The Scarecrow (Modern Middle East Literature in Translation) Read online

  “My master hears what he wants to hear. He doesn’t hear what he does not want to hear!”

  “Have you seen, wretch, any creature under the moon who doesn’t want to hear one day that the fates have smiled, finally, and seated him on the throne of leadership?”

  “Actually, I know nothing of the nature of creatures, master, because I’m a slave who thinks with his hands not his head. But I can convey to my master the council’s offer, if the lords of the council agree.”

  “What are you saying, wretch?”

  “I’m saying that my master’s secret lies in his eyes not his ears.”

  He put a hand in his breast pocket and drew out a highly polished stone tablet. He thrust his other hand into his tunic pocket and extracted a long piece of charcoal, as smooth as if it had been trimmed by a dagger’s blade. With this charcoal he drew letters of the ancient alphabet on the polished surface. Then he knelt facing his master and raised the tablet to his eyes.

  The nobles watched this cunning strategist’s movement with curiosity. They observed the stillness that settled over the venerable elder for a moment but that did not last long, because his eyes suddenly narrowed, and his scrawny body responded with a tremor that did not continue any length of time, although the look from his wretched eyes afterward was not one the noblemen would ever be able to forget. Did it express astonishment, suffering, disdain, or genuine torment? Or, was it a mixture of all of these?

  What the nobles remembered was that Emmamma took a handful of dirt and threw it in his poor mamluk’s face as a sign of disgust. Then he drew the upper portion of his veil down over his eyes, shielding them entirely, and released a feverish gasp like his last breath, before stretching out on his back in the litter and pounding his palms on the poles as a signal to depart.

  6

  Before the oasis witnessed the birth of a new dawn, before the full moon came out that night, and before the council meeting adjourned that day, a messenger came to the sanctuary.

  He stood in the darkness at the entrance, clenching his rough fingers together and shaking like a man with a fever.

  The noblemen struggled by light from the hearth’s flames to distinguish the specter’s identity, and only made out the black giant after a lengthy effort. The giant spoke with the voice of a diviner conveying a prophecy to the people: “Our master has preceded us!”

  Stillness settled over the place. Stillness settled over the place and proceeded to dominate every cranny of the room, the whole temple, the oasis, the wasteland beyond, and the desert—for which no one knew the beginning and no one perceived the end.

  The stillness extended further, and the sticks of firewood ceased complaining as they burned in the fire’s flame. The tongues of flame ceased their turmoil, which normally expressed their delight with the sticks of firewood. Chuckles died in the chests of the riffraff in the alleys. Women stopped whispering slanders and rumors, and children swallowed their rowdy shouts. The indecipherable murmurs vanished from the lips of babes in arms. The livestock stopped chewing their cud and listened despondently as their bodies turned into ears.

  At that hour, the lords of the people heard news like a prophecy that was repeated by the tongue of the Unknown: “Our master has preceded us.”

  Finally they exchanged dumbfounded looks. After some time they discovered that the specter had vanished and that darkness threatened the place. So they fed the fire more wood.

  A voice ended the long silence: “This is an evil omen!”

  This voice sounded to them like another prophecy. They did not know who among them had delivered this prophecy, because they had wandered far away and their fugues lasted a long time.

  The unidentified voice returned to say with the tongue of the Unknown: “The disappearance of venerable elders is always a harbinger of evil!”

  Without raising his eyes from the tongues of fire, the man with two veils said: “The death of the sage forces people to discern a prophecy in his disappearance. Here he is saying to us that the honorable man prefers to lie down beside his ancestors rather than mount the world’s thrones.”

  Someone spoke who never spoke. Someone spoke who spoke only in times of disaster. Amasis the Younger said: “We killed him. We killed the man in whom we saw the pious ancestors reflected. We found in his face the faces of our forefathers. We have killed our pious ancestors. We have killed the Law. We killed him just as we killed Aggulli before him!”

  The prophetic voice rose again to swallow every other voice in the sanctuary: “The venerable elder does not disappear into the earth without a disaster descending on it.”

  They thrust their hands into the dirt to ward off misfortunes and to seek refuge in the earth from the evils of the people of the earth.

  THE PROPHECY

  1

  “Our only option is to appeal for guidance to the Unknown and to place in the hand of the Spirit World what belongs to the Spirit World.”

  The chief merchant detected questioning looks in his companions’ eyes. So this clever strategist was obliged to leave allusion’s corridors in order to reach their minds.

  “If the scion of the wasteland cannot deal with a matter, the riddle is transferred to the offspring of the Spirit World.”

  The look of inquiry remained unchanged in his comrades’ eyes. Then the scion of clever strategists was compelled to descend reluctantly to the plain of clear expression.

  “Our only choice is to refer the matter to the tomb maiden.”

  Ah’llum was the first to applaud. “Why didn’t we think of this before? How could we have forgotten the presence of this diviner in our community all this time?”

  But Imaswan ignored this happy news and challenged his comrade in hopes of perceiving the insight hidden in the allusion. “In the Law of our forefathers we have inherited nary a maxim that asserts a link between leadership and prophecy.”

  The man with two veils cast him a patronizing look and proceeded deliberately with the approach of clever strategists. He fiddled with his hands before he replied, “I see you have forgotten in a short time what we said once about the typical nature of sovereignty.”

  “The typical nature of sovereignty?”

  “Didn’t we agree that the jinn take possession of the master of sovereignty at the very hour he is seated on the throne of leadership? Didn’t we agree that the head of state leaves the wasteland and loses his link to the people and language of the wasteland—to become a puppet in the hands of the residents of the Spirit World the instant he receives this noble title? Didn’t our peer Aggulli serve as an example and test case for this? So how can the deity of coincidences and fortunes not rule over both of them? How can the Spirit World not be a homeland for a person who is possessed by the Spirit World, which has been an oasis for prophecy and the world’s fortunes since the desert learned about prophecies and fortunes?”

  “If we place the matter in the palm of prophecy, we will have entrusted our necks to the hand of luck.”

  “Prophecy is the tongue of the Spirit World, and where leadership is concerned, the Spirit World reigns.”

  “Whenever I hear the word ‘luck,’ I get goose bumps all over.”

  “Luck’s dominance derives from the Spirit World’s. This is the secret reason for our fear of luck’s caprices.”

  “We have read in the narratives of the ancients that this ignoble being gives today with the right hand only when it is sure it will repossess its boons on the morrow with both left and right hands.”

  “The messenger isn’t blamed for whatever evil lies in the message, and luck is a loyal slave of sovereignty.”

  “The tribes assume this is simply one of the avatars of ignoble Wantahet. Yes, yes, you should believe that luck is Wantahet.”

  “The desert’s ultimate strategist likes to bring tribes good news too.”

  “But we know that glad tidings in his mouth entail a net loss. You bask in delight today and find yourself at the bottom of the abyss tomorrow.”


  “We must accept the abyss if our fall into it has been willed by the Spirit World.”

  “If the matter pertains to the Spirit World, all I can do is clasp my hands behind my back as a sign of submission.”

  “So we finally agree.”

  2

  Prophecy!

  Inspiration sparked by a flint of the Unknown.

  Prophecy!

  Panacea from the spiritual lands, it treats patients who suffer from pangs of separation, longing, and the desolation of desert lands.

  Prophecy!

  Heaven’s tongue that yearns to speak but that communicates solely through symbols.

  Prophecy!

  Refuge of diviners in their struggle with the world’s vanities and the fates’ cruelties.

  Prophecy!

  The dream of poets and the hope of women singers during the tribe’s soirées, when the full moon rises to reign in the desert sky.

  Prophecy!

  The treasure of lovers who embrace despair because death has robbed them of any hope of a tryst.

  Prophecy!

  A dew drop on a retem blossom, a violet glow before daybreak, a gust of sea breeze bathed in the moisture of clouds from the far north.

  How can a person find the way to the Pleiades, which served as a guide, a call, a promise, and a draught of water for the ancient wanderer?

  3

  “Eygahan wattmmaghan taghzzit àd sirdin addunat dagh àman en sarian; às tenkaram tegmiam talgha dagh sagheran. Prophecy does not descend to a plain unless its inhabitants cleanse themselves with the water of solitude. Once you have finished, solve the riddle with sticks.”

  The messenger from the female diviner placed the scrap of leather inscribed with this prophecy in their hands. Then they found themselves pawns to a gloomy silence that reminded them of the silence they had experienced when another messenger had come to inform them of the departure of the man they had chosen from among them as their puppet. He, however, had refused to play this game and had preferred to withdraw from a realm he had always considered nugatory. On that day, his obituary had been another prophecy that had terrified the desert, paralyzed all creatures, and changed the nature of things. Today’s silence, though, pervaded the council but did not affect creatures beyond their circle, for council members heard, over their silence, the bleating of goats returning from the pastures, the shouts of the herdsmen, the clamor of boys in the alleys near the sanctuary, and the cries of caravan traders in the commercial markets.

  The commotion outside doubled the cruelty of the stillness inside the council chamber, but stillness is always washed with water from the heavenly spring of the Unknown and holiness. From ancient times it has been a forthright opponent of sophists who boast about the intellect’s authority, because stillness has never acknowledged any union save with strangers who flee to the homelands of solitude. For this reason, people of the nugatory feel embarrassed when silence lasts a long time, because it lays bare their hidden cowardice, which they wish to camouflage and hide—even from themselves.

  For this reason, perhaps, they mumbled, cleared their throats, and pretended to cough. For this reason, perhaps, the chief merchant resorted to the use of his tongue. “Obtaining a prophecy is always easier than interpreting it.”

  The rebel jinni commonly known as the tongue had escaped from its flask, and the pillars of silence were shaken. Then sanctity fled to the most distant land. Imaswan took heart and supported his fellow council member with the enthusiasm of a person who had been forced to refrain from speaking for a long time. “The danger of a prophecy is when its good news becomes destructive thanks to a flawed interpretation. So beware!”

  The hero also attacked from his corner. “It would be best for us to take a lot of time to consider this if we wish to avoid ruin.”

  Imaswan seconded him by releasing the muscle that does not confirm or corroborate: “A person who disdains the exegesis of prophecy is like someone who deliberately provokes a viper.” Silence returned to the chamber, but sanctity—the being that had fled to the most distant land once stillness was slaughtered—would never return.

  Then people heard from the tongue of someone who normally did not speak. At that time the voice of Amasis the Younger, who was known for being taciturn, burst from his corner. “We won’t obtain a trustworthy interpretation of the Spirit World’s prophecy until we follow the path of the ancients.”

  Their curious, inquisitive looks preyed on his eyes. Then the man with two veils turned toward him to take charge. “How did the ancients do exegesis?”

  “Isn’t it said that they retired to the pastures and sought refuge in caverns and in deserted acres whenever they wished to proceed with any weighty matter?”

  The chief merchant looked round at the eyes of the council members, who seemed as astonished as he was. Then he gazed at the eyes of the speaker, as if seeing him for the first time. He declared, “I acknowledge that this reading had never occurred to me. Doesn’t this idea provide the key to interpreting the first section of the allusive statement?”

  Imaswan repeated the first half of the prophecy like a poet chanting verses of poetry. Ah’llum, without meaning to, repeated it as a refrain after him. The man with two veils, however, silenced them with a new prophecy: “We must head to the grazing lands. Prepare to depart tomorrow.”

  The hero asked with astonishment, “But what about the second part?”

  The man with two veils jumped to his feet and replied, “Solitude brings another prophecy!”

  4

  In the solitude of the pastures the Spirit World returns from the labyrinth to dwell in stillness. Then babbling confusion escapes from souls to satisfy their thirst by fleeing to realms that within their fortresses shelter bazaars where creatures’ desires and the fortunes of the physical world loiter. So the desert steps aside with the wayfarer to give him the good news that has always been a secret with which wanderers in the desert homeland have been enamored: “All corners deceive you when they tell you that you are a transitory creature. I differ from the Law of the spiritual lands and tell you that you are an immortal creature—immortal, immortal.”

  Every corner, every void, every empty space, every rock, every height, every tree, every bird, every mirage, and every song of silence brings man the good news of immortality in the world of the desert. So only a minority know that solitude’s splendor derives from this and that the obscure delight sorcerers call happiness comes from the loins of a glad tiding the tongue cannot communicate. Then the deluge intensifies, and those people find themselves captives of an ecstasy they had never previously experienced—not even when their ears were assailed by songs of yearning. So they released shouts of madness and approval, intoxicated by the voices of the girls singing and astonished by the vision that glowed in the sparks of longing.

  In the emptiness of solitude, the council members separated and the desert tempted them with the magic of silence. So the first of them climbed a nearby hill to visit a massive tomb, which resembled a barren stone slab, because foreign adventurers had profaned its sacred space and excavated the tomb to search for treasures. The second man crept into the barren land to the north. There a mirage seized him and led him a long way into the labyrinth before casting him into a pit that rains over the years had filled with clay ripples and dirt buckles that hid truffles. The third man strolled down the trail to the south, and solitude tempted him with road dreams. So he went a long way and reached the foothills of the blue mountain chain, where he lingered on the slopes, struggled past boulders, peeked into caverns, and visited the dwellings of the jinn as an invited guest with whom they shared treasures. Then he spent an entire day touring the cave walls to experience the life of the first people through their rock art. The fourth man headed west and climbed the heights, descended onto the plains, traversed austere expanses strewn with gray stones that had been burned by the lava of volcanoes and the eternal fires of the suns. Then he perceived in the distance a camel that herdsmen had lo
st. She was trailed by startled newborn calves. Braying around her were camel studs expectorating the froth of their rut and extruding from their mouths dulla faucial bags the size of water skins. So he approached her swollen udder like a calf, thrust his head between her thighs, and seized the teat to nurse from her milk.

  5

  Amasis the Younger shouted in an unfamiliar voice, “The key! I think I’ve found the key.”

  The members of the council stared at him while pressing into a circle, seeking refuge near the fire from the evening chill and pretending to catch tongues of flames between their palms the way boys do. Curiosity gnawed at them, but the pride of the noblemen prevented them from uttering a question.

  Their comrade stood above them, groaned from exhaustion, and bared his forearms, which he thrust into the flames as if he had decided to add them to the fire. He pulled them back deftly once he had absorbed some heat. He explained, “The second line is the key. Or—have you forgotten that we have buried seven moons and seven suns in this place for no other reason than to bicker about prophecy?”

  They drew back, retreating en masse as if repulsed by food after tasting only a bite or two. It seemed that the word “prophecy” awakened in them the ancient gravitas that the desert’s emptiness had pilfered from them. They had neglected to pay attention, had forgotten, had rushed off to rove around, raced each other, wrestled with one another, snatched pieces of bread and dates from each other like young men, and shouted back and forth the way slaves and herders do.

  News of the prophecy awakened the ghoul of gravitas and with one blow cast them into the fetters that restrain rulers. Amasis, however, showed them no mercy. He raised his eyes to the horizon, which was flooded by twilight rays, and repeated the second line as if singing a plaintive ballad: “Once you have finished, solve the riddle with sticks.”

  Darkness continued to advance on the western horizon. Then moisture, perhaps tears, gleamed in his eyes. He said with a soothsayer’s intonation, “In the ancient tongue, the first peoples called casting lots ‘sticks.’ Have you forgotten?”