Iron Earth, Copper Sky

by Yashar Kemal

  Such a man was Tashbash Lokman, the noble ancestor of our own Tashbash. His great soul never erred.

  The Muhtar knew exactly where it would all end. Experience had shown how in years of famine or pestilence, saints would arise out of nowhere. Murtaza was the last example, still in the madhouse where he’d ended up, the poor fool, egged on by those unscrupulous villagers. But in this case, it was surely Tashbash himself who was cunningly weaving his background of fairy stories. First, one of his forefathers was turned to stone, next another popped up in the guise of the famous Lokman the Physician. Why should there be all this harping on Tashbash’s family and ancestors if he wasn’t at the bottom of it? He was playing with these people in their distress, these people who were ready to believe anything, to cling to any ray of hope.

  Ah, if only Adil would come and say, you don’t owe me anything, my friends, that’d cook Tashbash’s goose. It was touch and go now, a matter of days before they’d start looking on him as a saint. What could he do to distract their attention? And that Zaladja Woman, fanning the flame with her dreams, couldn’t he persuade her to have another kind of dream, and so gain a day or two? Or …

  fn1 Tashbash: Stonehead.

  fn2 Erciyes (pronounced Erjiyes): the ancient Mount Argaeus, near Caesarea, now Kayseri.

  Chapter 18

  He couldn’t have hit on a better idea. Everyone knew about Pale Ismail’s daughter. A wedding was just the thing to draw their attention away from Tashbash, if only for a couple of days, until the Council members returned from town with news from Adil Effendi.

  In his excitement he summoned Pale Ismail straight away, forgetting to send out the matchmakers first.

  ‘Don’t hold it against me, Ismail Agha,’ he said, ‘making you come over like this; these are bad times and I’m in a hurry. The truth is that I want your daughter as my third wife, with Allah’s will and the Prophet’s blessing. I’ll send my first wife and Zaladja Woman to your house right away to fetch the girl and the Bald Minstrel will perform the wedding ceremony. What do you say?’

  ‘If it’s with Allah’s will and the Prophet’s blessing, on my own head be it,’ Pale Ismail said. ‘But I brought her up and I fed her and clothed her all these years. Aren’t you going to give me any dowry?’

  ‘She’s not a virgin,’ the Muhtar replied crossly. ‘You know it as well as I and so does the whole world. Who would ever take her for wife? You ought to thank God I don’t ask you to pay me for having her.’

  ‘Well, if it’s Allah’s will,’ Pale Ismail said hastily, afraid the Muhtar would change his mind, ‘the girl’s yours to do what you like with. Send the women and let them bring her to you.’

  Sefer was pleased at this quick surrender.

  ‘Look, Ismail Agha,’ he said, ‘we’ve got to think of your reputation too. People mustn’t look down on you. So I’ll give you a cow with its calf for dowry. You’ll return the cow to me in the spring. And you’ll tell everyone you got five hundred liras, so that people won’t say a Muhtar took a girl for nothing. Also, tomorrow I’m going to give a big feast in your honour. I’ll slaughter four goats and cook ten cauldrons of bulgur. Your daughter will have a wedding feast as good as anyone’s. How’s that?’

  ‘Thank you, Muhtar,’ Pale Ismail said. ‘It’ll do.’

  That evening the Muhtar took Pale Ismail’s daughter into his house as his third wife, and the marriage was sealed by the Bald Minstrel.

  Early next day the goats were slaughtered, large cauldrons set over the fires and the food for the feast laid out. All the village had been invited. They ate enough to burst and all the talk centred on Tashbash and his glorious forbears. The Muhtar was furious. His plan had failed dismally. The feast had only served to bring everybody together and make it even easier for them to talk of Tashbash.

  He tried to argue with them. ‘What kind of a tall story is that? How can the great Lokman the Physician be Tashbash’s forefather? Have you lost your minds? Tashbash is playing with you.’

  But he was wasting his breath. The villagers did not even bother to answer him.

  The next morning he decided to talk to Long Ali. Three times he went to his house, but Ali was not there. Finally, he found him in the village square.

  ‘Ali,’ he said, ‘have you heard what is going on?’

  ‘No,’ Ali replied innocently. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘You ask me what! Don’t you know a terrible disaster is threatening this village? They’re making Tashbash into a saint! Haven’t you heard? The great Lokman the Physician is supposed to be his grandfather. And what’s more, Tashbash is spreading these tales on purpose. He’s doing all this to destroy me. Lokman the Physician! I wouldn’t be surprised if a couple of prophets crop up among his grandfathers soon! You can tell him this, be he saint or even prophet, I’ll destroy him. But there’s something else I’ve been wanting to talk to you about, Ali. I’m growing old. My time has passed. A younger man ought to be Muhtar here and I’ve chosen you. This is a promise. You’ll be Muhtar after me. I’ll lay my hand on the Koran and swear to it if you like. But Tashbash is an obstacle in your path. He’s always wanted to be Muhtar himself. It’s your duty and mine to warn the villagers and put an end to this business before it’s too late. If the Government got wind of this Tashbash affair, what do you think would happen to this village?’ He gripped Ali’s shoulder and looked straight into his eyes, ‘You’re a sensible man, tell me, how can Lokman the Physician be an ancestor of Tashbash’s? Whoever heard such a thing? Where is it recorded? Well? Speak!’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ali said.

  ‘Have you lost your mind too? The great Lokman this piddling Tashbash’s forefather? You don’t believe it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But think! That holy man who discovered the cure for death! Could he be related to this down-at-heel fellow?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Was Lokman the Physician married that he should have a grandson like this shameless scoundrel?’

  Ali flared up. ‘How d’you know he wasn’t? Is it written in a book that he never married?’

  ‘Come to your senses, Ali. Put your hand on your conscience. Is it likely our wretched Tashbash is even remotely connected with such a great man?’

  ‘One never knows,’ Ali said bluntly. ‘The heart of the brave lies hidden under his cloak, they say …’

  The Muhtar gave his shoulder a shove and let go of him.

  ‘You’re all banded together! It’s a Sheikh Saitfn1 revolt you’re plotting against the Government. Go ahead then, make a saint of him so that he can be a plague on our heads. But I know what I’ll do to you both!’

  ‘Go ahead, don’t spare your efforts, Muhtar Sefer Effendi,’ Ali said, turning his back on him.

  ‘Damn your pig-headed race,’ the Muhtar shouted after him. ‘Mulish Meryemdje’s offspring! Just you wait!’

  He was desperate. No question of waiting for Adil now. Something must be done, and quickly, or he was lost. In matters of life and death, there were two people he could trust. One was Batty Bekir and the other his especial henchman, Ömer, a brave and loyal lad, but with a tendency to make a mess of things. He dispatched the watchman to fetch Batty Bekir.

  ‘We’re in trouble with this Tashbash, brother Bekir. The hare will be away and over the hill before we know it and then we may well beat our breasts, and with stones too, it’ll be too late.’

  ‘Too late,’ Bekir agreed. ‘It’s a calamity.’

  Sefer melted at this sympathy.

  ‘A calamity,’ he sighed. ‘And when it explodes people will not dare lay a hand on him. Nobody, not even you or I, though we know him for an upstart, nobody will approach him without first invoking the name of Allah. So, before the hare slips over the hill, we must get rid of him. And it must be done tonight. It’s either him or us. What do you say? Can we do it, just the two of us? Is your gun loaded? Are you willing?’

  Bekir’s face had turned yellow. His lips were trembling. The M
uhtar noticed it.

  ‘What’s that, my friend?’ he mocked. ‘You’re pale as a corpse all of a sudden. Not afraid of Tashbash, are you?’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ Bekir admitted feebly.

  ‘What’s there to be afraid of about that dog?’

  ‘What if he really does descend from Lokman the Physician? What if he really is a holy man? Will God ever forgive us? Besides, we’d never be able to fire at him. A man’s arm would wither, his hands …’

  ‘God damn you all for a pack of women-hearted fools,’ the Muhtar shouted angrily. ‘Get out, out of here! Go back into the arms of that whore whom you call your wife! Why, you fool, would Allah ever make a saint of a miserable wretch like Tashbash?’

  A doubt stirred in Sefer, but he repressed it. He remembered how the policeman who had taken Murtaza to the madhouse had been killed soon after in an accident on the Gülek Pass. Everyone had said it was because he had treated the saint so cruelly.

  ‘Never! Tashbash couldn’t be a saint any more than the devil could be a prophet! Have you ever seen him making the namaz prayer?’

  ‘No, but they say these saints make their namaz secretly.’

  ‘Well anyway, one thing’s certain, he can’t be a saint. Never!’

  ‘It’s you who are bringing up this sainthood business,’ Bekir pointed out. ‘No one ever said he was. It isn’t as if all Lokman’s descendants were saints, is it? What put it into your head?’

  What indeed? The Muhtar hesitated, trying to figure it out. Nothing was wrong really. Why was he working himself up like this?

  ‘Haven’t you heard anything said about him? Aren’t people talking about him as though he were a holy man?’

  ‘No. They’re simply afraid of him. Terribly afraid.’

  The Muhtar sighed. ‘That’s just it!’ he said. ‘This fear is bad. It points straight to what I’m saying. But still, let’s wait another day before we stain our hands with blood. Only do this for me. Take Ömer with you tonight and from a distance fire a few shots over the village. Be careful nobody sees you.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Bekir said, relieved. ‘I’ll shoot away all night if you like.’

  The Muhtar was left alone with his thoughts.

  If Tashbash were at the bottom of this, he’d produce a miracle very soon, if not … Impossible! It must be his doing. Only a fool would swallow this as genuine stuff. Let’s see, why not go and talk to Tashbash and ferret the truth out of him? God knows, maybe the villagers were really making it all up behind the poor fellow’s back. They were capable of anything those rascals, even of declaring that the Prophet had risen from his grave and had come to Yalak village. If only it were so, then he was saved. He could deal with Tashbash easily. If not …

  He rose, then stopped. What if Tashbash refused to talk to him? Better wait till nightfall so that nobody would see him going to his enemy’s house.

  Some time after the evening prayer he set forth. Arriving before Tashbash’s door he cleared his throat and called out, making his voice as gentle and ingratiating as he could.

  ‘Open the door, Memet, brother! It’s the Muhtar. I’ve come to have a few words with you.’ God, what was happening to him? His legs were turning to cotton, his heart knocked loudly.

  Tashbash opened the door, surprised.

  ‘Come in, Sefer Agha,’ he said, looking at him curiously. What could bring the man to him at this time of the night?

  ‘Have you heard what’s going on?’ the Muhtar began as soon as he was seated. ‘These villagers are going to get you into trouble. Look, my friend, I don’t bear you any ill will. I couldn’t, not to any of Allah’s creatures, and especially not to a Moslem. Each one of my fellow villagers is my own brother. And that’s why I’ve come to warn you of the danger threatening you. Let me go, I said, and extend a helping hand to my brother Memet, let me save him from this calamity. That’s what I said. My conscience spoke. I couldn’t help myself. Sefer, I said, run to Tashbash’s aid, pull him back from the brink of the abyss, even though he thinks you’re his enemy.’

  ‘I’m much obliged to you,’ Tashbash said suspiciously. ‘We understand each other.’

  Sefer smiled. ‘Is it true you don’t know what’s going on?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You really don’t know?’

  ‘I swear it.’

  ‘You haven’t heard the story of the rose growing out of your grandfather’s hands and when the petals touched his head of stone it turned into a human head again?’

  Tashbash laughed. ‘That’s a fairytale they used to tell long ago. Why are they bringing it up now?’

  ‘There is more. You know the famous Lokman the Physician, father of all doctors? Well, he’s supposed to be an ancestor of yours. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of that?’

  ‘I haven’t! Where did they fish that one up from? What a tale!’

  The Muhtar grasped his wrists. ‘D’you mean to say you really don’t know? Don’t you see what this is leading to?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Tashbash said. ‘And anyway why make such a fuss? It’s always been like this with these villagers. There’s no end to the stories they can concoct.’

  Sefer could not detect the slightest trace of duplicity in Tashbash’s eyes. Well, he thought to himself, of all the confounded devils! What next? One could expect anything from these villagers!

  ‘Ah, brother, when I tell you, your blood will run cold. You’ll curse these villagers from the bottom of your heart. From now on you’re my very own brother, the noblest man in this village. Look, my time is passing. In five or ten years you can be Muhtar after me. And I give you my word that this year I’ll delegate you and not Bekir to choose the cotton fields. The commission from the landowner will be yours too, all of it. May it choke me if I touch a penny of it!’

  ‘I don’t want it,’ Tashbash said. ‘All I want is that the village shouldn’t come to this pass again.’

  The Muhtar raised his voice.

  ‘Never again! And truly, so long as there’s life in this black soul of mine, the best cotton fields in the Chukurova shall be ours. This village will grow rich. On my honour. But let’s get back to the danger that’s threatening you.’ His face became tragic. He soon forced tears to come into his eyes. ‘Brother, you’re lost unless you do something quickly. I’ve tried everything I could. I told them Lokman the Physician was an Arab, so how could he be your grandfather? They only laughed in my face. The situation’s desperate. They want to make another Murtaza of you, that’s what they’re aiming at. And if it breaks into the open, we’re lost. Adil is looking for trouble, and the Government’s eyes are upon us. They’ll throw us into prison for founding a religious sect, and you into the lunatic asylum for passing yourself off as the Mehdi. The pure name of our village will be tarnished abroad. Think, brother Tashbash, think of the shame of such an end, worse than death!’

  Tashbash’s face had grown pale.

  ‘I suspected something was afoot,’ he said. ‘But this … this is bad. What should I do?’

  ‘Go out and tell them there aren’t any holy men or saints in your family.’

  ‘They wouldn’t believe me,’ Tashbash sighed. ‘There must be some other way.’

  ‘Ah, it’s a pleasant change talking to a clever man,’ the Muhtar exclaimed. ‘You’ve grasped it all, at once. You know better than I how it is in these parts. Holy men have always appeared in times of famine and war and pestilence. When our men were fighting at Sarikamish, there was a new Mehdi cropping up in these mountains every other day. You’re too young to have seen those days, but you’ve heard about them, how every village had its Mehdi and the people clung to them and worshipped them more than they did Allah. Then the big war was over and the war with the Greeks ended too, and suddenly all these Mehdis fell into oblivion. Many died of grief when the people who had idolized them began to look on them with disdain. Some took themselves off to other countries, others committed murder. One Mehdi managed to muster fifty men and he organi
zed a rebellion, but the Government caught and hanged them all. I’m telling you, Tashbash brother, the villagers are in a bad way this winter, desperate. And now they’ve found you to cling to. They’ll exalt you while it suits them, and when it doesn’t any more they’ll cast you off into the mud. You will be left alone, in the cold, provided you haven’t already been thrown into prison or the madhouse. They’ll mock you behind your back, saying, there goes the saint! I’m telling you this for the good of all.’

  Tashbash felt oppressed.

  ‘All you say is true,’ he admitted. ‘But if the villagers have got this into their heads, what are we to do?’

  Sefer looked fixedly into Tashbash’s eyes.

  ‘There’s only one thing to do. You must get out of here at once. Leave the village and go to the Chukurova.’

  Tashbash laughed. ‘That’s worse. Talk of saints then! Jesus’s ascension will be nothing to it!’

  They fell into a brooding silence, their eyes on the fire.

  Tashbash was thinking: Sefer’s afraid. He’s afraid that I’ll make use of all this to get rid of him. He’ll do everything in his power to discredit me. He’s tossed out some threats already. Let’s see what he’ll do now.

  Sefer was thinking: He’s feigning innocence, the son of a bitch. He’s at the bottom of it all. For seven years he’s been doing everything in his power to destroy me. This is his final thrust. Let’s see what he’ll do now.

  A sudden volley of shots roused them from their thoughts.

  The Muhtar jumped up. ‘It’s a raid,’ he shouted. ‘They’re raiding the village! Quick, a gun! Get your gun.’

  ‘What would I have a gun in this house for?’ Tashbash said.