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VINTAGE
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London SW1V 2SA
Vintage is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
Copyright © Yashar Kemal 1969
Cover photograph © Kathi Lamm/Getty Images
English translation copyright © William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd. 1973
Yashar Kemal has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This edition reissued by Vintage in 2016
First published in Great Britain by Collins and
Harvill Press in 1973
First published under the title of Ince Memed,
Part II by Ant Yayinlari in 1969
penguin.co.uk/vintage
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781784870478
Yashar Kemal (1923–2015) was born on the cotton-growing plains of Chukurova, which feature in his The Wind from the Plain trilogy. His championship of poor peasants lost him a succession of jobs, but he was eventually able to buy a typewriter and set himself up as a public letter-writer in the small town of Kadirli. After a spell as a journalist, he published a volume of short stories in 1952, and then, in 1955, his first novel, Memed, My Hawk, won the Varlik Prize for best novel of the year. His work won countless prizes from around the world, and was translated into several languages. Kemal was a member of the Central Committee of the banned Workers’ Party, and in 1971 he was held in prison for 26 days before being released without charge. Subsequently, he was placed on trial for action in support of Kurdish dissidents. Among the many international prizes and honours he received in recognition of his gifts as a writer and his fight for human rights, are the French Légion d’Honneur and the Prix du Meilleur Livre Étranger, as well as a nomination for the Nobel Prize for Literature. Kemal was one of Turkey’s most influential writers and, in the words of John Berger, ‘one of the modern world’s great storytellers’.
This is the story of a bitter war between the poor Turkish peasants of the Taurus Mountains and the Aghas who covet their land. Ali Safa has determined to take possession of the village of Vayvay but its inhabitants will not sell. Then one villager weakens, prepared to part with his land in return for the Agha’s best stallion. This ill-fated deal sets in motion a chain of events which will see the young brigand Slim Memed take up the cause of the poor once again, with dramatic consequences.
Memed, My Hawk
The Wind from the Plain
Iron Earth, Copper Sky
The Undying Grass
To Crush the Serpent
The Sea-Crossed Fisherman
The Birds Have Also Gone
Salman the Solitary
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THE RIVER JEYHAN flows through the southern part of the Anavarza plain. From Mount Hemite it descends in a straight course, without winding, to the rocky outcrop of Anavarza. In some places the water scoops out hollows, undermining the banks, and from time to time they cave in with a huge crash. In other places the river runs under precipitous banks, like a sword-cut across the plain, but as parts collapse they become jagged and form small, sandy inlets at the river’s edge. Elsewhere, the river broadens out across the plain, spreading a layer of pebbles over it. The shallow, gleaming water teems with myriads of huge carp, which dive towards the brightness of the pebbly bed, or slither over one another with undulating movements. There are also small reed-beds by the edge of the river, the haunt of big green frogs and cloud-coloured, long-necked herons.
Here and there the riverbanks are fringed with tamarisks, chaste-trees, willows, alders and bramble-thickets. Bees, red hornets, wasps and blue gadflies build their nests in the heat. The buzz of insects fills the air. And the long-beaked sand martins, glinting blue and iridescent like a beetle’s carapace, come each day and scoop long narrow holes in the sheer, sword-cut banks, and build their nests deep within the earth. Between Mount Hemite and Anavarza Castle on this bank, that is to say on the same side as the castle, stand the villages of Hemite, Orhaniye, Selimiye, Endel and Kesikkeli. Since the river changes course from time to time, it occasionally retreats from these villages, or moves to the other side of them, or sometimes even floods the houses. There have been times when the river in spate has swept away half the village.
Near Anavarza Castle the River Jeyhan forms a great whirlpool, like a huge lake where the water revolves without ceasing. The waters whirl round and round at a dizzy speed, forming little hollows and swellings like waterspouts, bubbling and frothing continually. A twig or a leaf that falls into the whirlpool is never carried away, but continues to float round and round on the surface of the water. And when a butterfly falls into the water, or as hosts of them flutter over it, sheat-fish, bigger than a man, leap to the surface, opening their wide whiskered mouths. Snapping up a mouthful of butterflies, they drop back into the water, which turns yellow with froth.
The rocky outcrop of Anavarza looks like a ship lying from north to south. It is crowned by ancient, crumbling walls, a heap of ruins. They propel the Anavarza ship slowly and steadily forward over a motionless sea.
If you climb the high, steep, red rocks of Anavarza and look in the direction of the rising sun, the first thing you see will be the misty peak of Hemite. If at dawn the air is warm and the mists thin out towards the peaks, you will also see a clump of trees and a shrine on the summit. From Mount Hemite onwards the mountain tops become more rounded. In the vicinity of Bozkuyu village the land is bare and lies fallow, looking dead-white in the distance. Round about Jiyjik the soil changes and becomes darker; there the green of the forest starts and flowers spring up everywhere. In one of the fields of Jiyjik there is a Byzantine mosaic. It blossoms like a big wild garden in the middle of the plain.
To the north lies Kadirli, and at Kadirli, Sülemish hill … On this hill stands a single clump of scented myrtles. Sülemish hill is bare but green. At its foot Savrun brook runs bubbling to the plain. Kozan Way runs through the northern sector of Anavarza plain, and Sumbas brook, cutting across Kozan Way, flows past the foot of the Anavarza crags. On the further side of the brook, to the west of the castle, lies the village of Hadjilar … and beyond that is the village of Aslanli, where live the last remnants of the Lek Kurds who of old were called ‘birds of prey’. Further on is Dumlu Castle, with sails set, racing towards the Mediterranean Sea. Dumlu Castle is lost in mist, and its reddish rocks quiver in the heat.
This plain is the fertile plain of Anavarza. In the middle of it lie the Ahjasaz marshes: a dark, buzzing, vast, impenetrable tract of reed-beds. On the edges of the marshes stand some Turcoman villages, their houses made out of rushes and canes. The Ahjasaz marches start to the south of the place where Savrun brook flows into the River Jeyhan. To the north, the village of Vayvay stands just on the edge.
The rich earth of Anavarza yields a crop three times a year. From this dark, greasy, crisp earth a different kind of plant springs every day of the year. Each plant is huge. It is twice, three times, five times larger than in other soils. Even the colours of the flowers, of the brilliant green grasses, of the trees are different. The greens are crystal-clear, the yellows pure yellow like amber. The reds blaze like flickering flames, and the blues are a thousand times bluer than elsewhere. The wings or shells or backs of beetles, ants, butterflies and birds shimmer with a myriad unexpected, bewitching colours. The beetles, butterflies, birds and grasshoppers hover like a storm-cloud over the plain. One day you may see a swarm of butterflies palpitating and tossing with a thousand different hues over Anavarza plain. Trees, plants, earth, ground, sky are all covered with butterflies. Yellow, red, green, blue, white, the butterflies in clusters, each as big as a bird, form up in a whirling cloud of thousands, millions; then they rise to the sky, dive to the earth, scatter over the plain, and again rise and hover like a cloud, creating an amazing, different, fascinating world. Another day, you may see the big, red, long-legged ants scuttling from one end of the plain to the other on their springy legs. Another day, the breezes bring only the bees.
The fireflies of the plain are big too. Ahjasaz is decked out at nights as if carpeted with stars. Plants, trees, flowers, leaves and branches flash on and off the whole night long, and there are many flying in clusters, darting about like a host of fiery constellations. The stars on the ground and in the sky seethe, join and coalesce.
Greenish flies, grasshoppers and maybugs with their hard engraved wingcases, fly in swarms.
Everything on the plain of Anavarza – plants, trees, flies, birds, animals – is continually coupling and breeding. The creatures of the Anavarza plain are different from other creatures. They belong to a fertile, healthy, shining, magic world.
The edges of the Ahjasaz marshes, and for some distance inside, are full of beds of narcissi. These grow waist-deep and their flowers are as big as roses. All round the margins of the marshes are fields of yellow narcissi, and so the scents that come from Ahjasaz are not marshy smells. A scent of narcissus, wafted from the soft earth, permeates the hot air, stones, plants, trees, people, flies and birds. In summer the whole of Anavarza – flies, beetles, animals and birds – smells of narcissus. In the mornings, with the warmth of the sun, it is a strong, heady scent. In summertime it intoxicates the people of Ahjasaz. It intoxicates all the creatures of the plain.
In olden times thousands of gazelles, coming from the desert, filled the Anavarza plain, and three black-eyed gazelles that have survived from those days gallop like lightning over the plain. They pass through the narcissus-scented breezes and the swarms of butterflies, bees and birds, and roam day and night from Mount Hemite to Anavarza Castle, from Anavarza Castle to below Vayvay, from Vayvay to Hadjilar, to below Dumlu Castle, and from there to the banks of the River Jeyhan. In the whole of Anavarza there is no creature that would hurt these gazelles, whether it is a snake, a bird of prey, a man, a wolf, a jackal or a dog. Anavarza respects them as the last sacred creatures, and they roam at will over the plain.
The Ahjasaz marshes are so thick with reeds that no bullet can penetrate them, no snake can enter. The water bubbles up in places, boiling hot; you could scald your finger if you put it in. In some places the water looks different; that bubbling liquid does not seem to be water at all. The bottom is pebbly and bright, ice-cold. The light sparkles on the pebbles at quite a distance. In some places the water is dirty and smells of decay.
The soil in the marshes is not the same all over. There are great differences in it. In places there are reeds as tall as trees, in places there are short, squat bushes, and low, shiny rock-plants. In other places there is a smooth grassy patch, solid green. In others, huge trees in a thick, impenetrable wood. All kinds of trees and plants … Climbing plants, too. At sunrise blue flowers as big as your hand open on these climbing plants. There are thick canes, wild roses, and water-lilies floating on the bright water, each one a cup. And the carp, sheat-fish, tortoises and big green frogs … Mosquitoes in clouds. Black adders, water-snakes, red-tailed foxes; frightened jackals, and thousands of water-fowl, grey-green, with long legs and neck.
When you descend to the plain from the Taurus Mountains, the plain is utterly silent. Not a bird, not a voice, not a sound of running water is heard. The flat plain swallows up all sounds. Indeed, if there is sun, if it is hot, no sound at all is heard from the plain. It continues thus until you approach Ahjasaz. Then suddenly a din breaks out, which startles and paralyses you. Strange, confused sounds rise from the marshes. A clamour of birds twittering, frogs croaking, the bubbling of the marsh-water, strange insect noises, the murmuring of the forest, the rustling of the reeds, cocks crowing, dogs barking, jackals howling; all these sounds combine together in the reed-beds, and burst upon one like a cannon at the edge of the marshes. Ahjasaz is a frightening place, and people are reluctant to enter it.
The earth of Anavarza, the thousand-year-old ruined city of Anavarza, the fortress on the steep crags, the foaming River Jeyhan, Savrun and Sumbas brooks, the birds, the eagles, the huge flowers, the monstrous flies, the crops multiplying a thousand-fold, the marshes, with their cold bright streams beneath the yellow heat, the dusty tracks, the leaping fish – all of them, in the fertile, teeming, breeding atmosphere of Chukurova, expanding in the warmth, stretch themselves with lust and longing.
As the sun sinks into the west behind Anavarza Castle, an orange butterfly, delicately patterned, and as big as a bird, remains motionless on a branch, its wings folded, stroking its head and eyes with its legs; its body quivers gently, steeped in the radiance of the setting sun. Just as the sun sets, the whole of the Anavarza plain – trees, water and sky – sinks into a uniform blue. The butterfly also turns blue.
The earth of Anavarza is not earth, but gold. A man like Ali Safa Bey knows this is so; a man like Ali Safa Bey feels the appetite for earth right to the bottom of his heart. Everyone has some desire, good or bad; everyone has some secret passion. Ali Safa Bey’s dark unquenchable desire was the worst of all. Ali Safa Bey’s passion was the fertile dark soil of Anavarza. Every day that dawned, Ali Safa Bey trod firmly on the dark earth, and as the world awoke his eyes would gleam with desire for the Anavarza plain. This awakening, the mating insects, the wholesome fat snakes, the gleaming green frogs, the swift tortoises, the hard-backed iridescent beetles, the bees, birds and gazelles, the burgeoning flowers, the sprouting crops, the brilliant green ricefields, the butterflies, the water, the marshes, the streams, the tracks, the sand-devils, the eddying silver-grey rain-clouds, all this world, bubbling, raging, blustering, tossing, ceaselessly coupling and breeding – this world, ever approaching a disastrous end and ever being born again, made him feel dizzy, intoxicated him. He would have liked to take Anavarza in his arms and embrace it. He would not be satisfied until there was not a foot of Anavarza farmland that he did not own. Why should he not own the whole plain? Why should he not extend his domain further and further? Ali Safa Bey used to say that life is a struggle. More land, more land. If life is not a struggle, it is not worth living. The fight for land is the most sacred, the most reliable struggle. If one does not fight in this world, what good is one? One would be little more than a vegetable.
But the struggle for land was gradually getting harder. The Turcomans, who had been reluctant to occupy land and to settle in one place, and who disliked Chukurova, Anavarza, the heat, the mosquitoes and the reed-huts, were realizing increasingly that there was nothing else worth having but land. The days when he could get fifty dunumsfn1 of land for five kilos of salt, a goat, ten liras, a foal or a cow were long past. Fifteen or twenty years ago he could have bought up a whole village for three thousand lira, lock, stock and barrel, and could have settled the villagers elsewhere. But now the situation had changed radically. The people who lived in those reed-huts would even shed blood to keep their land. When Ali Safa Bey was consumed with passion for something, he went about his business even more secretly. He could not reveal his desires. But through his greed, through what he paid for the land, he himself had opened the villagers’ eyes. To fight with already alerted villagers was more difficult, but it was more enjoyable. This resistance was in harmony with his need for self-respect. It must not be too easy to get hold of something so valuable as land.
One of the Anavarza villages was Vayvay, which was large compared with the others. The Vayvay villagers were an obstacle in Ali Safa Bey’s path. Neither bandits, nor fear of the Government, nor good words nor bad, availed with them. They stuck to the land like goosegrass, they stood firm against intimidation and attempts to terrorize them. If Ali Safa Bey could cope with Vayvay, the rest would be easy. The whole of Anavarza would come into his possession like slipping on a sock.
Vayvay stands at the upper end of the Anavarza plain. It is half an hour’s walk up from Topraktepe, on the left-hand side of Dedefakili swamp, at a place where Savrun brook widens into a pebbly bed. All the village houses are huts made of reeds, canes and brushwood. They look out from a height over the level plain of Anavarza.
From the River Jeyhan to Sülemish hill Anavarza is so smooth and flat that the marshes, villages, mounds, hills and even the clumps of trees look like a sea. Before daybreak, Anavarza plain is pure white, just like the sea. Not a sound is heard. This region, where many noises fuse into a single roar, is not yet awake.
While the plain is still white, the orange butterfly as big as a bird, is seen perching on a branch, its wings quivering; it strokes its head with its forelegs and stretches itself out towards the rising sun.
THORN-TREES GROW in the richest and most fertile soil. Though they grow no taller than a man, a whole clump will spring from a single root. The young trees are honey-coloured; as they get older the colour deepens and turns from honey to black. In springtime the thorn-trees are the first to come into leaf. Early in the season the leaves are a soft green, and the flowers a misty yellow, but later on the leaves turn to a darker green, and with the coming of summer the flowers change from yellow to orange.
On the plains of Chukurova and Anavarza there are hundreds of acres of thorn forests, untouched by the axe, trackless and deserted. No other tree is so thorny as these. The whole trunk, right up to the smallest branches, bristles with short triangular thorns and, as the tree turns black, they become as hard as iron nails. It is a difficult task to dig up a thorn-tree, for its strange roots, long and twisted, cling tenaciously to the soil.
You will not find horses, donkeys, cattle, pigs or wolves wandering in the thorn forests. Nor can dogs penetrate the thickets. Anyone who mistakenly enters the forest emerges torn and bleeding. It is the home of hares, badgers and small jackals, and occasionally you will see red foxes whose tails are no longer bushy. In springtime the forest teems with insects. Clinging to the spiky branches are thousands of wasps’ nests and hornets’ nests, and honey-bees that have left their hives swarm there in thousands, millions … Spiders spin their webs in the thorn forest. Early in the morning, as the sun comes up, you see it wrapped in a thin white veil. Huge cobwebs, strung from tree to tree, sway in the breeze.
It was drizzling, half rain, half mist. There was no wind. The Anavarza plain was hidden, but as the sun rose a dim brightness could be seen now and then behind the mist. The man, huddled in his patterned cloak, was sleeping with his knees drawn up to his stomach. His rifle was resting on a tree-root and his head was pillowed on it. From the edge of the forest a flock of birds rose overhead, screeching noisily; the man opened his eyes, then closed them again. A moment or two later he sat up, rubbed his eyes and looked dazedly about him. His body was numb and his legs ached. He stretched, and rose to his feet; his mouth had a sour taste in it, and he spat. The spittle pierced a cobweb and fell on to a bud. He bent down, picked up his rifle and slung it over his shoulder. A long silver-mounted Circassian dagger hung from his left hip, almost to his knee, and beside it over his groin was a pistol. He was wearing three cartridge-belts over his thick, hand-woven, striped silk shirt. The large black field-glasses round his neck looked brand-new. The thick embroidered woollen sandals were also new. Embroidered stockings came up to his knees, and he was wearing brown woollen shalvar-trousers, like those that are hand woven and hand-dyed with walnut juice by the villagers of the Taurus Mountains.
From three different directions came the sound of cocks crowing and dogs yelping. The man turned to the south, but could not make out any landmark. A long cockcrow came from the south, and from the west a medley of sounds, with here and there some frogs still croaking from night-time. From the east too there came a strange humming sound which stopped and began again. From a long way off, beyond the thorn forest, came a long shrill whistle. The air was warm and close. The sun had risen to the height of a minaret, but was not visible; only a vague brightness could be discerned through the drizzle.
He walked eastwards, but he was worn out, and his legs would scarcely carry him. He had been on the move for four days. Although his rations had run out the day before at noon, he was not hungry – it simply did not occur to him to feel hungry. He had been surrounded by soldiers at Savrun Spring four days before – a whole crowd of soldiers who had kept up a hail of bullets. Fortunately, it was evening when they encircled him, and as the light faded rain began to fall. Towards midnight he slipped through the soldiers like a cat over a wall. But he could no longer live in the mountains. Soldiers, helped by villagers armed with sticks, stones and firearms, were hunting down the brigands, searching every hollow and thicket. A week ago Big Ali, who had retreated to a precipitous mountain peak, had been captured by a host of peasants who had scaled the mountain.
There was only one refuge, one ray of hope, one way of escape, and that was the village of Vayvay, where Old Osman lived. He was in a dilemma. There was a risk that as soon as he reached the village the people might hand him over to the authorities. On the other hand they might take him to their hearts like a brother or a son. Osman was very old, with one foot in the grave … He had had no news of him for a long time. If Osman were dead, who at Vayvay would know him? On his way he had stayed a night with Yellow Ümmet but Ümmet was frightened. And what if Old Osman were frightened too? Old Osman had weathered many storms; he was a brave old man with the heart of a child, but he was only human, and you never knew …
Thinking and brooding would not get him anywhere; however it turned out, he would go to Vayvay. Even if there had been another course open to him, another hiding place, he would still want to go to Vayvay. He longed to know what would happen. How would Osman and the villagers who had been so kind and friendly to him treat him now? He recalled the case of Unlucky Big Ali, who had never done them any harm, who had indeed been an enemy of the rich and a friend of the poor. After his capture on the peak, the peasants had brought him to the commandant, raining blows on him and spitting in his face. ‘Commandant, let all your enemies live just so long,’ they said, and celebrated the event for three days and nights.
He contemplated the possibility of being bound hand and foot by Osman as soon as he entered the village, and of being brought before Ali Safa Bey. What sort of man was he?
When he had hidden in the thorn forest the previous night, the thorns had torn his legs, and blood was oozing from the wounds. The rain continued without respite. The bees huddled one upon the other in their wet hives.
The thorn-trees grew so close together that he could not walk fast. He struggled on until noon, when he reached a gully which cut the thorn forest in two. On the slope of a mound where four gullies met stood three huge trees. The trunk of the middle one was hollow, and large enough for two people to shelter in. He stepped into the hollow tree and rested his back against it. The rain had not soaked through his cloak, and only his legs and feet were wet, for the closely-woven, ample, patterned cloak came down to his knees. He removed his rifle and laid it aside. Then the field-glasses, dagger and pistol joined the rifle. He shut his eyes. He was terribly hungry, but he paid no heed. When Yellow Ümmet had given him directions about getting to Vayvay, he had said, ‘You’ll cross from Narlikishla to Savrun and hide in the thorn forest. Walk straight up from the forest and you’ll reach a mound. You’ll see three trees on the slope of the mound. Vayvay is two hours’ walk from there. Go into Vayvay at night. In the middle of the village there is a huge tree, and at its foot a marble stone with an inscription on it. It gleams white even at night, like a lamp. When you get to the tree turn with your back to it and walk south. Even if it is so dark that you can’t see a thing, move south. You will get to a door. Ask for Old Osman, and the door will open straightaway.’
‘What if the door doesn’t open?’ he said to himself. ‘Or if it opens and I find all the men of the village assembled there?’
Half dreaming, half imagining things, he waited till evening in the hollow tree, and then emerged. The air had got colder, and rain was still falling. The night was dim, and a misty darkness was descending over the thorn forest. The flowers gave out a sweet heady scent. He put his rifle, field-glasses, dagger and everything under his cloak, so that from outside nothing was visible. There was only one drawback: Chukurova people didn’t wear cloaks. They were typical of the mountain people. But no-one would see if he entered the village after dark.
A glimmer of light appeared ahead of him. He was so tired that he was just dragging his feet along. The drizzling rain continued. He pulled himself together when he smelt manure; it meant that he had left the thorn forest behind and reached the outlying houses. A deep-throated barking came from a dog. It was very dark. He wasn’t worrying about anything; why then was his heart beating so rapidly? As he entered the village a man came towards him; he did not hesitate, but walked on and called out a greeting. The man replied, and, not recognizing his voice, said,
‘Hallo, traveller. Where have you come from, and where are you going to at this time of night?’
‘From the mountains,’ he answered, ‘and I’m going to Narlikishla.’
The man did not stop and said gently, ‘Good night and good luck.’
‘Good night,’ and he shivered involuntarily.
The road went right through the middle of the village. To his right a big tree loomed up. He stopped at the foot of it, and could see the white marble stone shining in the darkness. It was pitch-black. There was no light in any of the houses, except one. And a deathly silence … He leaned against the tree, so worn out that he stayed there, unable to move. His heart was thumping, and he felt too dizzy to tell which was north, south, east or west. The rain continued to fall, and the boughs of the trees above him creaked. Then he straightened up; come what may, he must walk on. In a few moments he touched the brushwood wall of a house and groped for the door.
‘Osman Agha, Osman Agha, Osman Aghaaa …’
A deep male voice said sleepily, ‘Who’s there?’
‘God’s guest.’ The door opened at once.
‘Come in, friend,’ said a man dressed in underclothes. ‘Come in, and I’ll light the lamp.’
‘I’m looking for Old Osman’s house. Is this it?’
‘Wait a minute, friend, let me get dressed and I’ll take you there. Come in. Is it raining?’
‘Drizzling.’
The man came out, and led him in silence to Old Osman’s house.
‘Osman Agha, a guest has come for you. I’ve brought him along.’
The door opened at once. A woman’s voice said, ‘Welcome. This is an honour. God’s guest. You come in too, Veli; it’s early yet. Osman is mending a saddle. Come in.’
‘I’m sleepy,’ said the man, and went away.
The woman said, ‘Good night, Veli,’ and called the guest in. ‘Please come in, friend.’
Old Osman’s deep voice came from the fireside: ‘Who is it?’
‘I don’t know,’ answered the woman. ‘A stranger. In a cloak. He must be one of the hill-folk.’
‘One of the hill-folk?’ exclaimed Old Osman. ‘So he’s one of the hill-folk, eh? Welcome, this is an honour. Come over to the fireside, come and sit down. Is it raining?’
‘Drizzling.’
Old Osman had left the saddle and sat looking the motionless traveller up and down.
‘Why are you standing there? Sit down, friend,’ he said. ‘Good Lord, sit down! What’s up with you?’
He could not sit down. If he did, they would see the rifle.
Old Osman got to his feet, and placed his hand on his guest’s shoulder:
‘Sit down, my boy.’
He did not sit down.
‘Kamer, bring a cushion for our worthy guest.’
The woman answered from the other end of the room, ‘I’ll bring one.’
Old Osman said, ‘My son, your cloak is very wet. Where have you come from, and where are you making for?’
He answered gaily, ‘I’ve come from the mountains, and I’m going to Old Osman’s.’
‘So you’re going to Old Osman’s, that’s strange.’
‘It’s strange,’ agreed the guest.
Kamer brought the cushion, and placed it on the left-hand side of the fireplace, saying, ‘Here you are, friend.’
‘Sit down, my boy!’ bellowed Old Osman. ‘Take off that cloak and sit down. It’s the first time in my life I’ve seen a guest who wouldn’t sit down.’
He was in a dilemma, but he did not begin to take off his cloak. Kamer bent down and whispered to her husband, ‘There’s something wrong with the boy.’
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Osman pityingly. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
The guest smiled. ‘Don’t you know me, Uncle Osman?’ he asked in affectionate tones.
Old Osman came up close to him, grasped his shoulder and peered into his face. ‘Slim Memed, my hawk, my little one! Guest, you look like my little one, my hawk!’ he exclaimed, embracing Slim Memed. Trembling, shaking from head to foot, he went on, saying delightedly, ‘Is it you, is it you, my hawk, my guest? The stranger. God’s guest, it’s you?’
Memed could not utter a word. He was speechless, floating in a pleasant dream. ‘Damn you, Kamer, come here! Look who’s here! Come, come quickly, Kamer.’
The woman called from the other end of the long room. ‘What’s that you’re saying, Osman?’
‘Come here,’ said Osman, ‘Quick, come and see who it is, come and see who’s come.’
‘Who is it?’ asked Kamer.
‘My hawk,’ shouted Old Osman, ‘my hawk, my hawk!’
‘Don’t shout, are you crazy? Don’t shout. The boy’s on the run,’ said Kamer. ‘Slim Memed, is it you, child?’
‘It’s me, Mother Kamer,’ said Memed.
‘Welcome, child. If my crazy husband will let you go you’d better sit down. God knows from what faraway mountains you’ve come.’
‘Be quiet, woman,’ said Old Osman. ‘I’m not letting go of him. I’m not letting go of my hawk before I’ve given him a proper embrace.’ And hugging Memed he patted him on the shoulders and back.
Kamer said, ‘The child’s tired. The child’s tired. He’s worn out.’
She grasped him by the arm, and pulled him away from Memed. Old Osman stood looking admiringly at Memed while Kamer tried to take off his cloak. Then Slim Memed pulling himself together, stripped off his cloak, and removed his rifle, pistol, field-glasses and dagger and propped them against the wall; then he sat down on the cushion Kamer had brought a few minutes before.
Old Osman sat down opposite him. He did nothing but gaze at Memed. He could not take his eyes off him, lost in wonder. Memed was smiling. Mother Kamer was talking, but Old Osman stayed looking at Memed without moving a muscle.
‘My eyes aren’t deceiving me, are they? My ears aren’t deceiving me, are they? So you’re my hawk? I’ve seen you again in this world with my own eyes … I’ve seen you, I’ve seen you … Welcome back, my boy.’
Old Osman was gradually recovering himself. ‘So you’ve come! So Osman has been fortunate enough to live to see Slim Memed once more! How lucky he is! So Osman can die happy …!’
He got up and stroked Memed’s head, gazing at him. ‘Good heavens, you’re Slim Memed, my hawk,’ he exclaimed.
Kamer intervened: ‘Keep calm, you crazy fellow, don’t say Slim Memed’s name again. Don’t shout.’
‘For heaven’s sake,’ he shouted, ‘for heaven’s sake!’
Both Kamer and Memed were alarmed.
Then he said, ‘The boy is starving. My hawk is starving. Quick, Kamer, quick.’
‘You startled me out of my wits,’ said Kamer. ‘I’ll put the pilaff on the fire this very moment.’
‘Don’t worry, Uncle Osman,’ said Memed gaily, ‘I’m not going to die of hunger.’
‘Quick, he’s starving. Bring the cheese first, bring the yoghurt, there’s honey too, isn’t there, and dripping, fresh dripping?’
‘Mother Kamer,’ said Memed, ‘there’s no need to cook pilaff at this hour of the night, let me have whatever is ready.’
‘Didn’t I tell you my hawk was starving? Quick, warm up the tarhanafn1,’ and he pointed to the pan by the fire.
Kamer at once put on the trivet and moved the pan over the fire. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing. He’ll drive me to distraction that man of mine.’
Osman said, ‘Just wait a little, my hawk. It’s getting hot now. she’s cooked it well, the tarhana soup.’
He poked the fire, and put on more wood. The flames shot up.
‘Please, Osman,’ begged Kamer, ‘keep quiet, pull yourself together.’
She spread the mat used for meals in front of Memed. In a short time the soup was hot. Kamer poured it into a large soup-plate, which she placed before Memed. The soup was smooth, hot, and smelt delicious. Without stopping and without a word, Memed quickly drank the lot. Kamer also brought honey and yoghurt, and Memed quickly finished that too.
Kamer heaped on the table helpings of all the food there was in the house: butter, sugar, cheese, walnuts, apples, plums, dried mulberries …
At last Memed said, ‘Thank you very much. May God’s blessing be on this house.’
Kamer continued to press him, ‘My child,’ she said, ‘you’ve come from faraway places, from high mountains …’
‘Thank you, Mother, I should burst if I ate any more. I’m absolutely full up,’ said Memed cheerfully.
A wave of happiness came over him. The warm welcome at Old Osman’s house had made him forget all his sufferings, and he felt like a young boy again. ‘I feel light as a bird now I’m in your house, Uncle Osman,’ he said.
Kamer cleared away the remains of the meal, and then put on the fire an ancient Turcoman copper coffee-pot with a folding handle. ‘How do you like your coffee, child?’ she asked.
Memed was disconcerted. In the whole of his life he had scarcely had any coffee. He blushed, embarrassed. Then, making a gesture with his right hand, ‘Any way at all,’ he said.
Old Osman intervened: ‘Let him have it like mine,’ he said, ‘and you can make the two cups together.’
They waited in silence for the coffee to be made. Memed went on smiling, opening his big eyes very wide. When Mother Kamer poured the coffee into the cups it smelt good, and he sniffed appreciatively. His hand shook as he picked up the cup by the handle and a little coffee was spilt into the saucer. Memed watched Old Osman to see how to hold the cup and how to drink the coffee. His hands shook too, much more than Memed’s, but he did not spill the coffee. With his shaking hands he suddenly lifted the cup to his lips and sipped the coffee, sucking in air noisily at the same time to cool it. Memed imitated him, except that he did not suck in air, and burnt his mouth. The coffee had a strange bitter taste. As soon as it had cooled a little, he drank it in sips like Osman. He would never again taste such coffee. Wherever afterwards he drank coffee he would think of Mother Kamer’s coffee, but he would never again come across that special taste and smell. He would remember that taste throughout his life, and would seek for it in every cup of coffee he drank.
Osman finished his coffee and put his cup down beside the chimney. ‘It must be cold outside, I feel chilly,’ he said.
‘It’s drizzling,’ said Kamer.
‘It’s a good thing you came, my boy,’ said Osman. ‘Thank God you’ve come. You’ve put heart into me. We’re helpless in the hands of that scoundrel Ali Safa. He obviously won’t leave us in peace in this village. This hurts my pride, it offends my manhood, Memed, my boy. I have reared ten children, but they’re just ten timorous rabbits! I am very old, and the villagers are cowed, they are terrified of Ali Safa. A frightened man is a bad man. God’s curse upon frightened men.’
His long white beard trembled. His face, deeply furrowed, and copper-coloured in the firelight, showed his distress. His slanting green eyes, half hidden under his bushy white eyebrows, gleamed for a moment, then clouded over. There was something childlike in all Old Osman’s expressions. In his broad smile, breaking out at the slightest thing, in his wondering look as he raised his brows, in his eager appreciation of people, animals and every living thing, in every gesture there was something childlike. When he was a youth and even in middle age the villagers had called him ‘Boy Osman’ on account of his temperament. How was it that they changed ‘Boy’ to ‘Old’? Neither Old Osman nor anyone else knew when this happened. No one in the village remembered that he had been called ‘Boy Osman’. Only one person did not forget, and that was his wife Kamer. When she was cross with him she always called him ‘Boy Osman’.
She came across the room in haste. ‘What in the world are you saying to the boy, before he’s even taken off his sandals, before he’s got his breath, or brushed the dust from his feet, Boy Osman? Boy Osman! You may live to be a hundred, a thousand even, and you’ll never learn sense. The boy has just escaped from a fire, he’s managed to get here, he’s scarcely escaped with his life, and then you don’t even let him get his breath … Look at the state the boy’s, in can’t you see? Worn out. He’s come like a wounded bird to take shelter in a thicket. At this very minute there may be a whole army of soldiers after him, a whole crowd of aghas. Those aghas are still terrified of Slim Memed’s very name. Won’t they know that he’s come down to Chukurova? Won’t they find out that he’s come to your house? And then you begin on our situation, our troubles, before the poor boy has even recovered his breath … Let me tell you, Boy Osman, with that reasoning you’ll hand over Slim Memed to the aghas. Don’t I know you? If the aghas get hold of him they’ll hand him over to the authorities, and they’ll hang our Memed. Then under the gallows you’ll weep and pray, Boy Osman …’
As soon as he could get a word in Old Osman said, ‘You’re right, Kamer, you’re quite right. Now be quiet, woman, be quiet!’
‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Let the village go hang! Let Ali Safa Bey go to hell! It’s inhuman – when he hasn’t had a moment’s rest … If Ali Safa is driving us out, let him drive us out. It’s all because of your chicken-heartedness.’
‘Be quiet, Kamer,’ yelled Osman furiously. ‘Shut up, you old hag.’
Memed listened, smilingly, to the argument going on between the couple, whom he dearly loved.
‘Shut up, you old hag. Memed is our son and our hawk. Ah, Kamer, it would not be right, would it, for Memed not to know what a state our village is in?’
Kamer, slightly mollified, agreed. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘then tell him about Zeynel. He’s the one to blame. Bald Zeynel.’
Old Osman pursed his lips, worriedly: ‘My hawk,’ he said, ‘we are in a very bad way. In these days you can’t take refuge in the mountains. Those hill-folk were always rather wild and now they’ve become quite savage. They know neither Slim Memed nor Gizik Duran. They would hunt down their own fathers and hand them over to the police. If you go to Anavarza you’ll be captured in a couple of days. Now you’d better stay here with us, and nobody but my old woman, not even our children, must know that you are here. Nobody saw you coming here but Veli, did they?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Good. Not even our children will know. Only my old woman, you, I and God himself …’
Kamer shook her head so that the gold coins on her brow beneath the white kerchief jingled.
‘Ah, don’t I know you, Boy Osman,’ she said. ‘You’ll tell the whole village tomorrow. Oh, don’t I know you!’
Osman jumped to his feet in a great rage. ‘Woman, don’t exasperate me!’ he said. ‘Am I mad, am I crazy? If I go and tell one, he’ll tell another, and he’ll tell a third. Until it gets to Zeynel’s ears. Zeynel doesn’t let a bird fly through the village. Zeynel would go to that scoundrel Ali Safa, and say that Slim Memed is in Osman’s house, in Vayvay village. Then Memed would swing, wouldn’t he? And when Memed was dead, the aghas would become Pashas, the villagers would be driven out, the villages destroyed.’
‘That’s how it would be, Boy Osman.’
‘Memed, my hawk, tell that old woman something for me. Tell her not to madden me at this hour of the night, or to put me in a rage.’
Kamer realized that Osman was extremely angry, and she remained silent. Seeing this, Osman too was quiet.
Kamer said, ‘Let’s go and make a hiding-place for the boy.’
Osman said, ‘Let’s make a place where no one will find him. My hawk must eat, drink and sleep there. He must grow fatter and taller too. Don’t smile, Kamer. He looks too much of a child to be Slim Memed.’
Kamer said, ‘May God restore him …’ and sighed. She was going to say ‘to his mother and father’, but remembered that he had no mother or father. ‘May God restore him to his nation and people,’ she said. But this did not satisfy her, either. The Government and the men in authority were his enemies. If they found him they would drown him in a spoonful of water. ‘May God spare his life for the poor who suffer under tyranny,’ she said in the end.
Old Osman took a torch from the fireplace and went to the other part of the house. ‘Come along, Memed,’ he said. ‘We’ll make you a place here, and then we’ll talk till morning, my boy.’
Memed and Kamer came too, and stood in front of the closet. It stretched from one corner to the other. It was a huge painted cupboard, reaching to the ceiling, and black with soot. Old Osman opened the big door, and inside it could be seen rows and rows of bulging sacks. There was a wide shelf above the sacks and that part was full of silk-covered down quilts and mattresses.
‘Look, Memed,’ said Osman, ‘here is your home. And talking about your other home … That old woman didn’t give me a chance … talking about your land … Remember the land the villagers bought for you? Let’s make this place ready for you, then we’ll talk. The old woman will start nagging at me again. We’ll take out these sacks, my boy. Hold the torch, my dear.’ He held out the torch to Kamer, who was standing there watching them, and she took it from him.
They quickly took out five sacks of wheat and put them against the wall.
‘Now wait,’ said Kamer. ‘It’s my turn now. Memed, my boy, get down that mattress. I can’t manage it.’
‘She’s an old woman now,’ said Osman at once.
‘I’m not getting any younger,’ admitted Kamer. ‘Get down the mattress, dear.’
Memed got it down. Kamer placed it in the cupboard.
‘That pillow, too, and the quilt.’
The bed smelt of soap, almost like incense. Memed thought that if they let him he would sleep for three days and nights; he was worn out with lack of sleep.
‘Now come over by the fire,’ said Old Osman.
‘Leave the boy alone, please, Osman,’ said Kamer. ‘Can’t you see he’s out on his feet?’
‘Well, my hawk,’ said Osman, ‘If you’re so sleepy, we’ll talk tomorrow.’
OLD OSMAN COULD not sleep all night, and at cockcrow he got up and lit the fire, pushing the coffee-pot over the flame. He was so happy that he could not sit still; he was beside himself with joy. Twice he went and opened the closet and looked at Memed sleeping, though he could hardly make out his form in the darkness. After drinking his coffee he went to Memed again and again; his heart beat fast and there was a warm gentle emotion within him such as he had not felt for a long time.
He took from a carved walnut chest the clothes which he kept for weddings and festivals, which were old but in very good condition. In colour they were a dark blue verging on ultramarine. The pockets and sideseams of the shalvar-trousers were embroidered with silver thread. The coat fitted his old, thin, withered body perfectly. You could see that it had been made by a good tailor. He put them on. The coat and the shalvar, the striped tunic of pure silk, and the blue waistcoat. Over the waistcoat he hung his heavy engraved silver watch-chain. Instead of a sash he put over his stomach the gold and silver-chased holster belt left him by his grandfather and next to it he put a gold-chased leather powder-case, and then a handsome revolver inlaid with mother-of-pearl. After carefully polishing them, he put on black leather boots. On his head he put a fine felt hat, wound round with a silk kerchief. He strode up and down the room several times. As the sun rose he opened the closet where Memed was sleeping. He was curled up in a ball, the rifle by his head.