THE MIGHT OF MOTHERHOOD

Let us praise Woman-Mother, the inexhaustible source of all-conquering life!

Here we shall tell of the Iron Timur-Lenk, the Lame Lynx—of Sahib-Kiran, the lucky conqueror—of Tamerlane, as the Infidels have named him—of the man who sought to destroy the whole world.

For fifty years he scoured the earth, his iron heel crushing towns and states as an elephant’s foot crushes ant-hills. Red rivers of blood flowed in his tracks wherever he went. He built high towers of the bones of conquered peoples; he destroyed Life, vying with the might of Death, on whom he took revenge for having robbed him of his son Jihangir. He was a terrible man, for he wanted to deprive Death of all his victims; to leave Death to die of hunger and ennui!

From the day on which his son Jihangir died and the people of Samarcand, clothed in black and light blue, their heads covered with dust and ashes, met the conqueror of the cruel Getes, from that day until the hour when Death met him in Otrar, and overcame him—for thirty years Timur did not smile. He lived with lips compressed, bowing his head to no one, and his heart was closed to compassion for thirty years.

Let us praise Woman-Mother, the only power to which Death humbly submits. Here we shall tell the true tale of a mother, how Iron Tamerlane, the servant and slave of Death, and the bloody scourge of the earth, bowed down before her.

This is how it came to pass. Timur-Bek was feasting in the beautiful valley of Canigula which is covered with clouds of roses and jasmine, in the valley called “Love of Flowers” by the poets of Samarcand, from which one can see the light blue minarets of the great town, and the blue cupolas of the mosques.

Fifteen hundred round tents were spread out fan-wise in the valley, looking like so many tulips. Above them hundreds of silk flags were gently swaying, like living flowers.

In their midst, like a queen among her subjects, was the tent of Gurgan-Timur. The tent had four sides, each measuring one hundred paces, three spears’ length in height; its roof rested on twelve golden columns as thick as the body of a man. The tent was made of silk, striped in black, yellow and light blue; five hundred red cords fastened it to the ground. There was a silver eagle at each of the four corners, and under the blue cupola, on a dais in the middle of the tent, was seated a fifth eagle—the all-conquering Timur-Gurgan himself, the King of Kings.

He wore a loose robe of light blue silk covered with no fewer than five thousand large pearls. On his grey head, which was terrible to look upon, was a white cap with a ruby on the sharp point. The ruby swayed backwards and forwards; it glistened like a fiery eye surveying the world.

The face of the Lame One was like a broad knife covered with rust from the blood into which it had been plunged thousands of times. His eyes were narrow and small but they saw everything; their gleam resembled the cold gleam of “Tsaramut,” the favourite stone of the Arabs, which the infidels call emerald, and by means of which epilepsy can be cured.

The king wore earrings of rubies from Ceylon which resembled in colour a pretty girl’s lips.

On the ground, on carpets that could not be matched, were three hundred golden pitchers of wine and everything needed for the royal banquet. Behind Timur stood the musicians; at his feet were his kindred: kings and princes and the commanders of his troops; by his side was no one. Nearest of all to him was the tipsy poet Kermani, he who once to the question of the destroyer of the world, “Kermani, how much would you give for me if I were to be sold?” replied to the sower of death and terror:

“Twenty-five askers.”

“But that is the value of my belt alone!” exclaimed Timur, surprised.

“I was only thinking of the belt,” replied Kermani, “only of the belt; because you yourself are not worth a farthing!”

Thus spake the poet Kermani to the King of Kings, to the man of evil and terror. Let us therefore value the fame of the poet, the friend of truth, always higher than the fame of Timur. Let us praise poets who have only one God—the beautifully spoken, fearless word of truth—that which is their god for ever!

It was an hour of mirth, carousal and proud reminiscences of battles and victories. Amid the sounds of music and popular games, warriors were fencing before the tent of the king, and endeavouring to show their prowess in killing. A number of motley-coloured clowns were tumbling about, strong men were wrestling, acrobats were performing as though they had no bones in their bodies. A performance of elephants was also in progress; they were painted red and green, which made some of them look ludicrous, others terrible. At this hour of joy, when Timur’s men were intoxicated with fear before him, with pride in his fame, with the fatigue of battles, with wine and koumiss—at this mad hour, suddenly through the noise, like lightning through a cloud, the cry of a woman reached the ears of the conqueror of the Sultan Bayazet, the cry of a proud eagle, a sound familiar and attuned to his afflicted soul—afflicted by Death, and therefore so cruel to mankind and to life.

He gave orders to inquire who had cried out in this voice devoid of joy. He was told that a woman had come, all in rags and covered with dust; she seemed crazy, and speaking Arabic demanded—she demanded—to see the master of three parts of the world.

“Lead her in!” said the king.

Before him stood a woman, barefooted, in rags faded by the sun. Her black hair hung loose, covering her naked breast, and her face was of the colour of bronze. Her eyes expressed command and her tawny hand did not shake as she pointed it at the “Lame One.”

“Are you he that defeated Sultan Bayazet?” she asked.

“Yes, I am he. I have conquered many and am not yet tired of victories. What have you to tell me about yourself, woman?”

“Listen,” she said. “Whatever you may have done, you are only a man, but I am a mother. You serve Death—I serve Life. You are guilty before me and I am come to demand that you atone for your guilt. They tell me that your watchword is ‘Justice is Power.’ I do not believe it, but you must be just to me because I am a mother.”

The king was wise enough to overlook the insult and felt the force of the words behind it. He said:

“Sit down and speak. I will listen to you.”

She settled herself comfortably on a carpet in the narrow circle of kings and related as follows:—

“I have come from near Salerno. It is in far-off Italy—you would not know it. My father was a fisherman, my husband also; he was as handsome as he was happy. It was I who made him happy. I also had a son who was the finest boy in the world——”

“Like my Jihangir,” said the old warrior quietly.

“My son was the finest and cleverest boy. He was six years old when Saracen pirates came to our shore. They killed my father and my husband, and many others. They kidnapped my son and for four years I have searched for him all over the earth. He must be with you now; I know it, because Bayazet’s warriors captured the pirates; you defeated Bayazet and took away all he had; therefore you must know where my son is, you must give him back to me!”

“She is insane,” said the kings and friends of Timur, his princes and marshals; and they all laughed, for kings always account themselves wise.

But Kermani looked seriously at the woman, and Tamerlane seemed greatly astonished.

“She is as insane as a mother,” quietly said the poet Kermani; but the king—the enemy of the world—replied:

“Woman, how came you from that unknown country, across the seas, across rivers and mountains, through the forests? How is it that wild beasts, and men, who are often more ferocious than the wildest of beasts, did not harm you? You came even without a weapon, the only friend of the defenceless that does not betray them as long as they have strength in their arms. I must know it all in order that I may believe you and in order that my astonishment may not prevent me from understanding you.”

Let us praise Woman-Mother, whose love knows no bounds, by whose breast the whole world has been nourished. Everything that is beautiful in man comes from the rays of the sun and from mother’s milk; these are the sources of our love of life.

The woman replied to Timur-Lenk:

“I came across one sea only, a sea with many islands, where I found fishermen’s boats. When one is seeking what one loves the wind is always favourable. For one who has been born and bred by the seashore it is easy to swim across rivers. Mountains? I saw no mountains.”

“A mountain becomes a valley when one loves!” interjected smilingly the poet Kermani.

“True, there were forests on the way. There were wild boars, bears, lynxes and terrible-looking bulls that lowered their heads threateningly; twice lynxes stared at me with eyes like yours. But every beast has a heart. I talked to them as I talk to you. They believed me that I was a mother and went away sighing. They pitied me. Know you not that beasts also love their young, and will fight for the life and freedom of those they love as valiantly as men?”

“That is true, woman,” said Timur. “Very often, I know, their love is stronger and they fight harder than men.”

“Men,” she continued like a child, for every mother is a hundred times a child in her soul, “men are always children of their mothers, for everyone has a mother, everyone is somebody’s son, even you, old man; a woman bore you. You may renounce God, but that you cannot renounce, old man.”

“That is true, woman,” exclaimed Kermani, the fearless poet. “You can have no calves from a herd of bulls, no flowers bloom without the sun, there is no happiness without love. There is no love without woman. There is no poet or hero without a mother.”

And the woman said:

“Give me back my child, because I am a mother and I love him!”

Let us bow down before Woman—she gave birth to Moses, Mahomet, and the Great Prophet Jesus who was murdered by the wicked, but who, as Sherif-eddin said, “will rise and come to judge the living and the dead. It will happen in Damascus.”

Let us bow down before her who through the centuries gives birth to great men. Aristotle was her son, and Firdousi, and honey-sweet Saadi, and Omar Khayyam that is like wine mixed with poison, Iscander and blind Homer. All these are her children, they all have drunk her milk and every one of them was led into the world by her hand—when they were no taller than a tulip. All the pride of the world is due to mothers.

And the grey destroyer of towns, the lame tiger Timur-Gurgan, grew thoughtful and for a long time was silent. Then to all present he said:

“Men Tangri Kuli, Timur (I, Timur, a servant of God) say what I must say. I have lived for many years and the earth groans under me. For thirty years, with this hand of mine, I have been destroying the harvest of Death, I have been taking revenge upon Death because Death put out the sun of my heart—robbed me of my Jihangir. Others have struggled for cities and for kingdoms, but none has so striven for a man. Men had no value in my eyes; I cared not who they were nor why they were in my way. It was I, Timur, who said to Bayazet when I had defeated him: ‘O Bayazet, it seems that kingdoms are nothing before God; you see that He gives them into the hands of people like us—you who are a cripple and me who am lame!’ I said this to him when he was led up to me in chains, groaning under their weight. I looked upon his misfortune and felt that love was bitter as wormwood, the weed that grows on ruins.

“A servant of God, I say what I must. A woman sits before me, her number is legion and she has awakened in my soul feelings hitherto unknown to me. As an equal she speaks to me and she does not ask, she demands. I see and understand why this woman is so powerful: she loves and love helped her to recognise that her child is the spark of life from which a flame may spring that will burn for many centuries. Have not all prophets been children, and all heroes been weak? O Jihangir, the light of my eyes, perhaps it was thy lot to warm the earth, to sow happiness on it: I have covered it well with blood and made it fertile.”

Again the Scourge of Nations pondered long. At last he said:

“I, Timur, slave of God, say what I must. Let three hundred horsemen go to all the four corners of my kingdom and let them find this woman’s son. She shall wait here and I will wait with her. Happy shall he be who returns with the child on his saddle. Woman, is that right?”

She tossed her black hair from her face, smiled at him and, nodding, answered:

“Quite right, O king!”

Then the terrible old man rose and bowed to her in silence, but the merry poet Kermani sang joyfully like a child:

“What is more delightful than a song of flowers and stars?

Everyone will say: a song of love.

What is more enchanting than the midday sun in May?

A lover will reply: she whom I love.

Ah, I know the stars are splendid in the sky at depth of night,

And I know the sun is gorgeous on a dazzling summer’s day,

But the eyes of my beloved out-rival all the flowers,

And her smile is more entrancing than the sun in May.

But no one yet has sung the best, most charming song of all;

Tis the song of all beginnings, of the heart of all the world,

Of the magic heart of women, and the mother of us all!”

Timur-Lenk said to his poet:

“Quite right, Kermani! God did not err when He selected your lips to announce his wisdom!”

“Well, God himself is a good poet!” said the drunken Kermani.

And the woman smiled, and all the kings and princes and warriors smiled too, like children, as they looked at her—the Woman-Mother.

All this is true. What is said here is the truth, all mothers know it, ask them and they will say:

“Yes, all this is everlasting truth. We are more powerful than Death, we who ceaselessly present sages, poets and heroes to the world, we who sow in it everything that is glorious!”