Masoud the Bedouin

Contents

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Preface ix

I Masoud the Bedouin .... 1 II Honor in the Desert . . . .16

Preface

Though the following stories are presented as fiction, almost all the incidents portrayed have actually occurred in various parts of Syria. The sayings of the different characters are literal translations from familiar Arabic speech, and the customs depicted are those known only through intimate mingling with that ever-fascinating life of the East.

It should be borne in mind that there is no one type of Syrian life, — each district, each religious sect, having its distinctive features. Syria is, in fact, an epitome of history, preserving in crystallized form in its various regions the life and customs of the main epochs of past time.

The earliest form of half-civilized life is the patriarchal and pastoral. This is preserved in its most romantic form among the Bedouins. They use goat's-hair tents, lead their flocks about, and entertain strangers, much as Abraham did, and indulge in the same raids for

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Preface x

plunder that the Amalekites and Midianites waged of old, but observing always a code of chivalry and honor which regulates even robbery and murder.

The next type of development is preserved in the agricultural village life of the interior, of the same class as the life depicted in the book of Judges. A group of flat-roofed, windowless abodes, huddled together as closely as possible for safety, is the home of a simple, brave-hearted community, who cultivate their scanty fields and reap their harvests under the risk of attack from desert raids, as in the days of Gideon, while the women carry their jars to the fountain as did Rebecca and Rachel at a still earlier time.

We advance a step higher in civilization to the cities of the interior, with their narrow, vaulted streets, crowded market-places, primitive courts of justice, and secluded housetops. Not very different were Jerusalem and Samaria in the days of the Kings.

We move forward further in the march of time, passing by the relics of ancient empires — ruined temples and hid treasure — to the event which focalizes all history, making this xi Preface

beautiful Syria unique among all lands as the birthplace of Jesus. Here we still find the descendants of the early Christian Church. Much has been added since to the simple belief of the Fathers, much of superstition and form, but there remains the foundation upon which the faith has stood in face of persecution these many centuries.

We hurry on through the changes of history to the overwhelming event of the Middle Ages, the Moslem invasion. Here the religion of the Prophet prevailed against a vitiated Christianity and here it still holds the dominant power, with its ceremonial prayers, its fasts, its vows, and its system of social seclusion which has influenced all other types of life in the East.

Lastly, we come to a seeming incongruity — the twentieth century civilization — which is pouring its good and its evil into the seacoast towns and thence into all parts of the land. The railroad and carriage roads of Lebanon now compete with the patient, loaded camel; well-built, healthful houses are fast supplanting the old dingy huts ; the peasant woman now fills her jar from a finely constructed fountain

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of carved stone ; and the city shopkeeper looks out from his tiny booth upon fashionable equipages, extreme Parisian costumes, and, across the street, the drinking and gambling saloon.

But there are better things coming into Syria from the lands of the West. The life-giving impulse of Christianity, which nearly two thousand years ago started from Syrian shores, is now brought back by the missionaries to the land of its birth in the form of a system of education, a simple worship, and above all, a Book. All over the Syria of to-day are vitalized Christian homes. Simple churches and schools, scattered over Lebanon, have become as ensigns upon the mountains; while, in the city, schools of higher grade and a great college strive to give with the education that the ambitious young people of the land are now determined to have, the dynamic of a spiritual religion.

Prominence has not, however, been given in these pages to the more cultured type of Syrian life, as it is similar to life with which we are familiar. We have dwelt rather upon the ruder and bolder conditions of the East, upon those customs which are passing away, to xiii Preface

which the Syrians of the future will look back with pride as the steps upon which they rose to the higher life.

Many of the incidents of the wilder life of Bedouins and remote villages were furnished by Prof. J. Stewart Crawford of the Syrian Protestant College of Beirut, and the late Rev. William K. Eddy, the beloved missionary of Sidon.

The author wishes to express hearty thanks to Miss Jessie Gillespie Willing for her labor of love in drawing the pen and ink illustrations.

The photographs reproduced were in the main taken by Mons. Bonfils of Beirut.

Thanks are due to the Independent, Christian Herald, Congregationalist, Observer, Interior, Christian Messenger, Woman's Presbyterian Board and Packer Alumna, for the privilege of reprinting those of the stories that were first published by them.

I Masoud the Bedouin II Honor in the Desert III The Mourning for Sigr

THE level rays of sunset burned red upon the huts of Banias, the modern Csesarea Philippi. Here and there a low beam struggled through the shrubbery, and struck like a reflection of past glory upon the base of some ancient column built in with the irregular stones of a modern wall. It was summer-time, and the population had crept out of their unspeakably dingy, windowless abodes, and had built themselves booths of leaves upon the flat housetops. The village appeared to be keeping the Feast of Tabernacles.

Upon one of the roofs stood a figure that might have been worked in bronze, so motionless and bold it stood against the golden-red sky. Two ropelike black cords bound the

The Way cf Them That Dwell in Tents 2

heavy folds of head-drapery over a brow set with some deep purpose. The hand grasped one of the daggers at the belt. The man's eyes followed contemptuously the curvets of a horseman upon the plain below. The rider had acquired to perfection the Oriental ideal of action in horsemanship. He leaned forward in his saddle, draperies fluttering, lance uplifted, and outstretched elbows flourishing wildly, in time with every bound of the horse. The man of bronze muttered to himself:

"Fool! Do you think that one small year can wipe your treachery from my memory? Take your pleasure now! You will never ride beyond these hills."

It was a bitter wrong that had caused such bitter hatred. A year before, this dark-faced Masoud was to have married the most piquant, sparkling-eyed brunette in the region. He had courted her according to a quaint usage, spending an evening solemnly smoking the argileh with her father, and, on parting, leaving behind him, as though by accident, his "token." The custom is well understood : if the father wishes to accept the suitor, he keeps the token; if not, he returns it. In Masoud's case, the token was a small wallet of antique design. Aniseh's father had picked it up in some disdain; — should he give his bright-eyed daughter to a roving Bedouin?

But Aniseh was not the usual meek Oriental girl, grateful to have her life molded for her. She put her two hands upon the token, and poutingly asked:

"Why return it ? Don't you think you might hurt his feelings?"

The idea seemed too ludicrous to allow a proper show of anger. With those shy brown eyes raised to his, the father could not bring himself to loosen the slender fingers, and the wallet was never returned.

Masoud became almost gentle after this, until one fated day. During his absence on a raid, as Aniseh and her companions were gaily carrying their jars to the fountain, they were attacked by three horsemen, and Aniseh was snatched away. The leader was a Bedouin known throughout the region as Khalil the Cunning, and his companions were his two younger brothers, his apprentices in deeds of treachery.

The news of the capture reached the tent of

Masoud's mother like a message of doom and she waited in agony at the thought of her son's rage. At sunset, two days later, she was crouching at the door of the hair-cloth tent, trying with wrinkled, tattooed lips, to blow a charcoal fire into a blaze. She half raised herself to draw breath, when she caught sight of his set face, more terrible than the rage that she was expecting. He made a sign for her to keep silent, and asked,

"Where is my brother?"

In answer a young man appeared at the tent door. Masoud turned to him:

"If you value the family honor, go to Khalil and say, 'Masoud warns you.' '

The young man drew together the fingertips of his right hand with a singular gesture implying "Trust me," and disappeared down the darkening valley.

Masoud spent the night on the rocky hillside. His devotion to the ancient Bedouin rules of honor forbade his attacking Khalil unwarned; his equal firmness in the Bedouin principles of revenge made certain KhahTs doom.

After that time Masoud lived a weird, halfgoblin life, now in Bashan, now in Palmyra, appearing suddenly, vanishing strangely, always watching for a trace of his wary enemy.

At last he decided upon a new course. It was after a fruitless attempt to trace Khalil in one of the Lebanon villages. Masoud was leaning against a wall, gazing absently upon the ground, when his eye fell upon the open lid of a ground-spider's den, the hairy creature himself dragging his prey through the opening. The fairy-built door closed upon them both struggling. Masoud's eyes gleamed darkly.

"You have taught me how," he breathed through clenched teeth. "I shall watch for my enemy like the monster of the ground; he will not see me till he falls into my clutches."

And thus it was that Masoud had been lurking among the huts of Banias, rarely seen except by the old man whose cattle he tended. The ruse was a wise one. Khalil, ever lightheaded, had ceased to realize the perseverance of his enemy and was returning at last to inspect some of his flocks and herds in the Hermon district.

When Masoud had assured himself who the dashing rider was, he lost no time in reaching the ground, opening the rickety door of the hut, and drawing out from a heap of brushwood a revolver and a battle-ax, which he added to the armament in his belt. A shepherd's coat thrown over his shoulders covered all.

He went first to the market-place and accosted a certain horse dealer with the usual greetings, receiving the usual replies.

"May your evening be fortunate."

"May yours be blessed."

"How is your health?"

"Praise be to Allah!"

"I hope you are well."

"Under your oversight."

"Under the oversight of Allah."

Then came the real question.

"Who is riding your red horse down in the plain?"

"What! have you not heard that Khalil the Cunning has just arrived? His horse was nearly dead, so he is trying my red one. He will be back soon."

Masoud slipped back among the bystanders and soon stole away behind a wall.

In a short time the rider appeared, and flung himself down from the saddle with much clanking of weapons. He threw the reins to the dealer, exclaiming:

"The brute! Curse the religion of his harim! He stumbles, and loses wind, and makes no speed at all."

Masoud, from his hiding-place, smiled grimly, as he thought of the curvets that he had watched. Khalil had evidently never taken such satisfaction in a horse.

Khalil ran his hand down the horse's fetlocks, criticizing him at every point. The dealer loudly attested his excellence by the virtue of his own religion, by his father's, his grandfather's, and his great-grandfather's.

"Let me see the pedigree once more," said Khalil.

A greasy document was produced, signed with many seals. Khalil did not question the statements on the paper, as he had done with all the spoken assertions of the dealer. It is understood that, though a Bedouin may lie on every other subject, he will speak the truth in two matters: the blood that he has shed, and the pedigree of a horse.

Khalil looked at the dealer keenly.

"Now between you and me, what is your last price?"

With exquisite deference, the dealer replied :

"What need have we to consider such questions? I wish the Afendeh Khalil to honor me by accepting the horse as a gift."

Khalil answered, "I depend for all the good things of life upon your bounty. But what is your price?"

The man hesitated.

"If it were any one except your honorable presence, I should be disgracing myself by asking less than sixty Turkish liras, but for the sake of the love between us, I will ask for only fifty."

"May your eyes bury my heart, you dog!" said Khalil, "I'll give you fifteen."

"Do you wish me to starve my family? Do you wish me to cut my own throat? By the religion of my grandfather's beard -"

And so the tiresome haggling went on, and the two prices were brought gradually nearer to each other. But the meeting-place was not reached. Khalil started toward the khan where he was to spend the night.

"I shall start before light, if the Almightywills, to meet my two brothers at Ain Balata. Follow me there during the day, and let us together inspect the horse."

A flame of wild joy, kindled in Gehenna itself, leaped in the heart of the dark man in the shadow. Like the famous scorpions of the place, he crept away behind the walls and held his sting in readiness.

Long before dawn he lay behind a rock on the road to Ain Balata, beside a sluggish rill which crept into a swamp. He had planned well. After about two hours a rider picked his way down the path, and stopped at the rill to water his horse. He was taking off the bit, when a creature like a fiend seized his right arm and thrust a dagger deep into his side. The frenzied man dragged him over the stones to a place where the morass suddenly deepened. Masoud braced himself upon a rock, .and dragged his burden into the ooze. For one minute he held the weakly struggling man above the surface.

"Do you see me? Me? Do you see who has brought you to the slime where you belong?"

Then the unrelenting grasp pressed him down, and Khalil sank forever into his miserable grave.

Nothing was now too reckless for Masoud. He stumbled his way back to the rill and found KhahTs horse still cropping the rare bit of grass that marks the path of a Syrian water-course. He sprang into the saddle, and headed for Ain Balata.

"His brothers will be waiting for him," he said to himself. He was not disappointed. Before he reached the place, the two young men had recognized their brother's horse, and had started on foot to meet him. Masoud took a careful aim at the older one, and fired. The man fell instantly. Masoud dug his sharpedged stirrups into his horse's flanks and rode down upon the younger brother, who was running to make his escape. He was a boy of seventeen and carried no firearms; he could merely plead for mercy.

"I shall not kill you," said Masoud, "you were too young to know what you were doing. But I mean to keep you from informing against me."

With that he tore off part of the boy's head drapery and gagged him; then stripped him of his tightly wound money-girdle and bound him with it to a secluded rock.

Masoud turned to escape. To his horror, the other victim was gone! Strange, in that open region, and a wounded man at that! Masoud remounted the horse and hunted all the low hills about — in vain. None but a Bedouin can elude a Bedouin, and here Masoud had found his equal. He did not discover the snakelike path which the wounded man took, up among the foot-hills, around the sweep of the plain, across to the Banias ravine, and up the hillside to the Crusaders' Castle. He did not see the poor fellow, almost spent, creep into a secret passage under the ruins; nor did he know when this brother of KhaliPs, in darkness and alone, breathed his last. Years after, a traveler of more than usual curiosity was exploring the remoter parts of the castle, when his candle flickered upon the murdered man's skeleton. But no one else ever knew.

Masoud turned back in a rage from his fruitless search.

"It is dangerous," he thought, "to leave the child to betray me."

He retraced his steps to the rock, and shot the boy through the heart.

Years passed, during which Masoud took refuge first with one tribe, then with another, to elude the avengers of blood from Khalil's tribe.

One evening his encampment was set on a small table-land high on Lebanon. No living beings were in sight except a herd of gazelles, that sped over the hilltops before the outriders were in range. An unsuspected covey of partridges watched the newcomers with more assurance. Their sentinel stood above them on a rock that blended perfectly with his own drab-colored plumage, and eyed the riders as they picketed their horses. Not until the whole company arrived did he give his low warning cry, to send the covey scuttling away among the rocks. Partridges are quite too wary to fly in danger. The wild creatures of Syria, the bears, the gazelles, the partridges, know well why their Creator has dressed them in the subdued tints of their own soil, and they can hide themselves in an open country so as to escape every eye.

But the camp was too busy to think of game just now. The patient women were carrying burdens and setting up tents under the supervision of their lords. They must also prepare the argilehs for their husbands to smoke, and hurry with the supper; it was all done with wonderful quickness. The camp-fires were soon throwing flashes of color upon the swarthy figures gathered round. One by one the men muffled themselves in their sheepskin coats, and went to sleep on the ground. No sound remained except the stamping of the horses, as they tried in vain to keep themselves warm in the frosty air.

At midnight, another company, far more silent and stealthy, wound its way up the hills, and camped in the neck of the valley. Masoud woke before dawn and started at the sight. There was something strangely familiar in the group of low-spreading black tents, recalling the days of long ago when he had grown to know them so well as the home of Khalil. Masoud lost no time in saddling his horse, and riding away in the opposite direction.

He made his way safely out of sight and turned down a valley leading to another group of mountains. He had to dismount and lead his horse around a bad bit of rock.

"Thank God, that is over!" and he started to remount, when he was confronted by half a dozen horsemen.

"You are ours at last, you dog!" one cried; and they bound him hand and foot.

They took him to the tent of Khalil's father, and the sheikhs of the tribe were called to hold the trial. Masoud stood silent, as the group assembled.

At last Khalil's father rose and chanted in impromptu meter the story of his three sons, his only children, lost in one day. The old men responded with dreary wails; there was not a dry eye among them.

Masoud was placed in the midst and a circle drawn about him on the ground. A rod was put into his hand and the formula repeated for him to swear:

In the name of this rod,

And Almighty God,

And the seal that for Solomon, David's son, stood,

I swear I am innocent of this blood.

Masoud began to speak the words, but his voice trembled. He dropped the rod

"I cannot swear ; I am guilty."

He covered his face and a deep silence fell upon the company.

It was broken by the sobs of KhaliFs father, sobs filled with the loneliness of years. His three sons were gone irrevocably. Should he add to their loss yet another life? He held out his hands, and spoke:

"Young man, I take you to be my son in the place of my three lost ones."

Masoud started and looked from one to another. The hard faces, steeled to bloodshed and death, were broken with weeping.

"My son, do you not believe me?" said the old man.

Masoud took the wrinkled, outstretched hand and bent his head reverently over it. One by one the elders stole away and the father and his strange son remained alone.

"I shall never leave you," breathed Masoud. And he kept his word. It became a proverb in the tribe :

"He loves as Masoud loves his father."

II Honor In The Desert

MILHEM, Musbah, and Arif were hungry. Of course, they had no money and the few camels which they had owned, their only possession, had been killed by an unusual frost on the desert. They consulted together; there was but one thing to do; they would go out on a search for plunder, for "what Allah might send," they said.

They begged a little food from the sheikh and started out. It was a dreary tramp, nothing but yellow clay and a few thorn-patches to be seen. By the end of the first day, Milhem threw himself upon the ground. "It is better to rest," he said, "than to labor for that which comes not." So Musbah and Arif went

17 Honor in the Desert

on another day alone. By this time their food was exhausted and Musbah became discouraged. "You may go on by yourself," he said.

Arif plodded on till the end of the third day, when he came upon a drove of camels in a sheltered valley; the keepers were asleep. In the midst was a stuffed camel-calf, used to keep the flock together. Arif cut the bands by which the camels were hobbled, lifted the stuffed camel-calf in his arms and started away, the whole drove silently following. When he was far enough off from the camp to feel safe, he stopped to milk the camels and refresh himself; then he traveled on, followed by the herd, to the place where he had left Musbah. His companion was greatly amazed to see his booty.

"To Allah be the praise!" said Arif.

They journeyed on merrily together till they found Milhem.

"Get up, son of a thousand sluggards ! Are you still sleeping, like yeast?" cried Musbah. "See what Allah has sent us!"

The three returned to camp together. Then came the quarrel, — Musbah and Milhem claiming equal shares with Arif in the booty. Being unable to reach a decision, they went to the kadi, the judge.

He listened to them solemnly, then after a silence spoke: "You, Arif, the true plunderer, are entitled to the herd as your lawful capture. However, you shall allow Musbah, who went with you two days, to choose one camel for himself, and if he chooses the best one, it will be but according to agreement. You yourself shall choose a camel for Milhem, who went with you but one day, and if you choose the worst one, he will have nothing to answer. The rest of the herd is yours."

The three men started away satisfied.

The judge called them back. "Perhaps you would like to know whose the camels were before you captured them. They were mine. But Allah forbid that I should claim them back, when they have been captured according to the honorable laws of plunder. Allah grant you blessing in their possession!"

Ill

THE MOURNING FOR SIGR*

THE fame of Sigr, the Anezeh Hero, had spread among all the tribes of the desert. Bedouin maidens sang of him at their feasts, and his enemies fled at the mention of his name.

Sang the maidens :

Alone standeth Sigr, the Rock of the Anezeh, In battle, in plunder, in honor, in craft; The palm-branches envy the grace of his form, The storm-clouds of heaven bend above him To learn more of power and of majesty grand.

At the height of his glory, Sigr gathered his horsemen, his fifty undaunted ones, and they swept through the desert to the pasturing lands of their rivals, the great Beni Bekr.

* After the dithyrambs of the desert. 19

With level spears, they swooped upon the herdsmen, capturing from them what they counted their great glory, their flock of choice white camels.

Great was the fury of the Beni Bekr, who set forth two hundred strong to take revenge. They met in a narrow valley, two hundred opposed to fifty!

Then Sigr rode forth in the presence of all and cried boldly:

I am Sigr the hero,

The universe is my war-horse,

The vault of heaven my saddle-bow.

I challenge you, warriors of the Beni Bekr,

Come fight me in single combat,

I will feed to the vultures your carcasses,

Your bones to the wolves of the desert!

The Beni Bekr reined in their horses, and stood looking from one to the other. Then came forth from among them Asad, son of Ali. and answered:

I scorn your boasting, O Sigr, 'Tis the babble of an infant, The chirp of a locust; What is Sigr before Asad, The lion of the Beni Bekr !

21 The Mourning for Sigr

The two bands of warriors pushed back on the opposite slopes of the valley and left the space open between for the champions. They took their places one at each end of the valley, then bending forward charged on one another with their javelins. The horses passed at a wild gallop and Asad of the Beni Bekr lay motionless upon the ground. In rage, another champion, Jabir, son of Amr, came down to avenge the wrong; but he, too, was laid low. Warrior followed warrior, none could hold out against Sigr the Hero. The Beni Bekr could bear it no longer; regardless of all rules of honor, they rushed down upon him and cut him to pieces.

The news of his death swept through the desert like the angry sirocco and from far and near came the mourners to mourn at his tent. They wept that he died in the height of his triumph, they wept that he died by the baseness of men of mean spirit, they wept that he died far away from his kindred, with none of his own blood to show him their last respect.

But while they lamented, the messenger sped on his journey, two days through the fiery desert, to Sigr's elder sister, Safah, wife of

Dib the Wolf. He found her, all unmindful, making butter in her goatskin churn.

"The Lord fulfil to you," he said, "the days of him who is departed."

Then Safah knew and loudly did she wail, rending her long flowing robe from top to hem and throwing dust upon her head.

The whole camp assembled and the messenger chanted the praises of Sigr the dead.

I sing of Sigr, the pride of the Anezeh,

The dawn arose only to publish his might.

His brow was his bow and his glance the arrow

That smote with dismay the heart of his foe.

Seven pashas sat on the mat at his feet

Waiting only to do his commands.

Oh seek through the desert, the home of the Arabs ;

Not one will be found who is worthy to serve

Pouring water upon Sigr's hands.

The messenger ceased, and the company broke into mad cries of grief and curses on all who ever had named the name of the Beni Bekr. Only one sat unmoved, Dib the Wolf. His wife stood before him, her eyes flashing fire.

"I must go and wail for my brother." But what cared Dib the Wolf for Sigr, as

23 The Mourning for Sigr

long as his own wants were met? He dismissed the assembly with cursing and wrath and called to his wife, "Bring me my argileh!"

The fire did not die from her eyes, but in silence she filled the argileh, placed upon it with her bare fingers a glowing coal from the hearth, and presented it meekly to her lord. Then she hasted and made coffee for him, and his spirit was soothed, and he slept.

Then Safah rose in haste, stealing her way between the kneeling camels of the camp, till she was in the open wilderness. She stayed not nor looked back till a day's journey lay behind her. Then she threw herself upon the ground to sleep. In two hours she rose again, and at the dawn of the second day she mourned with the women in the tent of Sigr.

But in the meantime another messenger sped on his way to the north, where the younger sister lived, Amneh, wife of Za'al of Aleppo. Five days he journeyed, till he found her at the tent of her lord. But Za'al had a spirit fiercer even than that of Dib the Wolf. Not for naught had his mother called him by the name of Za'al, Anger!

"Should I send my wife five days' journey to weep for an Anezeh hero?"

And the messenger fled, not daring to face his displeasure.