Tariq Ali - Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree

‘What are they saying in the village?’ inquired Zubayda. Umayma had only recently been promoted to wait on her and she wanted to put the girl at her ease. The young maid-servant blushed on being addressed by her mistress and mumbled a few incoherent thoughts about the great respect everyone in the village had for the Banu Hudayl. Her older and more experienced colleague, Khadija, came to the rescue.

‘All the talk is about Zuhayr bin Umar slapping the face of the infidel, my lady.’

‘Zuhayr bin Umar is a rash fool! What does the talk say?’

Umayma had succeeded in suppressing a giggle, but Zubayda’s informality reassured her and she responded clearly.

‘The younger people agree with Ibn Umar, my lady, but many of the elders were displeased. They wondered whether the Christian had not been put up to the provocation and Ibn Hasd, the cobbler was worried. He thought they might send soldiers to attack al-Hudayl and take all of us prisoner. He said that…’

‘Ibn Hasd is full of doom in good times, my lady.’

Khadija was worried lest Umayma gave too much away, and wanted to steer the conversation to safer waters, but Zubayda was insistent.

‘Quiet. Tell me girl, what did Ibn Hasd say?’

‘I cannot remember everything my lady, but he said that our sweet daydreams were over and soon we would wake up shivering.’

Zubayda smiled.

‘He is a good man even when he thinks unhappy thoughts. A stone from the hand of a friend is like an apple. Have you taken my clothes to the hammam?’

Umayma nodded. Zubayda dismissed the pair with a tilt of her head. She knew full well that the cobbler was only expressing what the whole village felt. There was a great feeling of uncertainty. For the first time in six hundred years, the villagers of al-Hudayl were being confronted with the possibility of a life without a future for their children. There were a thousand and one stories circulating throughout Gharnata of what had happened after the Reconquest of Qurtuba and Ishbiliya. Each refugee had arrived with tales of terror and random bestiality. What had left a very deep imprint was the detailed descriptions of how land and estates and property in several towns had been seized by the Catholic Church and the Crown. It was this that the villagers feared more than anything else. They did not want to be driven off the lands which they and their ancestors before them had cultivated for centuries. If the only way to save their homes was to convert, then many would undergo that ordeal in order to survive. First among them would be the family steward, Ubaydallah, whose only gods were security and wealth.

Zubayda determined to discuss these problems with her husband and reach a decision. The villagers were looking towards the Banu Hudayl for an answer. She knew they must be frightened by Zuhayr’s impulsiveness. Umar must go to the mosque on Friday. People wanted to be reassured.

As Zubayda walked through the courtyard she saw her sons playing chess. She observed the game for a minute and was amused to notice that the giant scowl disfiguring Zuhayr’s features was a sure sign that Yazid was on the verge of victory. His young voice was excited as he announced his triumph: ‘I always win when I have the black Queen on my side!’

‘What are you saying, wretch? Control your tongue. Chess must be played in total silence. That is the first rule of the game. You chatter away like a crow on heat.’

‘Your Sultan is trapped by my Queen,’ said Yazid. ‘I only spoke when I knew the game was over. No reason to get ill-tempered. Why should a drowning man be worried by rain?’

Zuhayr, angry at being defeated by a nine-year-old, laid his King on the table, gave a very weak laugh and stalked off.

‘I’ll see you at dinner, wretch!’

Yazid smiled at the Queen. He was collecting the pieces and stowing them in their special box when an old retainer, his face pale with fear as if he had seen a ghost, ran into the courtyard. Ama came out of the kitchen. He whispered something in her ear. Yazid had never seen the old woman look so worried. Could it be that a Christian army was invading al-Hudayl? Before he could rush to the tower and find out for himself, his father appeared on the scene, followed by Ama.

Yazid, not wanting to be left out, walked over casually to his father and held his hand. Umar smiled at him, but frowned at the servant.

‘Are you sure? There can be no mistake?’

‘None, my Lord. I saw the party with my own eyes pass through the village. There were two Christian soldiers accompanying the Lady and people were worried. It was Ibn Hasd who recognized her and told me to ride as fast as I could and let you know.’

‘Wa Allah! After all these years. Go, man. Eat something before you return. Ama will take you to the kitchen. Yazid, go and tell your mother I wish to speak to her. After that inform your brother and sisters that we have a guest with us tonight. I want them to join me here so that we can greet our visitor as a family. Run, boy.’

Zahra bint Najma had exchanged a word with the cobbler, but otherwise she had not replied to the greetings addressed to her by the village elders. She had nodded slightly to acknowledge their presence, but nothing more. Once her cart had passed through the narrow streets of the village and reached the clump of trees from which the house was so clearly visible, she told the carter to follow the rough path that ran parallel to the stream.

‘Go with the water till you see the house of the Banu Hudayl,’ she said, her frail voice beginning to shake with emotion. She had never thought that she would live to see her home again. The tears, controlled for decades, burst with the quiet fury of a swollen river overflowing its banks. They are nothing now but memories, she told herself.

She had thought that in the course of half a century she had purged her system so thoroughly that hardly anything was left inside. How deceptive existence can be. Her first glance at the house told her that nothing had been erased. As she saw the familiar landscapes she remembered everything so vividly that it began to hurt again. There was the orchard of pomegranate trees. She smiled as the cart-horse slowed down, exhausted by the long journey, and drank some water from the stream. Even though it was autumn she could shut her eyes and smell the orchards.

‘Are you sure you weren’t observed?’ His voice nervous and excited.

‘Only by the moon! I can hear your heart beating.’

No more words were said that night till they had parted just before dawn.

‘You will be my wife!’

‘I want none other.’

She opened her eyes and drank in the last rays of the sun. Nothing had changed here. There were the giant walls and the tower. The gates were open as usual. Winter was already in the air. The scent of the soil overpowered her senses. The gentle noise and silken water of the stream that flowed through that courtyard and into the tanks that serviced the hammam — it was just as she recalled it all those years ago. And Abdallah’s boy, Umar, was now master of this domain.

She felt the Christian soldiers with her grow suddenly tense, and soon she saw the cause. Three horsemen, dressed in blinding white robes and turbans, were riding towards her. The cart stopped.

Umar bin Abdallah and his two sons, Zuhayr and Yazid, reined in their horses and saluted the old lady.

‘Peace be upon you, my father’s sister. Welcome home.’

‘When I left you were four years old. Your mother was always telling me to be more strict with you. Come here.’

Umar dismounted and walked to the cart. She kissed him on his head.

‘Let us go home,’ she whispered.

As they reached the entrance to the house, they saw the older servants waiting outside. Zahra disembarked as Ama limped forward and hugged her.