Freedom or Death by Nikos Kazantzakis

Author:Nikos Kazantzakis [Kazantzakis, Nikos]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: nepalifiction, TPB
Publisher: nepalifiction
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 7

EARLY NEXT DAY, when the Kanea gate was thrown open, the dark news entered the town: Nuri Bey had been found dead in his country house! In the Turkish coffeehouses the agas hummed like swarms of wasps. Some affirmed at the tops of their voices that the Greeks had murdered him, others said it was a case of suicide. The news had deprived thejnuezzin in the mosque of coherent speech. Foaming at the mouth, all he could do was to stammer confused words: “Massacre!” “Giaour!” “Mohammed!” The Greeks left their work in the lurch and took counsel secretly by twos and threes in their houses.

The atmosphere was oppressive. The soldiers shouldered their arms and ranged through the streets and over the markets. The pasha appeared in person in the cemetery for the burial of Nuri Bey. Behind him paced the imam and the muezzin, and after them, in a noisy swarm, the armed agas. Even Suleiman the Arab was present escorting the pasha, who had freed him from the irons, having had enough of his bellowing. The servants had brought the body to the tomb. The horse had followed, stepping lightly and neighing. It opened its eyes wide and sniffed the air.

The imam recited the last words in a high monotonous voice and consigned the dead man to the other world. The muezzin took the bloodstained white headband from the dead man’s head and stuffed it into his own bosom. With deep obeisances all took leave of Nuri Bey, who was lowered into a grave next to his father’s monument. Then the pasha gave a signal that the horse was to be rought to the grave. In his hand he held the paper that Nuri’s Moor had delivered to him. “Agas,” he said, “this is the written and sealed last wish of the dead man. Listen!”

He lifted the sheet of paper to the light, and read: “When I am dead, I wish you to kill my horse over my grave.”

The agas were appalled at these words. They gazed at the horse. It had bowed its head over the grave, so that the bluish mane hung down, and it was sniffing at the earth. It stamped on the ground with its hoof and called to its buried master with a doleful neighing.

“A pity it is, before God and men,” voices could be heard saying on all sides.

“Pity or .not,” the pasha retorted, “it is the dead man’s wish. It rends my heart too, God knows, but it is the will of the dead man to take the horse with him. I would do the same. Which of you will harden his heart and draw his knife?”

All stood as though turned to stone. They looked, horror-struck, at the slender body of the horse, gleaming in the sun. This was no Greek to be killed, no ox or sheep to slaughter to preserve one’s own life. This was an ornament of the world, the pride of Megalokastro. Connoisseurs came from Rethymno and Kanea to admire it.

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