by Неизвестный
Abu Il-Shawarab wiped the beads of sweat from his face. Shading his eyes against the blazing sun, he studied the road all the way to the horizon.
Wherever he looked he saw heads crawling and creeping forward like vast masses of insects: Allah! Allah, Who has created men like locusts! Like locusts they covered the fences and the fields and the path, and like locusts they emitted an incessant bustling sound.
At the outskirts of this host rose a huge many-colored flag, made of silk, with gold and silver and embroidery, like a gigantic sail flying on the open sea above dancing waves. The golden crescent stuck on top of its pearl-studded pole glinted in the distance, and around it fragmented colored circles of light gleamed like butterflies fluttering against the sun. A host of smaller flags flew ascending and descending as the horsemen bore them toward where the hill path opened into the plain.
Here the lines of flag-bearers opened out and formed straight silent columns. From behind them emerged an old man dressed all in white, whose thin body, bent with age and weakness, had until then been surrounded by dozens of horsemen riding slowly beside his white horse, leaning toward him in concern, supporting him on either side, and controlling the pace of his horse lest it walk too fast, nodding their heads to everything he said with a smile of agreement.
Abu Il-Shawarab recognized him, for this was the Mufti of Jerusalem.2 Escorted by the most important of his notables, the venerated leader now waited to greet the two camps of pilgrims. Abu Il-Shawarab felt his heart beat with apprehension. Highly agitated, he began rushing about senselessly, and then called to his men:
“Hurry, ride quickly and catch up with me!”
In the ensuing confusion he turned his horse, assembled his horsemen, and took his place at their head. Like a screeching flock of cranes rising to the skies, they flew off in a disorganized group toward the path.
As they approached the path, the Jerusalemites brandished their flags and welcomed them with low bows. The Nablusites followed suit. They drew their swords and whirled them about with all their might, and then dismounted. With halting steps that testified to the quantity of hard riding they had done, they approached the welcoming party. Falling on each other’s necks, the two groups of leaders kissed each other on the shoulders.
Abu Il-Shawarab took the Mufti’s hand, which was as thin and narrow as a child’s. As he brought it up to his lips, the Mufti seemed to awake from a reverie, shaking his head as if surprised. Then he drew Abu Il-Shawarab toward him, trembling. Raising himself slowly, he tried to dismount. Abu Il-Shawarab grasped his intention and prepared to lift him from his saddle in obedience to his wishes. At that moment, however, he felt himself elbowed aside. He stared in amazement at the back of the man who had shoved him aside, and tried to identify him. Just then he heard the other’s voice raised vehemently:
“Allah forefend! Preserve you, and forgive you… .By your head and the flag of Al-Khalil which I bear, we will not let you move from where you are!”
The old man listened to this with a gentle smile of pleasure and affection. Blushing like a young girl, he straightened the edges of his yellow silk cloak, which spread around him like waves of radiance. Then he bent over and kissed the speaker on the head, twice, the motions of his beard moving in time with his toothless mouth as he showered instructive blessings upon him.
Leaning intimately on the Mufti’s saddle with both arms, Abu Faris brought his mouth up to the old man’s ear and whispered something to him. As he spoke he seemed to be puffing himself up with pride, for he kept casting sidelong glances at the Nablusite leaders, glances full of self-satisfaction, which seemed to be aimed at showing them his own importance. Noticing that Abu Il-Shawarab was devouring him with his eyes, his face beamed. Ostentatiously ignoring the Hebron flag-master, he continued to talk at great length, shaking his head and arms vigorously in accompaniment. Casually, as if unaware of what he was doing, he insinuated his body between Abu Il-Shawarab and the Mufti, tapped the old man’s horse gently and aroused him to walk, and slowly walked beside him, talking all the while, not subsiding until he had led the Mufti aside and brought him into the midst of the Hebronite camp.
Abu Il-Shawarab, who had watched all this with growing apprehension, now leapt up as if stung by a scorpion. Arching his body backward, he rapidly raised one foot, and for a moment it seemed as if he was about to pounce on Abu Faris. But then he reached a decision; his arm, which had tautened like a spring, dropped to his side. Gnashing his teeth, he firmly restrained his resentment and turned toward the horse. The veins in his temples throbbed violently. Groping like a blind man because of all this agitation, he rested his head on the saddle and remained standing beside his horse for some time, his trembling fingers drumming on the animal’s neck but incapable of grasping it. It took him many deep breaths, concentrating all his energy and willpower, to regain some self-possession.
When, somewhat recovered, he was mounted again, he could not refrain from waving a threatening fist at Abu Faris and calling out:
“Just you wait! We’ll meet again! By Allah, I will bring upon you a day you’ll regret…”
These threats, spoken in a harsh, penetrating voice, were applauded by his companions. But they were also overheard by a Hebronite horseman who happened to be standing nearby. Hoping to impress his leader with his loyalty, this horseman rode quickly to Abu Faris, his face wearing the expression of a bearer of important tidings. Sidling up to the Hebronite flag-master, he reported the threats, with substantial additions and flourishes. Then still watching Abu Faris’s face to see what impression he was making, he asked him what tactics he thought they should employ to put some sense into the Nablusites’ heads.
To his informer’s surprise, Abu Faris calmly shrugged his shoulders in disdain. His gray horse capered playfully about like a dancer, and with the same kind of frivolity Abu Faris answered:
“Our salvation is Allah…”
By age-old custom and precepts of conduct the three chief flag-masters—of Jerusalem, Hebron, and Nablus—must not show any ill feelings they might harbor for one another when they meet to lead the Mo’ssam. The honor of the prophets whose flags they bear and the customs that have been passed down for many generations forbid any act of revenge or blood feud during these days. They must control their emotions and make the pilgrimage together, riding to the tomb of Nebi Moussa side by side.
When Abu Il-Shawarab heard the great drum of Nebi Moussa from the Jerusalemites’ camp, he hurried toward his own musicians, who were already lined up beside the path waiting for the signal to start “work.” On reaching them he waved several times, then galloped off toward his riders, who were standing around in small clusters, whispering secretively or arguing rebelliously, while others silently ground their teeth in anger, their faces inflamed with shame. He yelled at them to disperse and to start the camp moving and beckoned to two of them to accompany him. The two he had called asked him to wait a little and moved about slowly and sullenly as if looking for something. Abu II-Shawarab bit his lips impatiently and rode off without them. After having ridden several paces, he changed his mind and turned back.
Now the instruments of the Hebronites began to play in cacophony and the many musicians in the other camps responded with even greater volume. The blind men walking in the middle ranks twisted up their frozen faces which had been staring toward the skies, like dreamers, and their bodies swayed in unison. As if suddenly pushed by a single invisible force, all the pilgrims moved off at once, advancing slowly, clanging their cymbals. The drummers, marching ahead to show them the way, now approached Abu Il-Shawarab, who stood in the middle of the road. They made a half-circle around his flag, beating lustily on their drums. Those behind them quickly followed suit. They bowed devoutly, and their cymbals clashed like the wings of locusts. Soon they were joined by the flute players, behind whom came the dervishes blowing their rababas 3 with closed eyes, emitting hoarse cries through their overgrown beards. Through this din thumped the separate, dull, yet penetrating
beat of the Jerusalemite drum, resounding across the plain like thunderclaps.
The massed crowds moved from the plain to the road, like currents of a river sending its rushing waters cascading down to the sea. Abu Il-Shawarab paused, raised himself on his horse, and looked around him. When he saw that the two other flag-masters were already standing side by side, he waved his flag and clanged his sword, ordering his deputies to ride ahead and clear a path for him. The upper part of his body drawn strangely erect, he rode with a cold self-importance through the groups of Hebronites who had been the first to leave the plain. He ignored everyone as he rode: those who denied his leadership, those who stared at him with long offensive stares, and also those few who truly and wholeheartedly wished to greet the flag he was carrying.
To all appearances perfectly calm, he cantered up to the mounted pair of flag-masters, who had been whispering and smiling together for some time. On his arrival they immediately fell silent and quickly drew apart. With intrigue in their eyes, they both leapt onto their horses, and turned their cold gaze upon him.
3 A double-tubed flute.
Abu Il-Shawarab felt a premonition of dread. Their presence stifled him. But he remained calm. With the resolution of a fearless man who offers his arm to the bloodletter, he fulfilled the obligation he had taken on himself. Gravely, and with studied movements, he bowed slightly to them, touched his flag to theirs, and muttered a quiet blessing under his thick moustache. Then, without favoring them with another glance or waiting for their invitation, he took several paces forward, set his horse into a slow, confident trot, and pressed forward into a position between the two horsemen: this being the most important place, the one reserved by custom and tradition for the master of the greatest and most esteemed flag of the three, or for the one whose following of pilgrims was the largest.
At this Abu Faris gave a start, as if he had been touched by something foul. His body arched like a bow, and with a venomous smile flickering around his thin lips, he angrily reined his horse back. To the surprise of all the horsemen, he moved away from Abu Il-Shawarab’s right and rode around him. With an expression of flattering humility on his face he then urged the Jerusalem flag-bearer—the host and lord of this district—to move forward and take up the middle position.
An astonished silence followed this insult. All heads turned at once toward Abu Il-Shawarab and his deputies, whose faces flushed and then paled. Then a mighty tumult burst out, indescribable in its fury.
The Nablusites, who had by now gathered at the scene of this incident, all clenched their fists and waved them at Abu Faris and those of his people who stood around him in a narrow circle. The horsemen dismounted, and all of them rushed at him, screaming. Loudest of all in his imprecations was the suss vendor, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere and now hit out blindly with head and elbows. Panting as he struggled to extricate himself from the grip of the Jerusalemites who held him back, he screamed: “Let me at him! I’ll break his skull for him! By Allah, I’ll smash his skull…” The exhortations of the Jerusalem flag-bearer and his companions who tried to mediate between the disputing factions went unheard in the general uproar.
Suddenly everyone fell silent as the Mufti himself appeared on the scene and raised his arms. Walking quickly to Abu Il-Shawarab, he lifted his head up to the Nablusite leader and spoke to him at length. Speaking cautiously and gently, to pacify the irate flag-master, he solemnly made him a public promise that the flag of the Nablusites would lead the procession as it entered Nebi Moussa, even though the Hebronite flag was of greater importance and degree. Not waiting to hear Abu Il-Shawarab’s acceptance, he then proceeded to scold the Nablusites, angrily chastising their rebellious cries of opposition to his proposal, which arose anew again and again. Then he went over to the Hebronites, took Abu Faris by the arm, and led him to the Nablus camp, and there rebuked him for his conduct, which he characterized as ill mannered. Then, to resolve the dilemma and satisfy both sides, he himself took the Jerusalem flag, placed Abu Faris on his right and Abu Il-Shawarab on his left, and ordered his own flag-bearer to divide his horsemen between the two camps. This done, he gave the order to set out, and rode on in silence at the head of the procession, toward the city.
The compromise imposed upon them against their wills pleased neither side and it certainly did not check their anger. The story of the new insult to their flag spread quickly among the Nablusites, taking on more offensive proportions and collecting many commentaries and invented additions as it traveled. The Hebronites too, seeing their own flag displaced from its customary position, grumbled about their leaders for not having stood their ground to defend their honor; at the same time they blamed the arrogant Nablusites, at whom they stared with hatred. Like some drinkers who, loving strife, begin to nurse in their imaginations the thought of the brawl to come from the moment they agree to drink together, the thought increasing in force as they drink more and more, so did the resentment and indignation of both sides increase as they approached the city.
The masses of onlookers who packed the streets and the walls, the outskirts of the city, and the fields abutting on the path gazed with no little apprehensiveness this time at the hard, angry secretive faces of the advancing pilgrims. Some, anticipating the worst, withdrew in alarm. Others hid hurriedly inside shops and waited with pounding hearts to see the end of this procession, for it looked more like a horde of savages setting out for plunder than a solemn march of pilgrims assembled to celebrate the performance of a sacred commandment…
The thousands of spectators, who had been drawn by curiosity or love of entertainment and were now trapped among the pilgrims overrunning the city and filling all the roads to such an extent that it was impossible to escape them, this year witnessed strange and wonderful sights, many of which they would remember long after with no few tremors. The procession advanced in complete disorder; horsemen pushed those who walked; men on foot cursed and screamed at those mounted on donkeys and camels who pressed forward through the crowd; the throngs belonging to the two opposed camps moved forward in closely packed lines, each camp apart, as if each person in each camp sought shelter from those around him. Every face wore an expression of violence, a kind of bestiality ready to explode at any moment; their hostility was only too evident. As if driven by an invisible force the stragglers ran after them, trying to catch up, constantly turning their heads to look back in fright, then looking intently ahead, and listening for the slightest sound of danger.
Even the many rings of dancers, so alike in their dress and their movements, did not mingle with each other, as had been the custom for generations. Their motions this time had the barest semblance of a dance, and their cheers too came only from the mouth, not from the heart. The clashing of swords and the banging of shields in the dance made them sense the call to battle. The poison bubbling out of their hearts corrupted the atmosphere. Whenever a ring of dancers happened to draw close to another, all the participants immediately retreated and stopped dancing. With looks of contempt and disgust in their eyes they would demonstratively move apart, push aside those who stood in their way, and leave the place, muttering sullenly as they went.
In this manner, almost in flight, they passed the North Wall and toiled up the slope of the Mount of Olives with its steep and curving paths. Here the “middle men,” dancers bearing shields, began to take up positions facing each other for the sword battle—but before they could even make several turns to show their mettle, the signal was given to stop the dance and to move on. The leaders of the rings of dancers seemed to be competing with each other to see who would get the obligatory dances finished first, and on the weary slopes of the Kidron Valley, arms and hands drooped, and the last sounds of song and music faded and died.
Now they all quickened their pace, hoping to arrive in time for the parting ceremony, and to see the Mufti send the pilgrims off with his blessing, and watch him present to the flag-masters the gift sent by the Caliph to the mosque of Nebi Moussa. All wished to be p
resent when the escorts parted from the pilgrims, a moment that was to be preceded by songs of glory and praise to the Prophet and to conclude with wild enthusiastic dancing. Out of breath, covered with sweat and dust, they arrived at the spring of Siloam, whose clear waters now flowed abundantly after the recent heavy rains, pouring and frothing between green fields of grain where curling stems rose unmoving while the tiny budding ears bristled and leaned forward like needles. As they walked they dipped their hands into the streams, to bring handfuls of water up to their dry lips and dusty tongues, or to wet their skulls, which blazed under their heavy headwear. Many soon found themselves being pushed back by throngs of people coming back from the ceremony and marching back to the city. Shoved and surrounded in this way, they were forced to mingle with the returning escorts and even to retreat. For a long while they strayed this way and that, unable to see any of their companions or leaders. It was only with great effort that they succeeded in wrenching themselves free from the streams of men descending upon them like a storm which rolled aside everything in its path. Then the survivors could stop to look back at the cowards who had given up the struggle and left the pilgrimage. These now looked very small indeed in the distance. Indignation swept through them when they looked around and discovered to their astonishment that great gaps had been torn in their ranks, reducing their number by half.
Shamed, sad, like people who have been invited to a banquet and find on their arrival that those present have already finished the dinner without them, they stood bewildered, surveying this place which had just been so full of cheering people. They looked around as if seeking something more, but on seeing in the distance the wild and unruly masses of pilgrims moving forward like untended herds, they anxiously began running after them, almost in panic, pushing and shoving each other along the mountain paths and into the desert to catch up with them.