When Jaffer reached Lundi Kotal, he took his firman to be examined, and
slept for two hours. Then he mounted and continued. There is no need to
enumerate the places from there to Kabul. In Pushtu they would sound as
alien as the names which infidels in Chicago try to recognise when the
muezzin shouts them from his balcony in the Northwestern Station. But he
overtook Ali and Monday’s kafila at a place which in English would be
called Red Ghost.
On the sixth day out of Peshawar, Jaffer saw the valley open, and the key
of India appear below like a dream—Kabul, the charming-at-a-distance.
He was worn with lack of sleep, and so was Ali. On entering the city,
they went at once to the house of Umar Khel’s cousin, were received with
cordiality, said not a word about the exchange of passports, and slept
for eight hours.
Both camels were done up, and Jaffer left them in charge, to be returned
to Peshawar. He bought two new ones, the swiftest to be had. Ali’s load
was cut down to two maunds, and they started, paying no attention to the
Kabuli kafila.
They struck into the road toward Argandab, and Ali broke the silence. “I
am always glad to get out of Kabul. To kiss a girl there costs thirty
rupees. To speak your mind of a sayid costs twenty lashes, though the
descendants of the Prophet deserve many a tongue-lashing. And to strike a
petty official means a good chance of being blown from a gun.”
“I shall reflect upon the system,” said Jaffer. “Whoop la! Come on, Ali,
we don’t know where we’re going, but we’re on the way. I will now sing
you my favourite song, which is in Arabic:
“Oh, du lieber Halsted Street, Halsted Street, Halsted Street,
Oh, du lieber Halsted Street, alles ist hin.
Magd ist weg, Geld ist weg, alles weg, alles weg,
Oh, du lieber Halsted Street, alles ist schon fort.”
In all his life, Ali never made such time as he made that week, side by
side with this raw beginner—and raw was hardly a metaphor by the end of
the week. It was a week of frost and heat, dust and dew, high passes and
low valleys, Ali pleading and Jaffer relentless. It was only when Jaffer
insisted on bathing in the swift Helmund that Ali moved on, sarcastically
saying that he was in a hurry.
They pulled into Tashkurgan white as lepers with dust. There he sold both
of the Kabuli camels, bought new ones, and was on his way. But as they
left Tashkurgan for Balkh, he felt a deadly weariness, and let his mount
go slow.
Presently they were joined by a green-turbaned stranger from the north.
His camel had a blue ribbon on its bridle. In his arms he carried a
little boy, who wore blue beads about his neck, and a tiny ring with a
turquoise in it. Ali knew the meaning of all that blue. It was a charm
against the evil eye. Ali struck up an acquaintance.
The man was a traveller from Ishkashim. He had come two hundred miles
across the north country, from where the Panja is daunted in its efforts
to follow the Hindu Kush, and goes storming through granite gorges to
become the Oxus. Over the mountains of Badakshan his camel had climbed,
and so down, a painful and a dangerous journey.
The secret of his trip came out. His bright-eyed boy, now nine years
old, had never spoken an intelligible word, being under the malign power
of the evil eye. The father was taking the boy to Mazar-i-Sharif to be
cured.
Ali translated the Shugnan words for Jaffer’s benefit, and Jaffer looked
at the intelligent little face.
“Ali, are you sure he said ‘never’?”
“Quite sure, Hakim.”
“Never is a long day, Ali. Who is to unbewitch the boy at Mazar?”
Ali’s camel was pacing beside Jaffer’s. “Alas, Hakim Jaffer, is there
then a Moslem in all the world who knows not the towers of Mazar-i-Sharif
and what they cover?”
“Such am I, thou faithful Ali. Think how long I have been among kafirs.”
“It is the tomb of my sacred namesake. Perhaps Jaffer knows not even
Hazrat Ali.”
“Now by the memory of the just, O Ali, I would tear out thy tongue and
give it to the child who needs one, save that he never could control its
insolence. If we are coming to the tomb of Hazrat Ali Sher-i-Khuda, there
will Jaffer offer many prayers.”
Ali smiled. “Thou sayest well, for already I have boasted of thee to the
Sayid of Ishhashim.”
“That was unwise. I cannot remove spells.”
“Nor did I so speak, thou proud one. The dead hands of Hazrat Ali are
mightier than the living hands of Jaffer. Even the print of his hand is
mighty. Have I not seen it myself upon the stone at Panja Kala!”
Ali relapsed into dusty silence, which was not broken till late in the
afternoon, when above them on the hill they saw the minarets and blue
cupola of the ancient shrine. At Mazar the three men stayed in the
suburbs, and each pitched a little tent and prepared supper. The child
walked slowly from one man to another, and stood with questioning eyes.
Jaffer watched his chance, and when the little chap came his way offered
a tempting morsel. The boy opened his mouth wide. Jaffer slowly lifted
the food and took a good look. It was precisely as he thought. The boy
was desperately tongue-tied, but probably could have managed to talk,
except that his sensitive soul shrank from ridicule.
At sunrise the call to prayer vibrated afar in the sweet breeze, but
Jaffer did not hear. It was an hour before he awoke and found the others
gone. He rose and washed and dressed. He took his shawl and went into
the city. The sayid and the child were sitting before the hangings that
screen the tomb, and Jaffer, having removed his shoes, sat down beside
them. He still remained when at last the suppliants rose and departed,
the boy smelling of a sacred rose that the mullah had given him to
further the cure.
Half an hour later, having returned to camp, Jaffer found Malikdin Sayid
sitting upon the ground. The poor fellow was trying to make the boy talk.
Jaffer paused. Malikdin Sayid looked up at him and said something. Jaffer
beckoned to Ali to come and interpret.
“The sayid says that Hazrat Ali is deaf, and his rose scentless.”
“Tell the sayid that he speaks that which he understands not, for within
this hour shall the child’s tongue be loosened.”
Ali translated, and the sayid stared.
“Tell him that the Lion of God has deigned to bless my medicines.”
Ali translated. The man made no reply.
“Tell him,” said Jaffer, “to leave the child with me, while he goes back
into town and paces thrice around the masjid.”
On hearing this proposition the sayid looked exceedingly doubtful and
said something. Ali translated. “He fears _yarrah_ magic.”
“Bismillah!” cried Jaffer, leaping to his feet and spitting on the
ground. “As Allah lives it is not magic. Is he not beaten with twenty
stripes who speaks ill of a sayid? What then shall be done to him who
injures the body of a sayid?”
Ali caught the spirit of this, waved his arms, and translated it with the
fire unimpaired.
The sayid answered, scowling. “I will say what shall be done to him who
injures the body of this boy. I will bind him here. Habibullah will give
me the key of the iron cage that swings on high on Lataband, and there I
will leave the false hakim to eat the air without a tongue.”
Ali shuddered. He well remembered the cage. He translated in a low voice.
“So be it,” said Jaffer. “But one thing more. The sayid will leave at the
shrine a gift for Hazrat Ali.”
It was translated. The sayid bowed with a contemptuous wave of the hand.
Jaffer lifted a finger. “Thrice!” he said, pointing to the distant tomb.
Then he picked up the child bodily and disappeared in the tent. He drew
the opening close, put the child on the ground with head between the
surgeon’s knees, and operated. The flow was trifling, and there was no
need of a stitch. The boy looked up with deep eyes, and said “Ali.” Then
he said it again. Then his voice rose in a sharp quaver as he said it the
third time, and tears burst from his eyes.
Doubtless he meant the saint, but Ali of Peshawar came running to answer
the call. When he perceived that the miracle was accomplished, he dropped
on his knees with face toward Mecca, and touched the earth with his
forehead, and gave thanks in a loud voice.
The boy went to him and raised him to his feet. Dabbing now his eyes and
now his tongue with the wad of sterilised cotton which Jaffer had given
him, the boy began to speak, waiting patiently till every word was
translated.
“I was chased by a wolf. They did not understand.”
“They will understand now,” said Jaffer, and listened. The words of years
were coming, not very distinctly, but very fast.
“Why am I Djabrail?”
“It is the name of the angel by whom God speaks to men.”
“I ask if Ala Mazda pulls hair from horses’ tails in the night.”
Jaffer was puzzled. By what strange degradation of time had the bright
Ahura Mazda become a trivial demon? At last he said: “No, Gabriel.”
“I ask if Shaitan spat the moon into the sky, thus.”
“No, Gabriel.”
“I ask if my soul shall sleep in the trumpet till Israfil blows it.”
“Khuda medanad—God knows.”
Ali exclaimed that the Sayid was approaching, and the oracle ceased.
Whatever more the eager mind would desire to know of moon or earth—he
must wait for all till the resurrection. Never again would he meet a man
who knew the difference between an eclipse and a dragon.
“My father,” said Gabriel, “I was chased by a wolf. And I can say ‘Ali’
as loud as the boatmen cry it when they pull together.”
The father gazed upon the little face, and kissed it many times. He went
silently to Jaffer, and taking the skilful hand placed it upon his own
eyes.
Then he drew from within his kurta a leathern bag.
“Tell the great Hakim,” he said, unsteadily, “that I am from Ishkashim.
Tell him that high above Pandsh the few who know can still find black
stones that have become red with time. Though time makes the black stone
a ruby, make it not red, O God, with the blood of Jaffer’s heart.”
Ali translated. Then Malikdin emptied the contents of his pouch into his
hand. There were four stones. From his belt he took a knife and drew the
edge across each in turn.
“These two are for the Shrine. They are soft. They are balas.”
Ali translated. Jaffer shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.
Malikdin smiled, and placed in Jaffer’s hand the other two stones.
Again Jaffer shook his head. “To Hazreti Ali be the praise, blessed be
his name.”
Malikdin bowed, but he still smiled. “I have heard that the noble one
was buried in Meshed Ali at Kufa. It may be the truth. Once there was a
vaseer who secretly entombed a donkey. His king prayed at the donkey’s
ziarat for the gift of a son, and it was granted.”
Ali translated. Jaffer’s laugh rang out. “I take the princely gift with
more than a beggar’s gratitude.”
Ali and Jaffer moved onward, refreshed and ready for a spurt.
Takht-a-Pul—with a fortification overlooking the Oxus road. Then Balkh,
mother of cities and balas rubies and golden apricots, but now in ruins.
Here Jaffer found a guide to Termes, and here he parted with the
exhausted Ali. One day more and he came by forgotten paths out upon the
banks of Oxus, just where Oxus begins “to forget the bright speed he had
in his high mountain cradle in Pamere.” Jaffer stripped and took a swim.
On Friday, May 8, at Patta Hissar, having beaten all records and sold his
camel and Martini to a Jew, he watched the porters carry his tea aboard
the steamer _Samarkand_.
Now he had a week ahead, to reflect on all the heresies he had seen and
shared. For it is unlawful to pray for the cure of an arm; or to visit a
tomb save as a reminder of death; or to pace about any shrine save that
of Mecca; or to bless any name, save the name of God, when a disease is
cured. Yet he had taken these heresies as a matter of course, and even
pretended that they helped his surgery. Well, he would ask Dr. Trench if
he had done right.
No foreigners except the Russian officials appeared on the boat.
Foreigners get on to the Oxus flotilla about as easily as a Russian gets
to Kabul or a camel goes through a needle’s eye, but Jaffer’s borrowed
pass and ocriti lista served. For seven days the flat side-wheeler picked
her way down the swift current among the shoals, tying up each night for
safety’s sake. On Saturday, May 16, Jaffer got off the boat at Charjui.
That evening he would be in Kagan, and to-morrow in Bokhara.