CHAPTER XXV

POPULAR MYTHS AND SUPERSTITIONS

“I have told you nothing about Ali Ueld el Mudden,” said Raisuli, “but he was a good friend of mine throughout the war, and he was so clever that many thought he was possessed by jinns. He had a band of sixty men, living nobody knew where. Beni Aros was his headquarters and every cave in the mountains his house. It was like the time of my youth, when I had an army of boys encamped in the woods, for el Mudden was just as audacious and reckless as we were, and all the tribesmen said of him, ‘He has a laughing heart and a sixth finger which is a knife.’

“It was he who captured Lentisco, the railway engineer, and held him a captive for months, because the company refused a ransom. El Mudden had only fifteen men with him, and half of these he left to guard his retreat. With the others he appeared suddenly in the middle of the engineers’ camp near Tzenin and got hold of Lentisco. There was not much fight, for the Moors who were working on the line either ran away or stood still and looked on. Two Spaniards were killed and Lentisco slightly wounded. It was a great feat, for the prisoner was hurried off through the enemy country, without anyone daring to rescue him. A few shots were fired after the raiders, but these turned round and replied seriously, wounding several labourers. After this they were left in peace, and they went quickly to Harex, where the Spaniard was shut up in a house. He thought himself very miserable, because there was little light and no bed to sleep on except a few sacks, but this was in the late spring,[104] and it was warm. He complained of the food, but he had the same fare as the tribesmen, black bread and oil. El Mudden came up at once to Tazrut to tell me of his escapade, and I told him, ‘Turn your prisoner into your friend but do not let him escape,’ for hostages were valuable to us, and, while still we had food, I said to my people, ‘Bring me Christians, that I may use them for negotiations,’ but the foreigners did not venture abroad, and it was difficult to catch them.

“I sent one of my secretaries back with el Mudden to question his prisoner, for, if he were a poor man, little ransom would be paid for him. Whatever was the prey of Sidi Ali, he always brought me the half, whether it were horses or cattle or money, and, truly, he was everywhere at once, burning an enemy village, cutting Spanish wire or capturing their herds, destroying their telegraph posts and even attacking their guards under the walls of the towns. Ullah, he had never heard of fear! Lentisco was not a satisfactory prisoner, for he quarrelled with his guards and demanded things which they could not give. Water is scarce in many of our villages, so, when they did not bring him enough, he complained that they wasted it performing their ablutions before the prayers. This angered the tribesmen, and they washed their feet and hands under his eyes and, when their devotions were finished, they offered him the dirty water, saying it was good enough for a Christian. ‘Ullah, it is too good,’ said one, ‘for it has contributed to the performance of the true religion,’ and he threw the water on the ground. Thereafter, for a few days, they gave the prisoner no water, but that which was dirty, and he became ill and wept.

“I learned of these things, and ordered that he should be better treated and given cooked beetroot with his bread. Food was sent to him from Tangier, but the tribesmen kept it, saying a weapon had been contained in it. The railway was slow to pay the ransom, in spite of the many letters written by Lentisco. For five months the Spaniard was in the hands of el Mudden, who got tired of him at last and put chains on him, threatening to kill him if the money did not arrive. This I forbade, but the engineer suffered much fear, not knowing that his fate was already written and according to the will of Allah.

“At last the police of Larache began to treat for his release, and the officer suggested a meeting at the village of Saf near Megaret, where there was a Spanish post. El Mudden made conditions that the rescue party should come without arms and consist only of the officer and a few men, whose safety he guaranteed; but no answer came to this letter, so he suspected a trap. When he got to the appointed place, it was told him that a troop of police were advancing, but the officer was not with them. Swiftly an ambush was prepared and the enemy walked straight into it, emptying their rifles without effect on the hillside. El Mudden sent the men back on foot. ‘Tell the officer who disobeyed my instructions that some day I shall revenge myself,’ ordered Sid Ali, and took the police horses and rifles, most of which he sent to Tazrut.

“When his mind was not occupied with the hundred thousand douros which he hoped to receive for Lentisco, el Mudden was my best spy. He had the eyes of a kite and the ears of a lynx. It is easier to keep the stallion from the mare than news from that man! In the end the money was denied to him, for Lentisco persuaded one of his guards to release him, whether by the glamour of his words or the gold promised, I do not know. They fled in the middle of the night to Megaret, and the affair was finished.

“I wish I had had el Mudden with me in my youth, for he had in his mind many things that I never thought of. Beni Aros was full of his disguises, and there were different ones in each house that was friendly to him. He had uniforms and European clothes, but, when these were not under his hands at the moment he desired them, he despoiled some citizen or soldier, assuring the former that it was an honour for a non- combatant to serve a warrior, but generally the man was dead and could not hear. With his band he would remain hid for days among the furthest mountains, not stirring when the cannon that heralded the Spanish advance tore up the hillside whereon he lay. Many of his people were killed in such affairs, but none moved, and, at last, the enemy would advance, believing that the country was empty before them. Then el Mudden would revenge the deaths of his men and for each unspent bullet there was a Christian head. Many villages would have submitted to the Spaniards, but that they feared the vengeance of el Mudden. Dris er Riffi’s words were as honey, but the retaliation of Sidi Ali was like burning oil.

“One day he knocked at the door of a Spanish house and told the farmer that he had come with a warning of attack by the band of el Mudden. The man must at once repair to the nearest Spanish camp with his family and all he could save. There was little time, for already the brigands were approaching. The farmer fled with his wife and children and his labourers, el Mudden guiding them tenderly to the post which was on the next hill. While he did this, his own men advanced swiftly, looted the farm and drove off all the beasts, without firing a shot, which would have aroused the attention of the neighbouring post well provided with artillery.

“On another occasion he dressed himself as an officer of police and, with a number of men mounted on police horses, with every detail of their uniform and saddlery correct, he rode down to a village near Azeila which had submitted to the enemy. He told the Kaid he had come to arrange the new taxes, and, when the man demurred, he threatened him with his gun. Vainly the Sheikh pleaded that the Government had remitted his taxes and that all tithes had been paid to the Pasha. The police insulted him and tore off his turban, till he swore he would make his peace with the Sherif. Then el Mudden beat him, and, under pretext of warning him not to put himself into power of Raisuli for fear of his vengeance, told him of all the Sherif’s successes and how afraid the Spaniards were of him. Then he took the arms that were left in the village and drove away all the cattle, taking the calves across the saddles and the lambs about their shoulders. When the Kaid complained to the Pasha, he was told that he lied, which made him more angry. Then er Riffi sent to him, saying it was a trick on the part of Raisuli, and he was enraged, saying, ‘Am I so great in years that my eyes cannot see?’ and he waited for the first opportunity of deserting the Government.

“Such escapades were common even in the last months of the war. I myself have been among the enemy and they have not known me. Once, I remember, we were a few men and, of those you know, only el Menebbhe was with me. We were tired, for we had ridden from the valley below Ahmas, and we were now in Beni Aros. Also we had not broken our fast for two days. We saw a few houses in a hollow and went towards them to get food, but they were deserted, except for a woman who ran out crying to us to go back. ‘The Christians are coming,’ she said; ‘you will be surrounded, for their posts are also in front.’ I asked what the enemy consisted of, and she told me, besides the Spaniards, there were many Arab irregulars. So I hid the horses among the olive-trees, and some of us lay in the barn, where there was a pile of figs which we ate and appeased our hunger. Then we looked out and saw the enemy coming, but they paid no attention to the village, for there were only a few houses and the crops had already been burned by the advance party.

“We waited till the Spaniards had gone on. Then we slipped out and mixed with the irregulars, who were tribesmen from the plains and unknown to us. Ullah, it was an amusing march, but we regretted the few figs we had left. On we went, turning west of the Spanish sentinels, and no man suspected us. Then when the road was clear to Bu Hashim, we slipped to one side of the column, ready for retreat. It was after sunset and, when the firing began, all men feared an ambush. For a moment none knew where the shots came from, though bodies dropped on all sides. Then they shouted that traitors were among them, and each man was suspicious of his neighbour, but we crept away while their rifles were still uncertain. Many had died because of our stratagem, and we had had an escort to the gates of our country!”

At the end of this story I looked doubtfully at Menebbhe. It seemed impossible that anyone could mistake the bulk of the Sherif, but the Kaid nodded his confirmation. “Allah blinded their eyes and they could not recognise my master. It is the ‘baraka.’ Many times I have thought I was alone, and, Ullah, there was Mulai Ahmed beside me. There was another occasion, when we were hiding in a wood. A Spanish column passed below us and we were but five men, so we dared not fire. We put our hands over the nostrils of our horses, and waited. It happened that just beside us there was a fig-tree, and one of the officers, seeing it, rode up to gather the fruit. The Sherif was as close to him as if they were both sitting in his tent and it was full day. I had my rifle ready, intending that, if he looked round, he should die, but he went on plucking the figs, eating them as he stood in his stirrups. Then he turned, and I looked along the sights of my gun, but an insect or some of the fruit-juice was in his eyes and he rubbed them as he kicked his horse blindly down the hill.”

“His greed saved his life,” I suggested. “Allah forbid. It was the blessing of the Sherif, which is like a cloak around him. Even the Christians speak of it and believe.”

Raisuli sighed and pulled up his wide sleeves. “It is very hot, and we have talked much. Perhaps you are tired,” he said, and then, rather as an afterthought, “Would you not like to eat?” The suggestion was received with enthusiasm, for it was nearly three o’clock! but a slave, despatched to ascertain what progress the cooks were making, reported that the meat was still red. “With health, with appetite!” wished the Sherif, and departed to the Zawia. “The appetite is here, certainly,” said Haj Bu Meruit, an erstwhile henchman of Mannisman, who had been meekly waiting outside, “but of the health I am not so certain.” He felt his neck carefully. “The Jinns were about last night, and I think one twisted my shoulder-bones.” I thought it was a joke, and smiled politely, but Mulai Sadiq answered seriously, “You should have said ‘Bismillah!’ There is only one thing that affects the jinns, and that is the name of Allah.”

“In Asir,” I ventured, “the women smear the lintels and threshold of the door with white of egg, which is supposed to be a most potent charm.” “I don’t think that can be of much use,” retorted the Haj with contempt, “for I was once in a store when a man was hit on the head by a jinn, and the place was full of boxes of eggs.” “You are right,” returned Mulai Sadiq. “There are two kinds of jinns as you may read in the Koran. Those who are believing do not trouble Moslems, but the unbelieving kind are most dangerous, unless you have learned to control them. This is a science which you must study carefully. It is called Ulm el Issem, and I worked at it for five years before I tried to have conversation with a jinn. I had been warned that he should appear in human form, with jellaba and turban, and, seating himself beside me, should talk to me in an ordinary voice and answer such questions as I put to him. But, if he came in any other form, it was bad, and I must have no dealings with him. I made all the necessary exhortations and, at the end, I saw a shape in front of me. It had two legs like a dog, with human feet, and its body was also a dog’s, but its neck was so long that it reached to the ceiling. I was in my house at Tetuan, and it seemed that the roof had become a funnel, so that the head of the beast was in the sky.”

Mulai Sadiq spoke as if he were relating a most normal experience, and, when I asked, somewhat breathlessly, what he had done in view of the unexpected appearance of the jinn, he answered impatiently, “Well, of course I knew I had made a mistake, so I began praying as hard as I could and, at each repetition of the name of Allah, the beast grew smaller and smaller, till finally it vanished altogether.” “Have you ever tried again?” “No, I have been much too frightened; but it is all a matter of learning. There is nothing that a man cannot do if he have enough will-power,” and he began talking of the mystics who can leave their bodies at home and make a spiritual pilgrimage to Mecca, being able to describe every scene and action of the Haj when it is over.

At this Bu Meruit loudly protested, feeling, perhaps, that he had wasted the few well-spent weeks of a life which, from his face, would appear to have been chiefly evil, but Mulai Sadiq countered swiftly, “Have you never heard of Mulai Abderrahman es Siuti? He was one of the most learned in El Azhar, and it happened that each one of his forty pupils asked him to dine on the same night, without the knowledge of the others. The next morning there was much argument, for each declared that the Master had sat at his table, and it was only when it was proved that es Siuti had, in reality, dined with some of the other ulema, that his pupils realised it was the spirit, not the body, of their master they had entertained.” The Haj’s eyes brightened. Perhaps he saw vistas of endless simultaneous dinners, for he was comfort-loving and greedy, but fortunately at that moment lunch arrived, carried by breathless slaves who had evidently run down the garden, holding the food on the plates with hot black hands. “El Hamdulillah” said Mulai Sadiq, “I had nearly telephoned to Tetuan for them to send up a meal from my house.”

[Illustration: The Sorceress mentioned by Raisuli]

This was a new joke, and we welcomed it appreciatively, but with our gaze fixed on the various dishes. I am afraid I was half-way through the wing of a chicken before I noticed that our hosts were not eating. “We fast,” said Badr ed Din, “but let not that interfere with your appetite.” Mohamed el Khalid, however, was not so stoical. He wandered out of the tent and looked wistfully at the sun. I noticed that the Haj was doing his best to make up for the abstinence of the others. “Because he has made the pilgrimage, he thinks that all is permitted to him,” said Badr ed Din. I pointed out firmly that a noted lawgiver had emphasised the necessity of at least eleven pilgrimages to Mecca before a man could be quite certain of heaven. “Ullah,” ejaculated the Haj, looking up, with greasy cheeks, “and did he ever come back to say if he got there?” The argument was unanswerable and the sinner continued triumphantly, “There will be a great deal of surprise in heaven when it is seen who is there and who is not. As for me, I do not need to fast, for I am well with Allah.” In answer to a murmur of protest, he explained further, “I have committed no crimes. I have not cut off any heads or killed any people, which has been your daily business”—this to the Kaid—“so what have I to repent of? By Allah, were I in your shoes I should fast six days a week.” After which remarkable statement, he applied himself voraciously to his food. “He is a bad Moslem,” murmured Badr ed Din, “but one cannot turn out even the worst dog, if it belongs to the house!”

That evening Raisuli did not rejoin us. The sun set in a flutter of orange feathers across the hills, and I heard Mulai Sadiq asking wistfully, “Is there any Harira that I may break my fast?” and the answer of the dark-skinned henchman from Marrakesh, “Come to my house, Sidi, and I will give you some. Ullah, ullah, do not fear—you may walk knee-deep in the grain.” (Meaning that everything was plentiful.) I went out and sat beside the fig-tree, from where I had a good view of the Zawia. The procession of tribesmen from the mountains still came with their offerings. I watched ancient, white-bearded men struggling with saddle-bags and panniers, while the murmur of prayer swelled in the mosque. Badr ed Din and a visitor from the House of Wazzan were preparing to pray in the open.

I observed them standing among the shrubs, each with a mat in front of him, and I could not help thinking that the Sherifs of Morocco were most prosperously fat. Another huge figure loomed up beside them, and I spoke my thoughts aloud. “It is a contented mind,” said Ghabah, “for everything that a Sherif does is right. Even if he drinks wine it turns to milk upon his tongue, and so there is no sin in him.” “Perhaps,” said Mubarak, a darker shadow by my elbow, “it is also the offerings of the faithful, for, whenever the people want a charm or an amulet, whenever they need a blessing, they go to their Sherif, to ask for it.” “Why do they want charms?” I asked dreamily, for the night was still and very white, with pools of velvet blackness under the trees. “Against the evil eye, which every man has at some time of his life, though generally he does not know it himself. Unless one wears an amulet one may suffer greatly by a chance meeting with it.” “Do you wear one?” “I am fortunate; I have some hairs from the head of the Sherif, so nothing can hurt me! The Sherif has long hair, down to his hips, so there is a blessing for many, if it is his will,” added Ghabah, “but he winds it up under his turban, and none see it.”

I should have liked to enquire more deeply into the danger of the evil eye, but Ba Salim appeared, his smile playing among a network of wrinkles, with a dish heaped high with dates, nuts and raisins. “This is part of the tithes which the tribes bring to my lord, and he sends it with his greeting, for, on this feast it is our custom to eat such food. The dates are from Marrakesh, so the goodwill has travelled far.”

At that moment a young man came in at the gate. Lean and strong, he walked with something feline in his gait, unlike the usual stride of the mountaineers, which is at once shambling and sure. His head was shaven and bare in the moonlight, for he had thrown back his dark jellaba, till it hung over his rifle like a shawl. Restless-eyed, firm-lipped, he stared at me for a minute, in contrast to the other Jebali, who kept their lids down as they passed. Then, noiselessly, he was gone, and I wondered if I had imagined the line of the cruel, clean jaw, and the hollows that threw up the cheekbones above it. “Who was that?” I asked abruptly. “It is Abd es Salaam Ben Ali Ueld el Mudden, about whom the Sherif told you. By Allah, he is almost as famous as Raisuli!”

It was the Southerner, Imbarek, who spoke, and he leaned against a tree- trunk, evidently prepared to tell stories. “Ullah, he has the devil in his heels and will never be caught. He can make himself look so different that not even his brother would know him. They say there is a jinn who helps him, for he has made many studies.” The Haj fingered an amulet nervously. “He has one horse which goes faster than the wind, and there are some who believe it can fly. Certainly no ordinary man travels as he does, and one day, when he was known to be in Tangier, a stranger appeared suddenly before his house and pushed his way in. The servants tried to stop him, for he went towards the women’s place. He shook himself free, but they caught at his sleeves and held him. Then he turned round, and they saw it was their master!

“Once, Sidi Abd es Salaam heard that a man whom he had posted in the Spanish Consulate at Larache, in order to keep him informed of the doings of the enemy, had betrayed him, so he went down to kill him. The whole Spanish army lay in his way, for he had to cross the plain, where even the tribesmen were his enemies, so he advanced carefully to the first hillock. There he hid in the long grass and waited. In time two soldiers came out towards him. They both had rifles, but they were talking carelessly and did not see him. He waited till they were quite near. Then he fired several shots, that it might be supposed there were a number of attackers. One Spaniard fell. The other fired his rifle into space and ran back to the post.

“El Mudden leaped up, picked up the dead man—Allah save us, he has the strength of the jinns!—and ran with him on his shoulder till he came to a little cave. He was one man alone against an army, but, while still the post waited, fearing an attack, the brigand tore off the Spaniard’s uniform and dressed himself in it. He forgot nothing, and every button was fastened. The only thing he regretted was to exchange the Spaniard’s rifle for his own, which was a better one! He crept a little further away, to hide more securely, and as soon as the light grew grey, he got up and went down into the plain. He passed through the lines of Spain, and no one discovered him. When challenged, he answered that he was going to Larache with a message from the post, where he had killed the soldier, but, as much as possible, he avoided the camps, and the next night he was within sight of the town. What a trick!” Haj Imbarek’s voice was full of admiration. “He passed through the gates and got right into the hall of the Consulate, before his disguise was discovered.” “What happened then?” The Haj shrugged his shoulders. “With all the men round him saying, ‘This is surely el Mudden!’ he disappeared. Perhaps, like the Sherif, he has the power of making himself invisible.” And that was the end of the story, as the man from Marrakesh knew it.

“There was another of his deeds, but perhaps you know of this one. It was the affair by the International Bridge, on the road to Tangier. El Mudden had heard that a motor was coming from the hills, full of Hassani piastres.[105] It was evening, and they could not see clearly, but at last they heard a car approaching quickly. There was little movement on the road in those days, so el Mudden thought it must be the expected motor, and he instructed his men at what moment to fire. There was a volley. The driver fell dead over his wheel, and a woman screamed. Then Sidi Abd es Salaam knew that there had been a mistake, and it was not the right car. They rushed up to it, and found the woman dying and a man, her husband, was trying to move the body from the driving-seat. There was another man, who had jumped out, and they took him prisoner, but when they found it was empty of money they let the motor go on. It was a pity that it was a woman.”

“What happened to the unfortunate hostage?” “He died while he was up on the mountain, but not from ill-treatment. He had been sick for a long time and there was little food among the tribes in those days.” A reckless country, Morocco! I wondered what it would feel like to ride out of Tazrut and back again into the twentieth century, where death and starvation are still grim words.

That night, while some of us talked in the starlight, the guardian of the telephone, a wild-looking mountaineer, with bare feet and a shirt of torn sacking, rushed towards us. There had been a battle in Tetuan, he said. This was enough to surprise even old Mulai Sadiq, but further enquiry proved that a few Arabs had fired at the guard at the main gate, who had emptied their rifles into the dusk without effecting any casualties. Finding themselves unexpectedly successful, the bandits had rushed into the town, killing two people in front of the hotel which is not 100 yards from the walls. By this time everyone had picked up the nearest rifle and there was a good deal of indiscriminate shooting, during which at least four Spaniards and five Arabs had been killed. The originators of the mischief disappeared in the middle of it. Three men were captured with rifles in their hands, but this was no criterion of their guilt, for civilians and soldiers, Arabs and Europeans were all prepared to defend themselves against—nobody quite knew what or whom! The most heroic part was played by a Spanish officer who, wounded himself, limped down the street, across which bullets were flying without target or aim, and dragged into cover two men lying helpless under this fire.

Now, the Secretary-general was ringing up Tazrut to know if the Sherif thought the Beni Hosmar were attacking the town. Mulai Sadiq was frankly terrified of entering the Zawia at such an hour, upon such an errand, but everyone else was insistent. He went and put the question to his cousin, doubtless wrapping it up in many apologies and excuses. Raisuli was magnificent. Driving one huge fist on to his thigh, with a force that seemed to shake the room, he said, “While Mulai Ahmed is alive and a friend of Spain, never, never shall the tribesmen set foot in Tetuan.” Mulai Sadiq did not dare to speak. “Go!” said the Sherif. “It is nothing—a few robbers perhaps,” and almost drove his cousin from the room.