by Yashar Kemal
She took another two steps, but her legs failed her and she sank down. Quickly she pushed herself up, tottered back to the house and threw herself upon her bed, half fainting.
Ali was touched. ‘Mother!’ he cried as he rushed after her. ‘Don’t distress yourself. It’s not because of you I’m staying here. I can swear that on the Koran, on my children’s heads …’ He spoke in her ear as though confiding a great secret. ‘Wait, listen and I’ll tell you. There’s something …’ He paused and looked about warily. ‘I’m going to tell you my secret, Mother, but mind you don’t give it away, not to anyone on earth, not even to the birds and beasts …’
Meryemdje’s brow cleared, her breathing came more easily. Her dim eyes brightened and colour returned to her face. She was all attention.
‘It’s because of Tashbash,’ Ali told her. ‘I’ve decided to wait for him here. Maybe he’ll come back to us, and as he’s a saint now, he’ll be able to help us and make our lot a little easier. And then there’s Spellbound Ahmet. I want to see him too …’
Meryemdje sat up and glared at him. ‘Are you trying to fool me? Me!’ Then she sank back on to her pallet. ‘Aaah,’ she sighed, ‘Tashbash is just like you and me, born of human flesh. And as for Spellbound Ahmet … Who knows where he’s roaming now, the poor crazed lad …’
‘Well, there you are! I’ll wait for him here. And then …’
A thin scornful smile flitted across Meryemdje’s lips. Ali saw that she was not to be so easily convinced. He had to think of something else. He rose and began to pace the room. Suddenly he stopped short. His hands locked behind his back, he took up a triumphant stance and gave a peal of laughter. Meryemdje looked at him pityingly as at a child.
‘Mother,’ he whispered in a mysterious voice, ‘shall I tell you the truth? Why I don’t want to go down to the cotton this year? Guess. Come now, guess.’ He laughed. ‘All right, I’ll tell you. It’s because I’ve found out there’s no cotton to be picked this year. All the crop has been eaten up by worms, and what with the drought, even the streams have run dry in the Chukurova. Not a green thing to be found anywhere. So why follow those stupid villagers and go through all that bother for nothing? Just you wait. You’ll see how they’ll all be back in no time with empty hands and sore feet, exhausted.’
Meryemdje propped herself up on her elbows. ‘Let’s go, my child,’ she said. ‘It’s not good to stray from the flock. There may be no cotton, no rice, the streams may run dry and the earth be burnt to cinders, but the Chukurova’s still the Chukurova, rich and bountiful. We must go, my child, we must. And without delay …’
‘Well, I won’t!’ Ali burst out. ‘I’m not mad. Waste land, that’s what the Chukurova is this year, waste barren land. We’ve got plenty of that around here as it is, haven’t we?’
Meryemdje fell back and moaned: ‘But we must go! It’s not good to break with the old customs. Waste land or not, even if we have to die on the way, we must go …’
Ali’s arms dropped to his sides. Suddenly he flung himself out of the house and rushed out of the village towards the grey undulating steppe. Wave after wave of screeching birds went sweeping by over his head. Red whirling thistles streamed through the air like the birds, wave after wave. Beyond the hill he knew of a solitary place where a meagre spring trickled out from the foot of a leafless tree which no one had ever identified, but which had always stood there, bald and decrepit. He passed over the crest and through the valley with its blue earth dotted with red and yellow flowered thistles, and came to the old bare tree. He leaned against its trunk and closed his eyes, but the grey and blue earth, the red whirling thistles, the white clouds, the screeching birds, the whole world kept spinning in his head. An irresistible impulse seized him to run and leave everything behind, his home and children, his mother, the murmuring spring and the howling whirling red-thistled wolf-haunted steppe. A sharp pain stabbed knife-like at his body. He opened his eyes and ran on to the next hilltop. From there he could see down below the white road that wound down to the Chukurova. It was swathed in mist, and the sight reminded him of the sea as he had first seen it, vast, overpowering, with a salty tang that was like the smell of the steppe.
He sat down and did not stir until well into the afternoon. In the recesses of his mind, somewhere very near to his heart, images of the Chukurova began to emerge, the distant sea, cotton fields and rice paddies, greasy tractors, hundreds and hundreds of barefoot ragged labourers migrating down the dusty roads, shiny new cars, the smell of petrol. The anguish in his heart lessened. Instead a longing took hold of him. He pressed his hand to the warm earth and gazed at the dust-swirled road. A strong wind was blowing in the direction of the Chukurova, whipping up dust-devils and sweeping them on into the green and blue and mauve of the distant forest. And beyond was the Chukurova with its cotton fields, its teeming roads … A warm smiling rosiness slowly suffused his sallow, unshaven face. He dashed down the slope and ran all the way home.
‘Elif!’ he called out breathlessly. ‘Elif, come here.’
She appeared on the threshold at once and was startled by the expression on his face. He drew her away to the farthest corner of the neighbouring house.
‘We must go down to the Chukurova, Elif. There’s no other way.’
‘I know, but what about Mother? She’ll never be able to walk and you can’t carry her on your back like last year.’
A cold shudder ran down Ali’s spine. His bones ached suddenly. ‘I’ve thought of something … Something we can do, but …’
‘What? What?’ Elif shouted, her eyes widening with suspense.
‘Shh,’ he whispered, putting his hand to her lips. ‘She mustn’t hear us. Now listen. Why shouldn’t Mother remain here in the village?’
‘All by herself!’ Elif exclaimed. ‘Alone in this empty village? A helpless old woman … Why, we wouldn’t find a single bone of her body when we came back!’
‘Is that what you think, Elif?’ He shook his head despondently. ‘Yes, perhaps you’re right. Then there’s no help for it, we stay here and let Adil Effendi do his worst.’
‘Or else she’d set out after us,’ Elif pursued. ‘And we’d find her dead on the road …’
‘Well, I don’t know. I’m at my wits’ end. This empty village is driving me mad. It’s like a graveyard.’
A deathly stillness weighed over them. No living thing was to be seen, save a few cats and dogs, and soon these too would take themselves off.
A deserted village, a grey bare stretch of land, dotted with red, the crystal-red of the whirling thistles. The low huts made of earth with their chimneys jutting out looking like a truncated forest … A corner of nature untrodden by human feet, as solitary as the steppe, as windswept as a mountain top, the few living creatures only adding to its hollow desolation, prowling dogs with hunched backs, and lone cats, arched up, their fur on end … Cold, forlorn …
For three whole days Ali rambled through the empty village. He could not eat, he could not sleep. He thought and thought, desperately.
4
How Old Halil waited up all night in the cotton field for his fellow villagers to find him
Memidik was the first to see it. He thought it was an old sack of fodder left there by last year’s labourers. Then as he drew nearer he discerned a pair of glinting eyes and his heart gave a jump. Strange thoughts rushed through his mind. He took another two steps and realized it must be a man. A man? But so still … And those eyes! Never blinking, not once … Struck with fear he turned and ran all the way back to the edge of the cotton field where the Yalak villagers had built their wattle-huts and were hastily settling their belongings in a race against the oncoming darkness.
‘I’ve seen something,’ he cried breathlessly. ‘May my two eyes drop down in front of me if I’m lying. There’s something in the middle of the field, a black heap, only it’s got eyes, a pair of bright burning eyes, and it doesn’t move at all, no more than a rock …’
The field spread out pale wi
th cotton right down to the Jeyhan River, ending in a coppice that topped its banks.
There was a sudden lull, and Shirtless rose heavily to his feet.
‘You’ve been having visions again,’ he said. ‘You’ll be telling us next that you saw seven balls of light as big as mountains behind your shadow.’
‘I didn’t see any lights,’ Memidik said. ‘But its eyes were bright as lamps.’
Shirtless grabbed Memidik by the neck. ‘All right, lead the way, you wretched lad,’ he said. ‘It’s always you who are at the bottom of every piece of nonsense that’s spread abroad. Remember the Green Hodja’s old rifle suddenly sprouting forth leaves and flowers too? Go on! Walk.’ And he forged ahead with long stiff strides, one hand firmly grasping Memidik by the neck, just as though he were a rabbit.
The others left their work and followed. Sefer the Muhtar, who had been standing a little apart, his head bent in thought, looked up curiously and fell in after them.
But when Shirtless caught a first glimpse of the shadow in the distance, his pace slackened. He was suddenly assailed by doubts. The villagers too advanced more warily. At last Shirtless came to a standstill. The others stopped at once, almost knocking into each other.
‘Who’s that?’ Shirtless cried out in his deep booming voice. ‘Get up. Get up if you’re not dead … Say something!’
There was no sign of life from the dark form. No one moved.
Shirtless took a step forward. ‘Why don’t you get up?’ he shouted again. ‘Come here …’ Then he turned to Memidik. ‘Look here, man,’ he said, ‘you’re supposed to be the great hunter, the one that walks abroad in the night. Go on and see what kind of creature’s sitting there. Go, what are you waiting for?’ And he shoved him forward.
Memidik was really frightened now. He could not imagine what the shadow might be. Those eyes! So bright … Such eyes could only belong to the Lord Tashbash.
As the evening faded into night the shadow began to broaden and lengthen and the villagers were more and more afraid. Could it be Tashbash come back? Or perhaps the Hodja with the magic green rifle? The Chukurova was haunted with jinn and peris, to say nothing of its notorious dragon …
Shirtless tackled Memidik again. ‘Well, why don’t you move, you white-livered, bogus hunter? Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a mere shadow!’ And he gave a push that sent Memidik headlong to within fifty paces of the shadow. A perceptible ripple ran through the creature. Memidik took to his heels, yelling.
Shirtless strode up to him threateningly. ‘Coward!’ he shouted. ‘Why did you have to tell us then? Wandering about in the night like that to no purpose at all …’
The villagers were silent.
Shirtless began to exhort the shadow again. He shouted himself hoarse, leaping about in helpless rage, but to no avail. He could get nothing out of the creature and somehow his feet refused to take a step forward; it was as though they had been fettered to the ground. Tired at last he turned to the villagers.
‘This Chukurova’s a strange place,’ he said in a subdued voice. ‘They say its every fly is really a jinn, its bees are devils in disguise and its serpents secret dragons … We must be very careful. That thing there, who knows if it isn’t some phantom come to haunt the place. And those eyes! Only the sultan of all the jinn could have such flashing eyes. Come, my friends, let’s not wait here any longer. The thing’ll be gone by tomorrow, for jinns hate the light of day. They melt away at the very first ray of light. The sultan of the jinn is also the lord of darkness. Come, let’s go …’
And so they made their way back to the wattle-huts. Fires were lit and the men sat about them in silence with hanging heads, waiting for the evening meal to be cooked. From afar came the rumble of busy tractors. Their headlights dotted the night like a starry sky. Everyone’s thoughts dwelt on the dark thing up there in the middle of the field, with its flashing eyes. They were uneasy but they would have been so even without that strange shadow. It was the same every year when they came down to the Chukurova. A feeling of eeriness, a fluttering fear would take hold of them, but it would gradually die down as time wore on, leaving only a crushed undercurrent of disquiet.
What could the thing be? Would it vanish with the dawn? Or was it only human? But then, why didn’t it move, why had it those eyes of fire? That night no one slept. Each one wove a tale in his mind about the creature in the field, and that pair of flashing eyes haunted them till morning.
The Chukurova’s not to be trusted. It is a plain, flat, immense, boundless, with swamps and bogs and rivers and beyond it the wide sea … It is an endless whiteness, where tall whirling dust-devils prowl the land like huge motley giants reaching to the sky. The Chukurova is all yellow heat, a stretch of burning soil, treeless, grassless. It is the swarms and swarms of mosquitoes, the fever and the sickness, aching bones and furrowing sweat, shining cars and tractors and harvesting machines. It is a creature out of this world, mute, yet its voice is raised in a long cry, it has hands of soft cotton, hair of silk, panama hats, white garments, dark eyes … The Chukurova’s not to be trusted. A green dragon that comes hissing out of the skies. The villagers from up the Taurus Mountains are never at ease in the land of Chukurova. They live with one thought, to earn enough money and then to get back to their village as soon as possible. The very day they set foot in the cotton fields, a yearning for their mountains is kindled in their hearts and burns on to the very last day.
That night Memidik did not go to bed. He could not overcome his dread, but he was also devoured by curiosity. It was as though someone had chained him there. He could not tear himself away, nor could he force himself to draw any nearer. He kept circling watchfully around the shadow, but at a safe distance.
With the first light of dawn the villagers rose for the cotton picking. A cool breeze had sprung up, chilling the children’s faces. No one dared to look at the place where the thing had been the night before. But just as the sun was about to rise, Memidik came running, breathless with excitement.
‘It’s a man, a man! Not a jinn, not a peri, only a man.’
He turned and rushed back. The others followed close behind. They came to a stop at a respectful distance from the object. But now it was a small trembling thing, that seemed to dwindle with the light of day.
Then Shirtless recognized him. ‘Good God!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s Uncle Halil in the flesh!’ He went to the old man who had drawn himself up into a small ball and helped him to his feet. ‘Why, Uncle Halil,’ he expostulated as he led him to the wattle-huts, ‘what kind of a man are you, disappearing in the dead of winter and then coming back like this, to scare the wits out of us! Everyone’s glad to see you back again alive and well, but it gave us a turn, you know. What eyes you’ve got, Uncle Halil! The eyes of an old wolf.’
The crowd followed, silent at first. Then everyone burst into talk and it sounded like a loud report in the early-morning stillness of the plain.
5
How Meryemdje fell asleep and was left all alone in the empty village
Hassan and Ummahan were busy exploring the empty houses. They had penetrated into them all, but only Köstüoglu’s door would not budge. The children were intrigued. People never locked their houses on leaving for the Chukurova. What could it be that Köstüoglu had wanted to hide? They had also taken stock of the swallows’ nests. There was one in almost every house, but in Tashbash’s house they counted as many as sixteen.
‘Sixteen nests!’ Ummahan exclaimed. ‘When everyone else has only one! That shows that even the swallows know he’s a saint.’
Hassan was given to contradicting his sister, but here he could say nothing for he loved Tashbash, saint or no saint, and missed him dreadfully.
‘I wish Uncle Tashbash hadn’t become a saint,’ he complained. ‘Now he’s had to go away and I miss him so much. And what good has it done us? Or him? Even if he’s living now with the Forty Holy Men in their magic cave …’
‘The Forty Holy Men!’ Ummahan broke in. ‘With t
heir bright green robes! They say their faces are green too, holy green, and their hands, and …’
‘Shut up!’ Hassan shouted. ‘What do I care about their green? I want my Uncle Tashbash. He would have been here now if he hadn’t become one of them. He’d never have left us all alone in this empty village.’
‘But he comes to Mount Tekech, don’t forget. Every single night he walks there in his green glowing robes, and his seven balls of light, tall as poplars, are always behind him. Granny told me so …’
‘Liar!’ Hassan was annoyed. ‘A shameless liar, that’s what you are. Everyone knows Granny’s sworn not to speak to anyone in this village, not even to its ants and birds. Why should she break her oath and talk to you?’
‘Well, she did,’ Ummahan retorted. ‘And, what’s more, she talks to me every night, but in whispers, after we’ve gone to bed. Why shouldn’t I talk to my own granddaughter, she said to me … And anyway, didn’t you hear her speaking to Father quite openly only yesterday?’
‘Shut up and don’t bother me any more, you wretched girl,’ Hassan cried angrily. ‘You and your grandmother! You’re a burden to us all, both of you.’
Ummahan looked crestfallen. ‘It’s true,’ she said mournfully. ‘We’re a burden to you, Granny and I. It’s because of us that Father can’t go to pick cotton. You’ll all go hungry this winter because of us, and Adil Effendi will come and strip our house bare. I wish we could die, Granny and I, like that you’d be rid of us. You’ll be able to go to the Chukurova, once we’re dead, Granny and I …’
Hassan could never bear it when his sister talked like this. ‘It’s not because of you,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s because Father’s decided to wait for Uncle Tashbash who will never come when all the others are here; that’s because he’s a saint now and saints don’t show themselves to everyone. But he will to Father. So you can go and tell Granny not to worry. It’s not because of her.’
