Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  The Sheikh had opened a great illuminated copy of the Koran and was turning over the pages in search of some passage that would suit the occasion. But just as he began to roll his tongue around the opening syllables the south door opened and a man called into the mosque that the fire-gift was about beginning.

  That was too much for the congregation. It was like announcing to a Sunday school that the circus was outside. Perhaps they would have sat still if the vision he had told of had not been related to the fire-gift. As it was they rose like one man and surged through the door to see this thing again that caused so much concern among the angels. We followed at the tail of the procession.

  But it was hopeless to try to see from the steps. The men in front had been forced forward by those behind, who now blocked the door and stood jammed like herrings, while the men below tried to regain the vantage of the steps for a better view.

  “Follow me!” said Grim suddenly and led us at a run back into the mosque, where we overtook the Sheikh at the north end and were just in time to get out through a side door after him before he locked it. Grim seemed to know the way perfectly, for he did not hesitate but led across a small court, and making use of a buttress in a corner climbed up on a wall built of gigantic blocks of dressed stone. It was three feet wide on top, and at the end of thirty yards or so it gave us a perfect view of the court of the Haram and the crowd that milled below.

  That was a sight worth seeing, for the fitful light of two oil lanterns shone on a sea of savage faces and, except where an occasional lantern swung in a man’s hand, the rest was all black shadow. It was as if the night had a thousand heads. Not one body was visible from where we stood. Countless faces swam in a sea of darkness. And presently they sang, as the men of El-Kalil have always done when more than a dozen of them get together.

  It would have been effective singing anywhere, at any time. The tune was as old as El-Kalil, which was a city in the time of Abraham. One man sang the words of a song that had no rhyme, but only a wavering, varying meter; and whenever they thought he had trolled out enough of it they suddenly thundered out the same refrain, bowing their heads together like pouter-pigeons making love. And the least apparent thing was its absurdity. It was the heart of El- Kalil responding to the voice of ages plucking at the strings of memory and stirring the racial passion.

  And he [Ishmael] will be a wild man; his hand will be against every man, and every man’s hand against him; and he shall dwell in the presence of his brethren.

  That night I almost understood the ancient curse, or blessing — whichever it is — that has lived with the Arabs since Hagar, their first mother, was driven forth into the desert to face the fruits of jealousy alone. You can’t explain the Arab in any other way. In his heart and generally near enough the surface is the sense of being heir to the wrongs of ages, and a sort of joy in outlawry as birthright. It lives in his scant music, in the primitive, few measures of his dance, in his poetry, in his nomadic instinct; and it comes to the surface at the least excuse or without any, whenever a crowd gathers — simple, savage, manly, not easy to condemn.

  There are fields, there are olives, there are grapes in El- Kalil.

  ALLAH! OH! IL-ALLAH!”

  There are mountains all about her where the black goats graze, where the herdsmen keep the cattle, where the barley laughs and rustles in the wind.”

  ALLAH! OH! IL-ALLAH!

  There are springs of lovely water never-failing, and the almond and the mishmish bloom and fruit in El-Kalil.

  ALLAH! OH! IL-ALLAH!

  In a valley on a mountain like a virgin’s bosom, fair and full of scent is El-Kalil.

  ALLAH! OH! IL-ALLAH!

  Up among the stars, the colored stars of heaven, much desired of other men, the city of our fathers, the city of Er-Rahman, the home of Ali Bakka, the place of the Kashkala, the tomb, the tomb of Jesse, the place of Forty Martyrs, the delight of all the saints is El-Kalil.

  ALLAH! OH! IL-ALLAH!

  Like her flowers, like the soft eyes of her daughters, like her honey, like the bloom upon her bosom in the morning is the glass of El-Kalil.

  ALLAH! OH! IL-ALLAH!

  And the swords of El-Kalil, the keen swords, the strong swords swinging in her son’s hands — mighty are the swords of El-Kalil!

  ALLAH! OH! IL-ALLAH!

  The song was beginning to get dangerous. The desert centuries have taught the Arab that beauty and peace are but oases in the midst of cruelty; and just as he must leave the place of meditative calm to strive against hot winds and drought and bitterness before he can rest again, so his mind moves swiftly from delight in beauty to the thought of cruelty and death.

  But a path was cleft suddenly down the midst of the sea of faces like the winding, narrow channel of black water when the ice breaks up in Spring; and down the middle of that came Ali Baba, prancing with his skirts tucked up and followed by his sixteen sons. Each one of them breathed orange-colored flame out of his mouth at intervals and danced between-whiles, swaying to right and left to belch fire at the crowd and frighten them.

  It was weird — astonishingly well-staged. You could only see arms, legs, bodies for a moment when the fire flashed; then the velvet darkness of the night between walls swallowed all but faces that milled and surged as if borne on an inky river.

  The seventeen thieves passed swiftly, too well-versed in the lore of trickery to give spectators time for keen inspection. They vanished through the outer gate into the night and the gap closed up behind them. Then the song began again, starting this time on the theme of blood and sacrifice. Swords began to leap out and a roar went up from the outer circles of the throng that gained in volume as infection grew, and at the end of about two minutes some one with a bull’s voice thundered:

  “Now for the Jews! In the name of Allah, kill the Jews!”

  “To the sword with them in the name of Allah!” another yelled from the darkness just below us. And a pause followed, of sudden, utter silence. They were wondering. They had heard strange things that night and seen strange sights. The yeast of uncertainty was working.

  Then Grim took a long chance. We were thirty feet above them out of reach and there were no stones they could have flung; but the risk was infinitely greater than that. If he failed to touch the right chord of emotion; if he said the wrong word or overplayed the right appeal; if one ill-considered phrase should seize their fancy and fire imagination to take flight in violence, or one careless hint spur resentment, they would surge out of the Haram like a flood. The Governorate would be the first point of attack; then the Jews; then, perhaps, when the looting was over there would be a march on Jerusalem and a mess midway to the tune of stuttering machine guns.

  Grim’s voice broke the silence like a prophet’s; for you have to speak in measured cadence if you hope to make an impress on the Moslem mind when the wild man heritage is uppermost and fierce emotion sways him. They could see only the outline of his figure against the deep purple setting of the stars and in those Arab clothes he looked enough dignified to be a true seer. Cohen and I drew away from him to give him the full dramatic force of loneliness.

  “Brothers! The bones of Abraham lie under us. It is written that ‘They plotted, but Allah plotted and of plotters Allah is the best.’ When Abraham went forth to war with kings, he waited for the word that should send him forth, and he took no share of the plunder, lest one should say an enemy and not Allah had enriched him. Who are ye but sons of Abraham?

  “We have heard and seen strange things this night,” continued Grim. “And it is written, ‘When ye prided yourselves on your numbers it availed you nothing.’ Is it wiser to be headstrong at the bidding of the rash or to wait for the appointed time and see? For all is written. ‘Who shall set forward by an hour the courses of the stars or change the contour of the hills or postpone judgment?’ Allah ykun maak! [God be with you!]”

  He had struck the right note. He had them. A murmur of low voices answered him and though the words were hardly au
dible the purport was plain; it was something about Almightiness and Allah. You can not separate the Moslem from his fatalism and it works either way, making him fierce or meek according to circumstance and the method of appeal. Unless some unexpected incident should occur to change their mood again it was likely they would cut no throats that night.

  But the risk entailed by lingering another minute on the scene would have been deadly. Questions and answers might have produced the very spark needed to fire them to fanatical zeal again. The cue was to disappear at once, leaving the dramatic effect at its height and there was only one way to do that.

  Black shadow lay behind us and beneath. I could just make out a suggestion of something solid that might be a roof and might not, but there was no time for investigation. Grim seemed to step off the wall into nothing and the darkness swallowed him. I jumped and Cohen lay down on the wall and rolled off, clinging to the edge with both hands.

  That wasn’t a roof. Grim had landed feet-foremost on a lower wall that met ours at right angles and it was the shadow cast by that that looked like something solid. I fell for a life-time, wondering what death would be like when the earth should rise at last and meet me, and was disgusted — disappointed — maddened when the end came.

  They cover up the water as a rule in Hebron ; but that stone tank was open and the green scum floated on it inches thick. There were long green slimy weeds that clung and got into your mouth and eyes and if the water of the Styx tastes worse than that I’d rather live in this world for a while yet.

  But it was not all bitterness. There was Cohen. He had to jump, too; and when I had scrambled out I told him all about it and then waited until his fingers lost their hold on the wall and he came catapulting down for his green bath just as I had done; and he liked it even less. He made remarks in Yiddish that I couldn’t understand and refused to apologize for having splashed me.

  Then Grim came, cool and dry, having found some goat’s stairway down to terra firma.

  “Both alive?” he asked. “Well — what’s the general impression? What do you think of it all?”

  “Me?” said Cohen. “Think? God damn it all! I’ve got to follow them thieves down into Abraham’s cave or bust with curiosity!”

  “You’ll bust then, for it can’t be done!” said Grim.

  CHAPTER VII. “Your friends, Jimgrim, don’t forget it!”

  WE hurried back to the Governorate as straight as you can go through the mazy streets of Hebron and found Jones asleep in his boots on the bench at the end of the hall. De Crespigny was dozing on the window-seat in the sitting-room, and made a show of being angry with Jones for not having gone to bed.

  “Fat lot of use you’ll be this time tomorrow!”

  “Do you see me bedded down, while you face the music alone?” Jones answered testily.

  “Seems to me I’ve heard somewhere of juniors obeying orders!”

  “You told me to go and get some sleep. I did.”

  Grim recounted what had happened at the Haram, while de Crespigny mixed drinks and a sleepy Arab servant stripped Cohen and me of our slimy wet garments.

  “So you can both sleep safely until morning,” Grim assured them. “Tell you what: I shan’t need Cohen until after breakfast. Let him sleep in the hall. He’ll give the alarm if a mouse breaks in. He’s nervous.”

  “Noivous? Me? After breakin’ into a mosque an’ doin’ a Hippodrome high-divin’ stunt into a dark tank? You mean noivy!”

  “I mean sleep,” said Grim. “There’s a bellyful in store for you tomorrow. Thought I’d try you out this evening. You’ve made good. Tomorrow you win the game for us.”

  “If you’re countin’ on me to make a home run I’ll start now!” said Cohen. “Give me one o’ them camels and I’ll make it quicker! Mnyum-m! Never knew a hot cocktail could sink without makin’ you sick. Does the business, too. Saves ice. Start a new fashion if I live through this. Warm drinks! Sure, give me another one!”

  “Can you spare me one policeman, Crep?”

  “Which?”

  “Any one at all who knows Abraham’s Oak and the caves thereabouts,” Grim answered.

  “Righto! I’ll dig you out a man.”

  “Tell him to bring handcuffs.”

  “When d’you want him?”

  “Now. I’ve got to move quickly. Our side-show’s scheduled for tomorrow night and we don’t want a rival act playing the same pitch. We’ve got to pull up that fire-gift by the roots. Besides, we need the makings. Some of the notables are likely to call on you at dawn, ‘Crep, and tell you their version of tonight’s events. If I were you I’d take the line that you’ll permit crowds in the streets leading to the Haram tomorrow night to see the Jews return the fire-gift; but make them swear by their beards there shall be no bloodshed if the Jews don’t disappoint them. Take their pledge in writing for it. Then how would it be if you offered to grace the ceremony with your official presence?”

  “Good. That’ll do to remind ’em of what they’ve promised. But Lord help us if you fail, Grim! Are you sure of the Jews?”

  “That’s Cohen’s end.”

  “Say, see here,” put in Cohen, “I’ve told you more’n once these Jews are Orthodox. They’d no more listen to me than if I was a Piute Indian. They’d sooner listen to an Indian!”

  “Go to sleep on the bench and dream of a way of persuading them,” Grim suggested pleasantly. “Policeman ready, Crep?”

  The servant had found me dry clothes belonging to the estate of an Arab who had been hanged for triple murder a couple of weeks before, and Grim and I left by the front door again with the policeman shouldering a loaded rifle just behind us.

  This time instead of turning toward the city we went almost to the opposite direction, between orchard walls, by a path so stony that you tripped at every second step. The policeman’s steel-capped boots struck sparks behind us and the noise we made set little foxes scampering, then brought them back again to leap on the wall and look. Surely all nature wonders at the clumsiness of man.

  * * * * *

  WE were in open country at the end of half a mile, but that brought us small advantage, for the tilled hillsides to left and right of us were so much blackness, and how in the world Grim proposed to find any given cave, or the man who hid in it, was more than I could guess. You could see dim ghosts that were thousand-year-old olive-trees and goblins that were limestone rocks. Little owls screamed mockery from almost arm’s length and one or two hyenas dogged our steps snickering obscenity. The rest was black, unfathomable night.

  But we came at last to a lane that led due northward by the pole-star and Grim led the way up that, following a cart-wheel track beside a wall. And presently we emerged into a clump of pine-trees that were startling because so unexpected in that land, where men have cut for fuel whatever bears no fruit that men can eat and the goats have seen to it that nothing grows again. There were thirty or forty pines with grass beneath them, clean and well-kept.

  “Care to see Abraham’s Oak?” asked Grim — showman again; he could not rest until you had seen everything. “I think Ali Baba and his gang will come here before dawn; they always used to. We’ll have to beat it soon, but you’ve time to see the tree. There’ll be no time afterward.”

  It stood within two hundred feet of us, surrounded by a stone wall and an iron railing — a veritable oak, so huge and ancient that a man’s life seemed an absurd thing as we stood beneath. Under the stars, with shadows all about, it looked vaster than by daylight, its dignity unmarred by signs of decay and only its age and hugeness to be wondered at — those and the silence that it seemed to breathe.

  “They had to fence it to keep thieves away,” said Grim. “No, not only souvenir-sharps. The thieves of Hebron used to meet under the pines and set their fires against this oak. Abraham is supposed to have pitched his tent under this identical tree, so it must have been big then, and that’s three thousand years ago. It has been a rendezvous ever since. Ali Baba loves the spot. Come on.”

/>   We passed through a gate and up-hill to where big buildings and a tower loomed lonely against the sky, I too busy wondering about Abraham and that old tree to take any interest in modern convents. The patriarch came from Ur of the Chaldees, wherever that was. What sort of tents did he have, and how many? According to Genesis he must have had a small tribe with him; what did they look like camped around that tree and how were his slaves and retainers armed?

  Modern happenings amuse me more when I can follow their roots back into the subsoil of time; but that leads to brown study and hurt shins. I barked mine against a modern American plow, as Grim turned aside along the hilltop and picked up a big stone, to thunder with it on the wooden door of a high square tower.

  It stood apart from the convent buildings, modern and unlovely — might have been a belfry, for all you could tell in the dark — perhaps one of those vainglorious beginnings the religious congregations make with thousands of yet-to-be-solicited contributors in mind. The door was opened presently by an old Russian female in a night-cap, who screamed at sight of us.

  She knew no Arabic — no English. Grim beckoned the policeman, and his rifle turned out to be a theme she comprehended, for she crossed herself in a quick-fire flurry and stood aside. Grim gave her a coin, for which she blessed him profusely — or so I suppose; the words were Russian — and we entered a square room dimly lighted by a night-light that burned before an ikon in a corner. It formed the whole ground-story of the tower, bedroom and living-room in one, and was chock-a-block with rubbishy furniture, but clean.

  In the corner opposite the ikon was an iron stair with a hand-rail, like one of those that stokers use to emerge by from the boiling bowels of a ship. Grim started up it, but told the policeman to stay below and keep the door shut, presumably to prevent the old lady from communicating with her friends outside — for you never know in Palestine what innocents are earning money on the side by acting as thieves’ telegraph. I followed Grim.