The Pen- Sultan's Wisdom

by Dennis Galloway

  Harold looked up from the translation, eyes wide with wonder. He shook his head, blinked a few times, and looked down at the translation to read it again.

  “The translation appears to be authentic, but strange,” he said to himself. What is this? he thought. Perhaps a trick of my mind?

  He pushed the papers away and took a deep breath.

  Should I tell someone about this? No. They might think I was making all of it up. Maybe even think I’m insane. No, I better keep this to myself for now, he thought.

  Harold pulled out his pocket watch and saw it was late. As he was looking at his watch, the door to the room opened and Miss Robertson, the librarian, poked her head into the room.

  “Excuse me, sir, but the library is closing. You’ll have to return later, I’m afraid,” she said with a smile.

  “Oh, thank you. Yes, it’s been a very productive day, but I shall return to do more, uh, research. Perhaps tomorrow if the room is available?” Harold said, admiring Priscilla’s beautiful smile.

  “Yes, the room is available. Please do come and make use of it. So few do,” Priscilla said, looking into his eyes.

  “All right, tomorrow then,” Harold said, gathering up his papers and placing them carefully in his briefcase. He stood up and walked around the desk toward the door. Priscilla still held it open.

  As Harold crossed the threshold, he misjudged the arc of his brief, clipped the door frame, and stumbled as he and Priscilla were inches apart.

  Harold recovered without falling, only slightly brushing against Priscilla’s forearm and shoulder as she stood in the doorway, awkwardly, one arm outstretched, poised on one toe, off balance, holding the door.

  But a glancing touch was enough. Harold felt a rush of warmth run through him. And so did Priscilla.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “No harm, no foul,” Priscilla said with a slightly goofy smile.

  “Um, tomorrow then,” Harold said, as he waved with his free hand and walked quickly toward the front entrance.

  Harold was all nerves. He wasn’t sure what that warmth rushing through him was all about, but he liked it—indeed, he liked it very much.

  “Yes, tomorrow!” Priscilla called after him, her cheeks “all a blush” as they say. She hadn’t felt this way in a very long time.

  On the Lamb

  Harold got home, had a quick supper, and then went immediately up to his study to begin writing. The Arabic script started flowing from the pen again as the story continued.

  Harold wrote late into the night and soon found his hand aching and his eyelids starting to get heavy. He put the pen down and rested his head on his folded arms on the desk. His snoring filled the room as the clock struck midnight. The words his pen had written began to lift off the pages and whirl around his head. They then dove down at his temple and slipped inside his head.

  The fog around Harold’s eyes began to clear. He found himself in a dark street off an alley, with dim white walls reaching up to a narrow slit of a dark sky filled with stars above him. He felt cold, and goosebumps arose on his skin. Looking around, Harold saw the young slave boy shivering in the dark up against one of the walls. The boy did not see Harold but was staying low and casting his eyes about as if he were afraid.

  Then Harold heard a voice. It spoke in a strange, yet familiar language. Harold had heard this voice before. As he concentrated, he began to understand what the voice was saying. The boy did not seem to hear the words. Harold felt he was observing just like in his last dream, but he could feel the cold of the night, and his feet could feel the stones of the street he was standing on. He watched as the narration continued.

  The darkness surrounded me as I melted into the shadows of the alley. I crept along one side of the street, stopping, crouching, and looking around to see if I was followed. I heard only the crickets of the night.

  I stumbled over a heap of dark rags that uttered curses at me as I apologized and crept farther down the street. I wanted to put as much distance between me and my master as possible that night. I never wanted to be enslaved again.

  As Harold followed the boy closely, he accidentally stepped on a hand that stuck out from the pile of rags.

  “Ahh,” came a muffled groan from under the pile of rags. “You stupid camel spawn.”

  “Sorry,” said Harold, as he moved on. A sleepy head with an angry look emerged from the rags and looked around for Harold. Seeing no one, it disappeared into the rags, perhaps thinking the encounter was just a dream—but what did “Sar-ree” mean?

  Al-Hamid continued.

  The stars above guided my steps all night long. The wandering street drove deeper into Cairo, passing plaza after plaza. Each had merchant stalls around the edges that were tightly covered. As I passed each stall, I could hear snoring or shuffling from inside as the merchants, or maybe their indentures, turned on their bedding restlessly.

  Finally, I stopped, slid down a wall, and sat to rest for a while. I looked up over the rooftops and saw the stars fading as the dawn approached. Smiling, I was happy, but very afraid at the same time.

  Harold stopped also, and sat down next to the boy, confident that he could not be seen.

  “I am free. I am free,” rang in my mind over and over. I could hardly believe it. I have had this dream many times. I pinched myself to be sure this was not just my imagination, but real.

  “Ouch!” I said out loud as I pinched the back of my arm.

  A pile of dirty rags I was sitting next to suddenly sat straight up. A turban-covered head popped out and looked around until it saw me. A toothy smile swept across its young face.

  I jumped up, ready to run.

  Harold, startled, also jumped up.

  “No, wait!” said the smiling head.

  An arm poked out of the pile of rags just beneath the head and a skinny hand gripped my arm.

  “Wait, my friend! I won’t harm you. I am Jamal, an adventurer, thief by trade, street rat by necessity. All of Cairo is mine, and I can be your guide,” Jamal said, eyes and smile shining out of his dirty face.

  Jamal stood up, transforming the dirty pile of rags into a young man about my age. His attitude was friendly and warm. His smile was so genuine that my legs relaxed from preparing to run, and I just looked into his face. His hand let go of my arm, but his smile remained.

  “Who are you, my friend?” asked Jamal. “It is customary to introduce oneself, is it not, when greeted?”

  I stood and introduced myself. “I am Al-Hamid,” I stammered.

  “Oh, I see. Nice to meet you, Al-Hamid,” said Jamal as he bowed, moving his hands from his waist to his heart and to his head.

  I returned the greeting. He made me feel like I had a chance.

  Jamal looked at my old, torn clothes and saw the iron shackle on my ankle. His eyes grew wide. He quickly grabbed my arm and shoved me down as he covered the iron with some of the rags from his pile.

  Sitting next to me, Jamal said, “My friend, I see you have recently gained your freedom. You are in need of a new occupation, yes?”

  Startled, I looked at him like he was a wise man. Yet, it was a simple observation on his part—an iron shackle with a short length of chain attached was commonly used to secure slaves. I started to get up to run, but his grip on my arm was strong, and he again forced me down and covered my shackle.

  “Listen, my friend, if anyone sees that,” he said, pointing at the shackle, “they will take you back to your master for the reward. I will not do that, for I, too, was a slave at one time. I understand the fright and panic going through your mind right now. Come with me and let us get rid of the grip your master still has on you.”

  With that said, Jamal tied rags around my shackle, grabbed my hand, stood up, and pulled me up with him.

  “Follow me,” he whispered, as he took off at a fast pace.

  A
s Harold followed the boys down the dark street, the narration ceased and Harold’s vision began to darken.

  Harold’s head was still lying on his folded arms as the swirl of words emerged from his head and settled back down on the pages they had come from.

  Slowly, Harold awoke, lifted his head, and rubbed his neck. His head hurt, and he was stiff all over.

  “You did it again, old boy,” he said to himself. “Fell asleep and had a dream. Or was it? I felt as if I were really somewhere. Hmm, must have been the eggs I had for dinner.”

  Harold heard the clock tick and looked up to see it was about two in the morning. “Well, get yourself to bed. You’ve got to get up soon and get to work,” Harold said, feeling a bit foolish to be chatting away to an empty room.

  Harold got up and stretched his arms above his head. He turned off the desk lamp and shuffled off to bed, thinking no more about his dream.

  Freedom

  The morning sunshine broke through the almost closed curtains in Harold’s bedroom. A sunbeam fell across his eyes, causing him to blink at the brightness.

  Harold got up out of his bed. His feet touched the cold floor and he automatically jumped up as his eyes popped open, fully awake. He quickly donned some cozy slippers, stood up, and put on a robe, shivering the whole time.

  “Cold, cold, brrr,” he said out loud as his breath created some puffs of white vapor.

  Harold did not like getting up early. He preferred to stay in his cozy, warm bed. However, he had to go into work every morning, so he had no choice. He went down the stairs and shuffled over to the cold coal stove. He opened the small door and poked around with a metal poker, looking for embers. He blew on the few glowing chunks he found until they were bright red; then he put some new coal on top. He blew on the coals until they caught fire. He closed the small door, put away the poker, and savored the warmth that now flowed to his hands as he rubbed them over the stove. He put on a kettle of water for tea and retrieved a small pot of water to boil his wheat cereal for breakfast.

  When breakfast was ready, Harold sat down at a small table. As he ate his breakfast, he began to think about the story of Al-Hamid unfolding in his mind.

  He felt empathy for the poor slave boy. He, too, had felt enslaved by an uncaring master for so long—not being free to do as he wished, but only as directed. He felt punished if he did not perform well at work, just like the slave boy. He yearned for freedom, too. He wanted to cut the shackles that bound him to his job.

  Harold went off to work in a sleepy daze. After another boring day at work, he hurried home, ate a quick dinner, then rushed upstairs to his study to write more with the pen.

  He wrote quite a few pages this time, amazed that he never seemed to run out of ink. As it grew late, he began to feel tired. As his eyelids closed on their own, he half-hoped sleep would bring another dream of…what Jamal had called him…Al-Hamid. Harold was not disappointed. He laid the pen back in its case on the desk, thought about heading to his bed, then just folded his arms on the desktop and laid his head down on them. Soon he was asleep. The words on the paper once again lifted into the air, swirled around his head, and entered by his left temple as the wall clock struck midnight.

  Harold found himself in a dark alley. He saw Al-Hamid running. He followed, struggling with the pace. The narration continued quietly in his head, and he easily understood.

  We wandered farther down the street, then ducked down a side path that was barely a body’s width wide. It wound around and up and down. We leaped over piles of rags and other obstacles strewn across our path. The smells were horrible, like a sewer that had aged in the hot sun. I covered my nose and mouth with one of my hands to keep from getting sick as we traveled farther on. Suddenly, the small alley ended, and we poured out onto a broad street. It was filled edge to edge, between high buildings, with people going and coming with their carts, donkeys, and bundles. All pushed against one another if someone slowed or got in their way. We plunged into the crowd and weaved our way down the street.

  Harold entered the crowd right behind Al-Hamid, almost touching him, bumping into some people without being seen, even when he apologized for doing so.

  “Excuse me, excuse me.”

  With each encounter, the person bumped blamed the nearest person for being so rude. No one seemed to see Harold, but he had a physical presence—he could feel and be felt.

  Above the throng, you could hear the call to morning prayers from a man in a high tower above the city.

  Already the day was hot and dusty. Jamal stopped in front of a very old building and looked up at the man in the high tower calling for morning prayers. He then looked to his right and saw another small walkway that led beside the building. He grabbed my hand, dragging me into the dark shadow of the building, down a narrow, winding path. Thankfully, it was noticeably cleaner and cooler here. No bad smells. As we went farther down the path, I could hear the clang of steel on steel and smell smoke from a charcoal fire. The path soon ended, and Jamal stopped. We had reached the end of the path at the edge of the building, and he turned to look at me.

  “Wait here while I negotiate your freedom from that shackle. Don’t emerge from the shadow of this building until I come for you. Understand?”

  I nodded my head and sat down, exhausted. Jamal let go of my hand, turned, and left me.

  Harold sat down next to Al-Hamid, exhausted from the effort of keeping up with him and Jamal.

  Incredibly, he could smell the smoke from the charcoal fire.

  Jamal emerged from the shadow of the building and slipped neatly into the small, cobblestoned yard of an ironsmith’s shop.

  The clang of steel on steel was loud now, and the charcoal smoke was strong. “Greetings, my friend, the great Kassinee, the best iron smith in all of Cairo. How have you been?” said Jamal over the pounding and bellows as he bowed deeply and greeted the smith with a flourish of moving hands.

  The clang of steel on steel stopped. A gruff, deep, booming voice replied, “Jamal! Why you little street rat, where have you been? I have had need of some special supplies!”

  “I am always happy to help my friend Kassinee! What is it that you seek but have been unable to find?”

  Kassinee recited a long list of hard-to-find items, and Jamal commented on each one as if he alone knew where it could be found. Jamal haggled fiercely over each item until a bargain was struck. Then, relaxing, he casually said, “I know you are the strongest and best ironsmith in all of Cairo, but I have heard disturbing news that another also claims to be the best.”

  Jamal studied his fingernails.

  “What!” roared Kassinee. “What son of a goat would say such things? I am the best there is!” He slammed his hammer onto the anvil with a resounding clang.

  “Yes, yes, I know,” said Jamal, “but the rumor is very strong, and I am beginning to believe—”

  “No, you must not!” bellowed Kassinee. “Why do you doubt me? Have I not dealt with you fairly in all things? Why don’t you believe me when I say I am the best?”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt you believe you are the best,” said Jamal, without looking at Kassinee, “but I, on the other hand, haven’t seen you do anything really difficult that requires precision and craft in a long time. I have only seen you making shoes for horses, repairing shields, or fixing chains.”

  Kassinee swiftly reached out his huge hand and gripped Jamal about the throat, lifting him off the ground.

  “What are you saying to me, street rat? That I am a rude simpleton with a big hammer? That I am without craft, without cleverness in my art?”

  “No, no, no.” Jamal’s words squeezed out as he struggled against Kassinee’s strong grip. “Only, I haven’t seen anything recently that you’ve done.”

  “Oh,” said Kassinee with narrowed eyes as he released Jamal’s neck. Jamal fell to the ground.

  “I haven’t s
een you do something really special in a long time,” Jamal said, rubbing his neck.

  “It is true you have not seen my work recently, but I assure you, I am still the best!” growled Kassinee, looking at Jamal a bit meekly.

  “I am sure you are,” said Jamal, “but if you could indulge an old friend with a test of your cleverness, I am sure you could prove to me you are the best.”

  “A test? Yes, give me a test, and I will show you how good I am!” boomed Kassinee, pounding a fist on his huge barrel chest.

  “I will provide for you the most difficult test I can devise. A test of cleverness, strength, and accuracy that only a master could perform. If you could show me then what a master you are, I would be happy to announce it to all of Cairo.”

  “Yes, yes, bring me the test. Now!” yelled Kassinee.

  Jamal left Kassinee to go over to where I was sitting in the shadow of the building near the ironsmith’s yard. He grabbed my hand and whispered, “Don’t be afraid, and do exactly as I or Kassinee say, or your foot will be crushed.”

  I started to pull away from Jamal, but he dragged me into the yard and toward Kassinee.

  Harold sat where he was and watched.

  “Here is the test I have devised for you, my clever friend,” Jamal told Kassinee while holding my hand in a firm grip. “Look to his ankle and see how tightly the bracelet fits. To test your skill as the best ironsmith in all of Cairo, you must cleave off the shackle with one blow, without cleaving off the foot as well. Do you think you are up to the challenge? Are you master of your trade? Are you the Kassinee I know and have bragged about all around Cairo?”

  “I am the greatest! I take your challenge and laugh at this simple test,” said Kassinee as Jamal handed me over to him. Kassinee gripped my arm with his huge hand. He lifted me off the ground and sat me down on the anvil. Then he stretched my leg out along the anvil and held it in place with one large hand.