by Неизвестный
And suddenly, like a wind blowing among the trees of a forest, a whisper traveled from mouth to mouth: “There they go! There they go!” Fear and anxiety appeared on every face. Now all the screaming stopped and each man easily found his proper place. The pilgrims divided their camps into three sections: those on foot first, behind them the riders, and last of all those in carriages. All eyes turned in a single direction, all hearts pounded fiercely, and with bated breath they drew themselves erect and gazed disbelievingly at the spectacle unfolding before them.
From the opposite hilltop the flag-masters descended slowly on their noble steeds bedecked in checkered trappings. The flags they bore did not budge, and descended in folds around their poles, which were as long as masts. In the center, a step ahead of the others, rode Abu Il-Shawarab, cantering proudly and freely, his face beaming with the joy and pride of victory. On his right and a little too far back rode Abu Faris, courageously bent over his steed, like a tiger about to pounce. His legs were drawn back, his stomach drawn in, and he and his horse looked as if they had been glued together. His thick eyebrows arched over his flashing cat’s eyes, which stared ahead unmoving and clearly expressed his dark decision of intrigue.
They reached the very heart of the camps, which still stood, immobile as walls, waiting for the flag-masters to ride past them so that they could turn and follow them. The suss vendor was standing at the head of a column of Nablusites, beside the sacrificial camel. Girding his loins and thrusting the ends of his kaftan into his belt, he somersaulted onto the beast’s neck and from there climbed up, nimble as a squirrel, to stand erect on its back. When the flag-masters were some twenty meters from him he bent his head backward a little, pressed his hand to his temple, and declaimed in a loud voice:
Nimmer, Nimmer, on his white stallion proud, His sword a lightning bolt, his flag—a cloud, Eagles chose him to lead their ring
Roaring lions have crowned him their king, Those who love him rest in his shade
His enemies fall before him and fade.
“Ai!…Ai!…Ai!…Support him! Praise him! Follow him!” came the cries from the Nablusite camp. In wild enthusiasm they roared and cheered, greeting their leader and their flag with a triumphant song. Then again they cried: “Ai! Ai!” and “Support him! Praise him!” with increasing fervor and deafening roars.
Abu Faris started laughing—strange, contemptuous short bursts of laughter. His left leg began to tremble, knocking with his spur on his horse’s thigh. The well-trained horse looked from side to side and did not move from the spot, and soon his master calmed down. He had understood that the time had not yet come to act, and looked about stealthily to see if his secret intrigue had not been discovered. On seeing in Abu Il-Shawarab’s face the expression of one who is confident of his own power and high degree, he restrained himself, disguised the fury and contempt in his eyes, and again put on an air of unconcern and scorn, as if what had happened did not affect him in the slightest.
In the Hebronite camp, tears of indignation and shame could be seen on many faces. The suss vendor had aimed his pointed barbs well, and they lodged deep in their hearts.
But their downfall did not last long. Soon enough a redeemer was found among them, who removed the disgrace and returned it sevenfold upon their foes. A man arose from among their rear ranks, tall as a giant. As he walked forward he threw the flap of his abbayeh over his shoulder with pretended casualness, freed a hand, and motioned to one of his companions to kneel down. Taking off his shoes, he climbed up on the other’s shoulders. Then, taking his kefiyeh, which he had rolled up like a snake, and waving it around his head in all directions to draw the attention of all present and to tell them to be silent, he too declaimed, in a lion’s voice:
Soon will come the day of redress
With wrath overturning distress
Then the faces of the oppressed will all shine
And the faces of the robbers be shamed!
“Raise him! Raise him! Again! Again!” roared the Hebronites. Hundreds of arms reached toward him, grasped him, lifted him into the air like a feather and held him high, cheering all the while. They did not cease calling out even when their leaders urged them to move off. Only when their limbs grew weary and their throats hoarse did they respond to their leader’s commands, and moved off with much noise and clamor.
Then the dervishes enthusiastically began singing a sacred song:
To you, the Prophet Moussa,
We will pour out our hearts,
Our bodies—your redemption,
Our souls—your compensation.
Moussa kalim Allah!
Like a father who watches our growth
Like a craftsman who suckles our art,
Purify us to seek early your shrine
Pour on us your spirit so fine,
Moussa kalim Allah.
In your flame we are consumed
To your tomb we are attuned
Shade us in your shelter;
Bathe us in your splendor,
Moussa kalim Allah!
Their intoxication spread to all the pilgrims, and thousands of wild voices responded to the song, which merged into a single fierce and prolonged shout, savage and sad as the desert. Heads swayed to the rhythm of the singing, and it seemed as if the entire plain was singing and swaying with the people and the animals and the flags and the swords.
Twilight deepened, the last gleams of day began to fade and slip away from the wide enclosure, which steamed with the evening, emitting its heat in thin, pale, mist-like clouds. In the midst of these moved the flag-masters, their shapes already blurred. Some had already completely vanished from sight and only their flags could be seen, stretched like moving sails in the misty air.
Darkness had descended on the walls and the wide-open gate of the shrine. When the flag-masters were some three hundred lance-lengths from it, Abu Il-Shawarab, excitedly sensing the importance of the event he was about to take part in, drew in his reins, stood up on his stirrups, and looked back to see if everything was in order among his followers. At that moment he heard the sound of a stick whistling through the air a little to his right, followed by a pounding of hoofs: the red horse of Abu Faris, who had been riding behind him, shot past him like a flash of fire; the unfurled Hebronite flag swelled out in front of him, fanning him with wind as it flew on, like the flapping of a mighty wing.
Astonished at first, Abu Il-Shawarab stared at the flag as if unable to believe the terrible sight he had just seen. But his sharp eyes had recognized Abu Faris, and now a sudden clarity flashed through his brain and set all his limbs aquiver. At one glance he took everything in, and understood the whole of Abu Faris’s cunning and perfidy. His blood boiled and hummed in his temples, his eyes darkened, and he struck himself hard on the head. He let out a mighty roar: “Perfidy!” and dug his spurs deep into his white stallion until the blood flowed, and, bending slightly forward over his saddle, slashed down with his reins.
The stallion, sensing his master’s agitation, burst into the speedy gallop for which he was famed. Neck down, tail flying, he seemed to glide through the air without touching the ground. Very soon he had caught up with the horse ahead of him, and ran so close to him that the legs of the riders were touching. Several paces away from the gate he succeeded in passing him by a whole step, and then Abu Il-Shawarab thrust his drawn sword in front of the eyes of his opponent’s horse, without touching him. The red horse reared and drew back. Before he could start riding forward again Abu Il-Shawarab had blocked his path and forced him to stand still on the spot.
The two animals of different breeds stood there staring at each other in hatred, and a dreadful and ominous silence ensued. Then Abu Faris shrugged his shoulders impatiently, beat upon his horse’s neck with all his might, changed his position, and struck his horse again with the intention of evading Abu Il-Shawarab and passing around him.
Abu Il-Shawarab grasped his intention and moved his own horse around to block his path again. Coming close eno
ugh to his rival to touch him, he stammered in a hoarse, strangled voice:
“Get back, traitor! And if you don’t…”
“Your mother’s cunt!” hissed Abu Faris, and gave him a hard shove in the ribs with the end of his flagpole. Abu Il-Shawarab swayed and groaned in pain, but quickly recovered. Trembling with rage, his mouth ajar and his eyes dilated, now totally in the grip of one of those frenzies that bring a man to sin, he rose up on his stirrups and bent toward his enemy. He grabbed the flag in an attempt to wrench it from Abu Faris’s hands, and the flag tore. Abu Faris reached for his belt, to draw his revolver, but Abu Il-Shawarab was quicker, and thrust his sword into the other’s breast with all his might.6
“To me, my men! The son of a whore has killed me!…” Abu Faris gurgled, and spoke no more. He fell on his face, his head landing on the neck of his killer’s horse. A stream of blood poured from his mouth onto the saddle, and sprayed onto his face and clothes. The stallion gave a start and moved away, and the lifeless body turned over and fell to the earth, landing with a dull thud.
Abu Il-Shawarab stood rooted to the spot, bewildered and astounded, staring at the dark form lying in the sand in the growing pool of blood which now divided into two streams advancing toward him like snakes. Suddenly a huge mounted figure rose up beside the dead man, large as an elephant, and began wailing in bitter, heartrending tones: “The Muslims are finished: the end has come…! My brothers!…Help!…Help!…” And from further away, in the other direction, came a loud cry: “Flee, Abu Nimmer! The dogs are after you!” Abu Il-Shawarab shrank in fear. Without knowing what he was doing he brandished the flag he was holding and sent his horse galloping toward the gate of the shrine before the shadows, now advancing upon him like wolves, could reach him. By their flashing swords and their angry cries he knew the danger he was in, and understood that he would be hopelessly lost if he did not get away from them quickly. Casting a quick glance to the side, he placed the flag by the gatepost and galloped on to the right, in the direction that was clear of people. The wails, the cries for help, and the shots cutting through the air behind him increased his fear and the speed of his flight, and his horse flew along the treacherous paths among the hills as if borne on the wings of mysterious forces. To Abu Il-Shawarab it felt as if he were flying down into some deep abyss. Only when the noise of pursuit was far behind him and he found himself surrounded by darkness did he stop his horse for a moment. He leapt to the ground, put his ear to the earth, and listened attentively for its secret pulses. When he was sure that no pursuers were coming after him he got up again, his knees shaking. Still breathing heavily and sweating profusely from every pore, he pressed his trembling hand to his chest to calm the dreadful pounding of his heart. Concentrating all his senses in his ears, he laid his head sorrowfully on his horse’s neck and hugged the animal the way a terrified child presses close to his mother’s breast.
“Allah’s decree!” he muttered over and over between compressed lips, in an attempt to overcome his weakness and distress, and to grasp the torturing thought which kept fluttering through all the other dark visions of chaos that flew about in his brain like withered leaves on a stormy day. The words, however, neither penetrated to his heart nor restored his strength. He struggled to exercise the thought and free himself of it, but he could sense it roaming through his soul, hovering above him and burning his forehead. He closed his eyes and tried to catch it, and sank into a kind of idea for which there is no concept.
Several minutes passed. They were like hours to him. His consciousness returned and he shuddered like a man falling from a great height in a dream. Something like a giant flame lit up in front of him, illuminating all the dark and secret places of his soul. Hitting himself on the head with both hands, he roared like a madman:
“Coward that I am! What have I done to myself and to my people?…Why did I flee?…O the glory!…O the shame and disgrace!…”
The more he thought about it, the more his blood streamed to his temples, and he was filled with self-contempt. His entire being sobbed silently, and a great remorse consumed him. But now a new idea seized him and filled him with enthusiasm, and being by nature very changeable, he decided that he must return immediately to the field of conflict, even at the cost of his life.
The natural instinct which guides creatures that are in danger spurred Abu Il-Shawarab to be cautious. With trembling hands he took off his abbayeh, cut it into long strips with his sword, and bound his horse’s hoofs so that its galloping might be silent. The darkness that encompassed him on all sides encouraged him in the hope that he might succeed in stealing back into his own camp, even if his pursuers were still roaming about and lying in wait for him to return.
He tried to mount his horse again, but the horse’s chest was rising and falling like a bellows from having run so much; its breath came in snorts and the sweat poured from it, moistening Abu Il-Shawarab’s hand, which slid gently along the horse’s neck. He could not mount. Knowing that there were still many obstacles ahead of him for which he had to conserve the horse’s strength, he grasped the reins and began walking, leading the horse. He advanced silently and with great caution, his eyes darting around him as if trying to rip apart the mists now rising across the plain like dense white steam from the Dead Sea that glinted like steel on his left and from the Jordan slumbering on his right in its gray abbayeh.
After walking in the sand for about an hour, his legs now weak and unsteady, he finally caught sight of the white rows of hills. He stopped beside the steep path, which gleamed in the darkness, and considered whether to continue along it or to change direction. He decided to make the rest of his way directly through the huge rocks, which rose above each other like a camel caravan that has stopped to rest by the wayside. These rocks, he hoped, would give him cover. He crawled forward among them, crouching, with feeble steps. Slowly, very carefully, feeling his way forward with his hands, he climbed to the ridge of the hill whose peak rose to the clouds.
Although his hands and knees were soon scratched and bruised all over by the thorns and clumps of rock he kept bumping into, he ignored the pain and kept on going. But whenever his horse’s hoofs dislodged some stones his heart went tearing after them, trembling in his chest as he listened to the noise they made rolling down the hillside. Then he would take a deep breath and bend forward again to continue crawling forward.
With great effort he reached the peak and climbed onto its hump-top alone. There he lay down and blinked, molded his body to the shape of the hilltop, and scanned the surroundings. Strain his eyes as he might, all he could see was a deep chasm descending into invisible depths, and behind it a dark wall, terrifying in its stillness. And more than he could see he sensed that the descent on this side was steep, and that more peaks, higher than this one, rose ahead of him.
“It’s a bad way I’ve chosen,” he thought to himself, and his spirits fell. “My horse will never get down this cursed slope.”
Nevertheless he continued to crawl on. With the stubbornness of an ant he circled around trying to find a path. He stopped being careful, and stepped out with broad steps, until he stumbled and fell into a pit.
Through the darkness he saw the ravine he had almost fallen into, next to the pit. Although the sweat was pouring from him, he suddenly felt terribly cold all along his spine. Gritting his teeth he dropped heavily to his knees, and, leaning with both arms over the brink of the ravine, he mumbled in a tone of self-derision:
“Serves you right…maybe now you’ll learn…why be stubborn?”
The despair mounting in him, he retraced his steps and reached his horse. He wound the reins around the horse’s head and placed his hand on its back, to let the horse lead him. The horse understood him and began to descend. Now digging its hoofs into the ground and slowly dragging its body forward, now twisting itself around rocks, the horse made its way painfully down the slope.
When they were finally on the plain again, Abu Il-Shawarab hurried the horse on and turned it toward t
he path he had left earlier. No sooner had he entered the fissure that was like a tunnel than the horse shuddered, stepped backward, and jerked its ears up: only a few steps away a figure seemed to have risen out of the bowels of the earth, clearly visible since it was darker than the darkness of the night. The figure moved, and then spoke in an urgent whisper:
“Nimmer! Is that you…?”
Abu Il-Shawarab recognized the voice, and his fear vanished. Like a drowning man who has been offered a lifebelt he ran straight to the other man, fell upon his neck, embraced him, kissed him, and held him tight, not letting him go while he pelted him with questions.
The suss vendor stood there bewildered and unmoving. He was stunned by this fierce outburst of love from a man so much higher and more exalted in rank than himself. The flag-master’s frightened voice, and his tone of suppressed sobbing, made the hard heart of the suss vendor tremble, as air in a dark room trembles when pierced by a large beam of light. An inner joy such as he had never known flooded through every corner of his soul and overflowed its banks. Placing his hand under Abu Il-Shawarab’s arm he held the flag-master firmly and led him back to the horse. Grasping the bridle, he led the two of them quickly onto the plain, mumbling fragmented and disordered pieces of information:
“Pray to the Prophet!…The disaster is great…All the blame is being placed on you…The riot was enormous…There are many killed and wounded…I knew you’d be lying in wait so I escaped to try to find you and tell you…Flight is one half of bravery…that dog’s head who leads the Jerusalemites, the Hadj, cursed be his father—he wails and laments over the corpse of Abu Faris, as if he were his own brother…He goes among the groups and the camps carrying the torn flag of Al-Khalil, and crying for vengeance…You have been shamed in the eyes of all the camps…Even the Nablusites will not shelter you…The soldiers who came from Jerusalem have arrested all our leaders…They’re searching for you along all the paths…Allah has hidden you…It is your duty to escape…If you don’t get away in time, you’ll rot in the bloody prison at Acre, or you’ll hang in the streets in Stamboul…”