It seemed to us that no great formality could be needful for the release of a man who had never been tried; but presently we sacrificed a day’s work, rode up to the citadel and after the usual compliments asked for the necessary document.
“Well, for the document—it should be written at once. It was not indeed needful that we should sign it, or in fact that any should be written; but—well, as we were there—would we take it amiss if the kaimakam mentioned that he[{333}] had been suffering sadly from stomach-ache these days, and would be grateful if we would prescribe.” The rascal had calculated, quite correctly, that we should never trouble to come up just for his indigestion, but that if we knew that our victim was languishing in durance till we appeared, we were pretty certain to do so! The ingenuity of the “score” so delighted us, that the only revenge we took was to prescribe the nastiest medicine at our disposal; and so the document was drawn up, signed, sealed and delivered, and we went off home in the belief that the business was done now.
No such thing, however. The policeman, who presently came down to take up the medicine informed us that it was impossible to release our captive, for the sufficient reason that his Excellency had now been examining the case, and had come to the conclusion that he was innocent. Had he been guilty, all would have been well; but he thought that it was a case of mistaken identity, and proposed to keep poor Abdurrahman till the messenger could come down to swear to him. If that messenger came as soon as he was summoned (the very last thing he was likely to do) that would not mean a delay of more than a fortnight. And then the prisoner could be released—if innocent, on the ground that he had done nothing; if guilty, as having served his full sentence several times over!
On this, we frankly threw up the game, and sent word to the Governor that we were going off on a six weeks’ journey, and could not be heard of till its close. He might keep his prisoner, or ours, in prison till the crack of doom if he liked; or might release him at once.
Naturally, as soon as we were over the hill, he chose the latter alternative. Abdurrahman came out again; and he bore so little malice that on return we found a message from him awaiting us, to the effect that he would never have meddled with the messenger had he known that the man belonged to us; and that he would bring us the horns of the first ibex he shot that summer as a peace-offering. And so, in fact, he did, and we became very good friends.
Spirits of the mountain and plain beset the path of the[{334}] wayfarer in this land, as might be expected. Thus, Mosul plain is haunted by a fearful type of vampire, the “hiblabashi,” a satyr, half-man half-goat, who lures travellers from the path, and sucks their blood.[148] There is a tomb of one such at Aradin, a village in the lower hills, whence there issues at times a terrible gadfly, that infects all whom it bites with madness and hydrophobia. Mercifully, however, bane and antidote lie, as ever, side by side; for there is a sulphurous spring by the side of the tomb, and it has healing virtue for those afflicted in this way.
Belief in a vampire was, of course, practically universal at some period all the world over; and this is the only thing that the Montenegrin kavass mentioned above was ever known to fear, having had practically first-hand acquaintance with one.[149] There is, however, another sort of spirit that is more peculiar to this land; a type of “brownie” that haunts the sheepfolds, where the shepherds have often to keep lonely vigil and get into the frame of mind when men see all sorts of strange things. In one case, the pixy in question used to come and sit opposite to the shepherd by the watchfire, and exactly imitate his every action in dead silence. At last this supernatural companion got on to the shepherd’s nerves. He consulted a wise man, and was given advice that shows how recent in date the tale must be. He put a bowl of water on his side of the fire, and a bowl of paraffin on the other; and then, when the brownie came, he proceeded to soak his own clothes with the water. The being, of course, imitated him, and did not perceive the difference between water and oil. After a while, the shepherd took a blazing brand from the fire and applied it to his clothes, where, of course, it went out. The brownie did likewise, and found himself in a blaze; on which he jumped up and fled howling, being apparently material enough to feel fire. All the other spirits of mountain and river gathered at his call, and the shepherd began to fear that he had roused Elfindom in good earnest: but the scorched one, with[{335}] really magnificent fairness, declared that after all it was his own doing; and thereafter the shepherd was left unmolested of nights.
Still, of all survivals from early ages in this land, whether monumental, superstitious, or religious, none is more remarkable than the “Sacrifice of Noah.” It must be understood that no people here, save the Armenians, look on the great cone which we call Ararat, but which is locally known as Aghri Dagh, as the spot where the ark rested. The biblical term is “the mountains of Ararat” or Urartu, and the term includes the whole of the Hakkiari range. A relatively insignificant ridge, known as Judi Dagh, is regarded as the authentic spot by all the folk in this land; and it must be owned that the identification has something to say for itself. It is one of the first ranges that rise over the level of the great plain; and if all Mesopotamia (which to its inhabitants was the world) were submerged by some great cataclysm, it is just the spot where a drifting vessel might strand.
Whatever the facts, the tradition goes back to the year A.D. 300 at least. That date is, of course, a thing of yesterday in this country; but the tale was of unknown antiquity then, and is firmly rooted in the social consciousness now. In consequence, Noah’s sacrifice is still commemorated year by year on the place where tradition says the ark rested—a ziaret which is not the actual summit of the mountain but a spot on its ridge. On that day (which, strange to say, is the first day of Ilul, or September 14 of our calendar, and not May 27 mentioned in the account in Genesis) all faiths and all nations come together, letting all feuds sleep on that occasion, to commemorate an event which is older than any of their divisions.
Christians of all nations and confessions, Mussulmans of both Shiah and Sunni type, Sabaeans, Jews, and even the furtive timid Yezidis are there, each group bringing a sheep or kid for sacrifice; and for one day there is a “truce of God” even in turbulent Kurdistan, and the smoke of a hundred offerings goes up once more on the ancient altar. Lower down on the hillside, and hard by the Nestorian village of Hasana, men[{336}] still point out Noah’s tomb and Noah’s vineyard, though this last, strange to say, produces no wine now. The grapes from it are used exclusively for nipukhta or grape treacle, possibly in memory of the disaster that once befell the Patriarch.