The story of Saint Jaler
of die limestone hill on our left and the first rise of Siah Pir
on our right, a hill which, as a far blue smear on the skyline,
we had seen on our ride down from Garau. Our non-
existent river was now the Rua, having taken on the name of
a westerly stream which we could see descending by steep
black places and step-like defiles from the Maimah pass of
Kebir Kuh. It watered rice-fields, a little behind us and some
way off as we emerged into open ground : they shone in the
sun beside the black tents of their cultivators, the Dusan
tribe.
The wide river space was now all tamarisk and sand, but
in spring the water comes raging down in spate, and for a
few weeks carries all before it. In the middle of its alluvial
waste lies a strange round crater hole, with water called
Zem-Zem in its bottom, about three hundred feet wide, dirty
but holy. Saint Jaber once, walking along here, with a goatskin
of water as they use to-day, met Shaddad the son of Nushirvan,
whose castle was downstream in the defile.
" Have you any water in your goatskin?" asked the son of
the king.
" Ah," said the pious old man, anxious not to lie, but also
anxious not to give drink to an unbeliever.
" Is it cold?" asked the king's son.
" Not cold, not warm," answered the saint.
" Is it sweet?" asked Shaddad.
" Not sweet, not bitter," was the reply.
The son of Nushirvan asked to drink, but the old man, as
he pushed a slip of reed into the goatskin for him to put his
mouth to, also placed there the obstruction of a pomegranate
seed, so that no water came to the heathen lips. Shaddad in
disgust threw the goatskin to the ground, and the water,
spreading around, made the pool of Zem-Zem in Luristan,
on whose banks ever since the tall reeds have been growing,