It was only in the morning that he noticed the colorful drawings of the ancients. The towering walls were covered with them. To his right, a herd of buffalo spread out across a field, grazing at their leisure — some of their heads bent to the ground as they crop the grass, another group raises their heads lazily, giving the impression they are chewing on cud. To his left, the ancient sorcerers had carved an enchanting scene. A group of herdsmen chase a moufflon crowned with enormous horns. The animal runs toward a distant mountain. Some of the hunters wield spears, while others shoot with bows at their prey.
It was hard to divine the outcome of the hunt: the distance between the moufflon and the hunters does not suggest that he will get away, despite the mountain that lies at the end of his path. The painter had drawn the mountain on the horizon so as to place hope before the poor moufflon. The mountain is its sole hope for salvation. The animal knows this — and hastens with all his strength. It is clear that the moufflon is exhausted, his outline shows that. The animal’s figure is heavy, yet he somehow derives strength from the unknown — the unknown that drives creation to love life. The hunters also know that he will escape if he takes refuge in the mountain — and their pursuit intensifies. They aim their spears and arrows so very precisely, yet the moufflon remains unscathed. Despite all this, there is little chance that the animal will escape.
Ukhayyad did not know how he was so sure that the moufflon would perish. He could not understand how the sorcerer artist had been able to impart that disturbing conclusion. Nor did he know why this revelation made him feel so despondent.
30
They arrived two days later.
Ukhayyad heard their chatter at dawn and thought it was just the murmurings of jinn. These spectral voices are well known on Jebel Hasawna. All who have ever stopped for the night beside the mountain are familiar with them. All who have ever passed through the mountain’s foothills at night also know them well. Cowards dread passing through this mountain range — supposing, like fools, that jinn are more wicked than men! Yet, for his part, Ukhayyad had never known anything more pernicious than humans. Fearful men are best off fearing men. He who supposes people are kind is bound to be injured. He who entrusts his affairs to men will be disappointed. But he who puts his neck in the hands of men is the sorriest of all!
Ukhayyad had experienced what it meant for a man to pawn his head to a human being. He alone possessed the right to sound the warning. Who would dare to condemn humanity other than he who has learned about humans through hard experience? What person would raise his voice against humanity but one whose feet had once been in the fire? How miserable that person is! How tough his heart must be!
Then the murmurings ceased.
He stayed in his hiding place until the late afternoon. In this kingdom of silence, he heard nothing but the ringing in his ears. Had they gone? Had he been imagining things? Or was it really just the muttering of jinn? But jinn chattered to one another only in the dead of night, never at dawn. Dawn was their holy sanctuary. In the Hamada, the break of day meant that everything became mute, and jinn returned to their underworld.
He wet his saliva with a sip from his waterskin, then removed the stones from the entrance to his hiding place. The light flooded in and blinded his eyes. Like a lizard, he crawled out of the crevice. The late afternoon sun was brutal. He scrambled down the northern slope of the mountain to study their tracks. He walked in the direction he had heard the whisperings coming from at dawn. Ukhayyad had not gone a hundred feet before he nearly bumped into one of them who was crouched over behind a large rock. As the man looked up, Ukhayyad vanished behind the rocks. Had he been seen? Even if he had not been seen, his shadow or outline surely had. The man suddenly moved, scrambling over the rocks across the slope. So, something had alerted his attention and now he was in hot pursuit. The silence that had followed the murmurings had been part of a coordinated plan!
Ukhayyad crept between the rocks, hiding himself behind stones. He climbed up the slope with hands and feet. Sweat poured from his brow and his heart pounded. Only steps before he reached the entrance to his hiding place, he stumbled into someone or something — a huge moufflon ram, with matted fleece and gnarled horn! The ram was as startled as he and, instead of turning to run, froze suddenly, directly opposite Ukhayyad. He and Ukhayyad stared at one another for a long time. In his eyes, Ukhayyad glimpsed many mysteries. He instantly understood why some men hunt only the moufflon — the animal is no earthly creature, but something divine, more like an angel or emissary. Yes — the moufflon, like the piebald, was a messenger sent from on high. Divine messengers such as these are so very rare!
He heard the roar of rocks tumbling down the slope, and realized his enemy was not far behind. Ukhayyad bolted into his hiding place, leaving the stunned ram still standing there. For the first time ever on Jebel Hasawna, it was a human who fled from the majestic moufflon ram. Ukhayyad secured the entrance with stones, held his breath and listened to the pounding of his heart. He had been prompted to jump to safety, not because of his fear of the steadily gaining enemy, but because of this ghostly encounter with the moufflon. At that moment, he remembered the exhausted moufflon painted on the wall and began to tremble.
The shot rang out. The echo bounced across the mountain for what seemed like an eternity. In places where deep silence reigns, the crash of a gunshot is even more profound. He knew this from having often gone hunting gazelles in nearby valleys during easier years — back before the Italians invaded the country and drove the various tribes into exile.
Had they hit the ram? The men shouted back and forth to one another. A little later, there was some commotion — they had in fact shot him.
One of the men walked up to Ukhayyad’s hiding place and called out to his friends, “This is the ram’s den. These are his tracks. These are his droppings. There are no footprints here. I don’t think you saw a person over there. What you saw was the shadow of the moufflon.”
Ukhayyad wept.
For the second time in his life, he was crying. He could not hold back the tears in his eyes — they poured out on their own. God had sent him a messenger, and these wicked men had killed it.
The messenger had erased all traces of human footprints in front of his refuge. He had also left his droppings. Is this what the animal had wanted to tell him by that inscrutable look? Had he been saying, “I’ve come to rescue you from them — so, save yourself!” My God — why did the innocent always fall at the hands of the most malevolent of creatures? Why do such people kill every messenger that is sent to them?
He listened to the noises outside. Some were busy skinning the animal. Others were collecting the firewood. One of them began to sing at the top of his voice.
31
In his crypt, Ukhayyad chewed on a few dates, all the while tortured by the aroma of the meat roasting outside. Throughout the night, the smell had risen up to the summit of the mountain and then wafted down through the crevices in the stone. Eventually, it seeped into Ukhayyad’s hiding place and saturated the still air.
At the end of the night, he heard one of the men relieving himself at the door to his hiding place. Like a jinn, the man talked to himself, “I still haven’t tasted my moufflon. My moufflon got away. They don’t believe I saw him. I saw the ram of a lifetime, and won’t rest till I catch my prey. How can I go back to the oasis without his head in my hands? If I go back to Adrar without his head as my trophy, that means I’m going back to Aïr without my fair share of the spoils.”