Swords From the Desert (28 page)

At times we picked our course over a nest of boulders, and then Mahabat Khan was obliged to seek again for the narrow path that hung between the cliff and empty air. The wind no longer beat at our faces; it swirled up from below or swooped down upon our shoulders, and my thighs and ribs began to be wet.

At times we climbed upon our hands, over slippery stone and treacherous gravel. No longer could I hear the stream; instead, scores of tiny watercourses trickled and pattered in our ears, and, in that terrible gloom, it seemed as if we were wandering blindly, driven like sheep before wind. Nevertheless, I think we tended more and more to the right. Presently the wind ceased. Snow began to beat softly against my chin, under the hood of the robe, and to fall unheeded on my numb hands.

As if Satan had withdrawn a curtain, we beheld a strange dawn. The snow had ceased, and the cold increased; and our bruises ached where we had slipped and stumbled and clung. The stars stood in a clear sky, so deep a blue it seemed a shimmering black. Gray pinnacles came forth from behind the curtain of mist, where an old hidden moon shone. I could see Mahabat Khan's swinging coat and pugi'd head and the black knobs of boulders in his path.

We moved along a shallow ravine that twisted and turned among rock ledges, and, after the murk of the tangi, the half light overhead seemed like the true dawn. Presently Mahabat Khan stopped and looked steadily to one side. I saw a flicker of red light run up a chasm.

"Yea," I said to him, through chattering teeth, "Satan hath lighted a lantern to guide us."

He said that somewhere in these gullies a fire burned, and we had seen its reflection upon ice. But it was the cold and not fear that made my jaws quiver. Indeed, such chill as this I had never known.

We went forward more swiftly, looking for the fire. Once I beheld something that danced and beckoned in the shadows of rocks and went toward it. Eh, it was a grave, and an old grave, because, thrust upon dead branches and knotted to bushes, long rag streamers whipped about in the wind.

"Peace be upon ye," I whispered, hurrying after Mahabat Khan, until we both halted and stared about in the dimness.

"0 ye wanderers," a voice shouted at us, "What seek ye here?"

I saw no man, but the voice had come from the gloom under a cliff beside us, and I wondered what manner of men kept watch over the graves in this lofty valley. Mahabat Khan made answer in the harsh Pathan tongue, speaking loudly and arrogantly, until the very rocks rang. The man who had challenged seemed satisfied, because he lifted a long wail like the howl of a wolf.

"Come," Mahabat Khan muttered, and we went on without haste, climbing toward a ridge that showed dark against the stars. Soon we beheld one advancing to meet us, who leaned on a staff, peering at our eyes in the starlight. He grinned and spat and went away without a word, motioning to us to go where we willed.

Thus we followed the path to the ridge and stopped to stare. W'allahi, we had come upon the encampment of the hills, not before, but beneath us!

A hundred cubits or more the ridge dropped away beneath our feet, to the bed of a short valley. And scattered through this valley a score of fires flamed bright. Around the fires squatted men in sheepskins and garments of every sort, and women and children behind them. Off in the brush several hundred horses were picketed.

It seemed to me that there were many different clans grouped at those fires, and Mahabat Khan took his time in studying them, saying nothing. On the other three sides the walls of ridged rock loomed sheer, rising out of the firelight. I thought that this pit of the hills was a good place of concealment-a thousand men might lie here for days unseen.

It seemed to me that another road must lead to the bed of the pit, because there were horses and mules and tents down below that could never have come up the tangi, or scrambled down the footpath that we were now forced to descend.

No one heeded us, because the men of the pit were all rising and moving toward the fires at the far end. Mahabat Khan swaggered among them without turning his head, yet using his eyes and ears to pick up scents, like a hound that has returned to his own abiding place after long years. There was a mutter of talk that I did not understand and a smell of wet mud and sweat and burned leather. The women hurried to fetch more wood for the fires, toward which the wave of hillmen moved, and I saw a white stake set in the earth here, on a level spot under the cliff.

It was the bole of a tree, the bark cut away from it, and around it the throng began to thicken, leaving clear about the stake the space of a stone's cast. An elbow was thrust into my ribs and a bearded face leered at me.

"In the name of God!" the man muttered. "The Arab doctor hath come to the hills!"

Eh, this man was one of the Hazaras who had visited me at Sher Jan's fire. Indeed, many of his companions stared at me, for my garments were not like the Pathans. They seemed both suspicious and arrogant.

"See, hakim," quoth another, in broken Persian, "the stake is ready for thee."

"He quakes," jeered a third, "and before long he will shrivel. We will build a fire around him."

I heard several of them draw swords out of sheaths, and the press around me grew greater. Mahabat Khan, standing near, made no sign. I thought that if there were danger, he would take my part.

"Bism'allah!" I cried. "Is this the hospitality of thy camp?"

"Nay," grunted the Hazara, "this is not our sangar. What led thy steps hither?"

"The other Arabs-they of the horse traders' tents-told me of a holy man in this spot."

A pockmarked Pathan, with a sword scar whitening his brow, pushed through the crowd to me and growled. "Who led thee hither?"

At last Mahabat Khan turned, stepping between us.

"I!" he said. "I did."

They all looked at him, finding nothing to say for the moment. I wondered if any would know the face of the Sirdar of Ind. But then horns began to quaver behind us, and drums rumbled. The Pathans forgot us and thronged about the cleared space, into which a score of the elder men were moving, swords in hands. Turning their left shoulder to the post, these old warriors made a circle about it.

"Hai! Ahai-hai!" one shouted, and the drums quickened into a fierce beat.

Mahabat Khan touched me on the shoulder and led me to a blanket by one of the fires. Here we sat, our faces toward the stake, the veiled women moving off a little from us.

"Silence is best," he whispered, "for a little, until this is ended."

The music grew louder; younger warriors ran from the crowd toward the elders, who were now moving slowly around the stake, swinging their swords over their heads. Eh, the youths had more supple joints. They hastened into rings, leaping and swinging their blades in time to the music.

Some had two swords, some a sword and musket. All the circles were now revolving about the posts in the same direction, and the swiftly darting blades made red light above the tossing heads. Faster leaped the warriors, the sword edges whistling in the air. Straining throats made deep-tongued clamor.

More swiftly the long-robed figures ran, long locks tossing about the turbaned heads. But never a blade clashed another, never a steel edge slashed a man. The cliffs roared back in echo:

"Hai-hai!"

Half smiling, yet his eyes agleam, the Sirdar watched the sword dance of his hills, seeming to expect some greater miracle of movement and madness. And it happened.

There was a rush of hoofs, a straining creak of saddles, and jangling of silver laden reins. Standing in their stirrups, nay, leaping upright upon the saddles, the men who had mounted horses joined the throng, rushing about the post. They tossed their swords into the air, caught them, and flashed the blades down at the dancers. Red firelight flickered on the bare steel.

The Pathans who sat about the spot were staring, loose lipped and shouting. Mud-stained children jumped about in their bare feet beside their mothers. More and more swiftly the drums resounded and the hoofs raced. Then some of the horses darted aside, figures swirled, and a man shouted in rage.

I had seen a horse stumble. Its rider must have slashed another Pathan-the same pockmarked giant who had confronted me. He gripped his ear, the blood running through his fingers; the greater part of the ear was cut clean away.

Shouting, he made toward the horseman who had wounded him. The drums fell silent, the horns ceased, and the dancers ran toward the two antagonists. Deep-toned clamor arose-men snarling at their companions of a moment before. Panting and mad with excitement, they would have thrown themselves at each other, for at such a time it takes little to turn play into slaughter, and many clans with many feuds had joined the dance. But the tumult was quieted before the first blow could be given.

Above the stake on a great flat boulder appeared a slight figure in a brown robe and green turban, and a high voice shrilled over the quarrelling-a single word.

I saw that this figure was veiled beneath the eyes. At its bidding the Pathans dropped their swords, the wounded man fell silent, and, in a moment, they turned to go back to their fires, as jackals turn at the coming of a wolf.

"What is this?" I whispered.

But Mahabat Khan frowned, his eyes intent.

"A time for silence," he repeated under his breath.

Still fingering their weapons, panting from the dance, the hillmen sought the fires. Some of them snarled at me; but they were too full of their half-stifled quarrel and too eager to hear what the man on the boulder might say, to bother about an old Arab.

"0 ye of little wit!" he cried, in their speech.

Nay, at the time of his speaking, I understood not, but many have told me his words. For the words of al-Khimar were treasured in the memory of the hillmen.

"Know ye not that it is written, 'Nothing happens save by the will of Allah?' What have I seen? A horse stumbled, a man was cut by a sword, and ye thoughtless ones-ye less than children-would have taken life, here, before me!"

Slowly he spoke, pausing to give them time to hear and understand and mutter among themselves. Every word was clear as the clank of steel, and I thought that at one time al-Khimar had been a muezzin. The warrior of the slashed ear made as if to complain to him, but the veiled prophet waved him away angrily, and he went in among his fellows, unheeded.

I saw now why al-Khimar had appeared so suddenly. Behind the flattopped boulder was a dark mouth of a cave. Within this he must have stood and watched. There were many clefts and ridges in the rock wall, but this seemed to be a cavern of some size.

"Why are ye here?" he asked, and looked from one to another.

The Pathans moved uneasily, and many thrust their swords back into their girdles.

"To obey," responded an old man, "to hear and obey."

"Take heed that ye do it!" Again he searched the crowd with his eyes, and the listeners held their breaths. "Have I come at this hour of the night to see ye wield swords? Are ye indeed children that ye may not wait for a space without a game?"

"Nay," cried a bearded warrior with one eye, "Shamil the Red Snout set up the stake and called upon us to show our skill. I am of the Yuzufi Khel"*

Even their reverence for the holy man could not keep these children of the hills curbed entirely. They answered back like defiant sons and, like sons, received their chastening. I noticed likewise that when they spoke the echoes flung back the words. The louder they shouted, the louder roared the opposite cliffs. Foolishly, they tried to make themselves understood by shouting.

But al-Khimar, standing apart from them and facing the end of the valley down which we had come, managed to speak without stirring up the echoes. No doubt he had experimented until he had discovered how to do this, yet it filled the hillmen with awe-they knew that echoes were the voices of devils, mocking men.

"Thou art a pig's butcher!" gibed al-Khimar, and the valley rocked with laughter.

When the echoes rumbled-Ho-oho-ho!-they were frightened and fell silent again.

"Will ye take up the swords again and play at butchering-or listen to me?"

"Nay, al-Khimar," protested the Yuzufi, "we will listen."

And thus the veiled prophet quieted them by mocking them, and turned their thoughts to him.

"I dreamed last night of war," he said then. "Have ye forgotten that time I beheld in a dream the coming of the caravan with silver and precious stuffs? In this new dream a message came to me. These were the words of the message: `Think ye your wealth will save you, if your deeds destroy you? "'

They murmured, saying that truly they had not forgotten.

"The gain was great at that time," quoth al-Khimar, "and now-very soon-it will be more. But you must win it by your deeds!"

"Ah!" cried the Yuzufi. "Lead us to Kandahar! We have waited and increased in strength, and now, surely, it is time."

"0 thou shameless one!" shrieked al-Khimar. "If these men followed thee, many would be slain with little gain. Know ye not the citadel of Kandahar hath walls too high to climb? Behind walls the Moguls will be stronger than ye. Know ye not that the Sirdar of Ind hath come to Kandahar with a following? What talk is this? Nay, I dreamed of another matter. In the night this was revealed to me-a rich camp, with camels and mules. A camp of silk pavilions and ivory and red leather-of full wine skins and a thousand slaves."

The Pathans gazed up at him, plainly astonished, and Mahabat Khan chewed his mustache.

"Where?" shouted a man far back of us.

Al-Khimar pointed to the west.

"At the edge of the plain, among the foothills, I saw this camp."

Then a camel driver sprang up, his face distorted with amazement.

"By Allah, indeed!" he shouted. "There is a camp, down below, a day's ride. Yesterday I saw it, and it is filled with Persians, lords and servants who have come hither to hunt."

The shrill voice of al-Khimar soared.

"May their eyes be darkened! They will fall to our swords-save those who would better be held for ransom. Yea, we shall have slaves enough to glut the markets of Kandahar. For nothing happens save by the will of God! The fate of these Persians is not to be altered-the hour of their doom is written."