nowhere.
Finally, the slaughter became too much for even the hardiest of warriors to stomach: many men were beginning to hesitate before they struck, as though tired and ashamed of wounding yet another foe, of taking yet another life. But Nowfal pressed on, spewing fire and destruction like a dragon possessed in the front line. No head was secure from the swing of his club, no heart safe from the thrust of his sword. He moved forward like some scythe of death, mowing down all in his path, never stopping to look back, unaware of the extent of the carnage he and his men had brought about.
As night began to fall, it was clear that the day had been won by Nowfal and his men. Layla’s tribe had been well and truly defeated. Many of them had been killed or wounded, and those who had been spared were exhausted beyond description. As a symbolic gesture of surrender and a sign of mourning, the elders of the defeated tribe poured earth over their heads and made their way in silence to the victor’s tent. There, they prostrated themselves before Nowfal and cried, ‘O, Nowfal! Today the victory is yours and we have tasted a bitter defeat. Now, for the sake of God, letjustice reign! Let those of us who have survived this bloodbath live in peace. Allow us to rise after our fall, remembering that soon we shall all be summoned to rise once more before Him on the Day of Judgement. Lay down your arms, for you no longer need them: we are defenceless men who wish you no ill. Put your spears and arrows away; you have no use for them now. We, for our part, have thrown down our shields and placed our fate in your hands. For the love of God, have mercy.’
Nowfal was moved by the elders’ speech and, for a while, he was unable to reply. He, too, was ready to forget all that had happened and put the past to rest. Solemnly he agreed to a truce, but not without mentioning his price: ‘I have listened to what you have said and I agree that peace is our only solution. Therefore, I agree to a truce. Now I shall depart, but before I leave I must ask for that which I have won from you here today. Bring me Layla — only then shall I be satisfied and leave you be.’
Just as he finished speaking, a man stepped forward from the defeated tribe and approached Nowfal. It was Layla’s father, his back bent low by grief and humiliation. Slowly, he knelt down in front of Nowfal, prostrated himself in the dust at the victor’s feet and began to sob. ‘O Nowfal! You are the pride of all Arabs and a prince among men! I am an old man — an old man whose heart is broken and whose back has been bent low by the vicissitudes of time. Disaster has brought me to my knees; grief has pushed me to the edge. Blame and infamy are being heaped upon me aswe speak, and when I think of the blood that has been shed because of me, I wish that God’s earth would open up and swallow me whole. It is now for you to decide. If you spare me my daughter, then the gratitude is mine. If you wish to kill her, then kill her! Slit her throat with your dagger, thrust your sword into her heart, trample her body into the dust under the hooves of your horse if you will. I shall not question your decision.
‘But there is one thing I can never accept. Never, while I am her father, shall my daughter be given to this lunatic, to this demon in human guise, to this madman, this ‘majnun’ — never! To be sure, he should be shackled with chains of iron and locked away, not tied with bonds of marriage and set free!
‘After all, what is he? He is a fool, a common vagrant and vagabond, a homeless, good-for-nothing tramp who roams the mountain wastes like a filthy hermit possessed by Satan and his minions. Is he fit to sit with other humans, let alone take a wife? Am I to have as a son-in-law some perfidious poet who has dragged my name through the dirt? There is not one corner in the whole of Arabia where my daughter’s name is not part of some sick little verse on the lips of common
Finally, the slaughter became too much for even the hardiest of warriors to stomach: many men were beginning to hesitate before they struck, as though tired and ashamed of wounding yet another foe, of taking yet another life. But Nowfal pressed on, spewing fire and destruction like a dragon possessed in the front line. No head was secure from the swing of his club, no heart safe from the thrust of his sword. He moved forward like some scythe of death, mowing down all in his path, never stopping to look back, unaware of the extent of the carnage he and his men had brought about.
As night began to fall, it was clear that the day had been won by Nowfal and his men. Layla’s tribe had been well and truly defeated. Many of them had been killed or wounded, and those who had been spared were exhausted beyond description. As a symbolic gesture of surrender and a sign of mourning, the elders of the defeated tribe poured earth over their heads and made their way in silence to the victor’s tent. There, they prostrated themselves before Nowfal and cried, ‘O, Nowfal! Today the victory is yours and we have tasted a bitter defeat. Now, for the sake of God, letjustice reign! Let those of us who have survived this bloodbath live in peace. Allow us to rise after our fall, remembering that soon we shall all be summoned to rise once more before Him on the Day of Judgement. Lay down your arms, for you no longer need them: we are defenceless men who wish you no ill. Put your spears and arrows away; you have no use for them now. We, for our part, have thrown down our shields and placed our fate in your hands. For the love of God, have mercy.’
Nowfal was moved by the elders’ speech and, for a while, he was unable to reply. He, too, was ready to forget all that had happened and put the past to rest. Solemnly he agreed to a truce, but not without mentioning his price: ‘I have listened to what you have said and I agree that peace is our only solution. Therefore, I agree to a truce. Now I shall depart, but before I leave I must ask for that which I have won from you here today. Bring me Layla — only then shall I be satisfied and leave you be.’
Just as he finished speaking, a man stepped forward from the defeated tribe and approached Nowfal. It was Layla’s father, his back bent low by grief and humiliation. Slowly, he knelt down in front of Nowfal, prostrated himself in the dust at the victor’s feet and began to sob. ‘O Nowfal! You are the pride of all Arabs and a prince among men! I am an old man — an old man whose heart is broken and whose back has been bent low by the vicissitudes of time. Disaster has brought me to my knees; grief has pushed me to the edge. Blame and infamy are being heaped upon me aswe speak, and when I think of the blood that has been shed because of me, I wish that God’s earth would open up and swallow me whole. It is now for you to decide. If you spare me my daughter, then the gratitude is mine. If you wish to kill her, then kill her! Slit her throat with your dagger, thrust your sword into her heart, trample her body into the dust under the hooves of your horse if you will. I shall not question your decision.
‘But there is one thing I can never accept. Never, while I am her father, shall my daughter be given to this lunatic, to this demon in human guise, to this madman, this ‘majnun’ — never! To be sure, he should be shackled with chains of iron and locked away, not tied with bonds of marriage and set free!
‘After all, what is he? He is a fool, a common vagrant and vagabond, a homeless, good-for-nothing tramp who roams the mountain wastes like a filthy hermit possessed by Satan and his minions. Is he fit to sit with other humans, let alone take a wife? Am I to have as a son-in-law some perfidious poet who has dragged my name through the dirt? There is not one corner in the whole of Arabia where my daughter’s name is not part of some sick little verse on the lips of common
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