To the Spring, by Night

by Seyhmus Dagtekin

  I try to think back to my first crossings of the village. To those I accomplished alone, and that became so many acts of bravery, of conquest. Those that led me to meet other inhabitants and made the village a territory I explored by trial and error to annex it to my known world, the world I had made my own, to transform it into a place for games and acquaintances. Where to begin, with what path, with what fears? Every annexation began with an apprehension that had to be overcome, with a fear that had to be absorbed and digested. And the fear reached everywhere, all the way to the mountains that encircled us. Every stone, every rock, at different times of the day, depending on the angle and the distance, became a silhouette, a human or animal form, a form from another world that took over our field of vision and filled us with terror. Each tree in the forest, each beast on the mountain, large or small, had its legends that we had heard and that we recalled with horror every time we approached its territory.

  Apart from our present fears, there were those that went back to another time, which placed us in the presence of those who had lived in a distant past and were unlike the people we knew. Thus the citadel, with its ghosts, went back through layers of history we could not count. When we passed nearby, we were afraid something would roll down upon us from the summit. We imagined that on the unseen slope of the citadel a life went on of which we were totally unaware, hidden from us so that it could better surprise us when we were blithely at our games. A child lives in the present, free of the weight of memory, does not burden himself with memory as he lives his life. Engrossed in the moment, his memory of what he has seen or known catches him only on the fly. We knew it was dangerous to pass near the citadel after twilight. But our having known, having experienced this fear on many occasions did not stop us from repeating the same mistake. Even though all we had to do was to leave a little before sunset to get past it without incident, after which we could slow down, we ended up spending time with our kids and goats, giving them a few extra mouthfuls of tender leaves, or we prolonged a game we had begun and missed our opportunity. Inevitably, we were victims of our own game, our own trap. Fear caught up with us at the base of the citadel. We didn’t know of what, but we were afraid. It was pure fear, which we didn’t have to name, which we couldn’t name. It was a dread brought on by this mass of rocks with its stones from another era, on the hidden side of the hill. A fear with no face, and formless. A fear that drew its power from the stones entrenched on the citadel, and from the citadel before us, so deeply rooted in our minds and present to our gaze. And it was not only for ourselves. We were afraid for what was around us, for what was there with us at the end of the day, as fragile, as helpless as we were when fear invaded us.

  When we lingered near the vineyard and only passed near the citadel at twilight, the moon was already high, but at one spot along the way, where it was hidden from us by the mass of the citadel, we feared that the inhabitants we imagined living there would hold it prisoner. Especially since we had just learned that the people from a village down in the mountains claimed that, behind one of those mountains, old moons were cut into pieces to make stars out of them. We were afraid that the citadel-dwellers would do the same, and leave us moonless as we walked. Without the moon we relied upon to light our way. We were relieved when, advancing hesitantly, we saw it peeking out from the edge of that mass that was looking down on us.

  In good weather and in the middle of the day, when we dared to venture onto those heights, we saw piles of stones, walls, and the ruined structures the grownups had told us about. Every stone had a story, every ruin concealed another that we would continue telling as we walked and would finish on another day, even if we had no idea what History was.

  But we knew that behind every story there was a hidden jar that some tried to take away from others, a coveted, full-to-the-top jar that gave rise to all sorts of chases, pursuits, and stratagems on the part of those who guarded it and those who wanted to wrest it from their hands. Even if some said: “Look, it’s just a jar of nothing at all!” others replied: “Let’s take a closer look anyway,” and the chases and the stratagems began all over again, each marking his stone, each noting the stone of the other.

  We knew that the citadel had been there long before us and that godless people, infidels, had preceded us on its heights. We knew from a remark the grownups made, partly vexed and partly admiring, that the citadel and its buildings had nothing in common with our rudimentary dwellings. During these conversations, every grownup offered his own views on the citadel, and the lives that might have been led there. The most intriguing part of the citadel’s story was the subject of water. What had its inhabitants lived on, where had they found water on this arid rock? Being perennially short of water ourselves, we would have liked to know what water they had used. And so there was talk of a hidden spring. Was it water that sprang from the rock itself, or water that the infidels would have brought from afar to supply their needs on the citadel? To try to find the source of this water, we scoured the rock and the nearby mountain springs in search of clues. Because we had come after them on this land, even if we did not occupy the citadel. When they left, the godless ones must have buried the spring that gave them life, so that no one would find it, so that it would not survive them on the rock, so that it would not meet the needs of other lives on the citadel. Organized as they were, they must have planned the disappearance of the spring from the start, so that they not be taken unawares in the event of a departure that, if it were not voluntary, could only be a hasty one.

  And the grownups told us the story of the goat that discovered one of these springs. One of those goats who would ferret out the most hidden of secrets even if you concealed it behind seven veils, even if you buried it under seven layers of earth, a goat that you would find coming out of a room chewing on the most delectable of dishes, or the newest piece of fabric, or a brand new dress. We knew that sort of goat in the village! A goat that is always separate from the herd, leading you a merry chase on its trail, and that somehow persuades you to turn your eyes away so it can vanish and then turn up whenever the spirit moves it.

  A shepherd had noticed that one of his goats disappeared into the trees and rocks when the afternoon was at its hottest. When it came back, he noticed that its beard was wet. He couldn’t understand where it could have found water, when it was far from the spring where he led the herd to drink during the noon rest time. This happened more than once, and he wanted to know the goat’s secret. When it disappeared again, he managed to follow it. Winding its way through the woods and rocks, it arrived at a crevice where it plunged its head. When it rose, the shepherd, to his astonishment, saw drops of water falling from its beard. It dipped its head in again to drink some more. The shepherd didn’t know what to think. It hadn’t rained for a long time, so it couldn’t be rainwater that had accumulated in a hollow. He waited for the goat to leave, and went to verify. There was a rift in the rock, barely wider than the goat’s muzzle, and clear at the bottom. He thrust in his hand and felt the running water.

  It was not stagnant water as he had thought, but a spring with a rate of flow such as he had never seen, even in the most abundant. Where was this water going from this remote spot? To find out, he returned the next day with a large handful of straw in his bag, followed the goat, and threw the bag’s contents into the crevice. Two days later word arrived from three villages on the plain that the day before, straw had flowed out of their large spring. Everyone tried to interpret that sign. Because it was certainly a sign. It was not the dry grass of the mountains but the same straw they fed to their animals in their stables. And on the same day! In three springs! The shepherd remained silent, told no one the secret of his goat, and let it go and drink in peace without following it. The sign did not return, the ardour of the seers and the uneasiness of the people died down, and life went on. The fine weather ended, the cold returned, and the herd followed its winter routine, spending most of the season in the stables.

  When the good weather
returned, that goat was no longer there. It had been eaten by its masters, who had thought it best to shorten its life in order to prolong their own. The shepherd believed he would be able to find the spot without any difficulty. How could he forget such a discovery? But when the sun beat down, and the shepherd found himself again in the same place, he could not locate the rock and its crevice. He returned several times to the woods close to where he had surprised the goat, kept a close eye on the beards of the others, left them thirsty and had them wander in the area where the spring might be, hoping that their thirst might lead them in the right direction, but with no luck. He found no trace of the spring on any of the goats and had to spend the rest of his life regretting this loss, which was rekindled in him at the least provocation, and sent him wandering around that mountain. The goat had disappeared with its secret. Even in his dreams it came face to face with him with its dripping beard, and looked straight into his eyes, but it never again guided him to the spring.

  The story of the spring was just one of many. Among the tales of the godless and the citadel there were signs we could look for, pointing to where they had left their remains. Clues that would guide us to the jars. Jars we could imagine filled with what we most lacked on the heights, gold and wealth.

  If we found those jars, we would not have known what to do with them. Our wants and our belongings were very limited where we lived, but everyone desired riches and gold. If man found a valley full of gold, he would want a second. Only earth can fill the orbits of the eyes, the grownups said, alluding to the handful of dirt poured over the eyes of the dead at the time of burial.

  According to legend, there was treasure buried by the infidels in the citadel and around the village. Certain villagers suspected every unidentified pile of pebbles and stones of harbouring treasure. A treasure easier to find, perhaps, than the lost water of the godless. And that hope drew us closer to them, to their wealth at least, and bound us to them down through the ages more closely than our having frequented the same rock. The jars they might have scattered here and there piqued our curiosity and interest, and created a furor among the villagers that became difficult to control, when a rumour circulated one day that on the heights the most inquisitive person in the neighbourhood had found a jar filled with we knew not what.

  There was a gold rush! Whoever had a pick and shovel close to hand headed for the citadel. In no time at all, the village was emptied of its men, and the area around the citadel was teeming with hectic silhouettes, pecking at the ground like huge frenzied crows. Others, on their return from the fields or the woods, or from the town or the villages, barely took the time to unload their beasts before climbing up to the heights, darkening the slope. Soon it was the children’s turn. Even some women were curious enough to go to the foot of the citadel to take a closer look at what was happening, and remain nearby in case a husband or child needed help. When we arrived, the ground that had previously served as a cemetery had already been turned over. Some, thinking they were on top of a grave, kept digging deeper, while others went a bit farther on and tried to gouge out their own square of ground. Others were turning over and excavating what had been the foundations of ruined buildings. Some found metal objects they had trouble identifying, or fragments of pottery, jars, and even a handle. Still others poked fun at all this scrap, these fragments, prodding the diggers to go into town and get an estimate from the goldsmith, but to avoid all contact with the authorities and the police if they didn’t want to spend the night at the station or end up in prison. If all went well, they could trade in their finds for money and wealth and come back with a few gifts and delicacies to take this day’s sour taste from our mouths, in exchange for some pleasant times among us. No more ploughing or harvesting, no more axes, no more logs. Many hands would be there to serve them, as long as they were paid from this new-found wealth. Teasing each other in this way, they carried on with their excavations. But behind the casual banter, their eyes avidly scoured the smallest patch of land laid bare.

  It was late autumn and we, the children, had begun to feel the cold and to shiver a little. Here and there a few fires were lit, around which we tried to warm ourselves. Some of the grownups, who had got tired of digging, joined us, cursing the godless and their gold, which they had certainly carried off with them. Being shrewd, they would not have left it behind even if they had to flee. It was stupid to tire oneself out for a treasure all these centuries later. The most eager continued to rummage in the soil, but soon showed signs of fatigue and they too abandoned the field. This mirage, which had seemed to be showing signs of substantiality, had distracted the villagers from their occupations. Everyone began to sense the onset of autumn, of the cold, the burden of all the unfinished tasks and the work to be done. They left the earth overturned, with a few bones balanced on mounds of dirt. Some threw away their pot handle, their bits of mosaic, while others kept their metal objects. If there had been a treasure, they had arrived too late. If it was a folly, it had lasted long enough. They called a halt to the operation and returned home. But for a long time the rumour about a jar full of gold, disinterred and brought home by night, continued to circulate.

  On that day, we were not afraid of the citadel. It had been conquered, laid bare. We had revealed it in all its fragility and its nakedness. Its inhabitants had not had time to frighten us, so taken aback were they by this sudden invasion. And we had not had time to think of them. On that day all our fears were in abeyance. They had given way to this game, to this festival and its fires. To a hunt for the treasure we thought awaited us deep in the earth. To the gold rush at the citadel.

  Down below the citadel was Deaf Rock, which guarded its secret visions and conveyed fears of its own to us. It watched over one of the two passages that linked us to the plain. Why was it called Deaf Rock? We didn’t know. Its upper part, which gave it a sort of cap on its head, must have been set apart from its body with blows from a club, we thought. Why would one have carved a cap on its skull? Because it would have taken time and energy to do that. Perhaps it was due to these blows and the cap carved on its head that it had been called Deaf Rock, or perhaps it was its name that had suggested this explanation. We imagined for it a life of pain and turmoil, with cries and clamour to which it was constantly closing its ears. It made us think of the grownups in the village who were hard of hearing, deaf to the words of others but an unstoppable source of words of their own. Their life became an ordeal, and they in turn became an ordeal for others, for those close to them.

  It stood like a sentinel, half-way between Hâji Mouss and the point that tilted toward the plain. It was a link between the end of the saint’s domain and the meeting place for the slopes, one descending in gentle stages toward the vines, the other climbing steeply toward the citadel. A sentinel deaf to all corruption, keeping its eyes alert to all that moved between the village and the plain. It was our bulwark against the terror of the citadel, even if its black mass, ready to leap on who knew what prey, filled us with fear.

  When we passed in front of the rock with our horses, they started in fright, and made us shudder on their backs. We never knew why the horse was afraid. He always had his reasons, we were told, which would perhaps remain hidden from us. That the horse’s reasons might escape us disturbed us even more. What could be hidden in Deaf Rock that might scare our horses? It was deaf, they said, deaf perhaps to any pain, thus able to keep any secret like a tomb. There must have been a hollow under its cap that served as a hiding place for all the bandits that had spent time on these heights. We strongly suspected that it knew the secret of the jars and the citadel dwellers’ lost spring. It was there as their relic, their guard. We were afraid of being its chosen prey, and as the rock changed form in our minds, in our consciousness, we picked up the pace, we picked up the pace of our mounts so as to pass it quickly and put ourselves far from those shadows that, we thought, were going to open up the top of the skull and close us inside along with them.

  The Rock of the Godless awai
ted us at the bottom of the slope descending toward the vines. A block of two rocks, like two knives planted in the ground. It stood on slightly higher ground than the channel carved out by the water, the rain, the melting snow, and its bed, which was just damp ground in the summertime. It intruded into this landscape that hid it from view, and you had to reach just the right angle to spot it. It faced the hollow rock of the citadel, bound to it by a historical connection we could not know. But it was too far off for its name to make us think about the citadel-dwellers until the day when the village blind man, a distant uncle, talked about the godless ones who had been lynched there and thrown into the hollow. For a long time, he said, people could not pass near the rock, which was saturated with the smell of rotting corpses.

  It was during the general call to arms, they told us. The godless ones who had been chased out of the countries to the north moved southward, toward other countries and other frontiers, crossing our lands. They moved down with women and children, a few possessions on their backs, and, for the better off, a few children and old people on the backs of the beasts of burden they had been able to keep with them. The rest, dressed in a few rags, dragged behind them what was left of their offspring. They skirted the villages so as not to incite the anger of the inhabitants, most representing the faith of the majority, sending two or three men in cases of extreme necessity to a nearby village to take or to request some provisions. They had already travelled a considerable distance with significant losses before reaching our land. In the village, where the numbers of men were in any case small, many had been mobilized, and there was one deserter.