E. Hoffmann Price's Fables of Ismeddin MEGAPACK®

by E. Hoffmann Price

  When Cooper reached for his sun helmet and stalked out of the office, he was not cursing Mosul and the desolation that spreads far in every direction. The Sinjar Hills rose burned and brown from a burned, brown desert. Their caverns were the homes of Yezidi devil worshipers.

  Across the sluggish Tigris was what remained of Nineveh. A dead city. Everything in this accursed plain of Babil was dead. Kalah and Asshur, Hadra and Dar Sharrukin, they surrounded Mosul with mounds that were the graves of cities. Archaeologists used to prowl among these mounds, but since Cooper came to town there had been no digging for bricks with cuneiform inscriptions.

  The ferocity of the sun was abating. The snoring ceased in the shops of the mean bazaars. Coppersmiths resumed their hammering. Cobblers and saddlers set to work again, and the dry, hot air reeked of leather. Tall Kurds with massive turbans wound about high conical felt caps walked haughtily down the fly-infested streets.

  Wool and dried apricots and gum tragacanth that caravans had brought down from Kurdistan to the river barges gave an alien tang to the air. Far off in the hills, oil derricks rose, gaunt and black. The hot wind brought a petroleum smell that partly masked the reek of the town. There was a cigarette-paper factory, and not far from it a rug bazaar, where merchants sold carpets from Senna and Bijar.

  A long time ago Cooper had been an amiable fellow with a purpose and an ambition. Now he was lean and haggard. His eyes were permanently bloodshot. Even without his drinking, the flies and the dust and the glare would have caused that. He looked about him and laughed, thinking of his classmate, Roger Kane. Went out for archaeology. Long-faced because he couldn’t join up with an expedition to dig around Mosul. Hadn’t seen Kane for ten years. Cooper laughed at the recollection. Good old Kane!

  But why not dig? These Arabs: just maggots burrowing in the carcasses of dead cities. Mound after sun-burned mound rose from the plain. Sun-dried brick disintegrated. They buried glazed tiles, sculptured stone. It was all dead. Dead as anyone doomed to live here for five years.

  Dead. But master magicians burrowed into the mounds and made classrooms where they taught beginners in magic. Aspiring wizards came from Hindustan, from Egypt, from El Moghreb to learn the art. Everyone knew that. It was a wonder that the company had not written a clause into the contract, so that employees who studied magic forfeited all salary deposits and transportation back to the States.

  * * * *

  That night Cooper followed Hassan into the waste lands, where rubbish mounds marked what once had been Kalah and Asshur and Dar Sharrukin. Jackals howled. Small creatures scurried about and made disturbing little sounds. Bats whisked past and brushed his cheeks. The smoothness of their bodies made Cooper shiver.

  “Where is the place?” he asked, almost whispering.

  The scrawny Arab did not answer. There was a moon, low-hanging, but risen high enough to be white rather than red copper. Finally Hassan halted in a shallow bowl among the mounds. Drifted sand and windblown brush made the bottom uneven. Here and there masonry cropped up.

  “Looks like a well coping,” Cooper said, more to himself than to his companion. He began to have misgivings about this inspiration. He was somewhat afraid.

  Hassan knelt. He tugged at one of the sand-wedged blocks of stone. “Well coping,” he grunted. The block twisted in its bed. “The Well of the Angels, sahib. The hand of Allah sealed the cover, but the hand of man digs in at the side.”

  He giggled. Cooper wanted to kick him. Then he wondered how anyone so scrawny could have moved so large a rock. It was not pivoted, nor hinged like a door. Cooper echoed, “Well of the Angels?”

  “Ay wah! Harût and Marût. God sent them to earth thirteen thousand years ago to enlighten mankind. Satan the Damned sent two Kashmiri girls to tempt them—”

  Hassan rolled his eyes, ecstatically sucked in his breath, and made gestures to indicate the shapeliness of the girls. He kissed the tips of the fingers he then pinched together and went on, “It is well known that the Kashmiris are the wickedest of people. So that in the end Allah cast Harût and Marût into this Well, where they hang by their heels even unto this day. And teach magic to whoever would learn.”

  Cooper wanted to laugh.

  Hassan saw the twist of his face and said, “Sahib, may Heaven stuff my mouth with dust if this be not the true truth.” He wriggled into the black slot in the coping. “Do not come until I call. I must find the foothold first.”

  The last few words Hassan spoke were distorted by the air column imprisoned between the bottom and the cover that concealed the mouth of the well. A rock grated, struck, bounced. Cooper began to count seconds. The sound of striking would tell the depth.

  He lost count when a woman spoke behind him. He looked over his shoulder, startled. At first he could see only the shapeless Arab gown, and the white shawl that covered her hair. Then he caught the gleam of her eyes, and despite the shadows it seemed to him that she was lovely.

  “Do not go,” she said. “No man can step out of the circle of destiny, not even by magic. Nor will the Angels of the Pit teach their art to any man without first warning him, ‘We are a temptation, what we teach is forbidden, O Man, be not an unbeliever!’”

  Cooper could not answer, though he knew enough Arabic. He merely did not know what he wanted to say. The warning made him shrink back from the black slot. Long ago the solemn words of priests had reached deep into Cooper. But he had never known that any feminine voice could be solemn. This bemused him, and when Hassan called from below he began to wriggle through the slot. He had to go before she persuaded him to stay.

  Chest flat against the masonry, hands desperately gripping the edge of the slot, Cooper reached into the darkness with his feet. He groped for a foothold. For an insane moment he shuddered lest the supporting block slip from its fellows and let him drop into the Pit.

  At the same time, Cooper looked up at the girl. There was the gleam of pendants at her ears, and a golden collar clasped her throat. He was not certain as to her face, but the curve of her throat told him that she must be beautiful.

  Below, Hassan spoke as from a tomb: “Keep close to the wall, sahib. The ledge is just below the slot. Reach down a little.”

  The girl was saying, “No man can cast off the shackles of destiny save by the sacrifice of life. Am I not warning you that the Angels of the Well will demand a price?”

  “Who are you, ya bint?” Cooper challenged. He was now half angry, for she had begun to shake him from his purpose. He knew that her half-seen beauty might persuade him, and he was afraid.

  “I am Lilu, and who knows what life will be taken?”

  “Mine?” He felt better now. He had found the ledge. “I’m not afraid.”

  “No.” Her ear pendants tinkled. There were small silver bells in the darkness of her hair. Lilu’s perfume made his pulse run faster; he had not known that there was such a girl in all Mosul. She went on, saying, “Nor mine, O Man! But be sure there is no life you would begrudge.”

  “Sahib—” Hassan’s voice must now be at the bottom. “We must hurry. See, I strike a light, it is safe.”

  The whining servant’s call reassured Cooper. He went down one step and looked back. He could barely see Lilu. She had spoken. There was no more for her to say.

  CHAPTER II

  Shadows and yellow splashes danced when Hassan struck a match. For an instant wavering light played on monstrous shapes. It was not certain whether they were sculptured on the lining of the Well or whether they rose from the bottom. They seemed to have great wings, and curled beards; bull bodies, and the solemn faces of men crowned with tall miters. Somehow these made him think of Lilu’s warning.

  Then Cooper learned the interval of the treads, and he descended. Soon he was beside Hassan, on the dry sand of the bottom. He wanted to laugh. He did not know what made him light-headed. Perhaps some earthy
exhalation of the pit. Perhaps the sudden feeling that this was real; that this was not mummery; that the masters of wizardry were in the Well, visibly or invisibly present.

  Harût and Marût. Angels hanging by their heels. Allah’s punishment. To the Semitic mind, loss of dignity was worse than death. Chills and electric twitchings danced over Cooper’s skin. He began to feel the wrath and fury of the Angels. They were imprisoned for all time, whereas he was caged for five years. Would they mock him or would they pity him?

  The silence stretched. Cooper began to hear the tick-tick-tick of his watch. The Well amplified the sound. Drums were thumping far off. Presently he knew that that was the beat of his pulse. The veins in his temples tugged against the skin. At any moment a blood vessel would burst. His lips were dusty. His mouth was dry. The then half belief which had made him ask Hassan for a master of magic had become certainty. He understood now why neither acolytes nor doorkeeper took him into any shrine.

  No man could see the fallen Angels. Though humiliated before Allah, their honor was intact before man.

  When this understanding came he heard the voice of the silence, and saw the illumination of the darkness; though these were neither to the ear of his body nor to his eye. A blue-white flame throbbed and pulsed and twisted spindle-wise in mid-pit. It was elemental force, and Cooper began to know why the Arabs said that Allah made Iblis of fire.

  The soundless voice said: “O Man, whoever seeks receives. But before learning there is warning. Hear with all your ears, O Man!”

  During the pause that followed, a wave of power enveloped Cooper. There were two presences. The force of one amplified the surge of the other as they continued, “He who learns shall have no place in the life to come, for a life is the cost of learning. It is better to believe and fear Allah. Verily, what Allah gives is better than what we give.”

  This was the warning Lilu had mentioned. Harût and Marût had to warn each pupil. But Cooper flung back his head and laughed in the very presence of the Angels, for a great wisdom had come to him. This could not be evil, since Allah permitted them to practice. The warning was for cowards.

  The presences repeated, “What Allah gives is better than what we give.”

  Cooper’s laughter made the well echo. Allah had given him five years in Mosul. Allah had tricked him into the hands of oil sellers who took the blood of men. What could the Angels give that was worse than Allah’s gift?

  The presences pronounced the third warning: “He who learns shall have no place in the life to come!”

  Cooper answered, “Anything to get out of this corner of hell and desolation! If I stay I go crazy. If I walk out I am murdered, or I starve on the beach! What is the magic?”

  Two voices now sounded like trumpets, red and triumphant: “O Man! Three times we have warned, as the law commands, the law of God and Men and Jinn and Angels! Go, for it has been given to you!”

  The trumpeting ceased. There was no light in the well. When Cooper’s ears ceased rumbling he heard Hassan whimpering. The Arab threshed and groveled on the bottom. He was praying. He called on Allah and on the Christian God.

  “Get up, you fool!” Cooper kicked at the sound.

  He had new strength. It was like being drunk without being dizzy. It was the strength of fury without the pain of wrath. It was like having the power to fly, yet holding it in restraint. That easy kick lifted the scrawny Arab, piled him in a heap on the steps; a dirty, whitish blotch, for somehow Cooper’s eyes were now accustomed to the gloom.

  He struck a match. There was nothing but circular wall, laid centuries ago. Some of the pieces were sculptured, the archaic plunder of an even older ruin. Men with curled beards cut square. Women wearing tall miters. One rode a lion. Another drove a chariot drawn by doves. A man hurled thunderbolts. But all this was in half relief. The carved monsters he had seen on the way down must have been illusion.

  Cooper seized Hassan by the scruff of the neck and hustled up the treacherous stairway. When they were once more among the rubbish mounds, he said to the Arab. “What were you whimpering about, you blasted fool? You took me down there without hollering.”

  Hassan answered, “Sahib, there were terrible sounds. It was never that way. Usually there is an old man who speaks what the unseen Angels tell him to say to his pupils. But the old man was not there.”

  Cooper considered for a moment. “So it was different this time?”

  “Ay, wah! Ay, wah! There were great wings rustling and a great light blinding me and a howling of all howlings, the crying of many simuns.”

  “Could you understand anything?”

  “Neither seeing nor understanding!” Hassan’s teeth still chattered. “Sahib, it was not my fault, I did not do anything, it was not my fault.”

  Cooper laughed at the moon. As if that scrawny Arab could have added to or taken from those prodigious things in the Well! Instead of the mumbling of some half crazed and self-styled adept of Babylonian magic, the ancient tradition had verified itself in elemental sound and fire. Cooper knew that his escape from Mosul was assured.

  He was not impatient. Magic was primarily a matter of purposeful and directed willing rather than incantation and gesture. It was too late now to do any intent willing, and he was a little too shaken for that. Tomorrow, in the cool of the evening. Now that he knew that he could get away, he was patient enough. It might take a few weeks, even, perhaps a month or two or three, for the Bagdad office or New York headquarters to feel the prodding of that power won in the Well of Angels.

  The sand and rubbish were air under Cooper’s feet. Hassan had difficulty in keeping up with his master. Cooper was saying to himself, “A promotion and a transfer. Take a bit of time; nothing is done in a finger snap. Damn lonesome, this place.”

  He sighed gustily. Lonesome, all right. What had happened to Lilu? Wonder if the fury and roaring down in the well scared her? From the tilt of her chin she must be a lady, if that word applied to anything living in Mosul. Lilu—funny name—Laylu—lailat—lailatayn—lailtak saidi. What am I thinking of now, saying, “May your night be auspicious!” It all came from layl, which meant night. Funny how ideas link together.

  “Lilu—may your night be happy. No, lailtak saidi, that was the way you said it—” He grinned.

  Somehow he was not surprised when he found Lilu waiting in the deep archway of his door. But he might have been surprised had he known all the things that lilu means.

  CHAPTER III

  Life in Mosul became endurable in spite of the climate. Reports went out promptly. There were fewer errors. Old Man Burleigh wrote from Bagdad: “Best job anyone has made of a difficult post—slated for promotion when your term is up—home office will be gratified—

  Cooper grinned. That was what Burleigh thought, huh? Three years, five months and eleven days more of this hell’s hole. Burleigh would look and feel foolish when a man stepped out of the circle of his destiny, kicked loose the shackles of kismet, and made the company like it. Even the high officials were slaves of that monster. It kicked them around, crushed the life out of them. The company would dissolve in a puff of smoke when Babylonian magic blocked its march and forced it into a new path.

  All Mosul had, of course, heard of Lilu. Graybeards wagged. Veiled women chattered. Half the town muttered disapprovingly. The other half said, “She is a stranger and an infidel, even if she does speak the speech of true believers.”

  Then Cooper heard that an infidel dog had come to Mosul to dig in one of the mounds. An archaeologist. One of those dung beetles who burrow in the droppings of time. Cooper chuckled and asked himself, “Wouldn’t that fellow’s eyes pop behind his horn-rimmed specs if he knew what I know about underground places!”

  There was another letter from Mr. Burleigh in Bagdad. His health was none too good. Possibly Cooper could take his place if a sick leave was permitted. He
took the letter home to think about it. Lilu, sitting a respectful distance apart as he ate his pilau and shish kebab and cucumbers and cakes of bread, wondered about his sudden frown.

  “What is it, sahib?” Lilu’s anklets tinkled as she hurried toward the table. Possibly too much saffron in the gravy. And it was difficult to get good pine nuts. “What is wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he answered, and scooped up some more rice.

  Cooper was thinking of that warning: magic could be learned only at the cost of a life. Burleigh was a pleasant fellow behind that grim front. The failure of his health—who had ever expected that man of leather and iron to weaken? Cooper thrust aside his chair. He was sick from the sudden certainty of being responsible for Burleigh’s, illness.

  Harassed, red-eyed, sunken-checked, sallow. A month ago he had laughed bitterly at the thought of being responsible for any man’s death, much less worried thereby. Yet this new Cooper was bound by every thought and act of that half-mad fellow who had shattered glasses to lie in the way of a native’s bare feet.

  He gulped, swallowed his stomach and his fear. In a moment he went on eating. Lilu was an exquisite creature, and he did not want to hurt her feelings by refusing her food. A strange girl. She pretended that she had not spoken to him at the Well of the Angels. That she had gone there, being desolate in a strange city, to pray for help or an easy death.

  “I escaped from a slave trader,” she would say. “All my people were free. Of course, sahib, in the mountains. A voice sent me to your house.”

  She was no Arab. Lilu was taller, and she had blue eyes; the color the natives ascribed to infidels and wizards and witches, though common enough among the Kurds.

  “You did know of the Well?”

  “Who does not, sahib? But it was a night-prowling spirit that warned you, and not I.”