Pagan Mecca
Moussa Ould Ebnou
Pagan Mecca
Translated from French by Marybeth Timmermann
BY THE SAME AUTHOR:
Honeymoon on the Moon and other stories, a collection of short stories, DIWAN, 2020;
The New Eve, a novel, DIWAN, 2021;
BARZAKH: The Land In-Between, a novel, Iskanchi Press, 2022;
Fragments of time, a collection of short stories, DIWAN, 2024.
Chapter 1
'Ukaẓ
When Malik opened the door, on this first day of the eleventh month of the year 53 after the year of the Elephant, the first rays of sunlight were already scaling the summits. From the top of the temple esplanade—perched on the side of the mountain—he let his eyes wander over the vast plain, taking it all in. Fires were still lit on the plain, their reddish flames dancing under the columns of smoke. An immense clamor rose up from the valley.
Just like every year, they were all there for the Souk 'Ukaz and had come from all over Arabia, from Yemen, from Babel, from Palestine, and from Egypt, thanks to the sacred truce of the pilgrimage. The flocks of carnivorous birds that had been tirelessly following them had not done so in vain. Even though this time they didn’t find battlefields strewn with appetizing, still-warm cadavers, they were able to find an abundance of still-bloody flesh from the victims upon the altars of the idols that proliferated across the 'Ukaz Plain.
For several days now, the pilgrims had been arriving in caravans, country by country, trade by trade, tribe by tribe, preceded by their fluttering banners, beating their timpani and drums, sounding their trumpets, raising their voices in unison, singing the hymn of Jihar:
Our God, At your service!
Perpetuate for us the joy of Jihar!
Repair our sins and show us the way of righteousness!
Barefooted, or wearing laced soles or open sandals, they wore cloth or leather pagnes tied around their waists. Some had tossed a covering over their shoulders. The women were enveloped in their veils. They had arrived, pushing along their herds of victims destined for sacrifice: sheep, goats, cattle, and camels, adorned in white or multicolored fabric. The she-camels, fattened up for the sacrifice, were draped in coverings that had slits to let their humps come through, with a sandal or a strip of hide hanging from the red woolen garlands encircling each victim’s neck. From the moment they were decorated with these garlands, the consecrated victims belonged to the divinity who jealously watched over her goods.
The camel drivers and horsemen, atop their lithesome mounts, arrived in the midst of pack-laden beasts, pilgrims on foot, and palanquins resembling round tents that were sprouting up across the plain like mushrooms. The palanquins on the backs of the camels looked like the tribal encampments on the move. They were covered with fabrics of all colors, sometimes hanging down so far that their edges trailed along the ground. The pack camels, under the weight of their burdens, followed each other in long nonchalant lines. They had set up their camps everywhere, taking up the entire valley, except the center which was reserved for the market.
Those who still had their weapons made their way to the Quraysh encampment to store them, trying to outdo each other with their war dances that showed off their combat skills. They marched in order, displaying their weapons, riding camels or horses, or on foot, preceded by women dancing and beating timpani and drums. Their pathway was lined with spectators. Riders advanced upon their horses and camels, playing with their weapons.
The men on foot pounced upon each other and wrestled while holding their weapons in their hands: they pretended to spear each other with their lances, hit each other with their sabers, and protected themselves with their leather shields as they took cover behind them. Each group sought to outshine the others with their prowess. They tossed their lances in the air and nimbly caught them by the hilt, as if they hadn’t even left their hands, even as the sharpened tip was coming straight down upon their heads and even though the crush of the crowd prevented them from being able to turn around.
It looked like it was going to be a difficult day for Malik, who, along with his family, ran the temple services, welcoming the pilgrims and supervising their devotions. The priests had prepared well ahead of time for this day. They had split themselves into several groups to take care of welcoming the faithful. Malik was leading up the group in charge of the oracle.
The pilgrims were already swarming into the temple area. Once at the temple itself, they headed toward the altars for sacrifices or went toward the sacred stones for the circumambulations. Then they went to the well to purify themselves with cleansing water before approaching the oracle. Some, not knowing the order of events for the ritual, came directly up to the oracle. The wealthy ones rented clothes from the priests for their devotions.
A first inquirer came forward: he was an extremely bony man, his face swallowed up by a bushy black beard; his eyes, sunken deep into his eye sockets, shone like embers. The soft piece of faded leather tied around his waist barely came to his knees, and he wore sandals of untreated donkey hide.
“Have you made your sacrifice? Have you circumambulated?” Malik asked him.
“Yes!”
“What have you offered to your god?”
“I sacrificed a male calf. I also offered a goatskin full of barley and one of milk...”
“You may now present your offering for the oracle.”
“Here are five dirhams...”
“That’s not much!” Malik retorted, with disappointment in his voice.
“It’s all I could manage to gather together...”
“So be it!” interrupted Malik, who saw some new inquirers arriving.
“Now follow me into the chapel and leave your sandals in front of the entrance.”
In the place of honor upon the tripod sat the white state made of engraved quartz representing the oracle who held great sway, bedecked with necklaces, weapons, and ostrich eggs, and topped off with a sculpted crown. From within the cavity that formed its mouth came a gurgling sound interpreted by the priests as oracles revealing to mortals what is and what is to come. The bony man was seized by an inexplicable fear; the blood drained from his face and sweat beads formed on his forehead. Malik reassured him:
“Why are you overcome with distress in this place where the gods are your hosts? Speak. What do you want to know?”
“I ask for only one response...”
“Regarding your harvests or your posterity?”
“...”
“Articulate your request. I will present it. Or perhaps you’d rather I tell you your fortune by drawing arrows?”
“I have no children, though I have been married for a long time already… I can no longer endure my sterility...”
“The God has heard your plea. Pray while you await the answer. May your mouth be religious and charitable and may each of your words bring a good omen!”
The bony man fervently and anxiously awaited the divine response. A muted rumor filled the hall of the oracle. Snippets of it reached his ears: “… herds… women… revenge… present… accept… sacrifice… at the Souk 'Ukaz… before Nabigha… omen… flying birds… fulfill… inspire… sell… healing… sickness… Jihar… introduce… prayer… cleanliness… love… success… palm tree… Allah...”
When the delegation of ‘Amirs arrived to store their weapons, they were welcomed very warmly and had the best camels milked for them. When the milk was presented, the host ordered the servant:
“Give the drink to the lords of this noble tribe and to its talented poet Labid, and then serve me!”
Labid was still only a young adolescent, laden with amulets, his head cleanly shaven except for one long tuft in a narrow mane from his forehead to the nape of his neck, that rippled in the wind. He had not yet presented his poetry at 'Ukaz, the place where poets are consecrated, but his reputation was already well-known. The host asked the chief of the tribe:
“Tell us how Labid ridiculed your enemy before the king! And how, in spite of his young age, he was able to succeed in getting you favors from the king, thanks to his words, which knew how to be exceedingly satirical.”
“Once, we sent a delegation to the king, as we do every year. But it happened that our sworn enemy, who had killed Labid’s father, had become part of the king’s trusted circle. He managed to influence him, forcing our emissaries to remain outside the chamber and paying no attention to them. Our delegation ended up returning to their encampment, and then there were endless discussions, which Labid tried to take part in, but was pushed aside because of his young age. His insistence to know what had really happened in the king’s palace was such that I finally admitted to him: ‘Everything started with the slanders against us that were disseminated among the king’s inner circle.’ So, he asked me if I could get him an audience with the king. ‘Don’t even think about it! He will never want to receive you!’ ‘Trust me; I will speak to the king about our enemy in such terms that he will never again find favor in the king’s eyes!’ The very next morning, Labid was dressed in beautiful clothing and brought to the court. The halls and salons were crowded with delegations and groups who had come from all directions, waiting feverishly for the moment the king would receive them. Suddenly, the king appeared, accompanied by our enemy. So, without a moment’s hesitation, Labid stepped forward, improvising a satirical poem filled with insults about our enemy, accusing him of such misdeeds that the king immediately sent him away and granted our delegation an audience during which he followed through on all our requests!”
As they laid down their weapons, Labid turned over his saber and his lance.
“Is that all?”
“Yes, those are all my weapons.”
“No! You have kept the most dangerous one—your tongue!”
Laughter burst out among the spectators.
“I will try to not use it during the truce...”
Labid had not yet finished his sentence when the call to the feast rang out, reverberating across the vast plain: “To the banquet! To the banquet!” It was the call to the daily meals that the Quraysh prepared and to which everyone was invited. They were served in enormous bowls. Some were so tall that the camel and horse riders were able to eat out of them.
As soon as they returned to their camp, the ‘Amirs broke into singing the hymn to the divinity and, with consecrated victims and offerings, they went to the temple. The implacable sun had installed itself just above their heads, causing brains to nearly reach their boiling point. It seemed to have given up on exploring the second half of the sky, halting its trajectory and installing itself definitively in the valley. The air, vitrified and immobile, abandoned by the least breath of wind, was shot through with waves of dazzling flames.
The brilliant lights of noonday had clothed the mountain in a cloak of mirages. This excessive heat had not discouraged the faithful. The priests, surrounded by their servants, defied the sun, proud to accomplish their noble service, sweeping the terrace in front of the temple with palm branches and pouring holy water on it to cleanse the ground. Flocks of birds conglomerated around the altars. Others, beating their great wings, crossed the valley in the direction of the altars.
When Labid arrived at the oracle’s niche, the refreshing effects of the holy water, which he had drunk in great quantity and had sprayed all over himself, had already completely worn off. The heat, which had quickly dried his soaked body and clothing, started to squeeze them in order to draw out the very last drops of moisture. A sacred prostitute was leaving the oracle’s hall. She was wearing a transparent veil that revealed her ample curves.
“Speak, my child! What do you want to know?”
The priest had murmured these words into his bushy, graying beard.
“I want to know if I can present my poetry before the judge this season!”
“You have done well to consult the oracle. It is not enough to ask the soothsayers or interpret the flight pattern of birds. Pray while I prepare the arrows. May your mouth be religious and charitable and may each of your words bring a good omen!”
In came a nearly-blind old man to also consult the oracle, leaning heavily on his cane. The priest gave the quiver a good shake before drawing out one arrow.
“It’s the arrow of countermand. You must not present yourself this season!”
The sentence confirmed Labid’s doubts, as he did not yet feel ready to face the judge.
“Forget about presenting yourself,” concluded the priest, “and prepare your poetry for the next festival, which will perhaps be more favorable for you.”
A furious inquirer had suddenly grabbed onto the divination arrows and was throwing them violently at the statue’s face.
“No, by Allah, this idol has no power! It is nothing but a common chunk of rock that knows nothing and can do nothing...”
The priests and their servants rushed over to the blasphemer and dragged him out of the hall…
As he left the temple at the hottest time of the day, Labid’s gaze took in the dazzling, vast plain. The immense round tent of red leather set up for Nabigha—where the poets, riding upon their camels, would come to recite their masterpieces before the gathered tribes—presided in a place of honor on the edge of the riverbed, braving the sun.
For several days already, the enormous tent had been set up in the very middle of the marketplace. It was there that, each year, the poets of all the Arabic tribes would come to recite their best poems before Nabigha, who would determine their artistic value. The poets he praised could present their compositions in the clubs of Mecca, in the hopes of seeing their work—the ultimate consecration—written in golden letters and hung on the walls of the Kaʿba.
The festival crowds had retired to the shade of the tents—round, cone-shaped, rectangular, red, black, or white—and under the other makeshift shelters scattered everywhere throughout the valley. The animals had found shelter in the shade of the acacia trees or palm trees.
This morning, Nabigha had arrived in the caravan that brought fabric and perfume to the souk. He had arrived leading the caravan, riding on a purebred black camel. All the tribes had hurried to send over representatives to welcome him, vying for this honor over his own tribe, which was responsible for organizing the souk, as it was being held on their land.
At the first sign of a reprieve granted by the heat, the marketplace came to life, each trade setting up their wares as fast as they could. The strong scents of perfumes, spices, smoke, dust, and sweat intermingled with shouts of every timbre of voice, both human and animal, along with the clinking of objects, the rustling of fabrics, the feeble laments of young female slaves put up for sale—who were displayed with very little clothing on—and with the other noises of beings and things in the slow agony of the day.
As the merchandise was displayed, the valley was filled with fragrances from the high mountains of Yemen, colors from Cham, and reverberated with the accents of all the tribes of Arabia. Labid slipped through the crowd for a while, down the narrow, sinuous paths between the merchant stalls. He quickly passed over the displays of perfume, incense, and other scented wood, whose fragrances stayed with him til he got to the stalls offering fabric and clothing of every color, with a plethora of cloaks, striped or solid colored, stitched in leather, wool, or pure silk, all the way from Nisapour or Aden.
Labid lingered in front of the weapons stalls, admiring the armor, the coats of mail, the armets, the conical helmets, the bassinets, the couters, the cuissards, the greaves, the gauntlets, the kneecaps, the breastplates, the sabatons, the lances with their tips of various calibers, the heaps of shields of every kind, bows and arrows, sabers from India, Persia, Byzantium, and Yemen…
The deep azure had taken on the color of the altars at the end of this day rich in bloody sacrifices, and the market became agitated and restless as the night approached. As he left the marketplace, Labid passed by the stands run by the Sarwa, those men from the fertile mountains of Yemen that are named after the name of their country. In their stalls you could find food products of all kinds: wheat flour, beans, various grains, butter, honey, raisins, almonds, meal, meat, fruit… They brought copious amounts of food provisions to the souk. Bedouin Arabs, of pure blood, eloquent orators, harsh, sincere, valiant, and intrepid, they knew nothing of the refinements of the city and for clothing wore merely a dirty cloak or an animal hide, wrapping themselves up in it.
A thin, hairy man wearing no head covering and leaning against a bowed staff, studied the setting sun and hopped around like a goat. If it hadn’t been for the bow he had to lean on, his spindly legs would have had a hard time holding up the rest of his body. He was wrapped up in a tattered hide and tirelessly repeated the same formula in a serious, worried tone of voice, unaware of the agitation in the marketplace due to the rush of the night coming on: “O people! Allah has gratified Mohammad and has chosen him! He has purified his heart and filled it up. His time among you, o, people, will be brief! Will be brief! O people!...”
The night was already rolling out its shadow behind the setting sun. With a wide, gleaming smile, the crescent new moon welcomed the profusion of stars that crowded into the night sky. The wine merchants’ and prostitutes’ banners were already flapping in the wind, illuminated by torches and lamps. All across the valley, fires had blossomed like clusters of red currants. The shouts of men and beasts streaked across the plain, like shooting stars through the sky. A bat swiftly flitted past, grazing Labid’s face.
In the distance, the call to the feasts rang out. The melodious, yet plaintive sound of a lute rose up into the night. Passing near a wine merchant’s tent, Labid heard the echoes of a sweet song and, through the opening in the tent flaps, caught a glimpse of the musician’s plump arms—immaculately white—plucking a lute with her delicate, smooth fingers… He made his way back to his tribe’s encampment. He felt exhausted and wanted only one thing: to sleep. He entered into his uncle’s tent, ate a few butter-soaked dates and fell fast asleep on the spot:
... A disproportionately large red sun remained suspended low over the horizon. I could not look in its direction, but I felt silent terror just knowing it was there. I was crossing the valley, driving my she-camel ahead of me to sacrifice it on the altar of Jihar. Riding naked on the back of the camel, with both legs off to one side, a fascinatingly beautiful tambourine player was doing an obscene dance. Her legs, like ivory pillars, were making her ankle bracelets tinkle. Her wavy hair poured down her back, caressing her ample hips and waist, both of which were driving me wild. When she turned around toward me, I could see her perfectly oval face with a crescent new moon in place of her mouth. Eyes full of sadness, she told me in her soft melodious voice, in a tone of reproach: ‘So, Labid, are you really going to sacrifice your sway-backed camel with a sagging hump? Your run-down travel camel? Your swift-footed camel that runs morning and evening? Your sure-footed camel, your docile camel that keeps pace with purebred racing camels? Your camel that enables you to carry out your noble plans?’ And her words wrenched by heart. But something told me that the divinity demanded the sacrifice of my racing camel and that she would not accept any other camel as a sacrifice.
So, I continued to drive it toward the altars. And the monstrous sun swelled bigger and bigger… At the temple, the festival crowds had assembled, each person wanting to taste the flesh of the victim. At the altar, I shackled my camel while it stood, except for the back right leg, and proceeded to slit its throat as per the ritual, plunging my knife in just below the sternum. Black blood spurted out, blacker than coal. The shallow pit dug out under the altar to catch the victims’ blood quickly filled up with this thick black ink. The priest brought me a large silver bowl to collect the blood to pour over the idol’s head. I submerged the bowel into the brimming cavity and pulled it out full, dripping with black ink.
When I arrived at the foot of the statue to pour the blood on its head, I noticed that Jihar had been replaced by Nabigha! Obeying the priest’s order, I poured the contents of the bowl onto his head. The thick black ink streamed down, streaking his body with stains and soaking his clothing. But he remained frozen, as if he were made of stone...
Labid woke up with a start, covered in sweat, trembling. Inside the tent, all around him, bodies were gently breathing. The horizon, sparkling with stars, seemed so near. He stood up, stumbled on something, and left the tent. The world had given itself over to the calm of the night; the infinite facets of the crystal sky sparkled. The Milky Way had unfurled its carpet of light from one end of the sky to the other. He walked forward into the darkness, to where the camels were kneeling. He could just make out the shape of his camel in the middle of the other beasts, came up next to it, patted its haunches for a moment, and then went to relieve his bladder before returning to the tent…
More than the other festivals, the Souk 'Ukaz brought together people from all categories and conditions, the worst elements of Arabia along with the best: pilgrims, merchants, sacred prostitutes, priests, preachers, wise men, madmen, soothsayers, magicians, brigands, beggars, doctors, midwives, slaves, soldiers, craftsmen, bargain-hunters, shepherds, butchers, lords looking for easy glory, poets desperate for consecration, rhapsodists in search of new poets, singers, dancers, tambourine players, lovers, spies, masked and unmasked knights…
When he arrived at the marketplace that morning, Labid ran across a young, powerful warrior who was demanding that someone show him who murdered his brother. And when he saw him, he began to follow him, studying him from all angles. The man noticed and said:
“Why do you not stop looking at me?”
“I want to remember what you look like, so I can kill you if some day I see you again in an army.”
“May my god grant that I meet you again before the year ends!” retorted the murderer in a challenging tone.
And the young warrior made the same vow. Further on, near the perfume merchants, the crowd was thronging around an orator, standing atop his rust-colored camel, stretching the rod of his bow toward the crowd:
“… Come, listen, and meditate! He who enters into life enters into death, he who dies is finished, what will be is coming! Heaven has an event in store for us and earth contains warnings: the stars that turn, the seas that stagnate, a roof raised up and a land made low. I, Qiss, swear by an unbreakable oath, truly, that Allah has a religion more legitimate than the religion you follow! Why do dead men leave with no hope of return; did they prefer the other dwelling place and decide to stay there forever, or have they been abandoned in an eternal slumber?!...”
Paying no attention to the orator’s sermon, a woman crisscrossed the perfume market, crying out:
“Who wants a good fatty meat of a butchered she-camel for some perfume! Good, fatty meat for perfume! Meat for perfume! Meat, perfume! M—t—p—fume! M——ume! —t—m! M——m! Who wants some good fatty meat?...”
One perfume seller called her over and offered her some incense and saffron for her meat. She declined the offer. All while touting her wares at the top of her lungs, the meat seller examined each display. When she came to the clothing merchants, she adjusted her pitch:
“Who wants a good fatty meat of a butchered she-camel for some fancy clothing! Good fatty mean for fancy clothes! Really fatty meat, fancy clothes! Fat… fancy!… at… cy! Who wants some good fatty meat?...”
Another crier with a tenor voice passed by her and momentarily drowned out her voice. He was preceded by a monkey that he kept hold of with a rope tied around the primate’s back:
“… Who would like to sell me a monkey like this one for what Souragha owes me? Who would like to sell me a monkey like this one for what Souragha owes me?...”
Back behind the counters, some men clustered around a beautiful woman who was talking to them with a smile. A lord was receiving his tributes. He wore handsome clothing, and his glistening hair cascaded down onto his shoulders. He had bushy eyebrows that met in the middle; his mustache, as thick as his beard, concealed his mouth. An old woman in rags came to reverently place in his hands a full goatskin and remained standing in front of him, her head lowered. He inserted his finger into the opening of the goatskin, without untying the leather string that held it closed, and pulled out his finger, raising it to his nose and then his mouth. His face twisted into a grimace of disgust. The old woman babbled her excuses:
“It was a hard year...”
Rejecting her excuses, he pushed her violently with the tip of the unstrung bow he held in his left hand. The old woman collapsed onto her back, letting out a plaintive cry. She shouted, “Help, o ‘Amirs!” The crowd rushed over. A man cried out:
“I swear I will put my arm around your neck until one of us dies!”
When the lord heard these words, he scorned the one who had pronounced them and insulted him. The other man retorted:
“O, my God, grant that my little tan hand might grab Zouheir’s neck and help me against him!”
And Zouheir responded with:
“O, my god, grand that my white hand might grab a hold of his neck and leave the rest up to me!”
An old man in the crowd told him:
“By God, you are lost, Zouheir! He invoked God’s help against you, and you rejected God’s help!”
Zouheir replied:
“You are nothing but a fool!”
The commotion gradually calmed down and the crowd dispersed.
“… good and fat...”
In a path through the marketplace, a man accosted another man:
“...What became of your mare?”
“I still have it!”
“And how did you thank it?”
“Thank it? For what?”
“What do you mean ‘for what’? When it is because of your mare that you were able to escape me!”
“When did that happen?”
“You know very well when! It was a wartime deed that is known by all, for I made sure it was immortalized in my poetry.”
The other denied it. They insulted each other copiously and promised each other to kill each other the next time they met after the truce, before each going his separate way.
“... like this one…?”
A beautiful, majestic woman passed, drawing all eyes to her. Zouheir abandoned his tributaries to approach her, full of self-confidence. She rebuffed him by pulling her fresh lips down into a frown, which only emphasized the beauty and brilliance of her teeth:
“Don’t you know that I am with the lord of the Arabs?”
“Don’t you know that I am the lord of my tribe?”
And he swore he would take her from her husband.
“That’s between you two,” the beauty replied.
“Just wait til the end of the truce! You will see how I will come with my men before dawn, surprising him as he sleeps and taking you away!”
“You don’t know what you are risking! I swear by Allah that I have never seen a man more prudent than him, asleep or awake. When his eyes drift off to sleep, he keeps his sixth sense awake. When he wants to sleep, he always orders me to put a bowl of milk right next to him. One evening, as I watched him sleep beside me, a big black snake appeared close to his head, he moved it away from the snake. And when the snake went toward his hand, he pulled it away too. I remained quiet, my eyes open wide. Then the snake went toward the bowl and plunged its head into it for a moment before pulling it back out and spitting into the milk. When he woke up in the middle of the night, I served him the bowl. He raised it up to his nose, sniffed it, and threw it far away, saying: “Woe to you Asma! Where did the snake go?”
Her suitor would not let himself be discouraged by this:
“And what would he do if I took you away in his absence? Do you think he would dare to come retrieve you?”
“I don’t think so, I am sure of it! I swear by Allah that he will catch you, even if he had to search for you beyond the red palaces of Cham. I can see him now, chasing you with his knights, galvanizing them as they glorify him. I see him full of rage, foaming at the mouth, like a camel stuffed with false sowthistle. So, watch yourself!”
The sun had thinned out the marketplace, driving people off to seek refuge in the shadows, which had receded like a shriveling wild ass’s skin. “To the banquet! To the banquet!” The call echoed in the distance. The Souk 'Ukaz was the site of great jousts of honor, veritable potlatches that sometimes elevated certain individuals to prominence. The honor fell to whoever slit the largest number of victims’ throats.
That evening, the guests were starting to converge around the pitched tents, when a violent, dusty gale arose, uprooting the tents, overturning the basins and cooking pots, and sweeping out the fires. The people ran back to their own tents. The host, with his mouth full of sand, railed against the wind with the worst possible insults. He had sacrificed a very large number of camels to win his joust of honor and assure his rise to prominence in the tribe.
When the wind carried off the tent under which Labid was sheltering, he ran toward his uncle’s tent and found it resting upon its occupants’ heads. He crawled underneath to take refuge along with them. In the darkness, on the ground under the flattened tent, the women cried out, invoking Jihar, al-Lat, and all their divinities to calm the wind. The men muttered under their breath.
The name of Jihar reminded Labid of the oracle and his decree. Now, after having listened to several recitations performed before Nabigha, he thought he might have been able to present his poetry after all: When he gives his critique, he always does it without offending and argues his point of view so well that even the postulant is convinced. Poets much younger than I presented themselves. I heard many poems that wouldn’t hold a candle to my poetry… But I remain firm in my resolution; I certainly don’t want to present myself against the will of the gods!...
He remembered that he had forgotten to hobble his she-camel. She must now be wandering around in the storm; perhaps she is already a long way off… unless perhaps she has kneeled down among the hobbled camels...
When the wind died down, he went out to check on the camels, and when he didn’t see his, he set out to find her. A quarter moon, yellowed by the dust, still hung over the horizon. Labid walked quickly, looking around in all directions. He crossed the riverbed, hastily searching the grove of palm trees. Glancing behind, he saw in the distance the first fires being lit up again after the storm; faint echoes came from the encampments, broken up by the wind. This glance behind him caused him to stumble on an obstacle; he almost fell down, and the sole of his right shoe split open. He bent down to assess the damage.
His head was at knee-level, his eyes focused on the strap of his shoe, when he felt a presence; he looked up slowly, without raising his head, and saw in front of him two hooves in open sandals with donkey ears for straps, and two spindly legs over which hung strips of rags! He remained frozen for a moment, then overcame his fear and stood up, jumping back so he could take in the whole silhouette standing before him. In the moonlight he could distinguish the traits of an adolescent’s face without a nose. Above the large eyes was a narrow forehead; pointy ears stuck up on either side of a head that was shaved on both sides, with a tuft of hair that fell down the back of his head like a horse’s mane. He had a rope of black hair around his neck and was adorned with old bones and rabbit dung, hanging from his body like amulets. Labid promptly pounced onto the monster, grabbing him by the neck. The strangled djinn started to yell, sticking out his disproportionately long forked tongue:
“Woe to you, Labid, let me go! Do you want to kill your demon-muse?”
When he heard these words, Labid let go and stepped back from the djinn.
“My demon! You came at just the right moment! You were not good enough; the oracle strictly forbade me to present myself this year. I am not satisfied with your poetry; in fact, I think I’m going to change demons!...”
“Do what you want! If you no longer want me, there are plenty of other demons. If you want to change demons, now is the time. The demons who inspire poets gather every evening in Satan’s tent, near the altars, during the entire festival. Tonight, they’re planning on judging Hadhar...”
“Hadhar?”
“Yes, Hadhar, the demon who inspires Nabigha.”
“And what do the other demons have against him?”
“Satan accuses him of having betrayed the cause of the demons who inspire poets.”
“I’m dying to attend this trial. Can you take me there?… But, oh, hell! I almost forgot about my camel! She wandered off in the storm; do you know where I can find her?”
“Your sway-backed camel with a sagging hump and run-down from travel? Even though she is exhausted and scrawny, and despite the torn, worn-out wrappings around her feet, she still has enough strength to run as fast as a tawny dry cloud driven by the southerly wind?”
“So, you have seen her? Where is she?”
“She has been transformed into a wild ass, teats bulging with milk, serviced by a jealous stallion snapping his teeth at his rivals to keep them away from her. He led her far from the others, toward the hills, wary because she showed reticence toward him, after having shown him so much ardor. He pushed her up to the heights of Thelebout to throw off the hunters on the lookout for his female. They will stay up there for six months without water, waiting for the season of bad weather to end and spring to arrive. Then, together, they will make the firm decision to leave. Thorns will injure the back hooves of the female. Driven toward the water by the burning breath of the summer winds, they will kick up a long cloud of dust as they run, resembling the thick smoke from a dry wood fire, stirred up by the North wind and swirling with clumps of thistle like the smoke of a blazing fire. The male will advance toward the water, following behind his female, whom he never lets walk behind him. When they reach the edge of the water, they will wade in at a place where clusters of qoulam grow, in the shade of a tangled thicket of stiff reeds and broken stems...”
“I must transform into an onager, if I want to be able to get her back!”
“And to do that you must challenge her jealous stallion and endure his vicious bites… but don’t look so despairing! Perhaps she has simply changed into a flat-nosed antelope who left her young one to follow the leader of the pack and graze along with his companions. Having abandoned him to the mercy of wild beasts, she will return to search for him, bleating among the dunes to find her white-haired fawn resting on the ground surrounded by hunting dogs squabbling over his remains. Taking advantage of the mother’s negligence, they had pounced on the young one. The arrows of death never miss their target. She will spend the night in the rain beating steadily down on the dunes covered in vegetation. The water piercing down from the sky will whip her back during this night where the stars will have vanished behind the veil of clouds. Huddled in the hollow of a solitary tree drowning in the wet sand with branches too short to shelter her from the cold and the rain, her white coat will illuminate the darkness, like a pearl fallen from a necklace. In the wee hours, she will leave her refuge and her hooves will slip along the muddy earth. For seven days and seven nights, her pain will cause her to wander haggardly around the Souaiid ponds. Then, devoid of all hope, with dried-up udders, not from having suckled her young too much, but from the sadness of having lost him, she will hear the shouts of the enemy hunters and, without even catching sight of them, will tremble in terror. Not knowing which way they and their dogs will come from. The archers, who will be too far to reach her, will release their trained dogs with floppy ears and lean flanks. Flushed out, she will face them, lashing out with a thin pointy horn like a lance. She will relentlessly drive them back, knowing full well that if she doesn’t, she’s done for. She will gore Kassab, staining him with his blood, and kill Soukham on the spot, at the very place he had attacked her...”
“My camel who turns into a wild ass and then an antelope! Have you gone crazy, my demon?”
“Your camel was not transformed, but you will describe her with these powerful images that will give a strong sense of emotion and realism to your poem.”
“So, I can still find her?”
“I know a cupbearer who can help you find her. But to meet him, you must devote many nights of pleasure spent in delicious entertainment and chats with drunken companions. Before you find her, you will have to approach many merchant’s banners, searching for the rarest and most expensive wines, in slathered goatskins and bowls as black as the night, wines that are poured out after their seals have been broken. You will have to drink a pure wine many times in the early dawn, while listening to the accents of a singer plucking her lute. Cup after cup, you will drink of it, before the cock crows and the sleepers awake… But the cupbearer who will give you more information will perhaps come to Satan’s gathering tonight...”
“Let’s go, then!”
The demon whistled between his fingers and a whirlwind rose up, sweeping him away along with his poet.