The Literature of Arabia: With Critical and Biographical Sketches by Epiphanius Wilson
General
The Literature of Arabia: With Critical and Biographical Sketches by Epiphanius Wilson
Arabic literature
When I had somewhat recovered I began to examine the spot in which I
found myself, and truly it seemed to me that I had reached a garden of
delights. There were trees everywhere, and they were laden with flowers
and fruit, while a crystal stream wandered in and out under their
shadow. When night came I slept sweetly in a cosey nook, though the
remembrance that I was alone in a strange land made me sometimes start
up and look around me in alarm, and then I wished heartily that I had
stayed at home at ease. However, the morning sunlight restored my
courage, and I once more wandered among the trees, but always with some
anxiety as to what I might see next. I had penetrated some distance into
the island when I saw an old man bent and feeble sitting upon the river
bank, and at first I took him to be some shipwrecked mariner like
myself. Going up to him I greeted him in a friendly way, but he only
nodded his head at me in reply. I then asked what he did there, and he
made signs to me that he wished to get across the river to gather some
fruit, and seemed to beg me to carry him on my back. Pitying his age and
feebleness, I took him up, and wading across the stream I bent down that
he might more easily reach the bank, and bade him get down. But instead
of allowing himself to be set upon his feet (even now it makes me laugh
to think of it!), this creature who had seemed to me so decrepit leaped
nimbly upon my shoulders, and hooking his legs round my neck gripped me
so tightly that I was well-nigh choked, and so overcome with terror that
I fell insensible to the ground. When I recovered my enemy was still in
his place, though he had released his hold enough to allow me breathing
space, and seeing me revive he prodded me adroitly first with one foot
and then with the other, until I was forced to get up and stagger about
with him under the trees while he gathered and ate the choicest fruits.
This went on all day, and even at night, when I threw myself down half
dead with weariness, the terrible old man held on tight to my neck, nor
did he fail to greet the first glimmer of morning light by drumming upon
me with his heels, until I perforce awoke and resumed my dreary march
with rage and bitterness in my heart.
It happened one day that I passed a tree under which lay several dry
gourds, and catching one up I amused myself with scooping out its
contents and pressing into it the juice of several bunches of grapes
which hung from every bush. When it was full I left it propped in the
fork of a tree, and a few days later, carrying the hateful old man that
way, I snatched at my gourd as I passed it and had the satisfaction of a
draught of excellent wine so good and refreshing that I even forgot my
detestable burden, and began to sing and caper.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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