# The Fire of Desert Folk/Chapter 13

THE LAST DAY IN THE CITY OF IDRIS
BY the time we were ready to move on from Fez to the coast section of Morocco we knew the town rather well; yet, before going, we wished to have one last general view of the city and its surrounding fields and orchards. Consequently we took a carriage and drove out along the road that encircles the city wall and from that on up into the hills through orchards and thickets of aloes and Berber figs.
As we wound out at one point from behind the protecting screen of trees, the town suddenly appeared below us, golden in the rays of the late afternoon sun and dotted with the red roofs of the numerous guard towers and the emerald spots of gardens and trees. In the low distance the city seemed unreal with nothing of its life visible and no sound coming from its streets. It appeared as an inanimate element in some bit of scenery, the fancy of a painter enchanted by the charm of the East. We remained silent and only gazed, listening to the whispers of centuries coming up to us from the minarets of Mulay Idris, Kairween and Bu Anania, from the crenelated walls and from the tombs of the Merinides.
As the way carried us on between pretty gardens and ​woods, we found ourselves approaching a group of native buildings, near one of the doors of which a seriouslooking old Arab with a long black beard falling over his snow-white bournous was seated in the midst of a crowd counting old men of the village, rich and poor, women shrouded in bournouses and haiks, thplba, village youths and even meskins. The whole group stood almost motionless and silent, listening to what this traveling bard was recounting. Undisturbed by our approach, he continued his recitation in a well-trained, attractive voice that knew its power. Halid translated for us the tale, just as it came from the lips of the old Arab.
"Great is Allah, and Mahomet, his Prophet, is also great. But there have been other prophets chosen by the Lord, and powers have been given unto them equal to that of Allah himself. Such an one was Joshua, the son of Nun, a giant so tall that he could not have entered the mosque. It was he who set the mountains where they were needed. Such an one also was Mulay Abd el-Selam, who helped Allah construct the world and who was the originator of faith in the One God. Another was Ali Amhauch, as powerful as the Prophet. And also there was the 'hidden Imam,' Abd Allah, bone of the bone and blood of the blood of the Prophet Mahomet. Such chosen ones exist in every age to announce the will of Allah and to point to the coming of the hour. Their eyes search the souls of men, their words reach the innermost chambers of the heart and their thoughts compel action. They appear suddenly, unannounced, and unknown before the moment of their manifestation to the people. They pass through the years of mortal life, bringing and ​leaving imperishable results for the joy of the Faithful and the discomfiture of the unbeliever.
"In the north there appeared one of these Chosen of God, and the echoes of his deeds reverberate throughout the world like peals of thunder. In the East there appeared another, who came to judge good and evil deeds in the name of Allah and was the forerunner of the Saviour of the Faithful. Look round with the eyes of your soul, listen with the ears of your heart and watch that ye miss not the hour of the Messenger's coming!"
Hafid thus explained the words of the bard and said that this was the usual parable, following which would come the real tale, generally an historical legend concerning some ancient master, hero or famed wall. In spite of Hafid's prediction, I felt that this parable was probably meant to bear upon the developments in North Africa, in the Rif, in Egypt and farther eastward on the continent of Asia. The words of the old Arab with the grave, inspired countenance and the clever, compelling eyes appealed to me as covert, symbolical propaganda for Abd el-Krim in arousing Islam to action.
As we continued on up the hill, Fez disclosed itself from a different angle, all pink, warm and mild under the less insistent and more genial rays of the sun, just about to lave itself after the scorching day in the cooling bath of night. My thoughts traveled down to the mosques and the medersas where lay hidden the soul of Islam.
But it must not be inferred that Islam is motionless or sleeping. It believes in Fate and is, therefore, at once silent, patient, calm and severe; but, when the hour shall strike, when the Faithful are told by inspired interpreters ​from the north or east that Fate demands action, this patience, calm and seeming tolerance will disappear as a morning mist before the burning sun of their flaming faith and only the severity of Islam will remain. And these messengers who are to point out and explain have already come—I have seen them in the whirlpool of revolution in Persia and Turkey, in the Moslem movement in Afghanistan. The great World War, the colonial policies of white peoples and the downfall of their power and spell over the colored races have furnished a new watchword for the coming of the hour.
Islam has not the characteristics of evolution in its soul, but manifests itself in a series of revolutionary bounds. Uniformity of thought has formed and held tightly together a large and strong organization, added to which piety maintains the impulse and contributes the element of persisting endurance. And the Moslems tenaciously persist not only morally but physically since, as nomads and small agriculturalists, always hardened by training for fighting, they have restricted and simple wants. They came to North Africa from the more barren plains of Asia, found here easier conditions of life and now ask nothing better than the chance to defend these possessions which they have acquired after persistent struggle and great effort. They love their country, this earth here burned by the sun, cracking and stony, there beside some well or watercourse drawing over itself a bright mantle of flowers and grass—they love it, because they bought it with their blood, because it nourishes them, because it has developed Islamic leaders, scholars and saints and is now hallowed by their ashes.
​Islam has not been dead; it has not even been sleeping, but has simply been silent and waiting. Now it is no longer silent and in some places will not even wait. The hour calling to action has come.
While I was formulating these thoughts, the sun disappeared behind the mountains, and Fez seemed for a moment to have been extinguished. It lay there gray and threatening, held tight between its binding walls. This was my last strong impression of the city of Idris. It was as if an invisible genie, or perhaps some ordinary Moroccan djinn, had chosen thus picturesquely to reveal to me the color and the sentiments of the soul of Maghreb.
During my months in North Africa this soul of Maghreb attracted me much more strongly than the inner life of either Algeria or Tunisia, because of its primitiveness, because of the greater barbarity and severity of its followers of Islam, because of the greater purity of the remnants of ancient native cults and because of its elemental sentiments and tendencies. Inspired by this interest I took advantage of ever-continuing opportunities to talk exhaustively with Arabs, Berbers, Kabyles and other natives and drew out from these contacts not only the superficial and everyday thoughts, but those that were ordinarily hidden, passionate and deep, like the interiors of their sacred temples, guarded from the entrance of an unbeliever by the law of horm. Often one word, one unfinished phrase, was enough to make a dark matter clear and to clothe an apparently clear one in a shroud of mystery. Years of travel among peoples in all stages of life and development have given me some ability to see into the human soul and an intuition in searching out and ​touching the sensitive and, very often, the more disturbing features of the inner life. Often a single word or question, even though made through the unsatisfactory medium of an interpreter, may induce the other to unveil the more secret chambers of the soul, to indulge in an outburst of violent, elemental sincerity in some complaint, trouble, hate or hope; and then the dark and twisted things become clear and straight. After these many contacts a synthesis of impressions, of logical and sentimental deductions was built up.
In the initial study and understanding of the soul of Maghreb I was greatly helped by the knowledge of Islam which I had gained in Russia, Turkey, Turkestan, the Khirgiz steppes, Khorasan, Persia and even among the strange, mixed cult of the Prophet in China. After all, Islam is everywhere Islam, and the general trend of the thoughts of colored men has given it a greater uniformity in its static, than in its dynamic, expression. And it is these facts and experiences which give me the boldness to speak of the soul of North Africa.
What then was the last impression of this Fez which I have so often referred to as the heart and mind of Maghreb? The figure shifts as I reflect, for I look upon it as a great smithy, where steel is being wrought and shaped for a yet unknown use. Will this steel be turned out as plough and engine to co-operate with the men of Europe in the subjugation of Nature or will it be shaped into curved scimitars with which to fight the invader? Only Allah knows—Allah, who in the hidden tablets of the Book of Fate has written His final decrees.
But back on the mountainside that evening after the ​sun had entered the sea-guarded doors of its fairy palace in the west, a flute played somewhere, a drum was heard and the high wailing of a late meuzzin reached our ears:
"La Illah Illah Allah! Allah Akbar …"
A night-bird whimpered, wild pigeons and thrushes gave their evening calls and the locusts began their neverending rasp.