The Undying Grass

by Yashar Kemal

  They leaped on to their horses and rode away in a clink-clank of manacles. The horses were barebacked, all three of them, and long-flanked, with rumps gleaming warmly in the moonlight.

  Sefer was on his feet again. The water grew turbid and the fish whisked out, their bellies flashing and dazzling Memidik’s eyes. A star dropped to the bottom of the stream. There it lay beside the large shining pebbles …

  The heat was stifling, clammy.

  Memidik whipped the willow-leaf knife out of its sheath and flourished it with all his might. It traced three red, silvered arcs that gleamed like three steel cords under the moon.

  42

  Now they have passed on to another field, also belonging to Muttalip Bey, even richer than the first, with fist-large bursting bolls brimming with cotton. At this sight the Bald Minstrel breaks into a stirring song of joy and thanksgiving, a very ancient song which the villagers have never heard before. But Tashbash, with the ruin of his emaciated body and the humiliation, has reached breaking point. He is not a man to suffer such indignities to the bitter end …

  White sail-clouds cumulated in an instant over the Mediterranean Sea, a dazzling foaming mass, and strong gusts lashed out to right and left. The bank of silvery dormant clouds over the Taurus Mountains began to chum. Dust-devils, large and small, spiralled through the plain. Glittering, variegated, they whirled over from Yumurtalik and Dumlu Castle, from Jeyhan town and Bodrum, from Yilankale and Mount Hemité. The furious wind whisked up the cotton and the plants creaked on their stalks. High columns of water were swooped up from the Jeyhan River to come crashing down again. Women’s headkerchiefs, men’s worn oily caps were snatched up by the hurtling dust-devils. The whole of the Chukurova plain, its grass, plants, trees, the gushing sated green of its rice-paddies, its tractors, trucks, horses, donkeys, its bees and insects threshed and tossed in a turmoil of dust and smoke.

  Faint and drooping, Tashbash dragged himself from bed and into the field. His mouth was bitter as though he had swallowed some poison. He halted fifty paces from the group of pickers and put his hands on his hips. They stared at him with growing fear. He was changed suddenly, larger, towering, as in his days of anger and prophecy. Those who still had some doubts cast them away that instant.

  ‘It’s our Lord Tashbash himself,’ they muttered. ‘Just like this he used to scold us in anger, his hands on his hips, up in the village, the holy man …’

  Tashbash had worked himself into a passion. He was going to speak. He gulped once or twice. The villagers were all ears, ready to drink in his words, their eyes glued on him, afraid, repentant, burning with curiosity.

  He did not speak. He waited, scanning the faces before him, inscrutable, with just a shade of indulgence, a touch of sadness coming from deep down, serene … His eyes rested on his wife and children for a while. They passed on to Hassan and he smiled a little, a happy contented smile. Hassan smiled too. Tashbash bowed his head, then he turned and limped away. They watched him go and went back to their work as though nothing had happened.

  Hassan rushed after him and caught his hands. ‘Don’t go away, Uncle Tashbash,’ he pleaded. ‘When I grow up I’ll take your revenge on Gooey for you. I’ll show them all. Please, please don’t go!’

  Tashbash lifted the boy up to his breast and kissed him. He put him down and walked off in silence.

  Up in the air the great eagle floated, serene with outstretched wings, oblivious of the unleashed winds. It seemed to Memidik that Tashbash was looking at him too and a bitter angry pain such as he had never known before clutched at his heart and settled there.

  The tempest rocked the trees, the river, the swamp, the sky, the whole earth, like a cradle. The Jeyhan River heaved from its bed and crashed back again, swirling, gushing, with a deep sounding boom like the sea.

  With the nylon bag of matches Hassan had given him held tightly in his left hand, Tashbash made his way down the river and as he went wonderful scents assailed his nostrils such as he had never smelt before. They made him feel drunk and faint, as though the whole thing was a dream. Mustering the little strength that was left in him he pressed on. Colours exploded in front of his eyes, dappled with white and black. The heaving, churning river advanced upon him. Ragged clouds whirled low, plants, trees, stalks tossed in a turmoil of dust. Birds started from their nests in fear, beasts, bees, insects fled out of their holes. The sky had fallen into confusion, a riotous medley of moon and stars, of blue and light, of yellow and green. Stars shot from one end of the sky to the other.

  He was up to his waist in water. The waves beat upon him, cool and refreshing … He looked back and saw a huge dog coming after him. He smiled.

  The waters shook, the trees on the shore, the banks of the river quaked and the ground under his feet slipped away. The green, shining, dream-textured cobwebs shattered and fell apart, the steel-glinting threads of light broke up, flowers, green leaves, water, swamp, all surged by in a frothing mass. A ferment of stars tossed overhead, endlessly whirling this way and that. He laid his tired head on the roots of a bush. It was a chaste-tree in bloom. He breathed in deeply. A fantastic dream … While the waters lapped at his feet, cool and gentle.

  43

  That Tashbash should depart from them in this way is a thing they never expected. At first no one says a word, so dumbfounded are they all. Then the whisperings begin, slow, hesitant …

  Stand on the edge of a good cotton field and at a casual glance you will simply see the green leaves and only afterwards the pure white cotton bursting from the bolls. The plants are waist-high and in between the green sprays each brimming boll is as large as your fist. If the field is poor, the plants shed their leaves quickly and only the cotton remains. It is as though it had snowed, a spotless expanse of white. But there are no flowers at all. A rich fruitful cotton field is like a vast garden with thousands of brightly-coloured flowers. Such a field takes the edge off the Chukurova heat. There, the warm muddy water that is like blood to drink flows cooler somehow. It is a blessing for labourers to hit on such a field, and so it was for the Yalak villagers. But for this, they would have been much more troubled by Tashbash’s disappearance. It would have preyed on them and would have taxed their work-weary bodies even more.

  This riot of bright flowers will wither and fall off in a little while. The pods will grow into bolls and split open. Like fluffy white clouds the cotton will gush out to its first light of day. And the villagers will rejoice as they start picking again. ‘As good as the first crop,’ they’ll say. ‘And the third crop’s sure to be like this too.’ They will think nothing of their weariness and will rain blessings on Muttalip Bey.

  He came again very early in the morning in his black dust-covered Mercedes. He had not slept all night, nagged by the recollection of the saint in the cotton field, of how he had refused to take his money and had turned his back on him. Strange people these saints. One never knew with them. He was bitterly sorry for his brutal conduct of yesterday. Was that the way to treat a holy man? A man who had won for himself this reputation? As if he were a simple peasant or any old thief or wrongdoer …

  He clambered out of the car and summoned Sefer. ‘Take me to the saint,’ he ordered. ‘I must see him at once.’

  Sefer did not know what to say. The villagers were silent too. Muttalip Bey’s face clouded over with fear. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked in sudden agitation.

  Then the boy Hassan spoke up: ‘He’s gone,’ he said. ‘He was angry with you all and so he went away. To the Mountain of the Forty Holies. Yes, that’s what he told me. And he said also, I won’t do them any harm. Don’t let them be afraid that I’ll revenge myself for all their wickedness. But I won’t do them any good either. That’s all. And then he went away.’

  ‘Which way did he go?’

  Hassan pointed down the river. ‘That way. He just walked off and never came back.’

  Muttalip Bey had turned yellow. Without a word he jumped into his car. Memidik just had time to trace an a, b, c over
the dusty trunk.

  Driving back, Muttalip Bey laughed half regretfully. ‘Well, we’ve missed the saint! Now where are we going to find him? Who knows what miracles he might have performed …’

  The villagers were talking to each other in hushed tones.

  ‘What did Muttalip Bey say?’

  ‘He said, oh dear, I’ve let him go, the only true saint of our times …’

  ‘What did he say? What did he say?’

  ‘He said, with my own two hands I’ve ruined my own house. I’ve offended him, this true saint who came to me, unlucky creature that I am! My face is black with shame now in the eyes of God.’

  ‘What, what? What did he say?’

  ‘How could I be so stupid, he said. When did I ever have such a plenteous crop? Never, not even half, not one tenth. But this year, thanks to the saint, my fields flowed over with good cotton. Oh, I’ve blinded myself with these two hands …’

  ‘What? What?’

  ‘He said that if he found him again, our Lord Tashbash, if he could only see his beautiful face again, he would cherish him as a treasure and never let him go.’

  On and on they talked until the south wind came up. Muttalip Bey returned three times in his big black car. He passed silently before them, his face black as thunder.

  Shirtless was haranguing the villagers, his tall bulky frame towering above the others. ‘He’ll come back,’ he assured them. ‘Holy men never abandon their own creatures. They are not vindictive or resentful, never angry. Hassan’s lying, don’t worry. Children are the greatest liars on earth. They lie all the time. Of course our saint wouldn’t turn away from us.’

  Muhtar Sefer kept apart and never said a word, but Gooey Apti was cursing at the top of his voice. In a cold sweat he poured imprecations on Tashbash and all the saints, on Sefer, on the trees and birds and clouds, on whatever came to his mind. ‘Let them kill me,’ he howled, crazed with fear. ‘Come on then, let them strike me dead. What are they waiting for? If that Allah’s got such power, then here I am, let him destroy me. What’s he waiting for? What, what?’

  He stamped and fumed like a madman, froth spurting from his mouth. His face was drawn and white as a sheet.

  Zaladja’s voice rose above the others. ‘I saw him in my dream,’ she began. ‘My Lord Tash …’ But they shut her up. ‘Damn your dreams,’ they said.

  Old Halil was wringing his hands, weeping like a fountain. ‘What, what do they know of anything human, these wretches, of anything good, that they should appreciate someone like you, my own brave lad, my saintly Tashbash …’ There was a long tear at the back of his shalvar-trousers and he had tucked them up his legs. He wandered about from one person to another. ‘What do you know, what?’ he kept repeating to everyone.

  Okkesh Dagkurdu, his mind more than ever on the palace he was building up for himself in Paradise, was deep in his namaz prayers. Whenever anyone came near him he recited incantations and blew upon whoever it was to exorcise him. ‘God forbid, God forbid!’ he muttered, stroking his greying beard. ‘There are no miracles, no magic in our religion. Tashbash was a good man, but these people did such things to him that he forgot his true faith. And then they drove the poor fellow into the wilderness … No, no. God forbid, God forbid …’

  Long Ali grieved silently for his friend.

  ‘I’m going to go to him,’ Hassan said. ‘He’s up on the summit of Mount Düldül.’

  Snow-capped Mount Düldül, with its spiry crest and dappled flanks, was visible from the Chukurova, standing out against the blue, bright and cool.

  The Bald Minstrel had been airing contradictory views since that morning. ‘You egged him on, the poor man, until he went mad. Saint or not, you drove him mad. He was sick anyway, couldn’t stand on his feet, couldn’t even take a couple of steps. Maybe he was a holy man, maybe not, but he was too weak to walk. Go and find the poor fellow. Let his relatives search for him. He must be somewhere around, quite near. Most likely he’s collapsed at the foot of a bush and is lying there moaning for help. Ah, Tashbash never deserved this. If he’s a saint then there’ll be a light where he is. You’ll see a light and you’ll know he’s there for sure. Come on, be quick. And if he’s not a saint … Then there won’t be any light. There won’t be anything … But you’re all his relatives, you used to be at his beck and call. And now you won’t even go and look for him …’

  The women, the young girls clustered about Tashbash’s wife.

  ‘Did he touch you after he became holy?’ Batty Bekir’s wife kept asking her. ‘Did he make love to you, our Lord Tashbash? Ooooh, think of it!’

  She did not answer. Seeing they could get nothing out of her, they fell to talking among themselves.

  ‘Tashbash is like a raging bull,’ was Zaladja’s pronouncement. ‘Let him get hold of a woman, even his own wife, and do you think he’ll let go of her?’

  ‘Like a bull …’

  ‘What bull, for God’s sake! He could hardly stand, the poor chap!’

  ‘Hah, that’s how it seemed to you …’

  ‘Who knows how saints make love …’

  Out spoke Batty Bekir’s wife knowingly: ‘A saint is like a live coal. You burn and tremble and go mad at his touch. Oh, I’ve seen Tashbash many times …’ And she let out a gay jingling peal of laughter.

  ‘I’d give everything I have for the nail he cuts off his little finger and throws away,’ Fatmadja declared. ‘I’d sacrifice all the mountains, all the Chukurova, the whole world for him. Look what he’s done for my poor girl, bed-ridden these eight years! Look, just look.’

  ‘Why don’t you speak, you god-damned woman? Did Tashbash go to bed with you or not? If he did, how was it? And if he didn’t, what did he say, what did he do? Now come on, lass, tell us, do!’

  Pale Ismail’s daughter, who was now the muhtar’s wife, harried her to distraction. ‘Oh, leave me alone, sister,’ Tashbash’s wife said at last. ‘I’ve got enough worries as it is. More than I can bear. How could anyone go to bed with a saint? A saint is like the fury of the Lord. He strikes terror into your heart and makes you feel faint all over …’

  ‘But did he try to make love to you?’

  ‘Oh, leave me alone, sister! Don’t you see how worried I am?’

  ‘But did he lust for you? Did he go wild with desire?’ Pale Ismail’s daughter was trembling. She flung out her arms and stretched herself lasciviously. ‘Didn’t he take you in his arms and press you close, close, so close your bones were breaking?’ Her face was flaming red. She clenched a handful of hot earth in her hand and rubbed her naked buttocks over the burning ground. ‘Did his flesh touch yours?’ Her eyes swooned. She was almost senseless with rapture.

  ‘Go away, sister. Leave me be. Don’t go adding to my troubles.’

  Home-Leave Memet was moaning. He writhed on the ground, shaking with fever, nothing but a bag of bones now. ‘Gone, gone!’ he kept saying. ‘He’s gone too …’

  The fight broke out quite suddenly. A large group of villagers fell upon each other with stones, sticks and clods. It went on for an hour and almost everyone joined in. The odour of sweat spread through the rising dust.

  Then the drover stopped before them, a tall burly man. He raised his long staff in the air. ‘There’s not a missing animal this year. I’ve got them all in the woodswamp where the watering’s good; cows, sheep, goats, horses, donkeys, every one of them. Look here, what are you fighting about? Now, that’s enough then.’

  It was good news this about the livestock. In a moment they forgot all about Tashbash and the fight petered out …

  ‘I’ve heard you’re in clover this year,’ the drover said. ‘The crop’s good, you’ve had a good pick and made pots of money. As for me, I’ve taken good care of the livestock. They’ve grown so fat and sleek you won’t know them. So look sharp now, folks.’

  People knew what that meant. They all produced a lira apiece from their pockets or their purses and filed up one by one before the drover, each dropping a coin into his
open palm.

  It was a hot night again, mosquito-ridden. They brought in sesame stalks from a neighbouring field and kept up fires till morning. The field seemed strewn with stars.

  44

  Omer has been staying with Meryemdje for days now. They eat and drink and walk in the forest and gather mushrooms. Omer goes hunting and brings back birds and hares. Every night he makes up his mind to finish his job and kill Meryemdje, but just as he is about to strangle her, he thinks: ‘Let her live another day, dear Mother Meryemdje. She’s sleeping so peacefully now …’ And he turns away, trembling with emotion. Every night he lives over and over again the frenzy of killing and the ecstasy of renunciation. ‘Not tonight, but tomorrow … Tomorrow I’ll do it without fail.’

  Mother Meryemdje was asleep, huddled up, her thin black lips pouting like a child’s. It was light already although the sun had not yet risen. Her withered face wore in sleep an expression of contentment. Sometimes she smiled like a slumbering child. Omer had never in his life known such a warm person, brimming over with love. Nobody could love as his dear Mother Meryemdje, nobody, not even one’s own mother or father or brother or sister, or one’s own dear love … Tears came to his eyes as he saw her bare feet with their worn furrowed heels sticking out of the blanket. He covered them up gently.

  ‘Tonight,’ he thought. ‘It must be tonight, Mother dear. There’s no other choice for me. I did my best to put it off just because you’re so nice. Today I’ll get three partridges for you, Mother dear. I’ll pick a lot of mushrooms and cut off ever so many slices of yalabuk from the pine-trees so you should have a really good meal before you leave this world. So you should go happy, my beautiful Mother. How good you’ve been to me! No one, not my own mother, could ever have loved me like you’ve done, God bless you. But tonight’s my last chance. Very soon the villagers will be coming back from the Chukurova, and then Sefer will never give me my money. I’m sorry, but it must be tonight. Ah, how I shall mourn for you when I have done it! Damn this poverty. If I’d only had a pair of oxen, if Bedriyé had been mine, would I ever have touched a hair of your head, my rose, my good mother? Why, I’d have taken you into my house. I’d have cared for you always. But there’s nothing I can do, nothing. I’ve no time left …’