Tales of the Marvellous and News of the Strange (Hardcover Classics)

by Malcolm C (Tr Lyons

  She was as the poet has described:

  Shaped like a ban tree she lives at her ease,

  Covered with many lovely ornaments.

  When she moves she is like the gleaming moon,

  Shedding the light of beauty on all men.

  Thanks to my Lord, she outshines all,

  And is without an equal in the world.

  While her companions played and she was walking happily towards her cousin Sul, all of a sudden an enormous snake appeared. Fire was coming from its nose; its teeth were like hooks and its mouth was like a well; it had a head like a cauldron and hair like horses’ ears. It soared into the sky and in its full length it was like a huge mountain.

  The sight of it terrified Shumul and robbed her of her senses. A dazzling ray spread from its back with a glare that reached the horizon, and it swooped down on her, snatching her away from her companions faster than the blink of an eye. She cried out to Sul; her companions shrieked, and in the tumult that followed many fainted at what they saw. The others questioned the witnesses, who told them what had happened to her. They struck themselves and poured dust over their heads, and in the commotion Sul came, striking his chest with a rock, slapping his face and gnawing at his fingers. He was about to kill himself when the others restrained him and he continued in this state until he lost consciousness, after which they sat by his head, weeping for him and grieving for Shumul.

  Things went on like that for the rest of the night until morning. When the sun rose and the day became hot, Sul recovered but said nothing, and his movements were those of a dying man. He got up automatically without realizing the affliction that God had brought upon him and what it was that he, his family and all the others had seen. There was yet more wailing and lamentation as they all grieved and bewailed the disaster. Sul got up and drew his sword and he was again about to kill himself when his cousins held him back.

  He threw away his sword and recited these lines:

  How can I enjoy life now that she is gone,

  My darling, whom disaster came to strike?

  What happiness, what pleasure is in life?

  My love has gone, so set, you crescent moon,

  And as for you, sun, never shine again.

  God pardon those who wish me a quick death,

  For, with my darling lost, my life is black.

  He wept bitterly until he fainted and he was so still and cold that they thought that he must be dead. He stayed like that for two or three days with the people weeping for him, for Shumul and over the disaster that had overtaken them. He then sat up, trembling, looking right and left and saying: ‘I wish that I had been a ransom for you, Shumul.’ His family were reproaching him, but he paid no attention to anyone or listened to what they said. He would neither eat nor drink in spite of advice from his mother that he should do this and show courage. ‘Summon the astrologers and the sorcerers,’ she told him, ‘and ask them about your cousin. If she is still alive, go to look for her before you die of grief.’ ‘Mother,’ he answered, ‘I am never, never going to meet her again unless through the will of Almighty God.’

  One night, when he was asleep, he saw Shumul in a dream. She was reproaching him and saying: ‘When was it that you forgot me and sat back with your family?’ She was sitting weeping in the cell of a monk as she said this. Sul started up in fear and alarm but then fainted. His parents, cousins and the rest of his family gathered around him and asked what he had seen in his dream. For a long time he gave no answer, but then, after another fit of fainting, he recovered and recited these lines:

  My darling’s apparition came to me

  When the muezzin called in the dark night.

  She was in tears, and her reproach to me

  Was like that of a kinsman to his kin.

  ‘Do you think of another and not me,’

  She said, ‘although I am the best of all your friends?

  As a true lover, you should not forget.’

  Victims of Time are not like the carefree,

  And after her how can I enjoy life,

  Or sit again amongst the lovely girls?

  When he had finished, they asked him how he was and what he had seen in his dream. He told them tearfully that he had seen Shumul in the cell of a monk and he swore by the only God that he would not rest or stay in any town but would travel around the regions, questioning travellers so as to hear news or find some trace of her.

  He got up immediately and took a bag of Ta’if leather, into which he put everything that he would need on his journey. He had an ebony cane, set with silver, and on his head he wore a felt cap, while he also carried with him a number of books and spells. He took leave of his parents, his cousins and kin, who, after asking how he was, said: ‘For God’s sake, do not abandon your father and your mother to wander miserably through parts of the world that you do not know. There are plenty of girls here, so choose whom you want.’

  With a deep sigh Sul exclaimed: ‘I shall never, never do that! I must follow her wherever she may be or die for her.’ ‘Take any of us you want with you,’ they said, but he swore that he would take no one. ‘My son,’ said his mother, ‘by the breast that nurtured you I implore you to take me with you and do not let me die without you.’ He replied: ‘If I am unwilling to take a man, how should I take women?’

  He then mounted his camel and rode to Rafiqa, where at a distance from the road was the cell of an anchorite. He halted beneath it and recited these lines:

  By the Evangel and the Psalms, I call you, anchorite,

  And by the well-wrought verses of your Lord,

  By Simeon and Goliath, answer me.

  By the Messiah and the bell you ring at dawn,

  And by Mary, tell me if you have seen

  A moon who serves me as my ears and eyes.

  Answer me if you know, for I am lost in cares.

  Tell me, and may the evils that you fear not fall on you.

  I am afflicted and I cannot bear the loss

  Of one I saw to be so beautiful.

  When Sul had finished the anchorite opened the door of his cell and looked down at him. He was an old man with eyebrows that had sunk over his eyes and when he saw Sul he exchanged greetings with him and then answered his lines as follows:

  Greetings to one who comes to me at dawn

  And asks about the rising of the moon.

  You ask, I see, about both sun and moon,

  And this full moon of yours is a human.

  But I have not seen it at night or in the dawn.

  Tell me then who you are, so rain may give you drink.

  Sul told his story, and the old man felt pity for him but told him reproachfully to go back to his family. Sul would not accept this but moved on towards Aleppo until he had come to another cell. Standing beneath it, he recited:

  By the Evangel, anchorite, tell me,

  And do not hide from me what you have seen.

  I ask you by Nasut and by Jalut,

  And by the lessons taught on Palm Sunday,

  Tell me if you have seen a moon escaped from Paradise.

  Tell me, and may the evils that you fear not fall on you.

  A handsome anchorite looked down at him and replied to his lines:

  I swear by Simeon and the priest,

  I have not seen the girl whom you described.

  Tell me, what is this trial that Time has brought on you?

  When Sul had told him his story, the man blamed him and asked him to return to his family. Sul would not listen and set off for Damascus, going on until he came to the pasture land known as al-Rauda in the territory of al-Qutaifa. There, standing beneath an anchorite’s cell, he recited these lines:

  By the Evangel, I call on you, monk.

  May God avert from you the harm you fear.

  My love has been well known amongst all men;

  I am heartbroken, for we shared a love,

  And my beloved served me as my soul.

  I thought that I had won her, but then Go
d

  Brought down on me what I could not ward off.

  An ‘ifrit or a devil swooped down from the sky;

  Time robbed me of endurance and was false to me.

  I pray to God that He grant me relief.

  The monk opened the door of his cell and called down praises on the Lord of angels and the Holy Spirit before answering Sul in these lines:

  Praise to the One Eternal God,

  Lord of all being. He is God alone.

  Tell me what happened to you, for your lines

  Have caused me pain, and I invoke

  Christ, Simeon and reciters of the Psalms.

  I have not seen the one of whom you spoke;

  Endure, for this is the best prop a man can have.

  When Sul was asked for his story and had told it, the monk shed tears of pity and said: ‘Young man, you are handsome but I can see no spices here.’ Sul asked what he meant by spices, and the monk said: ‘How can you leave your father and mother and go off on your travels because of a dream you saw? This was a nightmare, so be sensible and go back to your family.’

  Sul left him and set off again for Damascus. When he came in sight of its trees and streams with their singing birds and when he saw the beauty of the buildings that surrounded it he recited these lines:

  Would that I knew where the one is I look for in these lands.

  Where is Shumul, whose memory tortures me?

  Damascus was in bloom when I saw it,

  As the scent of its flowers spread over me,

  And birds upon its boughs exchanged their songs.

  These boughs were intertwined and put out leaves and fruits;

  Water gushed from the springs,

  Spreading amongst the meadows and the trees.

  I looked out on this loveliness, but cares

  Rose to oppress me from my memories.

  I took an oath which I shall never break

  That I shall travel through the nights and days

  Until I find the one I love, Shumul,

  And so fulfil my hope through God Almighty’s power,

  Or die and then return to the great God.

  He went on reciting these lines until he came to the city, may God guard it, and entered the mosque. He prayed with two rak‘as and, having spent the night there, he left for Jerusalem, may God ennoble it. High above him he saw the cell of an anchorite, and, standing below it, he recited these lines:

  Monk in your lofty cell, may the rain give you drink;

  Live in tranquillity, free from the blows of Time.

  Tell me if you have seen a moon that outshines all mankind.

  When the monk heard this, he opened his cell door and looked at Sul, noting his handsomeness and his dignified appearance. He replied in the following lines:

  Welcome to a full moon that comes at dawn,

  To ask about a loved one he has lost,

  A girl who has no match amongst mankind.

  But I can swear by Jesus and by Simeon,

  By priest and bishop, that I have not seen

  This girl by night or in the light of dawn.

  He asked Sul for his story and when he had been told of his grief he said: ‘Young man, return to your family and, for God’s sake, don’t get yourself killed.’ Sul left him and went on to Ramla and from there to al-Fustat, where he consulted sorcerers and wise men, none of whom could tell him anything. He then went to al-Qarafa, where there was a monastery overlooking the town, and he stood underneath this and started to recite:

  Monk living in your lofty cell,

  May God save you from any ills you fear!

  May you enjoy prolonged comfort and ease,

  Untroubled by disasters that Time brings!

  I call on you in Jesus’ name and the clear verses of your books,

  Your monastery and your priest, to tell me

  If you have seen a moon that shows through clouds.

  My life and pleasure have gone with Shumul.

  The monk, on hearing this, was moved by pity and opened the door of his cell to look out. He was a handsome and dignified grey-haired man and he said: ‘Young man, you have distressed me,’ and he replied to Sul’s poem in these lines:

  Young man, you dismayed me by what you said,

  For Time brings with it its catastrophes.

  You have aroused my interest; tell me of your need,

  For you have called to mind the pleasures I enjoyed,

  And what God brought me with the passing nights,

  And what was written in the Book of Fate.

  As a young man I walked out cheerfully,

  While on my head the parting was still black.

  I loved a black-eyed girl like a full moon,

  But then Time came with sorrows and calamities.

  We were united but it parted us,

  Pouring my love a cup of death to drink,

  Leaving me wandering sadly through the world.

  ‘I see that you are a sad man,’ Sul told him. ‘I am,’ replied the monk, ‘and if you come in I shall tell you my story.’ Sul entered, and the monk shut the door before leading the way up to a room with high walls, white both inside and out, with lines of poetry inscribed around it. At the side of it was an orchard with all kinds of fruits and grazing gazelles.

  At the sight of this Sul felt a sense of happiness, remembering how he had sat in gardens with Shumul and the pleasant times he had had with her. He began to recite these lines:

  In an Egyptian monastery I thought of you,

  And your love burns more fiercely in my heart.

  The tears flowed from me as I mourned your loss,

  And who would not shed tears for a lost love?

  I shall scour east and west, desert and pasture, all my days.

  It may be that the Lord will let us meet,

  And bring us back to where we were before.

  I send you greetings from a broken heart,

  As long as the sun’s light shines in the west,

  And fishes in the depth give praise to God,

  As long as the waves break upon the shore,

  As long as turtle doves sing on the boughs,

  And while the gleaming stars still shine.

  When the monk heard this he exclaimed: ‘By God, you are a remarkable man! You have stirred up old sorrows and disturbed me, for your story is like mine.’ For all that, he felt great pleasure and produced food for Sul, telling him to eat. Sul told him that he had taken an oath that he would neither eat food nor drink wine until he was reunited with his darling Shumul. The monk urged him to eat and ate himself while offering wine to Sul, who still refused, and they sat talking until the monk said: ‘By God, Sul, your tale is strange, but mine is stranger still.’

  Sul asked him to tell him this, and the monk agreed and began: ‘You must know, young man, that I suffered a greater misfortune than you. I come from a place called Barza in the territory of Damascus, and my father was a wealthy and prosperous man with an abundant livelihood. He had married a Damascene woman and moved out to Barza, where he stayed and where I was born. He was overjoyed by my birth, giving thanks to the Great and Glorious God, distributing alms, freeing slaves, giving gifts and holding a huge banquet. When I was five years old he sent me to school and had me taught all that boys should know.

  ‘On the day of my birth a Damascene girl was born who lived in a house that my father owned and who was brought up with me. Neither of us could bear to be separated from the other for a single hour. From childhood on we were close to one another, as she loved me and I loved her, and I used to write poetry about her. Her name was Sukut while I am al-Mutayyam son of Tihan son of al-Sarir al-‘Amiri.

  ‘Amongst what I wrote about her are the following lines:

  Love for a young girl breaks my heart;

  With a flirtatious glance she steals my wits away.

  My heart is filled up by my love for her;

  The arrows of her eyes have pierced my vital parts.

  She shar
es my own complaint and frets,

  Thanks to the burning passion of our love.

  “Be quick to come to me,” she says, and I reply:

  “I shall be quick, if you will do that too.”

  Sul, who had been listening, was delighted by his eloquence and the beauty of his poetry, which served to increase his own passionate longing. ‘Monk,’ he asked, ‘what happened then?’ The monk replied: ‘For a long time we stayed in love like this, and I never did anything to harm her. I then became anxious and unable to sleep as I thought over possible dangers to her. I composed a eulogy for the lord of Damascus, who gave me a generous reward because he had known my father. I stayed the night with him and told him my story, letting him know the love, longing and passion from which I was suffering. I then asked him to send to the girl’s family to ask them to grant me her hand in marriage.

  ‘When they agreed to this, he weighed out the dowry from his own money, leaving me overjoyed. Some days later, however, Sukut fell gravely ill. I stayed looking after her for a time, but she was gathered to the mercy of Almighty God. This had a terrible effect on me, and I wanted to kill myself but was prevented and for days I neither ate nor slept. In this cell there was a Rumi who died at the age of one hundred and forty, and I took his place, choosing seclusion and associating with no one, as after the death of my beloved there was nothing that I wanted in the world. I have stayed here until I met you, Sul, and this is the end of my story.’

  Sul heaved a deep sigh and recited these lines:

  Praise be to God Who has afflicted me

  With love for one whose loss has caused me pain.

  Praise be to our Creator, the Omniscient.

  I ask Him of His mercy that He bring us close,

  And reunite us after parting us,

  So humbling the ill-omened envious,

  And turning back our sorrow into joy.

  The monk then reproached him and told him: ‘Go back soon to your family. You are a young man and you cannot endure toil nor do you know where in the world your beloved is. So don’t risk your life but return home.’ ‘By God,’ said Sul, ‘I shall wander through every single part of the world and either find what I hope for or die of grief.’