Yahya, a son of Yemen, a devout Muslim and a veteran watchman. In matters of religion, Allah may rest assured and rely on him: he will not violate His commandments. And as to the watch – he is truly a fortified wall. His master may sleep peacefully: the fence of his orchard will not be breached and his fruit will not be looted.
Yahya’s body is gaunt and thin. His hands are wizened and emaciated. He has no weapons on him: neither rifle nor pistol. He has only a short staff, the end of which is round and spiked – a protuberance-like staff, hard as iron. And Yahya’s face is pale and narrow, creases have plowed it lengthwise and widthwise, and greyness has permeated the hairs of his head.
In what way is Yahya’s strength great? And wherein lies his unique quality in casting terror and fear on thieves of the night, such that they take care and avoid coming to the orchard whose watch is in Yahya’s hands? Some say: it is his honesty. Nothing can tempt him and no bribe can bribe him to forsake his master’s fruit – neither money, nor threats, not even the charms of a woman. And if anyone he does not recognize at a close distance should try to take anything with him and pretend that he doesn’t hear – the lightening of fury in Yahya’s eyes will strike him, and he pulls back in fear, and desists. And some say: his religious humility brings down terror on thieves, most of whom are God-fearing Muslims. They fear his curses, lest they be heard in the heavens. And some say: he has a small knife, sharp as a slaughterer’s knife, hidden among his clothing, and any who raise their hand against him will not be spared… Light and supple is Yahya, and like a snake can he twist in a struggle.
No eye has seen Yahya’s knife, and only tales are told of it from one mouth to another. Only Nimr has seen it with his own eyes…
I made my first acquaintance of Yahya only this year, even though his name was known to me for some time. The clementines of my orchard I had sold to an Arab merchant from Ramla. I sold them damaan, meaning: the fruit while still on the trees, with the buyer responsible, for I feared theft. These were days of war, a state of emergency, and my orchard was located in the domain of the Ramla vineyards. And the buyer of the fruit sent Yahya to guard. With Yayha on the spot – there is security against any theft. He would not even make an exception for a soldier, or even for the orchard owner. And knowing this, I stipulated an explicit term with the buyer that allowed me to take on every Sabbath eve one hundred clementines for home use, of my choosing.
Yahya had set up his temporary hut: four upright pillars, connected at the top with four thin rods, and the roof and two walls on the east and south were made of weeds from the field – shelter from the heat of day. On one upright hung a small bag of flour, and on the other – a bowl for kneading the dough and a small saj for baking. In the ground, an ibrik of drinking water lay buried up to its neck, so it wouldn’t get hot in the sun. And there was another ibrik of water above – for washing of the hands and feet before prayer. And a mat was spread on the ground, on which Yahya would kneel at prayer times. And that was all. Yahya did not possess any kind of bedding. It was said of him that he did not sleep at all, neither by night nor by day. He was always seen sitting down, standing, or walking. He would only doze for moments at a time, usually while sitting, and sometimes standing up too – no one had checked the veracity of the matter. But all of this added a touch of renown to his prowess as a watchman.
The first time I met him, he examined me most thoroughly with his two black, narrow eyes which sparkled in the depth of their sockets. After greeting each other and asking each other as to the peace of his fellow’s household, I came to know that he did not have any home. He was lonesome and alone, going from place to place. He came from the land of Yemen, he had never taken a wife – he could never afford to – and his relatives remained in Yemen. Here, in this country, he had neither relation nor redeemer.
After we had made each other’s acquaintance, Yahya informed me in concise and certain terms that aside from the hundred clementines on each Friday, which I could do with as I wished, eat them, give them out, or sell them, I was not allowed to touch even one clementine or offer any to any of my guests… And that my workers who worked in the orchard were not allowed to touch even one of them…
“The workers… Can you really mean it? Is it not written even of the beasts: ‘Thou shalt not muzzle the ox when he treadeth out the corn’?”
“A clementine is not corn… And a man is not an ox… He must understand that what is forbidden – is forbidden…”
“And do you deny yourself too the pleasure of a clementine?”
A look of rage and contempt hit me in place of an answer. And in the end he deigned to add:
“Yahya is the servant of Allah, and the words of Allah he fears – to what is not his, he does not extend his hand.”
Only later did I remember that one of the rumors prevalent about Yahya was that he would not touch any fruit from his master’s fruit that he found in his possession when he wasn’t there.
And when I picked on Friday, as agreed, my one hundred clementines from the trees, Yahya stood and looked at me closely and counted every one as it came into my basket lest there be – God forbid – an error in the count.
At that moment I also made the acquaintance of Nimr.
As I extended my hand for the first time to pick the first fruit, I suddenly felt a slight kick on the back of my leg, a kick that caused me pain… I turned around in surprise.
A very young, low to the ground billy goat stood behind me, its horns curving inwards, its head lowered, preparing to butt me again. But Yahya’s hand held it and pulled it back to him… Yahya’s thin and wrinkled face glowed with satisfaction. Only then did I remember that from my very first glimpse of Yahya, I had seen a small billy goat rubbing itself between his legs.
“And who is this fellow?” I asked Yahya.
“He is mine…” said Yahya, and his entire face lit up with a look of satisfaction. And he added: “He did not yet know that you have been given permission to pick the fruits of the orchard.” Yahya smiled good-naturedly and two rows of teeth as white as milk were revealed between his lips. The rage had left his face and a thread of tenderness was drawn over it. With his thin hand he affectionately stroked the goat’s thick, low and hard wool. And in a few words, he told me Nimr’s story.
His mother had been led to slaughter at the Ramla market and he, Yahya, had bought the kid and adopted it and cared for it, and raised it up. And the billy goat became attached to his master and was to him like a faithful dog. Wherever he went – he went with him, and wherever he dwelled – he dwelled with him. And the goat was loyal to his master, and helped him in his watchcraft. During those few and rare moments when Yahya dozed a short while whilst sitting or standing, Nimr would stand guard. And should any murmur reach his ear, a faint rustling from afar, Nimr brushed him with his horns and woke him. He realized something was afoot. And if any man dared touch Yahya, even if only with the intention of playing, then he rose up with all of his might and butted Yahya’s rival.
“Just try and touch my staff and take it from me,” Yahya whispered to me, a jesting expression pouring over his face. I did as he asked: I “pounced” on Yahya intending to take his staff away… And I had not even managed to carry out my scheme when Nimr jumped on my back, hammered me with his little feet, and butted my shoulder with his stiff horns… With great effort Yahya took him off me, while he laughed aloud. And I laughed too, but I felt the goat’s butts in all my limbs.
“That’s Nimr,” said Yahya and gave a glance, a glance of affection and pride, at the goat who rested from his anger and rubbed its entire body between his master’s legs…
“How old is he?”
“One year.”
“Will he stay with you always?”
Yahya’s face changed suddenly. It was as if it became longer. The look of his eyes turned towards the south and there was an expression of piety in his eyes.
“Not always…” Yahya answered, almost in a whisper, “The days of his life are numbered in advance, another two months…. In a month’s time Ramadan will grace us, and with the end of the fast, Eid al-Fitr … He will have the honor of being slaughtered as a holiday sacrifice… In the prophet’s name…”
I was nearly sick:
“Who will slaughter him? But you loved the goat so and he loved you and believes in you – will you slaughter him?”
“Yes… For this commandment I have raised him… I have saved him from being sold for everyday slaughter… I have sanctified him to be a sacrifice for a holy feast…”
And Nimr continued to rub himself affectionately, faithfully, and trustfully between his master’s legs.
For two months or more Yahya stood guard in my orchard. And Nimr stood guard with him day and night. Nimr came to know me and did not harm me, neither while I picked the clementines of my plot nor when I jokingly provoked Yahya and “attacked” him… And he would rub himself sometimes between my legs as well… Unknowingly, a covenant of peace was made between us… And I completely forgot the matter of his “holy” purpose…
Once, several days before the fruit harvest’s end, the day after Eid al-Fitr, I came to my orchard and was surprised by the feeling of strange quiet that hung over it, like the aura of a cemetery. I looked wonderingly at Yahya, who sat alone and forsaken on the ground next to his hut.
Then I understood the reason for the quiet… Nimr was not with him… “Where was he?” I thought to myself. Then I remembered, and I looked and saw: on one of the uprights hung Nimr’s skin, the whole skin of his entire body, with his head and with his legs…
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