Love Stories

by Ruskin Bond

  Now, Laylá's father was not friendly to the chief of Yemen. Indeed, the only path that led from the one to the other was a well-worn war-path; for long, long ago their ancestors had quarrelled, and, though there were rare occasions when the two peoples met at great festivals and waived their differences for a time, it may truly be said that there was always hate in their eyes when they saluted. Always? Not always: there was one exception. It was at one of these festivals that Qays first saw Laylá. Their eyes met, and, though no word was spoken, love thrilled along a single glance.

  From that moment Qays was a changed youth. He avoided the delights of the chase; his tongue at feast and in council; he sat apart with a strange light in his eyes; no youth of his tribe could entice him to sport, no maiden could comfort him. His heart was in another house, and that was not the house of his father.

  And Laylá—she sat silent among her maidens with eyes downcast. Once, when a damsel, divining rightly, took her lute and sang a song of the fountain in the forest, where lovers met beneath the silver moon, she raised her head at the close of the song and bade the girl sing it again—and again. And, after this, in the evenings when the sun was setting, she would wander unattended in the gardens about her father's palace, roaming night by night in ever-widening circles, until, on a night when the moon was brightest, she came to the confines of the gardens where they adjoined the deep forest beyond; but ever and ever the moonlight beyond. And here, as she gazed adown the spaces between the tree trunks, she saw, in an open space where the moonbeams fell, a sparkling fountain, and knew it for that which had been immortalised in the sweet song sung by her damsel with the lute. There, from time immemorial, lovers had met and plighted their vows. A thrill shot through her at the thought that she had wandered hither in search of it. Her cheeks grew hot, and, with a wildly beating heart, she turned and ran back to her father's palace. Ran back, ashamed.

  Now, in a high chamber of the palace—it was as wondrous as that of a Sultan—where Laylá was wont to recline at the window looking out above the tree-tops, there were two beautiful white doves; these had long been her companions, perching on her shoulder and pecking gently at her cheek with "Coo, coo, coo;"—preeking and preening on her shoulder with "Coo, coo, coo." They would come at her call and feed from her hand; and, when she threw one from the window, retaining the other against her breast, the liberated one seemed to understand that it might fly to yonder tree; and there it would sit cooing for its mate until Laylá, having held her fluttering bird close for a time, would set it free. "Ah!" she would sigh to herself, as the bird flew swiftly to its mate, "when love hath wings it flies to the loved one, but alas! I have no wings." And yet it was by the wings of a dove that her lover sent her a passionate message, which threw her into joy and fear, and finally led her footsteps to the place of lovers' meeting.

  Qays, in the lonely musings which had beset him of late, recalled the story—well-known among the people—of Laylá's two white doves. As he recalled it, he raised himself upon his elbow on his couch and said to himself, "If I went to her father, saying, 'Give me thy daughter to wife!' how should I be met? If I sent a messenger, how would he be met? But the doves— if all tales be true, they fly in at her window and nestle to her bosom."

  With his thought suddenly intent upon the doves, he called his servant Zeyd, who came quickly, for he loved his master.

  "Thou knowest, Zeyd," said Qays, "that in the palace of the chief of Basráh there are two white doves, one of which flies forth at its mistress's bidding, and cooes and cooes and cooes until its mate is permitted to fly to it."

  "I know it well, my master. They are tame birds, and they come to their mistress's hand."

  "Would they come, thinkest thou, to thy hand?"

  Zeyd, who was in his master's confidence, and knew what troubled him, answered the question with master? My father was a woodman, and I was brought up in the forests. Many a wilder bird than a dove have I snared in the trees. I even know the secret art of taking a bird with my hand."

  "Then bring me one of these doves, but be careful not to injure it—not even one feather of its plumage."

  Zeyd was as clever as his word. On the third evening thereafter he brought one of Laylá's white doves to Qays and placed it in his hand. Then Qays stroked the bird and calmed its fears, and, bidding Zeyd hold it, he carefully wrapped and tied round its leg a small soft parchment on which were written the following verses—

  Thy heart is as a pure white dove,

  And it hath come to me;

  And it hath brought me all thy love,

  Flying from yonder tree.

  Thou shalt not have thy heart again,

  For it shall stay with me;

  Yet thou shalt hear my own heart's pain

  Sobbing in yonder tree.

  There is a fount where lovers meet:

  Tonight I wait for thee.

  Fly to me, love, as flies the dove

  To dove in yonder tree.

  Now, Laylá, who had sent her dove into the warm night, sat listening at her window to hear it coo to its mate held close in her bosom. But it cooed not from its accustomed bough on yonder tree. Holding the fluttering mate to her, she leaned forth from the window, straining her ears to catch the well-known note, but, hearing nothing, she said to herself, "What can have happened? Whither has it flown? Never was such a thing before. Perchance, the bird is sleeping on the bough."

  Then, as the moon rose higher and higher above the tree-tops, shedding a glistening radiance over everything, she waited and waited, but there came no doling of the dove, no coo from yonder tree. At last, unable to account for it, she took the bird from her bosom and stroked it and spoke to it; then she threw it gently in the air as if to send it in search of its lost mate to bring it back.

  The bird flew straight to the tree, and, perching there, cooed again and again, but there was no answering coo of its mate. Finally Laylá saw it rise from the tree and circle round the palace. Many times she saw it flash by, and heard the beating of its wings, until at last it flew in the window; and when she took it and pressed it to her, she felt that it was trembling. For sure, it was distressed and trembling.

  "Alas! poor bird!" she said, stroking it gently. "It is hard to lose one's lover, but it is harder still never to have found him."

  But lo, as she was comforting the bird, the other dove suddenly fluttered in and perched upon her shoulder. She gave a cry of delight, and, taking it, held them both together in her arms. In fondling them her fingers felt something rough on the leg of the one that had just returned. Quickly she untied the fastenings, and, with beating heart, unfolded the parchment and read the writing thereon. It was the message from her lover. She knew not what to do. Should she go to the fountain where lovers meet beneath the moon? In her doubt she snatched first one dove and then the other, kissing each in turn. Then, setting them down, she rose and swiftly clothed herself in a long cloak, and stole quietly down the stairs and out of the palace by a side door. Love found the way to the path through the forest that led to the fountain where lovers meet. Like a shadow flitting across the bars of moonlight that fell among the trees, she sped on, and at last arrived at the edge of the open space where the fountain played, its silvery, high-flung column sparkling like jewelled silver ere it fell in tinkling spray upon the shining moss.

  Laylá paused irresolute in the shadows, telling herself that if her heart was beating so hard it was because she had been running. Where was he who had stolen her dove and returned it with a message?

  Wherever he was he had quVck eyes, for he had discovered her in the shadows, and now came past the fountain, hastening towards her.

  She darted into the light of the moon.

  "Who art thou?"

  Their eyes met. The moonlight fell on their faces. No other word was spoken, for they recognised each other in one glance.

  "Laylá! Thou hast come to me. I love thee."

  "And I thee!"

  And none but the old moon, who has look
ed down on many such things before, saw their sudden embrace; and none but the spirit of the fountain, who had recorded the words of lovers ever since the first gush of the waters, heard what they said to one another.

  And so Laylá and Qays met many times by the fountain and * plighted their vows there in the depths of the forest. And once, as they lingered over their farewells, Qays said to Laylá, "And oh! My beloved, if the desert were my home, and thou and I were free, even in the wilderness, eating the herbs that grow in the waste, or a loaf of thine own baking from the wild corn; drinking the water of the brook, and reposing beneath the bough—then would I let the world go by, and, with no hate of thy people, live with thee and love thee for ever."

  "And I thee, beloved."

  "Then let us leave all, and fly to the wilderness—"

  "Now?"

  "No, not now. Thou must prepare. Tomorrow, beloved, I will await thee here at this hour with two fleet steeds; and then, as they spurn the dust from their feet, so will we spurn the world— you and I."

  That night Laylá dreamed that she was in the wilderness with her lover, sitting beneath the bough, drinking from the waters of the brook, eating a loaf of her own making from the wild corn, and, in her lover's presence, happy to lose the luxury of palaces.

  But alas! The dream was never to be realised. Someone at the palace—someone with more than two ears, and with eyes both back and front—someone, moreover, in the pay of Ibn Salám, a handsome young chief who greatly desired Laylá in marriage, breathed a word into the ear of Laylá s father. The following day the palace was deserted. The old chief, with Laylá and the whole of his retinue, had departed to his estate in the mountains, where it was hoped that the keen, pure air would be better for Laylá s health—at least, so her father said, though none could understand why, seeing that she had never looked better in her life.

  Qays, knowing nothing of this sudden departure for several days, waited at the fountain at the appointed hour. At last one day, being already sad at heart, he learned—for Ibn Salám had not been idle in the matter—that Laylá had gone to the mountains of her own accord with her father's household, and that Ibn Salám, the favoured one, had gone with her also. Believing this to be true—for lovers are prone to credit what they fear—Qays ran forth from his abode like a man distraught. In the agony of his despair, he thought of nothing but to search for, and find, Laylá. Setting his face towards the distant mountains, he plunged into the desert, calling "Laylá! Laylá!" Every rock of the wilderness, every tree and thorny waste soon knew her name, for it echoed there among all that day and the following night, until at dawn he sank exhausted on a barren stretch of sand.

  And here it was that his servant Zeyd and a party of his master's friends found him as the sun was rising. He was distracted. Worn out with fatigue and hunger and thirst he wandered in his mind as he had wandered in the desert. They took him back to his father's abode and sought to restore him, but, when at last he was well, he still called continually for his lost love Laylá, so that they thought his reason was unhinged, and spoke of him as "Majnún"—that is to say, "mad with love"; and by this name he was called ever afterwards.

  His father came and pleaded with him to put away his infatuation for the daughter of a chief no friend of his; but, finding him reasonable in all things save his mad love, the chief said within himself: "If he can be healed of this one thing, he will be whole." Then, being willing further to cement enmity or establish a bond with the chief of Basráh, he decided to set the matter to the test. Collecting a splendid retinue, he journeyed to the mountains on a mission to the chief, his enemy, leaving Majnún in the care of the faithful Zeyd.

  When, after many days' journey, he at last arrived at the estate of Laylá's father, he stood before that chief and haughtily demanded the hand of his daughter in marriage with his son, setting forth the clear meaning of consent on the one hand and refusal on the other. His proposal was rejected as haughtily as it had been made. "News travels far," said the chief of Basráh. "Thy son is mad: cure him of his madness first, and then seek my consent."

  Cyd, the chief of Yemen, was a proud man and fierce. He could not brook this answer. He had proposed a bond of friendship, and it had been turned into a barbed shaft of war. He withdrew from Basráh's presence with the cloud of battle lowering on his brows. He returned to his own place to come again in war, vowing vengeance on Basráh.

  But Yemen's chief delayed his plans, for, on his return, he discovered that his son, accompanied by the faithful Zeyd, had set out on the yearly pilgrimage to Mecca, there to kneel before the holy shrine and drink of the sacred well in the Kaaba.

  "Surely," said he, "that sacred well of water which sprang from the parched desert to save Hagar and her son will restore my own son to his health of mind. I will follow him and pray with him at the holy shrine; I will drink also at the sacred well, and so, perchance, he will be restored to me."

  But it so chanced that, when the chief, followed by a splendid retinue, was but two days on his journey towards Mecca, he was met by a lordly chief of the desert named Noufal, who, with a small band of warriors, rode in advance of a cloud of dust to greet him in friendly fashion.

  "I know thee," said Noufal, reining in his magnificent horse so suddenly that the sand and gravel scattered wide; "thou art the chief of Yemen and the father of Majnún, whom I have met in the desert. Greetings to thee! I have succoured thy son, whom I found in sore straits and nigh unto death I have heard his story, and I will aid him and thee against the chief of Basráh, if it be thy will, O chief of Yemen."

  "Greetings to thee, O Noufal! I know thy name; thou art a wanderer of the desert, but I have heard many brave tales of thy prowess and thy generosity. Thou hast my son in thy keeping? But how comes it that he failed of his pilgrimage to Mecca, whither I was following to join him at the holy shrine?

  "Alas! He fell by the wayside in sight of my warriors: and, when they came to him, his only cry was, "Laylá! Laylá!' They brought him to me, and from his broken story and this oft-repeated cry of Laylá,' I knew him for Majnún, thy son; for the tale of beauty and love, O chief of Yemen, travels far in the silent desert."

  "What wouldst thou, then, Noufal?"

  "I would that thou and I, for the sake of thy son, go up against the chief of Basráh and demand his daughter. If he consent not, and we conquer, I will extend thine interests and protect them through the desert and beyond. If he consent, thou and I and he will be for ever at peace, and will combine our territories on just terms of thine own choosing."

  "Thou hast spoken well, O Noufal, and I trust thee. Go thou up against the chief of Basráh and demand Laylá in my name, I will follow thy path, and, if thou returnest to meet me with Laylá in thy protection, all is well; but, if not, then we will proceed against Basráh together, and thy terms shall be my terms. For the rest, thou hast swift messengers, as have I."

  At the word Noufal wheeled his horse and gave commands to some of his warriors, and presently six fleet-footed chargers were speeding towards the horizon in six different directions to call the warriors of the desert to converge on a point at the foot of the mountains. Meanwhile similar messengers were hastening back to Yemen with orders from their chief. Noufal and his band of warriors set out for the rendezvous, but the chief of Yemen waited for the return of his messengers.

  Meanwhile Laylá, on her father's estate among the mountains, lived in the depths of misery. The young chief Ibn Salám, well favoured of her father, was continually pleading for her hand in marriage, but Laylá s protestations and tears so moved her father that he was fain to say to the handsome and wealthy suitor, "She is not yet of age; wait a little while and all will be well.,, For Basráh looked with a calculating eye on this young chief, who had splendid possessions and many thousands of warriors. As for Laylá, she immured herself from the light of day, communing only with the stars by night and saying within her heart, "I will die a maiden rather than marry any but Majnún, who is now, alas! distracted, even as I."
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br />   Now Laylá, well knowing that her doves were nesting in 'yonder tree,' had left them to the care of the attendants at the palace. They had always been a solace to her, especially since one had been Love's messenger, and she missed that solace now. A young tiger, obedient only to an Ethiopian slave, could not speak to her of love as the doves had done! But one day a slave-girl brought her a bird of paradise, saying, "My boy lover caught this in the forests of the hills, and bade me offer it to thee for thy kindness to me."

  Laylá treasured the bird in her solitude, and soon discovered that it could imitate the sounds of her voice. On this she straightway taught it one word, and one word only. Then she would sit for hours, with the bird perched on the back of her hand, listening to its soft intonation of that one word: "Majnún." Again and again and again the bird would speak softly in her ear that sweetest name in all the world: "Majnún, Majnún, Majnún," and her heart would leave her bosom and range through the desolation of the desert, seeking always Majnún.

  The affair of her heart stood in such case when, one day at dawn, Noufal, with a large band of warriors, smote with his sword upon the gates and demanded to see the chief of Basráh.

  It was a short and pointed exchange of few words between Noufal and Basráh as the broadening band of sunlight crept slowly down the background of mountains; and, when it smote upon the gates as the sun burst up, the talk was finished, and Noufal and his band were galloping towards the desert to meet the oncoming hosts of Yemen. The chief of Basráh gazed upon the cloud of dust that rose between him and the sun, and in it read the signs of sudden war.

  Now Basráh's mountain estate adjoined the territory of Ibn Salám, and, as soon as the latter learned that the chief had flouted Noufal in favour of his own suit, and that the thundercloud of battle was arising against the wind, he offered the aid of a thousand of his warriors—an offer which was eagerly accepted. But the thousand he offered were not a third part of the warriors at this call.