E. Hoffmann Price's Fables of Ismeddin MEGAPACK®

by E. Hoffmann Price

  Then, as they emerged from the jungle, Ismeddin set spurs to his horse and, followed by Shams ud Din, galloped eastward toward Bir el Asad.

  * * * *

  Shams ud Din and the darwish reined in their foaming horses at the Isfayan Gate, where, looking down the broad avenue toward the palace and the Residency, they commanded a full view of the scene whose red glow on the sky had served them as a beacon during the last hour of their ride to Bir el Asad.

  Great slabs of paving had been torn up and piled to form barricades to block the streets leading to the square in front of the palace. The sultry glow of the souk, now in smoldering ruins, was seconded by the bright flames that were lapping up Harat ul ’Ajemi. The roar of muzzle-loaders and the shouts of the besiegers all along the line was accented by the intermittent rattle of a pair of machine-guns nested at the further flank. Spurts of flame from windows and the parapet of the palace showed that some of Maqsoud’s handful of troops were loyal. Bullets ricocheted from the facade of the palace, and whined away into the darkness.

  A rocket serpentined from the courtyard of the palace, and burst high overhead. A green and two red stars hung in the darkness for a few moments, and vanished. Then from a great distance came the silvery whisper of a bugle.

  “Feringhi horse!” exclaimed Ismeddin. “That call is the signal to take up the gallop. A large outfit, or they wouldn’t use bugle signals. The Resident’s couriers must have wormed their way through Abd ur Rahman’s outposts. Now get busy before the Resident knows relief is on the way.”

  From within the palace came the brazen, reverberant note of a great gong whose sonorous clang drowned the shouting and musketry and the kettledrums of the besiegers.

  “Maqsoud calling for a parley,” declared the darwish. “He didn’t hear that bugle.”

  “Maqsoud had better keep his head behind the parapet,” observed Shams ud Din. “Look! By Allah! It is Maqsoud!”

  “Then stand fast, sidi,” counseled Ismeddin. “His foolhardiness may serve us well enough.”

  Shouts and howls from the barricades. The besiegers accelerated their heavy, ragged volleys: a storm of one-ounce slugs kept the defenders under cover, knocked loose splinters of masonry that spoiled their aim.

  “No, they didn’t get Maqsoud,” said Ismeddin. “He didn’t drop; he ducked. Look! The Resident! Strolling down the parapet with his orderly and a flag of truce. The idiot! What do they know about flags of truce?… Wallahi! If they hit him, the whole British army will clean us out to the last man—”

  The Sultan leaned forward in the saddle, spurred his weary horse, and charged down the avenue, straight toward the square and into the field of fire.

  “Back, fool!” roared Ismeddin.

  And then the darwish charged after Shams ud Din.

  Sir John still rode up and down the parapet; but now he directed the fire of the defenders, seeing the futility of flags of truce.

  Into the cross fire rode Shams ud Din, and after him clattered Ismeddin, blowing hoarse blasts on a ram’s horn.

  “Cease firing, oh sons of pigs!” shouted Shams ud Din as he reined his horse back to his haunches and wheeled to the right to face the besiegers.

  “Come out from behind that barricade, oh eaters of pork! Allah and by Allah, and again by Allah!” raged Shams ud Din. “I’ll have every last man of you flayed alive and crucified—”

  The firing in front of him ceased; and then, all along the line it died out.

  “Mashallah! Shams ud Din—”

  “Yes, by God! He will crucify us all—”

  “There is an amir for you!”

  “He will flay us alive!”

  “Just like his father—”

  “May Allah be pleased with him!”

  And tossing their weapons ahead of them, the rioters clambered over the barricade, noisily acclaiming the son of their old chief.

  Shams ud Din very sternly regarded his father’s white-bearded companions as they knelt in the square about his horse’s hoofs.

  “Oh, crack-brains! Oh dogs, and sons of dogs! You who burn my city the moment my back is turned! Bade to your houses while I deal with that infidel up there on the wall. And as for you—”

  Shams ud Din wheeled his horse about, and followed by Ismeddin, rode toward the entrance of the palace.

  “Oh, excellent prince!”

  “He is our father and our grandfather!”

  “He will forgive us—”

  And the Companions adjourned, content with a rich, riotous day resurrected from the limbo of the past, and confident that the wrath of their suddenly materialized sultan would not demand an unreasonable number of beheadings and impalements.

  * * * *

  “Sidi,” announced Ismeddin as he stalked into the Sultan’s private audience hall, where he was receiving the jewelers detailed to erect the long-planned Peacock Throne, “with your permission I am setting out for Herat in the morning.”

  The jewelers withdrew at the Sultan’s gesture of dismissal.

  “And so I can’t persuade you to quit robbing caravans, and to stay here as my chief wazir?”

  “Sidi, a wazir must appear at court in rich dress, and an elegant turban, and wear a curled beard, as befits the dignity of his office.”

  “Well,” said the Sultan, “doubtless you would miss that ragged djellab which was last washed in the reign of my saintly grandfather. Still—”

  “No, my lord,” protested Ismeddin. “In court dress I would bear a startling semblance to the venerable Shaykh Ahmad, and the noble British government would know more than it should.”

  “Shaykh Ahmad?” queried the Sultan. “Yes, by your head and by your beard, ya sidi! Shaykh Ahmad, who started the rioting on the souk. And now that Maqsoud’s head adorns the Isfayan Gate, and you will soon adorn the Peacock Throne, I must keep my engagement in Herat.”

  With a ceremonious bow, Ismeddin left the Presence.

  “May Allah preserve Herat!” muttered the Sultan, as he clapped his hands to summon the jewelers.

  ISMEDDIN AND THE HOLY CARPET

  Originally published in The Magic Carpet Magazine, January 1933.

  “Ismeddin,” said the Sultan of Bir el Asad to the white-bearded darwish who scorned the cushions of the diwan and sat on the sand-strewn floor of the private reception hall, “there is a mad inglesi, Captain Rankin, who is bent on stealing the Holy Carpet from the shrine of that Persian heretic, Imam Ismail, may Allah not bless him!”

  “The fool will probably be torn to pieces by the brethren of the monastery, or if he escapes their hands, the Amir will have him flayed alive,” observed Ismeddin the Darwish. “But what’s that to us?”

  “In the old days,” replied the Sultan, “it would have been nothing but good riddance. But now—well, times have changed. His Excellency the British Resident—”

  The Sultan spat ostentatiously to cleanse his mouth of the contamination of the last phrase.

  “The Resident will have a great deal of explaining ahead of him when his superiors hear of the captain’s adventure. You see, Sir John issued a permit for Captain Rankin to excavate in the ruins just outside our walls, and carry on with the various idiocies so dear to these infidel pork-eaters, may Allah blacken them! And if Captain Rankin’s hide is nailed to the door of Imam Ismail’s shrine, the noble British government will demand Sir John’s hide for not having kept him from stirring up trouble and losing his very valuable head.”

  “But supposing that Captain Rankin does steal the Holy Carpet?” asked the darwish. “He’s a clever fellow, and he might succeed. What then?”

  “Worse and worse!” replied the Sultan. “Those wild men of Kuh-i-Atesh will pour down out of the hills and loot the British mining concessions by way of reprisal. And there will be demonstrations in any number of
places where the infidel hoof is planted on Moslem necks. Then after enough towns here and there have been shelled by British artillery, Sir John’s successor would quarter a couple of regiments here, and all but depose me. Shaytan rip him open, he’s bad enough, but there could be worse Residents! And so I’ve got to help the infidel out of this mess.”

  “Well,” submitted Ismeddin, “why doesn’t Sir John send him to the coast under guard? That would dispose of him in a hurry.”

  “Allah and again, by Allah! So he would, ya Ismeddin! So he would, if he could. But he can’t. Captain Rankin disappeared last night on his way from the Residency, and Sir John’s guard has been combing the town for him ever since.

  “The scientist and archeologist vanished. I told Sir John to watch that fellow. I knew that his diggings and prowlings were a mask for something. I’ve heard of Rankin’s doings in the secret service, and his roaming about, disguised as a true believer. And once they get into that habit, there’s only one way of curing them.”

  The Sultan’s swift gesture indicated that the executioner’s two-handed sword was the infallible cure.

  “But Sir John laughed. And now he’s driving me mad, asking me to devise some way of stopping the theft, and saving Sir John’s residential hide.

  “That’s why I called you. Keep Captain Rankin from plundering the shrine of Imam Ismail, and see that he gets back with his head on his shoulders—though a head that full of idiocy would serve as well in almost any position. Those Feringhi fools and their custom of collecting ancient carpets!”

  “My lord,” said the darwish as the Sultan paused for breath, “I once saw that carpet as I looked in through the door of the monastery of the Holy Brethren. It’s about the length of two boys and the width of three men, and very worn. But it is a wonder, and a coolness to the eyes. Looking at it is like listening to exalting music. In the entire world there is not its like or equal. It is woven of moonbeams, and the smiles of Turki dancing girls. Still—”

  Ismeddin felt his neck for a moment, just about where a scimitar stroke would separate head and shoulders, and made a grimace.

  “Still, this Rankin is doubtless a fool. And Sir John’s another, asking you to cover all the ground between here and Kuh-i-Atesh, and bag the captain before he gets into mischief.

  “I saw him, some ten years ago, in uniform. But when he’s in disguise, his own men don’t recognize him. The chances are that he will steal the Holy Carpet—”

  The darwish paused to stroke his beard, and smiled as at an ancient jest.

  “In fact, ya sidi, there is no way to stop him: except shooting him in his tracks, which you forbid.”

  Then the darwish rose and took un-ceremonious leave of the Sultan.

  * * * *

  That evening Ismeddin called on Sir John at the Residency.

  The Resident listened attentively to Ismeddin’s plan, and registered but one protest.

  “But we simply can’t have Captain Rankin lashed to a camel’s back and carried back here by those—” Sir John coughed, and continued, “By those Pious Companions of His Majesty the Sultan’s late father. A certain propriety must be observed, if you get what I mean.”

  “Entirely so, Your Excellency,” assured the darwish in English, which he could speak whenever he chose. “I understand perfectly that his Britannic Majesty’s subjects must be treated with deference, even if they are engaged, so to speak, in—”

  Ismeddin’s command of English faltered for a moment, and Sir John hoped that for propriety’s sake the darwish wouldn’t select the word that he seemed on the point of pronouncing; although desperation had driven the Resident to the point of being able gracefully to ignore breaches of etiquette.

  “—engaged in prying into the mysteries of the dancing darwishes,” continued Ismeddin. “His Majesty the Sultan insisted that I use diplomacy, and as soon as I find Captain Rankin, convince him that his course is causing you great embarrassment.

  “Just so, Sir John. Quite,” concluded Ismeddin gravely.

  Ismeddin’s mimicry of Sir John’s speech was obvious enough to goad the Resident to the verge of apoplexy; but he knew that the wily old scoundrel was the key to a ticklish situation, and controlled his flaming desire to have the darwish soundly flogged.

  It was a relief when Ismeddin made inquiry as to whether Captain Rankin wrote the Arabic script as well as he spoke the language.

  Ismeddin, upon learning that the talented captain could write half a dozen styles of script with uncommon elegance, announced his intention of then and there starting on the trail, and left the Residency.

  “Well,” reflected Sir John, “that old beggar may turn the trick for the Sultan’s sake. And I’ll probably pay for his services with several uncomfortable moments before I see the last of this Holy Carpet affair.”

  Then, as he watched Ismeddin striding on foot through the Isfayan Gate, past the sentries, “Some one would do very well to double the guards about his stables. That fellow won’t be on foot very long.”

  Sir John was right: although, urged by some unusual whim, it was Ismeddin’s own horse that he mounted.

  * * * *

  The cloak of the darwish covers diverse possibilities, ranging from the Rufai who mortify the body with hot irons and knives, to the well-fed Melewi in their substantial monasteries, seeking oneness with Allah by pious meditation and the contemplation of divine harmony. The darwish may wander through the Moslem world alone, on foot, and in rags, with no possessions save his beggar’s bowl, his knowledge of magic and medicine, and his reputation for loving nothing but books and study; or he may ride about on a blooded mare, followed by a handful of retainers, and bristling with weapons and arrogance.

  A disgraced prime minister or ruined governor may seek the path to heaven, in the guise of the darwish; and the idler, vagabond or scoundrel may rely on that same cloak of eccentricity to carry him safe and harmless. He may pray, or not, just as he elects. And whenever he is in difficulties, his real or feigned madness will win him tolerance, fear, and respect. The darwish, in short, is the privileged adventurer of the Orient, and may be anything from a saint to a cutthroat.

  And thus Ismeddin the Darwish rode into the mountains, this time not to loot a pack train, but to prevent the theft of the Holy Carpet that hung before the tomb of the Imam Ismail in the monastery of the Dancing Darwishes of fanatical Kuh-i-Atesh. Ismeddin’s heart was not in his work, for he would have preferred being Captain Rankin’s ally rather than adversary.

  “Allah sift me!” exclaimed Ismeddin as he took the trail. “That Feringhi dog, Sir John, is becoming the pest of my life. Shaytan blacken him, but I’ll make him sweat for a moment before he gets any good news I’ll bring him!”

  As he rode, Ismeddin plotted the details of the nebulous plan he had conceived. With one short cut and another, he reduced whatever lead Captain Rankin had gained by his earlier start; for with his acquaintance with obscure mountain trails, the darwish could afford to give heavy odds.

  Whether Rankin would travel as a beggar, an itinerant physician, or as a darwish, Ismeddin would not hazard a guess. But he was certain that Rankin would look the part, act the part, and, in the more odoriferous roles, smell the part he played; Rankin was one of those rare Europeans who had perfectly mastered not only the guttural sounds of Oriental languages, but also the thousand intricacies of ritual that guide the East through its daily life: so that Ismeddin’s only hope would be to trip his adversary on an obscure point that even that master had overlooked. The darwish knew that he had to probe very deeply through Rankin’s years of acquired Oriental thoughts and touch an instinct that would infallibly reveal the Englishman. And this done, he had to employ the betraying gesture in such a way as to dissuade Rankin from his quest, and at the same time, not actually expose the audacious captain to a certain and sanguinary doom in forbidden Kuh-i-Ates
h, a city as holy now as it had been in the old, pre-Moslem days.

  But before Rankin was tripped, he must first be recognized.

  * * * *

  Ismeddin’s scouting through the hills was circuitous in the extreme; and thus toward the end of the second day, he was riding, for the time being, away from his ultimate goal. The rumors he had collected and sifted totaled exactly nothing at all, except the news that one Abdullah ibn Yusuf, a pious and learned scribe, had passed through Wadi el Ghorab, on his way north.

  Even if this pious and learned person were indeed Captain Rankin, there would be no virtue in overtaking him on the road, for accosting him in the marketplace of Kuh-i-Atesh would be a much more effective way of bluffing the talented infidel. And as the darwish made his camp that night in a cave known by him from old times, he was still at a loss as to the best approach.

  To expose Rankin as an infidel would be futile. If he failed, he would only strengthen Rankin’s position; if he succeeded, his victim would have no chance to retreat from his perilous venture. And a threat of exposure as an unbeliever would certainly be ignored by Rankin, who had in Mekka survived denunciation as an impostor. And thus and thus Ismeddin pondered until sleep found him in his cave.

  Several hours later, Shaykh Hussayn, the chief of the Companions, woke the darwish from his light sleep. He fanned the embers of the dying fire, as Ismeddin wrote, and sealed the writing with a signet depending from a cord about his neck.

  “Ride back to Bir el Asad,” directed the darwish, “and give this to the Sultan. And remember, keep the Companions under cover while waiting for further word from me. Above all, don’t let them amuse themselves by looting any villages.”

  “How about pack trains?” inquired Shaykh Hussayn gravely.

  “Shaytan blacken thee, and no pack trains either! Now ride, and I will do likewise,” replied Ismeddin as he mounted his horse.