Saïd the Fisherman

with swaying bodies, sleek brown arms raised like twin handles of a vase to steady the burdens on their heads. Sometimes rich men on prancing horses, sometimes a carriage dashed past him, heralded by an outrunner with girt-up loins. He took a childish pleasure in saluting these great ones, prizing a chance smile from one of them more than the effusion of humbler passengers. All was passionate, highly-coloured of the East. Every wayfarer was merry or furious, laughing or cursing, sullen or smiling, in the depth of despair or the height of glee, hot and heady as the sunlight itself. But sometimes, in a minute, a deep gloom would fall on him, isolating him so that he seemed to sit alone, aware of the silent march of a great bright army. At such moments he knew that the mystery was eternal, that it had been going on unguessed through all the time he had forgotten, and must go on irrevocably until the last day. He shuddered when the fit left him, and it was long ere he could shake off the horror of it.

Sometimes Hasneh would accompany him to his favourite spot and sit near him in the shade, delighting in his childlike gladness. But the wife of Selìm could seldom spare her from the house; more often it was Mûsa who dogged Saïd’s footsteps and lay hid in the garden close to where he sat. The lad got amusement out of his allotted task by imagining great perils for his father’s guest, seeing himself as rescuer dashing like a young hurricane to save him, scattering a hundred well-armed men like chaff. When the sun was set and the smoke from hidden dwellings curled blue upon the delicate flush of evening or yellowish on the dove-grey which followed, Saïd would rise and turn his face homeward; he loved to spend the livelong day in the open, detesting the imprisonment of four walls.

For months, for years, he led this peaceful kind of life, without care or thought, conscious only of the appearance of things, their outward shape and colour, troubled only at long intervals by the ghost of a memory. But there came a time of disturbance, when the crowd in the streets wore anxious looks, and men formed knots together, speaking excitedly with fierce eyes. Selìm, fearing a tumult, thought it wise to confine his guest within doors lest he should come to harm. His loving care would not trust the fisherman out of his sight. This imprisonment fretted Saïd, to whom the sunshine and the fresh air of the gardens were become as daily food. He grew very cross and irritable, and Hasneh, into whose charge he was given, had to bear the brunt of all ill-humour which could hear no reason.

Once when a great uproar arose in the city Saïd’s eyes flamed suddenly and he sprang to his feet. For a moment there was understanding in his face; but the fire died as suddenly as it leapt up, and he fell back into the old, listless bad temper. For more than a month he was constrained by Selìm’s order, going out only occasionally, when the master of the house had leisure to accompany him. He was kept in the house in deep shadow, with nothing bright to look at, and time hung very heavy on his hands.

One day Selìm closed his shop and came to sit in the room with his family. He spoke seldom, and was very grave. A neighbour with a scared face looked in on them from time to time, bringing tidings or feeling the need of company. Through long hours there was booming of cannon, followed by explosions near at hand, the crash and roar of falling masonry. Saïd strained ears to hearken, and his face wore a puzzled expression, such as is often seen on faces of the blind. The firing ceased towards evening, and Selìm, praising Allah, went out to gather tidings, but refused to take Saïd with him.

The next day there was no more booming, but towards noon the city was filled with shouting and tumult. The whole household running out to learn the cause of the din, Saïd was left unguarded for a few minutes. They had hidden away his outer garments, thinking that his love of finery would prevent him from going abroad without it. But he was a match for them. He knew where to find a robe⁠—an old garment of outlandish fashion, prettily bound with soiled red braid, which had often been spread out before his eyes of evening, when there were guests present. He opened the chest and took it out, smoothing it lovingly with a furtive glance to make sure that no one saw. Then he put it on, chuckling.

Thus attired, he stole to the door and peeped out. Hasneh and the mother of Mûsa were talking with some other women a good way off. Selìm himself was nowhere to be seen. Girding up his loins, Saïd took to his heels, laughing as he ran. Clouds of smoke blurred the sky before him above the roofs; his eyes dwelt on them curiously as they did always on a new thing. There was a noise of shouting in the air.

Suddenly on turning a corner he found himself in a yelling, furious mob, all rushing in one direction. Fierce eyes, brandished weapons, curses and a roar of shouting. It was as though a door swung open in Saïd’s brain, admitting light into a chamber long shut up. Understanding flashed in his eyes.

“Dìn Muhammed!” he cried, and rushed forward with the rest, only more fiercely, with more of frenzy. Even in that turmoil men looked at him and, looking, made way for him to pass. There was something awful in his face, a light of madness or inspiration beyond their ken. He was a prophet and would bring them good fortune. They pressed on behind him, shouting louder than before. On he ran, tearing a way through the