As Gaston very truly observed, there are moments in Persia when even the
most experienced chauffeur is capable of an emotion. And an unusual
number of such moments enlivened for Gaston and his companions their
journey up the Ab-i-Diz. Indeed Matthews asked himself more than once
why he had chosen so doubtful a road to Dizful, when he might so much
more easily have ridden there, and at night. It certainly was not
beautiful, that river of brass zigzagging out of sight of its empty
hinterland. Very seldom did anything so visible as a palm lift itself
against the blinding Persian blue. Konar trees were commoner, their
dense round masses sometimes shading a white-washed tomb or a black
tent. Once or twice at sight of the motor-boat a _bellam_, a native
canoe, took refuge at the mouth of one of the gullies that scarred the
bank like sun-cracks. Generally, however, there was nothing to be seen
between the water and the sky but two yellow walls of clay, topped by
endless thickets of tamarisk and nameless scrub. Matthews wondered,
disappointed, whether a jungle looked like that, and if some black-maned
lion walked more softly in it, or slept less soundly, hearing the pant
of the unknown creature in the river. But there was no lack of more
immediate lions in the path. The sun, for one thing, as the Brazilian
had predicted, proved a torment against which double awnings faced with
green were of small avail. Then the treacheries of a crooked and
constantly shallowing channel needed all the attention the travelers
could spare. And the rapids of Kaleh Bunder, where a rocky island
flanked by two reefs threatened to bar any further progress, afforded
the liveliest moments of their day.
The end of that day, nevertheless, found our sight-seer smoking
cigarettes in Shir Ali Khan's garden at Dizful and listening to the
camel bells that jingled from the direction of certain tall black
pointed arches straddling the dark river. When Matthews looked at those
arches by sunlight, and at the queer old flat-topped yellow town visible
through them, he regretted that he had made up his mind to continue his
journey so soon. However, he was coming back. So he packed off Gaston
and the Bakhtiari to Sheleilieh, where they and their motor-boat
belonged. And he himself, with his servant Abbas and the _charvadar_ of
whom they hired horses, set out at nightfall for the mountain citadel of
Bala Bala. For there the great Salman Taki Khan, chieftain of the lower
Lurs, otherwise known as the Father of Swords, was to celebrate as
became a redoubtable vassal of a remote and youthful suzerain the
coronation of Ahmed Shah Kajar.
It was nearly morning again when, after a last scramble up a trough of
rocks and gravel too steep for riding, the small cavalcade reached a
plateau in the shadow of still loftier elevations. Here they were
greeted by a furious barking of dogs. Indeed it quickly became necessary
to organize a defence of whips and stones against the guardians of that
high plateau. The uproar soon brought a shout out of the darkness. The
_charvadar_ shouted back, and after a long-distance colloquy there
appeared a figure crowned by the tall _kola_ of the Brazilian's boatmen,
who drove the dogs away. The dialect in which he spoke proved
incomprehensible to Matthews. Luckily it was not altogether so to Abbas,
that underling long resigned to the eccentricities of the _Firengi_,
whose accomplishments included even a sketchy knowledge of his master's
tongue. It appeared that the law of Bala Bala forbade the door of the
Father of Swords to open before sunrise. But the tall-hatted one offered
the visitor the provisional hospitality of a black tent, of a refreshing
drink of goats' buttermilk, and of a comfortable felt whereon to stretch
cramped legs.
When Matthews returned to consciousness he first became aware of a
blinding oblong of light in the dark wall of the tent. He then made out
a circle of pontifical black hats, staring at him, his fair hair, and
his indecently close-fitting clothes, in the silence of unutterable
curiosity. It made him think, for a bewildered instant, that he was back
on the barge he had met in the river. As for the black hats, what
astonished them not least was the stranger's immediate demand for water,
and his evident dissatisfaction with the quantity of it they brought
him. There happily proved to be no lack of this commodity, as Matthews'
ears had told him. He was not long in pursuing the sound into the open,
where he found himself at the edge of a village of black tents, pitched
in a grassy hollow between two heights. The nearer and lower was a
detached cone of rock, crowned by a rude castle. The other peak, not
quite so precipitous, afforded foothold for scattered scrub oaks and for
a host of slowly moving sheep and goats. Between them the plateau looked
down on two sides into two converging valleys. And the clear air was
full of the noise of a brook that cascaded between the scrub oaks of the
higher mountain, raced past the tents, and plunged out of sight in the
narrower gorge.
"Ripping!" pronounced Matthews genially to his black-hatted gallery.
He was less genial about the persistence of the gallery, rapidly
increased by recruits from the black tents, in dogging him through every
detail of his toilet. But he was rescued at last by Abbas and an old Lur
who, putting his two hands to the edge of his black cap, saluted him in
the name of the Father of Swords. The Lur then led the way to a trail
that zigzagged up the lower part of the rocky cone. He explained the
quantity of loose boulders obstructing the path by saying that they had
been left there to roll down on whomever should visit the Father of
Swords without an invitation. That such an enterprise would not be too
simple became more evident when the path turned into a cave. Here
another Lur was waiting with candles. He gave one each to the newcomers,
leading the way to a low door in the rock. This was opened by an
individual in a long red coat of ceremony, carrying a heavy silver mace,
who gave Matthews the customary salutation of peace and bowed him into
an irregular court. An infinity of doors opened out of it--chiefly of
the stables, the old man said, pointing out a big white mule or two of
the famous breed of Bala Bala. Thence the visitor was led up a steep
stone stair to a terrace giving entrance upon a corridor and another,
narrower stone stair. From its prodigiously high steps he emerged into a
hall, carpeted with felt. At this point, the Lurs took off their shoes.
Matthews followed suit, being then ushered into what was evidently a
room of state. It contained no furniture, to be sure, save for the
handsome rugs on the floor. The room did not look bare, however, for its
lines were broken by a deep alcove, and by a continuous succession of
niches. Between and about the niches the walls were decorated with
plaster reliefs of flowers and arabesques. Matthews wondered if the
black hats were capable of that! But what chiefly caught his eye was the
terrace opening out of the room, and the stupendous view.
The terrace hung over a green chasm where the two converging gorges met
at the foot of the crag of Bala Bala. Matthews looked down as from the
prow of a ship into the tumbled country below him, through which a river
flashed sinuously toward the faraway haze of the plains. The sound of
water filling the still clear air, the brilliance of the morning light,
the wildness and remoteness of that mountain eyrie, so different from
anything he had yet seen, added a last strangeness to the impressions of
which the young man had been having so many.
"What a pity to spoil it with a railroad!" he could not help thinking,
as he leaned over the parapet of the terrace.
"Sahib!" suddenly whispered Abbas behind him.
Matthews turned, and saw in the doorway of the terrace a personage who
could be none other than his host. In place of the _kola_ of his people
this personage wore a great white turban, touched with gold. The loose
blue _aba_ enveloping his ample figure was also embroidered with gold.
Not the least striking detail of his appearance however, was his beard,
which had a pronounced tendency toward scarlet. His nails were likewise
reddened with henna, reminding Matthews that the hands belonging to the
nails were rumored to bear even more sinister stains. And the
bottomless black eyes peering out from under the white turban lent
surprising credibility to such rumors. But there was no lack of
graciousness in the gestures with which those famous hands saluted the
visitor and pointed him to a seat of honor on the rug beside the Father
of Swords. The Father of Swords furthermore pronounced his heart
uplifted to receive a friend of Ganz Sahib, that prince among the
merchants of Shuster. Yet he did not hesitate to express a certain
surprise at discovering in the friend of the prince among the merchants
of Shuster one still in the flower of youth, who at the same time
exhibited the features of good fortune and the lineaments of prudence.
And he inquired as to what sorrow had led one so young to fold the
carpet of enjoyment and wander so far from his parents.
Matthews, disdaining the promptings of Abbas--who stood apart like a
statue of obsequiousness, each hand stuck into the sleeve of the
other--responded as best he might. In the meantime tea and candies were
served by a black hat on bended knee, who also produced a pair of ornate
pipes. The Father of Swords marvelled that Matthews should have
abandoned the delights of Shuster in order to witness his poor
celebrations of the morrow, in honor of the coronation. And had he felt
no fear of robbers, during his long night ride from Dizful? But what
robbers were there to fear, protested Matthews, in the very shadow of
Bala Bala? At that the Father of Swords began to make bitter complaint
of the afflictions Allah had laid upon him, taking his text from these
lines of Sadi: "If thou tellest the sorrows of thy heart, let it be to
him in whose countenance thou mayst be assured of prompt consolation."
The world, he declared, was fallen into disorder, like the hair of an
Ethiopian. Within the city wall was a people well disposed as angels;
without, a band of tigers. After which he asked if the young _Firengi_
were of the company of those who dug for the poisoned water of Bakhtiari
Land, or whether perchance he were of the People of the Chain.
These figures of speech would have been incomprehensible to Matthews, if
Abbas had not hinted something about oil rigs. He accordingly confessed
that he had nothing to do with either of the two enterprises. The Father
of Swords then expatiated on those who caused the Lurs to seize the hand
of amazement with the teeth of chagrin, by dragging through their
valleys a long chain, as if they meant to take prisoners. These
unwelcome _Firengis_ were also to be known by certain strange inventions
on three legs, into which they would gaze by the hour. Were they
warriors, threatening devastation? Or were they magicians, spying into
the future and laying a spell upon the people of Luristan? Their account
of themselves the Father of Swords found far from satisfactory, claiming
as they did that they proposed to build a road of iron, whereby it would
be possible for a man to go from Dizful to Khorremabad in one day. For
the rest, what business had the people of Dizful, too many of whom were
Arabs, in Khorremabad, a city of Lurs? Let the men of Dizful remain in
Dizful, and those of Khorremabad continue where they were born. As for
him, his white mules needed no road of iron to carry him about his
affairs.
Matthews, recalling his own thoughts as he leaned over the parapet of
the terrace, spoke consolingly to the Father of Swords concerning the
People of the Chain. The Father of Swords listened to him, drawing
meditatively at his waterpipe. He thereupon inquired if Matthews were
acquainted with another friend of the prince among the merchants of
Shuster, himself a _Firengi_ by birth, though recently persuaded of the
truths of Islam; and not like this visitor of good omen, in the bloom of
youth, but bearded and hardened in battles, bearing the scars of them on
his face.
Matthews began to go over in his mind the short list of Europeans he had
met on the Karun, till suddenly he bethought him of that extraordinary
barge he had encountered--could it be only a couple of days ago?
"Magin Sahib?" he asked. "I know him--if he is the one who travels in
the river in a _mehala_ not like other _mehalas_, rowed by Lurs."
"'That is a musk which discloses itself by its scent, and not what the
perfumers impose upon us,'" quoted the Father of Swords. "This man," he
continued, "our friend and the friend of our friend, warned me that they
of the chain are sons of oppression, destined to bring misfortune to the
Lurs. Surely my soul is tightened, not knowing whom I may believe."
"Rum bounder!" said Matthews to himself, as his mind went back to the
already mythic barge, and its fantastic oarsmen from these very
mountains, and its antique-hunting, history-citing master from oversea,
who quoted the Book of Genesis and who carried mysterious passengers
with nose-jewels. But our not too articulate young man was less prompt
about what he should say aloud. He began to find more in this interview
than he had expected. He was tickled at his host's flowery forms of
speech, and after all rather sympathized with the suspicious old
ruffian, yet it was not for him to fail in loyalty toward the "People of
the Chain." Several of them he knew, as it happened, and they had
delighted him with their wild yarns of surveying in Luristan. So he
managed no more than to achieve an appearance of slightly offended
dignity.
Considering which, out of those opaque eyes, the Father of Swords
clapped those famous hands and commanded a responsive black hat to bring
him his green chest. At that Matthews pricked up interested ears indeed.
The chest, however, when set down in front of the Father of Swords,
proved to be nothing at all like the one out of which the Brazilian had
taken his gold anklet. It was quite small and painted green, though
quaintly enough provided with triple locks of beaten iron. The Father of
Swords unlocked them deliberately, withdrew from an inner compartment a
round tin case, and from that a roll of parchment which he pressed to
his lips with infinite solemnity. He then handed it to Matthews.
He was one, our not too articulate young man, to take things as they
came and not to require, even east of Suez, the spice of romance with
his daily bread. His last days, moreover, had been too crowded for him
to ruminate over their taste. But it was not every day that he squatted
on the same rug with a scarlet-bearded old cutthroat of a mountain
chief. So it was that his more or less casual lark visibly took on, from
the perspective of this castle in Luristan, as he unrolled a gaudy
emblazonment of eagles at the top of the parchment, a new and curious
color. For below the eagle he came upon what he darkly made out to be a
species of treaty, inscribed neither in the Arabic nor in the Roman but
in the German character, between the Father of Swords and a more
notorious War Lord. And below that was signed, sealed, and imposingly
paraphed the signature of one Julius Magin. Which was indeed a novel
aspect for a Brazilian, however versatile, to reveal.
He permitted himself, did Guy Matthews, a smile.
"You do not kiss it?" observed the Father of Swords.
"In my country," Matthews began--
"But it is, may I be your sacrifice," interrupted the Father of Swords,
"a letter from the Shah of the Shahs of the _Firengis_." It was evident
that he was both impressed and certain of impressing his hearer. "He has
promised eternal peace to me and to my people."
The Englishman in Matthews permitted him a second smile.
"The Father of Swords," he said, "speaks a word which I do not
understand. I am a _Firengi_, but I have never heard of a Shah of the
Shahs of the _Firengis_. In the house of Islam are there not many who
rule? In Tehran, for instance, there is the young Ahmed Shah. Then among
the Bakhtiaris there is an Ilkhani, at Mohamera there is the Sheikh of
the Cha'b, and in the valleys of Pusht-i-Kuh none is above the Father of
Swords. I do not forget, either, the Emirs of Mecca and Afghanistan, or
the Sultan in Stambul. And among them what _Firengi_ shall say who is
the greatest? And so it is in _Firengistan_. Yet as for this paper, it
is written in the tongue of a king smaller than the one whose subject I
am, whose crown has been worn by few fathers. But the name at the bottom
of the paper is not his. It is not even a name known to the _Firengis_
when they speak among themselves of the great of their lands. Where did
you see him?"
The Father of Swords stroked his scarlet beard, looking at his young
visitor with more of a gleam in the dull black of his eyes than Matthews
had yet noticed.
"Truly is it said: 'Fix not thy heart on what is transitory, for the
Tigris will continue to flow through Baghdad after the race of Caliphs
is extinct!' You make it clear to me that you are of the People of the
Chain."
"If I were of the People of the Chain," protested Matthews, "there is no
reason why I should hide it. The People of the Chain do not steal
secretly through the valleys of Pusht-i-Kuh, telling the Lurs lies and
giving them papers in the night. I am not one of the People of the
Chain. But the king of the People of the Chain is also my king. And he
is a great king, lord of many lands and many seas, who has no need of
secret messengers, hostlers and scullions of whom no one has heard, to
persuade strangers of his greatness."
"Your words do not persuade me!" cried the Father of Swords. "A wise man
is like a jar in the house of the apothecary, silent but full of
virtues. If the king who sent me this letter has such hostlers and such
scullions, how great must be his khans and viziers! And why do the Turks
trust him? Why do the other _Firengis_ allow his ships in Bushir and
Basra? Or why do not the People of the Chain better prove the character
of their lord? But the hand of liberality is stronger than the arm of
power. This king, against whom you speak, heard me draw the sigh of
affliction from the bosom of uncertainty. He deigned to regard me with
the eye of patronage, sending me good words and promises of peace and
friendship. He will not permit the house of Islam to be troubled. From
many we have heard it."
"Ah!" exclaimed Matthews. "Now I understand why you have not kept your
promises to the People of the Chain!" And he rubbed his thumb against
his forefinger, in the gesture of the East that signifies the payment of
money.
"Why not?" demanded the Father of Swords, angrily. "The duty of a king
is munificence. Or why should there be a way to pass through my
mountains? Has it ever been said of the Lur that he stepped back before
a stranger? That is for the Shah in Tehran, who has become the servant
of the Russian! Let the People of the Chain learn that my neck does not
know how to bow! And what guest are you to sprinkle my sore with the
salt of harsh words? A boy, who comes here no one knows why, on hired
horses, with only one follower to attend him!"
Matthews flushed.
"Salman Taki Khan," he retorted, "it is true that I come to you humbly,
and without a beard. And your beard is already white, and you can call
out thirty thousand men to follow you. Yet a piece of gold will make you
believe a lie. And I swear to you that whether I give you back this
paper to put in your chest, or whether I spit on it and tear it in
pieces and throw it to the wind of that valley, it is one."
To which the Father of Swords made emphatic enough rejoinder by
snatching the parchment away, rising to his feet, and striding out of
the room without a word.