to grunt in protest and surprise. Dogs cowered away and chickens scattered; travelling merchants stared after him; the imam, Abdulhamid Hodja, reined in his silvery horse to let him pass; the priest, portentous and dignified in his black robes and grizzled beard, moved aside, struck suddenly by the strange and disorientating feeling that he did not exist.
People noticed that the Dog’s feet were cut and bloody, as if he had walked for days, unconscious of his pain or of the danger of infection. They noticed that there was something untamed and prophetic in his demeanour, and assumed that he must be a dervish belonging to one of the many brotherhoods of Sufis. The town had not yet had a genuine saint in residence, and there were those who were struck immediately by the hope that one had at last arrived. Lovers of wonders looked forward to miracles, and traders and artisans clapped their hands together at the thought of the custom of pilgrims. Those of extreme theological sophistication, of whom, it must be admitted, there were practically none apart from the imam, were gratified that someone might have turned up who would lend their shoulder to the great cosmic wheel, directing their spiritual power to the sustention of the universe.
The Dog perplexed everybody on his passage through the streets by omitting to beg for anything. Onward he strode, his eyes fixed on anotherworld, perhaps upon the past, or perhaps upon the inward turmoil of his thoughts. He passed the last houses, turning leftward and upward, surmounting the crest of the slope, standing there for a moment, his head moving mechanically from side to side as if waiting to be inspired. Suddenly, his mind made up, he headed towards the open cave from which the lime was mined. Watched by the children, who had now grown solemn and silent, some of them holding hands, he entered it, ran his fingers over the rough surface of its walls, and sniffed the atmosphere, his nostrils flaring with each breath. He smelled the sour perspiration of the generations who had hacked away at this powdery stone, he smelled the excrement of bats, and then, making the decision that he would not live in there, he left.
Still ignoring the children, he approached a pillar tomb, twenty feet high, curiously touched the Lycian script, and gazed upward, blinking against the clean light of the sky, contemplating the possibility of inhabiting the flat roof, like a latter-day Simeon Stylites. He grasped the massive stone and climbed a few feet, his muscles knotting, his fingers and toes seeking out the chips and indentations left by the ancient masons, his breath coming in rasps, and then he leapt back down, evidently uninspired.
The Dog began to explore the few sarcophagi that the centuries had left intact, followed by the children, who now began to join in the hunt, touching his elbow and pointing the way from one tomb to another. He ignored them still, peering inside each structure, caressing the carvings of warriors, lions and chimaeras. He inspected the huge slabs that made up the roofs, some of them carved in the shape of a keeled boat, but upside down, and some of them scalloped to represent the roof tiles of a house. He lay experimentally upon the stone bench inside each tomb, searching among those resting places for the couch that would be most comfortable.
Dissatisfied with the sarcophagi, realising perhaps that they were too much in the sun, he approached two large tombs that had been carved into the vertical face of a small cliff nearby. One was cut in the shape of a temple, and the other in the shape of a house. Inside each were three benches, one at the back and one at each side. The paintings upon the walls had been much defaced, partly by those who disapproved of figurative art on religious grounds, and partly because of the smoke and soot of two thousand years’ worth of goatherds’ fires. The Dog found these two spacious tombs to be both airy and well aspected, giving a fine
People noticed that the Dog’s feet were cut and bloody, as if he had walked for days, unconscious of his pain or of the danger of infection. They noticed that there was something untamed and prophetic in his demeanour, and assumed that he must be a dervish belonging to one of the many brotherhoods of Sufis. The town had not yet had a genuine saint in residence, and there were those who were struck immediately by the hope that one had at last arrived. Lovers of wonders looked forward to miracles, and traders and artisans clapped their hands together at the thought of the custom of pilgrims. Those of extreme theological sophistication, of whom, it must be admitted, there were practically none apart from the imam, were gratified that someone might have turned up who would lend their shoulder to the great cosmic wheel, directing their spiritual power to the sustention of the universe.
The Dog perplexed everybody on his passage through the streets by omitting to beg for anything. Onward he strode, his eyes fixed on anotherworld, perhaps upon the past, or perhaps upon the inward turmoil of his thoughts. He passed the last houses, turning leftward and upward, surmounting the crest of the slope, standing there for a moment, his head moving mechanically from side to side as if waiting to be inspired. Suddenly, his mind made up, he headed towards the open cave from which the lime was mined. Watched by the children, who had now grown solemn and silent, some of them holding hands, he entered it, ran his fingers over the rough surface of its walls, and sniffed the atmosphere, his nostrils flaring with each breath. He smelled the sour perspiration of the generations who had hacked away at this powdery stone, he smelled the excrement of bats, and then, making the decision that he would not live in there, he left.
Still ignoring the children, he approached a pillar tomb, twenty feet high, curiously touched the Lycian script, and gazed upward, blinking against the clean light of the sky, contemplating the possibility of inhabiting the flat roof, like a latter-day Simeon Stylites. He grasped the massive stone and climbed a few feet, his muscles knotting, his fingers and toes seeking out the chips and indentations left by the ancient masons, his breath coming in rasps, and then he leapt back down, evidently uninspired.
The Dog began to explore the few sarcophagi that the centuries had left intact, followed by the children, who now began to join in the hunt, touching his elbow and pointing the way from one tomb to another. He ignored them still, peering inside each structure, caressing the carvings of warriors, lions and chimaeras. He inspected the huge slabs that made up the roofs, some of them carved in the shape of a keeled boat, but upside down, and some of them scalloped to represent the roof tiles of a house. He lay experimentally upon the stone bench inside each tomb, searching among those resting places for the couch that would be most comfortable.
Dissatisfied with the sarcophagi, realising perhaps that they were too much in the sun, he approached two large tombs that had been carved into the vertical face of a small cliff nearby. One was cut in the shape of a temple, and the other in the shape of a house. Inside each were three benches, one at the back and one at each side. The paintings upon the walls had been much defaced, partly by those who disapproved of figurative art on religious grounds, and partly because of the smoke and soot of two thousand years’ worth of goatherds’ fires. The Dog found these two spacious tombs to be both airy and well aspected, giving a fine
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