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VINTAGE
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Copyright © Yashar Kemal 1958
English translation copyright © Edouard Roditi 1961
Cover photograph © A. Abbas/Magnum Photos
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 1961
First published under the title of Ince Memed in Istanbul in 1955
penguin.co.uk/vintage
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781784701086
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’.
Memed grows up a serf to a vicious overlord on the thistle-clad plains of Turkey’s Taurus region. When his plan to escape is dashed and the young woman he loves murdered, Memed makes for the mountains to become an outlaw. Before long he has transformed from a young rebel to an infamous bandit, the scourge of corrupt oppressors and hero to the poor. With vividness and simplicity, Kemal’s classic novel evokes the fierce beauty of his country and the struggles of its oppressed people.
The Wind from the Plain
Iron Earth, Copper Sky
The Undying Grass
They Burn Thistles
To Crush the Serpent
The Sea-Crossed Fisherman
The Birds Have Also Gone
Salman the Solitary
The slopes of the Taurus Mountains rise from the shores of the Eastern Mediterranean, on the southern coast of Turkey, in a steady ascent from the white, foam-fringed rocks to the peaks. They then spread inland, at a tangent to the curve of the coast. Clouds in white masses always float over the sea. The coastal plains between the mountains and the shore are of clay, quite smooth, as if polished. Here the soil is rich. For miles inland the plain holds the tang of the sea, its air still salt and sharp. Beyond this smooth ploughed land the scrub of the Chukurova begins. Thickly covered with a tangle of brushwood, reeds, blackberry brambles, wild vines and rushes, its deep green expanse seems boundless, wilder and darker than a forest.
A little farther inland, beyond Anavarza on one side and Osmaniya on the other, on the way towards Islahiye, begin the broad marshes. In the summer months they bubble with the heat. Filthy, unapproachable because of their stench, they reek of rotting reeds and rushes, rotting grass and timber, rotting earth. The surface of the water is then hidden by the decomposing vegetation. In winter the whole area is covered by the sheen of stagnant flood-water, unrolling like a carpet. Beyond the marshes there are more ploughed fields. The earth is oily, shining, warm and soft, ready to repay forty-fold, fifty-fold, the seed that it receives.
Only beyond the low hill-tops crowned with heavy-scented myrtle do the rocks suddenly begin to appear, and with them the pine trees. The crystal-bright drops of resin ooze from the trunks and trickle down to the ground. Beyond the pines are plateaux where the soil is grey and arid. From here it looks as if the snowcapped peaks of the Taurus are very close, almost within arm’s reach.
Dikenli, the Plateau of Thistles, is one of these highland plains, with five small villages clustered on it. The inhabitants of all five are tenant farmers, the land belonging only to Abdi Agha. Dikenli is a world by itself, with its own laws and customs. The people of Dikenli know next to nothing of any part of the world beyond their own villages. Very few have ever ventured beyond the limits of the plateau. Elsewhere nobody seems to know of the existence of the villages of Dikenli or of its people and their way of life. Even the tax-collector goes there only every two or three years and has no contact with the villagers, only with Abdi Agha.
Deyirmenoluk, where Abdi Agha lives, is the largest of the villages of Dikenli. It stands on its eastern edge, at the foot of the purple rocks streaked with milky-white, green and silver veins.
Where the rocks begin a plane tree stands in all its majesty, its branches gnarled and bowed to the ground with age. If you venture within a hundred yards of it, or even fifty, nothing seems to stir. All round it reigns a deep silence, frightening stillness. Come within twenty-five yards, ten yards, and it is still as quiet. Only when you come close to the tree, with the rocks at your back, does the tumult suddenly startle you. The roar is at once enough to deafen you. Then it decreases, becomes quieter.
It comes from a spring known as the Mill Spring. It is not really a spring, but the people there call it that. The water bubbles up from the foot of a rock, scattering foam. Throw a piece of wood into the water and it tosses on the surface for a day, two days, even a week. But the actual spring is not really here. Coming from afar, from Akchadagh, the White Mountain, from among the pines, the water is scented with marjoram and thyme before it disappears under a rock, bubbling and boiling, to emerge later by the plane-tree, muttering like a madman.
From here to Akchadagh, the mountain-side is so rocky and steep that the whole Taurus seems no bigger than a plot of land for just one house. Giant pines and beeches rise to the sky from among the boulders, and there is hardly any animal life on the stony slopes.
Thistles generally grow in soil which is neither good nor bad but has been neglected. Later the peasants may root out the thistles and sow there. Such is indeed the practice on the highland valleys of the Taurus.
The tallest thistles grow about a yard high, with many twigs decked with spiny flowers, five-pointed like stars, set among tough, prickly thorns. There are hundreds of these flowers on each thistle.
The thistles do not just grow in groups of two or three. They sprout so thick, so close together that a snake would not be able to slip through them.
In spring the thistles are an anæmic, pale green. A light breeze can bend them to the earth. By midsummer the first blue veins appear on the stems. Then the branches and the whole stem slowly turn a pale blue. Later this blue grows steadily deeper, till a field, the whole boundless plain, becomes a sea of the finest blue. If a wind blows, towards sunset, the blue thistles ripple like the sea and rustle; just as the sea turns red at sunset, so does a field of thistles.
As autumn approaches the thistles dry up. The blue turns white and crackling sounds rise from them. Small milk-white snails, as big as buttons, cling to them in hundreds and thousands, covering them like milk-white beads.
Deyirmenoluk village is surrounded by a plain of thistles. There are no fields, no vineyards, no gardens. Only thistles.
The boy running through the thistles was panting. He had been running now for a long time without a stop. All at once he halted. Blood was oozing from where the thistles had scratched him. He could hardly stand. He was scared. Would he escape? Fearfully he looked over his shoulder. There was no one in sight. He felt more hopeful, turned to the right and ran for a while. Then he was so tired that he lay down to rest among the thistles. On his left he saw an ant-heap. The ants were big and the entrance to their nest was teeming with activity. For a while he forgot everything as he watched them. Then, pulling himself together, he rose suddenly from the ground and resumed his flight to the right. Soon he emerged from the thistles and sank to his knees. Seeing that his head still showed above the thistles, he crouched on his haunches. He began to rub his bleeding legs with earth. He could feel the sting as it touched them.
The rocks were only a little farther. With all his remaining strength he started to run towards them and soon reached the plane-tree below the tallest. At the foot of the tree he found a deep hollow like a well, filled with yellow, golden and red-veined leaves piled high, reaching half-way up the trunk. The dry leaves rustled as he threw himself down on them. On the tip of one bare branch of the tree a bird was perched, but it flew off, scared by the noise. The boy was tired and would have liked to spend the night there. But it occurred to him that this was impossible: the wilds were full of man-eating wolves and birds of prey. Some of the leaves still hanging from the tree floated down to join the others. One at a time they began to fall on his body.
He talked to himself, quite loud, as if someone were beside him.
“I’ll go,” he said. “I’ll go and find that village. No one knows about my going there. I won’t turn back. I’ll be a goatherd. I’ll plough. Let my mother look for me. Let her search as long as she likes. Old Goat-beard will never see my face again. But if I cannot find that village, I’ll die of hunger. I’ll die, and that’s the end of it.”
The autumn sun was warm. It caressed the rocks, the plane-tree, the leaves. The soil was fresh in the sunlight. A few autumn flowers were already beginning to appear. The asphodel had a bitter scent and glistened with moisture. In autumn the mountains smell of asphodel.
Had he been there one hour or two? He wasn’t sure. But the sun had sunk behind the mountain ridge. Some time later the boy stopped muttering to himself and suddenly remembered that he was being pursued. He became frantic. He had forgotten to watch the sun, which had set without his noticing it. Where must he go now, in which direction? A faint goat-track meandered among the rocks. He began to follow it. He ran without heeding the rocks, the bushes and the stones. His weariness had passed. He stopped, looked around for a moment, then ran again.
His feet pounded the soil. As he ran a tiny lizard on a rotten tree-stump caught his eye. The boy felt glad for some reason, but aware of being watched, the lizard disappeared beneath the tree.
The boy stumbled and stopped. He felt dizzy and black spots were dancing before his eyes. The earth seemed to spin round him like a top. His hands and legs were trembling. After looking back a moment he began to run again. Once a flight of partridges rose suddenly nearby and startled him. Any sound scared him and his heart was beating very fast. Hopelessly he glanced back again, drenched in sweat. His knees gave way beneath him and he sank to the ground on a small stony slope. He could smell his own acrid sweat, but mingled with the pleasant scent of flowers. Though he could hardly open his eyes, he raised his head heavily, fearfully, and looked below, where he could barely distinguish a mud roof. His joy was so great that his heart seemed to leap up into his mouth. Smoke curled slowly from the chimney, twisting this way and that, not black but a light purple. Behind him he heard a sound, as of footsteps, and he looked back fearfully. To the left the forest was like a black curtain of rain between sky and earth, threatening to engulf him. He started to talk, no longer muttering now but shouting aloud as he ran away from the forest:
“I’ll go and tell him … I’ll say to him … I’ve come to you to be a goatherd and I’ll plough your land and sow your crops. I’ll say to him that my name is Kara Mistik, Black Mistik. I’ll say I have no mother, no father, no Abdi Agha. I’ll look after your beasts, I’ll say, and I’ll plough your fields and be your child, just that. My name isn’t Ince Memed, but Kara Mistik. Let my mother weep. Let that infidel Abdi Agha search for me. I’ll be their child.”
Then he began to sob. The dark forest was still there. As he sobbed he experienced a morbid pleasure from just lamenting at the top of his voice.
As he went down the slope he suddenly stopped weeping. His nose was running and he wiped it on his right sleeve, which became moist.
By the time he reached the courtyard of the house it was dark. Beyond, the shapes of other houses could be seen. He stopped for a moment to think. Was the village the right one? In front of the door sat a long-bearded man, struggling with a saddle which he was mending. When he raised his head the bearded man saw a shadow in the middle of the courtyard. The shadow moved one or two steps towards him and halted. The man paid no attention but busied himself with his work. When it became really too dark to see he stopped working and rose to his feet, looking to his left, where he had seen the shadow earlier. It was still there. He whistled and said: “What are you doing here?”
“I’ll be your goatherd, Uncle,” the shadow replied. “I’ll plough your fields too. I’ll do every kind of work for you, Uncle.”
The bearded man seized the boy by the arm and dragged him into the house. “Come along, we’ll talk about all that later.”
A piercing north-east wind was blowing. Memed shivered as if it were going to blow him away.
The old man called to his wife who was inside: “Throw some wood on the fire. The child is shivering.”
“Who’s that?” asked the woman, surprised.
“One of Allah’s guests,” replied the old man.
“I’ve never yet seen a guest of that kind,” the woman answered, smiling.
“Well, take a good look at him now.”
The woman hastened to fetch an armful of wood which she threw into the hearth. Slowly the fire revived.
The boy crouched close to the wall, to the left of the hearth. She noticed that his head was big, his hair black, bleached here and there almost red by the sun and hanging straight over his forehead into his little face, which was thin and dry. He had huge brown eyes and skin tanned by the sun. He looked about eleven years old. His Turkish breeches had been torn by brushwood as far as the knees, leaving his legs bare. He was bare-footed, too, with blood clotted on his legs. Though the fire was burning bright, he could not stop shivering.
“Child,” the woman said, “you’re hungry. Wait, I’ll bring you some soup.”
“I would like it,” he declared.
“It will warm you up.”
“It may stop my shivering.”
The woman began to fill a tin bowl with broth from a large copper pan that stood on the hearth by the fire. The boy’s eyes were set on the steaming soup in the pan. She brought the soup, placed it before him and put a wooden spoon in his hand. “Lap it up, boy!”
“I will.”
But the man added a warning: “Don’t drink so fast, your mouth will burn afterwards.”
“It won’t burn,” the boy replied, smiling. The old man smiled too, but the woman could make no sense of their smiles.
“The soup has put a stop to your shivering, my young lion.”
“It’s all over now,” the boy said as he smiled. The woman smiled too.
The hearth was lined with fresh clay. The roof of the house was of earth too. The ceiling was made of brushwood which, with years of soot, had become a shiny black. The house was divided into two parts. The room beyond was the stable. Through the door came a warm, damp smell of fresh cow-dung, of straw and newly cut branches.
While they were talking the old man’s son, daughter and daughter-in-law came in. The boy stared at them, bewildered.
“Why don’t you wish a welcome to our guest?” the old man said to his son.
“Welcome, Brother,” said the son, very earnestly. “What’s new?”
“I’m glad I’m here,” replied the boy with the same seriousness. “This is a good place to be.” The daughter and daughter-in-law also wished the boy a welcome.
Suddenly, the log on the hearth caught fire and burst into flame.
The boy sat huddled up, not yet at his ease. The man came and sat beside him. The flames from the hearth cast strange shadows. Watching these, the man could understand what was going on in the boy’s mind as he stared at the shadows that shifted constantly with the flickering of the flames. When the man turned his eyes away from the shadows, he was smiling. His face was narrow and thin, his beard white and full. His forehead, tanned by the sun, was the colour of copper; and his face shone like red copper in the flickering light of the flames.
As if it had suddenly occurred to him, the man remarked: “Well, guest, what’s your name? Didn’t they give you one?”
“They call me Ince Memed, Slim Memed,” the boy replied. Then he regretted what he had said and bit his lip, lowering his head, ashamed. He had quite forgotten how, on the road, he had said to himself: “I’ll say my name is Kara Mistik.” He murmured to himself: “Well, it doesn’t matter. What a strange idea, when I already have a name of my own. Why should I conceal my name? Who’ll recognise me in this village?”
“Bring us our food and let’s eat,” the man told his daughter-in-law. “We’re hungry.”
The meal was set in the middle of the room and all the family, including Memed, sat in a circle. As they ate nobody uttered a word. After they had eaten in silence, another armful of wood was thrown on the fire. Right in the centre of the hearth the man set a log so that the flames surrounded it. He always enjoyed doing this. The flames soon encircled his log and it thrilled him to watch this. The woman leaned over and whispered in his ear: “Süleyman, where shall I put the boy’s bed?”
“In the big horse’s feeding trough,” joked Süleyman with his usual warm laugh. “Where else should it be? He’ll sleep where we sleep, of course! Who knows how far our guest has travelled to be with us?” He turned towards Memed, who was drowsy from the heat and seemed about to fall asleep.
“Well, guest, are you sleepy?” he asked, laughing.
Memed shook himself as he answered: “No, I’m not sleepy at all.”
“Now, Slim Memed,” said Süleyman, staring attentively into his eyes, “you’ve told us nothing. Where are you from, where are you going?”
Rubbing his eyes, which smarted from the smoke, Memed replied: “I’ve come from Deyirmenoluk. I’m going to that village.”
“We know Deyirmenoluk, but what other village do you mean?” Süleyman inquired, somewhat puzzled.
“Dursun’s village,” answered Memed, not in the least perturbed.
“Which Dursun?” Süleyman insisted.
“He’s with Abdi Agha,” Memed said and stopped. His eyes seemed to be set on some distant place.
“Well?” questioned Süleyman.
“That’s our Agha. Dursun works for him and ploughs his fields.” His eyes shone. After a pause: “The other day he caught a young hawk! That’s Dursun. Do you know him now, Uncle?”
“I know, I know. And what else?”
“Well, I’m going to his village. Dursun said to me, ‘In our village,’ he said, ‘they don’t beat children, they don’t force them to plough. Thistles don’t grow there either,’ he said, ‘in our village.’ So I’m going there now.”
“All right, what’s the name of that village? Didn’t Dursun tell you?”
Memed remained silent. He pondered for a long while, sucking his thumb, till suddenly he exclaimed: “No, Dursun didn’t tell me the name.”
“Strange,” commented Süleyman.
“Yes, strange,” repeated Memed. “We used to plough the fields together, Dursun and I. We would rest every once in a while, seated together on a big stone. ‘Ah!’ he would say, ‘if only you could see our village. The soil is like gold. There’s sunshine and pine-trees,’ he would say. ‘A man who sets out from there on the sea can go anywhere.’ Dursun ran away from there. He told me not to tell anyone that he had run away. I didn’t even tell my mother.” Then, leaning towards Süleyman, he added in a whisper: “You won’t tell anyone either, will you, Uncle?”
“Don’t be afraid,” Süleyman replied. “I won’t tell anyone.”
The daughter-in-law went outside. Soon she came back with a full sack on her back. She put it down on the floor. When she opened it cotton-bolls poured out, cleaned and quite white. Each one was like a little white cloud. Immediately the whole house was full of the sharp smell of cotton.
“Let’s see if you can tease cotton, Slim Memed,” she said pleasantly. “Show us what you can do!”
“What’s that! As if teasing cotton were work,” replied Memed, taking a lapful of the cotton. His skilled hands soon began to work like a machine.
“Slim Memed,” the son asked, “how are you going to set about finding that village?”
Memed pulled a wry face to show that the question didn’t please him at all. “I’ll look around for it,” he sighed. “The sea is near that village. I’ll search for it.”
“Why Slim Memed, the sea’s a good fifteen days’ walk from here!”
“I’ll search for it. I’d rather die than go back to Deyirmenoluk. I’ll never go back again. I won’t.”
“What happened, Slim Memed?” interrupted Süleyman. “Tell us your secret. What has set you on the road?”
Memed’s hands stopped. “Uncle Süleyman,” he said, “wait, and I’ll tell you everything. My father’s dead. There’s just my mother. No one else at all. I plough Abdi Agha’s fields.” At this point his eyes filled with tears and a lump seemed to form in his throat. But he checked himself. Otherwise it would all pour out. “For two years I’ve ploughed his fields. The thistles devour me. They bite me. Those thistles tear at your legs like a mad dog. That’s the sort of field I ploughed. Every day Abdi Agha beat me, beat me to death. He beat me again yesterday morning. Until I ached all over. So I ran away from there. I’ll go to that village. He won’t find me there, Abdi Agha. I’ll plough someone’s land there. I’ll be his goat-herd. I’ll be his son, if he wishes.” He looked straight into Süleyman’s eyes.
Memed’s heart seemed about to burst. Another word and he would break down. So Süleyman changed the subject.
“Listen to me, Slim Memed, if it’s like that you can stay here in my house.”
Memed’s face flushed. A wave of affection thrilled through him from top to toe.
“The sea is far. You won’t find that village easily,” said the son.
Meanwhile the cotton had all been teased. In the middle of the floor the insects that had fallen out of it were scurrying hither and thither, unable to escape, little black cotton beetles. By the hearth a bed was prepared for Memed. His eyes were full of sleep and he glanced longingly at the bed. Süleyman had understood Memed’s need long ago.
“Tuck in,” he said, pointing to the bed. Without a word, Memed crouched down and crawled in, pulling his knees up to his chin. His body ached all over, as if he had been pounded in a mortar.
“I’ll be his son. Yes, I will,” said Memed secretly to himself. “Let my mother look for me, and Abdi Agha too. Let them all search till the Day of Resurrection. I won’t go back.”
Two hours before sunrise, the hour when he always went off to the fields, Memed stirred, woke up, rose from his bed and went outside. Sleepily he relieved himself and was suddenly wide awake. He remembered the previous night and white-bearded Süleyman. “This is Süleyman’s house,” he said to himself. “What would I do if I went to that other village? I’ll be Uncle Süleyman’s son. I’ll stay here. I won’t go back.”
The cold frosty air made him shiver. He crawled back into bed and pulled his knees up to his chin again. The bed was warm. To-day he knew he could sleep till sunrise. Thinking of this, he fell asleep again.
The sun rose on a frosty morning. The mother took the pan off the fire. The pleasant smell of hot soup filled the whole alcove of the hearth. The son had gone off to the fields long ago. Süleyman had returned to the saddle, resuming his work of the night before.
“Süleyman,” called his wife, “the soup’s getting cold.”
“Is our guest up yet?”
“Leave the child. Poor thing, he must have been very tired yesterday. He’s fast asleep.”
“Yes, let’s not wake him, poor mite. He’s exhausted from yesterday.”
“What made him run away?” she asked.
“They drove him too hard.”
“It’s a pity,” she said. “And what a pretty child! Infidels, what did they want with such a small mite?”
“Let him stay here as long as he wishes.”
Memed stretched himself and woke up. First he rubbed his eyes hard with his two fists, then looked towards the fire. The soup in the open pot was steaming. He turned his head towards the door. A knife-sharp sunbeam stretched through the doorway. He rose from his bed.
“Don’t be afraid, Memed,” Süleyman reassured him, seeing his fear. “It doesn’t matter. Sleep!”
Memed turned to take the copper jug from the hearth and went outside. He washed his face with plenty of water, then went towards Süleyman and began to watch him working on the saddle.
“Come and drink your soup,” called the woman again. “It’s growing cold.”
Süleyman rose, brushing his clothes with his hands, and winked at Memed. “Let’s go and drink our soup.”
The soup was a broth of milk and crushed wheat. The odours of milk and wheat mingled to produce a pleasant smell. They drank the soup with wooden spoons. Memed liked the soup. “I’ll be your son,” he repeated.
Süleyman was stuffing hay into the saddle which he had finished. The dry grass slipped easily through his experienced fingers. The autumn sun brought out the bright colours of everything. A fine golden dust fell from the hay as Süleyman worked it. The dust, in the sunlight, scattered in every direction.
“Did he drive you very hard, this Abdi Agha?” asked Süleyman.
Memed was not expecting such a question. He pulled himself together.
“He used to beat me cruelly and even make me plough the thistle fields barefoot. Then there was the frost. That was killing too. And always he’d beat me. Once for a whole month I was unable to get up and go to work. He beats everyone, but he beat me most. Mother said if it hadn’t been for Yellow Hodja’s amulet, I would have died.”
“So it means you want to stay here?”
“What shall I do in that village? It’s fifteen days’ walk from here. There’s the sea, but what of that? There are no thistles there, but there aren’t any here either. I’m staying here. Nobody’ll find me here, will they? Deyirmenoluk’s far away from here, isn’t it? They can’t find me, can they?”
“You poor thing, Deyirmenoluk is just behind that mountain. Don’t you know how you came here?”
Memed was dumbfounded, his eyes wide open. He began to perspire, the sweat streaming off him. All his hopes crashed to the ground. He was about to say something but gulped. In the sky the eagles were wheeling around. He stared at them, then nestled closer to Süleyman. “Perhaps I should go to that village and be that other man’s son. If Abdi Agha finds me here, he’ll kill me.”
“Go to that other village, be that other man’s son,” replied Süleyman reproachfully.
“How wonderful it would be if I were your son,” Memed said ingratiatingly, “but …”
“But what?”
“He might find me … God forbid! He would make mincemeat of me.”
“What can we do?” Süleyman said, lifting his head from his work and staring at Memed. The boy’s face was all wrinkled, like a leaf. His big eyes were dull. All the light had gone out of them. Seeing that Süleyman was looking at him, Memed crept a little closer and seized his hand. “Please,” he murmured, his eyes full of unspoken desires.
“Don’t be afraid.”
Memed smiled, a smile of contentment tinged with fear. Süleyman had finished his job. He stood up. “Well, Slim Memed, I’ve got work to do in the house opposite and must go there. Do whatever you like. Go for a walk in the village.”
Memed set off for the village alone. It was a cluster of twenty or twenty-five houses, all built of mud and rough stones set at random one on top of the other. The houses scarcely rose to the height of a man above the ground.
He wandered from one end of the village to the other. The children were playing köküc, an Anatolian game, on a manure heap. He saw only one dog, its tail between its legs, creeping fearfully along the foot of a wall. There were dung-heaps all over the village. Till nightfall he went from house to house. Nobody asked where he came from, where he was going. In his own village all the children would swarm round a stranger as soon as they saw him. This village was quite different. It puzzled him.
Returning to the house, he found Süleyman outside. “Well, Slim Memed, you haven’t been home all day! What’s new?”
“Nothing …”
After that Memed roamed about the village for a few more days. He made friends with a few of the boys. He played köküc. No one could beat him at it. But Memed didn’t boast of his skill. Another boy would surely have boasted; he just shrugged his shoulders, as if to say it was child’s play. That’s why the other children didn’t mind his winning.
Then the autumn rains of the Taurus began. Just as the autumn leaves fall, so do the Taurus rains, in great drops. It thundered. From the mountain above the village stones rolled down the slopes to the highland plain. The mountain was a forest, with huge trees that grew in close and tangled thickets.
One day Memed came to Süleyman and said: “Uncle Süleyman, how long will this last? I’m bored, eating your bread for nothing!”
“Wait a while, what’s the hurry? We’ll find work for you, my boy.”
A few days later the rain stopped and the sun shone again on the wet stones and rocks, on trees and earth. The earth began to steam and the steam mixed with the smell of manure and drifted into the village. From time to time silvery clouds concealed the sun.
Memed was seated on a stone by the door of the house while Süleyman tried on him a pair of new sandals he had made of rawhide. The sandals were damp, with a purple down on the leather, so that you could see that they were made of the skin of a young bull. Memed was delighted with them.
Süleyman stood beside Memed and watched him as he tied them. The boy’s hands were used to the tying of sandals, that was clear. He knew how to pull the laces tight and to knot them behind the leg.
“Young Memed, you’re a master at tying sandals,” said Süleyman.
“I can even sew them, Uncle Süleyman,” replied Memed, raising his head and smiling. “But you’ve sewn these well.” He rose to his feet and put all his weight on each foot in turn once or twice, then walked ten or fifteen steps away and returned. He looked again at the sandals in admiration. “They fit my feet perfectly.”
They set off along the road together. Memed’s eyes were constantly on his new sandals. Sometimes he walked fast, sometimes he stopped and examined his feet carefully, sometimes he stopped and stroked the down on the sandals.
Süleyman fully shared Memed’s joy. “It looks as if you like them, Memed?”
“They fit me well. I love such sandals,” Memed replied.
“If you’d gone to that village,” said Süleyman, “no one there would have made such sandals for you.”
“Don’t they wear sandals in that village?” asked Memed, half serious, half teasing.
It wasn’t quite clear whether Süleyman had understood the teasing or not. “Well, they wear shoes, not sandals.”
“I see.”
Walking steadily, they left the village. All of a sudden Memed brightened up. The fields stretched away to the foot of the other mountain. There were no thistles, but still the fields were not much good, full of stones. Memed stopped a moment and asked: “Where are we going, Uncle Süleyman?”
“Just for a walk.”
Memed asked no more questions as they went ahead together. His new sandals became caked with mud, which he cursed under his breath.
The village lay far behind, out of sight except for one or two twists of smoke.
“Listen to me, Memed,” said Süleyman. “This is where you will pasture the goats. You can go as far as the other side there, but don’t cross the ridge of that red hill. Your village lies on the other side and they’ll catch you and take you away if they see you.”
“I won’t go. It’s well you told me.”
As they returned, the clouds in the sky were quite white. The threshing floors, each one a deep green circle, were scattered among the stony fields. A few isolated snails could be seen clinging to the long grass.
“Tell me, Ince Memed, did that goat-bearded Abdi treat you very badly?”
Memed stopped. So did Süleyman. Memed glanced again at his new sandals.
“Let’s sit here,” suggested Süleyman.
“Yes,” said Memed as he began to explain. “Listen, Uncle Süleyman. My father was dead and Abdi Agha took what little we had away from us. If my mother complained, he beat her cruelly and would beat me too. Once he tied me to a tree and left me there in the middle of the plain, far from the village. I stayed tied to the tree for two days, till Mother came and freed me. But for her the wolves would have torn me to pieces.”
“So that’s how it is, Memed?” sighed Süleyman as he rose to go. Memed also stood up. Süleyman repeated his advice: “Do as I tell you, Memed, and never go beyond that red-brown hill. Somebody might see you and report it to old Goat-beard, and then they would take you away from us.”
“God forbid,” exclaimed Memed.
Next morning Memed woke up very early and rose from his bed just as dawn was beginning to break. He went to Süleyman’s bed. The old man was snoring, fast asleep. Memed poked him to rouse him.
“What’s up? Is that you, Memed?” Süleyman was very drowsy.
“It’s Memed,” the boy said proudly. “It’s time to go. I’ll drive the goats.”
Süleyman rose immediately. His eyes searched for his wife. She had been up and about for a while and was outside, milking the cow. He called to her: “Be quick and get Memed’s food ready.”
Washing the milk off her hands in a big pail, the woman replied: “It can wait. I’ll milk the rest in the evening.”
In no time she had prepared Memed’s food-bag for the day and set before him a bowl of soup from the cauldron that was simmering over the fire. Memed gobbled it down, fastened the bag of food round his waist in the twinkling of an eye, and was off, herding the goats ahead of him. Snatching his old cap off his head, he threw it after the goats. “Get on there! This is fun!”
“Good luck to you,” called Süleyman after him. Memed kept turning round and looking back at him until both he and the goats were out of Süleyman’s sight.
“Well, well! What a child!” murmured Süleyman to himself.
“Troubled again,” said his wife, as she came out to him. “What’s worrying you now?”
“See what goat-bearded Abdi has done to this child,” he sighed. “Still a babe and his heart broken. I used to know his father. He was a quiet, inoffensive man. But look at the state of the child! Sick of his life, he rushes off into the mountains, among the birds of prey and wolves!”
“Poor Süleyman, you take everything too much to heart. Come in and drink your soup.”
It was evening and all the men had returned from the fields except Memed. The sun sank and he was still missing.
From next door Zeynep called to Memed’s mother: “Deuneh! Deuneh! Hasn’t Memed come yet?”
“He hasn’t come, Sister,” Deuneh moaned. “He hasn’t come yet, my Memed. What shall I do now?”
Zeynep repeated her question to Deuneh perhaps ten times. Now she insisted: “Go and ask Abdi Agha,” counselled Zeynep. “Perhaps he’s gone to the Agha’s house. Go and ask, Sister. All these things happening to you, poor Deuneh!”
“As if I didn’t have enough troubles already! If Memed had reached the village he would have come home right away, without stopping anywhere. He wouldn’t stay a moment at Abdi Agha’s. But let me go and see …”
There was no moon in the sky. It was cloudy and even the stars could not be seen. Deuneh set off in the dark for Abdi Agha’s house, feeling her way blindly in the narrow alley. From a hand-sized window a tiny light glimmered. She stopped, her heart beating wildly, and gulped once or twice. Her hands and feet trembled, her teeth chattered. Yet she managed to force some sort of sound out of her throat, a kind of death-rattle. “Abdi Agha! Abdi Agha! I kiss the soles of your feet, Abdi Agha! My Memed isn’t home yet. Is he with you?”
From within a heavy voice answered: “Who’s there? What do you want, woman, at this time of the night?”
“I beseech you, Abdi Agha,” she repeated. “My Memed hasn’t come home. Is he with you?”
“May God curse you! Is it you again, Deuneh?” the voice boomed.
“Yes, Agha.”
“Come in. Let’s see what you want.”
She entered the house, bowed down with fear. Abdi Agha was squatting cross-legged on a divan by the fire. The velvet cap on his head hung down over his left ear. On the road, in the hills, in the village, it was always on his head, to show how pious a Moslem he was. He was wearing a silk-embroidered shirt and playing with the big amber beads of his rosary. A long sharp face, small and strangely blue-green eyes, pink cheeks—such was Abdi Agha.
“Now, what do you want? Speak!” he repeated.
Deuneh, her hands clasped beseechingly as she leaned forward, stood there all tense. “Agha—My Memed hasn’t yet come home from the fields. I came to see if he was with you.”
Abdi Agha stood up. “He hasn’t returned, eh? The scoundrel! And my oxen?” He hurried to the door, his shirt-tails flapping in the draught. He bawled outside: “Dursun, Osman, Ali, where are you?”
“Here, Agha,” answered three voices from three different directions.
“Come, quick!”
Three figures appeared out of the darkness. One of them, looking about forty, was Dursun, a great lump of a fellow. The other two were fifteen-year-old boys.
“Get off to the fields immediately and look for that young scoundrel Memed. Make sure that you find the oxen. Don’t come back here before you have found them. Do you understand?”
“We were also wondering about him,” said Dursun. “What can have happened to Memed? He hasn’t come, we were saying. We’ll go and look.”
Deuneh began to sob.
“Shut up!” shouted Abdi Agha in disgust. “We’ll see what troubles this scoundrel of yours has brought on us. If anything has happened to the oxen, I’ll break every bone in his body. I’ll grind his bones to powder.”
Dursun, Osman and Ali disappeared in the darkness. Deuneh ran after them.
“Don’t come, Sister,” Dursun called back to her. “We’ll find him. Perhaps the plough broke, or the yoke. He may be afraid to come back. We’ll bring him home. Go back, Sister Deuneh.”
The woman returned to her hovel and the three men disappeared again in the darkness. Their steps could be heard dying away in the night. Their feet were accustomed to the road and they knew which way to go. First they came to a small stony field, then crossed an area of sharp rocks, beyond which they sat down to rest, all three in a row, close together, leaning against each other. For a long while they stayed quiet. It was very dark and there was no other sound but the chirping of insects. Dursun was the first to speak, not to anyone in particular, just into the night. “What can have happened to the boy? Where’s he gone?”
“Who knows?” said Osman.
“Do you know what Memed said to me?” asked Ali. “He said, ‘I’m going to that village. Let them kill me, I won’t stay,’ he said.”
“He can’t have run away. He would have never done such a stupid thing,” said Dursun.
“If he has, all the better,” Ali burst out.
“He’s done the right thing,” agreed Osman.
“Our life is worse than death,” continued Ali.
“Why don’t we too go off to the Chukurova?” exclaimed Osman.
“The Chukurova is near, with its soft earth,” said Dursun. “In our village you work hard, but there you’re your own master, with nobody to interfere, nobody to spy on you. If you take a look at the fields you would think that a cloud had sunk into the black earth, there’s so much cotton. Gather it and you get threepence a pound. In one summer you can get five times what Abdi Agha gives in a year. There’s a city there, Adana, all of clear glass. It sparkles day and night, just like the sun. You walk in the alleys between the houses, they call them streets, and it’s all glass. It’s as clean as can be. Trains come and go. On the sea, ships as big as villages go to the other end of the world. Everything shines like the sun, bathed in light. If you look at it just once, you can’t take your eyes away. If it’s money you want, it pours like a flood in the Chukurova. All you’ve got to do is work.”
Osman suddenly interrupted him: “How big is the earth?”
“Huge,” replied Dursun.
They rose to resume their search. Dursun was still talking about his village.
After the rocks they came through a patch of thistles that grew so thick that their legs were torn by them.
“The field that Memed was ploughing should be about here,” shouted Osman, who was ahead of the other two.
“I don’t know these parts—do you?” replied Dursun.
“It’s here,” called Ali from the right.
“Is this it?” asked Dursun doubtfully.
“Of course it’s here. Can’t you smell the newly-ploughed earth?”
Dursun stopped and took a deep breath. “You’re right.”
Osman was walking ahead and called back: “My feet are sinking into ploughed soil.”
“Mine too,” said Ali.
“Wait, I’m coming.” They stopped till Dursun caught up with them.
“Now we must try and find the spot he was ploughing,” he said.
“That’s easy,” answered Osman. “We’ll find it.”
“I’m cold,” grumbled Ali. But Dursun interrupted his complaints: “Let’s find him first.”
“The furrows stop here,” Osman shouted. “He didn’t plough at all to-day.”
Ali felt around with his foot, walking along the edge of the ploughed field several times. “Memed hasn’t ploughed to-day. The furrows just stop like that.”
“Has anything happened to him?” asked Dursun in a voice that expressed anxiety and surprise.
“Nothing can happen to him,” replied Osman. “He’s the devil’s own brother.”
“Uncle Dursun, you know him. Nothing much could harm him,” repeated Ali.
“Allah grant it’s true! Memed is a good boy, a poor orphan,” said Dursun.
They stopped in the middle of the ploughed field. Osman began to collect sticks and branches and, while Ali talked with Dursun, lit a fire. They all three sat down beside it, to consider all that might have happened. Memed might, for instance, have fainted, or been attacked by a wolf. Or a thief might have come and stolen the oxen. There were other possibilities besides, and they considered them one by one. But there was no particular possibility that struck them as more probable than the others.
The flames of the fire flickered on Dursun’s face as he smiled contentedly.
The fire burned and died down. A few embers still glowed like cats’ eyes. They were all three bored and Ali began to sing a sorrowful folk-song. The tune went out into the night:
“Sitting outside my door, harnessing the cart,
I’m troubled to-day and my heart’s desolate.
Bring me holy books and I’ll swear on them
That I’ll greet nobody, only you.”
They shivered. Osman collected more branches to feed the fire. Dursun and Ali went off to gather brushwood which they stacked near the fire.
“What do we do now?” asked Osman.
“If we go back to the village empty-handed,” answered Dursun, “Abdi Agha will be furious. Let’s lie down here. In the morning we’ll search again.”
“We’ll never find Memed. He’s gone to that village, he has, wherever it may be. He spoke only of escaping to it.”
Dursun smiled.
Leaving Ali to tend the fire, the other two curled up. Ali lay watching the flames. Once he lifted his head and looked away, searching the darkness, then, muttering to himself: “He’s gone. Let him go. He’s done well. He’s gone to the city of glass, to that warm soft earth. He’s done well. Let him go if he wants.”
When Osman woke up, Ali left him to watch. Putting a lump of turf under his head, Ali said: “He’s gone there, hasn’t he, Osman? Memed has gone to the place that Dursun spoke of.”
With the first light of dawn the three woke up. The eastern sky was beginning to blush, tinging the edges of clouds, which soon turned white. A breeze blew, chilly but pleasant, the dawn wind. Soon they could distinguish things in the half-light. Beyond the ploughed land an expanse of thistles spread to the horizon where the sun was rising. In the middle of the field the three rose clumsily to their feet. They stood in the morning light, with all the shadows spreading towards the west. They stretched their arms, then squatted to relieve themselves. Stretching again, they wandered across the field that Memed had ploughed.
“Look at the tracks,” said Osman. “The oxen have passed here with the plough behind. Let’s follow them.”
They paused for a long talk. Here a pair of oxen had rested on the ground. The huge imprints of their bodies were still intact, like a mould. You could see that they had been lying there with the plough still yoked to them.
The newly risen sun was beginning to warm the earth. Leaving the thistles, the three men came to running water. Ali suddenly let out a cry. The other two turned to him and saw the oxen standing harnessed, the yoke round their necks, the plough behind them. One of them was violet-red, the other brick-red. The two were all skin and bone.