The woods ran in a half-circle a little way round the hamlet Kufr-Hanoon
–and beyond was the lake. Several people had their cattle, sheep or goats
pasture there. These people sent either their little boys or girls, or the
elderly, to look after the herds. Sufyan had made the Poet’s flesh creep with
stories about wolves eating people’s stray sheep around the woods. But this
first day there rolled by peacefully. The Poet returned with no sheep or lamb
missing. Little by little, he grew accustomed to this piece of work. And right
from the start he chose not to mingle with the herd-boys or -girls or even the
elderly. He would keep his herd away from those and sit somewhere on a small
rock or nestle against the trunk of a tree and read a book.
At sunset the Poet would herd
the animals back to their shed, and after dinner he would recline in bed and
read for some time before sleeping. And days went on in this way until one
night when he could not sleep because of the thought of Sultana. He thought and
wept all through the night. And as dawn came he decided to repent of his past
sins. He determined to say his daily prayers regularly and, simultaneously,
make up for all those prayers he had missed. So instead of five it would be ten
prayers daily. He started this at dawn. And after breakfast he led the herd to
the woods. He spent much of the next five nights in worship and penitence. And
he read religious books and the Quran more than anything else. Soon he gave up
reading in the woods. Instead, he fashioned out a flute and began a habit of
playing on it while he was with the herd. This habit soon drove him far away
from books and nightly prayers. It made him think of women more than anything
else. And the ‘woman’ who had just attracted him now was but a girl of
twelve…the daughter of Boutros. This girl pastured her father’s sheep in the
woods, not far from the Poet.
The Poet did not know the
girl’s name. But he named her, though, ‘Hasnaa’, Arabic for ‘beautiful’. Sufyan
was not at Kufr-Hanoon these days, and the Poet only wished Sufyan had been
there. For had it been the case, the Poet would have used him as a messenger. Sufyan
spoke Coptic, the language which Hasnaa spoke. The Poet understood little, and
evidently could not reply in Coptic. But lovers –all lovers– do not always need
–at least at the beginning– to speak the language of the beloved…
So the Poet did not wait for Sufyan’s
return from his father’s home. He decided to make his first endeavours. He
began by bringing his herd closer and closer to Hasnaa’s, but without
approaching her in person. Each day, he himself got closer. And now he began to
eye the girl up. And sometimes he fastened his eyes on hers. She did not react,
though. But her looks purported that she was well aware of the Poet’s satanic
endeavours. Sufyan’s absence lasted more than the Poet could bear. He could no
longer read. By day he played on the flute in the woods. By night he thought of
Hasnaa, and sometimes of Yamna. Even when he prayed he could not concentrate on
his prayers…
One day he resolved to go into
action. He waved to the girl from a short distance. She stared at him. He
smiled. She did not smile. He babbled out words. She did not reply. He rose to
his feet and took steps towards her, smiling. She too rose, uttered a low cry
and scurried away. “I’ve done it!” the Poet muttered, his heart throbbing. And
he started to count the hours to the trial…
At sunset he hurried the herd
back to the shed and returned to his tent. His apprehension had now reached its
peak. He knew he had exposed himself to the full fury of Assem. At dusk he
prayed with tears in the eyes and a fire in the heart. Immediately afterwards
two well-set young men darted into the tent and each gripped the Poet by an arm
and they dragged him out. The Poet did not protest. He only whimpered. Assem
was waiting beside a wooden cross. Without awaiting a signal from him, the two
men stripped the Poet to his trousers and tied him up to the cross. “You can go
now,” said Assem to the two men. “And come back to me early in the morning.”
The two men saluted and moved away. When they had gone out of sight, Assem
turned to the Poet and slapped him twice in the face. The Poet burst into
bitter tears.
“Now you have done this to my
friend’s daughter,” Assem growled, his eyes blazing with rage, “next time
you’ll do it to my maid or –who knows?– to my grand-son!”
As the Poet began to beg for
mercy, making mad excuses, Assem slapped him once again, harder than the first
time, and glared at him contemptuously, and turned round to go back to his
compound.
The Poet spent that night on
the cross, weeping and cursing himself and praying to God to deliver him from
this ordeal. Early in the morning the two young men came back with whips in
their hands. Assem stayed aloof and watched as the two men set to thrash the
Poet. When the Poet’s voice had gone hoarse from crying, Assem walked over to
the two men and made them a sign to withdraw and go away. When they had gone,
Assem turned to the Poet and said:
“From the cross you’ll go
straight to the grave!”
The Poet was already breathless. His head hung on his chest. The naked
part of his body clearly bore the red marks of the whip. Assem moved away and
did not return until the sun was most painful on the body. He did not come
alone. Boutros and the girl were with him. The Poet had glanced at them all,
without moving his head. Boutros and his daughter stood a little way to the
Poet’s left and Assem on the right. Now the Poet raised his eyes and nearly
went mad at the sight of a knife in Assem’s right hand. Tears gushed from his
eyes, and he trembled all over. Assem
laid his left hand on the Poet’s right shoulder and turned his eyes toward
Boutros, waving the knife.
“Shall I cut off his head?” he
asked Boutros.
The Poet was terrified out of
his wits. And he begged breathlessly for mercy. Boutros gazed at him for a
while then he answered firmly:
“Yes.”
And as Assem raised
the knife to
fulfill his friend’s
wish the girl cried, “No! No! No!”, and buried her
face in her father’s gown. Boutros signed to his friend to wait. Assem moved
the knife away from the Poet’s throat and turned toward the girl. In the meantime
the Poet went on beseeching pardon. The girl uncovered her face and glanced at
the Poet, then flung herself again at her father, blubbering, “No, dad, don’t
kill him!” Boutros cast an affectionate look at her and turned to Assem and
said, “That’s enough! Set him free!” Assem glanced at the Poet and turned his
steps toward Boutros and said:
“Boutros, I’m sorry for what’s
happened. Let’s go!”
And the three moved away,
leaving the Poet on the cross.
In the afternoon the Poet was
in bed, alone. It was not until the next morning that a physician came to see
him. And all the while he whimpered and moaned. But three days later, he got
much better, and he began to yearn to return to the pastures to see his beloved
–Hasnaa. She was such a charming girl; and it simply was hard to resist her.
The next evening Assem came into the tent and sat quietly by the Poet on the
mattress.
“How are you?” Assem asked,
displaying some sympathy.
“Quite well, sir.”
After a momentary silence Assem
said, looking away from the Poet:
“Whom do you blame for this?”
“None but myself. I avow my
guilt.”
“I nearly thought you’d got a
heart quite attuned to worship. But –alas!– you’ve disappointed me. Why did you
do it? And with such a young girl –a child even? What has happened to you,
Salman?”
The Poet’s eyes filled with
tears. Assem looked at him.
“I want to repent,” the Poet
burst out.
“That’s enough,” replied Assem,
after a pause.
“No. I want to heal the wound
in the girl’s heart. I still have to make amends to her.”
“How?” Assem smiled.
The Poet hesitated for a
moment, and then replied in a shaky voice:
“I want to give her the lamb
you gave me.”
Assem roared with laughter. And
after a moment’s reflection he said:
“Tomorrow I shall take you
there to give her the lamb. Right?”
“Thank you, sir.”
Assem and the Poet were well
received by Boutros. Hasnaa accepted the gift with what looked like avidity.
She was indeed surprised and happy. She was even happier when she learned that
Assem would give her father three sheep in compensation for the loss of three
of Boutros’ sheep when she had scurried away home.
That same day Assem told the
Poet to put the animals out to pasture. And the Poet was happy with this. For
he would be able to see his beloved from time to time. But his happiness ended
the week after. It was utterly dark outside when Assem sailed into the tent
with a lamp in one hand and a basket, a sword and a knife in the other.
“Get up!” he said as he
entered.
The Poet sprang from his bed
and gaped.
“Take,” said Assem, as he laid
on the carpet what he was carrying in
his hands. “I want you to go to the woods now and bring me, in this basket, the
head of the wolf who ate Boutros’ sheep. You know I’ve paid three of mine for
that! Now get up and be quick!”
The Poet stared at the master,
then at the materials on the carpet, and then vacantly into space, before he
looked up at Assem and said:
“Are you sure there’s going to
be only one wolf in the woods? This very night?”
“Yes! Now get up! At once! What
are you waiting for?”
For the Poet this meant the
end, the end of him. But he stood up, picked up the basket and the weapons and
put on his shoes and left the tent. The farther he went from the tent the
weaker he felt at the knees. And he thought… What to do now? Go away? Where? How? Go to the woods?… to
kill the wolf and bring its head– how? Him kill a wolf? But that’s madness!
Utter madness! In the desert around Lehreem he had always shirked going where
he suspected there to be a wolf or a lion. And on the Poet trudged, looking
left and right. The nearer he drew to the woods the faster his heart beat. He
stopped a few yards away from the woods to take breath. So far, he could not
believe that Assem had actually meant what he said…It was very cold now. And
the Poet shivered with cold and terror. Although Assem’s wolf was nowhere to be
seen the Poet could not yet venture to enter the woods. The first thing he
thought suitable to do was to have a walk round the woods. And he set off at a
slow trot, looking in every direction and holding the sword at the ready. And
suddenly he was totally aware of what he was doing. He awoke to his
opportunities. He now took Assem seriously. And consequently he had to chase
the wolf and kill it and bring its head in the basket. Hadn’t he, the Poet,
said that he should avail himself of every opportunity to acquire a manly
heart? This was the best of all opportunities. All people had stigmatized him
as a coward. Now, he had to avenge this insult… And while the Poet was busy
steeling his heart, a wolf, somewhere on the other side of the woods, howled.
The Poet nearly wetted his pants. He was immediately gripped by an impulse to
run away. But where? How? He stood rooted to the spot, and tried to overcome
his terror. And he thought all the while… Assem had meant what he said. There
was now a wolf. Maybe it was this very wolf that had eaten Boutros’ sheep… But
what to do? Chase the wolf? The Poet’s heart throbbed fit to burst. The wolf
–or the wolves– howled again. The Poet plucked up courage and raised his eyes
up to the sky and jabbered out prayers, and then moved off hesitantly…in the
direction of the howl. He went along the edge of the woods, being still unable
to go through the trees. Soon his sham courage faded away. And yet he plodded
on his way, looking in every direction with a sharp eye and listening with a
sharp ear. And now and then he stopped to get his breath back. The wolves –now
the Poet was sure there was a herd of them– howled again and again. The Poet
slowed down and almost went on tiptoe…And now he stopped. He could move no
farther. He had already reached quite the middle of the second side of the
woods. He was panting and, despite the cold, he was in a sweat. He faced the
trees, but every moment he turned this way and that to make sure he had not
trapped himself. His hands trembled, the sword now felt heavier. His eyes were
rolling. “Where are they now?” he thought. “Here we are!” the wolves seemed to
reply at once. For they now howled just a little way from him. Startled out of
his wits, the Poet just raised his eyes to the sky and mumbled prayers. He
waved his unwieldy sword and strained his eyes to see what was coming towards
him. A wolf appeared between the trees and glared at him. The Poet nearly went
mad at the grisly spectacle. He ran even farther backward while he kept facing
the wolf’s eyes and teeth. And here was the dreadful moment at last! The wolf
gave a short jump and slowly headed straight at the Poet. Another wolf appeared
behind, and a third. And the Poet was nearer and nearer to madness. And no
sooner had the first wolf given the first real jump in the direction of the
Poet than a long arrow shot through its sides. The two other wolves let out a
mad howl and flew away through the trees. The one which was hit lay on the
ground growling and moaning and wriggling in convulsions, just a few yards from
the Poet. The Poet’s terror had not abated, though. And while he stood gazing
at the dying creature on the ground, a thin, short arrow zipped just a few
inches past his nose. Aghast, he turned quickly toward where the shot had come
from. He could descry nobody, and real terror gripped him. He stood there petrified until a human
voice broke this jungle silence. The Poet recognized the voice at once. It was
Assem. The Poet could not believe his ears, nor his eyes, when he saw Assem
coming towards him from the place where the wolves had first appeared to him.
“You’re still a babe, poor boy!”
Assem said smilingly as he rested his hand on the Poet’s shoulder. With the
other hand alone he carried a sword, a bow and arrows. The Poet could not
speak. He felt ashamed.
“This is another step on a long
way you have to go,” said Assem softly. “Shall we walk back home?”
The Poet turned his steps to
the compound. Assem wound his arm round the Poet’s back and they moved off
unhurriedly.
“Tell me, sir,” said the Poet
suddenly. “How did you know that the wolves would be in the woods this very night?
When I saw Sir Boutros home I heard them howl only three or four times?”
“I wasn’t quite sure of that,
but I had made up my mind to send you tonight. Now, just forget all about this,
and think of the future. What about your readings? It seems the girl has absorbed all your
attention, eh?”
“No, no, sir. I’ll be reading
more and more.”
