The carpet merchant had been traveling for so long that he had, over time, turned his tent into a transportable house. Ahiram had his own room, large enough that he could keep up with his daily exercises away from prying eyes. He secured the light bamboo door behind him, reclined on a comfortable sofa, and closed his eyes, trying to understand the meaning of Darwiish’s words. What is he trying to tell me? The wind grew fiercer, sounding like a thousand horses charging their camp. The outer tent fluttered violently and the bamboo structure creaked and moaned. The feared desert storm was fast approaching. No one would be able to survive it without the safety of a shelter. Ahiram decided that the best thing to do was to rest. He ate a light dinner, did his evening ablution, and went to bed.
The following morning, Ahiram went out for his daily inspection of the camp and was struck by the change in scenery. Some dunes were now slightly taller while others were somewhat smaller, as if a giant hand had tried to smooth the differences but ended up disturbing the shape of the dunes. He went by the relatively large lake that formed the heart of the oasis and noticed that the water was, as usual, crystal clear. He found a bunch of dates at the foot of a tree and ate some as he continued his inspection of the camp, which brought him closer to the three dunes that Darwiish had marked with an X. Oddly, the three dunes were still standing exactly as he had seen them the day before, and the three markings were intact. He bent down and examined them closely. They looked like normal marks in the sand. He stood up and was about to walk away when he heard another guide scream and gesticulate, pointing upwards toward the sky. Ahiram looked up and saw something truly remarkable: a tiny white cloud hovering over the oasis.
Ahiram went down hurriedly and searched for Darwiish. He found him trying to calm the other guides.
“But the cloud is here,” yelled one of the guide. “They’ll kill us all.”
“If we try to leave now they will surely kill us,” replied Darwiish, “but if we stay and offer gifts, they will let us go.”
“What’s this all about?” Ahiram asked.
Darwiish looked up and muttered, “It is unmistakable, they will be here shortly. All of you, go and ask the leaders of every caravan to come here. We need to talk.”
Ahiram looked up and for the second time that day, was deeply perturbed. During the time it took him to walk from the three strange dunes to this meeting point, the tiny cloud had turned into a massive dark cloud that covered the entire oasis. “How did that happen?” he wondered aloud. “Is it going to rain?”
“No,” replied Darwiish, “It will snow.”
Ahiram glared at the old man but was taken aback when he saw that Darwiish was not joking. What’s this madness? he thought, Everywhere I go, I’m confronted by some magic that has turned the world upside-down. What has the world come to?
Balid and the members of the council joined them. Like most members of the various caravans who were bivouacking at the oasis, they had seen the massive cloud and went down to the oasis seeking an explanation. Soon, a group of several hundred caravaners stood around Darwiish.
“This oasis is one of the most expansive in this desert,” Darwiish said with the assurance of a guide. “Most caravans stop here on their way to the Land of the Marada. Nomads use it as a herding area in summer time. It’s a great source of water.
“Many years ago,” he continued more slowly, “when this oasis was much smaller, a man camped here with his wife and his six-year-old twin boys. This man was thirsty for power, so he promised the gods that he would give up one of his sons in exchange for wealth. He was so blinded by greed that during one terrible night, he sealed the fate of one of his boys. A large cloud formed over the oasis, just like the one you see hovering above our heads today. In exchange for this son, the man received great wealth: Snow fell from the cloud and covered the oasis as it is about to do today, and then the cloud became a vortex that lifted the child up and took him away. The other son, the one that was not taken, promised that he would continue to seek out his brother until he found him. This boy is standing before you today, and it is he who is speaking to you. My brother Estephan was the one taken away and has not been seen since. Yet something tells me he is still alive, for I have dreams of a strange, far away place where I see him surrounded by children.
“My mother died of sorrow. My father unified the tribes under his rule, took on many wives, and accumulated all the wealth his heart desired. Sheik Khawand is another son of his and the current ruler of these tribes.” Seeing his listeners’ shocked faces, Darwiish chuckled. “No, I’m no threat to him, so you don’t have to worry about soldiers coming down to kill me. Besides, the tribes would consider it a bad omen because I survived the first sacrifice. They think that killing me might not be pleasing to whatever god or goddess is behind the rain. That deity might then dry up the oasis. But since they don’t know who that deity is, they are compelled to repeat the same sacrifice year after year.”
“So, if they don’t offer a sacrifice,” Balid added, “they’re afraid the deity won’t send the blessing for the next year, is that it?”
Darwiish nodded. “That’s the only way they know to keep the lake the way it is, to keep it brimming with water despite the impossible heat of the desert. Each year, when the cloud forms, they repeat the sacrifice. As soon as the cloud appears in the sky, the tribes converge on the oasis. Each tribe chooses a male child, usually the son of a slave woman, six years of age, and offers him up to the cloud in return for water. After the children are taken up, it snows, and the tribes celebrate the coming of the water and then return home.
“The woman whose child is sacrificed is offered her freedom and given much wealth. These days, women groom their boys and parade them, hoping their sons will be chosen for the sacrifice.
“This cloud overhead extends far up in space. It is so huge that it is visible from miles around. By mid-day tomorrow, you will see the Desert Legions’ forward cavalry on approach.”
“The tribes have a military force?” one of the merchants asked.
“The Desert Legions, yes,” Darwiish said. “It is a force of several thousand riders. It is best not to antagonize them.”
“Who’s wanting to antagonize who?” replied the merchant, rubbing his hands. “I’m a spear merchant. I’ve got the best javelins any light-force could wish for. This is great news.”
“I don’t care to meet those tribes,” another merchant countered. “I want to leave right away.”
Many others agreed with him. “Let’s be on our way. Nothing good can come of this.”
“You cannot leave,” shouted Darwiish. “Not now.”
Silence fell. “Why?” asked the merchant who had suggested to leave. “Why can’t we leave?”
“By now, the tribes have seen the cloud and they are converging here from all directions …”
“Which means,” Balid added, “the forward cavalry of the Desert Legions will cut off all routes.”
“But what does it have to do with us?” protested the merchant. “We’ve got nothing to do with it.”
“That’s not how they see it. We were here when the cloud formed. What if we desecrated the lake to prevent the sacrifice from happening? What if we were the cause of their ruin? If they see you leave, they will attack first and ask questions after. That’s the way of the Legions.”
He went around the circle looking every person in the eye. “Your caravans will stay put until the sacrifice has been performed and the tribes depart. As soon as the way is clear, we will resume our journey, but while the tribes are here, stay away from the water. Furthermore, make ready a peace offering to the leader of these tribes, Sheik Khawand Al Elam. That is all for now.”
“What if the sacrifice fails for some reason?” another merchant asked.
“Then you will have to fight for your lives,” Darwiish replied.
“But that’s like a death sentence,” someone stammered. “We haven’t done anything wrong, we’re innocent.”
“Tell th
at to the gods,” Darwiish replied. “If there is a god you worship, then pray that the sacrifice succeeds.”
The travelers dispersed into small groups and returned to their camps while discussing what they had heard. Ahiram waited for everyone to leave, then he walked over to Darwiish.
“Have you seen the signs I drew yesterday?” the old man asked.
“I have,” Ahiram replied. “Those are enchanted dunes, aren’t they?”
“More like cursed. My brother stood on the left dune and I on the right, and my father…” Darwiish’s jaw shook. “He stood in the middle.”
“You’ve been wondering why your brother was taken and not you, right? You feel guilty, don’t you?”
Darwiish looked at Ahiram and smiled sadly. “How did you know?”
Ahiram shrugged his shoulders. He did not want to tell the old man that he had repeatedly asked himself the same question when he learned his village had been destroyed.
“Eventually, I realized that question was not as important as we make it out to be,” Darwiish continued. “I may never know why I was the one to be left behind. All that matters is what my brother would think of me. Would he be proud of me? If he knew what I’ve been up to, would he be pleased with me? Would he understand that I’ve never betrayed him, never forgotten him? I think that’s what matters.”
Ahiram looked up. That’s like my promise to Noraldeen.
“If my brother comes back, I could say to him, ‘Estephan, all my life I have waited for you. I have not left this desert that I hate because I wanted to be here for you.’ In the meantime, I do my best to help others cross this desert safely. I think he would be proud of me.”
Three days later, thousands of tents crowded the outskirts of the oasis. The tribes had arrived, but no one had yet ventured into the oasis. Balid led a delegation of merchants and paid a courtesy visit to Sheik Khawand Al Elam, bringing a camel loaded with gifts that the sheik was graceful enough to accept. He assured the caravan of his protection and his blessing, and added that the tactful travelers should steer away from the water and only use what was absolutely necessary. This, he added, was the rule for the tribes as well. Balid gave the sheik every assurance that the travelers would fully comply with such a just and wise rule, and the merchants left the tent. As they walked back toward their encampment, he saw Sheheluth waving urgently. He sped up and met her halfway.
“Some of the tribesmen spotted your black stallion,” she said. “They want to buy it. I told them that it wasn’t for sale. They laughed and said they wanted to talk to a man. I don’t think they’ll be easily dissuaded.”
“I see. Well, let’s go and see what it would take to convince them.”
Sheheluth pursed her lips and looked at him with an annoyed expression. “Look, Ahiram, this is not the time to cause trouble.”
To Ahiram, the sacrifice of children for water was insufferable. But when he realized that the merchants and caravaners were unperturbed by the children’s fate, and chose to go about their business as usual, the dormant furry within him stirred. It rose like a dark sheen on the horizon of his consciousness, causing his muscles to tense and his jaw to tighten. And now, hearing how a group of men derided a young girl simply because she was a girl ignited his ire, and the storm grew. A mighty wave of anger surged and crashed against his disciplined will. Ahiram stayed it, but his pace quickened and his jaw tensed further. “I don’t cause trouble, Sheheluth,” he snarled, “but if trouble finds me, I’ll gladly oblige.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with me? They’re going to sacrifice children to this demon-spawned lake of theirs, and you’re asking me what’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? All of you? Can’t you see how horrid this is? How wrong this is?”
“What’s gotten into you?” she protested. “Children are the property of their parents. They have no rights until they’re fully grown. They’re like slaves and …” Realizing who she was talking to, she stopped. “I see …”
“Exactly, Sheheluth, exactly.” The storm was currently ready to explode. “Now you know exactly what’s wrong with me.”
He strode away, fists clenched. She ran after him. “Alright, alright, but starting a useless battle won’t right a wrong, don’t you think?”
“I am a Solitary, Sheheluth,” he growled. “I don’t start useless battles. Fall in line and be quiet. I’m not in the mood for your shenanigans.”
As they drew close to Balid’s tent, Ahiram saw three men closely inspecting the black stallion and a fourth one who stood with his arms folded, his left foot tapping impatiently. They all wore the traditional thobe of the Desert Legions, a dark blue tunic with light blue stripes. The garment was more than twice the size of a person, so that when folded over, it provided an aerated surface, well-suited for the harsh desert climate. Embroidered red satin lines covered the wide sleeves, and a red satin scabbard was stitched on the men’s white turbans. All four carried a curved blade and the traditional khanja, a recurved short dagger set in an inlaid silver sheath. The collars of the men inspecting the horse were round and tasseled, indicating they were low-ranking soldiers. The fourth sported a high collar with silver seams, a telltale sign that he was a hashad, equivalent to a general in the Desert Legion military structure. The hashad reported directly to the Amyr—in this case Sheik Khawand—the supreme commander.
“Can I help you?”
Ahiram thought he had spoken in a nonchalant tone. Everyone else felt that he was about to pounce. The three soldiers clenched the hilt of their daggers, but the hashad only smiled.
“You must be the proud owner of this splendid steed?” he asked.
“I am.”
The man bowed and introduced himself, “I am Issam Ben Jureish, Master of the Guards of his Excellency Sheik Khawand Al Elam. I offer to purchase this magnificent horse for my master. Name your price.”
Ahiram bowed in return, “I am Ahiram, personal guard for Master Balid, and the black stallion has been given to me by a most honorable friend. I cannot sell it.”
Issam Ben Jureish bowed once more, “You are a worthy son of your father. Yet the honor of my master demands that this horse be his. He cannot have anything less.”
Ahiram bowed once more. “Your master’s taste honors him and proves he is a man of refined taste. So am I. The stallion is not for sale, and my word is final.”
When Ahiram spoke, Balid winced three time, as if someone had slapped him; his bodyguard had just insulted the hashad—not once, but three times. First, by repeating the word “taste” and not choosing a synonym, he had told the hashad that he was his inferior. When speaking to a superior or equal among the tribes of the desert, one would speak with embellishment and use synonyms to flatter their interlocutor, for flattery was the currency of peace among these tribes. To use the same word twice meant that the interlocutor was not worthy of the speaker. Second, he had told Issam Ben Jureish that the stallion was not for sale, cutting short the negotiation. Ahiram spoke to the sheik’s envoy in the manner one spoke to a servant. Last but not least, he had ordered the sheik to stand down and be satisfied with less than what he, a simple bodyguard, possessed, when he should have at least offered the sheikthe sheik an item of equal value, something the sheik would want to the same degree and tickle his fancy in the same manner. Balid shook his head, finding Ahiram impetuous and reckless.
Issam Ben Jureish bowed stiffly. “In this case, you leave me no choice but to challenge you in a duel. Your champion against my master’s champion. If you win, you get to keep your stallion, and my master abides by your judgment, but if you lose, my master keeps your stallion.”
Ahiram’s eyes flared. He tightened his jaw and felt like giving the man a piece of his mind, something like, “If I win, and I will certainly win, your master will give me his best stallion, and I’ll shave your beard, mix it with spoiled yogurt, and stuff your mouth with it.”
“We accept,” Balid replied hastily.
“We agree to your terms.”
Issam bowed before Balid. “My apologies for the turn of events. I would have preferred a more auspicious outcome, but this impetuous young man did not leave me any choice.”
“I completely agree, Your Grace, he was most impetuous.”
Foosh stood in the tent’s doorway. Making eye contact with Ahiram, she placed her finger in front of her lips.
“Our champion shall be waiting for you in front of the sheik’s tent tomorrow morning at the third hour of the day.”
“I’ll be there,” replied Ahiram. Not waiting, he turned his back to the men and walked away.
Sheheluth caught up with him under the shade of a date tree. “I told you not to start useless fights. What did you just do? You started a useless fight. That was crazy. You could have gotten Balid killed. Those men were seething with rage. What were you thinking? You could have asked Master Balid to offer the sheik an expensive carpet rather than defying his champion.”
Ahiram whirled around so abruptly, she almost crashed into him. He gripped her by the shoulders. “Do you know who Balid is? Do you have any idea who he is?”
“Ahiram, let go of me.” He dropped his hold and stepped back. “A carpet merchant?”
Ahiram gritted his teeth. “He’s the one who sold me into slavery.”
She gasped. “I didn’t know.”
“That’s the thing about you, Sheheluth. You act as if you know everything, but you don’t. He has no qualm negotiating on my behalf with a blood-thirsty tyrant. He can only think of his blasted carpets.”
The Wretched Race (Epic of Ahiram Book 3) Page 51