In Turkish Quarantine

IT was late afternoon when we caught the first glimpse of the quarantine camp pitched on one of the higher peaks of Kara-Dagh — the Black Mountain. An hour or so later we left the dusty road and, turning aside, drove up to the official shanty which displayed impartially the red flag with the star and crescent and the bilious banner of quarantine authority.

Behind the shanty, some hundred or more dirty-looking tents lifted pointed peaks to the blue sky. I saw little more. One does not meet with joyful expectancy the prospect of three days’ detention in camp with camel and pack-mule drivers, gypsies and Kurds, and men, women, and children of all sorts, ages, and classes — especially at a time when a cholera epidemic levies a life-tax.

With the help of our Turkish driver, my two companions and I moved our things from our wagon to the tent assigned to us. Covering the earthen floor with layers of newspaper, we spread our rugs and bedding over them and made ourselves as comfortable as we could under such circumstances. Some supper and a cup of tea, precariously made over an alcohol lamp, added an adventurous tinge to our situation.

After supper, with my spirits restored, I lifted the flap-door of our tent and stepped out. The last lingering glow of sunset had faded, and clear starry night had settled upon the broad expanse. For miles about, as far as the eye could see, the mountains sloped away. Peak upon peak, in varying shades of darkness, the ranges vanished in the dim distance, touched only in the east by the gleam of the rising moon. The mountain-tops rose bare above intervening valleys, which were darkened by forest growth. Here and there, white ravines gashed the mountain-sides, ending abruptly where the forests began. From the northeast, a sharp, cool wind blew in gusts that did not spare our exposed position.

Immediately about me, the tents gleamed white in contrast to the night, and, interspersed among them, the black, empty, round-topped wagons pointed long shafts at all angles and in all directions. Dim lights flickered in the triangular openings of the tents, making the passing figures appear as silhouettes against them. In a clearing, in the centre of the camp, a fire blazed. Its flames leaped high in the wind, but higher still rose the flying sparks before they vanished in the darkness. In the light of the flames a queer figure of a man dancing was revealed, with a circle of spectators about him.

Drawn by the strange scene, I approached. By the green turban which the dancer wore I knew him to be a dervish.¹ A prominent forehead, a clean-cut nose, and deep-set eyes whose blue shone even in that dim light, were all that I could see of his features, and this only fragmentarily as flashes of firelight, from moment to moment, fell on his face. The rest of it was covered by a thick, bristly, red beard. Under his white cap and green turban, long, reddish-fawn-colored locks fell in curls and mingled with the glossy fleece of a sheepskin which he wore suspended from his shoulders and covering his back. The fleece was the exact color of his hair, so that one could not distinguish where one ended and the other began. This gave him a strange, half-wild appearance.

At first, the dancer’s motions were slow and rhythmic, accompanied by a low chant that heaved now and then into greater volume. His feet tapped the ground and his body swayed. As though waiting for some power to come to him out of the vast night, he fixed his eyes in absent expectancy on the starry distance. He invoked it and appealed to it, till slowly and by degrees its influence seemed to steal over him and, through him, to bind us also in its spell. Now he danced in an ecstatic frenzy. Louder and louder rose his monotonous song as he stamped his feet one moment and whirled on his toes the next, now bent low and again leaped high, sending the fantastic sheepskin flapping behind him like a thing alive. The veins on his forehead stood out; he labored for breath; his song broke into detached hoarse notes; then abruptly he stopped. He cast a look about him as though awaking suddenly to the fact of our presence; then, with a quick movement, he put his hand to his belt and drew out a narrow two-edged lance about a foot and a half long.

A backward spasm ran through the crowd as we caught the gleam of the thin blade. What might not a frenzied dervish do? Yet, he was calm. He removed his cap and laid it on the ground before him. Then, placing a large stone beside his cap, he kneeled and lifted the weapon over his head. Turning it point downward and holding it so that it touched the crown of his head, he called for some one out of the crowd to go forward and drive it in. At his repeated call, several made a movement to go and then drew back. But finally, a rough-looking fellow slouched forward with a self-conscious grin which ill-disguised his superstitious fear, giving the lie to his nonchalant scorn. He lifted the stone from the ground and started pounding on the short handle of the lance. Thud after thud drove the blade in. Our hearts echoed each stroke with a dull grating pang, but the dervish knelt perfectly still, except for the jar of the blows which shook the thick locks that rested on his shoulders. The distant look once more crept to his face and transformed it, lending to it a strange grimness. The heat and frenzy of the last dance were replaced by a cold rapture, while a steely look came into his eyes.

At last he rose, with the lance fastened firm and upright on top of his head.

‘Humbug! Deceiver!’ voices broke out among the crowd. ‘There is no blood! We want to see blood! '

The dervish made no answer. Undisturbed, he swept us all with a look of stolid contempt, and then abandoned himself once more to his religious emotion. With rhythmic intonations he swung into a dance which was fierce in restraint and rugged reserve. His motions cast the shadow of that upright lance now here, now there, making it touch now one and then another of the spectators like a grim, black, gruesome finger. I shuddered when once it swung suddenly round and pointed accusingly at me.

Whether the second dance lasted ten minutes or half an hour, I do not know. The immediate situation held me so in its spell that I could judge nothing — estimate nothing. I only felt; and what I felt had no parallel or counterpart in my previous experience. At such times the primitive and elemental prevails. The soul sees itself divested of the accumulations of centuries. It recognizes the origin of thoughts, and moods, and feelings which, before, had seemed incongruous and perplexing. It emerges out of such experiences strangely sobered and enlightened. Enlightened, I say, because it has looked into its own mysterious depths. As I stood there that night, I felt as if the fire, the mountains, the stars overhead, and the crude inarticulate call in that man’s soul were all a part of my very being. In the strength of that primal affinity, a whole world of artificial distinctions seemed to vanish away.

When he paused, the dancer’s face was haggard. He raised his arm and drew the weapon from his head. Then he brought the point to the right side of his face and, keeping the blade level, with an artful twist of the hand he thrust it into the cheek. Another twist, and yet another, until the lance pierced the left cheek also and showed through on the other side.

One solitary hoarse taunt was heard, calling again for blood, but it was suppressed by the crowd.

The dervish resumed his dance. His emotion rose to a white heat as once more he whirled on his toes, flung his arms, flapped his sheepskin, and tossed his heavy locks. The blade interfered with his tongue and reduced his chant to broken, guttural sounds. Finally, exhausted, he stopped. He drew the lance out of his cheeks and held it up, calling to the unbelievers to inspect it.

The dance was over. The fire dropped low in crumbling embers. The moon hung above in its pale, distant light. The chill breeze still swept the mountain-side. From one of the tents there came the wail of a sick child and the low murmur of a mother’s voice. A horse whinnied in the outskirts of the camp. Our surroundings resumed their reality, and we dispersed to our tents.

The next morning, the sun shone once again upon the dirty camp. The twentieth-century doctor rode from the neighboring village to inspect us as we filed past him. Those who had completed their three days of quarantine were dismissed; the rest of us returned to await our time.

A skirted figure, with a sheepskin over its back and the sole outfit of a walking stick, set out alone upon its onward journey. All that remained of the previous night’s experience was a weird memory and a circle of ashes and charred bits of wood in a clearing at the centre of the camp.