The Undying Grass

by Yashar Kemal

  Sefer gave a hearty laugh. ‘That’s exactly how you’ll be, Lord Tashbash, sultan of sultans, when I’ve done with you …’

  The children were running through the muddy field towards the river. They went down to the shingle and the biggest child took hold of the great eagle and pushed him into the turbid brown water. The children whooped shrilly as the river carried off the half-dead eagle. He sank once, then rose to the surface again.

  Sefer had been watching them. ‘Good for you, children,’ he muttered. ‘That’s what those base eagles deserve …’

  Hassan was thinking. I waited all night for my Uncle Tashbash to come. I didn’t sleep a wink. But he never came, not even to ask after Father. Doesn’t he know how they nearly trampled him to death? Isn’t Father his friend? The villagers are all afraid of him. They won’t go near him. Poor Tashbash, he’s all alone. They’re pretending to themselves that it’s not him, the dirty liars. Well, I’ll go to him, I will! And tonight too, at midnight when everyone’s asleep. I do so want to talk to him … I’m glad he’s come back. Who cares about being a saint? What’s he got out of going to live with the Forty Holy Men? It’s much better this way …

  31

  Zeliha is like one under a spell, bewitched by Memidik. Her love for him is turning to passion. In a trance, against her will, she trails behind him wherever he goes.

  Large sun-drenched clouds, very white, floated about the sky. A dank heat enveloped the plain. It was one of the hottest days of the year. The white clouds flowed by endlessly, glowing hot. Their shadows licked the steaming, mist-wrapped Chukurova earth and passed on. With rapid, springy steps, long-legged rigid storks paced the glinting haze-smothered stubble of the fields, stringing and unstringing their thin taut necks. A black greenly-shining serpent was stretched out beneath a goutweed bush, dozing. In a little while it would be snapped up by one of the tensile-stepping storks. The cloud shadows glided on, dark and hot and heavy, ever so slightly cooling, dotting the plain here and there. Not a breath of wind stirred the air. The sun in the sky was a white silvery disc.

  And in between the white clouds the old eagle hovered, stationary, his great wings spread out against the oncoming clouds. His shadow fell on the ground, large and black, rippling over the flashing stubble. He moved and flew northward under a lucent cloudbank, then swerved back towards the Mediterranean, lingering above Anavarza Castle with steadfast wings. He moved again and rose in the sky, tracing wide circles, up, up, vanishing inside the white clouds and emerging once more aloft, wheeling steadily, imperceptibly, higher and higher, reaching to the pure-rinsed blueness far above where the bright white clouds shed their glittering radiance, there to wind his blue loops way up in the blue vault. Then slowly, sweeping round and round, he let himself sink back until he was floating smoothly over the cotton field again.

  The hot air had disintegrated into long fine threads. It is always like this when the heat is at its highest. Millions and millions of white-hot filaments striate the air, strung out like a loom. There can be no fiercer heat than this.

  The labourers worked in four long rows, each one over nine hundred yards long. They had taken on the colour of the earth, a greyish yellow, and seemed rooted, even sunk into the earth, hardly stirring at all. Tashbash, Memidik and Shirtless, and also Zaladja Woman, were in the row nearest to the Jeyhan River. Dully, wearily they gathered the cotton that had been shed to the ground by the rain and lay embedded in the cracked soil. They had to shake each boll free of the clinging sod and clean it well before putting it into their baskets. It was mid-afternoon and the agha’s men were watching them. If so much as a single boll was left behind on the ground, they raised hell and cursed the labourers with bell, book and candle. They stood behind those dust-smothered mud-caked heaps of rags that were the labourers. Their white linen suits were carefully pressed. They wore white shoes and wide-brimmed straw hats and held large black umbrellas open against the sun. Their eyes rested with disgust and impatience on the crawling cotton pickers and whenever one of them overlooked a boll of cotton half buried in the earth he would receive a merciless kick in the ribs.

  After the rain the cotton plants had grown taller and burgeoned again. Yellow, red, purple and white blossoms had appeared on the waist-high plants, as many as in the fields where the cotton had not yet bloomed.

  But for their slight imperceptible motions, the long row of labourers would have been indistinguishable from a stretch of earth bordering a ditch.

  Shirtless pointed out a plant to Gooey Apti who was picking beside him. ‘Look!’ he cried. ‘Look what Allah’s done for us!’

  The dark-green waist-high plant was weighed down by a cluster of cotton bolls that had withstood the rain. Each freshly-green, red-veined boll was as large as a fist and only just breaking open. Above them a lush exuberance of bright yellow flowers had burst forth, big crystal-yellow flowers that seemed lit up from within.

  ‘The second growth here will be as rich as the first. Just take a look at that part of the field we’ve picked already. See how the plants are blooming as lush as a first crop! Why, there’ll be enough work for us here till winter. God has been kind to us this year. I’ve never seen such a field in all my life. If it hadn’t been for that rain … We must be careful to store the soiled cotton apart. The agha’s sure to pay us less for it, since it’ll weigh more.’

  ‘I’ve seen the agha,’ Gooey Apti declared. ‘He’s a good man with a kind face. I’ll pay you twenty kurush, he told me, whether for soiled cotton or clean. Will I get rich out of cutting the price to eighteen kurush? Never. Yes, that’s just what the agha told me …’

  ‘Blast you, man,’ Shirtless scolded him. ‘When did you ever set eyes on the agha that you go spinning such tales? Tell me that! He hasn’t been here and you never once left my side since we came.’

  ‘Well, it’s true,’ Gooey said. ‘A man who owns such a rich crop, would he quibble over twenty kurush he’s promised us? Of course he’ll pay us just that. Did we make this rain? Did we bury the cotton in the mud? Look, see how I’m taking all the dirt off …’

  Long Ali lay in his wattle-hut, unable to move. His body ached as though it had been broken on the wheel. Every breath he took was agony. Ummahan sat beside him waving away the large rain flies that stuck to his face and giving him water to drink. Even in this state of harrowing pain Ali’s hands were not idle. He was stripping the cotton bolls that Elif brought him. At every movement of his fingers a sharp pain tore through his body. He felt he must die, but still he kept on.

  ‘Our Lord Tashbash has come back,’ Ummahan said to him for perhaps the tenth time. There was no response from her father. ‘He’s wasted away to a shadow. He must be very sick. He’s picking cotton now beside his wife, but she won’t even look at him. No one will. They say the real Tashbash, our Lord that is, has made a copy of himself and sent him to us to test his wife and the villagers too …’

  Ali smiled a little, but Ummahan did not see that.

  Tashbash was in the row between his wife and Zaladja Woman. Every now and then his hands would pause, frozen in the air. He would come to himself and fall to again, picking up the cotton from the ground and blowing off the dirt. Then once more he would stand motionless, lost in thought, as though he had quite forgotten the soiled boll in his hand.

  The villagers had got over the first shock of his coming. But now they were filled with dread and kept a wary, surreptitious watch on him, drawing a meaning from his every gesture.

  Then Muhtar Sefer came striding into the field. He was dressed grandly and had curled and waxed his black moustache with blackcurrants. His polished boots were drawn up over black velvet knee-breeches. He wore a coat of thick smuggled English cloth and even sported a red tie over his striped shirt. His hunting-bag hung down his left hip and his rifle was slung over his shoulder. Sweating profusely, he came to a stop before the villagers and paused. His right hand was on his waist, a burning cigarette in his left. He smoked awhile, leisurely puffing the smoke high i
nto the air. Then with long slow strides he walked over to Tashbash and stood towering over him.

  ‘Welcome back, our good Lord Tashbash,’ he boomed out in a loud resounding voice, mocking, charged with remorseless spite. ‘So you’ve come back, eh? You’ve decided to take up your saintly business again, eh?’ He laughed and Tashbash was cut to the quick. ‘I’ve heard that Captain gave you the stripes well and good. For a whole week fifteen gendarmes took turns to wallop you until you passed blood. Then they locked you up in the booby-hatch. That’s what I’ve heard. How on earth did you manage to escape? D’you think the gendarmes won’t find you here too and clap their handcuffs on those delicate wrists of yours? Well, what d’you say, Tashbash the Saint? Look, no one speaks to me, not even my wives. That’s your miracle! That’s as far as your saintly power will go! Look at these people. Has one of them recognized you, even your wife? Or given you a simple greeting? Didn’t I tell you long ago what would happen to you? Didn’t I warn you? Get up now, as you are, and order them to speak to me. Tell them Muhtar Sefer is a good virtuous soul, I was mistaken about him. D’you think you’ll find a single man to listen to you? Tell them to kill me, if you like. D’you think they’ll turn a hair? You’ve had your hour of power and glory, Tashbash. Nobody cares a damn about you now. D’you know what everyone is saying? This man’s only a copy, a likeness of Tashbash, they’re saying. Our Lord Tashbash is up on the Mountain of the Forty Holies … Try and make them believe otherwise if you can. Just try! And just you wait and see what’s still in store for you! It’ll be none of my doing, mark you.’

  They had all stopped working and were listening, their eyes fixed on the frozen figure of Tashbash.

  Sefer swung about and strode off towards the river.

  Then Memidik spoke up in a loud voice. He wanted everyone to hear. ‘It’s a trick. Somebody’s trying to lead us on. Why, I told you I saw our Lord Tashbash only yesterday! This man isn’t like him one bit …’

  Suspicious looks were turned on Tashbash. Suddenly Gooey Apti jumped forward and ran up to him. ‘Why, you pimp, you cheat, you impostor!’ he shouted. ‘Trying to pass yourself off as Tashbash, are you? Who cares if you are Tashbash anyway? Since you’re a saint why don’t you strike me with your spell, now, right here? Come on, strike; strike me if you can! Kill, kill me, quick!’ Deep down inside he was frightened to death. His face had turned yellow and his body shook as though in the throes of an epileptic fit. But still he raved on. ‘You a saint, you snivelling wretch? Would a real saint stand there and let himself be called names? Come on, kill me. Turn my tongue to wood. Quick, quick, quick …’ He let out a hysterical hoot. ‘No go, eh, my friend? Nothing doing with you. You can’t even kill me. Where are all those miracles of yours?’

  He jabbered on and on, expecting to be struck down dead or paralysed or his mouth set awry any minute. Mad with fear, but driven on like one possessed, he hurled insults and provocations at Tashbash. But nothing happened at all. Tired and sweating, his voice hoarse, he turned away spitting on the ground and ran to where Sefer was waiting for him at the bottom of the bank.’

  ‘Good for you, Apti,’ Sefer said warmly. ‘You’ve earned this packet of cigarettes. Smoke them in peace.’

  Gooey Apti sank down on a mound, panting, still trembling with all his limbs. He drew a cigarette from the package, lit it quickly and drew in the smoke long and deep.

  Sefer stared at him. ‘What a panic you’re in! Still not sure he isn’t a saint, eh?’

  Shirtless’s loud voice reached them from the field. ‘Shame on you all!’ he cried. ‘If this man’s really Tashbash, those who insulted him are done for. He’ll bring down their houses about their heads. And as for us who stood by and watched, well, he’ll cook our goose too. If he’s not Tashbash, then he’s a copy, a likeness of himself our Lord has sent to test us, and what we’ve done is even worse. Let’s say he’s nothing, only a stranger come to find shelter with us. Is this the way to treat a stranger, a poor traveller who comes to your house?’ Impulsively he moved towards Tashbash and kneeled before him. ‘Brother, whoever you may be, our Lord Tashbash or his copy or just a stranger in the land, please forgive us for what we have done to you.’

  Tashbash looked at him and his eyes filled with tears.

  Shirtless leaped to his feet. ‘You see, you see?’ he shouted, and opening wide his huge arms he went from one man to another embracing them all. ‘The man is crying. And so he would. So would anyone else after such insults. I hope to God it really is the Saint. He’ll see the day then, that Muhtar Sefer, and so will all of you …’ He pointed to the sky. Lowering clouds had sprung up over the Taurus Mountains and were drawing steadily nearer. A cool whiff rippled over the field and died away. ‘You see! You see! So you’d scorn a poor stranger? Well, here’s rain again for you! Just let those long-legged Chukurova downpours set in and I’ll see you gather cotton then! A fine pickle you’ll be in. Go on abusing poor strangers who come to seek asylum in our midst …’ I’ve done right, he thought to himself. Tashbash used to like me. Now he’ll like me still more. Whether he goes up to the Mountain of the Forty Holies or stays here among us he’ll do anything for me after this. Shirtless was thoroughly roused now. ‘You’re worthless wretches, all of you. If you’d been men would you have behaved this way to a stranger, a holy man? Don’t you see how sick and spent he is? Is there no shame in you, no pity in your hearts? What if the man is Tashbash himself? Won’t he rain stones upon your heads? Have you forgotten how his ancestors came to be called Tashbash, Stone-head, because every holy member of the race rained stones on the tyrants and oppressors and bullies of this world?’ He kneeled down again before Tashbash. ‘Brother,’ he cried, ‘my good brother, whoever you may be, forgive me. Don’t hurt me. Spare my kinsfolk …’ He rose with a woebegone, harassed countenance. ‘Look, look!’ he waved his long arms wildly at the darkening mountains to the north. ‘It’s coming! Such a downpour that we’ll not be able to pick cotton for a whole week. It’ll be the end for us. All because you will abuse strangers who come to you …’

  The Bald Minstrel pressed his large hands to the ground and heaved himself up. His sparse finespun beard was grimy with dust. He spoke out in a low dull voice. ‘The rain is coming and it’ll mean death to us this time. Get up, all of you, and let us pray to Allah to stop it. Get up,’ he repeated, his voice stronger now. ‘To the river, quick! Everybody take a large stone with him. Come on, Shirtless. You get up and come too, saint-copy!’

  Shirtless bent down to gather stones and bits of clod. Then he looked up. ‘There are no really large stones here, Bald Minstrel. And the earth is too crumbly.’

  ‘Then let everyone pick the largest cotton boll he can find. That’ll do as well.’

  They all obeyed him. His legs weaving into each other, ready to drop, Tashbash walked on beside Shirtless. As they came to the bank he collapsed to the ground, exhausted. The villagers formed a long row facing the river. They stood silent, each one clutching an unopened boll of cotton in his hand. Below, the river flowed dark red and stagnant. It had subsided now, leaving a white border of silt along the sandy shore, strewn with pine-bark, weeds and straw.

  The Bald Minstrel looked north at the mountains where massive black stormclouds were churning down ever more threateningly, obscuring the Chukurova sky and swallowing up the light. Lightning forked across the clouds again and again.

  ‘God, what a rainstorm it’ll be! The Chukurova will never see one such as this. Quick, on your knees, all of you. Stretch out your arms to those angry clouds and pray. Those who don’t know any prayers just repeat, Allah, please stop this rain. Turn those clouds away back into the mountains … Quick.’

  He held out his hands to the sky and began to recite prayers in an unintelligible tongue like Arabic. His voice was warm, vibrant, melodious, like a song, and the villagers were carried away. Kneeling, they all prayed from the bottom of their hearts. Everyone knew that if those thunderclouds broke over the plain, the rain would not let up for two
or three days. It would bring sickness to them and irreparable loss to the cotton crop.

  The long, seemingly never-ending orison came to a close. The Bald Minstrel pressed his hands ritually over his face and the labourers imitated him. ‘Rise now,’ he commanded. ‘The storm will be on us in an hour or two. See how quickly it’s coming? Now hold your hands out, palms upward, and repeat after me, quick. Please Allah …’

  ‘Please Allah …’ The answering roar swelled through the plain and resounded from the Anavarza crags.

  ‘Please Allah! Please Allah!’ The Minstrel’s deep voice rose again, vibrating through their hearts. And again the crowd responded in ringing tones that raised echoes from the crags.

  ‘For the love of Muhammed, blessed be his name. For the love of Muhammed, blessed be his name … Blessed be his name …’

  They were in a trance-like state now, giving themselves body and soul to the invocation. Far and near in the fields labourers stopped to listen.

  ‘For the love of all the prophets Allah has sent us in the past …’

  The crowd repeated the words three times.

  ‘For the love of the Forty Holy Men and the patron saints … For the love of our Lord Hizir …’

  Again the words resounded three times over.

  The Bald Minstrel paused and cleared his throat. His arms were raised as though ready to make a grab at the onrushing clouds. On the flatness of the plain he looked like a great bird with unfurled wings about to fly. The crowd imitated him. Even Tashbash lifted up his arms weakly and held them in the air as long as his strength would let him. His eyes were fixed on the Bald Minstrel with awestruck expectancy.

  The Minstrel folded his arms to his breast, then lifted them up again. The villagers followed suit and Tashbash too. Now he resumed his incantation with redoubled zest.