The sorcerer sat up straight and directed his eyes ever higher until the bodyguards feared their master might fall over backward. He subsided into his prayer, as if searching the stern, eternal void for a sign—as if pursuing prophecy’s star that appears only as afternoon ends, as if hunting for an allusion that the crowd of ignoramuses gathered around him had ignored. This symbol had selected him from the crowd the way inspiration chooses advocates of purity. In his wily eye, deep-seated irony evolved into true malice, because anyone who responds to the Spirit World’s sign inevitably dandles some enigma in his eye.
He volunteered nonchalantly, “I am dying of curiosity to know what people are plotting. I will give a female camel to anyone who tells me what men, whose bedchambers the Spirit World has robbed of women, are plotting.”
He released a muffled, murky laugh that reminded the group of that ignoble, mysterious, ugly laugh they commonly heard from the scarecrow in the fields.
The chief vassal covered his eyes with his veil. Then Asen’fru, the tax collector, responded, “Your men are plotting nothing but despair, master.”
“I will never think it credible that a man who discovers he is alone in bed at night, without a woman, can close his eyes before he has plotted some treacherous scheme to reclaim his lost treasure.”
Asen’fru replied with despair that channeled the people’s despair: “That would be futile, master. I fear that those my master refers to as men have been changed by the calamity into dull-witted wraiths who wander the earth like imbeciles.”
The master remained still. He was touring the mansions of the eternal void, which was bathed by a golden flood. He tarried in those blue labyrinths for a long time and then said cryptically, “I don’t think that the groups you call imbeciles will be slow to respond if we ask for their assistance in changing the homeland of the neighboring tribes into a wasteland, and in transforming our oasis into a real oasis again.”
The men bobbed their turbans nervously, and more than one voice murmured, “I don’t understand.”
The wily strategist explained with the intonation of a soothsayer reciting a prophecy that the horizon had provided: “Not long ago we agreed that an oasis without women is a desert and that a desert populated by women is a true oasis. Don’t we have the right to resort to the sword to wrest our share of women by the blade of the sword—as our ancestors did—to return lost life to our wretched oasis?”
The crowd stared at him with astonishment, but he gazed at the empty void with increased curiosity. His eyes narrowed till the ignoble sign vanished from them. Then he asked rhetorically, “Do you think this group of village idiots will be slow to take up spears or swords if we beat the attack drums and send the herald out to tour the alleys with a call to arms?”
Astonishment registered in the men’s eyes. Then the soothsayer completed his prophecy: “The generations have never witnessed a single man who postponed a trip to find a woman. You can rest assured that you will find those you think fools become the most ferocious of men the moment they understand that the point of the raid is capturing women!”
Stillness prevailed.
Outside, the children’s weeping and the clamor of people passing in the streets echoed even more loudly.
THE RAIDS
1
“Hee, hee, hee, hee, hee—a hunt wouldn’t be called a hunt if woman wasn’t the prey. Raids wouldn’t really be raids if woman wasn’t the booty. Hee, hee, hee.”
According to accounts of informed sources, during the attacks that the tribe’s mounted warriors launched against both the tribes inhabiting neighboring deserts and the peoples lurking in dark forest recesses, the ruler liked—while directing his enigmatic eyes to the clear sky and covering his nose with his gloomy veil—to unleash repeatedly, like a lunatic, his muffled, detestable laughter, which resembled the chortles of the dreadful scarecrow that had been erected in the open fields (as if he were some demonic rebel jinni).
He also enjoyed climbing to the roof terraces of his glorious edifice to discern in the dust at the horizons the homecoming of hordes of heroes bearing this unique booty that populated the wastelands, transforming them into homelands, whereas their abduction transformed those nations into a desolate wasteland. Then he would share this good news with members of his entourage: “I wager that the horizons are sending us hunters bringing back booty!” He would remind the vassals of the circumstances of the miserable creatures who had grown languid and whose backs had been broken by the disappearance of women till they roamed the streets like idiotic wraiths. The seductive riot he had added to the raid’s goal had transformed those men. The paradise that is woman had turned the wimps into totally different creatures. He would growl his dark laugh before sharing a proverb with them: “If you wish to conquer your enemy, discontinue raids for spoils and convince your army that the goal of the campaign is paradise, that the goal of the terror is the abduction of women. Hee, hee, hee….” He would not let the opportunity escape to end his mockery with a little joke: “Once you experience the delight of the chase when the prey is a beautiful woman, you’ll be surprised to find that you have all changed into heroes.”
He descended that day from his glorious fortress to welcome the campaign’s legions of warriors as he always did. He hastened to meet the combatants—but not to greet them, check on their condition, examine them to reassure himself about their good health, or congratulate those who had returned to their homes in one piece; he sped there instead to choose his share of the booty. He approached the Oases Gate or the Gate of the Western Hammada and stationed himself at the portal, surrounded by his retinue. He stopped the warriors’ caravans at the entrance and ordered that the goods be unloaded from the pack animals. He had the women promenade in the plaza for a long time while he strutted among them, checking their figures, breasts, legs, faces, and teeth. Yes, yes…. He liked to examine their teeth with intense interest. He was said to have remarked in one of his assemblies that a woman is like a horse; her secret is located between her jaws. He finally chose his share of the booty at a rate of one head from each mounted warrior, as per the edict he had decreed for the combatants shortly before the launch of the campaign. The troops had kidded him—some referring to this as a customs tariff and others calling it a toll.
Once the governor made his pick, he ordered the cavalcade to proceed. Then the special forces troops rushed home to stash their beauties in the corners of their homes. Most soldiers were content with one woman—or two in rare circumstances. Like herders corralling goats, they drove the remaining women to the markets of the oasis to display for auction.
2
Successive generations recount that the first booty in the history of the razzia was not herds of cattle (as in the first eras when the most ancient inhabitants domesticated bovines). It was not herds of horses (as in subsequent eras when horses became treasures for the sons of the desert). It was not caravans of camels (as in the later periods when camels entered the wilderness). Instead, the trophy from day one was woman.
It was actually said that wars arose between tribes only because of her and that feuds between clans flared up only to gain control of her or to recapture her from the grip of a rival faction, because the early times witnessed a grievous shortage of the community of women for some unknown reason that baffled the soothsayers and that scholars struggled to explain. Some said this occurred pursuant to a wisdom the Spirit World intended for the tribes’ benefit, because a plenitude of women would lead to a plenitude of civil strife. That tendency diminished when there were fewer women, because one woman could satisfy all the men, whether they wished to partner with her for fun or for offspring. Another clique said that the reason for the scarcity of women had something to do with the existence of woman herself, because her existence had led to the original enmity that had induced one brother to raise his hand to kill his brother in order to master her and monopolize her for himself. When the Spirit World saw the appetite of the son of the desert and his thirst fo
r possession and enmity, it deposited a secret in woman’s womb, restricting her to bear only male offspring in order to stock the wars with the cannon fodder they needed. Then males were born in abundance, because they would go to die in conflicts, raids, and wars; wombs rarely produced females—for fear of the suffering that this blithe creature would experience should her protectors die in the wars.
People of the desert did agree, however, that all desert dwellers were descended from the womb of a woman who had been abducted. To prove the certainty of this claim, they cited the taboo of desert people against that woman’s naming her mate, for whose origins the generations give no history, affirming that their original grandmother harbored rancor against their grandfather, because he had stolen her from her father’s home. So, in revenge, she had sworn never to reveal his name. People repeated in their epic poetry that the original grandmother would retreat from time to time to a corner of her dwelling, and succumb to a lengthy bout of weeping. She chided her man for cowardice and told him he would not have been able to retain her for a split second had her father still been alive.
From this ancient dirge the wily strategists of the various tribes derived a proverb. They instructed their mounted warriors: “A woman is like a serpent. You will never be safe from its evil unless you decapitate it, and you behead a woman by beheading the man standing behind her.”
The generations learned from experience that a man cannot enjoy a woman if a single male relative of hers remains alive.
3
The oasis relied on its sons’ swords and embraced the good life. Well-being returned to its citizens, and the columns of beautiful women—who continued to arrive at the gates of the oasis like so many head of cattle—served as a curative antidote for their uncanny ailments. Fascinating women of every color, community, and race crowded together in the interiors of all the dwellings until the walls could scarcely hold them. Houses overflowed with these incredible female treasures, and caravans set out to search for treasures only as presents for these feminine treasures. Then, as a result of the generosity of these treasures, other treasures spilled into the alleyways, which handed on a share to the streets, which granted a portion to the markets. Then merchants from passing caravans also acquired a share of this flood and traveled with mixed race, black, and white beauties to the four corners of the desert. During that period the oasis experienced a delight it had never known before, because adolescents and young men embraced foreign girls in the plazas, alleys, and streets, and farmers mated with beautiful women alfresco near the scarecrow on their return from the fields. Male poets and vocalists sang all night long outside their homes while music buffs danced. They drummed in a celebratory fashion even on nights when the moon was not visible from the oasis and its streets were inundated by tenebrous darkness.
In that era, oasis citizens learned about houses that shelter women who offer enjoyment to any man who pays her a fee.
Back in that era, too, the hero—Ah’llum—left the oasis, led by one of his slaves. He pronounced a withering jeremiad before slipping through the Gate of the Western Hammada, where the wasteland swallowed him once and for all. It was said back then that the hero had decided to save himself. The original ancestors had been the first to warn against lingering long on an earth where there were many women, because women were like armies of locusts, which inevitably bring disaster when they enter the homes of a people.
Forgetful folks did not know that prophecy in the desert travels only via the tongues of the blind. People from ancient times have learned from experience that only a person who has lost his sight is granted the blessing of insight. For this reason, the sages believed in blind clairvoyants and disavowed sighted claimants to prophecy. For this reason, too, blind diviners were the most renowned in the desert; they did not err in seeing—in their tenebrous darkness—what the Spirit World was planning.
4
The wait for the prophecy did not last long.
The wait for the prophecy was not prolonged, because the Unknown, which administers its affairs in the Spirit World, ignores fools who are beguiled by a fraudulent blessing they mistake for an eternal paradise. The Unknown, which weaves together threads of danger in dark crannies, pays no heed when stupid men rely on enjoyment and devote themselves to lethal fun and games that spawn lassitude. Ignoble lassitude—which spares no one who succumbs to it—makes a fool of, dandles, and seduces its victim till he is reassured by its embraces. Then it draws the sword of danger from its scabbard and plunges the blade in the victim’s throat up to the hilt.
Stupid men drowned in luxury and yielded to the embrace that claimed it would grant them lost happiness. Then, like specters disguised as belles, it led them astray only to cast them into the mouth of the dragon. The ignoble specter plucked memory from the minds of the griots, replacing it with forgetfulness. This was evident when they forgot the first commandment, which says that woman resembles a serpent, whose evil threatens you until you decapitate it, and that you behead a woman by beheading the man who stands behind her.
No one knows how that happened.
No one knows how one of these men abducted the daughter of the leader from Azjirr. This dread hero gathered armies from all the tribes and marched them to besiege the miserable oasis in a manner unprecedented in all the desert’s long history.
The sorcerer awoke at dawn one day and mounted the roof terrace of his fortress as he normally did each morning. Then by the dawn’s dim light, he found encircling the walls from every direction—swarming like locusts—as many soldiers as there are pebbles. The empty countryside was black with them all the way to the farthest horizons.
THE BEAUTY
1
Couriers from the raiding warriors arrived shortly after daybreak with a message for the governor of the oasis. They dismounted and approached the sorcerer to present him with the strangest message. From a linen wrapper, they produced a ravishing doll that represented a beautiful young woman, whose large, kohl-rimmed eyes gleamed with a captivating smile. Her oval cheeks, which were fashioned from an elephant’s tusk, were rouged a dark red. Braids of black hair cascaded from her head to fall over a jutting breast as taut as a bowstring. A kerchief the blood red color of a sorrel hibiscus blossom was fastened around her head. Her loose-fitting dress, which was gleaming white, was adorned with talismanic designs embroidered with silk thread. Around her ivory neck hung a massive necklace made of coral imported from countries situated on the seashores of the North.
The dazzled sorcerer examined the doll and murmured in the whisper a person uses to address himself: “This is the most ingenious doll I’ve ever seen! This is the most marvelous one I’ve ever encountered!” Then the couriers handed him the second half of the message: a genuine skull—depressing and dark—that dirt and time had ravaged, corroding its bones in places. The uncanny sign in its empty eye sockets would certainly have afflicted with tremors anyone who saw it. This skull was wrapped in a worn snakeskin, which the sorcerer removed. A pronounced pallor crept across his face, and he muttered with alarm he did not succeed in hiding: “What’s this?”
But the couriers did not respond to his question with a single word. They left him—as he clutched the doll in his right hand and the skull in the left—and rode away.
2
The leader ordered the oasis’s covens of diviners to be brought to him and then placed the message before them. He stood over them, waiting for their interpretation. Although enthusiasts, counterfeiters, and imposters have always welcomed invitations like these (perhaps to flaunt their gifts before the crowd), they differed in their readings of the message’s symbolism and did not succeed in deciphering the meaning that the author of the message had concealed in the symbol—despite the enticement of the generous reward the governor had announced for anyone who offered a convincing interpretation.
Feeling desperate, the governor dispatched the herald again.
The herald made the rounds of the streets and passed through the markets of
itinerant caravans, shouting out the call while emphasizing his master’s promise to reward generously anyone who found in himself a genuine aptitude for deciphering the message from the leader of the foreign coalition.
Shortly before evening fell, a member of a passing caravan approached the palace and announced that in his group there was a cunning tactician whose ability to decipher news of the age was unparalleled in the tribes of the South or the cities of the North. He added that the sly dog had refused to come, because he disdained man’s affairs and claimed that his mission was not to decipher people’s messages, but to unlock the symbols of the heavens’ revelations.
The governor was delighted and sent his soldiers to fetch this foreign adviser. When the guards returned, accompanied by the guest, the setting sun was pouring twilight rays generously on the walls of the glorious fortress.
3
He was a specter as dark as coal—a perfectly formed black man. The oasis had never seen a person with such well-proportioned features; he had a lean build, tall stature, and straight nose. His eyes had a friendly look, although the stillness of his pupils reminded people of the absent look of eternal wanderers and hermits.
The governor placed before him the charming doll and stared at the man’s eyes with intense curiosity. Then he stretched out his hand to present the skull to him.
The cunning tactician gazed at the message indifferently. No, no—that look was not genuine indifference; it was another type of look. The sorcerer seemed to have discerned the glance’s symbolism, because he acted to forestall the master of the sign from voicing his idea.
The governor said, “Don’t tell me that my message is a script from a heavenly message, not a human one. Know that the fate of this nation, which has fed you when you were hungry and kept you safe from fear—just as it has fed and offered security to many before you—is concealed in the damn riddle you hold in your hands. So beware!”
The Scarecrow (Modern Middle East Literature in Translation) Page 11