proposed to them a feast, in honour of himself—here there was some laughter at his presumption—or rather in honour of his returning to his home and people, never more to roam (and here his eye, as it were passing over all to include all, struck upon Iman, whose look remain’d solemn). All things, said he, would be furnished, and the Cost would all be his—which won much approval—and the proposal was thereupon consented to, man by man. Nodding and smiling were general at the conclusion, and a propitious day was fixed, tho’ indeed all days in that season were alike; and the pipes lit again; and to signal Unanimity, a few guns were discharged at the cloudless blue.
It is commonly thought that our vices differ from the Mussulman’s—in that he foregoes strong drink, and favours a pipe, and Pathic, where we like a bottle, and a Wench—but ’tis only true in part. In the realms of the Sultan and the Faith are many lands and peoples—and though in these Albanian parts drink is not often seen, the men call themselves the greatest swillers of all the Prophet’s followers, and can gape and swallow better than any—the only limit being the bottom of the tun. It was not long—yet it took a search—till Ali found enough skins of wine and jars of rakia, as they name their potent Brandy, to furnish forth the Celebration he conceived. It was to be al fresco of necessity, for there was no interior large enough for the clan’s men to foregather, and indoors is less convenient than out when guns are to be fired, and powder wasted with the proper extravagance. All were invited, of those not in blood with one another, or at least willing to vow to shoot only upwards for these few hours—all the men, I mean, which of course included the man Iman.
‘Do not you drink—only seem to,’ Ali said privily and as though in passing to Iman. ‘Nor shall I. Be ready upon my signal.’ To which Iman made no reply—no more than a Warrior might, to a Companion, not needing to reply to that which necessity ordains, and is agree’d to without words—and never had she seemed more a man to him, than in her composure and courage then—he smiled in secret, to know otherwise, and to think how strangely t
he world is arranged.
At sunset the celebration began—a great fire was lit, and the Elders led to seats of dignity (tho’ they were but carpets thrown over stone) and the Musicians set a-wailing in that music unimaginable till heard, and unforgettable ever after. A whole kid stuffed with Raisins and Rice had been turned upon the spit since noon, and now was parted, and the pieces eat with eager hands on plates of Flat-bread—and the Drink was broke out, and the skins passed and re-passed. The effect of those was instantaneous, and joy was unconfined—voices lifted in Song, if so it may be named—weapons discharged, and reloaded—and discharged again. As night darkened and the sparks of the fire soar’d into the black above to die, the dancing commenced—as the moralizing does in a Quaker meeting—when the Spirit moved one to begin, and then another. The supple boys the first, who in a snaking line proceeded thro’ the company, with languorous gesture and a demeanour at once proud and smouldering—interpretation being impossible—and as the pipe and tambour quicken’d so did they, and others then leapt up to join.
Through all this, Iman by removes withdrew, tho’ arousing no question—laughing with the rest, and lifting a Cup never emptied—to the outskirts of the gay circle—as she (though a man) by custom ought, lest some insult be offered her under Bacchus’ influence. There she noted where stood Ali’s swift horse—its panniers readied, its saddle on—as well as the best of the mounts the visitors had arrived on, the best being none too fine.