by Mary Stewart
‘I see. Well, thanks very much, I might try to look her up myself.’
There was a slight pause at the other end. Then the voice said, carefully expressionless: ‘One gathers she lives very much retired.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I understood so. But anyway, thank you for your help. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye,’ said the voice.
I found myself grinning as I put the receiver down. What was implicit in the pleasant voice was, unmistakably, the Arabic equivalent for ‘and the best of British luck’.
Charles rang up that evening to say that Ben’s father had been delayed, so he himself couldn’t get up before Sunday evening at the earliest, and might not even manage that. ‘But in the name of all the gods at once,’ he finished impressively, ‘I’ll be with you on Monday, or perish in the attempt.’
‘Don’t ask for it,’ I said, ‘at least not till you’ve bought your blue bead. You told me this was a country where anything could happen.’
I didn’t mention my own enquiries about Great-Aunt Harriet, or that I was beginning to develop quite a lively sense of curiosity about the eccentric recluse of Dar Ibrahim.
The desk clerk had certainly done his best to get me a nice expensive trip. The car was a vast American affair with fins, air-conditioning, blue beads to ward off the Evil Eye, and hanging in the window a text from the Koran which said: ‘Place your reliance on God.’
It also had an altimeter. This I didn’t quite believe in until the driver, a lively sharp-faced young man called Hamid, told me we would be going from sea level to about eight thousand feet in one fell swoop, since the Adonis Source was right up in the High Lebanon. I settled down beside him in the front of the car, and watched the altimeter with fascinated amusement as we turned away from the coast at Byblos, and began to climb.
Hamid had underestimated the number of fell swoops that were required. At first the road was reasonable, and bored its way upwards through villages and terraced fields, where the carefully spaced apple trees stood knee-deep in growing crops, and dark-eyed children played among the hens in the dust. But after a while the road shook itself clear of the little green settlements to climb more steeply through the last belt of cultivation before the flocks claimed the stony earth. Here still in every sheltered corner a neat terraced wall dammed in some carefully banked soil, and fruit trees were in meagre bloom. On the more exposed terraces the thin green blades of some grain were growing, almost smothered by the sheets of spring flowers that grew everywhere, at the roadside, in the terraced walls, in the very seams of the rocks. Hamid stopped the car with smiling good nature and let me explore them with rapture; orchids, pale cyclamens, a huge flax-blue geranium, the scarlet-petalled Persian tulip, and the red anemone that flowers for Adonis.
Presently we were out of the cultivation and running along switchback ridges where grey shrubs clung to the rock, and the only flower was the yellow broom. The air was crystal clear, and in wonderful contrast to the heavy air of the coast. Now and again we saw a flock of the Eastern-looking sheep, cream or honey-coloured or spatchcocked with black, moving with drooping ears and heads carried low as if always looking for food. Glossy black goats grazed with them, and each flock bunched closely round its shepherd, a solitary figure standing wrapped in his burnous, arms crossed over his stick, watching gravely as we went by.
The road climbed. The altimeter needle moved steadily to the right. The air grew piercingly fresh. The yellow broom dropped below us, and at the verges of the narrow way tufts of grey, thin leaves hunched among the stones. The car swerved terrifyingly round bends with rocks threatening to scrape the offside wing, and on the other side a sheer abyss where crows and ravens tilted and croaked below us.
Then suddenly there was space on both sides. We were running along the hogsback of a dizzyingly exposed ridge with, to the left, a prospect of white rock and blue distance and crest on crest of wooded mountain to the sea; and deep down on our right, ice-green, flashing and hiding and flashing again as it rushed and curled down its great forested gorge, ran the Nahr Ibrahim, the Adonis River.
And presently, dipping through rocky gorges which trapped the sun here and there and allowed thin apple trees to blossom with their feet deep in the red anemones, we came to the Adonis Source itself.
The source of the Adonis River has been magic, time out of mind. To the primitive people of a thirsty land, the sight of that white torrent bursting straight out of its roaring black cave half up a massive, sun-baked cliff, suggested God knows what gods and demons and power and terror. It certainly suggested fertility … the river carries life with it for thirty water-seamed mountain miles. And where the water bursts from the rock the corrie is suddenly green, and full of trees and flowering bushes, and the red anemone grows along the torrent side.
So here, treading on the ghostly heels of Isis and Ishtar and Astarte and the Great Mother herself who was Demeter and Dia and Cybele of the towers, came Aphrodite to fall in love with the Syrian shepherd Adonis, and lie with him among the flowers. And here the wild boar killed him, and where his blood splashed, anemones grew, and to this day every spring the waters of the Adonis run red right down to the sea. Now the corrie is empty except for the black goats sleeping in the sun on the ruined floor of Aphrodite’s temple, and against the roar of the torrent the drowsy stirrings of the goat bells come sharp and clear. The rags that flutter from the sacred tree are tied there as petitions to the last and latest Lady of the place, Mary.
Even without the legends, it would have been breath-taking. With them, the scene of white water and blazing rock, massive ruins, and bright flowers blowing in the wind from the fall, was something out of this world. And as we turned eventually out of the corrie on to the track – it could hardly have been called a road – that would take us home by a different route, the scene had its final touch of Eastern fantasy.
A little way beyond and out of sight of the Adonis corrie, a few Arab houses straggled along the waterside. A path, a white scratch on the rock, climbed out of this at an angle to the road. And up this path, going easily, went a chestnut Arab horse, the white burnous of its rider filled out by the motion like a sail, the scarlet and silver of the bridle winking in the sun. At the horse’s heels cantered two beautiful dogs, fawn-coloured greyhounds with long silky hair, the saluki hounds which were used by the princes of the East for hunting gazelle.
A curve of the road hid them, and all at once it was an ordinary day again. We were at the hotel, and it was time for lunch.
We saw the rider again, on our way down the other side of the valley. We had spent more than an hour over lunch, and the horseman must have used paths which cut off a thousand difficult corners that a car had to take. As we picked our way between the potholes into some tiny settlement in a lost high valley where the snow lay not very far above us, I saw the rider below, walking his horse down a barely visible path that took him thigh-deep through a field of sunflowers. The dogs were invisible below the thick, heart-shaped leaves. Then they raced ahead of him out on to a lower curve of the road, the horse breaking into a canter behind them. So clear was the air that I could hear the jingling of bridle bells above the thud of hoofs in the dust.
The squat peeling houses of the village crowded in on the car and hid him from view.
We stopped in the village to buy oranges.
This was Hamid’s idea. We could have bought them at one of the dozens of stalls on the way out of Beirut, but these, he said, would be something special, straight from the tree and warm with the sun and ripe, divinely ripe.
‘And I shall buy them for you as a present,’ he said, drawing the car to a halt in the shade of a mulberry tree and coming round to open the door for me.
The village was poor, that was obvious; the houses were nothing more than shacks patched with mud brick, but they were screened with vines, and each one squatted among its laborious terraces of fruit and grain. Some of the Goddess’s fertility had spilled over into the place, for all its height. It must be sheltered from the
worst of the winds, and there would be no lack of moisture as the snow melted. The carefully trapped water stood deep-green in square cisterns under the bare silver poplars, and the village – just a handful of houses in a natural amphitheatre sheltered from the wind – was full of fruit blossom, not only the enchanting glossy trees heavy with the waxy flowers and fruit of oranges and lemons, but the snow of pears and the sharp pink of almond, and everywhere the blush-pink of the apple, the staple fruit of the Lebanon.
The sun was hot. A small crowd of staring children had gathered round the car; they were very small and rather engaging, with their thick black hair and enormous dark eyes and thumb-sucking curiosity. The place seemed dead, with the afternoon deadness. No one was in the fields; if there was a café it was only some dark room in one of the cottages; and I saw no women. Apart from the children, the skinny hens scratching, and a miserable-looking donkey with rope sores, the only creature moving was an old man who sat in the sun smoking a pipe. He could, indeed, hardly be said to be moving. He seemed to be smoking almost in his sleep, and his eyes turned up slowly and half blind to Hamid as the latter greeted him and asked him a question in Arabic, presumably who would sell us the fruit that hung still on the lovely trees.
The old man waited a full half minute while the question wound its way through his brain, then he removed the pipe from his mouth, turned his head through a full three degrees, spat revoltingly into the dust, and mumbled something to himself. Then his eyes resumed their myopic staring at vacancy, and the pipe went back into his mouth.
Hamid grinned at me, shrugged, said: ‘I won’t be a moment,’ and vanished into a dark doorway.
I wandered across the street, the children following. At the edge of the road was a six-foot retaining wall holding up, it seemed, the entire plateau on which the village was built. Below this were the terraced fields where I had seen the rider on the chestnut horse. The sunflowers were too tall and too thickly planted to allow the lovely profusion of flowers that I had seen in the lower reaches of the hills, but there were wild irises at the foot of the wall, and a blue flower like a small lily, and like shining drops of blood among the sunflower roots I could see the red anemones.
I climbed down. The children climbed down, too. I helped them, bodily lifting down the last one a half-naked atom of perhaps three, probably with scabies. I dusted my hands off on my slacks, and hunted for flowers.
The children helped. A big-eyed boy in a grubby vest and nothing else yanked out a handful of pinks for me, and little Scabies came up with a dandelion or two. There was a great deal of conversation. Arabic and English and (from Scabies) stone-age grunts, and we all understood one another very well. The clearest thing about the business was that I was expected to hand over something substantial in return for the company and the flowers.
‘A shilling,’ said Hamid from above me, sounding amused.
I looked up. He was standing at the edge of the road.
‘Are you sure? It seems very little. There’s six of them.’
‘It’s quite enough.’
It seemed he was right. The children grabbed the coins, and melted up and over the wall faster than they had come down and with no assistance whatever, except for Scabies, who was heaved over the last lap by Hamid, dusted off, and sent on his way with a clap over the bare buttocks. Hamid turned back to me.
‘Can you manage it? Some of the stones aren’t too steady.’
‘I won’t bother. I’ll just walk down and meet you on the road as you drive down. Did you get the oranges?’
‘Yes. All right, then, don’t hurry, I’ll wait for you below.’
The path where I had seen the rider was a dry and well-worn right of way some eighteen inches wide, going down at a slant through the sunflowers and descending by three or four stony gaps in the terracing. The huge flowers, heavy-headed, were turned away from me, facing south, and the path was a narrow chasm between head-high plants. I saw now that they were planted a yard or so apart, and between them some other plant with glaucous green leaves and plumes of brownish flowers fought its way up with mallow and cornflowers and a dozen other things towards the light. Where the horse had brushed through, the leaves hung bruised and crumpled, and above the honey-smell of the sunflowers there was the clean, musky smell of dead nettle.
I made my way down towards the road. At the gap in the wall leading down to the last terrace the sunflowers gave way to a more familiar crop of corn, and standing sentinel where the crops divided was a fig tree, its buds just bursting into young green. Its silver boughs held the buds up against the bright sky with an enchanting grace, and against the rough-cast of its stem some wild vine-like plant clung, with flowers as red as the anemones. I stopped to pick one. The vine was tough, and a hank of it pulled away from the trunk, uncovering something that lay below. On the bleached silver of the exposed stem, scrawled in red, was the sketch of a running dog. The drawing was crude but lively; the thing was unmistakably a long-haired greyhound with a plumed tail. A saluki.
It is surely common experience that when something has been brought to your attention it crops up again and again, often with an alarming appearance of coincidence or even fate. It certainly seemed as if, once Charles had mentioned them, the creatures were going to haunt me through the Lebanon, but there was after all nothing so very odd about it; one might say that in England it is possible to be haunted by poodles, I went down to the road.
Hamid was sitting on a low wall at the edge of the road beside the car, smoking. He got up quickly, but I waved him down.
‘Don’t bother. Finish your cigarette, do.’
‘Would you like an orange?’
‘I’d love one. Thanks. Oh, aren’t they gorgeous? You’re quite right, we don’t get them like this at home … Hamid, why do they grow sunflowers?’
‘For oil. They make very good cooking oil, almost as good as olive oil, and now the Government has built a factory to make margarine with it also, and it offers a good price for the crop. It’s part of an official campaign to stop the growing of hemp.’
‘Hemp? That’s hashish, isn’t it? – marihuana? Good heavens! Does it grow up here?’
‘Oh, yes. Have you never seen it? I believe you grow the same plant in England, to make rope, but only in hot countries does it bear the drug. In past time there has always been a lot of it grown up in the hills – it’s the right climate for it, and there are still places where the inspectors don’t go.’
‘Inspectors?’
He nodded. ‘Government officials. They’re very anxious now to get the growing of these drugs under control. A certain amount is grown legally, you understand, for medical use, and for every stage of its growth and handling you must have a licence and be subjected to strict controls, but it’s always been easy enough for the peasants in these wild parts to grow more than they declare, or to harvest the crop before the inspectors come. Now the penalties have been made stricter than ever, but there are still some who try to get past the law.’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘What would you? It pays, and there are always men who will take the big risks for the big money.’ He dropped his cigarette into the road and trod the butt into the dust. ‘You saw the old man up there, the one I spoke to?’
‘Yes.’
‘He was smoking it.’
‘But can he …? I mean—’
‘How can they stop him?’
I stared. ‘Do you mean it’s grown here?’
He smiled. ‘There was some growing beside his house among the potatoes.’
‘I wouldn’t know it if I saw it,’ I said. ‘What’s it look like?’
‘A tall plant, greyish colour, not very pretty. The drug comes from the flowers. These are brownish, a spike like soft feathers.’
I had been carefully depositing my orange peel out of sight behind the wall where we sat. Now I sat bolt-upright. ‘There was something like that growing under the sunflowers!’
‘So?’ he said indifferently. ‘It will be gone before the inspectors get he
re. Shall we go?’ He opened the car door for me.
All in all it had been a strange and heady sort of day. And things seemed to be going my way. It seemed the inevitable climax to it that as I got into the car I should say with decision:
‘You said you’d show me Dar Ibrahim on the way home. If there’s time, I think I’d like to call there today. Would you mind?’
At about four o’clock we slid round a steep bend and into the village of Sal’q. Hamid stopped the car beside a low wall beyond which the land dropped clear away to give another of those staggering views of the Adonis Valley.
‘There,’ he said.
I looked where he pointed. Here the valley was wide, with the river, magnificent and flowing swiftly, cutting a way down for itself between dense banks of trees. From somewhere to our left, beyond the little village mosque, fell the tributary river to meet the Adonis in the valley at the bottom. Between the two streams a highish, wedge-shaped tongue of land thrust out like a high-prowed ship down the valley’s centre, and on its tip, like a crown on the crag above the meeting waters, sprawled the palace, a seemingly vast collection of buildings running back from the edge of the promontory to spread over a fair area of the plateau. Towards the rear of the buildings the ground fell away sharply in a small escarpment shelving down to the level of the plateau, and here the palace wall rose straight out of the rock. Near the top I could see windows, a row of ornate arches looking out towards the village, but apart from these, except for a few small, square openings that seemed to be little more than ventilators, the walls were windowless, blank and white in the sun. Towards the back of the palace the green of sizable trees showed inside the walls. Outside, stretching back towards the roots of the mountains that divided the gorges of the Adonis and its tributary, the plateau stretched open and stony and barren as the valley of dry bones.
There seemed to be no way to get there except down a rocky track along the side of the tributary stream.
This Hamid was explaining. ‘And you have to cross the water at the bottom,’ he said. ‘There is a ford with shallow water, but sometimes in the spring, you understand, when there has been rain, it can be very deep and fast, and floods over the stepping-stones. But it will be all right today. You really wish to go? Then I will come with you to show you the way.’