Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree

by Tariq Ali

  This morning he felt an urgent desire to converse with the dweller in the cave. He left his room and entered the hammam. As he lay in the bath he wished Yazid would wake up and come and talk to him. The brothers enjoyed their bath conversations a great deal, Yazid because he knew that in the bath Zuhayr was a captive for twenty minutes and could not escape, Zuhayr because it was the only opportunity to observe the young hawk at close quarters.

  ‘Who’s in the bath?’

  The voice belonged to Ama. The tone was peremptory.

  ‘It’s me, Ama.’

  ‘May Allah bless you. Are you up already? Has the wound ... ?’

  Zuhayr’s laughter stopped her in her tracks. He got out of the bath, robed himself and stepped out into the courtyard.

  ‘Wound! Let us not joke, Ama. A Christian fool attacked me with a pen-knife and for you I am already on the edge of martyrdom.’

  ‘The Dwarf is not yet in the kitchen. Should I make you some breakfast?’

  ‘Yes, but when I return. I’m off to the old man’s cave.’

  ‘But who will saddle your horse?’

  ‘You’ve known me since I was born. Do you think I can’t ride a horse bareback?’

  ‘Give that Iblis a message from me. Tell him I know full well that it was he who stole three hens from us. Tell him if he does so again, I will bring a few young men from the house and have him whipped publicly in the village.’

  Zuhayr laughed indulgently and patted her on the head. The old man a common thief? How ridiculous Ama was in her stupid prejudices.

  ‘You know what I’d love for breakfast today?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The heavenly mixture.’

  ‘Only if you promise to threaten that Iblis in my name.’

  ‘I will.’

  Fifteen minutes later Zuhayr was galloping towards the old man’s cave on his favourite mount, Khalid. He waved to villagers on their way to the fields, their midday meal packed in a large handkerchief, attached to a staff. Some nodded politely and kept on walking. Others stopped and saluted him cheerfully. News of his confrontation in Gharnata had reached the whole village, and even the sceptics had been forced to utter the odd word of praise. There is no doubt that Zuhayr al-Fahl, Zuhayr the Stallion, as he was known, cut a very fine figure as he raced out of the village. Soon he was a tiny silhouette, now disappearing, now restored to view, as the topography dictated.

  The old man saw horse and rider walking up the hill and smiled. The son of Umar bin Abdallah had come for advice once again. The frequency of his visits must displease his parents. What could he want this time?

  ‘Peace be upon you, old man.’

  ‘And upon you, Ibn Umar. What brings you here?’

  ‘I was in Gharnata last night.’

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘And ... ?’

  The old man shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Was I right or wrong?’

  To Zuhayr’s great delight the old man replied in verse:

  ‘Falsehood hath so corrupted all the world

  That wrangling sects each other’s gospel chide;

  But were not hate Man’s natural element,

  Churches and mosques had risen side by side.’

  Zuhayr had not heard this one before and he applauded. ‘One of yours?’

  ‘Oh foolish boy. Oh ignorant creature. Can you not recognize the voice of a great master? Abu’l Ala al-Ma’ari.’

  ‘But they say he was an infidel.’

  ‘They say, they say. Who dares to say that? I defy them to say it in my presence!’

  ‘Our religious scholars. Men of learning ...’

  At this point the old man stood up, left his room, followed by a mystified Zuhayr, and adopted a martial pose as he recited from the hill-top in the loudest voice he could muster:

  ‘What is Religion? A maid kept so close that no eye may view her;

  The price of her wedding-gifts and dowry baffles the wooer.

  Of all the goodly doctrine that from the pulpit I have heard

  My heart has never accepted so much as a single word!’

  Zuhayr grinned.

  ‘Al-Ma’ari again?’

  The old man nodded and smiled.

  ‘I have learnt more from one of his poems than from all the books of religion. And I mean all the books.’

  ‘Blasphemy!’

  ‘Just the simple truth.’

  Zuhayr was not really surprised by this display of scepticism. He always pretended to be slightly shocked. He did not wish the old man to think that he had won over a new disciple so easily. There was a group of young men in Gharnata, all of them known to Zuhayr and one of them a childhood friend, who rode over twenty miles to this cave at least once a month for lengthy discussions on philosophy, history, the present crisis and the future. Yes, always the future!

  The mellow wisdom they imbibed enabled them to dominate the discussion amongst their peers back in Gharnata, and occasionally to surprise their elders with a remark so perceptive that it was repeated in every mosque on the following Friday. It was from his friend Ibn Basit, the recognized leader of the philosopher’s cavalry, that Zuhayr had first heard about the intellectual capacities of the mystic who wrote poetry under the name of al-Zindiq, the Sceptic.

  Before that he had unquestioningly accepted the gossip according to which the old man was an eccentric outcast, fed by the shepherds out of kindness. Ama often went further and insisted that he was no longer in full possession of his mind and, for that very reason, should be left to himself and his satanic devices. If she had been right, thought Zuhayr, I would be confronting a primal idiot instead of this quick-witted sage. But why and how had this hostility developed? He smiled.

  The old man had been skinning almonds, which lay soaked in a bowl of water, when Zuhayr arrived. Now he began to grind them into a smooth paste, adding a few drops of milk when the mixture became too hard. He looked up and caught the smile.

  ‘Pleased with yourself, are you? What you did in the city was thoughtless. A deliberate provocation. Fortunately your father is less foolish. If your retainers had killed that Christian, all of you would have been ambushed and killed on the way back.’

  ‘In Heaven’s name, how do you know?’

  The old man did not reply, but transferred the paste from a stone bowl into a cooking pan containing milk. To this concoction he added some wild honey, cardamoms and a stick of cinnamon. He blew on the embers. Within minutes the mixture was bubbling. He reduced the fire by pouring ash on the embers and let it simmer. Zuhayr watched in silence as his senses were overpowered by the aroma. Then the pan was lifted and the old man stirred it vigorously with a well-seasoned wooden spoon and sprinkled some thinly sliced almonds on the liquid. Only then was it poured into two earthenware goblets, one of which was promptly presented to Zuhayr.

  The young man sipped it and made ecstatic noises.

  ‘Pure nectar. This is what they must drink in heaven all the time!’

  ‘I think once they are up there,’ muttered al-Zindiq, pleased with his success, ‘they are permitted something much stronger.’

  ‘But I have never tasted anything like this ...’

  He stopped in mid-sentence and put the goblet down on the ground in front of him. He had tasted this drink somewhere once before, but where? Where? Zuhayr stared at the old man, who withstood the scrutiny.

  ‘What is the matter now? Too few almonds? Too much honey? These mistakes can ruin the drink, I know, but I have perfected the mixture. Drink it up my young friend. This is not the nectar which the Rumi gods consumed. It is brain juice of the purest kind. It feeds the cells. Ibn Sina it was, I think, who first insisted that almonds stimulated our thought-processes.’

  It was a feint. Zuhayr saw that at once. The old man had blundered. Zuhayr now remembered where he had last tasted a similar drink. In the house of Great-Uncle Miguel, near the Great Mosque, in Qurtuba. The old man must have some connection. He must. Zuhayr felt he was close to s
olving some mystery. What it was he did not know. The old man looked at the expression on the face in front of him and knew instinctively that one of his secrets was close to being uncovered. Before he could embark on a major diversion, his guest decided to go on the offensive.

  ‘I have a message for you from Ama.’

  ‘Ama? Ama? What Ama? Which Ama? I do not know any Ama.’

  ‘My father’s wet-nurse. She’s always been with our family. The whole village knows her. And you, who claim to know everything that goes on in the village, do not know her? It is unbelievable!’

  ‘Now that you explain it becomes clear. Of course I know who she is and how she always talks of matters which do not concern her. What about her?’

  ‘She instructed me to inform you that she knew who had stolen three of our egg-laying hens ...’

  The old man began to roar with laughter at the preposterousness of such a notion. He, a thief?

  ‘She said that if you did it again she would have you punished in front of the whole village.’

  ‘Can you see any hens in this cave? Any eggs?’

  ‘I don’t really care. If you need anything from our house all you have to do is let me know. It will be here within the hour. I was just passing on a message.’

  ‘Finish your drink. Should I heat some more?’

  Zuhayr lifted the goblet and drained it in one gulp. He inspected the old man closely. He could be any age above sixty or perhaps sixty-five. His head was shaved once a week. The snow-white stubble growing on it meant that he was late for his weekly visit to the village barber. He had a very sharp, but small nose, like the beak of a bird, a wrinkled face of olive-brown hues, whose colour varied with the seasons. His eyes dominated everything else. They were not large or striking in the traditional sense, but the very opposite. It was their narrowness which gave them a hypnotic aspect, especially in the middle of heated discussions, when they began to shine like bright lamps in the dark or, as his enemies often said, like those of a cat on heat.

  His white beard was trimmed, too neatly trimmed for an ascetic—an indication perhaps of his past. Usually, he was dressed in loose white trousers and a matching shirt. When it was cold he added a dark-brown blanket to the ensemble. Today, as the sun poured into his one-room abode, he was sitting there without a shirt.

  It was the wrinkles on his withered chest which gave the real indication of his age. He was, undoubtedly, an old man. But how old? And why that irritating, sphinx-like silence, which contrasted so strangely with his open-minded nature and the fluency of his speech, whenever Zuhayr queried his origins? Not really expecting an answer, the son of Umar bin Abdallah none the less decided to pose the question once again.

  ‘Who are you, old man?’

  ‘You mean you really don’t know?’

  Zuhayr was taken aback.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Has that Ama of yours never told you? Clearly not. I can see the answer in your face. How incredible! So, they decided to keep quiet after all. Why don’t you ask your parents one day? They know everything there is to know about me. Your search for the truth might be over.’

  Zuhayr felt vindicated. So his instincts had been right after all. There was some link with the family.

  ‘Does Great-Uncle Miguel know who you are?’

  The old man’s features clouded. He was displeased. His gaze fixed itself on the remains of the almond drink, and he sunk deep in thought. Suddenly he looked up.

  ‘How old are you, Zuhayr al-Fahl?’

  Zuhayr blushed. From al-Zindiq’s lips, the nickname he had acquired sounded more like an accusation.

  ‘I will be twenty-three next month.’

  ‘Good. And why do the villagers call you al-Fahl?’

  ‘I suppose because I love horse-riding. Even my father says that when he sees me riding Khalid he gets a feeling that the horse and I are one.’

  ‘Complete nonsense. Mystical rubbish! Do you ever get that feeling?’

  ‘Well, no. Not really, but it is true that I can get a horse, any horse you know, not just Khalid, to go faster than any of the men in the village.’

  ‘Ibn Umar, understand one thing. That is not the reason they call you al-Fahl.’

  Zuhayr was embarrassed. Was the old devil launching yet another line of attack to protect his own flank?

  ‘Young master, you know what I’m talking about. It isn’t just riding horses, is it? You jump on their women whenever you get the chance. I am told that you have a taste for deflowering the village virgins. The truth now!’

  Zuhayr stood up in a rage.

  ‘That is a lie. A gross calumny. I have never entered a wench against her will. Anyone who says otherwise I challenge to armed combat. This is not a joking matter.’

  ‘Nobody has suggested that you force them. How could they be forced when it is your right? What use are wide open legs, if the mind remains closed? Why has my question annoyed you so much? Your father is a decent man, not given to excesses of any sort, but episodes such as these have been taking place in your family for centuries. Hot-blooded fool, sit down. Did you not hear me, sit down.’

  Zuhayr did as he was told.

  ‘Do you know Ibn Hasd, the cobbler?’

  Zuhayr was perplexed by the question—what had that venerable figure to do with such a discussion?—but he nodded.

  ‘Next time you meet him, study his features closely. You might see a resemblance.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘A general family resemblance, that’s all.’

  ‘Which family?’

  ‘Yours, of course. Look for the mark of the Banu Hudayl.’

  ‘Crazy old man. Ibn Hasd is a Jew. Like his forefathers ...’

  ‘What has that got to do with it? His mother used to be the most beautiful woman in the village. Your great-grandfather, Ibn Farid, espied her bathing in the river one day. He waited for her to finish and then forced her. The result was Ibn Hasd, who really is Ibn Mohammed!’

  Zuhayr laughed. ‘At least the old warrior had good taste. Somehow I can’t imagine him as a ...’

  ‘Al-Fahl?’ suggested the old man helpfully.

  Zuhayr stood up to take his leave. The sun was high in the sky and he began thinking of Ama’s heavenly mixture. The old man had outwitted him once again.

  ‘I will take my leave now and I will do as you say. I will ask my father about your history.’

  ‘Why are you in such a hurry?’

  ‘Ama promised to make some heavenly mixture and ...’

  ‘Amira and her heavenly mixtures! Does nothing ever change in that cursed house? You have a weakness, Zuhayr al-Fahl. A weakness that will be your undoing. You are too easily convinced. Your friends lead you where they want, you become their tail. You do not question enough. You must think for yourself. Always! It is vital in these times when a simple choice is no longer abstract, but a matter of life or death.’

  ‘You of all people have no right to say that. Have I not been questioning you for over two years? Have I not been persistent, old man?’

  ‘Oh yes. I cannot deny that, but why then are you leaving just as I am about to tell you what you wish to know?’

  ‘But I thought you said that I should ask ...’

  ‘Exactly. It was a ruse to distract you and, as always, it worked. Foolish boy! Your father will never tell you anything. Your mother? To tell the truth I do not know. She is a spirited lady and much respected, but on this matter I think she will follow your father. Remain with me, Ibn Umar. Soon I will tell you all.’

  Zuhayr began to tremble in anticipation. The old man heated some water and prepared a container of coffee, after which he moved the cooking utensils to one side and dragged a large, well-used, hand-woven rug to the centre of the cave. He sat down cross-legged and beckoned Zuhayr to join him. When they were both seated, the old man poured out two bowls. He sipped noisily and began to speak.

  ‘We thought the old days might end everywhere else, but never in our Gharnata. We wer
e convinced that the kingdom of Islam would survive in al-Andalus, but we underestimated our own capacity for self-destruction. Those days will never return, and do you know why? Because the self-styled defenders of the faith quarrelled amongst themselves, killed each other, and proved incapable of uniting against the Christians. In the end it was too late.

  ‘When Sultan Abu Abdullah was looking for the last time on his lost kingdom, he started to weep, whereupon his mother, the Lady Ayesha, remarked: “You may well weep like a woman, for what you could not defend like a man.” I always felt this was unfair. By that time the Christians had overwhelming military superiority. We used to think that the Sultan of Turkey might send us help, and look-outs were posted in Malaka, but nothing came. All that was just fifteen years ago. The times I am going to tell you about are almost a hundred years old.

  ‘Your great-grandfather, Ibn Farid, was an exceptional soldier. It is said that he was more feared by the Christian knights than even Ibn Kassim, and that, believe me, is saying a lot. Once at the siege of Medina Sid he rode out alone on his steed and galloped to the tent of the Castilian King. “Oh King of the Christians,” he shouted. “I challenge each and every one of your knights to personal combat. The Emir has instructed me to tell you that if I am felled by one of your men we will open the gates to you, but if, by the time the sun sets, I am still on my horse, then you must retreat.”

  ‘Their King, knowing your great-grandfather’s reputation, was reluctant to agree, but the Christian knights rebelled. They felt that to refuse such an offer was an insult to their manhood. So the offer was accepted. And what had to happen, happened. When the sun had set, the lord of the Banu Hudayl was dripping with blood, but he was still on his horse. Nearly sixty Christian knights lay dead. The siege was lifted ... for a week. Then they came back, took the garrison by surprise, and ultimately won, but Ibn Farid had returned to al-Hudayl by that time.