"Who gives orders to me?"
The wonderful thing about Moab is that everything happens in a
story-book setting, with illustrations by Maxfield Parrish and
Wyeth and Joe Coll, and all the rest of them, whichever way
you look.
Imagine a blue sky--so clear-blue and pure that you can see
against it the very feathers in the tails of wheeling kites, and
know that they are brown, not black. Imagine all the houses, and
the shacks between them, and the poles on which the burlap
awnings hang, painted on flat canvas and stood up against that
infinite blue. Stick some vultures in a row along a roof-top--
purplish--bronze they'll look between the tiles and sky. Add
yellow camels, gray horses, striped robes, long rifles, and a
searching sun-dried smell. And there you have El-Kerak, from
the inside.
From any point along the broken walls or the castle roof you can
see for fifty miles over scenery invented by the Master-Artist,
with the Jordan like a blue worm in the midst of yellow-and-green
hills twiggling into a turquoise sea.
The villains stalk on-stage and off again sublimely aware of
their setting. The horses prance, the camels saunter, the very
street-dogs compose themselves for a nap in the golden sun, all
in perfect harmony with the piece. A woman walking with a stone
jar on her head (or, just as likely, a kerosene can) looks as if
she had just stepped out of eternity for the sake of the picture.
And not all the kings and kaisers, cardinals and courtezans
rolled into one great swaggering splurge of majesty could hold a
candle to a ragged Bedouin chief on a flea-bitten pony, on the
way to a small-town mejlis.
So it was worth a little inconvenience, and quite a little risk
to see those chiefs arrive at the castle gate, toss their reins
to a brother cut-throat, and swagger in, the poorest and least
important timing their arrival, when they could, just in advance
of an important man so as to take precedence of him and delay
his entrance.
Mindful of my charge to keep Anazeh sober, and more deadly afraid
of it than of all the other risks, I hung about waiting for him,
hoping he would arrive before Abdul Ali or ben Nazir. I wanted
to go inside and be seated before either of those gentry came.
But not a bit of it. I saw Anazeh ride up at the head of his
twenty men, halt at a corner, and ask a question. His men were in
military order, and looked not only ready but anxious to charge
the crowd and establish their old chief's importance.
Mahommed ben Hamza, not quite so smelly in his new clothes, was
standing at my elbow.
"Sheikh Anazeh beckons you," he said.
So the two of us worked our way leisurely through the crowd
toward the side-street down which Anazeh had led his party. We
found them looking very spruce and savage, four abreast, drawn up
in the throat of an alley, old Anazeh sitting his horse at their
head like a symbol of the ancient order waiting to assault the
new. My horse was close beside him, held by Ahmed, acting
servitor on foot.
The old man let loose the vials of his wrath on me the minute I
drew near, and Mahommed ben Hamza took delicious pleasure in
translating word for word.
"Is that the way an effendi in my care should be seen at such a
time--on foot? Am I a maskin* that you do not ride? Is the
horse not good enough?" [*Poor devil]
I made ben Hamza explain that I was to attend the mejlis as
Sheikh Abdul Ali's guest. But that only increased his wrath.
"So said ben Nazir! Shall a lousy Damascene trick me out of
keeping my oath? You are in my safekeeping until you tread on
British soil again, and my honour is concerned in it! No doubt
that effeminate schemer of schemes would like to display you at
the mejlis as his booty, but you are mine! Did you think you are
not under obligation to me?"
I answered pretty tactfully. I said that Allah had undoubtedly
created him to be a protector of helpless wayfarers and the very
guardian of honour. Mahommed ben Hamza added to the compliments
while rendering mine into Arabic. But though Anazeh's wrath was
somewhat mollified, he was not satisfied by any means.
"Am I a dog," he demanded, "that I should be slighted for the
sake of that Damascene?"
It looked to me like the proper moment to try out Grim's
magic formula.
"You are the father of lions. And a lion knows a lion in the
dark!" said I.
The effect was instantaneous. He puffed his cheeks out in
astonishment, and sucked them in again. The overbearing anger
vanished as he leaned forward in the saddle to scrutinize my
face. It was clear that he thought my use of that phrase might
just possibly have been an accident.
"Jimgrim says--"
"Ah! What says Jimgrim? Who are you that know where he is?"
"A lion knows a lion in the dark!" I said again, that there might
be no mistake about my having used the words deliberately.
He nodded.
"Praised be Allah! Blessings upon His Prophet! What
says Jimgrim?"
"Jimgrim says I am to keep by Anazeh and watch him, lest he drink
strong drink and lose his honour by becoming like a beast without
decency or understanding!"
"Mount your horse, effendi. Sit beside me."
I complied. Ben Hamza took the place of Ahmed, who went to the
rear looking rather pleased to get out of the limelight.
"What else says Jimgrim?" asked Anazeh.
"There will be a message presently, providing Sheikh Anazeh
keeps sober!"
To say that I was enjoying the game by this time is like trying
to paint heaven with a tar-brush. You've got to be on the inside
of an intrigue before you can appreciate the thrill of it.
Nobody who has not had the chance to mystify a leader of cheerful
murderers in a city packed with conspirators, with the shadow of
a vulture on the road in front, and fanged death waiting to be
let loose, need talk to me of excitement.
"Well and good," said Anazeh. "When Jimgrim speaks, I listen!"
Can you beat that? Have you ever dreamed you were possessed of
some magic formula like "Open Sesame," and free to work with it
any miracle you choose? Was the dream good? I was awake--on a
horse--in a real eastern alley--with twenty thieves as picturesque
as Ali Baba's, itching for action behind me!
"Abdul Ali of Damascus thinks he will enter the mejlis last and
create a great sensation," said Anazeh. "That son of infamies
deceives himself. I shall enter last. I shall bring you. There
will be no doubt who is important!"
Just as he spoke there clattered down the street at right angles
to us a regular cavalcade of horsemen led by no less than Abdul
Ali with a sycophant on either hand. Cardinal Wolsey, or some
other wisehead, once remarked that a king is known by the
splendour of his servants. Abdul Ali's parasites were dressed
for their part in rose-coloured silk and mounted on beautiful
white Arab horses so severely bitted that they could not help
but prance.
Abdul Ali, on the other hand, played more a king-maker's role,
dark and sinister in contrast to their finery, on a dark brown
horse that trotted in a business-like, hurry-up-and-get-it-done-
with manner. He rode in the German military style, and if you
can imagine the Kaiser in Arab military head-dress, with high
black riding boots showing under a brown cloak, you have his
description fairly closely. The upturned moustaches and the
scowl increased the suggestion, and I think that was deliberate.
"A dog--offspring of dogs! Curse his religion and his bed!"
growled Anazeh in my ear.
The old sheikh allowed his enemy plenty of time. To judge by the
way the men behind us gathered up their reins and closed in knee-
to-knee, they would have liked to spoil Abdul Ali's afternoon by
riding through his procession and breaking its formation. But
Anazeh had his mind set, and they seemed to know better than to
try to change it for him. We waited until noises in the street
died down, and then Ahmed was sent to report on developments.
"Abdul Ali has gone into the mejlis and the doors are closed," he
announced five minutes later. That seemed to suit Anazeh
perfectly, for his eyes lit up with satisfaction. Evidently
being excluded from the council was his meat and drink. He gave
no order, but rode forward and his men followed as a snake's tail
follows its head, four abreast, each man holding his rifle as
best suited him; that gave them a much more warlike appearance
than if they had imitated the western model of exact conformity.
We rode down-street toward the castle at a walk, between very
interested spectators who knew enough to make way without being
told. And at the castle gate we were challenged by a man on
foot, who commanded about twice our number of armed guards.
"The hour is passed," he announced. "The order is to admit no
late-comers."
"Who gives orders to me?" Anazeh retorted.
"It was agreed by all the notables."
"I did not agree. Wallah! Thou dog of a devil's dung-heap, say
you I am not a notable?"
"Nevertheless--"
"Open that gate!"
They opened it. Two of the men began to do it even before their
chief gave the reluctant order. Anazeh started to ride through
with his men crowding behind. But that, it seemed, was
altogether too much liberty to take with the arrangements.
Shouting all together, the gate-guards surged in to take hold of
bridles and force Anazeh's dependents back. Teeth and eyes
flashed. It looked like the makings of a red-hot fight.
"No retainers allowed within the gate! Principals only!" roared
the captain of the guard, in Arabic that sounded like explosions
of boiling oil.
Anazeh, Mahommed ben Hamza and I were already within the
courtyard. Four of Anazeh's followers made their way, through
after us before any one could prevent them. At that moment there
came a tremendous clattering of hoofs and the crowd outside the
gate scattered this and that way in front of about a hundred of
the other chiefs' dependents, who had dutifully stayed outside
and had sought shade some little distance off.
Whether the sudden disturbance rattled him, or whether he
supposed that all the other truculent ruffians were going to try
to follow our example, at any rate the man on duty lost his head
and shouted to his men to shut the gate again. Before they could
do it every one of Anazeh's gang had forced his way through.
There we all were on forbidden ground, with a great iron-studded
gate slammed and bolted behind us. To judge by the row outside
the keepers of the gate had got their hands full.
In front of us was a short flight of stone steps, and another
great wooden door set in stone posts under a Roman arch. There
were only two armed men leaning against it. They eyed Anazeh and
our numbers nervously.
"Open!"
Anazeh could use his voice like a whip-crack. They fumbled with
the great bolt and obeyed, swinging the door wide. I thought for
a minute that my arrogant old protector meant to ride up the
steps and through the door into the mejlis hall with all his men;
but he was not quite so high-handed as that.
After a good long look through the door, I suppose to make sure
there was no ambush inside waiting for him, he dismounted, and
ordered his men to occupy a stable-building across the courtyard,
from which it would have been impossible to dislodge them without
a siege. Then, when he had seen the last man disappear into it,
he led me and Mahommed ben Hamza up the steps.
Ben Hamza was grinning like a schoolboy, beside himself with
delight at the prospect of elbowing among notables, as well as
inordinately proud of his new clothes and the smell of imported
soap that hung about him like an aura. But Anazeh looked like an
ancient king entering into his own. Surely there was never
another man who could stride so majestically and seem so
conscious of his own ability to override all law.
We passed under the shadowy arch and down a cool stone passage to
yet another heavy door that barred our way. Anazeh thundered on
it with his rifle-butt, for there were no attendants there to do
his bidding. There was no answer. Only a murmur of voices
within. So he thundered again, and this time the door opened
about six inches. A face peered through the opening cautiously,
and asked what was wanted.
"What is this?" asked Anazeh. "Is a mejlis held without my
presence? Since when?"
"You are too late!"
The face disappeared. Some one tried to close the door.
Anazeh's foot prevented.
"Open!" he demanded. The butt of his rifle thundered again on
the wood.
There was a babel of voices inside, followed by sudden silence.
Anazeh made a sign to Mahommed ben Hamza and me. We all three
laid our shoulders against the door and shoved hard. Evidently
that was not expected; it swung back so suddenly that we were
hard put to it to keep our feet. The man who had opened the door
lay prone on the floor in front of us with his legs in the air,
and Anazeh laughed at him--the bitterest sign of disrespect one
Arab can pay to another.
"Since when does the word of a Damascene exclude an honourable
sheikh from a mejlis in El-Kerak?" asked Anazeh, standing in
the doorway.
He was in no hurry to enter. The dramatic old ruffian understood
too well the value of the impression he made standing there. The
room was crowded with about eighty men, seated on mats and
cushions, with a piece of carpeted floor left unoccupied all down
the centre--a high-walled room with beautifully vaulted ceiling,
and a mullioned window from which most of the glass was gone.
The walls were partly covered with Persian and other mats, but
there was almost no furniture other than water-pipes and little
inlaid tables on which to rest coffee-cups and matches. The air
was thick with smoke already, and the draft from the broken
windows wafted it about in streaky clouds.
Every face in the room was turned toward Anazeh. I kept as much
as possible behind him, for you can't look dignified in that
setting if all you have on is a stained golf suit, that you have
slept in. It seemed all right to me to let the old sheikh have
all the limelight.
But he knew better. Perhaps my erstwhile host ben Nazir had
understood a little German after all. More likely he had divined
Abdul Ali's purpose to make use of me. Certainly he had poured
the proper poison in Anazeh's ear, and the old man understood my
value to a nicety.
He took me by the arm and led me in, Mahommed ben Hamza following
like a dog that was too busy wagging its tail to walk straight.
You would have thought Anazeh and I were father and son by
the way he leaned toward me and found a way for me among the
crowded cushions.
He had no meek notions about choosing a low place. Expecting to
be taken at his own valuation, he chose a high place to begin
with. There were several unoccupied cushions near the door, and
there were half-a-dozen servants busy in a corner with coffee-
pots and cakes. He prodded one of the servants and ordered him
to take two cushions to a place he pointed out, up near the
window close to Abdul Ali. There was no room there. That
was the seat of the mighty. You could not have dropped a
handkerchief between the men who wanted to be nearest the throne
of influence. But Anazeh solved that riddle. He strode, stately
and magnificent, up the middle of the carpet amid a mutter of
imprecations. And when one more than ordinarily indignant sheikh
demanded to know what he meant by it, he paused in front of him
and laid his right hand on my shoulder. (There was a loaded
rifle in his left.)
"Who offers indignity to a distinguished guest?" he demanded.
The question was addressed to everybody in the room. He took
care they were all aware of it. His stern eyes traveled from
face to face.
"My men, who escorted him here, are outside the door. They can
enter and escort him away, if there are none here who understand
how to treat the stranger in our midst!"
There was goose-flesh all over me, and I did not even try to look
unembarrassed. A man's wits, if he has any, work swiftly when he
looks like being torn to pieces at a moment's notice. It seemed
to me that the less insolent I appeared, the less likely they
were to vent their wrath on me. I tried to look as if I didn't
understand I was intruding--as if I expected a welcome.
"Good!" Anazeh whispered in my ear. "You do well."
There was a murmur of remonstrance. The sheikh who had dared to
rebuke Anazeh found the resentment turned against himself.
Somebody told him sharply to mend his manners. Anazeh, shrewd
old opportunist, promptly directed the servant to place cushions
on the edge of the carpet, in front of the first row of those
who wished to appear important. That obliged the front rank
to force the men behind them backward, closer to the wall, so
that room could be made for us without our trespassing on the
forbidden gangway.
So I sat down in the front row, five cushions from Abdul Ali.
Anazeh squatted beside me with his rifle across his knees. Then
Mahommed ben Hamza forced himself down between me and the man on
my left, using his left elbow pretty generously and making the
best of the edges of two cushions. As far as I could see there
were not more than half-a-dozen other men in the room who had
rifles with them, although all had daggers, and some wore curved
scimitars with gold-inlaid hilts.
As soon as I could summon sufficient nerve to look about me and
meet the brown, conjecturing eyes that did not seem to know
whether to resent my presence or be simply curious, I caught the
eye of Suliman ben Saoud in the front row opposite, ten or twelve
cushions nearer the door than where I sat. He did not seem to
notice me. The absence of eyebrows made his face expressionless.
He didn't even vaguely resemble the Major James Grim whom I knew
him to be. When his eyes met mine there was no symptom of
recognition. If he felt as nervous as I did he certainly did not
show it behind his mask of insolent indifference.
There was still a good deal of muttered abuse being directed at
Anazeh. The atmosphere was electric. It felt as if violence
might break out any minute. Abdul Ali seemed more nervous than
any one else; he rocked himself gently on his cushion, as if
churning the milk of desire into the butter of wise words.
Suddenly he turned to the sheikh on his left, a handsome man of
middle age, who wore a scimitar tucked into a gold-embroidered
sash, and whispered to him.
Ben Hamza whispered to me: "That sheikh to whom Abdul Ali speaks
is Ali Shah al Khassib, the most powerful sheikh in these parts.
A great prince. A man with many followers."
Ali Shah al Khassib called for prayer to bring the mejlis to
order. He was immensely dignified. The few words he pronounced
about asking God to bless the assembled notables with wisdom, in
order that they might reach a right decision, would have been
perfectly in place in the Capitol at Washington, or anywhere else
where men foregather to decide on peace or war.
At once a muballir* on his left opened a copy of the Koran on a
cushion on his lap and began to read from it in a nasal singsong.
There were various degrees of devoutness, and even of inattention
shown by those who listened. Some knelt and prostrated
themselves. Others, including Anazeh, sat bolt upright, closing
their eyes dreamily at intervals. Over the way, Jim Suliman ben
Saoud Grim was especially formally devout. His very life
undoubtedly depended on being recognized as a fanatic of
fanatics. [*A Moslem priest who recites prayers.]
But there were three Christian sheikhs in the room. One of them
opposite me pulled out a Bible and laid it on the carpet as a
sort of challenge to the Koran. It was probably a dangerous
thing to do, although most Moslems respect the Bible as a very
sacred book. The manner in which it was done suggested
deliberate effort to provoke a quarrel.
Mahommed ben Hamza, dividing his time like a schoolboy in chapel
between staring about him and attending by fits and starts,
nudged me in the ribs and whispered:
"See that Christian! He would not dare do that, only on this
occasion they like to think that Moslems and Christians are
agreeing together."
The man who was reading to himself from the Bible looked up and
caught my eye. He tapped the book with his finger and nodded, as
much as to ask why I did not join him. At once I pulled my own
from my pocket. He smiled acknowledgment as I opened it at
random. Certainly he thought I did it to support his tactlessly
ill-timed assertion of his own religion. Very likely my action,
since I was a guest and therefore not to be insulted, saved
him from violence. Incipient snarls of fanatical indignation
died away.
But as a matter of fact my eye was on Jim Suliman ben Saoud Grim.
As the reading from the Koran came to an end amid a murmur of
responses from all the sheikhs, the crooked-faced Ichwan sat
upright. In his sullen, indifferent way, he stared leisurely
along the line until his eyes rested on me.
As his eyes met mine I marked the place where the Bible was open
with a pencil, and closed the book, suspecting that he might be
glad to know where a pencil could be found in a contingency.
He did not smile. The expression of his face barely changed.
Just for a second I thought I saw a flicker of amused approval
pass over the corners of his eyes and mouth.
So I left the book lying where it was with the pencil folded
in it.