ON THE ROAD TO ARAFAT
_(Concluded)_
More shots followed in quick succession: everybody in the booth made
a rush for the door, except the booth-keeper and myself: and we stood
staring at each other for some moments without uttering a single word.
But my companion did not long remain silent under the questioning look
I turned upon him. “The sons of dogs!” he cried: “they have not paid
me!” and, before I could even smile at the humour of the situation, he
was gone.
Accordingly, I made haste to overtake him, laughing quietly to myself
as I observed, on reaching the open air, that the artful rogues had
made good their escape under cover of the general panic, thus gaining
for themselves, in the estimation of their indignant dupe, a reputation
of cunning aforethought, which nothing I could say succeeded in
shaking. When I assured him that they had merely turned the blood-feud
to their own advantage, seizing the occasion as a source of profit to
themselves, he informed me that there are a thousand and one ways of
levying _bakhshísh_ by night, every one of which is practised during
the Hájj season, by the freebooters of Hejaz. “By Allah!” he cried,
“I say, the shots were fired by the Bedouins as a signal to those
customers of mine. They are in league with one another, and the money
that should be in my possession will soon be divided among those
lawless tribesmen.”
Whilst I was arguing with him, however, about fifty clansmen rode
swiftly by on dromedaries, and disappeared in the direction of Arafat.
Hardly had they passed out of sight than we heard the reports of their
rifles, and after a little while the more distant battle-cries of their
opponents. “You only heard the pursued,” said I, “but the pursuers you
have seen. You would not believe your ears; do you believe your eyes?”
“Perhaps you are right,” he admitted, with surly reluctance. “But is
my loss any the less? Take care lest you yourself become the argument
of your present attitude towards me in my trouble. Those men belonged
to the tribe of Hozail, and they are famous marksmen. To travel
alone to-night might mean death. The wisest thing that you could do,
therefore, would be to await the arrival of the next caravan.--Tell me,
are you rich?”
I untied the little bag I wore around my neck (the sacred habit having
no pockets), and emptied its contents into the palm of my hand. “That
is all the money I have about me,” I replied; “but my present poverty
should be my best protector on the road.”
“No, no!” he cried: “the people believe you to be rich, and therein
lies the danger of your riding by yourself.... Ah, here comes a band of
pilgrims; thank God,” he added, as he pocketed the _bakhshísh_ I gave
him: “Allah be with you!”
The caravan to which I now attached myself was composed of eighteen
lean camels laden with the effects of some eighty Malay wayfarers, and
of three half-starved asses belonging to the _moghavem_, on one of
which was strapped the corpse of an old man. A torch-bearer led the
way on foot. He was a man with such an infamous past that even his
fellow-pilgrims, disreputable as they appeared, held aloof from him, in
terror of their lives. Still, when I came to scrutinise his appearance
at close quarters, I could not find it in my heart to withhold the
compassion that his feeble condition aroused in me. As his weakness
grew more evident at every step, so the strength of will, which alone
kept him from sinking, seemed to point to some concentrated purpose
that he was determined to accomplish. Whilst I was wondering what this
fixed idea of his might be, his companions whispered among themselves,
and then came to me and said that he had run amuck in Penang, doing
to death his wife and family; and they entreated me earnestly not
to enter into conversation with him, lest he should be seized with
another fit of homicidal madness and do me some serious hurt. But
this story, terrible as it was, merely increased the interest I took
in the man. I pitied him the more, because, whatever insane impulses
might have ruled his past life, there could be no doubt of his being
now possessed with a passion to reach the goal that should redeem him
from the consequences of his misdeeds. That goal was the Mountain of
Mercy, as the Muslims love to call the Hill of Arafat, and thus the
pilgrimage was to him an act of penance, a penitential journey: every
breath he drew was a token of his remorse and his every step, a proof
of his yearning to gain salvation. The Malays, if I may judge from my
observations of these specimens of the race, are lacking in the gift
of self-restraint on the spur of their emotions. They never attempt to
assume the virtues which they do not possess. If they are afraid, they
lay bare their souls, and are not ashamed of their cowardice. Their
natures are in keeping with the jungles of their native country--crude,
chaotic, rank as the undergrowth, and as responsive to their tameless
instincts as are the tiger, the bison, and the crocodile. The more
closely I studied the torch-bearer’s demeanour, the more convinced
I became of its sincerity. He bore his sufferings with a stoical
endurance, to which his companions were blind, or at least indifferent,
leaving him to gather what encouragement he might from a word of
sympathy that I gave him. Raising his cadaverous eyes to mine, he
thanked me with a smile more eloquent than words, more moving than
tears. It seemed to say: “Brother, thy loving-kindness has revealed me
to myself, and, behold, I am afraid.” A lump rose in my throat so that
I could scarcely speak. “Be of good courage,” I whispered: “take refuge
in God from thyself, and all will be forgiven thee.” The words renewed
his purpose, and, knitting his brow in a frown of lithe resolution, he
staggered on over the rugged pathway.
The road, winding through several declivities of the valley, dips at
length into the basin-plain of the surrounding mountains. There it
takes a sharp turn to the east, which direction it keeps until on the
limits of Arafat a place called Alemeyn is reached. When we were midway
between the mosque of Khaif and the Hill of Arafat four of the camels
died from exhaustion, and the loads they bore had to be divided among
the freshest of the animals that were left. Whilst this was being done
by the _moghavem_, our torch-bearer, in a state of wild excitement
at the interruption, flung down the guiding light, and then fell to
pacing restlessly to and fro, reeling in his gait like a drunken man,
and muttering incoherently to himself; nor would he consent to pick up
the torch, despite the _moghavem’s_ repeated orders, until the caravan
resumed its march.
Shortly after, another delay was occasioned by the death of a pilgrim
who had walked all the way from Mecca supported on his brother’s arm.
The _moghavem_ refused to set the corpse on one of his asses (that
it might be buried, as the brother wished, on the holier ground of
Arafat), declaring that an additional burden would break the back of
his stoutest donkey. On this the brother burst into a storm of grief,
and my heart so ached for him in his disappointment that I volunteered
to bear the body beside me on my mule. A straggler, overhearing
this offer, cried out in broken Arabic: “If you do not lend me your
assistance, I too shall assuredly fall down and die.” Seeing that the
poor wretch was indeed worn out with sickness and fatigue, I made a
virtue of necessity and dismounted, telling him that the price of
his taking my place was that he should take care of the corpse. His
readiness to comply with this condition, which would carry with it the
necessity of religious purification, proved him to be no malingerer,
and a second glance at him was enough to assure me that he had not many
more hours to live.
All being ready, I laid hold of the mule by the bridle, and led the
dying and the dead to the front of the caravan. To my surprise, I saw
that the torch-bearer, in his anxiety to make the best use of his
remaining strength, was some distance away, and so determined was I to
keep in touch with him, and, if necessary, force him to accept my help,
that I broke into a run, as fast as I could lay my tender bare feet to
the ground. When I came up to him it was to hear a volley of musketry
which seemed to proceed from a distance of not more than two hundred
yards ahead of us; and, not long after, there came, from the rear, the
ever-nearing tramp of a troop of horsemen riding at full speed.
The terror of the Malays, wholly undisguised, drove them into one
another’s arms. Not knowing which way to turn, they all huddled
together like a flock of sheep, while the torch-bearer, whose one
idea was proof against any danger that might beset him, broke silence
for the first time, and derided them unmercifully because of their
cowardice.
Then out stepped the Arab _moghavem_, as shepherd of the
cowering rabble, and cried: “Be not afraid, but keep close
to me!” And on this, he rushed quickly to the fore, shouting
out at the top of his voice, in the Bedouin dialect of Hejaz:
“Yá-Aghadin-ul-ghoum-Nahn-Meskinna-al-Zowarin!”
This sentence, “O tribal chieftains, we are only the poor of the
pilgrims,” he kept on repeating as he strode boldly forward: every now
and then he turned round in order to hearten the cowering wretches that
came trembling after him; but, before he had advanced a hundred paces,
the galloping in the rear grew so loud that he ordered the caravan to
halt and take whatever cover it could devise.
With a swiftness of decision, born of a common fear that the horsemen
were Bedouins on the warpath, the terrified pilgrims made the camels
kneel down at the sides of the road, and entrenched themselves behind
them, scarcely daring to breathe, lest their whereabouts should be
revealed. And no sooner had they flung themselves on the ground than
the troop came rushing past, proving itself to be a squadron of
Sherífian cavalry in pursuit of the freebooters. Much to the joy of
the pilgrims, the firing ceased almost immediately after, and the
skirmishers in front of us were heard to beat a rapid retreat on Arafat.
On the silence that ensued, came the tinkle of an approaching caravan,
to which, on the principle that there is safety in numbers, we resolved
to attach ourselves. The new-comers, forty in number, were Indian
settlers of Mecca, passive-eyed and wheedling of tongue, and with us
they were only too willing to make common cause, bearing themselves
towards us with that spirit of brotherhood which is perhaps the
most humanising characteristic of the Islamic faith. Within half an
hour’s march of Alemeyn, our united party was overtaken by a band of
professional men and women--musicians, singers, and dancers--who,
mounted on gaily-caparisoned camels, presented a vivid contrast to our
poverty-stricken pilgrims on foot. As each one went by, he or she was
greeted by our greybeards with loud derisive cries of “Astaghferallah!
Astaghferallah!” This demonstration on the part of our old men was
meant to imply that theirs was the garb of virtue, however naked
might be their wretchedness. In the same belief, I utter seventy
_Astaghferallahs_ before I venture to describe this entertaining
company.
Altogether they numbered thirteen persons, the musicians being men,
and the singers and dancers being the Flowers of Delight of Mecca.
First came a drummer, beating intermittently, but at regular intervals,
on a curiously shaped double drum, not unlike a huge orange cut in
two, and so joined that each part came under each hand. It is called
_nagghareh_ by the Persians, and gave forth a shrill, discordant noise,
that not even the big egg-shaped drum (Tabl), which was beaten
energetically with two long drum-sticks by the man that followed,
could drown or materially modify. Behind these drummers rode two
women singers, whose voices were as the tinkling of the heavy bangles
with which their arms and ankles were laden. Next in the line of
march was a young man with a withered face, blowing incessantly on an
instrument called _surná_, that bears a resemblance, in form and also
in tone, to a Scotch bagpipe. After him, a couple of dancing girls,
with streaming ringlets, and clad in silk dresses of many colours,
burst into rippling laughter at every second, partly because it was
their business to be merry-hearted, and partly because they found
food for mirth in the members of our caravan. But when they saw the
number of our dead--and our Indian contingent had added not less than
seven to our funeral train--their lively amusement was stilled, and
one of them said to me, on passing by: “Were I in your place, O Haji,
I should bury the corpse, and offer the seat it occupies to yonder
torch-bearer, who seems to stand in sore need of succour.” “The wishes
of the dead must be respected, O Compassionate Heart,” I replied; “and
as for the torch-bearer, nothing would persuade him to renounce his
task of self-sacrifice. He has taken a vow to perform the pilgrimage
on foot, and he comes from a far distant country.” The answer she
returned was lost in the ear-piercing squeak of a _kerná_--a woeful
wind instrument at least four feet in length--and in the scarcely
less strident din of a third tom-tom. The rear was brought up by two
men--the one thumbed a stringed _rubáb_, a Bedouin instrument admirably
adapted to the music of the wastes; while the other, the jester of
the band, had powdered his face with barley flour, and wore a tall
head-gear of white lambskin, and a long cloak of vari-coloured silk.
Casting a quizzical eye on our effects, and one look in particular on
my mule with its dual burden of the dead and the dying, he remarked,
in an audible tone, imitating the Indian accent: “_Wah, wah, wah!
Ahlul-Jehannum!_ Bah, what a hell party!”--an expression that, in face
of the open self-sufficiency of the majority among us, made me roar
with laughter. My companions, refraining from retaliation in kind,
contented themselves with repeating the word _Astaghferallah_ until
their tormentor had passed out of hearing.
[Illustration: THE MUSICIAN CAMEL CAVALCADE.]
The reader will understand that these musicians and dancers were not
proceeding to Arafat that they might be present at the forthcoming
sermon on the mount. Their aim was to collect as much money as they
could wring from the pilgrims, and then be the first to lead the
procession back to Mina. For there, after the Lenten hardships of
the Hájj are ended, several days are spent in holding revels and in
merry-making.
An uninterrupted march of half-an-hour, under a stormy sky, brought us
to where two walls define the boundary of Arafat. There the _moghavem_
halted, and cried out, in a joyful voice, “O blessed pilgrims, here we
are on the exalted soil of Alemeyn! May peace be with Muhammad and with
his family!”
Forthwith there arose on all sides such an outburst of religious
enthusiasm as I had not witnessed even in the Harem of the Ka’bah.
Cries of “Labbaik allahhomá labbaik!” passed from lip to lip. The
torch-bearer fell on his face to the earth, and shed tears of delirious
joy. The dying man on my mule sank to the ground, dragging the corpse
with him, and sang praises to Allah with his last breath. A native
dervish, beside himself with hashshish-bibbing, danced furiously round
and round, beating on his bare breast, and tearing his unkempt locks,
and shrieking excitedly, “Yá-Hú! Hú-yá!” Then, with one accord, we
all prostrated ourselves five times in prayer, rending the air with a
chorus of “Here I am, O Allah, here am I!”
After the excitement had subsided, the _Sahebin-ul-Maiet_, or owners
of the dead, met in conference together, and decided that it would
be best to bury the corpses of their friends before we entered the
encampment on the plain of Arafat. To that end the help of the Bedouin
drivers was solicited. A grave was dug, measuring about ten feet by
twelve, and having a depth of some two-and-a-half feet and into this
the bodies were lowered and placed side by side, some wrapt in their
white _kefans_, and the rest wearing the habits they died in. The pit
was then filled up, and large stones were piled a-top, serving the
double purpose of preventing the corpses from being snatched by beasts
of prey, and of marking the place where they lay buried. This done, an
Indian _mullá_, putting his thumbs behind the lobes of his ears, the
fingers extended, exclaimed with indescribable fervour, “One only is
great--one Allah!” while the pilgrims, taking their stand behind him,
bowed themselves to the ground in prayer.
The funeral rites over, the _mullá_ declared the dead to be “martyrs in
the Faith,” on which the _moghavems_ of our respective caravans, having
made all necessary preparations, ordered us to press forward in the
direction of the city of tents.
I looked round in search of the torch-bearer, but he was nowhere to be
seen, nor could anyone whom I questioned tell me what was become of
him. I never saw him again.
On resuming our journey, the threatening storm-clouds overhead
dissolved in a shower of rain which drenched us to the skin. More
impatient than ever to find Seyyid ’Alí and my Persian friends, I bade
the Malay and Indian wayfarers a hasty farewell, then, urging my mule
into a quick ambling pace, was soon far in advance of their caravan.
The road is very narrow at Alemeyn, but it widens considerably,
as, taking a sudden bend from the east to the north-north-east, it
approaches the central broadway of the encampment. This thoroughfare
was turned into a bustling open-air bazaar. Coffee-booths were erected
at intervals of every twenty or thirty yards, and at these places the
crowd was thickest, and blazing torches impregnated the air with smoke
and the stench of noisome oil. It is customary to keep awake throughout
the hours of this night, praying and reading the Kurán; and maybe the
practice was honoured in the observance by many a pious pilgrim within
the seclusion of his tent; but, in this gadabout centre of uproar and
confusion, the vigil was passed in no such devotional mood. Eating
and drinking took the place of religious exercises. Stories were told
to the bubbling of the water-pipe; love songs were intoned under the
journeying moon; and pilgrims, whose minds were sharpened with long
brooding over metaphysical conundrums, could yet find the keenest zest
in bartering noisily over the purchase of a melon.
It passed through my mind that here, if anywhere, I should be likely
to happen upon Seyyid ’Alí, for his pleasure-loving disposition, as I
shrewdly guessed, would be irresistibly attracted to where it could
be best satisfied and displayed. And in this expectation I gave my
mule in charge of a beggar, and, having ordered a cup of coffee at a
refreshment stall, sat down on a stool to keep watch.
I had not been waiting more than a quarter of an hour when I saw Sheykh
Eissa come riding towards me. The “rose of my heart bloomed,” and I
leaped to my feet with joy, calling him by his name. At last his eyes
met mine, and in another moment he was at my side.
“Sir,” he said, with a deep salaam; “Seyyid ’Alí is looking for you
_dar-beh-dar_--from door to door. He has just gone down the road with
our _moghavem_, and one of our servants, and a Bedouin driver, to see
if he can find you. If you had bought one of my talismans, you would
not have lost yourself in the crowd.”
“My friend,” I replied, “you will remember the story of the Slave in
Sa’adi’s book of the _Rose Garden_. When he was on board ship he cried
night and day from fear of the sea. Then Fate threw him overboard that
he might appreciate the safety of the ship, and be thankful to be
rescued and set on board again. I have learned the same lesson on the
journey from Mina to Arafat. There is no condition in life so miserable
but it may be rendered almost pleasant, in retrospect, by a more
wretched one still.”
Meanwhile, Seyyid ’Alí hastening up with his companions, had overheard
my remarks, and now interrupted me, saying with some heat: “Yá-Moulai,
I am grateful for this--that the company of vagabonds should have had
the effect of making my society less tedious to you now than it was
before you deprived me of the brightness of your presence! Verily, I
have good reason to rejoice that you fell among thieves and rogues!”
“You misinterpret his Excellency’s words,” cried Sheykh Eissa. “Your
vanity lies so close to the skin that----”
“Why should you make it bleed, then?” I broke in. “A truce to your
quarrelling. Show me the way to our camp. My eyes are heavy with sleep.
It is as much as I can do to keep them open. Come, Seyyid ’Alí, unknit
your sullen brow. I have missed you grievously. Let that assurance
suffice to heal your wounds.”
As I spoke a bugle sounded the hour of midnight. Seyyid ’Alí, still
somewhat glum, started off at once, carrying a thick Bedouin club.
After him came the servant, bearing a lighted _fánús_ in his hand,
while Sheykh Eissa and myself followed close at his heels, leaving the
_moghavem_ in the rear to look after our mules.
Our way lay to the east of the central broadway. Before entering
our own quarters, in the north-eastern corner of the plain, where
all the dignitaries of the Hájj had pitched their tents, the Sheykh
pointed out to me the high-pinnacled pavilions of the Sheríf of
Mecca, of the Amin-us-Surreh, of the Pashavat of Turkey, of the
Persian Consul-General, of the High Priest of Teheran, of the military
commanders of Hejaz, and of the Amir-ul-Hájj-ul-Shami and the
Amir-ul-Hájj-ul-Mesri.
[Illustration: WATER-CARRIERS OF MECCA.]
[Illustration: THE PASHA OF HEJAZ AND THE AMINUS-SURREH.]
“His Holiness the Sheríf,” said he, “has more tents than one could
count at one’s ease. Do you see that high pavilion where the green
flag is flying? That is the audience-chamber of his Holiness. Some of
the tents serve as dining-rooms, some as withdrawing-rooms, some
as bath-rooms. Others, again, as sentinel houses, as stables, as
cooking-houses, as servants’ apartments, and so forth.”
Well, the tents of all the grandees, including those of my Persian
hosts, were surrounded by _tejirs_ or canvas walls measuring about
seven feet in height. The extent of the confined space varied of course
with the number of one’s retinue; our enclosure being comparatively
small covered a stretch of ground about fifty paces square. A sentinel
was on guard at the entrance, above which hung a Persian lantern,
and directly in front of us as we passed through was a semi-circular
partition of canvas which concealed from sight the series of tents
beyond.
These tents of ours, five in number, must not be confounded with the
ones we had used at Mecca. They belonged to a Persian _moghavem_
attached to the Syrian caravan, and were made of white canvas lined on
the inside with a particular kind of red cloth that goes by the name of
_shelleh_. Supported on nine poles covered with the same material, they
were so constructed that any one of the sides could be converted at
will into the front entrance, and that doors could be opened wherever
and whenever needed. By this means it was possible to keep the interior
relatively cool.
The floor of our withdrawing-tent was spread with Persian rugs, and
at the further end facing the doorway was a downy _mokhata_ or pillow
divan. To this snug abode I returned, after I had washed my hands and
feet in a tent close by, to find that the servants, following the
hospitable custom of the Bedouins, had already laid the cloth for
supper. My hosts were not present; having dined, they were fast asleep
in their own tents.
It is not considered seemly in the East for inferiors to sit down
in the presence of their superiors, nor do the latter ever so far
forget their superiority as to stand up in welcoming a guest of lower
rank. The act of rising is a recognition of equality, and not a mere
greeting. Thus, when “I fell down to supper” (as the late Shah was
fond of saying in the diary of his European tour) I was in etiquette
bound to accept the homage of Sheykh Eissa and Seyyid ’Alí’, who were
standing up. But their attitude of docile humility so tickled my sense
of the ridiculous that I raised my head after a few minutes, and said:
“Ah, are you there? _Bismillah_, sit down ... _Yá-Allah!_”
The invitation was certainly a breach of social custom on my part,
inasmuch as I was the master--a breach, however, for which the
exclamation of _yá-Allah_, which is an acknowledged substitute for
rising, made ample amends in my humble opinion. With an equal contempt
for formality, or finding the silence oppressive beyond endurance, I
then gave them permission to talk. If I refrained from inviting them to
partake of the savoury dishes of camel’s flesh prepared for me, it was
simply because I knew that they had already broken their fast.
The conversation fell on the subject of the Bedouins. The Sheykh,
having told me a story of a blood-feud between two clans, untied a
little parcel which he was in the habit of carrying about with him,
and took out three steel dice loosely threaded on wire and inscribed
with talismanic characters, together with a brass disk divided into
squares and covered all over with hieroglyphics. “By means of these two
things,” said he (while Seyyid ’Alí tipped me a wink of incredulity),
“I can foretell the future.”
With those words, he shook the dice in both his hands, and threw them
on the magic disk, and then, after making pretence to read the signs
on the face of the dice, as well as those within the squares they
occupied, he sat meditating for several minutes in gloomy silence.
“Blood,” he muttered at length, biting the thumb of his right hand,
“blood, I say, will be shed on this plain before the rising of
the sun. A peaceful caravan will be annihilated by a warrior band.
Terrible! I see some pilgrims: they belong to my native land; I hear
them crying for mercy: but the clansmen--ah, what is this I read?--yes,
the clansmen of Hozail, having plundered them, refuse to give quarter.
Surely this is a warning to me to keep a sharp look-out that I may use
my influence should woe betide my fellow-countrymen! May God protect
them through my timely aid!”
By this time I had finished my meal, and, having drunk a cup of coffee
and smoked a kalyán, I dismissed the fortune-telling Sheykh, who
promised, before he went away, to return at daybreak and accompany me
to a sort of gymkhana, where the Bedouins were to show their skill in
horsemanship. And then, being dead tired, I said good-night to Seyyid
’Alí and flung myself down to rest. Seyyid ’Alí, on leaving the room,
sang a Persian lullaby softly to himself. It ran something like this:--
Hence, begone, thou desert ogre,
Sleep would fain my baby lull:
Baby, hush, thine eyes are drowsy,
And the night is growing dull.
Hush, the night is full of shadows,
Full of phantoms dark and dread;
Soundly sleep, my precious baby,
Morning comes with joyous tread.
Hushaby, Beloved of Allah,
Sleep, and thou shalt go to school,
Pen in hand, shalt learn thy lessons,
Sagely con each word and rule.
Thou shalt read the wondrous sayings,
That in holy Koran stand;
Famous shalt thou be, my baby,
Wealthy, mighty, handsome, grand.
Hushaby, thou breathest smoothly,
And thine eyes like daisies close;
Sleep hath caught thee to her bosom
Rest, my baby, sweet repose.