Iron Earth, Copper Sky

by Yashar Kemal

  Two silk kerchiefs, one orange and the other green. Good enough for Adil Effendi’s daughters-in-law. Why shouldn’t he take them? If Adil were such a fool, he wouldn’t be so rich.

  A gleaming bead necklace, three glass bracelets, one yellow like solid gold, one green, and one flaming red, a perfectly good dress she’d only worn a couple of times when she was a young married woman … Adil might well want it for his wife.

  This needle container of carved pinewood, with three needles in it tool A few coloured lengths of cloth, a printed kerchief, five blue good-luck beads on a string …

  The inside of the chest smelled of wild apple.

  She cast a wary glance at the others. They were not looking at her. Quickly, she snatched up from a corner of the chest a small oilcloth package and thrust it into her bosom. Tightly folded in it, like an amulet, was the sum of ten liras, Meryemdje’s shroud money. She closed the chest and tied up her treasures in an old cloth. Now, where to hide the bundle? Her eyes probed the room anxiously. Then she saw it, the ideal hiding-place: a sheet of tin plate nailed under the swallow’s nest to keep the droppings off the floor. But she couldn’t reach up there. Only Long Ali could do it. She looked at him doubtfully. He was busy digging a hole near the hearth. Elif and the children were helping him. Meryemdje edged up, nearer and nearer, hugging her bundle, until she was right under his nose. He held back the upraised pick-axe in the nick of time.

  ‘Mother!’ he shouted. ‘What on earth are you doing? I might have hit you.’

  Meryemdje looked from him to the bundle, but Ali only stared back. She saw that she must swallow her pride. Taking him by the arm, she led him to the swallow’s nest and pointed to her bundle. Ali smiled. He picked it up and pushed it out of sight on the tin plate.

  ‘Is that all right, Mother?’ he asked.

  It was the first time in months that Meryemdje had asked anything of her son. A happy smile flitted across her face. She retired into a corner and took off her dress. She had a needle and thread ready. Quickly, she stitched the oilcloth package on to the inside of the sleeve.

  The others had now dug a deep hole. Into it Ali dumped their reserve of bulgur and flour, the butter firkin, the pots and the pans. Then he threw in some brushwood and after spreading a goathair mat over everything, he shovelled the earth back and filled the hole.

  Now the grain. A pit right under the grain crib, that was it! Nobody would ever think of looking there. Quickly they had dragged the sacks out, even Old Meryemdje lent a hand, and by noon the pit was ready. Ali lined it with hay and lowered in the sacks, over which he piled the bedding, the embroidered sacks and the kilims. Then he put in some more hay and covered the pit.

  Nothing was left unhidden now, except an old pinewood pitcher, oozing slimily, a large copper pan, a soot-blackened pot, a couple of wooden spoons, a calabash for drinking, a handful of salt, enough bulgur to last for a few days and an ancient threadbare kilim on the floor.

  Adil could come any time and take these if he felt like it!

  But there was still the livestock.

  ‘Elif,’ Ali said, ‘I’m going to see what the others are doing about the animals. I’ll be back soon.’

  Hasan had his problems too. His matches! He had hidden them in a crack in the wall, but suppose they searched the house? He tucked the matches under his shirt and went outside. It was snowing gently. The village was humming like a beehive, people scurrying to and fro, all of them bent on hiding their belongings in the best possible place. He stood against a wall, hugging the matches to his breast. What should he do? There was not a single person in the whole village in whom he could confide. Only Ummahan knew his secret. Ummahan?

  She was sitting by the ash-covered fire, dozing in the half-gloom of the house. He touched her shoulder.

  ‘Come outside, sister,’ he said, and led her away to a safe distance. ‘I can’t think of where to hide my matches,’ he whispered. ‘Adil Effendi’s sure to take them, and anyway if the villagers see them they’ll snap them up.’

  ‘They’ll snap them up,’ Ummahan echoed. ‘Where …’

  They dropped down on the snow, both thinking hard, not looking at each other. Suddenly, Ummahan pointed to the big plane tree on the edge of their yard. ‘There!’ she said triumphantly. ‘There’s a big hollow in that trunk.’

  Hasan started and stared at the tree.

  ‘I knew that before you,’ he bragged lamely at last. ‘But that tree stands out a mile.’

  ‘All the better,’ Ummahan said. Her eyes gleamed shrewdly. ‘Nobody’ll think of looking there.’

  ‘But if anyone sees us …’

  ‘Let’s wait till it’s dark.’

  They sat there, snuggling close to each other, and waited impatiently for the night to fall, basking in the excitement of their shared secret.

  It was many hours before Ali came back.

  ‘We’re taking the animals up to the Peri Caves,’ he told Elif. ‘There’s plenty of space there and each day five men will go and tend them. We’ll do it in turns. Come on Elif, bring them out.’

  Night was falling now. All the animals had been spirited away. Not a living creature was to be seen save a few dogs and cats. The village seemed to be quite empty. The houses too had been stripped bare. Never had there been such a miserable, destitute village since the beginning of time, nor had the villagers ever been seen in such tattered clothing, not even in the worst years of famine.

  The Muhtar and Tashbash were the only ones to have made no change in their attire. Tashbash had not even bothered to hide anything. His house was just as before, and he had not taken his livestock up to the caves. This enraged and puzzled the villagers. The Muhtar egged them on.

  ‘Good for you, my villagers!’ he said as he went from house to house. ‘It’s better to be Muhtar in this village than mayor in Paradise! Let Adil Effendi come now! How poor you are, he’ll say. I forgive you your debts. Townsfolk are apt to be rather dense. It’ll never cross their minds that we could sweep the village clean in the twinkling of an eye.’

  That evening there was rejoicing in every house. At the Muhtar’s, the Bald Minstrel put wings to his songs and sent them soaring through the air. Yellow Mustafa made do with a can for a drum as Durduman blew his zurna and the young men danced the halay. And when Long Ali took up his pipe, even Meryemdje felt like treading a measure or two.

  ‘I’ve forgiven you,’ she wanted to say. ‘I’ve forgiven you, all of you.’

  It was past midnight but sleep would not come to Hasan. His mind was on his matches, hidden outside in the tree hollow. Suppose someone had seen him? Suppose Ummahan gave him away? He nudged her fiercely. She woke up with a cry.

  ‘Shhh!’ he whispered. ‘I’ve got something to tell you. Wake up.’

  ‘I’m awake all right,’ she said crossly. ‘What is it now?’

  ‘I’m going to give you one of my matchboxes, your very own. But you won’t tell our secret to anyone, will you?’

  Ummahan forgot her annoyance. ‘No, never!’ she cried, pleased.

  Hasan leaned close to her ear. ‘Let’s go out and see if the matches are still there,’ he suggested.

  They crept out of bed. Ummahan opened the door carefully and they slipped out into the night.

  Hasan put his hand into the tree hollow. The matches still rested there, snug and warm. He patted them fondly.

  ‘I want to touch them too,’ Ummahan said.

  ‘What for?’ he said. ‘They’re there all right.’

  ‘I only want to see how they’re there.’

  ‘Well, all right, look then,’ he said grudgingly, not too pleased by Ummahan’s sudden possessiveness. ‘But be quick.’

  As soon as she had taken her hand out, he thrust his own in again, holding it over the matches a long time.

  They did not sleep till morning.

  Chapter 6

  Like a shadow Hüsneh glided along the wall to where Rejep was waiting. In the snow-lit darkness the two bodies found each other
and locked in a crushing embrace. A sharp icy wind was blowing from the steppe, but they did not feel the wind, nor the frozen snow burning their bare feet, nor the salty taste of blood on their lips. Then he drew her in to Squinty Hassan’s deserted hut. A draught of warm air struck them as they opened the door. Rejep had lit a huge fire and its reddish glow filled the hut.

  Hüsneh took off her clothes at once and piled them by the hearth. She was smiling. Her dark-skinned body gleamed like copper in the light of the flames. There was not so much as a wrinkle on the smooth skin of her curving thighs. Her hands over her breasts, her belly tight and quivering with desire, she stood there in the glow of the fire, leaning slightly over the hearth, her right foot tracing vague designs in the ashes. Rejep gazed at her, not moving, a slight smile on his lips, a happiness filled him, a casting-away of a heavy load, he knew not what. As he looked and still made no move, she sank down by the hearth, trembling all over, her dark eyes opened wide in entreaty. Her hair was plaited into two thick braids that fell over her copper-coloured shoulders. He gazed on, letting the sensuous beauty of her body seep into him, and as his eyes devoured her, her trembling increased.

  The big fire had warmed up the empty hut as on a balmy summer evening.

  It had all started one night down in the Chukurova plain. They had not even felt themselves sinking into the warm soft soil of the cotton field. Afterwards, they had washed in the brook nearby and there they had begun all over again. The whole village knew of their madness.

  Suddenly, with a swift motion Rejep tore off his clothes and threw himself upon Hüsneh. He smothered her with kisses. Her neck, her ears, her round shoulders under the thick braids, her smooth thighs he kissed and bit until her trembling ceased and she lay there almost in a faint, yet drawing him to her. And now the strength of their passion was such that it seemed to pass on to the fire burning in the hearth and to the dirt floor wet with their sweat. The fire was burning now in unison with their passion and the earth panted beneath them. His blood flowed into hers and hers into his. The two bodies were one now, merged into each other, never to come apart till death, never, for all eternity. And when they came apart their bodies were weightless. The faintest breeze could whiff them up like a white dove feather and waft them high and away.

  It was nearly dawn when they put on their clothes again. As always Hüsneh could not bring herself to look at Rejep for it seemed to her that if she did, all the flavour, all the magic would be lost. She sat down by the hearth and fixed her eyes on the flames. Her long lashes shadowed her cheeks, her face was moist and pink, her lips ruby-red.

  Rejep could not take his eyes off her. It had been so ever since they were children together. He had always been lost in worship before Hüsneh. He wanted to say something, something that would please her, but what? How? His heart tightened.

  ‘This year,’ he said at last, ‘after the cotton picking … we’ll run away. Down in the Chukurova plain …’

  Hüsneh smiled slightly, but said nothing.

  ‘Things will be better there for us. If you wish, we won’t come back ever. I’ll learn how to work a tractor. They give lots of money to tractor-drivers down there. Hamit, the foreman, said he could make a driver of me in a couple of years. But we can’t go now, in the dead of winter. We’d freeze and die on the way. Why, even the wolves wouldn’t stir out of their lair in this cold. We’d never make it across the Taurus mountains and reach the Chukurova safe and sound. Just let’s wait till the warm spring days are here again.’

  Her eyes on the smouldering fire, that faint smile on her lips, soft and still, as though she weren’t there at all.

  He rose, smiling too, picked up a few sticks and threw them into the fire, which flared with a wet pungent smell. Then he went and sat beside Hüsneh and gave her a kiss behind the ear. Something warm rose inside her. The spell wove itself, denser, tighter, drawing her ever more strongly towards a paradise of bliss.

  ‘Tomorrow Adil Effendi will come,’ he went on, ‘with fifty policemen at his heels. He’ll search the village from top to bottom and won’t find a stick. He’ll go away furious and he’ll never give us credit again. But who cares! He’s not the only shopkeeper in these parts! How the villagers hid everything away today! Only I had nothing to hide. I looked and looked and found nothing, not a pin. That cut me to the quick. I’d never felt being poor so hard. No, we won’t come back from the Chukurova next winter. I’ll work on a tractor. I’ll buy a bed and blankets, and one of those trunks with an inlaid mirror, and a radio … and … and when whoever is Adil Effendi in those parts comes to raid the village we’ll have something to hide like everyone else, won’t we?’

  A warm translucent creek. Under the lofty plane-tree the water ripples gently over gleaming white pebbles … Hüsneh felt herself melting, blending into its peaceful radiant flow.

  ‘In the Chukurova there are big gardens. The trees are heavy with golden oranges. One night we’ll sleep in one of those gardens, won’t we?’

  Her moist rosy face, her eyes on the blazing fire, that rapturous smile …

  ‘Perhaps we won’t wait till it’s cotton time. As soon as the warm spring days are here again, on the day of the spring feast of Hidirellez, we’ll take to the road. When the world is green and fresh and in flower.’

  His hand went to hers and pressed it. Her eyes still on the fire, she slipped her warm hand under his shirt, laying it over his heart.

  ‘Just wait till the warm spring days are here again,’ he repeated.

  Hüsneh spoke at last, as in a dream. ‘The warm spring days …’ There was a sharp irrepressible longing in her voice.

  The morning cocks began to crow. She rose, her eyes on ground.

  Hand in hand they went out.

  ‘Just wait till the warm spring days are here, just wait.’

  Chapter 7

  The morning was sunny and bright, the sky cloudless, perfectly blue. Not the faintest breeze stirred the air. The boundless stretches of snow sparkled and flashed under the sun as though an immense flood of light flowed over the steppe.

  All over the village, in front of the houses, small groups had gathered here and there. The conversation centred on Adil Effendi. They could talk of nothing else. He would soon turn up, they had not the slightest doubt about it. Had somebody brought news from the town? Had Adil Effendi sent word he would be there on such a day at such a time? Not at all. But still they knew, and kept re-enacting the scene of his arrival. Their eyes had the cunning gleam of satisfaction at having outwitted the enemy.

  ‘When Adil Effendi comes … Oh, you poor Yalak villagers, he’ll say, I should have collected alms for you from the townspeople. I’ve seen misery in my time but never anything like this. I’m ashamed to ask you to pay up. That’s what he’ll say.’

  ‘So you’ve forsworn the old tradition and denied your debt, he’ll say. That’s nothing! When a man’s so poor and his home so bare, he’d forswear not only tradition but his very faith.’

  ‘That’s exactly what Adil’ll say!’

  ‘And then d’you know what he’ll say? Come to me, he’ll say, you wretched, luckless people, and I’ll remedy all your misfortunes.’

  ‘No man’s without a heart. And even if Adil’s heart is made of stone, it will melt at the sight of us.’

  A group of villagers straggled out beyond the houses to the south, where the road to the town lay deep under the snow. There they stood, watching out for the traveller who would be coming up the valley. Meryemdje was among them. She sat on a mound, her neck craning forward, a statue of expectation.

  Tashbash was waiting too. He was curious to see how all this would end. Would Adil ever believe the spurious evidence of those empty homes? Adil was not born yesterday, he wasn’t one to let anybody throw dust into his eyes. He’d know what was what the minute he entered the place. These villagers! How could they be so stupid! Just playing a game, that’s what they were doing. A whole village playing a childish game and deceiving themselves. And what if Adil
did believe them? They’d never get a stick of credit again.

  All through the morning they waited, laughing and chattering, their hopes high. But in the afternoon boredom set in. Their happiness wore off and one by one they dispersed to their homes. Only Meryemdje remained on the edge of the road, her neck still stretched towards the valley. When the sun was gone and it was too dark to see any more, she got up and made her way back, leaning heavily on her stick.

  ‘Now, why didn’t he come today this Adil Effendi?’ she mused. Then she smiled. ‘And why should he? Just because we hid our things today, that doesn’t mean … Maybe he’ll come tomorrow.’

  Meryemdje had enjoyed the day’s suspense.

  That night the villagers slept peacefully.

  The next morning they awoke convinced that this was the day. A group of women, Meryemdje at the head of them, made their way to the edge of the village and kept up a watch on the road that led to the town. Again, when evening came, Meryemdje was left there alone, waiting.

  ‘It’s only because we expected him today that …’ she muttered to herself. ‘He’ll come tomorrow.’

  That night also they slept peacefully.

  The next morning it was bright and sunny. The sky was cloudless and blue. With a few children and some old women Meryemdje hobbled out of the village and again took up her position on the roadside.

  Chapter 8

  Ever since the livestock had been stowed away up in the Peri Caves, a strange loneliness had settled over the village. The houses were never warm now, their emptiness was frightening. It was no longer a village, but a desolate place, like a lone mountain top or a dark forest.

  Meryemdje loved their little calf and missed it more than she could say, but she could not bring herself to stray too far from her treasured belongings hidden under the swallow’s nest over their door.