Iron Earth, Copper Sky

by Yashar Kemal

  This time he heard the rustling quite clearly. He rose. The wind tore his cloak open. He drew it about him tightly and waited, his whole body tingling with suspense. It would come now, he was sure of it.

  When the Lord Muhammet, blessed be his name, walked the earth, a green carpet of moss opened up before him and all the flowers bloomed, and over him a small white cloud hovered and accompanied him wherever he went, a canopy to shield him from the sun … Why shouldn’t the holy tree of light come to visit the house of a saint at night? There have always been men of good will on this earth, and many who have attained holiness. Saints do not drop down from the heavens like that, they too are born of a mother, like any other human being. So what was wrong with him? In all his life he had never done anyone any wrong, or said a cruel word, except to the Muhtar, and that only for the good of the village … Why shouldn’t a man like him, who had always followed the path of Allah, be made a saint? And these people, they couldn’t all be lying! Even his wife refused to go to bed with him any longer. She couldn’t have lost her mind, could she? She wanted him just as much as he wanted her. Well then, why wasn’t he satisfied once and for all that he was a saint? Was it because he had promised the Captain? Or was he afraid? Afraid he would end up like all the other saints, on the gallows or in a dungeon? Afraid of being accused of heresy …

  ‘But these things can’t happen to me,’ he thought. ‘The villagers will never betray me because I will make them follow the path of righteousness and virtue. I will make those who have much give to those who have little. I will strive for the good of the oppressed, the exploited, for truth and justice.’

  But hadn’t it been just for this that all saints had striven? For this very reason they had become martyrs. If they had not tried to take from the rich to give to the poor, who would have flayed them alive, who would have touched a hair of their head? No one, that was certain, but then, what poor man would have put his faith in them? It is the poor of this earth who make a saint, looking to him for help in their distress, their sickness, their poverty, who force him to stand up against oppression and slaughter and war … For this, they cleave to him, and if the saint won’t do what they expect of him, then they look elsewhere. But if he does, then he loses his life, for such things don’t suit the Government.

  ‘You’re afraid, Tashbash. You’re afraid,’ he said to himself. ‘That’s why you’re here, waiting night after night to see a light over your house. You’re afraid of being a saint. You don’t know the worth of this paradise that’s being offered you, both in this world and the next. What matter if it costs you your life, when you will live in the hearts of men for ever. They will build shrines for you and come to worship you every day. What are you afraid of, Tashbash? Saints have achieved eternity, immortality. Why should they fear death? Let the Captain do his worst …’

  He had seen the light once, what more did he want? Yes, but could he trust that one fugitive flash? And anyway, who was he to presume to sainthood; a miserable ignorant peasant. He could not make up his mind. Should he ask someone? Mother Meryemdje perhaps … But how could he? She would laugh in his face.

  ‘No!’ he said aloud. ‘If Allah has sent me to spread the good word among his creatures, then he must also show me the light. I won’t budge till dawn, even if I freeze to death. And if I don’t see it, then I’ll clear out of this village. I won’t believe I’m a saint even if all the people of the Taurus beg me on their knees, even if they say they’ve seen me flying in the sky, and a hundred thousand virgins dancing at my door. Only when I see the light will I believe. If not I’ll take myself off and no one will ever find me …’

  It was a far cry from here to the Antep villages and Sergeant Müslüm from the hamlet of Kizilkilise was a good chap. They had slept side by side in the barracks during their military service and had rapidly developed a friendship. Together they had learned to read and write, and he recalled their wild joy when they had scribbled down their first word. Then they had attended the sergeants’ course and had got their stripes together. And one day they had cut their fingers and sucked each other’s blood and so they had become blood brothers … If he went there, to Sergeant Müslüm’s village, nobody would ever find him again. And it was near the Syrian border too, where a man could make a living out of smuggling, like Müslüm had done before becoming a soldier. Müslüm had sworn he would never do any smuggling again, but one never knows. People say things …

  The blizzard raged on wilder than ever and it was still several hours to daybreak. Well, if he did not freeze to death this night, there was no need of lights or the like to prove he was a saint! Surely the peris and angels would have been watching over him!

  Above the roar of the storm, he heard again the swish, swish, swish, drawing nearer and nearer, swelling, surging towards him, and suddenly he was frightened. What if this was the mighty dragon of the steppe? What if it was true? He jumped over the crumbling wall and ran for dear life. Before his door he stopped and listened. The swishing sound came from over his own roof now.

  ‘My God,’ he gasped. ‘I’m going to miss it. How can I see the light from here?’

  He rushed back to the ruin. But the swishing had stopped.

  ‘God damn it,’ he cursed. ‘Look what I’ve done now! It’s gone, and who knows when it’ll come again.’

  The biting cold seemed to be corroding his lungs and the cloak about him felt as thin as an onion peel. He could not hold on much longer. Besides, it was no use …

  ‘After so much begging and praying, if I really were a saint Allah would have sent not just a light but the sun itself over my house,’ he thought, his teeth chattering fitfully. ‘I’m going to go home to my warm bed. I’m nothing of a saint and that’s all there is to it. Would a saint tremble fit to die from the cold?’

  But he could not tear himself away. Now the trembling, the chattering of teeth began to slacken and an easeful drowsiness enveloped him. Visions flitted before his eyes. The sky above him was dark with storks, warm and graceful, blotting out the blue, floating by, one after the other in front of a huge bright globe. Then there were cranes crossing the globe … And then storks again … Cranes … Aeroplanes, cotton fields, even the red-trunked forest of the Taurus. Then a blackness passed over the bright globe, and the forest, the storks, everything vanished and Tashbash sank into darkness.

  The dawn was about to break when he was roused by a loud swishing. He opened his eyes and saw for a fraction of a second a huge ball of light bursting over his house in the east. The light! It was the light … He struggled to rise, but his numb stiff limbs did not respond. Sleep overwhelmed him. He slept, a huge ball of light behind his eyelids. A moment later he heard his wife’s voice, as in a dream. He tried to call to her, then all was blotted out.

  When he opened his eyes it was midday. He was by his hearth, in his own house. Crowding about him were Meryemdje, Long Ali, Hasan, Ummahan, his children, his wife …

  ‘You would have frozen to death,’ Ali told him, ‘if your wife hadn’t found you in the ruin. I rushed over and found you senseless. Mother has been making ointments for you all morning. You gave us such a fright …’

  Tashbash only smiled blissfully.

  Chapter 33

  ‘Muhtar Sefer,’ the Captain said, ‘I know very well you’re at daggers drawn with that man and I don’t believe a word you say. You’d tear him to pieces before my very eyes if you got the chance. But since you insist, I’m going to send three policemen to him, disguised as sick villagers. He promised me he would not dabble in this hocus-pocus any more and he struck me as a man of his word, and sensible too. I’ve known some so-called holy men in my time and they weren’t at all like this one. Anyway we’ll see. If you turn out to be right we’ll deal with him and he’ll never set foot in the Taurus again. I’ll break every bone in his body to begin with, then I’ll have him sent to prison. Then … But, Muhtar, I warn you, if you’re lying to me, then I’ll do the same to you, and worse.’

  ‘That’
s a deal, Captain Shükrü,’ the Muhtar said in a confident tone. ‘If your policemen find I’ve exaggerated just so much, then do what you like to me!’

  The Muhtar knew he should not be doing this, but the demon of revenge had carried him away. He could not swallow his humiliation at Tashbash’s hands and rashly he had thrown himself on the road of no return. But an insidious dread kept gnawing at his heart. Wouldn’t the villagers know it was he who had denounced Tashbash? Wouldn’t they try to avenge him? And Tashbash? He was not a man to take all this lying down. And what if there really was something holy about him? What if it was all true? Then indeed there would be no salvation for Sefer, either in this world or the next. Had he not seen with his own eyes five paralytics rise up and walk after Tashbash had touched them? And Memidik? He could easily have denied everything rather than let himself be thrashed to an inch of his life … Even Ömer swore by the book that he had seen the Holy Walnut over Tashbash’s house. The only person in the village who had nothing to say about lights and miracles was Tiny Musa, Tashbash’s sworn enemy, but even he was afraid to speak his name without invoking the name of Allah. How could so many people be saying all these things if there were not some measure of truth in them?

  ‘Aaah Tashbash. Damn you, why couldn’t we have been friends? The two of us together could have the whole land of the Taurus at our feet. Such a chance can only come once in a lifetime …’

  The next evening, the police arrived, disguised as sick, ragged peasants, and Tashbash breathed his incantations over them. They had spent the night in the empty shed, together with the sick from the other villages, and they had learnt all there was to know about Tashbash’s activities.

  Sleep would not come to Sefer. He tossed and moaned in his bed, haunted by dark desperate thoughts. There were moments when he cursed his folly at not having done away with Tashbash at the beginning, when he was not yet a saint and there would have been no great fuss. But then, in his wildest nightmares he could not have imagined that the man would have sprouted into a holy personage, curing the sick, bestowing plenty on the land, attracting miraculous lights over his house. He could only wait and hope that the Captain would send Corporal Jumali again. Fifty liras would be more than enough to shut the Corporal’s mouth once more.

  And one morning at break of day, Corporal Jumali made his appearance, followed by two policemen.

  ‘Fifty liras?’ he exclaimed. ‘For this job? A hundred and fifty is what I’ll take and nothing less.’

  ‘But Corporal, that’s impossible! You can’t do this to me after all we’ve gone through together …’

  ‘Nothing less! I’m saving your life, aren’t I? Think of what these villagers will do to you once I’ve taken their saint away.’

  ‘I’d give you the money if I had it, but …’

  ‘Don’t fool me, Muhtar!’

  ‘As God’s my witness, I haven’t got it. I swear …’

  ‘Well, you know best. If you haven’t, you haven’t. Makes no difference to me.’

  ‘I’ll give you one hundred.’

  Corporal Jumali flared up. ‘I’m saving your life,’ he shouted, ‘and you’re haggling over a mere fifty liras! Fifty liras for a life! Could anything be cheaper?’

  Sefer grabbed his arm. ‘Shh! They’ll hear youl’

  ‘Give me the hundred and fifty then, if you don’t want me to shout. And I won’t beat you hard either this time. I’ll be careful to bring down my rifle softly. And that takes no end of skill.’

  Sefer knew when he was defeated. He disappeared and returned with a wad of money, which he shoved furtively into the Corporal’s pocket.

  ‘There! I borrowed the extra fifty for you. But Corporal, for the love of God be careful with your rifle. You nearly killed me last time.’

  The Corporal smiled. This Tashbash must indeed be a great and holy man, who shed blessings on one and all. See how fortune had smiled on Corporal Jumali the instant he had come into contact with him!

  ‘Thank you, Muhtar,’ he said. ‘You were wise not to exasperate me too much. But look! There’s a crowd about Tashbash’s house …’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Sefer said. ‘They won’t make any trouble. Our saint won’t let them.’

  ‘But it looks like the whole village …’

  ‘I’m telling you, Corporal, you’ve got nothing to fear. If Tashbash had wanted it, they’d have torn you to pieces long ago, and me too.’

  The Corporal started off with wary steps, the two policemen following him, but even before they reached the house, Tashbash appeared at his door and came forward to meet them. On hearing of the Corporal’s arrival, he had jumped out of bed and dressed quickly in his best clothes.

  It was a cold sunny day, but clouds were gathering high up over the summit of Mount Tekech.

  ‘I’m ready, Corporal,’ Tashbash said with a bitter laugh.

  ‘Well, Tashbash Effendi! The Captain’s really mad this time. A saint who doesn’t keep his word … Come on, let’s get going at once.’

  He took a pair of handcuffs from one of the policemen and clapped them to Tashbash’s wrists. A murmur arose from the crowd, which broke and swirled. Meryemdje appeared at the front with her stick.

  Tashbash leaned over and spoke into the Corporal’s ear. ‘Quick, Corporal, take these off or even I won’t be able to stop them. Quick!’

  The Corporal’s face turned red, but he hastened to remove the handcuffs.

  Tashbash let his gaze travel slowly over the crowd, then he held out his hands to the Corporal. There was a menacing growl. The Corporal quickly brushed Tashbash’s hands away and handed the handcuffs to a policeman.

  They set out, Tashbash walking ahead, his face pale, his eyes huge and sad. Those who had come from the other villages rushed up, dragging their sick along and pleading with him to touch them just once, to say his healing incantations over them. He stopped and held his hand long and gently over each in turn as they came up, breathing over them and uttering a prayer.

  Silently the people of Yalak, with Meryemdje at their head, followed the procession. As they were crossing the village square Tashbash looked back once, expectantly, then he lowered his head and walked on.

  They were leaving the village when his face lit up suddenly. He almost laughed. He had caught sight of the Muhtar running after them, shouting for all he was worth.

  Sefer came and threw himself at Tashbash’s feet, clasping his knees and raising a loud wail. ‘My Lord, my Sultan! They shan’t take you away, not while I’m alive. No, I won’t give you up to them. If they hadn’t played this trick on you … If the Captain hadn’t sent those three policemen to you disguised as sick peasants … If you hadn’t taken them in and prayed over them … Ah Tashbash, how is it you didn’t know they were policemen? Ah, what a calamity! Does a man ever breathe his incantations over a policeman?’

  This was news to Tashbash. It gave him such a shock that, for a moment, he thought he would fall in a faint right there on the snow. With an effort he pulled himself together. If they saw him fall, the crowd would make short work of the three policemen. And that was what he feared most. Then indeed, he would be lost. He shook his leg free of Sefer’s clasp and marched on.

  Sefer rushed after them, shouting, wailing, in a frenzy. Suddenly Corporal Jumali felt his gorge rise. He hated the man. Swiftly he lifted his rifle and brought it down as hard as he could right in the middle of the Muhtar’s back.

  ‘He asked for it, the bastard,’ he spat out through his teeth. ‘I hope this breaks his backbone and pins him to his bed for months.’

  Sefer fell to the ground, wriggling like a beheaded chicken. One or two villagers helped him to his feet.

  ‘They’ve killed me, my Lord, my Sultan!’ he moaned. ‘And Captain Shükrü’s going to kill you too. Don’t go with them. You must escape. Hey, good people, come and take your Lord. Save him …’

  He dared not draw any nearer. His back hurt as though it had been broken. ‘Corporal! Ah, Corporal Jumali, how can you do th
is to me? After all the times we’ve spent together in my house … After all the mon … Is this how you repay me? Is there no spark of honour in you? Kill me!’ His voice rose to a shriek. ‘Kill me!’

  For an instant the villagers were jolted. He threw himself across the policemen’s path.

  ‘You can’t take him away,’ he howled, baring his chest. ‘Without him this village is lost, degraded, destroyed …’

  Corporal Jumali closed his eyes and recommended himself to the Creator as he swung his rifle. Sefer was flung four paces away on the snow, doubled up with pain. But he was aware that the villagers were coming over to his side now. If he could keep this up just a little longer he would have them hurling themselves at the police.

  Tashbash saw it too, and he knew that if the crowd made a single move now, there would be no restraining them any more. This was just what Sefer was aiming at. Already he had scrambled to his feet and was coming up to them again, and the Corporal was getting his rifle ready. Tashbash held his arm. Then he pushed back the oncoming Muhtar and signalled to the villagers to gather around him. The seething, explosive crowd obeyed him in silence and surrounded him on all sides like a wall. His eyes moved slowly from face to face. For a long while he looked at them. Then he spoke in a dull dead voice.

  ‘Give up your claim on me and let me go,’ he said. ‘You have been good to me. You have sanctified me and loved me. May Allah be good to you also. I’m going now. I may come back, and again I may not. I may never even see you again …’ He paused, his head hanging. Then he looked up. His face was like a rock now. ‘I may never see you again!’ he repeated in ringing tones. ‘But now, as I go, I have one last request to make of you. And I know you will not deny me this. If you do, you will be damned for ever and burn everlastingly in Allah’s hell.’