The Bleeding of the Stone. Ibrahim al-Koni
meat. I've never eaten goat's meat. However bad things have gotten, I've never had to sink that low!”
And with that he bent hastily over a dried-up bush and started retching.
The fat man reproached Asouf.
“You see what you've done to your guest? He can't stand goat's meat.”
“But what can I do?” Asouf said. “Goats are all I have.”
“Don't mention goats again. People like that, with a sickly hunger for meat, mostly don't eat goat's meat. There are plenty like him in the north.”
The man began opening the boxes and taking out the contents.
“The best thing,” he went on, a sly smile appearing in his eyes, “would be for you to show us the caves where the waddan are. Not slaughter stringy goats. Where do the waddan hide out here in these mountains? You wouldn't miss their lairs, would you? You even know those races of ancient men on the rocks, and you talk with the jinn on moonlit nights. Or so they told us. That lone bedouin, they said, is close friends with the jinn.”
He laughed, without raising his head from the utensils and plates and other baggage. Then he winked at his friend, and the two began walking southward across the winding wadi in search of firewood. Asouf watched as they talked together in low voices, bent over the dry sticks.
He returned to his herd, thrusting the kids back into the cave. He saw the two men look indifferently at the paintings on the tall rock. Then he heard them shrieking with laughter. The meat eater was making loud, sarcastic comments, and being answered by similar laughter from his fat friend. The echo rang throughout the high western mountains.
They returned with a bundle of sticks. The fat man flung them down next to the tent, then shouted to Asouf.
“Hey, you, whatever your name is. We're going to take a look at the wadis, before the sun goes down. Keep an eye on our things and our food.”
They leaped into the truck and headed off toward the wadi leading to Abrahoh. The sun slipped behind the mountains crowned with their pillars of rocks, and shadows spread through the plain opposite, like troops of the jinn.
He still seemed to hear those shrieks of laughter, and those whispers, echoing among the rocks of the wadi—sounds that disturbed him for reasons he couldn't fathom. He felt his heart beating.
4. A DEVIL CALLED MAN
The heart is the guide for those who don't understand people. The heart is the fire by which the bedouin's guided in the desert of this world, just as a man lost in the wilderness will be guided by the Idi star. All other stars transform and move, shift and vanish. Only this one stays firm until morning. Idi's like the heart. It doesn't deceive.
His father, when he was alive, urged him always to listen to his heart. He'd have Asouf sit there in front of him on the moonlit summer nights, and teach him the Fatiha to help him with his prayers. Each day he had to memorize one of the verses. Then, when he'd memorized the whole chapter, his father said: “Listen to your heart. What would a desert man do if he lost his heart? If we lose that, we wander lost in the world, because a desert man doesn't understand the wiles of men.”
He'd also, before meeting that dreadful death, taught him the Ikhlas chapter. They'd lived alone in the desert, alone in all their movements and wanderings. Asouf couldn't remember any human neighbor from the day he was born. He did recall how once, during his childhood, a family had suddenly borne down on them. It had come from Tadrart to settle in the high wadis, in a year when the sky lavished rains on Massak. He woke next morning to noise and bustle, to find his father packing, saddling the camels and preparing them to travel. What had woken him, though, wasn't the movement or the clattering of utensils and dishes. It was the quarrel between his parents, provoked, he gathered, by the sudden trip. His mother had an acute sense of shame and set great store by what people thought of other people. For her the sudden departure was an affront to the new guests in the wadi and brought shame on themselves. “I'd rather have jinn as neighbors than people,” he heard his father retort. “God protect us from the evil of people!” Often, too, his father would recite a muwwalv he'd heard sung, he said, by the Sufis in the community at Uwaynat:
The desert is a true treasure
for him who seeks refuge
from men and the evil of men.
In it is contentment,
in it is death and all you seek.
As he recited, he'd lower his eyelids and rock from side to side, in imitation of the Sufi shaykhs in their fervor and ecstasy.
He'd go hunting with his father, and on his trips to the pastures. His father taught him how to break the wild camels, until they grew obedient and quick. In Massak Satfat he showed him how to hunt the waddan, taught him how to aim his gun. He'd wake Asouf early so as to strike at the herds of gazelle feeding freely on the plains in the darkness of dawn.
At night he liked to make green tea and talk to Asouf about the qualities of the different animals and birds in the desert. He'd remove any stones, lie down on the sand, then unveil his mouth and his beard shot through with white. He'd smile, then say:
“What do you think? What does the gazelle tell himself when he sees the enemy of all creatures? He says, ‘the plain.' And what does the waddan say to himself when he sees the enemy of all creatures? He says, ‘the mountain.' The mountain's a trap for the gazelle, the plain's a trap for the waddan.”
He'd raise his head toward the skies and sing a sad muwwal, then return to his old story about the waddan.
“I saw a waddan who'd lost his way on the wide plains. I chased him, on my camel, until he was exhausted. And do you know what he did, as his strength drained away? He turned and attacked the camel, thrusting at it with those vicious horns of his, until the camel took fright and turned back. I had to dismount and take on the furious beast. All I had was the rope in my hand. I tried to choke him with it, but he thrust at me and flung me to the ground. I grasped his long horns. And, believe me, I've never known anything stronger than a waddan's horns. God, how strong they are! With one movement he plucked me up and flung me through the air. Then he came at me with his devilish weapon, and I only just swerved in time from the sharp tips. He pawed savagely at the stones, and in that short moment I saw rancor and wretchedness together in his eyes. I saw stubbornness and wildness, and many other things I didn't even understand. His lips were covered with foam, his shaggy coat was caked with dung and mud. Knowing I'd never get the better of him with my bare hands, I leaped up and ran to my camel to snatch the rifle hanging from the saddle.”
He fell silent suddenly, gazing into the thick darkness of the wilderness. There was a sudden wretchedness in his eyes. He got up and clasped his hands over his chest, still looking into the darkness and space.
“I forgot to tell you,” he said, “that our battle happened in a wadi well away from the mountains. The waddan knew he couldn't escape because he was so far from his mountain stronghold. In the middle of the wadi there was a small hill covered with high, smooth rocks. When he saw I'd taken my rifle, he climbed the rocks in a single swift movement, then leaped to the ground and broke his neck. The blood gushed out from his nostrils, and, after he was dead, his eyes were open and that strange look was still there—the mixture of wretchedness and rancor and helplessness.”
“Did you slaughter it,” Asouf asked, “and make its flesh lawful?”
“How could I slaughter an animal that had killed itself? In any case, he'd died at once. I told you, his neck was broken. He was already dead.”vi
He sighed, put on some sticks to feed the dwindling fire, then said sadly:
“I can't get that strange, possessed waddan out of my mind. How could I forget that fearful, despairing look he gave me when he saw the rifle in my hands and knew all hope of escape was gone? Poor,