Story of the Issue

I heard of him and at first could not believe my ears. He is an old man with the strength of youth, eccentric, his hair thick and white, as my informant told me — he had seen him once walking with a heavy staff in his right hand, not to lean upon it but to defend himself with it in time of need. For he took shelter in the caves of the mountain near Afqa and in its grottoes, the earth his bed and the sky his cover.

The strange thing about him is that, for all his utter madness, he was exceedingly tender toward little children, and never smiled except at the sight of them; he would try to draw near to them, and they would run away screaming, "The madman of the mountain! The madman of the mountain!" Then he would stand bewildered, stunned, staring after them with lost eyes; then he would shake his head right and left, smile a sweet smile, toss back the white hair that mantled his head, and walk on up the mountain.

He would spend the whole week wandering, bewildered, shunning people and turning away from them, while they feared him and dreaded his mischief. When a woman caught sight of him she would seek refuge in God from him and his ill omen and flee, carrying her child in her arms if she had a child with her; as for the men, they would stand at a distance, wary, ignoring his presence and avoiding the evil of any collision with him.

The inhabitants of the villages he passed near could tell the days of the week, when these slipped their minds, by his passing on the same day every week, at almost the same hour, on the outskirts of their village. Then my informant closed his talk, saying: — Do you know the tower of "Mheish"? — No; where is it? — It is a tower on the seashore, before you reach Jbeil, near the Ibrahim River. It stands alone beside the waves, its structure fallen to ruin, or nearly so — a relic of the ancients. People pass close by it now and amuse themselves by shouting "Burj Mheish!" and hear the echo, so they claim, return their voices: "wishak wish." To this desolate, dread tower the madman of the mountain retires at the beginning of every week, and sits upon a raised ledge in it, gazing at the blue sea the whole day long, until he sees the sun become a red ball sinking behind the far sea horizon; then he comes down from his ledge and passes his night among the ruins and rubble of the fearsome tower! Neither does loneliness dismay him nor fear drive him away! Until curiosity got the better of some young men of the neighboring villages, and they drew near

— with caution for their guide — to the side of the frightful tower, and heard plaintive melodies filling the air around them: the melodies of the madman's pipe when night had grown quiet and nature had gone still, sending them up with his breath, stirring what lies hidden and rousing sorrows!

The voice of the madman's pipe rings out in that pitch-dark night, adding awe and solemnity to the scene! A voice overflowing with simple, plaintive, moving melodies coming out of that little pierced reed as he blows into it in one continuous breath and plays his fingers over its holes! Weary Eastern melodies that carry you back to the bosom of nature; in them you hear the moan of pain and the death-rattle of misery, and the revolt of despair lifts you to the highest sphere; their long, continuous, unending voice rises until you fancy you hear the welling grief of the wronged, drawn out in the stillness of night; then the voice sinks gradually, melody by melody, until it fades away, breath into breath, so that you seem to hear it still even after the reed has fallen silent and the fingers have gone still — as though the spirits had been enraptured by the melody and were repeating it faintly, and your own soul, which is kin to them, repeats it with them!

All this while the madman's pipe returns, passing from melody to melody like a singing bird; and while you are in the intoxication of sorrow and pain, suddenly you hear the melody begin to break into quick phrases, the rhythm grow regular, the fingers play swiftly; and before you know it you are nodding your head in time to the dance of those fingers and the ordering of those melodies, and you feel every muscle of your body quivering with their quivering — all this while the speed increases little by little, and there is revealed to you the truth of triumph after defeat, rest after pain, joy after misery, laughter after moaning; and your soul rises up to face whatever may befall, whatever it be — and had the piper led you at that minute to death itself, you would not have hung back!

On the following day the mad piper would leave the tower for the mouth of the Ibrahim River, and there buy a beast's load of food and carry it to a remote, far-off house where two small children lived with their nearest of kin after the death of their parents; he would set the food before the door and walk on, heading for the mountain, following the course of the great river, until after days of walking he reached the waterfalls of Afqa; and there he would spend a day or two weeping and sobbing, the moaning of his pipe filling the air, around the remains of an ancient temple — until he returned once more to Burj Mheish at the beginning of the following week, where he would repeat the round... and so on and on, month after month and year after year.

My informant's talk stirred me and roused in me the desire to make the acquaintance of that eccentric man, so I asked him: — And from where did you gather all this information about him? — From the inhabitants of the villages there. — And can I see him?

— If he is still alive.

So I overcame my natural fear of those who are touched in the head, and said that the best thing