I
Every winter the wind sweeps down from the north and storms and dashes against the slopes of Mount Tabor, which stands completely exposed on all sides. It races wildly along, uprooting the thorns and thistles at the foot of the Mount, flinging the roots into the air and scattering them in all directions. It snaps the branches in the thickets, then scatters them furiously across the valley. It rages across the countryside, dancing and stamping and leaping, and roars with a thousand , whirling all round the Mount and heaving against it from every side as though trying to shift it from its place. The wind dives among the knolls and hillocks, hides in the valleys and caves, steals out quietly, then suddenly bursts forth again and charges down upon the Mount with sevenfold fury.
Now when the Zubeih tribe, who dwell at the foot of Tabor among the Nazareth Mountains, hear the tumult of the north wind and see the heavy clouds covering the ‘Sheikh of Mountains’, they know beforehand: this night, when thick darkness envelops the Mount and the whole valley round about, she will begin to wail.
At night, at midnight, the sound of a faint wailing will begin beyond the river; a woman weeping, weeping and sobbing, wailing and moaning, moaning and wailing in her bitter agony.
The wind carries the wailing from below the Mount and scatters it in tiny fragments over the whole district, in the valleys and amid the hills. The wailing enters the tents and pierces the hearts of those who dwell there, carrying terror to their breasts.
When the tempest ceases the elders tell once more, with awestruck voice, what they have already told a hundred times—of the wailing of Salhia; the youths cannot bear to listen, but shrink away in bitterness and vexation of spirit, for it hurts them sorely.
II
Many years ago the Arb Zubeih began to chafe against the domination of their despotic brethren, the Beni Shukeir, who held sway over the whole of the country beyond Jordan eastward, throughout the Mountains of Bashan and Golan. For the Sheikhs of the Beni Shukeir were harsh rulers, and the burden of their yoke was heavy upon all the small tribes sheltering in their shadow; they despoiled them and held them in servitude, making light of their elders and showing no honour to their youths. They took the maidens of the little tribes for their sons, but their own daughters they would not give them. So the sons of Zubeih rose as one man, forsook the abodes of their forefathers and their holy graves, crossed the Jordan and set their faces to the west; and their feet stayed in the Nablus Mountains. But they saw that the hill-dwellers were powerful and they could not prevail against them, so they descended and set their faces to the north and came to the valley of Marj ibn Omar; but they did not stay there, for they did not desire the valley. Then they went up amid the Nazareth Hills which are opposite Mount Tabor. Here they saw that the land was fair and good and fat, and that the dwellers therein were few; and they dwelt there, setting their tents on the slopes of the hills, looking out upon the great valley to their right, Hermon to their left, and Mount Tabor before them.
The Arb Zubeih were bold and fierce fighters. They ruled over the whole plain from Jordan bank to Nazareth, and from the valley to the Safed Mountains. The land was fruitful, the Fellahin who dwelt there were wealthy, and the sons of Zubeih despoiled them, consumed their produce and devoured their land. Their droves, their flocks and their herds of camels grew many as the grains of sand on the shores of Kinneret, they spread far and wide along the valleys and between the hills, and they devoured the herbage of the countryside.
All the neighbours heard their fame and feared them; for the Zubeih were become mighty west of Jordan as were their brethren the Beni Shukeir east of Jordan. At the year’s end the Beni Zubeih and the Beni Shukeir made peace, for the Beni Shukeir said to themselves, ‘Why should a foe lie across our path to the sea when we go to Acre, the great mart?’ The Beni Zubeih were well pleased to make peace with their brethren, the mighty warriors who held the road to the prophet. So the Beni Shukeir sent messengers to the sons of Zubeih, saying, ‘Are we not brethren? Why then should we raid one another’s flocks? The whole land is before us; ours be the east and yours be the west. Has God kept us short of the goods of earth and the blessings of heaven? Then from this day forth let there be the peace of brothers between us, from this day till the end of days; let no man from among us dare to touch his brother with evil intent, and let no hair of the their heads fall to the ground; and I will take of your daughters and give you my daughters.’ Thus was the peace of brethren established between the Arabs[1] on both sides of Jordan.
Now Muhammad, son of Ahmed, was the Sheikh of the Zubeih in those days. He was an only son, and when his father went the way of all flesh he had been eighteen years old, but had known no woman. When the elders of his tribe made him Sheikh they said to him, ‘Sheikh of the Zubeih art thou this day and ‘tis not fitting that thou shouldst dwell without a wife.’ He had answered them, `I will take me a wife of the daughters of Shukeir.’ The elders were well pleased with this, and they kept the matter in mind. And as Muhammad had spoken, so it came to pass. When the Beni Shukeir made peace with the Beni Zubeih, the head Sheikh of the Shukeir sent messengers to Muhammad, saying, ‘My brother Ibrahim has a daughter named Salhia. Let me give thee Salhia to wife, and it shall be for a sign in your eyes and in the eyes of all the neighbouring tribes that there is brotherhood and peace between us from now to the end of days.’ Muhammad made a three-day feast, and they slaughtered sheep and oxen for the guests, the messengers of the Shukeir. Then after three days Muhammad sped them on their way with much honour, giving them presents of silver and gold and sending flocks before them as a gift to Ibrahim, and purchase money for his daughter Salhia.
So Salhia became the wife of Muhammad.
Now old Ibrahim, Salhia’s father, loved his daughter like his own soul, and could not bear to part from her. So he left his house and his tribe and followed his daughter to dwell in her husband’s house.
Muhammad cleaved to his wife and loved her like his own soul.
Salhia was beautiful, tall and erect as a palm, her breasts round and high, her body slender and fresh, her black hair falling to her knees, her face dark and winsome, her sparkling black eyes deep as the sea, as though two everlasting lamps burned within them.
She had the soul of an angel. She spoke quietly, never screaming or cursing, as though not even knowing that there was such a thing in the world. She sympathized with all who were in misfortune, she comforted those in distress, and her heart was open to all sufferers. At evening time she would pass between the tents like a shadow, to heal the sick and comfort the widow and the orphan.
When the Beni Zubeih saw her standing at the entrance to the tent beside her husband, who was strong as an oak, they felt proud of them, and their hearts were full of glad hopes.
Muhammad’s happiness knew no bounds.
And yet . . . one cloud darkened the sky of his happiness. Salhia was not bright and happy as is the way of young women after marriage. A shadow of sadness hovered on her brow and glistened in her deep black eyes. Her eyes seemed often to gaze across the river as though in search of something in the distance; as though they were watching and waiting.
Then was Muhammad’s heart sore distressed.
Sometimes Muhammad would silently peer under the hanging curtain and see Salhia sitting and weaving, her face sad and dejected; sometimes a tear would fall on the fabric and gleam like a sapphire.
And the heart of Muhammad would weep with her.
Sometimes Muhammad would muster up courage and beg her to tell him her trouble. Then she would blush and her eyes would gaze at him in confusion as though she had been caught in transgression. She would grip his hand, kiss it hotly, and whisper, ‘‘Tis of no moment, ‘tis naught.’ Muhammad’s heart would be filled with ,joy; he would kiss her and embrace her and swear that he would take no other wife as long as he lived, and she would weep noiselessly, without a sound.
So passed two years; and Salhia, Muhammad’s wife, did not conceive. And the elders of Zubeih were grieved at heart.
III
It was the evening of a day in early summer. The sum had already sunk below the sharp peaks of the Carmel Hills, where it seemed to have fallen into some abyss. Only the ruddy glow on the peaks and a last reflection from the top of Hermon bore witness to its presence. In the sky, too, its traces were still visible. A flame lit up the thin clouds floating westward, so that they seemed like fiery tongues, which kept lengthening and broadening out, continually changing their shapes as though in a kaleidoscope. But the kaleidoscope of the west had no effect on the rest of the sky. This was quiet, blue and deep, seeming to watch in eternal repose what was going on yonder, where sea and sky met.
The shadows had already begun to race across the great plain lying at the feet of the hills and spreading east and west to the river and the sea. They began below Mount Tabor and from there they rolled away confusedly, through the length and breadth of the wide plain. The giant valley seemed to be stretching itself, straightening its limbs after the heat of the day, while it breathed deep of the cooler air, drawing in from the distant sea and breathing out into the midst of the hills; from the hills rose the cool breath, refreshing the men whose tents were pitched upon them.
Rows of black tents, large and small, stretched across a broad valley between the Nazareth Hills, all facing one another as if laid out on a single plan. The curtains of the tents were made of thick, strong wool, and the ropes which stretched from the roof-trees to the tent-pegs were tough and well knotted. The hill Arabs do not hasten to remove their winter tents until the end of summer. The flaps of the curtains alone are turned back so that the cool air may penetrate the tents.
A thin smoke rose among the tents on all sides; smoke of the fires lit by the womenfolk to bake the evening bread and prepare the meals. The smoke floated west-ward and vanished in the air.
The young Sheikh sat on the carpets spread on the ground by the largest of the tents, all the elders round him. The time of the evening prayer had already passed, and on the faces of the elders was a restful look. Sheikh Muhammad leaned on his elbow, smoking his narghileh every now and then, the shadow of thought on his brow. In appearance he was giving all his attention to one of the elders who was narrating the lives of the Bedouin saints. But in fact he was not listening; he was meditating on a certain matter which was running in his head, and he gazed across the wide expanse before him.
Tabor, round as a ball, rose aloft; it was beautiful now, green and lush and as it were full of song, the song of eternal life. The shadows had already stolen from behind the Mount, coming from their hiding-places and rushing forward to capture it. But Tabor was unsubdued. Its greenness, its lushness, stood and defended themselves, and drove off the shadows, ready for the next attack. That tussle of light and shade was pregnant with a holy, inexpressible feeling of mystery.
Sheikh Muhammad gazed at the Mount. He loved Tabor. For a time he had yearned for the broad meadows across the Jordan, and the craggy peaks which rose to the heavens; and at times his yearning had become almost irresistible. But since he had grown to love the Mount his longing had abated. He loved the Mount and its enchantment, which had taken possession of his heart and soul, In the evening he loved to watch Tabor till darkness fell, when it seemed so close that he need only stretch out his hand to touch it. The Sheikh knew that this was only imagination; he knew the Mount was distant, but he took pleasure in deceiving himself and believing it close. He would look at it with affectionate mockery, stretch out his hand, and fancy that he touched it, and a sweet feeling would course through all his body. The Sheikh loved the Mount. Sometimes he would envisage Salhia as Tabor; she too was full of enchantments, so near and yet so far. . . .
The beasts came from the field; horses, herds, droves, flocks and camels, raising much dust. From among the horses darted a colt which had been taken from its dam only the day before; it was white as Hermon snows and sped like lightning. It raced across the valley, quivering as it ran, shaking its ears and tail and distending its nostrils as though it wished to snuff up the whole plain. The Sheikh watched the colt, and could not turn his eyes away; it was his own mare’s colt. It reached the thickets and stopped running, while a fox which had left its den on the hillside suddenly stared at it from the undergrowth. The fox and the colt stopped still and observed one another nervously. The fox became the more frightened of the two, and darted aside through the undergrowth. The noise it made startled the colt, which flung up its hooves in the air and made for the tents like an arrow from a bow. The Sheikh watched with a smile; he was very fond of his mare’s colt.
Beside the tents stood a band of youths, their faces hidden in their keffiyehs. Only their gleaming eyes could be seen. Their rifles lay across their backs, their swords hung at their sides. They were saddling their snorting, stamping horses, preparing themselves for the road. Sheikh Muhammad knew whither they were bound, but he turned away as though he had not seen them. It was not his business to know. For the next day, when one of the riders might ‘go wrong’ and fall into the hands of the Government, and the soldiers would come to expostulate with the Sheikh and upbraid him, Muhammad would pretend to be most deeply concerned; he would grow angry, he would complain bitterly, he would rebuke and reprimand the youths, he would beg the soldiers to inflict condign punishment on the one they had caught. The Sheikh and the soldiers would understand one another, and the latter would return well satisfied with their fine ‘reception’. The next day the prisoner would ‘run away’ and return to his tent in peace. The Sheikh would say nothing, but would look reproachfully at him as though reminding him that it ill became a Zubeihi to fall into the hands of the authorities. . .
Sheikh Muhammad raised his head with a slight start and listened, He could hear unfamiliar hoofbeats. The elders also turned round. Through the gathering evening shadows which had already covered the entire district they could see a rider at some distance in an abaya, with his face covered.
Who could this be? Guests were uncommon at that hour.
IV
The horse stopped before the tent. A rich, powerful young voice from over the back of the horse greeted those assembled, ‘Salam Alaikem!’
‘Altiikent il salam!’ responded Sheikh Muhammad, slowly rising, his eyes still striving to peer into the guest’s face. Behind him rose the elders.
The rider leapt from his horse, and removed the keffiyeh from his face, and two sparkling black eyes set in a handsome, open visage gazed at him.
‘Your servant brings to Sheikh Muhammad, Sheikh of the Zubeih, and to the Elder Ibrahim, the greetings of their brethren beyond the river, greetings from the Sheikhs of the Ibn Shukeir!’
A smile of pleasure passed over Muhammad’s face as he stretched out his hand to his guest. Their faces touched, Muhammad’s right cheek meeting his guest’s ‘left cheek and the lips of each pursed to kiss in the air. And again their faces touched on the other side. The guest did the like to all the elders until he came to Ibrahim. But old Ibrahim had stood afar, all this while, observing the guest with an inner discomfort which he could not explain. ‘Who is this?’ the elder asked himself, striving to recall him; for it seemed to him that he knew the rider of old; and so the old man responded to the young one’s greeting with great coolness.
Muhammad was delighted. He received anyone who belonged to the Beni Shukeir with affection, though he himself might never have known him. In his eyes they were all kinsfolk of his wife. So he ordered a fat sheep to be slaughtered and a jar of preserved butter to be opened. He set the guest at his right hand on the carpet while all the elders seated themselves again in their places.
`May your evening be blessed!’ said the young guest again as he sat down.
`God bless your evening!’ answered Muhammad and the elders. Ibrahim did not respond, but continued to gaze at the guest. He was a youth of about twenty, his face was tanned, hard and clear-cut as iron, and with a look of great courage and daring. A smile played round his lips, revealing every now and then a set of snow-white teeth. His frame was firm-set, and the black abaya hanging from his back and dropping round his knees as he sat cross-legged seemed to show off his strength and vigour. ‘Can this indeed be he?’ passed the terrifying thought through the old man’s mind, but he hurriedly banished it. ‘He would not dare!’
‘Whence is the servant of God come, and whither, does he take his way?’ Muhammad asked his guest.
‘Yesterday at dawn I descended from the Mountains of the Hauran, and as far as the fords of Jordan I accompanied a camel caravan that goes down to Egypt. Then I turned my horse toward you, to give you all your brethren’s greetings. With the morning star to-morrow I shall set out to overtake the camels ere they have proceeded far.’
‘Nay, but you shall eat the noonday meal with us to-morrow; I shall send my lads with you across the hills by a short road, and you will meet your camels in the Acre plain.’
‘Far be it from your servant to be a burden unto you. My camels will wait for me beyond the Safed Hills.’
‘Nay, that shall not be!’
And in Muhammad’s voice could be heard true concern
But Ibrahim continued to gaze at the guest, who felt his eyes upon him. He turned his face toward him, the smile on his lips broadening as he said:
‘Have you not recognized your servant?’
‘‘Tis he!’ flashed the bitter thought through the old man’s mind, and he became possessed with a strong desire to rise, seize the impudent youth by the throat and cast him out or break his head against a rock. But obeident to the dictates of hospitality, the old man suppressed his impulse and answered:
‘No . . .’
‘Salu al nabi!’ exclaimed the youth.
‘La Allah ila Allah wesaidna Muhammad rasul Allah!’ responded Ibrahim, Muhammad and all the elders.
‘Do you not remember your servant Aziz, son of the maidservant, your brother’s wife?’
Ay, Ibrahim remembered. It had been years before. The lad Aziz, son of his brother Saliah, had been a wild boy, a great waster who gave much trouble to the elders, and had always been as thorns in their eyes. At fifteen he had attempted to seduce his daughter, the maiden Salhia; and when the matter became known to Ibrahim, he and his brethren had risen and beaten him and cast him out of the tribe. Since then he had not seen him.
‘Your servant is to-day of the household of your brother Sheikh Ramadan,’ said the youth with an air of pride, as though wishing to convince the old man that there was peace between him and the tribe.
The old man knew that the youth lied, but remained silent and restrained his rising anger. All those present noticed his embarrassment and knew that he bore the guest no good will. This Muhammad also perceived, and he feared that he might shame the guest, which his sense of hospitality could by no means allow.
‘Blest is he who comes into the shade of my roof!’ he said, offering his guest the narghileh.
‘God bless you!’ answered Aziz, a smile of cunning mingled with apprehension crossing his face; but he kept his eyes on the elder Ibrahim.
Muhammad inquired of Aziz after the welfare of all the Sheikhs of the Shukeir, their elders and their notables, while Aziz answered his questions and asked in turn after Muhammad and all his house. Aziz spoke much of the lives of the Bedouin who camp along the way to Mecca where the Prophet lies buried, for he had lived among them for several years. He spoke with warmth and animation, his conversation was agreeable and interesting, and all the elders listened with great attention. Ibrahim alone did not listen, but sat silent, buried in his thoughts.
Aziz told of the might and wonders of Sheikh Rashid, the great and holy Sheikh who ruled all the Bedouins in the far south, who kept the Sacred Road and who was as powerful as the Sultan, but whose heart was better than the heart of the Sultan. In the broad realm of Rashid there were no oppressors, no soldiers and no prisons; each one did that which was fitting and proper in his own eyes. If a man smote his fellow, if he cut off his fellow’s hand, if he slew his fellow, he would be brought before the great Sheikh, and the smiter would be smitten, and the hand of him who cut off hands would be cut off, and the slayer would be slain. Every morning the Sheikh would send his messengers through the length and breadth of his domains to greet his servants and to carry out all their just requests and demands. If a calamity befell a man, he would go to the Sheikh and obtain assistance. If a man was sick, he would be brought to the Sheikh, who would heal him. There all the Arab maidens were as beautiful as the sun, while their love was like to fire. When a youth was eighteen years of age he chose whichever of the maidens he desired, and took her to wife. But if he lacked the money to pay her father the purchase price, he would come to the Sheikh, who would give it to him. Nor could the fathers and brothers withhold the maiden from her lover; for the heart of the Sheikh was ever open to all the prayers of lovers.
This and much more did Aziz tell, and his face lit up so he spoke, and his eyes flamed like fire. More and more people gathered to hear his words and the report of the strange guest reached the womenfolk, and was told to Salhia also.
When the feast was ended, all those assembled departed each to his own tent, and the guest lay down to sleep in the visitors’ tent beside the tent of the Sheikh. Then Ibrahim summoned Muhammad; and when they had pole a distance from the tent he whispered to him, ‘To-morrow at sunrise send your guest forth the way he came, for it is not good that he came to you.’
‘This I cannot do! Am I not an Arab? If I do the like I shall become a mockery and a derision among all our brethren on both sides of the river.’
‘I have warned you. Evil lies before you. If you dare not do that which I counsel, do this at least: after you breakfast to-morrow, saddle your horse and depart on a journey of three days’ distance. Then shall I send the guest forth from your house.’
V
After midnight, when all the tents were dark and those within them fast asleep, a shadow moved under the hanging of Sheikh Muhammad’s tent, and then vanished. From under the lifted hangings of the neighbouring tent gleamed two black eyes which had not yet been closed that night. Within a few moments a shadow moved from under that tent as well, appeared and then vanished. Then, about a bowshot away, behind the tent on the upward slope, two shadows faced one another under the century-old sycamore. The shadows came together, separated, then came together again. . . . The little birds sleeping amid the branches stirred as lips moved below, and the distant little stars twinkled in the deeps of the heavens as though they blessed the shadows.
`Why have you come?’
`Because Jordan knows but one path—to Kinnereth.’
‘But I warned you not to come—I told you then—now or never—’
`The heart does not heed what the lips decree.’
‘I waited for you then—why did you not come?’
`I was far away. I rode on my horse day and night without rest. Two hours ere I reached the tents my horse fell. When I came you were no longer there. I wept and tore my hair.’
‘And I waited all that night. Until the dawn I never closed an eye. At every hoofbeat my heart trembled. Twice did I leave the tents to wait for you beside the bushes. I all but died from fear and hope.’
`I was three days and three nights distant when your maidservant reached me with your words, “To-morrow night beside the bushes or never!” I gathered all my comrades and told them to follow me wherever the woman bade them go. And while yet I spoke I had started my horse, struck it and was away—and sped—and sped—and you were gone.’
`But I gazed behind me till we reached the river. I gazed behind while my heart smote me. Every shadow I saw afar off seemed to bear your shape.’
‘I leapt over hill and dale, crossed deeps and rivers, waded through water up to my neck…’
`When we crossed the river I told myself, never.’
The whispering ceased. The shadows came together, separated, then came together again.
‘I entreated, I begged for a horse, but the lads gathered round, mocking me. I rose and pursued you afoot. I ran till I was weary, my spirit grew faint and I fell, and I wished only to die. When my comrades came, they found me half dead, and carried me away to the hills.’
The birds in the tree fluttered afresh at the sound of the kiss below.
‘You have not done well. Why have you come? I warned you—never!’
‘Do you know? The Prophet never decreed that Jordan must flow backward. And do you know why?’
‘Why ?’
‘Because it would not have hearkened to him.’
‘But you must hearken to my decree!’
‘I shall neither hearken nor obey. I do not go hence until you come with me.’
‘I shall never follow you more. You are too late.’
`Do you love Muhammad?’
`No ! Shall Kinnereth change her place or close her mouth and withhold her waters from the Jordan? So Arab maidens do not love twice!’
‘Then why has Kinnereth closed her mouth ?’
‘I am come under his roof. You are too late—go where you will—and leave me to my fate. . . ‘
‘As long as I breathe I am not too late. As long as my sword is on my thigh and my blood is in my veins I am out too late. My comrades stand below the Mount, armed from head to foot, with horses swift as eagles. With dawn we are beyond Jordan. If they pursue and overtake us my comrades will do battle with them the while we shall flee.’
‘Nay, have a care for your soul and the souls of your comrades. If I go with you God’s curse will fall on us, and all your comrades will fall before the swords of the Zubeih, who are grim and dauntless warriors.’
`Salhia, death or life. . . ‘
`I fear death. . .’
`Fear not, Salhia, we have horses, and shall fly like eagles to the foot of the mountain and beyond.’
`No. . .’
`Fear not, they all sleep, and sleep sound. They will not wake, and if they wake they will not pursue us, and if they pursue—their blood be upon their own heads.’
The voices grew still again. Their heavy breathing could be heard afar. Then the shadows moved and fell below the tree. At their fall the birds awoke and rose above the topmost branches, flying in the air round and round the sycamore. And a weak voiceless whisper reached them, whispering through kisses and kissing through whispers.
`Aziz, let me be—let me be, Aziz.’
`Mine—mine you’ll be—and go with me.’
When the birds had recovered from their alarm and returned to their branches, they saw the two shadows lying on the ground, one lying in the other’s arms; his eyes flamed while she wept. She trembled, and his hand stroked her hair. . .
Suddenly footsteps were heard beyond the sycamore. A white-haired old man slipped along the ground like a snake, then raised himself behind the tree. And ere Aziz could rise to his feet the face of old Ibrahim appeared, a naked sword in his hand. Salhia screamed and her eyes grew dark as Aziz fell back, Ibrahim’s sword in his neck.
`Were I certain that none of Muhammad’s seed stirs in your womb, I would slay you here, bitch!’ said Ibrahim, kicking his daughter in the head. She screamed and fainted.
When the morning star arose, Muhammad saddled his horse and went his way. When the tribe awoke to find both Sheikh and guest gone they were astonished. Their astonishment grew greater when the youths arrived at noon and told how they had seen the guest’s horse. running beyond the Mount without a rider. The horse had neighed, and below the Mount other horses had neighed in answer. Towards evening a flight of ravens flew over the tents beyond the bushes, flying from the sycamore to the Mount. On the next day again the ravens circled in the air above the bushes, swooping down with loud cawings. Likewise on the third day.
Salhia’s face was very pale, while old Ibrahim’s face was full of fury.
Muhammad returned after three days, and when he looked at the old man he asked nothing and was told nothing.
VI
In the due season of the next year Muhammad’s wife Salhia, most beautiful of women, bore a son. On that day a thing befell in Muhammad’s tent the like of which had not been seen since the sun first shone on earth.
Muhammad sat on the carpet in his big tent arrayed in holiday garb. He wore a new abaya of black gleaming silk and a keffiyeh of smooth white silk, with gold fringes. On the wall behind him hung all his weapons in cases of gold and silver. Opposite Sheikh Muhammad sat the elders who had come to congratulate him, and who were conversing with great vivacity, the news having put them in excellent spirits.
Only the place of Ibrahim was vacant. Sheikh Muhammad’s eyes fell upon the empty place and a look of concern and astonishment came over him. Suddenly the hanging across the entrance to the tent was raised, and Ibrahim appeared before them.
The old man’s face was deathly pale. His white beard, which descended over his chest, was trembling, while his eyes flashed like those of a youth, flaming with fury; and his brow was sad and stern.
Muhammad rose hastily to meet him. All the elders rose and greeted him; but the old man made no answer.
Muhammad and the elders stood confused.
Then old Ibrahim opened his mouth, and said sternly, `Hear, Sheikh Muhammad, and hearken, ye elders of Zubeih, to that which I tell you this day l’
`Speak, O father of my wife, for your servant hearkens,’ replied Muhammad.
`My son,’ said Ibrahim, his voice suddenly shaking, `my son, an evil thing is come about in your house.’
The faces of the elders turned white, while a heavy cloud settled on Muhammad’s brow.
`My son,’ continued the old man, his voice shaking even more, ‘my son, your wife is unchaste.’
Muhammad’s face quivered, and a strange flame, harsh and cruel, began to flicker in his eyes.
The old man continued, his voice growing strong as iron.
`Muhammad, my son! After sunset this day take thou Salhia thy wife and her son which she has borne thee this day; set them below the Mount and slay the mother and the child; let not the devil lodge in thy house, and thou shalt deliver the honour of thy house and thy tribe and shalt not shame my grey hairs!’
`Stafar Allah il Azim!’ cried the elders, and drew back. Muhammad’s face, however, grew pale, then red, and then again pale.
After the echo of Ibrahim’s voice had died away Muhammad said in a trembling voice, calm but harsh,
`I love my wife and my child, and woe to him that dare cast a single hair of her head to the ground, and woe to him that dare to say of her aught that is evil in my sight!’
The words were hardly out of his mouth when the old man leapt from his place and cried:
`Zubeihi, I spit upon you. Perish, wretch!’
And the old man bared his sword.
`Shukeiri, I stamp on your face. Your blood be on your own head!’
Muhammad’s sword swung above his head, and ere the elders could part them, both lay weltering in their blood.
On the morrow all the Zubeih tribe gathered from the tents near and far to take counsel. The elders deliberated a full day and a night, discussing deeply and earnestly. This time they knew not what to do.
Some advised that mother and babe should be stoned to remove the reproach from the tribe. Others counselled to slay the mother but keep the child alive, calling him Muhammad after his father, in order that the family of the Sheikhs of the Zubeih should not be extinguished. This was supported by Abdallah, the most ancient of the elders. Ninety years old was Abdallah, but he was still vigorous, and his mind was still clear and his words carried weight.
Then the elders summoned Salhia before them.
When Salhia stood before them, pale as death and quivering like a blown leaf, all the elders dropped their eyes so as not to look her in the face.
The elder Abdallah rose leaning on his stout staff, and turning to her without looking, said:
`Accursed be the day that God created thee in human likeness. A curse rests upon thee, and that curse hast thou brought to the tents of mankind. Sevenfold accursed be the day that the sole of thy foot first trod the soil of our camp. And this be thy sentence; to die the death of the impious. But our Sheikh Muhammad has perished and has left us no successor. Therefore we say: the child shall bear the name of Sheikh Muhammad, the child thou didst bear yesterday. For his sake live thou too till thy son grows and is taken from thy breasts.’
The old man ceased and sank heavily into his place. A deep sigh burst from those assembled.
And Salhia fell on her face weeping and cried:
`As the elders have spoken so will your maidservant do, and so shall it be.’
`Go hence, go!’ cried the elders with one voice. And she went forth, shaking and trembling.
In the Sheikh’s tent, in the women’s division, they stuck a peg into the earth, and to the peg they bound Salhia with an iron chain that she should be prisoned and see no man nor woman nor the light of the sun, having only her maidservant and her son with her. None saw her and none heard her. But in the night her soft weeping could be heard.
In due season the elders of Zubeih assembled to take further counsel.
The elders decided to take the child from the mother, give him to faithful hands, train him and bring him up, while they slew the mother for her sin.
So they took the boy from his mother and from his father’s tent, and set him up a special tent, appointing him a faithful old woman for nurse. They set men to care for him and guard him, and called his name Humadi.
When Salhia saw the fruit of her womb ravished from her, she was horror-struck. Her hair had turned white, she had grown lean, and her eyes flamed with a strange fire, and when they took the child from the tent she cried out aloud and clapped her hands and her feet together. All ears were deafened at her screech, and when they gazed at her they were terrified.
None of the Beni Zubeih wished to slay her; she was unclean.
So they took her from the tents at night and led her to the slope of the mountain-side amid the bushes in the thicket; and they tied her to one of the sycamores with a long chain, and locked it, and went their ways without looking at her.
For three nights the wind from the mountain brought a thin wailing, but by the fourth night it had ceased.
The elders raised their hands to heaven and cried, ‘Our hands have not shed this blood. ‘La Allah ila Allah wesaidna Muhammad rasul Allah!’ And their peace of mind was restored.
In the winter, in. nights of storm and rain, Salhia comes to weep and lament amid the mountains. Hers is the wailing which can be heard in the tempest even to this day.
It is the wailing of Salhia.
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[1] The Wandering Bedouin tribes limit the use of the name ‘Arabs’ to themselves alone.