ON THE MOORISH ROAD
With the brief gladness of the Palms, that tower and sway o'er seething plain,
Fraught with the thoughts of rustling shade, and welling spring, and rushing rain;
'Tis their's to pass with joy and hope, whose souls shall ever thrill and fill
Dreams of the Birthplace and the Tomb,—visions of Allah's Holy Hill.
The Kasidah.
We travel slowly, for the Maalem "father" of the pack-mules—guide, philosopher, and trusted companion—says that haste kills strong men, and often repeats a Moorish proverb which tells us that walking is better than running, and that of all things sitting still is best. If Salam and I, reaching a piece of level sward by the side of some orchard or arable land when the heat of the day has passed, venture to indulge in a brisk canter, the Maalem's face grows black as his eyes.
"Have a care," he said to me one evening, "for this place is peopled by djinoon, and if they are disturbed they will at least kill the horses and mules, and leave us to every robber among the hills." Doubtless the Maalem prophesied worse things than this, but I have no Arabic worth mention, and Salam, who acts as interpreter, possesses a very fair amount of tact. I own to a vulgar curiosity that urges me to see a djin if I can, so, after this warning, Salam and I go cantering every late afternoon when the Enemy, as some Moors call the sun, is moving down towards the west, and the air gets its first faint touch of evening cool. Fortunately or unfortunately, the evil spirits never appear however, unless unnoticed by me in the harmless forms of storks, stock-doves, or sparrow-hawks.
NEAR A WELL IN THE COUNTRY
In this fertile province of the Dukala, in the little-known kingdom of the victorious Sultan, Mulai Abd-el-Aziz, there are delightful stretches of level country, and the husbandman's simplest toil suffices to bring about an abundant harvest. Unhappily a great part of the province is not in permanent cultivation at all. For miles and miles, often as far as the eye can see, the land lies fallow, never a farmhouse or village to be seen, nothing save some zowia or saint's tomb, with white dome rising within four white walls to stare undaunted at the fierce African sun, while the saint's descendants in the shelter of the house live by begging from pious visitors. Away from the fertility that marks the neighbourhood of the douars, one finds a few spare bushes, suddra, retam, or colocynth, a few lizards darting here and there, and over all a supreme silence that may be felt, even as the darkness that troubled Egypt in days of old. The main track, not to be dignified by the name of road, is always to be discerned clearly enough, at least the Maalem is never in doubt when stray paths, leading from nowhere to the back of beyond, intersect it.
At long intervals we pass a n'zala, a square empty space surrounded by a zariba of thorn and prickly pear. The village, a few wattled huts with conical roofs, stands by its side. Every n'zala is a Government shelter for travellers; you may pitch your tent within the four walls, and even if you remain outside and hire guards the owners of the huts are responsible for your safety, with their worldly goods, perhaps with their lives. I have tried the interior of the Moorish n'zalas, where all too frequently you must lie on unimagined filth, often almost within reach of camel-drivers and muleteers, who are so godly that they have no time to be clean, and I have concluded that the drawbacks outweigh the advantages. Now I pitch my tent on some cleaner spot, and pay guards from the village to stretch their blankets under its lee and go to sleep. If there are thieves abroad the zariba will not keep them out, and if there are no thieves a tired traveller may forget his fatigue.