The hungry animal began to devour the jinn plant, filling his mouth, raising his head toward the horizon, then chewing for a long time before swallowing what was in his mouth.
Ukhayyad stood still, watching him until nightfall. He lit a fire and roasted the truffles on the coals. He continued to observe the piebald, but saw no change of behavior. Sated, the camel kneeled on the green field, and was absorbed again in chewing the taboo herb. To Ukhayyad, it seemed as if the spark had returned to the animal’s eyes. Life had returned to the dead sockets. He could not completely make out the pupils in the darkness, but the hale, alert, and steady glance flashed again and again by the light of the fire.
The shadows intensified, and silence descended, a silence unbroken by anything but the sounds of the piebald as he chomped on the cud of the magical herb. Using his arm for a pillow, Ukhayyad lay down and went to sleep.
He passed the night in broken fits of sleep, the anticipation of surprise keeping him from a more restful slumber.
In the morning, Ukhayyad looked closely at his friend, who on waking became active, jerking his head back and forth in agitation. Yesterday’s spark was no illusion. A flash really had returned to his shiny eyes, displacing their former sadness. God be praised—was this the harbinger of health? Or was it a sign suggesting the onslaught of insanity? Where was the madness? Wasn’t it tied to the cure? If the animal didn’t lose his mind, how could he hope to be healed? Mustn’t reason depart if vigor was to return? Good God! But Ukhayyad did not lose hope. Miracles often happened in the desert, and he was not asking for a large one. He was asking the jinn of the silphium fields only this: to take his friend’s suffering and spare him. He prayed and pleaded incessantly. The tomb of the old saint would not let him down. He would not lose hope. Still, where was your magic, silphium? Where was your spell, your effect? Was the spark in the piebald’s eyes a sign? A sign of something. One had to heed signs. As in his dream, as in all inscrutable visions. These signs were the language of God. The one who ignored them would be damned in this world. Whoever paid them no attention would receive what was coming to him. God protect us from that!
The sparkle in the eyes had indeed been a hidden sign. The following day, the battle erupted. It began in the late afternoon. The Mahri stood frightened, stiffening his tail, then began to whip it as if he were chasing imaginary flies. Then his ears began to twitch and his black skin began to quiver and tremble. He tried to unfetter his front legs. The spark in his eyes had become desperate. Ukhayyad readied himself, though he did not know what to do. Anxious as the piebald, he watched as the animal began to chomp at the air and spit up white spume. The foam rose up around his lips, then began to fall to the ground in large, frothy clusters. The raw skin dripped sweat. Ukhayyad had never seen such profuse, searing sweat on the skin of a camel as he did on that day. Then the Mahri began to stand up, trying to break the cords around his legs. He cried out with a horrible gurgling sound that pricked Ukhayyad’s heart. He ran to the camel, struggling to calm him, stroking his body. “Patience, patience. Life is but patience,” he repeated mechanically. “Don’t we have an agreement? If you remain patient, you’ll be cured. I know the jinn are powerful. But patience is even stronger than they are.” But the Mahri was not patient. He howled out a long, pained complaint, “Aw-a-a-a-a-a-a.”
The echo of his cry rebounded between the isolated peaks that stretched across the endless waste. Like a needle, the sound buried itself in Ukhayyad’s heart. He gently massaged the camel’s neck where perspiration continued to pour out. And now froth rather than sweat began to seep from the black skin, saturating it in an intense white lather. The camel collapsed on his front knees, then jerked up again. Clearly, the pain in his belly was unbearable—and he could not stand still in any position or place. His head jerked back as he stood up. Then blood began to spill from his nostrils where the bridle joined the nose ring.
Ukhayyad whispered, “Ay—don’t try to do that again. You’ll split your muzzle wide open. You’ll destroy yourself. Be patient. Patience. Brave warriors can tread across coals without shedding a tear. They know how to walk through fire without complaint. Just bear the fire in your belly for one or two nights, then you’ll be cured of your disease forever. Agreed?”
The Mahri would not listen to his pleadings. For good reason—He whose foot is in the fire hears nothing, as they say.
Ukhayyad leaped into the open desert and prayed: “Go easy, Lord! Be gentle! Lord, give him strength to face the jinn.” He returned and wiped the lather off the piebald, addressing him. “What wouldn’t I do for you? If I could, I’d share your pain. But God created us as we are, weak and impotent. No one can bear someone else’s pain for them.”
He turned away and cried out, “Lord, divide his share of pain. Let me be the one to lighten his burden. He has already suffered so much. It is not fair that he should suffer by himself all these months—he is mute and unable to express his complaint. But he comprehends. And he feels pain, excruciating pain—otherwise he would not be howling. Purebred creatures do not cry out unless the pain is unbearable. Take away some of his load and place it on my shoulders. He’s carried me on his back for years, so why can’t I carry his burden for just a few hours? Why shouldn’t I bear his cares for just a few days?”
In the white lather on his skin, blood and pus now mixed with sweat. Black sweat and black water—the black torrent of his dream. Was this now also a vision?
The beast continued trying to escape. The rope dug a deep gash in his forelegs, and the blood ran down his shins. Above his foot, the front hobble loosened and the palm rope broke apart. Ukhayyad leaped toward him, grabbing the reins. The beast opened his jaws as far as they would go, and froth, mucous and black bile spilled out. Ah, black bile—sign of the evil eye. The soothsayers all agree on that. So, he had been envied for his piebald. The evil eye had been behind everything that had happened. According to the teaching of soothsayers, envy is stronger than poison. And the eye of the envier is deadlier than a poisoned arrow, the blow of a sword, or the thrust of a dagger. It’s deadlier than any weapon. So when did the envious thugs cast their eye on him? The Mahri split the silence of the waste: “Aw-a-a-a-a-a-a.”
The cry rent the never-ending horizon. The desert reverberated with it, echo upon echo, before it was swallowed up again by the transcendent silence.
Ukhayyad became frantic, moving about and talking without knowing what he was saying. “Enough already. The jinn have possessed him. Endure the jinn, and you’ll triumph over them. Patience. Patience is life itself.”
Yet Ukhayyad maintained his grip on the reins. “Lord, will he die? And what will I do if he does?” he called out one more time. “My God—You gave me the most loyal friend and now You’re taking him from me like this, between one day and the next, leaving me to face my enviers by myself? Don’t take him from me, Lord! You are not cruel, Lord. You are ever merciful. You . . . .”
A flood of tears poured from his eyes, hot as embers. He felt the fire in his eyes, and sighed. “If it must be done, then take me with him. Take us together.”
At that moment, the Mahri bolted, snatching Ukhayyad up off the ground. The camel galloped across the empty waste. Together they ran. Ukhayyad clung to the reins, trying, without much success, to steer the piebald and to return him to his senses.
On the horizon to the far west, a purple shroud of thin clouds wrapped themselves around a lonely mountain summit. Behind it, the sun began to disappear and die.
The camel rushed for that mountain. He crossed a plain thick with wild grasses, climbed a ridge, then plunged into a valley crowded with lote trees. There, he flew into a thicket of thorns, shredding his body. More and more blood began to flow. It seeped from Ukhayyad’s limbs as well. His robes were ripped at the sleeves, lote thorns tearing at the light fabric up to his right shoulder. Blood flowed from shoulder to forearm. He pleaded with the crazed animal: “What do you think you’re doing? Do you think you can run away from yourself? Do you think
you can escape your fate? Brave men do not try to run from themselves. Wise men do not try to flee from fate. In the end, to succeed in escaping means only this: cowardice. And even if you manage to escape, it will only catch up to you one day. The jinn are your fate now. Didn’t I tell you that patience is life?”
But the animal would not heed the pleading of his friend. His stomach ached terribly, and blazed with fire. He whose foot is in the fire . . . he whose belly is on fire.
The furious chase continued. Ukhayyad dripped with sweat, and he panted for breath. Blood poured from his arms and legs. For his part, the Mahri was drenched in a lather of sweat, pus, and blood. The fire raged in his guts and he flew through the air with increasing frenzy. A veil now covered his eyes. Reason had flown, and blindness had taken its place. Shadows descended all around, robbing him of all sense of time and matter. He was no longer conscious of whether he was galloping or standing still in the pasture. He could no longer feel his body, breath, or limbs. The pain had even consumed all sense of pain. Nothing remained but the madness in his head. He charged through the valley of lote trees, and climbed another ridge. Unable to hold on, Ukhayyad fell to the ground.
The Mahri dragged him a short distance, then his upper lip tore away from the bridle. The camel had broken his reins. Ukhayyad rolled down the slope, the leather strap still in his hands. With effort, Ukhayyad struggled to his feet. If the camel got away from him now—at the height of his madness—Ukhayyad would never catch him again. The two would be parted forever. Had God ordained that he would say farewell to his old friend by the fall he had taken on this desolate slope? Had the time come to say goodbye forever? Ukhayyad sprang up and ran, scaling the ridge on all fours, still holding onto the reins. His lungs were splitting, his limbs tearing apart. Froth now began to appear around the young man’s lips as well. Spit flew as he launched himself down the other side of the ridge. Plummeting down into the valley was his only chance. If he did not catch the camel on this slope, he would be gone forever. He marshaled everything in him that was manly, brave, and noble, he recalled all the stories of heroism he could and rushed across the slope. He flew downhill, falling, then getting back up in the blink of an eye. He fell and did not fall. In a flash, and without knowing how it happened, he found himself gripping the camel’s tail. He could not believe it. Had a miracle taken place? Had he really caught the animal? Had the old stories about shame really helped? Had he triumphed over himself, over his weakness and impotence? Then it was true—it was possible to vanquish powerlessness with patience! Patience is the only talisman that can protect against the vicissitudes of fate. Patience is life itself. It was no illusion. He had just found that out. Lord, give me a bit more patience so I can get through the rest of this journey!
He clung to the camel’s tail with his right hand. With his left, he held the reins. Weariness had sapped his strength and, despite his will to go on, his movements began to slacken. The camel yanked him and pulled him along the open desert. He found that this allowed him to catch his breath, and so he surrendered to it. He dangled from the camel’s tail, his feet plowing furrows across the rich soil. They seemed to plow forever as the piebald climbed through ravines, and plunged over hills. The rocks tore away Ukhayyad’s leather sandals and shredded his feet and legs. The wild plants gouged his thighs and ripped at his clothes. Ukhayyad came back to his senses and began to move his legs without letting go of the tail. With great plodding strides, the camel dragged him along.
Thirst—immortal power of the desert. Ukhayyad’s throat was desiccated, his mouth parched. He tried to swallow, but failed. Yet, patience was also god of thirst. Patience, the talisman that protects forever in the desert. God, give me patience! When God gives you patience in the desert, he is giving you everything in the world. The pain in his hands was agonizing. Had he himself not asked for pain? Hadn’t he asked God to lighten the burden of the piebald? The pain was not important. What was important was for the piebald to not escape. What was important was for the piebald to be cured. What was important was for the effect of the silphium to wear off after it had done its magic. Who knew, maybe a miracle would happen and the poor creature’s health would improve. But my God, did the road to the cure have to pass through hell? Did the cure need to be accompanied by excruciating pain for it to be effective? Was the price of his mistake really so grave? Were females really such an affliction? Was the evil eye really as malevolent and lethal as this?
His right arm would soon rip out of his shoulder. And then his left arm would too. If he did nothing, he would lose his grip. What could he do? He took the reins in his left hand and used the braided leather to fasten his hand to the camel’s tail. The leather was sticky and slipped out more than once. No—half solutions would not work. The knot had to be tied securely. If he could not tie it well, his hand would slip out and fall to the ground. The animal would escape and all this effort would go up in a cloud of dust. His left hand pulled on the tail and, using his right hand and his teeth, he fastened the strap around it. Gathering his remaining strength to steer the Mahri in his extraordinary gallop, Ukhayyad took comfort in the fact that he could rest as long as the strap held fast. If he succeeded in tying the reins securely, then he would also have succeeded in binding himself to the destiny of the piebald for eternity. The camel would not escape. The jinn would not steal the animal from him. He would beat the Devil himself if he had to. One more piece of patience was all he needed. One more thread.
A curtain of darkness fell.
The desert became wilder and more shadowy. Its expanse seemed to grow and grow.
A chorus of ethereal female voices trilled across the valleys from the heights of Jebel Hasawna. Their demonic ululations filled him with strength. Such calls always drive warriors on, even when they come from the throats of jinn.
His right hand went slack and he surrendered his feet. Together, man and camel plowed through the desert and obscurity.
8
Ukhayyad turned over and over in the sand, unconscious of where or who he was. He was roused only by the bright rays of the late afternoon sun. He came back to life, waking, though without waking, regaining consciousness, though not knowing who or where he was or how he got there. He lay on his stomach for some time, feeling nothing. His limbs were numb, as if they had been wrenched from his body. As he awoke, his body and head began to ache—his head as if it had been smashed open, his arms and legs as if their skin had been peeled off with a knife. He opened his eyes. Next to him, the piebald kneeled serenely in the valley, no less ragged than he. He spit blood from his mouth and looked at his body. What is this, Lord? His clothes had been torn and shredded, proving beyond a doubt that their mad course had passed through deep forested valleys. Flatland scrub would not have reached so high on a body that dangled, suspended from the tail. His body was covered with deep gashes and his body, arms, and legs were bathed in blood. Grains of sand had congealed into his wounds during the night. Sand and dirt also filled his mouth. Every now and then, he spat until he had got it all out. He tried to move his body but could not. The afternoon rays nearly blinded him. Then he looked closely at the piebald and could not believe what he saw. The poor beast was a solid red mass. He closed his eyes to rid himself of the image, then opened them again—but the vision was the same—a solid red mass. The camel had stopped bleeding, but the black skin had torn off.
He tried as hard as he could to move his limbs and crawl to the right, then used the branches of a squat broom tree to pull himself along the sand dune. His hand was still fastened to the camel’s tail, preventing him from crawling any farther. He stopped what he was doing, caught his breath and went back to work until he finally was able to release the strap. Then he rolled onto his back and groaned. The pain was terrible, and continued to mount and intensify. He began to crawl again toward the camel, looking him over from the right side. A solid piece of red meat. The manged hide had fallen away during the mad journey. The piebald had shed his skin like a snake. There was not a s
ore to be seen. The blood had congealed across the red hide. Grains of sand clung to his belly and right side and troublesome flies treated him like a stump of freshly butchered meat.
Despite his agony, Ukhayyad was ecstatic. Would the piebald be cured? Had the miracle of silphium worked? Had the pagan shrine answered his prayers, had it responded to his pledge?
It was a miracle. A marvel.
He felt thirsty, and then remembered about water. Ukhayyad had forgotten—he was all alone in an empty waste, completely cut off from everything. The horror of his struggle with the piebald made him forget the most potent source of protection in the desert: water.
Without water, miracles cannot take place in the desert. Even when a miracle does occur, the absence of water erases it, transforming it into mere illusion. Without water, the whole world becomes a fantasy. What good is it to have your health back if you lack water? Life draws near, but so too does death. Only yesterday he had shown his readiness to sacrifice everything for his piebald to be healed. Today, just as he was seduced into hoping that a miracle might happen, the rug was pulled out from under him. It was always like that. A wholly blessed life does not exist—a thing might appear, but only to take the place of something else. Sheikh Musa used to like saying, “Perfection belongs to God alone. Carelessness blossoms with youth, but wisdom and knowledge do not take its place until the onslaught of old age and infirmity. What’s the use of wisdom without youth? And what’s the value of knowledge without life?”
Gold Dust (Modern Arabic Literature) Page 3
