Gold Dust (Modern Arabic Literature)

by Ibrahim Al-Koni

  The bastards pursuing him knew this: not even his own tribe would rush to his defense. Their timing was perfect. First, he had fallen out with his father, then he had been expelled from his tribe, and then, with the gold dust outrage, there had been a final break. When his tribe heard the story of his shame, they would wash their hands of him forever. The conditions for pursuing him were ideal and his pursuers would hunt him down, not to extract revenge for their murdered kinsman, but solely to remove the block that stood between them and the division of Dudu’s wealth. When rich men are murdered, it is the brutes and monsters who race fastest to extract revenge. A sense of love or the desire to avenge spilt blood are merely the excuses they invent in order to lay their hands on the spoils.

  Dudu had suffered and fought the devils of the Bambara. He had put his body in the path of their poison arrows in order to seize their gold. And yet, when the man died, all his riches would fall into the hands of these cowards. That is the way of this world. It is the cowards who always remain to sweep up the spoils, and it was Ukhayyad’s bad fortune to have placed himself in their way. They would not sleep a single night until they had torn him limb from limb, until they had blotted him out for good. Flecks of gold dust were all they desired. That vile gold dust. It was the cause of everything that had happened. It was gold dust that had murdered Dudu, not Ukhayyad. But was there anyone sane enough to understand this? The reasonable people had stayed at home in Aïr. Would sane people travel for months on end to chase after gold and to hunt a single man across the heights of Jebel Hasawna?

  Before settling himself in the crevice, he gazed across the magnificent mountain. From the west, its body stretched out, bowing toward Mecca in the east. The living glow of the desert dawn wrapped a blue turban around the mountain’s lofty peak. It was sunrise, and the mountain held its tongue. Rather than disclosing the mysteries it had learned by heart during the night from the mouth of God, it chose to write them down for posterity. The mountain’s sublimity was the gift of such secrets. Is there anything more exposed or more concealed than the desert?

  There are some things you can feel and never touch. Such are these mysteries, these strange ideas floating across the void, and these vague sensations now folded themselves into shadow and silence. Ukhayyad now prostated himself before them in worship. That evening, he had said farewell to the piebald and watched the animal as he shimmered over a silvery mirage before sinking below the horizon. At that moment, he asked these mysteries to deliver him from the envy and spite that now sought him. He prayed that he would meet the piebald again soon. In this silent prayer, he kept his innermost wish to himself: that their reunion should take place under happy circumstances.

  But he forgot to seal his plea with the Throne Verse, or any sura of the Qur’an for that matter. He did not seek refuge from the malice of Satan during his prayers. Thus, when the mysterious powers of the desert convened in hasty consultation with one another, the Devil knew how to interfere, agreeing to speed their reunion, though under circumstances of his own making. Without hearing an answer to his prayers, Ukhayyad secured himself within the impregnable rock. He blocked up the mouth of the crevice with rocks, and squeezed his body into his new jail. He entered it in the evening and slept sitting—knees bent to chest.

  It was only in the morning that he noticed the colorful drawings of the ancients. The towering walls were covered with them. To his right, a herd of buffalo spread out across a field, grazing at their leisure—some of their heads bent to the ground as they crop the grass, another group raises their heads lazily, giving the impression they are chewing on cud. To his left, the ancient sorcerers had carved an enchanting scene. A group of herdsmen chase a moufflon crowned with enormous horns. The animal runs toward a distant mountain. Some of the hunters wield spears, while others shoot with bows at their prey.

  It was hard to divine the outcome of the hunt: the distance between the moufflon and the hunters does not suggest that he will get away, despite the mountain that lies at the end of his path. The painter had drawn the mountain on the horizon so as to place hope before the poor moufflon. The mountain is its sole hope for salvation. The animal knows this—and hastens with all his strength. It is clear that the moufflon is exhausted, his outline shows that. The animal’s figure is heavy, yet he somehow derives strength from the unknown—the unknown that drives creation to love life. The hunters also know that he will escape if he takes refuge in the mountain—and their pursuit intensifies. They aim their spears and arrows so very precisely, yet the moufflon remains unscathed. Despite all this, there is little chance that the animal will escape.

  Ukhayyad did not know how he was so sure that the moufflon would perish. He could not understand how the sorcerer artist had been able to impart that disturbing conclusion. Nor did he know why this revelation made him feel so despondent.

  30

  They arrived two days later.

  Ukhayyad heard their chatter at dawn and thought it was just the murmurings of jinn. These spectral voices are well known on Jebel Hasawna. All who have ever stopped for the night beside the mountain are familiar with them. All who have ever passed through the mountain’s foothills at night also know them well. Cowards dread passing through this mountain range—supposing, like fools, that jinn are more wicked than men! Yet, for his part, Ukhayyad had never known anything more pernicious than humans. Fearful men are best off fearing men. He who supposes people are kind is bound to be injured. He who entrusts his affairs to men will be disappointed. But he who puts his neck in the hands of men is the sorriest of all!

  Ukhayyad had experienced what it meant for a man to pawn his head to a human being. He alone possessed the right to sound the warning. Who would dare to condemn humanity other than he who has learned about humans through hard experience? What person would raise his voice against humanity but one whose feet had once been in the fire? How miserable that person is! How tough his heart must be!

  Then the murmurings ceased.

  He stayed in his hiding place until the late afternoon. In this kingdom of silence, he heard nothing but the ringing in his ears. Had they gone? Had he been imagining things? Or was it really just the muttering of jinn? But jinn chattered to one another only in the dead of night, never at dawn. Dawn was their holy sanctuary. In the Hamada, the break of day meant that everything became mute, and jinn returned to their underworld.

  He wet his saliva with a sip from his waterskin, then removed the stones from the entrance to his hiding place. The light flooded in and blinded his eyes. Like a lizard, he crawled out of the crevice. The late afternoon sun was brutal. He scrambled down the northern slope of the mountain to study their tracks. He walked in the direction he had heard the whisperings coming from at dawn. Ukhayyad had not gone a hundred feet before he nearly bumped into one of them who was crouched over behind a large rock. As the man looked up, Ukhayyad vanished behind the rocks. Had he been seen? Even if he had not been seen, his shadow or outline surely had. The man suddenly moved, scrambling over the rocks across the slope. So, something had alerted his attention and now he was in hot pursuit. The silence that had followed the murmurings had been part of a coordinated plan!

  Ukhayyad crept between the rocks, hiding himself behind stones. He climbed up the slope with hands and feet. Sweat poured from his brow and his heart pounded. Only steps before he reached the entrance to his hiding place, he stumbled into someone or something—a huge moufflon ram, with matted fleece and gnarled horn! The ram was as startled as he and, instead of turning to run, froze suddenly, directly opposite Ukhayyad. He and Ukhayyad stared at one another for a long time. In his eyes, Ukhayyad glimpsed many mysteries. He instantly understood why some men hunt only the moufflon—the animal is no earthly creature, but something divine, more like an angel or emissary. Yes—the moufflon, like the piebald, was a messenger sent from on high. Divine messengers such as these are so very rare!

  He heard the roar of rocks tumbling down the slope, and realized his enemy was not far behind
. Ukhayyad bolted into his hiding place, leaving the stunned ram still standing there. For the first time ever on Jebel Hasawna, it was a human who fled from the majestic moufflon ram. Ukhayyad secured the entrance with stones, held his breath and listened to the pounding of his heart. He had been prompted to jump to safety, not because of his fear of the steadily gaining enemy, but because of this ghostly encounter with the moufflon. At that moment, he remembered the exhausted moufflon painted on the wall and began to tremble.

  The shot rang out. The echo bounced across the mountain for what seemed like an eternity. In places where deep silence reigns, the crash of a gunshot is even more profound. He knew this from having often gone hunting gazelles in nearby valleys during easier years—back before the Italians invaded the country and drove the various tribes into exile.

  Had they hit the ram? The men shouted back and forth to one another. A little later, there was some commotion—they had in fact shot him.

  One of the men walked up to Ukhayyad’s hiding place and called out to his friends, “This is the ram’s den. These are his tracks. These are his droppings. There are no footprints here. I don’t think you saw a person over there. What you saw was the shadow of the moufflon.”

  Ukhayyad wept.

  For the second time in his life, he was crying. He could not hold back the tears in his eyes—they poured out on their own. God had sent him a messenger, and these wicked men had killed it.

  The messenger had erased all traces of human footprints in front of his refuge. He had also left his droppings. Is this what the animal had wanted to tell him by that inscrutable look? Had he been saying, “I’ve come to rescue you from them—so, save yourself!” My God—why did the innocent always fall at the hands of the most malevolent of creatures? Why do such people kill every messenger that is sent to them?

  He listened to the noises outside. Some were busy skinning the animal. Others were collecting the firewood. One of them began to sing at the top of his voice.

  31

  In his crypt, Ukhayyad chewed on a few dates, all the while tortured by the aroma of the meat roasting outside. Throughout the night, the smell had risen up to the summit of the mountain and then wafted down through the crevices in the stone. Eventually, it seeped into Ukhayyad’s hiding place and saturated the still air.

  At the end of the night, he heard one of the men relieving himself at the door to his hiding place. Like a jinn, the man talked to himself, “I still haven’t tasted my moufflon. My moufflon got away. They don’t believe I saw him. I saw the ram of a lifetime, and won’t rest till I catch my prey. How can I go back to the oasis without his head in my hands? If I go back to Adrar without his head as my trophy, that means I’m going back to Aïr without my fair share of the spoils.”

  Then Ukhayyad heard the man sob.

  Ukhayyad could not believe his ears. He held his breath and concentrated all his senses on listening. He was not imagining things: the man was indeed crying. This kind of man was especially terrifying. When a man in the desert cries because he wants something so badly, it means he will surely attain it. This man wanted Ukhayyad’s head—and was crying because he had not got it. My God—had his wretched life suddenly become so important? No, he was not the object of their desire—the gold was. The itinerant herdsman had not been wrong—all his speculation about them had been right. They wanted nothing but the gold. And Ukhayyad was the serpent guarding the treasure. To take their plunder, they would have to kill the serpent standing in their way. He remembered Sheikh Musa’s prayer, “Lord, do not make me guardian over treasures of this world.” Now he understood what this priceless plea meant. The mind of the guardian is never at ease—and the sword lies forever upon his neck.

  His heart now filled with distress—this den at the top of the mountain was not actually secure. All night long, the man’s weeping continued to ring in his ears. Where men suffer, there danger lies. Whenever you hear the man behind you weeping in pain, you can be sure of this: his hand will soon be upon you. Ukhayyad would not find safety in any one place. Safety would now be found only in moving—in fleeing across the wide open deserts.

  He made the decision to abandon the mountain. At dawn tomorrow at the first opportunity, he would leave. During fits of sleep, he visited the house of shadows again. But at dawn, before he found a chance to escape, the piebald returned.

  32

  He heard the uproar on the slope as they surrounded and overwhelmed him. Loud shouts went up. Still, some time passed before Ukhayyad heard his howl of distress, “Aw-a-a-a-a-a-a.”

  What were they doing? The camel’s bellowing returned, even louder than before and now the echoes reverberated back and forth across the mountain peak. Only then did the stench of burning flesh hit his nostrils.

  Now Ukhayyad understood—they were scorching the camel’s skin with hot irons. Burning the animal’s flesh, they seared Ukhayyad’s heart. Hawks cannot be caught unless you disturb their nests. And these men knew where Ukhayyad’s nest was—Dudu’s servants had led the men right to the camel. Maybe the toothless herder was among them, acting as their guide? Sheikh Musa had been right—he was right about everything: “Place your heart nowhere but in heaven. If you leave it in the care of someone on earth, it will be stolen and burnt into cinders.” Sheikh Musa had never pawned his heart, nor had he loaned it to anyone. He had never married, never had children, and never raised herds of sheep or camels. Perhaps that was how he remained free from worry. In fact, the sheikh was never angry, nor did he laugh. There was only ever a constant smile on his lips. Ukhayyad had defied the sheikh’s wisdom—he had made the mistake of putting his heart into the care of a friend. By placing his heart with the piebald, the hand of sin had managed to catch him—the hand of men.

  Again, the cry of distress rent the desert silence. Again, it echoed across the mountains, “Aw-a-a-a-a-a-a.”

  His nostrils were singed by another waft of burning flesh. A scorching gust of wind carried it into his vault, setting fire to his heart in the process. The smell of burning skin became a blaze in his heart.

  He removed the stones blocking the crevice, and the light blinded his eyes. He crawled on all fours, shielding his eyes. The scorching smell of burning flesh intensified as it mixed with the smoke of burning wood. He spotted the men gathered around the piebald on the slope. Some of them pulled on ropes, while others heated up knives and irons in the shimmering fire.

  The smell of burning flesh was finally too much to bear.

  Ukhayyad scrambled down the mountain face. Stones tore at his skin and clothes—a jagged rock ripped the turban from his head.

  Wounded, bareheaded, and in tatters, he stood before them. They studied him in silence. He glared at them in silence. The old herder was not among them, and Ukhayyad felt a vague sense of relief. Without exchanging a word, the men tied him up. The piebald’s body was bloodied and burnt. They had even scarred his face with hot metal and ripped open his muzzle with a red-hot knife. Blood poured from the animal’s torn hide.

  “Remember how Tanis took revenge on her wicked co-wife?” asked a burly man who reeked of burnt flesh.

  He then turned toward Ukhayyad. “Do you remember how the co-wife got what she deserved?”

  They bound his arms and legs with rope, then brought over two camels. They tied his right hand and foot to one, his left hand and foot to the other. The hefty man began to call, “Whip them, whip them!” The tongue of the lash licked at their bodies and the camels bolted—one to the right, the other to the left. Suddenly, Ukhayyad found himself stretched between the realms once more. Again, he was tumbing into the well, into the space between the edge above and the water below. Again, he was falling to that space where he had once glimpsed paradise. The houris began to trill and on Jebel Hasawna the jinn began to wail and wail.

  “The sheikhs won’t believe us if we don’t bring them a piece of evidence,” a voice said.

  With bloody arms and legs, Ukhayyad attempted to pull his torn body along the ground. T
he camel on the right, the stronger of the two, had ripped Ukhayyad’s thigh and arm from their sockets. His body was broken, yet Ukhayyad tried to lift his head.

  The hefty man approached, sword glittering in hand. Ukhayyad asked one of them to help him—but was repulsed. He turned toward the mountain and, with a loud noise, his insides began to pour out. Another man walked over to Ukhayyad and gripped his bare head in his hands. The sword flew across the sky. As it moved, it seemed to perform its ablutions in the waters of the sky, in the cruel rays of the sun. Then it landed across his neck.

  Across the twilight a sudden glow broke. The dream house of shadows was shaken by a massive earthquake. Its terrible wall began to collapse, struck by the blow of a sword of light. Only now did the invisible being of his dreams finally show itself as clear as day. It had finally become manifest in that moment when Ukhayyad could no longer tell anyone what he had seen.

  Translator’s Afterword

  Gold Dust takes place in a world of contrasts—desolate rock plateaus, lush oases, and far-flung pastures abounding in mythical flora and fauna, all surrounded by endless wastes traversed solely by camel herders, dervishes, and the occasional caravan. The focus of this novel is not the desert itself, but rather the lives of desert dwellers as they struggle against forces beyond their control. In an echo of Ibn Khaldun’s great treatise on human society, al-Muqaddima, time in Gold Dust moves in cycles rather than lines. Indeed, the desert is not timeless but seasonal—with wet seasons of abundance and flourish, followed by years of drought and hardship. Human time, too, moves in this way in the novel: characters grow and wither, win and lose; caravans come and go, bringing with them holy men and refugees, riches, and misery. And always, in the background, there are the winds of empire that buffet the desert world, with barbaric French and Italian incursions from the north and reverberations from the rise and fall of African kingdoms to the south.