by Nizami
‘And he lives here all alone?’ asked an astonished Nowfal.
‘People visit him from time to time,’ replied the servant. ‘In fact, some travel great distances and suffer untold hardship in order to see him. They bring him food and drink; sometimes they even offer him wine. However, he eats and drinks little — barely enough to keep him alive. And if his visitors do persuade him to sip the wine, he does so only in the name of his beloved. Whatever he says or does is solely for her sake.’
Nowfal listened attentively, his sympathy for Majnun increasing by the minute. All thoughts of hunting had disappeared. ‘This poor confused soul is in need of assistance,’ whispered Nowfal, ‘and I think it would be an act of charity and nobility if I were to help him attain his heart’s desire.’ And so saying, Nowfal had his servants support Majnun and lead him down to where his other men were waiting. There, he ordered a tent to be set and food to be brought from the nearest oasis. It was time for dinner and Majnun was to be his guest.
Now, Prince Nowfal was a man of great generosity and hospitality, but on this occasion it seemed that even his efforts would be in vain. However much he urged his guest to eat and make merry, the wretched hermit would not even look at the food, let alone eat any of it. Nowfal laughed and joked, but the merrier he became, the less Majnun seemed to understand where he was and what he was doing there. Nowfal tried as hard as he could to humour him, but Majnun did not respond; with each solicitous word from his host, he would retreat further and further into his own shell. Tired of eliciting no reaction from Majnun, Nowfal decided to let slip the word revealed to him earlier by one of his servants, the one word he knew would have an effect … the word ‘Layla’.
When he heard his beloved’s name spoken, Majnun’s eyes widened and a smile lit up his face. ‘Layla!’ he murmured lovingly. ‘My dear, sweet Layla!’ And then, falteringly, he helped himself to a morsel of meat and took a sip of ruby wine.
Nowfal had cracked the riddle: all he had to do now was speak of Layla, praise her beauty, extol her character, glorify her virtues, and Majnun would respond. And respond he most certainly did. While the silver-tongued Bedouin prince wove garlands of roses with his words of praise, Majnun added to them with the shimmering pearls of his poems. And although his verses were composed without preparation, they were as sweet as honey, as glowing as gold. Nowfal listened in awe and admiration. True, his guest was a wild man, a mere savage, but there could be no doubt that he was also a poet of the highest order, an alchemist of the tongue, a magician of words without equal.
By the end of the evening, Nowfal had reached a decision: he would restore the shattered mirror of this poor man’s heart, piece by piece, however long it might take. Addressing his guest, he said, ‘You, my friend, are like the moth that flutters around in the darkness, clamouring for the candle flame: take care that you do not become like the candle, which cries hot tears while consuming itself in its own sorrow. Why have you given up? Why have you abandoned all hope? I have wealth and I have strength. Trust in me and I shall see to it that you receive that which Fate has decreed: Layla shall be yours. I promise this with all my heart. And even if she were to become a bird and escape into God’s boundless sky, or a spark of fire inside a flint of rock beneath God’s earth, I would seek her out and bring her to you. I shall not rest until I have united you both in marriage.’
Majnun threw himself at Nowfal’s feet and praised God for sending him so noble a benefactor. Yet, there was still doubt in his mind when he said, ‘Your words still my heart and give me hope, but how do I know that they are not simply words? How can I be sure that you will do what you say, or whether indeed you possess the means to do what you say in the first place? I must tell you now that her parents will not give her in marriage to someone like me, to someone whose insanity is beyond doubt. “What?” they will say. “Are we to abandon this precious, fragile flower and allow her to be carried off by a whirlwind? Are we to let a madman play with a moonbeam? Are we to hand over our daughter to a demon? Never!” Yes, that is what they will say; you do not know them as I do. Others have tried to help me in the past, but in vain. However hard they tried, they could not make my dark fate any lighter. Nothing would sway her mother and father, no amount of gold and silver, of orchards and cattle, could make them change their minds. Thus you can see how hopeless my case is. Only a miracle could help me; tell me, are you a miracle-worker? I think not. Besides, I imagine that you will soon tire of the quest and turn back when only halfway.
‘But I hope not. My prayer is that you will succeed. And if you do succeed, may God reward you. But if the promise you have made is merely idle talk, and if that which you have offered is a mirage rather than a real oasis, then you had better tell me now.’
The young man’s frank words served only to increase Nowfal’s admiration for him.
‘Do you really doubt my word?’ Nowfal asked. ‘Then, let us make a pact. In the name of God Almighty and His Prophet Muhammad I swear that I shall fight like a lion for you and your cause, sacrificing my life if need be.
‘I swear that I shall neither eat nor sleep until you attain that which your heart desires. But you must also promise something: you must promise me that you will practise patience and forbearance. You must try to give up your way of life, tame your wild heart and take it in hand, if only for a few days.
‘So, let us agree: you will damp down the fire that rages in your heart; I, for my part, will open the iron gateway to your treasure. Are these terms acceptable to you?’
Majnun agreed. And so, in return for his friend’s assistance, he began to quieten the storm that had raged in his heart for so long. Gradually, for the first time in many long months, peace began to seep back into his soul and the wounds inflicted by the sharp blades of his madness began to heal. Like an innocent child, he placed his complete trust in Nowfal; as tranquillity returned to his spirit, a change came over his whole life. Without further ado, he left the cave and went back with Nowfal to his camp on the edge of the town.
Under the protection of his new benefactor, Majnun no longer deserved to be called ‘majnun’. Within days, his madness had gone and he had become Kais again, the strong and handsome young nobleman he once used to be. For the first time in months he took a bath; then he put on the fine turban and robes that Nowfal had prepared for him. His appetite returned and he ate and drank with gusto in the company of friends, reciting his odes and his sonnets to them rather than to the wind and the clouds. Colour flooded back into his pinched, sallow cheeks; once bent like a broken reed, he now stood tall and straight like a firm young sapling. The flower, its petals once scattered by the storm, was in bloom again.
Since he had returned to the world of men, Majnun’s view of the world and of nature had also changed. No longer did he ignore the pages of the book of creation that God opened each day before his very eyes. The golden finery of morning brought him delight once more, as though he were witnessing the miracle of dawn for the first time. He matched the midday laughter of the sun with his own beaming smiles, and he became one voice with the birds at evensong. Much to everyone’s surprise and delight, Majnun had joined the world of men again.
If Majnun was happy, Nowfal was even happier, for it was he who had worked this miracle. He was like a spring cloud, sprinkling its showers over the parched earth. Every day, he would bring new gifts for his recuperating friend; nothing was too expensive or extravagant. He kept Majnun by his side at all times, refusing to be parted from him for even an hour. Neither Nowfal nor Majnun had ever known such deep friendship. But as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, storm clouds started to gather on the horizon.
Chapter 17
It was a day like any other day. Majnun and Nowfal were sitting together, relaxed and happy in each other’s company, friendly conversation flowing from their lips. Suddenly, Majnun’s smile died and his face clouded over. Tears filled his eyes and he started to recite:
The grief in my heart does not move you;<
br />
No pain do you feel when I weep.
Of the promises made in abundance,
Not a single one do you keep.
You vowed you would quench my desire,
Yet unyielding were you from the start;
Content to stir love’s blazing fire,
And with empty words ravage my heart.
Nowfal sat in unhappy silence, wondering how so bitter a drop could have fallen undetected into the cup of their friendship. What could he say? How was he to respond? He had no weapon against this attack, no words with which to repel this sudden assault. All he could do was lower his eyes to hide the hurt he was feeling.
It was clear that the events of the past few months had done nothing to diminish Majnun’s desire for Layla; it burned more fiercely than ever. It did not matter to Majnun how difficult the task was: whatever risks or dangers it involved, Nowfal had given his word and was now duty-bound to carry it out. He had to fulfil what he had promised. Bitterly, Majnun continued: ‘How quick you were to make those promises, yet how silent you are now! Are you content to sit there and watch my heart break, while you yourself do nothing? My well of patience has dried up; my stock of reason has run out. If you do not help me, I shall die! Or perhaps I should seek assistance from better friends? I was weak, friendless, broken and dying of thirst for the water of life, and you promised to change all that. Yet you do nothing — nothing, that is, except break your promises. What kind of man are you? Has the Lord not commanded His bondsmen to give food to the hungry, to give water to those who are dying of thirst? Fulfil what you have promised or else this madman shall return to the desert where you found him. Bring Layla and me together or else I shall put an end to my wretched life!’
Chapter 18
Majnun’s words were like flame-tipped arrows; Nowfal’s heart was like wax. Nowfal knew that he had to act immediately. Exchanging his robes for a suit of armour, and his goblet for a sword, he went to work without delay. Within the hour, a hundred horsemen — all of them skilled in the art of battle — had been gathered together under Nowfal’s banner.
Nowfal rode at the front, his hair streaming in the wind like the mane of lion possessed, and Majnun rode at his side. After a while, they reached the outskirts of the camp where Layla’s tribe had pitched their tents. Nowfal ordered his men to dismount and set up camp. Then he sent a herald to the head of Layla’s tribe with this message:
‘I, Nowfal, hereby state my intention to wage war on you. My troops are assembled and we are ready to fight you to the very last man until we are victorious. There is only one way out for you, and that is if you bring Layla to me; if you refuse to obey, then the sword shall decide between us. I am determined to hand Layla over to the one man who truly loves her, the one man in all the world who is worthy of her. That is my goal.’
Ashort time later, the herald returned with this reply:
‘We have duly taken note of what you have said. Our word on the matter is this: Layla is no plaything to be had at will by whoever so desires. However beautiful the moon may be, it cannot be reached by everyone who falls in love with it. Do you wish to steal what is not rightfully yours? Are you waging war on us for the sake of something to which you have no right? Do you dare to ask the impossible, and then threaten us with death when we deny it you? You demon from hell! Then ride against us, if you will, and put us to the sword, if you are able!’
His anger rising, Nowfal sent a second message:
‘You pathetic fools! Are you blind? Do you not see how powerful we are, and how sharp our swords? Do you really think that you can resist us? Can a few, ill-equipped wretches hold back a tidal wave of steel and fury? Come, see reason while you are still able! Do what we ask and spare yourselves, otherwise disaster will overwhelm you!’
But again the herald returned with a rejection that was couched in terms of abuse and derision. Nowfal was fit to burst with rage. Tearing his sword out of its scabbard, he gave his men the signal to move forwards. Their blades glinting in the sunlight and their fists punching the air, Nowfal’s men descended like a flock of hungry vultures on to Layla’s camp.
The clash of steel on steel, the terrified whinnying of horses, the shouts and the screams and the bloodcurdling cries of the wounded. The thrust of dagger into breast, of spear into thigh, of axe into skull. The sobs of the women and children, huddled together in their tents. The severed limbs, the heads torn from their bodies, the flesh trampled under foot and hoof. The blood running in rivulets, turning the earth below scarlet, purple, black. And everywhere the bittersweet stench of death …
Among the men, only Majnun did not take part in the fighting. Was not this harvesting of limbs, this massacre, for his sake? Yet he stood to one side, his sword sleeping in its scabbard, and looked on helplessly. His inaction was not out of fear or cowardice; no, it was much more terrible than that. He could not move because he was, quite literally, pulled between the two camps: he was sharing the suffering of both sides. Every blow of the sword, every thrust of the dagger, be it from friend or foe, struck him. Abandoning his weapon, he threw himself into the thick of the fighting, praying to God and imploring the warriors to lay down their arms and sue for peace. But few could hear him, and those who did hear him would not listen. It was a miracle that he was not killed.
Majnun knew that his heart should have been with Nowfal; he knew that Nowfal was fighting for his sake and that he should have been praying for his benefactor’s victory. Yet, as the battle wore on, his mind became more confused. Had he himself not always said that he was ready to die for Layla? Yet here were Layla’s menfolk, being killed for his sake. And by whom? By Nowfal and his men — Majnun’s own friends!
A shameful thought crept into his mind. Were Nowfal and his men really his friends? Were they not really his friends’ enemies? While the battle raged all around him, another battle was taking place in his own soul, every bit as fierce as the one on the field. Majnun reckoned that had shame not immobilised him, he would have drawn his sword against his own side, against Nowfal’s men. But that, he said to himself, would have made him infamous in the eyes of Layla’s tribe. He could almost imagine the laughter and the jeers of the enemy fighters, entertained by the spectacle of Majnun as he attacked from behind the very men whose goal it was to help him. Nevertheless, had Fate so decreed, he would have gladly fired his arrows against those who were now attacking Layla’s tribe. His heart was with the kinsmen of his beloved; even now, he mouthed a silent prayer for their victory.
Finally, these feelings became too strong to subdue. Whenever an enemy horseman advanced, or threw one of Nowfal’s men from the saddle, he would cheer; whenever one of Nowfal’s men scored a hit, he would howl with dismay.
Eventually, one of Nowfal’s men saw how Majnun was behaving, turned to him and said, ‘What is wrong with you, sir? Why do you enjoy the proceedings from afar? And why do you rejoice when the enemy advances? Have you forgotten that we are here on your account? Do you not realise that we are all risking our lives for you?’
‘If they really were my enemies,’ Majnun replied, ‘I would be able to fight them, but they are not. Those people are my friends. In truth, I have no place here. The heart of my beloved beats for the enemy, and where her heart is, that is where I must be. I want to die for her sake; it was never my wish to kill other men. How can I be on your side, when I have given up my soul to her?’
Meanwhile, Nowfal was on the edge of victory. Like a madman unchained, he stormed the enemy walls time and time again, cutting down man after man as he advanced, intoxicated by the scent of glory. Yet as dusk began to fall, the battle was still undecided. Soon, as night threw its veil of black over the burnt shoulders of day and the serpent of darkness swallowed the last pearl of light, the fighters were unable to see each other on the field. Nowfal declared the battle over — for now — and it was agreed, given that there were neither victors nor vanquished, that they would meet again at dawn.
Many brave men had fallen, and the numbe
r of wounded was even greater than the number of dead. Yet Nowfal was sure that he would be able to effect one final push and achieve a decisive victory on the following day. But when, as dawn broke, Nowfal was just beginning to round up his men and lead them into battle, one of his scouts rode into camp with the news that the enemy had been reinforced with troops from other tribes.
Now, Nowfal might have been hot-headed, but he was no fool. After consultation with his men, a decision was reached. They would opt for the only move left open to them. Then he called his herald and sent a message to the enemy camp.
‘Enough! Enough of this senseless bloodshed,’ the message read. ‘It is time to sue for peace. What I desired from you, and what I still desire, is Layla. She is the only one who can break the spell and tear the chains of delusion from Majnun’s soul. In return for her, I am ready to pay you camel-loads of treasure. Think long and hard about my proposal. But even if you refuse, we should lay down our arms and make peace. It is the only way.’
No one expected Layla’s tribe to comply with Nowfal’s request, and when the herald returned with the letter of rejection, no one was surprised. The call for peace, however, was accepted. No more blood was to be shed. Layla was safe with her people, and Nowfal and his men were to return to their own land.
Chapter 19
Majnun rode in silence at Nowfal’s side. For an hour they had not exchanged a single word, but finally, when the re-opened wound in Majnun’s soul had smarted and stung so much that he could no longer hold his tongue.
