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 in 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
travellers 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 organise a defence of whips and stones against
the guardians of that high terrace. 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 rumoured to bear even more sinister stains.
And the bottomless black eyes peering out from under the white turban
lent surprising credibility to such rumours. 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 honour 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 Shustar. Yet he did not hesitate to express a certain
surprise at discovering in the friend of the prince among the merchants
of Shustar one still in the flower of youth, who exhibited at the same
time 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 to 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 Shustar in order to witness his poor
celebrations of the morrow, in honour 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
Shustar, 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 sympathised 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 cut-throat 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
colour. 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 Teutonic 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 it is 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.