XIX

Abu Khalìl, the fat taverner, sat in the doorway of his shop, blinking at the sunlight on the rough stones of the castle wall. Piercing cries of importunate salesmen, warning shouts of donkey-boys and muleteers⁠—all the hubbub of the neighbouring market reached him as a hum of insects. He nodded with it after the manner of the very fat, to whom the world’s bustle is a perpetual lullaby.

A few dogs lay stretched in the sun’s eye as if they had a mind to be well roasted throughout. Beneath a dirty awning, spread to shelter a stall of candies and sherbet, a white-turbaned negro, its owner, was dozing in the yellow shade beside his wares, his cheek reposing on a certain dainty of white sugar, finespun and silky, which hung tangled tresses over the end of a wooden case. A tod of hyssop, springing from a rift in the old stonework, had dusty leaves and looked sickly in contrast with its pendant of deep shadow. A green lizard slumbered on a jutting stone. Abu Khalìl blinked at all these things until they mixed in rosy haze before his eyes. The lizard seemed to fall upon the awning, the negro and his sweetmeats were lifted up to meet it, the hyssop swelled to a great tree, and Abu Khalìl’s head dropped forward with a grunt of surrender.

When Saïd and the old beggar came upon him he was fast asleep and snoring. His fat chin formed three several folds upon his breast, his hands were clasped loosely upon his well-filled girdle. He looked up with a start as their shadows fell short and black on the cobbles before him; but it was more likely the clap of their slippers which awakened him. With a noise between a camel’s groan and the puff of a swimmer he half-rose to welcome them. The huge mass moved grudgingly, forming strange creases at the joints.

“May thy day be happy, O Mustafa! How is business?” he muttered sleepily, and fell back at once to the restful posture which suited his bulk. His glance of recognition at Saïd was keener, being mixed with curiosity.

“So thou didst find thy way, effendi? I am happy.” His eyes expressed an indolent wish to know what could have drawn a young man whose beard was nicely trimmed, who was clad in a decent robe of striped silk not very greasy, to consort with that aged scapegrace.

“What is there to eat?” asked Mustafa, choosing a seat within the tavern. “This day is a festival with me, for I have recovered my son who was lost. So I said to my soul: O Soul, we must rejoice and be lazy until the evening, because it has pleased Allah to restore my son to me who have been long desolate. Furthermore I said: O Soul, we will repair to the house of Abu Khalìl, the illustrious⁠—may Allah preserve him to us!⁠—where the coffee is worth a Turkish pound the cupful, and the smell of the fried beans would make a prince hungry. Ah, beans are excellent, O my uncle, and it is near noon. What hast thou in the house?”

The fat host returned thanks for the flattering terms in which this demand was couched by half-rising as before, saluting, and wagging his head humbly. He called upon Allah to shower all blessings on the head of his friend Mustafa, to make him happy in his son; and then in the same breath⁠—a long one for him⁠—shouted crossly to someone within, by the name of Camr-ud-dìn, to pound coffee with all speed and prepare a mess of beans to fry. Then the spark of excitement died down and he became torpid once more.

Saïd and his adopted father were earnest in their discussion of the beans when they appeared. The bowl might have been licked out by dogs, so clean they left it. Each drank two cupfuls of the famous coffee and accepted the offer of a narghileh. And then their words became ever less frequent, until they went the way of Abu Khalìl, falling fast asleep one after the other.

For hours they dozed on by fits and starts. The place was very quiet except for a distant murmur from without, soothing as the sough of reeds in the wind, and an occasional din of pots and pans from the inner closet, where Camr-ud-dìn and his mother were always at work.

When at last Saïd became wide awake it was towards evening and the tavern was crowded. With strained knuckles he rubbed the cobwebs of a dream from his eyes and let off the remains of sleep in a mighty yawn. Mustafa had removed his stool to a little distance, so as to be within earshot of a group whose talk appeared to interest him greatly.

A young man, who seemed of consequence, was holding forth to a half-circle of humble admirers hanging upon his words with mouths agape. His turban, finely embroidered, bound a fez which, if not new, was certainly newly-blocked. His overcoat of emerald green, falling loose to his heels when he stood upright, was edged all over with fur. It was now flung carelessly open, displaying a robe of striped silk, own brother to that which Saïd wore, though the relationship was somewhat obscured in the latter’s case by dirt. The gravity with which he stroked his beard, at the same time letting his keen brown eyes range over the faces of his hearers, was very impressive. The confidence of his speech, and the rhetorical flourishes with which he emphasised each point, spoke him a lawyer, and might have spared him the frequent statement of his calling. Following the example of his companion, Saïd hitched forward his stool to listen. “I that am a lawyer and know what right is⁠—I tell you,” the orator was saying, “that this state of things cannot endure. It is not to be borne. In the olden time, when the infidels were duly held in subjection under us, was there any strife?⁠—I ask you, was there any such bitter hatred as there is nowadays? The fault lies with the Franks, who play the rulers in this land and presume to guide the hand of the Government. Is the Sultàn the servant of any man that they should thus lord it in his dominions? But two months since occurred a flagrant instance of their meddling, when a judgment of his Eminence, the Mufti, against a certain Nazarene was set aside as a thing of naught by the Wâly’s order. And for what reason?”

The lawyer spread out his hands and smiled fiercely.

“And why? Think you that his Excellency, the Wâly, would incline to act thus of his own volition? Never! It was because certain of the Frankish consuls went to him and said in his ear that Fulân was under foreign protection. Is the pride of Islâm dead that such things are borne with meekness? Is the tiger become a lamb?⁠ ⁠… I ask all of you here⁠—Who is the governor of Damashc-ush-Shâm?⁠—and you tell me, his Excellency, Ahmed Basha, his honour, the Wâly. I say no! and again no! Ahmed Basha⁠—may Allah preserve him!⁠—and all who bear rightful authority over us are but the servants of the Franks.⁠ ⁠… Behold they gather upon us like vultures, they contend which shall have the greatest share of the spoil⁠—that is, of the wealth of Islâm. Woe is me, for the end of all things draws nigh! The cross is set above the crescent, the feet above the head. If any oppose them they cry aloud to their masters, the powers of Europe, and great ships are sent across the sea to lay waste our coasts; as was done, you may remember, not two years since at Jedda, where the townsfolk had risen as one man to exterminate the Christians. O Allah, Most High, how long must these things be? How long wilt Thou suffer the heathen to triumph over Thy faithful?”

He paused with hands and eyes upraised. A fierce murmur of applause spread to the uttermost corners of the room. All the idlers had left their talk to listen. One or two that were unbelievers slunk out at the door, thankful for the excitement which allowed them to escape unheeded.

“The Turks themselves are not much better than the Franks,” said a short man, hardily. “They say that the Sultàn is a pagan secretly. It is sure that his likeness⁠—a thing forbidden and accursed⁠—hangs over his head where he sleeps. Ah, if we sons of the Arab had but a Khalìfa of our own race we would shake off the Franks as a waking man brushes fleas from his raiment!”

An awestricken hush followed this bold utterance. All looked to the lawyer, whose eyes were wrathful on the rash man who dared to speak treason in his presence in a public place. Himself had no great cause to love the Turks, but spies were everywhere, and it was always wise to speak good of the authorities. Besides, he hoped one day to obtain the post of Qadi, and to that end was anxious to stand well with the Government. Very sternly, therefore, he bade that madman hold his peace. The rebuke he thought fit to administer was thickly interspersed with praise of all the Sultàn’s delegates, from Ahmed Pasha, the nervous old general set to rule over a turbulent province, to himself who hoped some day to be Qadi. Then, when the seditious one had no more treason left in him, but was become limp all over and hung his head, he took up the burden of his previous speech.

“These Christians wax rich. They multiply beyond measure while our numbers dwindle by reason of the thousands of our young men who are slain in war. The Christians furnish no men to the army; they swoon at sight of a sword or a gun. Yet they murmur because a tax is required of them in place of soldiers. They go weeping to their consuls because each of them is obliged to pay⁠—it may be twelve piastres a year. Of old, as is well known, all the world that is under the hand of the Sultàn was divided into two houses⁠—the House of Islâm and the House of War.2 Now the Nazarenes, being dwellers in the House of War, had to pay, each man, a small sum yearly for his life. It was just, for are they not the vanquished and their lives duly forfeit to Islâm. Now, by favour of the Government, that tax is remitted, and the bedelíeh askerieh laid on them instead. Yet they grumble, saying that the tax⁠—a very light one⁠—is too heavy for them to bear. Are they not rich? Do they not thrive and grow fat among us by trade and usury? The Frankish consuls, I tell you, are the root of their discontent. They stir them up to anger us, that there may be an excuse to destroy us. The Franks move us all as pieces in a game. They pit us one against another and stand by, ready to fall upon the conqueror and overcome him while he is weary. O day of misfortune! O day of ruin for the Faith!

“You have heard how a Nazarene did lately pollute the harìm of a respected Muslim in this city. The culprit⁠—Jurji by name⁠—is now in prison awaiting his doom. Of right he should die, for a man’s house is a sacred place and a breach of hospitality is the blackest of all crimes in the sight of Allah. Yet it is known that a Frankish consul⁠—one who has the ear of the Wâly⁠—is active on his behalf. He may be released without punishment. What say you to that? Is so great a wrong to be borne tamely? Since these things are so, were it not seemly that the faithful should rise as one man against the heathen and slay every living soul of them, and burn their houses with fire? Allah is just!”

The sun had set behind the mountains and twilight was stealing on the street without. The shadow in the tavern from being blue and limpid was become black and opaque. The coo of the doves floated on a tired murmur. Through the open door the negro merchant was seen to take down his awning, bestow his wares carefully in a battered packing-case, and finally to invert the trestle which served him for a stall, and laying the case and the folded awning between the legs, drag it away with him. The wall which closed the outlook was pale and dead-looking, the bush of hyssop making a dark blot upon it. Abu Khalìl was awake at last. He stood by the threshold of the inner room, trimming a lantern with ponderous leisure.

The old beggar leaned forward with flaming eyes. He laid his sound hand on the delicate woof of the lawyer’s sleeve.

“I am with thee, effendi!” he cried. “Whenever the cry of the Faith is raised, Mustafa will be ready! I will spare none of them!” he yelled with sudden frenzy⁠—“not one! Old men and young, women and little ones, shall die, and in their death I will spit upon them and spurn them with my foot. But the girls, effendi”⁠—he sank his voice to an eager whisper⁠—“the girls should not be slain. There are sweet ones among them⁠—not so, Saïd, my son? They whose fathers hate and revile the Faith shall give birth to true believers. Each one of them shall suckle a Muslim at her white breasts. I am with thee I say! But wait, thou hast not heard what was done to my sister, nor yet the oath which I swore before the Qadi in the time of Ibrahìm Basha the Egyptian. Aha, that is a good story⁠—capital!⁠ ⁠…”

With a gesture of contempt and impatience, in which there was a leaven of terror, the lawyer shook himself free of the old man’s grasp.

“Thou art mad!” he exclaimed. “What have I in common with thee?” Then a little ashamed of the fear he had shown, he continued, in a very firm voice⁠—

“Am I he that gives orders to the faithful? I do but utter that which every believer knows to be true. You have heard how it has been foretold that when the first of the sevens shall fall the ruin of Islâm will begin; when time shall invert the second it shall be completed.3 Are we not now in the year 1277 of the Hejra? The first of the sevens is about to fall, and with the third year hence the second will fall in its turn. In the insolence of the Nazarenes and the growing power of their protectors we see the seed of destruction. If the sun of the Faith must set⁠—which Allah forbid!⁠—I say let its setting be like unto its rising long ago! Let flames of burning houses lick the sky, and the blood of the idolaters flow like a great river. I foresee war. It breaks out in the Mountain, where the Mowarni openly declare themselves to be subject to the French alone. They grow boastful and overrate their strength. Soon they will provoke the Drûz, who, though less numerous than they, are braver by a great deal and better skilled in warfare. Who but Allah can foresee the end of it? But I, being a lawyer and learned, tell you that as a spark falling amid a heap of touchwood, so is a little war in a land of discontent. Though but ten men rise boldly against the heathen, in a few days there will be slaughter from Haleb to Oman! Allah be with you! May your evening be happy, O my friends!”

With a slight reverence to the company, which called forth a storm of compliment and blessing, he rose, and gathering his furred garment about him sauntered forth into the twilight.

Abu Khalìl had lighted the lantern by this time, and it hung from a hook beside the inner door. Its ruddy beams shone on swarthy faces of excitement, turned one to another in the flow of talk which comes, like a sigh of relief, after the strain of a thrilling story. To most men there it was nothing but a tale they had just heard; a little more stirring, perhaps, than other tales, because it told of a future they might all see instead of a past which they had never known. They speedily dispersed once more into groups, chatting eagerly of more homely topics.

It was night⁠—the time when devils lurk in every dark entry and keep festival in every ruined dwelling. One man told a gruesome story of how his brother once slew a jinni by accident. It happened in that very city, in a street not a hundred paces from where they were sitting. Even at that early hour the flesh of every listener crept deliciously, and close-shorn heads put forth bristles under turbans.

His brother⁠—the narrator laid proud stress on the relationship⁠—was belated one night on his return home. His name was Kheyr-ud-dìn, a good pious man and a true believer. Walking down a certain street he came suddenly to an unseen barrier. He could pass his hand along it as along the surface of a wall; the feel of it was smooth like glass or tight skin. Yet there was nothing to be seen in the way; only the narrow lane in moonlight and shadow, and the dogs prowling in search of offal. Then he espied what seemed a sewn goatskin for holding water, lying collapsed and empty in the midst of the causeway. And as he looked, behold it filled out and tightened, and began to roll. Kheyr-ud-dìn, who was a pious man, praised Allah, and marvelled much to see it rolling thus of itself, with none to push it nor any slope of the ground to cause displacement. And as it rolled, lo! it grew until it was huge like an elephant. Then he began to be afraid, and desired to go quickly to his own house. But the unseen wall prevented him, and all his strength availed not to break through it. Then he cursed the father of that wall, and its religion, and its aunt, and its first cousins, and its offspring down to the third generation, kicking it all the while and beating it with his hands. At last, being very angry, he took the knife from his girdle⁠—a sharp knife with a fine handle inlaid of brass and silver⁠—an heirloom in the family. With that he struck at the barrier and it ripped down like flesh.

There was a hideous shriek; he was snatched suddenly out of the moonlight and the streets and whisked away to a place of darkness, where the king-jinni sat on a throne of fire. All the people of the jân were there, lurid in the red glow of their monarch’s seat. The king’s eyes were set slantwise in his head; his ears were long and leaf-shaped like the ears of a pig. He wore no turban nor any covering to his head, which was bald and dome-shaped, of the same colour as his face⁠—that is to say mouse-colour. Flames shot from his eyes as he leaned forward to frown on the prisoner. All the people of the jân grinned horribly upon Kheyr-ud-dìn, and gave forth a hissing sound. He stood accused of slaying one of them, by the name of Yusuf. In vain he disclaimed all knowledge of the crime.

“Thou liar!” said the king, turning a glance of fire upon him, which burnt right through clothes and flesh, and shrivelled the marrow of his bones. “Didst thou not rip open his belly with thy knife there in the open street? Is not his death shriek yet present in our ears? By my head, thou shalt die for it!”

And all the people of the jân yelled frightfully, “He shall die! He shall die!”

Then in his great distress he called aloud upon the name of Allah; when lo! in a trice he was back once more in the quiet street, and there was no barrier nor any waterskin, but only a few dogs skulking in the moonlight.

Another spoke of serpents.

“There is a kind of snake,” he said, “which has his dwelling on the skirts of the desert. He has neither head nor tail, but is round like to a pigeon. When one approaches him he does not hiss like other snakes, but barks like a jackal, and picks himself up and hurls himself at the man. You may laugh at what I tell you, but, by Allah, it is extremely true. My grandfather shot one of that kind with a gun which is now mine. I will show it you if you will favour me with a visit at my house. It is a good gun, and I wish to sell it. It is worth much money.”

Quoth another⁠—

“By the Quran, but thy pigeon-snake is a light thing as compared with the mighty serpent of which I have heard old men speak. He traversed the land of old, devouring all things, even men and women, until at last he slid down from the crest of the mountain, glided under the sea as under the lid of a box, and was no more seen. He was clothed all over with long hair, part black, part white, like a goat’s; and his length was a day’s journey from head to tail. Allah have mercy⁠—a strange thing!”

Saïd would gladly have drawn near to listen. It was a kind of talk that pleased him, as befitting the hour. The tavern reeked of good cheer, the company was numerous enough to preclude real terror, while a glimpse of the gruesome, populous night from the open door gave a shuddering zest to each new story. The cellar of Nûr, too, where he was to sleep, was not far distant, and he was sure of Mustafa’s company in the walk thither. He burned to tell a marvellous story of what had befallen his uncle on a journey into Masr. The yarn had become popular, almost proverbial, in his native town, where it was known as Saïd the Fisherman’s story of the Blue Afreet. Of all the dwellers in Damashc-ush-Shâm, Selìm alone had heard it. The adventures of other men’s kindred dwindled to everynight blunders wherever it was told.

But the beggar’s skinny hand clutched his arm, enforcing attention. He yawned as he hearkened to the old man’s raving of blood and vengeance. The wild looks and wilder talk of his companion made him fear that he had cast in his lot with a madman. But then Mustafa gripped his arm tighter and looked into his eyes, and laughed, saying, “Aha! that was a good thought of thine. By the Quran, I hold thee dearer than Mansûr⁠—dearer than my own son! Shalt have her, dost understand? Inshallah, thou shalt possess her!” Saïd was reassured on the score of his sanity.

Abu Khalìl, the fat taverner, looking round benignly upon the faces of his guests, marvelled much in his sleepy way to observe those two speak so earnestly together. Mustafa was hatching some beggar’s plot, he supposed; but the dutiful and submissive bearing of the young man towards his sire made a deep impression on his flabby brain. Camr-ud-dìn had that day cursed his father’s religion, which was his own, and Abu Khalìl had been properly indignant. In return he had cursed his son’s creed, as also his father and his mother. He felt that he was not blessed in his offspring, and in a dim, fat way he envied Mustafa.