He could not forget Jehanna. Still, a man was a man; and Chandravati was pretty and young and lissome. Faithful she was, and as good a cook as you could find in all India, and patiently clever—with the patient cleverness of her ancient race.
Thus, when occasionally he would speak of Jehanna, she would shrug her shoulders and say:
“You love her, and I love you. What difference—since you are in my arms? By Shiva and Vishnu!”—quoting the Indian proverb—“whether the knife falls on the cucumber or the cucumber on the knife—the result is the same.”
Oh, yes—patient and clever.
Patient and clever, too, when Kara Yussef having gone straight to her house from Red Mustaffa’s place and told her he was off to the hills in the morning, she replied:
“Go if you must, my lord.”
“You know why I am going?”
“Jehanna…”
“Yes. She is betrothed to another.”
“You will kill him?”
Then the same answer he had given to Red Mustaffa:
“I cannot. He is my brother. Allah!”—furiously—“how can she love him? The puny, prating, fledgling priest! How can any woman love him?”
“Love is blind,” whispered Chandravati; and, without the slightest irony: “I love you!”
For a second he was conscious of remorse, of strange, welling tenderness. But, quickly, he brushed the feeling aside. He turned toward the door.
She ran after him. She kissed him.
“May you succeed in your quest, O my lord!”
He left. He went directly to the bungalow of Colonel Sir James O’Dwyer, though it was close to midnight and it needed bribery as well as threats to persuade the Punjabi orderly to call his master. Shortly afterward the latter appeared on the veranda, red-faced, peppery, martial even in his pajamas, speaking a fluent vitriolic Afghan with a strong Irish accent:
“To rouse me from sleep—at this hour! Are you drunk, O great buffalo?”
The other saluted.
“You are my father and my mother, sahib.”
“The customary introduction to a quite preposterous demand. What is it?”
“Be pleased to grant me furlough—at once.”
“Furlough—when you only re-enlisted a little while back? What do you think you are—the commander-in-chief?”
“I must go home tomorrow.”
“Well—you won’t.”
“I must. Please, sahib…”
“I’ll let you go some other time.”
“Some other time will be too late.”
The Colonel was getting more and more annoyed. He slapped viciously at a mosquito that had lit on his bare ankles. These Afghans—he thought—good soldiers, but—damn their souls—so stubborn.
“Look here,” he said. “I’ll tell you why I can’t let you go. This afternoon I received word—confidential word—that the regiment entrains for Burma at the end of three weeks for a bit of border fighting. I’ll need all my troopers. So—you see—you’ll have to stay. Hokum hai—It is an order!”
“An order not for me, sahib!”
“Eh? What’s that?”
“I am a free man, an Afghan, not a subject of the Raj.”
“Makes no difference. You swore allegiance. What is the matter with you? Are you afraid? By God”—Irish temper and Irish accent lent a flavor to Oriental abuse—“may you be beat on the mouth with slipper! May your mother, your sisters, and all your female relatives…”
“Sahib!” the Afghan flared up.
At once O’Dwyer was sorry; and, being a gentleman besides being an officer, he did not consider it beneath his dignity to apologize to a lance-daffadar.
“Forgive me, won’t you?”
He smiled. So did the Afghan. They shook hands.
“And now,” Sir James went on, “let’s talk man to man. What is calling you home in such a devil of a hurry? One of your asinine mountain feuds, I suppose? Well—let the feud wait.”
“A feud could wait. This matter cannot.”
“For heaven’s sake—what is it?”
“A woman whom I love—who will marry another in seven days—and seven days it will take me to reach my village.”
The Afghan was silent. Sir James looked at him. He remembered how, in Mesopotamia, Kara Yussef had saved his life, shielding him with his own body against the lunge of a Turkish bayonet.
* * * *
“Very well,” he said. “Furlough is granted. A week to go—a week to attend to your business—a week to return. Tomorrow is the second of the month. By the twenty-third you will rejoin the regiment”—he laughed, slapped the Afghan on the shoulder—“with the woman—or without.”
“With the woman, sahib. It is an assured thing.”
For self-confidence had come back to Kara Yussef. It grew as, early next morning, he was off to his own country; as—on foot, astride a horse, atop a snarling, smelly camel, again on foot—he took the long road into the North.
His brother? A priest. Praying was his trade. A decent trade. But not fit for a strong-armed, strong-loined man—such a man as women loved. And—Jehanna would marry his brother by the end of the week? Impossible. It was just a trick of hers. She must have known that, through the everlasting border gossip, wide blown through hills and plains, bazaars and mosques, he would learn of the rumor. She was only trying to make him jealous, to force his early return, because she longed for him.
Yes—that was it—she longed for him, missed him!
“I shall never love you!” she had said.
That, too, had been a trick of hers—to sharpen his passion…
* * * *
Why—she was meant for love—his love; and he felt elated, hummed snatches of an Afghan ballad:
“The sword—is it meant for the blow?
Is it? Or is it not?
Your mouth—is it shaped for my kisses?
Is it? Or is it not…?”
He interrupted himself.
For the queer memory came to him how he had sung this same ballad to Chandravati, the first time he had met her. That had been in Peshawar outside the city gate. They had gone for a stroll in the tangled old garden of Timoor-Shah-the-Golden, and he had said to her—oh! he remembered the very words:
“It is yourself makes the flowers sweeter and the sunshine warmer!”
He had meant it, he reflected; had surely meant it. And she—she had loved him then, loved him still…and, in spite of her love, perhaps because of it, had wished him luck with Jehanna. Well—some day he would see her again; would buy her that turquoise bracelet she had admired so often in the Bazaar of the Kashmiri Silversmiths. Yes, he would buy it for her, as a token of friendship, when he returned to Peshawar—with Jehanna.
Jehanna—by Allah and by Allah—there was the girl for you!
All his thoughts were of her as he neared the Kohee Baba Range; as on the sixth day out of Peshawar, the great peaks of Maur Koh towered above him, white, frozen, austere, like huge icicles stood on end.
Winter up there on the peaks.
Full summer in the valleys below. The quick, sharp, riotous summer of the North. Summer rich and roaring and unashamed. Summer to forest and field, to beast and bird.
Summer to the heart of Kara Yussef.
“Ah”—he said to himself, on the morning of the seventh day—“Jehanna to the arms of me! Jehanna to the arms of me tonight!”
So he walked on, through the great, brave lands of trees where lordly stags pawed the ground and gave their deep-throated calls; across cleft granite stretches where small brooks whispered to each other; and, as evening dropped, by a short-cut where, as a child, he had found a cave hidden by boulders and gnarled roots. There, years ago, when his father had threatened him with punishment for some lawless deed, he had often found refuge. He had never shared the knowledge of its whereabouts with anybody except his brother. He had taken the latter there one day—he must have been twelve, Hajji Goor seven—and had sworn him to secrecy, boyishly imit
ating the grim oath of the grown-ups:
“Poison to my heart—poison to my soul—if ever I break this oath!”
The little medals tinkled; and he smiled. They told the tale of his prowess—did the little medals.
Night came with gloaming, with deepening shadows, and the owls hooting that now was the time for a wary bird to be about its mousing. Still, eager, sure-footed, he sped on his way.
Home soon—and then—Ah—“Jehanna to the arms of me!”…and how glad she would be to see him…He reached an immense basalt rock around which the road bent to the village; and, suddenly, he stopped.
This noise…the wind, he thought at first, twisting and shrieking among the cliffs. But no—it wasn’t the wind…but voices—yells, quivering, long-drawn:
“Yoo-yoo-yoo!”
“Yoo-yoo-yoo-yoo!”
“Yoo-yoo-yoo…” Islam’s eternal chant; in sorrow and joy; in sorrow at death, the end of life; in joy at the beginning of life, the conceiving—birth or marriage…
Marriage…?
A terrible misgiving came to Kara Yussef. Had he fooled himself with his own passion? Could it be that his brother…?
The next moment he knew. For, clear, distinct, a single voice called:
“Cry yoo-yoo-yoo, O Moslems! Yoo-yoo-yoo for Hajji Goor and Jehanna, the daughter of Abderrahman Terek!”
Kara Yussef shivered. His mouth seemed filled with the salt taste of blood. His heart was dogged with gray, gray-cold rage that gathered headway steadily; that grew to almost insane fury as he turned the corner of the rock and saw, beneath a golden flaring of torches, the wedding procession winding its way along the village street toward the little mosque on the hillside.
Shouts rose:
“Blessed life to Hajji Goor!”
“Blessed life to Jehanna!”
“Yoo-yoo-yoo!”
“Yoo-yoo-yoo-yoo-yoo!”
Laughter. Jests!
“May she bear you as many men-children, O Hajji Goor, as there are hairs on your head!”
“What sayeth the Koran? ‘Forgive thy wife seventy times a day!’”
“Look at the tiny foot of hers! Foot? What do I say? A dream! A thrill! A flower!”
“Remember, Hajji Goor!” an old woman’s shameless advice. “A drop of musk behind the ear to rouse waning passion!”
Again laughter.
“Yoo-yoo-yoo-yoo-yoo-yoo-yoo!”
A long procession. All the tribe, preceded by the neeka, the chief. An elderly priest, green-turbaned. The older people walking solemnly, thinking—a little morosely—of their past youth. Young girls strewing flowers. Young men waving tall poles decked with ribbons or carrying torches. Children tossing crude fireworks. And, at the end, as tribal ritual demanded, Hajji Goor and Jehanna, he in a white robe, she veiled from head to foot.
“Cry yoo-yoo-yoo-yoo, O Moslems!”
“Yoo-yoo-yoo!” echoing in Kara Yussef’s soul as, unnoticed by the crowd, he watched.
He had not seen his brother in years; found him still the same pale, small scholar, peering short-sightedly through large spectacles, stumbling awkwardly as his foot hit a stone in the road. What could a woman, any woman, see in him? Women—Kara Yussef had believed all his life—followed the strong man. And was he not strong? Was he not bold among warriors and among splendid, storied heroes?
The tinkling medals on his chest…they told the tale…and yet, here, by Hajji Goor’s side, hand in hand with him, was Jehanna.
“Yoo-yoo-yoo!”
Toward the mosque. The torches blending into the purple of the night, their sparks of red and green softening to a running play of rainbow colors then dying altogether with just a single high-light still glistening like the blood gleam in a black opal, as the trees on the hillside swallowed the procession…
Presently, faintly, through the open door of the mosque, came the priest’s voice droning a surah from the Koran:
“For the Merciful hath taught the Koran.
He created the male and the female.
He taught them clear speech.
He taught them desire and fulfilment;
An echo Of His own creation:-.
Then which of the Lord’s bounties would ye dare deny?
The sun and the moon in their courses
And the planets and the trees do homage to Him,
And the heaven He raised it and appointed the balance,
And the earth He prepared it for living-things.
Therein He created fruit, and the palm with its sheaths,
And grain with its husks, and the fragrant herb:
Then which of the Lord’s bounties would ye dare deny?
He created man of clay like a pot.
He created woman out of a crooked rib of man.
Man he created for woman, and woman for man:
Then which of the Lord’s bounties would ye dare deny?”
On and on droned the nasal chant. The tribesmen took it up in thick, palpable fervor:
“Then which of the Lord’s bounties would ye dare deny…”
The words reverberated in Kara Yussef’s brain. They assumed physical shape. His brother and Jehanna. He could see them—as they would meet—tonight.
Hajji Goor would be waiting for her. At midnight she would go to him, veiled; and beneath the veil, as was the custom, her little face would be painted and powdered in stark white and red. Hajji Goor would salaam to her—would lift her veil, kiss her lips, take her in his arms.
Man and wife.
His mouth to hers. His body to hers.
“Then which of the Lord’s bounties would ye dare deny…”
Kara Yussef had always been fond of his brother. Nor did he hate him now, at this moment of piercing jealousy. He wished him well; would protect him, fight for him. But this—he could not stand it—this thought, maddeningly drumming at the base of his skull!
“Hajji Goor and Jehanna! Man and wife—man and wife—man and wife…”
Then suddenly came another thought: “No! Not yet man and wife!”
For the religious ritual was only the beginning of the ceremony; and there was a tribal law which demanded that, at midnight, the bride must pass through the village, alone, and go to the bridegroom’s house. Only after she had crossed his threshold would they be truly married in the eyes of God and man.
At midnight. Alone. The street deserted. And here was he, Kara Yussef, a burly, jaunty, reckless man with medals on his chest.
“Then which of the Lord’s bounties would ye dare deny.… ?” droned the chant, mocking him, defying him.
Well—he would dare—would dare deny—deny the Lord’s bounties—to his brother.
It was himself wanted the Lord’s same bounties; Jehanna’s lips, Jehanna’s kisses.
And so, when the procession filed out of the mosque and down the hillside, he ran into an orchard and hid behind a tree.
He waited.
Slowly the minutes crept by. Wan lights sprang up in the villagers’ houses. One by one they died.
Swathing darkness then. Swathing silence.
* * * *
He took off his turban and shook out the folds, ten yards of tough, raw silk. He knew the old trick of Afghan robbers; had often used it in Flanders when a sahib had given orders!
“Go hunting in No Man’s Land tonight. Bring back a German. Dead? No, you bloodthirsty scoundrel! Get us a live one—we want to ask him a few questions.”
Then over the trenches and—Allah willing!—sneaking up on some lonely German scout. The turban cloth dropped from behind over the victim’s head and pulled tightly against the Adam’s apple, while the two thumb joints jerked into each side of the windpipe. A choked gurgle; unconsciousness; and, not long afterward, a rather sick prisoner examined by the sahibs.
Kara Yussef smiled. How good it was to be strong—to have gone traveling to the foreign wars and…
He cut, off his thoughts.
He sat up, listened sharply, heard an eager patter of feet down the street. I
n a couple of leaps he was out of the orchard. He saw a dim slight shadow, dark against the dark wall of night. Jehanna…
He ran up to her. She heard; was startled; turned—too late; before she could call for help the turban cloth whipped through the air, descended over her head. He pressed. His thumbs jerked. Her fingers clutched, tore. Something struck the ground with a metallic tinkle. Then she fainted. He tied her wrists with his turban cloth, her ankles with his waist shawl. He picked her up and was off, sure-footed as a stag.
Allah—he thought again—how good it was to be strong! The pick of the world—that’s what it meant—the pick of the world in his arms!
Not far away was the cave. There, some time later, she regained consciousness. She opened her eyes to find herself bound; to see sitting near her Kara Yussef, sharply outlined by the flickering flames of a brushwood fire.
And the first thing she said was:
“Happy your mother that her bones are below the sod—that she is not here to know of her first-born’s black, black deeds! Ah—curse you all the angels! Curse you all the devils! May all the heathens curse you!”
“Let them curse me all they want to! What do I care? Here we are, the two of us, alone in the night!”
“The tribesmen will kill you!”
“They do not know this cave!”
“They will search the countryside—will find it…”
“It will take days. Let them kill me then. Or is life so dear that I would not barter it—gladly, gladly—for the price of a night’s passion—with you?”
He bent over her, close. Helplessly she struggled, straining her bonds.
“Kara Yussef!” she cried, a break in her voice. “Please—Kara Yussef…I am your brother’s wife…”
“Not yet his wife! Have you crossed his threshold? Wah—” triumphantly—“it is my own threshold you crossed…”
“I love him—not you!”
“You will forget him—will love me—after you’ve thrilled to the strength of me.”
“You—Ah—” she spat the words at him—“with your strength, strength, strength! A buffalo has strength! But would I take a buffalo for a lover? A tiger has strength! But would I mate with a tiger? Ah—rather a tiger, rather an infidel, an eater of impurities, a worshiper of false idols, than you, O Kara Yussef!”
The Achmed Abdullah Megapack Page 46
