POPULAR MYTHS AND SUPERSTITIONS
“I have told you nothing about Ali Ueld el Mudden,” said Raisuli, “but
he was a good friend of mine throughout the war, and he was so clever
that many thought he was possessed by jinns. He had a band of sixty men,
living nobody knew where. Beni Aros was his headquarters and every cave
in the mountains his house. It was like the time of my youth, when I had
an army of boys encamped in the woods, for el Mudden was just as
audacious and reckless as we were, and all the tribesmen said of him,
‘He has a laughing heart and a sixth finger which is a knife.’
“It was he who captured Lentisco, the railway engineer, and held him a
captive for months, because the company refused a ransom. El Mudden had
only fifteen men with him, and half of these he left to guard his
retreat. With the others he appeared suddenly in the middle of the
engineers’ camp near Tzenin and got hold of Lentisco. There was not much
fight, for the Moors who were working on the line either ran away or
stood still and looked on. Two Spaniards were killed and Lentisco
slightly wounded. It was a great feat, for the prisoner was hurried off
through the enemy country, without anyone daring to rescue him. A few
shots were fired after the raiders, but these turned round and replied
seriously, wounding several labourers. After this they were left in
peace, and they went quickly to Harex, where the Spaniard was shut up in
a house. He thought himself very miserable, because there was little
light and no bed to sleep on except a few sacks, but this was in the
late spring,[104] and it was warm. He complained of the food, but he had
the same fare as the tribesmen, black bread and oil. El Mudden came up
at once to Tazrut to tell me of his escapade, and I told him, ‘Turn your
prisoner into your friend but do not let him escape,’ for hostages were
valuable to us, and, while still we had food, I said to my people,
‘Bring me Christians, that I may use them for negotiations,’ but the
foreigners did not venture abroad, and it was difficult to catch them.
“I sent one of my secretaries back with el Mudden to question his
prisoner, for, if he were a poor man, little ransom would be paid for
him. Whatever was the prey of Sidi Ali, he always brought me the half,
whether it were horses or cattle or money, and, truly, he was everywhere
at once, burning an enemy village, cutting Spanish wire or capturing
their herds, destroying their telegraph posts and even attacking their
guards under the walls of the towns. Ullah, he had never heard of fear!
Lentisco was not a satisfactory prisoner, for he quarrelled with his
guards and demanded things which they could not give. Water is scarce in
many of our villages, so, when they did not bring him enough, he
complained that they wasted it performing their ablutions before the
prayers. This angered the tribesmen, and they washed their feet and
hands under his eyes and, when their devotions were finished, they
offered him the dirty water, saying it was good enough for a Christian.
‘Ullah, it is too good,’ said one, ‘for it has contributed to the
performance of the true religion,’ and he threw the water on the ground.
Thereafter, for a few days, they gave the prisoner no water, but that
which was dirty, and he became ill and wept.
“I learned of these things, and ordered that he should be better treated
and given cooked beetroot with his bread. Food was sent to him from
Tangier, but the tribesmen kept it, saying a weapon had been contained
in it. The railway was slow to pay the ransom, in spite of the many
letters written by Lentisco. For five months the Spaniard was in the
hands of el Mudden, who got tired of him at last and put chains on him,
threatening to kill him if the money did not arrive. This I forbade, but
the engineer suffered much fear, not knowing that his fate was already
written and according to the will of Allah.
“At last the police of Larache began to treat for his release, and the
officer suggested a meeting at the village of Saf near Megaret, where
there was a Spanish post. El Mudden made conditions that the rescue
party should come without arms and consist only of the officer and a few
men, whose safety he guaranteed; but no answer came to this letter, so
he suspected a trap. When he got to the appointed place, it was told him
that a troop of police were advancing, but the officer was not with
them. Swiftly an ambush was prepared and the enemy walked straight into
it, emptying their rifles without effect on the hillside. El Mudden sent
the men back on foot. ‘Tell the officer who disobeyed my instructions
that some day I shall revenge myself,’ ordered Sid Ali, and took the
police horses and rifles, most of which he sent to Tazrut.
“When his mind was not occupied with the hundred thousand douros which
he hoped to receive for Lentisco, el Mudden was my best spy. He had the
eyes of a kite and the ears of a lynx. It is easier to keep the stallion
from the mare than news from that man! In the end the money was denied
to him, for Lentisco persuaded one of his guards to release him, whether
by the glamour of his words or the gold promised, I do not know. They
fled in the middle of the night to Megaret, and the affair was finished.
“I wish I had had el Mudden with me in my youth, for he had in his mind
many things that I never thought of. Beni Aros was full of his
disguises, and there were different ones in each house that was friendly
to him. He had uniforms and European clothes, but, when these were not
under his hands at the moment he desired them, he despoiled some citizen
or soldier, assuring the former that it was an honour for a non-
combatant to serve a warrior, but generally the man was dead and could
not hear. With his band he would remain hid for days among the furthest
mountains, not stirring when the cannon that heralded the Spanish
advance tore up the hillside whereon he lay. Many of his people were
killed in such affairs, but none moved, and, at last, the enemy would
advance, believing that the country was empty before them. Then el
Mudden would revenge the deaths of his men and for each unspent bullet
there was a Christian head. Many villages would have submitted to the
Spaniards, but that they feared the vengeance of el Mudden. Dris er
Riffi’s words were as honey, but the retaliation of Sidi Ali was like
burning oil.
“One day he knocked at the door of a Spanish house and told the farmer
that he had come with a warning of attack by the band of el Mudden. The
man must at once repair to the nearest Spanish camp with his family and
all he could save. There was little time, for already the brigands were
approaching. The farmer fled with his wife and children and his
labourers, el Mudden guiding them tenderly to the post which was on the
next hill. While he did this, his own men advanced swiftly, looted the
farm and drove off all the beasts, without firing a shot, which would
have aroused the attention of the neighbouring post well provided with
artillery.
“On another occasion he dressed himself as an officer of police and,
with a number of men mounted on police horses, with every detail of
their uniform and saddlery correct, he rode down to a village near
Azeila which had submitted to the enemy. He told the Kaid he had come to
arrange the new taxes, and, when the man demurred, he threatened him
with his gun. Vainly the Sheikh pleaded that the Government had remitted
his taxes and that all tithes had been paid to the Pasha. The police
insulted him and tore off his turban, till he swore he would make his
peace with the Sherif. Then el Mudden beat him, and, under pretext of
warning him not to put himself into power of Raisuli for fear of his
vengeance, told him of all the Sherif’s successes and how afraid the
Spaniards were of him. Then he took the arms that were left in the
village and drove away all the cattle, taking the calves across the
saddles and the lambs about their shoulders. When the Kaid complained to
the Pasha, he was told that he lied, which made him more angry. Then er
Riffi sent to him, saying it was a trick on the part of Raisuli, and he
was enraged, saying, ‘Am I so great in years that my eyes cannot see?’
and he waited for the first opportunity of deserting the Government.
“Such escapades were common even in the last months of the war. I myself
have been among the enemy and they have not known me. Once, I remember,
we were a few men and, of those you know, only el Menebbhe was with me.
We were tired, for we had ridden from the valley below Ahmas, and we
were now in Beni Aros. Also we had not broken our fast for two days. We
saw a few houses in a hollow and went towards them to get food, but they
were deserted, except for a woman who ran out crying to us to go back.
‘The Christians are coming,’ she said; ‘you will be surrounded, for
their posts are also in front.’ I asked what the enemy consisted of, and
she told me, besides the Spaniards, there were many Arab irregulars. So
I hid the horses among the olive-trees, and some of us lay in the barn,
where there was a pile of figs which we ate and appeased our hunger.
Then we looked out and saw the enemy coming, but they paid no attention
to the village, for there were only a few houses and the crops had
already been burned by the advance party.
“We waited till the Spaniards had gone on. Then we slipped out and mixed
with the irregulars, who were tribesmen from the plains and unknown to
us. Ullah, it was an amusing march, but we regretted the few figs we had
left. On we went, turning west of the Spanish sentinels, and no man
suspected us. Then when the road was clear to Bu Hashim, we slipped to
one side of the column, ready for retreat. It was after sunset and, when
the firing began, all men feared an ambush. For a moment none knew where
the shots came from, though bodies dropped on all sides. Then they
shouted that traitors were among them, and each man was suspicious of
his neighbour, but we crept away while their rifles were still
uncertain. Many had died because of our stratagem, and we had had an
escort to the gates of our country!”
At the end of this story I looked doubtfully at Menebbhe. It seemed
impossible that anyone could mistake the bulk of the Sherif, but the
Kaid nodded his confirmation. “Allah blinded their eyes and they could
not recognise my master. It is the ‘baraka.’ Many times I have thought I
was alone, and, Ullah, there was Mulai Ahmed beside me. There was
another occasion, when we were hiding in a wood. A Spanish column passed
below us and we were but five men, so we dared not fire. We put our
hands over the nostrils of our horses, and waited. It happened that just
beside us there was a fig-tree, and one of the officers, seeing it, rode
up to gather the fruit. The Sherif was as close to him as if they were
both sitting in his tent and it was full day. I had my rifle ready,
intending that, if he looked round, he should die, but he went on
plucking the figs, eating them as he stood in his stirrups. Then he
turned, and I looked along the sights of my gun, but an insect or some
of the fruit-juice was in his eyes and he rubbed them as he kicked his
horse blindly down the hill.”
“His greed saved his life,” I suggested. “Allah forbid. It was the
blessing of the Sherif, which is like a cloak around him. Even the
Christians speak of it and believe.”
Raisuli sighed and pulled up his wide sleeves. “It is very hot, and we
have talked much. Perhaps you are tired,” he said, and then, rather as
an afterthought, “Would you not like to eat?” The suggestion was
received with enthusiasm, for it was nearly three o’clock! but a slave,
despatched to ascertain what progress the cooks were making, reported
that the meat was still red. “With health, with appetite!” wished the
Sherif, and departed to the Zawia. “The appetite is here, certainly,”
said Haj Bu Meruit, an erstwhile henchman of Mannisman, who had been
meekly waiting outside, “but of the health I am not so certain.” He felt
his neck carefully. “The Jinns were about last night, and I think one
twisted my shoulder-bones.” I thought it was a joke, and smiled
politely, but Mulai Sadiq answered seriously, “You should have said
‘Bismillah!’ There is only one thing that affects the jinns, and that is
the name of Allah.”
“In Asir,” I ventured, “the women smear the lintels and threshold of the
door with white of egg, which is supposed to be a most potent charm.” “I
don’t think that can be of much use,” retorted the Haj with contempt,
“for I was once in a store when a man was hit on the head by a jinn, and
the place was full of boxes of eggs.” “You are right,” returned Mulai
Sadiq. “There are two kinds of jinns as you may read in the Koran. Those
who are believing do not trouble Moslems, but the unbelieving kind are
most dangerous, unless you have learned to control them. This is a
science which you must study carefully. It is called Ulm el Issem, and I
worked at it for five years before I tried to have conversation with a
jinn. I had been warned that he should appear in human form, with
jellaba and turban, and, seating himself beside me, should talk to me in
an ordinary voice and answer such questions as I put to him. But, if he
came in any other form, it was bad, and I must have no dealings with
him. I made all the necessary exhortations and, at the end, I saw a
shape in front of me. It had two legs like a dog, with human feet, and
its body was also a dog’s, but its neck was so long that it reached to
the ceiling. I was in my house at Tetuan, and it seemed that the roof
had become a funnel, so that the head of the beast was in the sky.”
Mulai Sadiq spoke as if he were relating a most normal experience, and,
when I asked, somewhat breathlessly, what he had done in view of the
unexpected appearance of the jinn, he answered impatiently, “Well, of
course I knew I had made a mistake, so I began praying as hard as I
could and, at each repetition of the name of Allah, the beast grew
smaller and smaller, till finally it vanished altogether.” “Have you
ever tried again?” “No, I have been much too frightened; but it is all a
matter of learning. There is nothing that a man cannot do if he have
enough will-power,” and he began talking of the mystics who can leave
their bodies at home and make a spiritual pilgrimage to Mecca, being
able to describe every scene and action of the Haj when it is over.
At this Bu Meruit loudly protested, feeling, perhaps, that he had wasted
the few well-spent weeks of a life which, from his face, would appear to
have been chiefly evil, but Mulai Sadiq countered swiftly, “Have you
never heard of Mulai Abderrahman es Siuti? He was one of the most
learned in El Azhar, and it happened that each one of his forty pupils
asked him to dine on the same night, without the knowledge of the
others. The next morning there was much argument, for each declared that
the Master had sat at his table, and it was only when it was proved that
es Siuti had, in reality, dined with some of the other ulema, that his
pupils realised it was the spirit, not the body, of their master they
had entertained.” The Haj’s eyes brightened. Perhaps he saw vistas of
endless simultaneous dinners, for he was comfort-loving and greedy, but
fortunately at that moment lunch arrived, carried by breathless slaves
who had evidently run down the garden, holding the food on the plates
with hot black hands. “El Hamdulillah” said Mulai Sadiq, “I had nearly
telephoned to Tetuan for them to send up a meal from my house.”
[Illustration: The Sorceress mentioned by Raisuli]
This was a new joke, and we welcomed it appreciatively, but with our
gaze fixed on the various dishes. I am afraid I was half-way through the
wing of a chicken before I noticed that our hosts were not eating. “We
fast,” said Badr ed Din, “but let not that interfere with your
appetite.” Mohamed el Khalid, however, was not so stoical. He wandered
out of the tent and looked wistfully at the sun. I noticed that the Haj
was doing his best to make up for the abstinence of the others. “Because
he has made the pilgrimage, he thinks that all is permitted to him,”
said Badr ed Din. I pointed out firmly that a noted lawgiver had
emphasised the necessity of at least eleven pilgrimages to Mecca before
a man could be quite certain of heaven. “Ullah,” ejaculated the Haj,
looking up, with greasy cheeks, “and did he ever come back to say if he
got there?” The argument was unanswerable and the sinner continued
triumphantly, “There will be a great deal of surprise in heaven when it
is seen who is there and who is not. As for me, I do not need to fast,
for I am well with Allah.” In answer to a murmur of protest, he
explained further, “I have committed no crimes. I have not cut off any
heads or killed any people, which has been your daily business”—this to
the Kaid—“so what have I to repent of? By Allah, were I in your shoes I
should fast six days a week.” After which remarkable statement, he
applied himself voraciously to his food. “He is a bad Moslem,” murmured
Badr ed Din, “but one cannot turn out even the worst dog, if it belongs
to the house!”
That evening Raisuli did not rejoin us. The sun set in a flutter of
orange feathers across the hills, and I heard Mulai Sadiq asking
wistfully, “Is there any Harira that I may break my fast?” and the
answer of the dark-skinned henchman from Marrakesh, “Come to my house,
Sidi, and I will give you some. Ullah, ullah, do not fear—you may walk
knee-deep in the grain.” (Meaning that everything was plentiful.) I went
out and sat beside the fig-tree, from where I had a good view of the
Zawia. The procession of tribesmen from the mountains still came with
their offerings. I watched ancient, white-bearded men struggling with
saddle-bags and panniers, while the murmur of prayer swelled in the
mosque. Badr ed Din and a visitor from the House of Wazzan were
preparing to pray in the open.
I observed them standing among the shrubs, each with a mat in front of
him, and I could not help thinking that the Sherifs of Morocco were most
prosperously fat. Another huge figure loomed up beside them, and I spoke
my thoughts aloud. “It is a contented mind,” said Ghabah, “for
everything that a Sherif does is right. Even if he drinks wine it turns
to milk upon his tongue, and so there is no sin in him.” “Perhaps,” said
Mubarak, a darker shadow by my elbow, “it is also the offerings of the
faithful, for, whenever the people want a charm or an amulet, whenever
they need a blessing, they go to their Sherif, to ask for it.” “Why do
they want charms?” I asked dreamily, for the night was still and very
white, with pools of velvet blackness under the trees. “Against the evil
eye, which every man has at some time of his life, though generally he
does not know it himself. Unless one wears an amulet one may suffer
greatly by a chance meeting with it.” “Do you wear one?” “I am
fortunate; I have some hairs from the head of the Sherif, so nothing can
hurt me! The Sherif has long hair, down to his hips, so there is a
blessing for many, if it is his will,” added Ghabah, “but he winds it up
under his turban, and none see it.”
I should have liked to enquire more deeply into the danger of the evil
eye, but Ba Salim appeared, his smile playing among a network of
wrinkles, with a dish heaped high with dates, nuts and raisins. “This is
part of the tithes which the tribes bring to my lord, and he sends it
with his greeting, for, on this feast it is our custom to eat such food.
The dates are from Marrakesh, so the goodwill has travelled far.”
At that moment a young man came in at the gate. Lean and strong, he
walked with something feline in his gait, unlike the usual stride of the
mountaineers, which is at once shambling and sure. His head was shaven
and bare in the moonlight, for he had thrown back his dark jellaba, till
it hung over his rifle like a shawl. Restless-eyed, firm-lipped, he
stared at me for a minute, in contrast to the other Jebali, who kept
their lids down as they passed. Then, noiselessly, he was gone, and I
wondered if I had imagined the line of the cruel, clean jaw, and the
hollows that threw up the cheekbones above it. “Who was that?” I asked
abruptly. “It is Abd es Salaam Ben Ali Ueld el Mudden, about whom the
Sherif told you. By Allah, he is almost as famous as Raisuli!”
It was the Southerner, Imbarek, who spoke, and he leaned against a tree-
trunk, evidently prepared to tell stories. “Ullah, he has the devil in
his heels and will never be caught. He can make himself look so
different that not even his brother would know him. They say there is a
jinn who helps him, for he has made many studies.” The Haj fingered an
amulet nervously. “He has one horse which goes faster than the wind, and
there are some who believe it can fly. Certainly no ordinary man travels
as he does, and one day, when he was known to be in Tangier, a stranger
appeared suddenly before his house and pushed his way in. The servants
tried to stop him, for he went towards the women’s place. He shook
himself free, but they caught at his sleeves and held him. Then he
turned round, and they saw it was their master!
“Once, Sidi Abd es Salaam heard that a man whom he had posted in the
Spanish Consulate at Larache, in order to keep him informed of the
doings of the enemy, had betrayed him, so he went down to kill him. The
whole Spanish army lay in his way, for he had to cross the plain, where
even the tribesmen were his enemies, so he advanced carefully to the
first hillock. There he hid in the long grass and waited. In time two
soldiers came out towards him. They both had rifles, but they were
talking carelessly and did not see him. He waited till they were quite
near. Then he fired several shots, that it might be supposed there were
a number of attackers. One Spaniard fell. The other fired his rifle into
space and ran back to the post.
“El Mudden leaped up, picked up the dead man—Allah save us, he has the
strength of the jinns!—and ran with him on his shoulder till he came to
a little cave. He was one man alone against an army, but, while still
the post waited, fearing an attack, the brigand tore off the Spaniard’s
uniform and dressed himself in it. He forgot nothing, and every button
was fastened. The only thing he regretted was to exchange the Spaniard’s
rifle for his own, which was a better one! He crept a little further
away, to hide more securely, and as soon as the light grew grey, he got
up and went down into the plain. He passed through the lines of Spain,
and no one discovered him. When challenged, he answered that he was
going to Larache with a message from the post, where he had killed the
soldier, but, as much as possible, he avoided the camps, and the next
night he was within sight of the town. What a trick!” Haj Imbarek’s
voice was full of admiration. “He passed through the gates and got right
into the hall of the Consulate, before his disguise was discovered.”
“What happened then?” The Haj shrugged his shoulders. “With all the men
round him saying, ‘This is surely el Mudden!’ he disappeared. Perhaps,
like the Sherif, he has the power of making himself invisible.” And that
was the end of the story, as the man from Marrakesh knew it.
“There was another of his deeds, but perhaps you know of this one. It
was the affair by the International Bridge, on the road to Tangier. El
Mudden had heard that a motor was coming from the hills, full of Hassani
piastres.[105] It was evening, and they could not see clearly, but at
last they heard a car approaching quickly. There was little movement on
the road in those days, so el Mudden thought it must be the expected
motor, and he instructed his men at what moment to fire. There was a
volley. The driver fell dead over his wheel, and a woman screamed. Then
Sidi Abd es Salaam knew that there had been a mistake, and it was not
the right car. They rushed up to it, and found the woman dying and a
man, her husband, was trying to move the body from the driving-seat.
There was another man, who had jumped out, and they took him prisoner,
but when they found it was empty of money they let the motor go on. It
was a pity that it was a woman.”
“What happened to the unfortunate hostage?” “He died while he was up on
the mountain, but not from ill-treatment. He had been sick for a long
time and there was little food among the tribes in those days.” A
reckless country, Morocco! I wondered what it would feel like to ride
out of Tazrut and back again into the twentieth century, where death and
starvation are still grim words.
That night, while some of us talked in the starlight, the guardian of
the telephone, a wild-looking mountaineer, with bare feet and a shirt of
torn sacking, rushed towards us. There had been a battle in Tetuan, he
said. This was enough to surprise even old Mulai Sadiq, but further
enquiry proved that a few Arabs had fired at the guard at the main gate,
who had emptied their rifles into the dusk without effecting any
casualties. Finding themselves unexpectedly successful, the bandits had
rushed into the town, killing two people in front of the hotel which is
not 100 yards from the walls. By this time everyone had picked up the
nearest rifle and there was a good deal of indiscriminate shooting,
during which at least four Spaniards and five Arabs had been killed. The
originators of the mischief disappeared in the middle of it. Three men
were captured with rifles in their hands, but this was no criterion of
their guilt, for civilians and soldiers, Arabs and Europeans were all
prepared to defend themselves against—nobody quite knew what or whom!
The most heroic part was played by a Spanish officer who, wounded
himself, limped down the street, across which bullets were flying
without target or aim, and dragged into cover two men lying helpless
under this fire.
Now, the Secretary-general was ringing up Tazrut to know if the Sherif
thought the Beni Hosmar were attacking the town. Mulai Sadiq was frankly
terrified of entering the Zawia at such an hour, upon such an errand,
but everyone else was insistent. He went and put the question to his
cousin, doubtless wrapping it up in many apologies and excuses. Raisuli
was magnificent. Driving one huge fist on to his thigh, with a force
that seemed to shake the room, he said, “While Mulai Ahmed is alive and
a friend of Spain, never, never shall the tribesmen set foot in Tetuan.”
Mulai Sadiq did not dare to speak. “Go!” said the Sherif. “It is
nothing—a few robbers perhaps,” and almost drove his cousin from the
room.