Harold ran down an alley, searching for Al-Hamid. He searched and searched but didn’t find him. As Harold lost hope, he heard Al-Hamid’s narration again.
I found a hidden corner of a building on a quiet street and sat down to cry. I thanked Allah over and over that I had not been captured. Being a thief was no longer fun. And guards like that meant it was no longer going to be easy. I was shaking from the effort of escaping and soon lay down to sleep.
Out of breath, Harold stopped looking for Al-Hamid and leaned up against a wall. A passerby tripped over Harold’s foot and fell flat on his face.
“Sorry, old man,” said Harold, without even looking at the man.
The man pulled himself up off the ground, brushed himself off, and looked around in anger. He saw someone sitting on the ground against the wall a few feet before Harold. The man went over and started yelling, gesturing, and screaming insults. Harold just watched, and soon the scene faded into black.
The black Arabic letters streamed from Harold’s head and smoothly lay back down on the pages from whence they came.
Harold awoke with a start. He had drooled down his face and onto his shirt. Disgusted, Harold wiped the spittle from his face with the back of his hand and stood up.
“What a dream. It was so real. I even sweated! Figure that?” he said to himself. “Must have been the drool,” he laughed. Then he noticed some small teeth marks on his right hand. The bite marks had not broken the skin, but they were red, throbbing, and dug in far enough to be noticed.
“Hmm, how odd. Just like in my dream, it looks like something bit me.” Harold looked around on his desk, sure the marks were inflicted by some item on it; something a bit sharp might leave such marks if one slept on it for some time. Finding nothing, he shrugged. “If this truly happened in my dream, I’m going to have to be more careful next time,” he mumbled, shaking his hand.
Harold put the pen away and turned off the desk lamp. He wandered down the hall to his bedroom, undressed, put on his sleeping gown, and climbed into a cold bed.
“Brr,” he mumbled as he drifted into a dreamless sleep.
Average
Harold had always felt he was just an average clerk who did not deserve anything better than what he had. He felt he should not complain about his wages or workload because he might be sacked. He also saw that, if he continued without change, he would always be unhappy. He would always be looked upon as nothing other than a clerk. He decided to ask others what they thought about him trying to improve his situation.
The company where Harold worked had a large open area where the clerks had their individual desks. There were several rows of desks, and at the end of each row was a supervisor’s desk. It was a bit larger than a clerk’s desk to show the supervisor’s status. The area had a large ceiling above, which was surrounded by windows to let light into the room. The room would echo the activity going on at each clerk’s desk.
Harold usually went to work each day and arrived exactly on time. Today, he came in a bit early because he knew some of the other clerks gathered for a spot of tea in the corner where a tray holding a pot of hot water, tea, and cups was placed just before the beginning of the workday. He wanted to talk with his colleagues about the possibilities of moving up in the company.
Standing with a group of clerks, Harold looked down into his cup, stirred his tea, and casually asked, “Say, gentlemen, have you ever considered another position in the company? Perhaps moving up to supervisor?”
They laughed.
“What? Harold, why would you want that position? It means more work, more responsibility. You would actually be responsible for keeping everyone busy and answering for all their mistakes. Why not just be as you are? You don’t have to think; all you have to do is what you are told. No more, no less, and you get paid,” said one between sips of his tea.
“Yes, you are quite right,” said Harold, “but our pay is so meager. I could do with a bit of a boost, you know, as I am sure you all could.”
“Right; go ask for more pay or a better position, and they will fire you. Do you want to lose your job?” asked another.
“No, no, I don’t.”
“Then don’t stick your head up. Stay down,” said another. “Look; you are older than the rest of us and have been doing your job for ages. You are just not suited to do anything else. Just keep your nose to what you are doing and keep your job!”
They laughed again, shaking their heads at such preposterous ideas. Then, having finished their tea, they went to their desks to begin the day’s labors.
That was it. Everyone agreed it was risky even to think of trying to get more pay or a better position. Better to stay where you are.
Harold found they would not listen. He felt different and wanted to try to make his life better. He decided to try to force others to see his potential by doing more work, maybe their work, and thus get recognized by the higher ups for his worthiness.
He went to the dispatch desk, which held the day’s tasks, and grabbed some additional work.
“Hey, what are you doing, Harold? Those tasks are for Clarence and Smith, not you!” said the dispatcher as he grabbed the papers back from Harold’s hands. “Here, these are your tasks. Now go back and do your job!”
Harold accepted this rejection, beginning to believe there would be no opportunity to show he was, indeed, worthy and capable of doing more.
When Harold finished his tasks, he went to other clerks and offered to help with their work. “What? No. Go away. Do you want me to lose my job?” was the usual response.
Harold found that no matter how he tried, he was always rejected. He was even accused of trying to steal work and wages from his fellow clerks.
Dejected, Harold spent the rest of his day at his desk, doing only what was asked of him and no more. At the end of the day, he went home, feeling low. To feel better, he decided to go up to his study and write some more of the story given by the pen.
As Harold picked up the pen, he felt a comforting warmth flow through his hand. He felt happy as the pen began writing in Arabic again. He wrote more pages than ever before, still not running out of ink even once.
As sleep began to overwhelm him, he decided to stop writing and put the pen away. He was sure if he did that before he fell asleep, he would not have a dream.
Harold gathered up the pages full of Arabic writing, got up from his desk, and walked over to his green, comfortable, high-backed chair. There, he sat down with the pages and placed them on his lap. He wanted to examine them one at a time to see if he could pick out a pattern or other indication—some code or chant that might be causing the dreams.
Late into the night, he struggled to keep his eyes open.
“No, you don’t, Harold. Keep those eyes open,” he said out loud. He even tried humming. But nothing worked. His eyes closed, his head dropped to his chest, and the pages fell from his hands. They drifted to the floor as Harold began to snore and the clock struck midnight.
The writing on the pages whirled in the air around Harold’s head and penetrated his temple once more.
Hope for a New Life
Harold heard the narration in his head before the white fog cleared from his eyes. He looked up and saw it was night and the stars were shining above in a black velvet sky. There was no moon. He shivered in the cold.
Harold looked around and saw, in the dim light of the stars, Al-Hamid curled up against a wall, hugging his knees.
When I awoke, it was late in the night. I shivered with the cold but got up and made my way to find Jamal.
Harold followed.
I went to the poorest part of the city, where only beggars and thieves slept. I carefully approached a small, smoldering fire, looking for Jamal. However, Jamal was nowhere to be found. Asking around about his whereabouts, I was told he had been caught stealing by a guard with a monkey.
/> I sat down near a low burning fire that was surrounded by sleeping men bundled up against the cold. Lying near the fire, I wept for Jamal, for he was the first friend I’d had in Cairo. I settled in for the remainder of the night, always keeping one eye slightly open, as is the custom when among beggars and thieves.
I was determined to renew my effort to find a better way to live, so I decided to try again to find some work the next day. I soon fell into a deep sleep.
Harold watched Al-Hamid as the white fog again floated over his eyes and then cleared. Harold knew some time had passed. Once again, he saw Al-Hamid and heard him narrate his own story.
At dawn, I got up early and washed and cleaned myself as best I could. I quickly ran for the markets to try again to become a merchant’s assistant. I carefully looked around for the Nubian warrior, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Harold ran with Al-Hamid to the market.
I waited.
So did Harold.
Soon, the merchants awoke, stretching and yawning as they emerged from their stalls. I carefully approached each merchant; they watched me warily.
“Excuse me, sir; I wish to work for my living. Do you have any tasks that I might perform, especially those that are loathsome to you or that tire you much? I am strong and willing to submit myself to your demands. I do not ask for wages, only for a parcel of bread and some water so I may complete the tasks you assign me.”
Several merchants waved me off before I finished my request. Some without even looking my way told me to go. But I did not give up. I proceeded to the next merchant and so on. Little did I know I was being observed by a very wise man. He watched me negotiate with each merchant, working my way around the marketplace.
Harold had settled down on a nearby box to watch Al-Hamid and listen to him tell his story. He saw a well-dressed man with a white beard sitting at a small table sipping a drink, watching Al-Hamid, too. He was concerned this might mean trouble for Al-Hamid.
I finally succeeded in getting a merchant to agree to have me perform some tasks to earn my bread and water wage. I quickly finished the tasks and then sat down to devour my meager meal, for I was starving, but happy.
Harold saw the white-bearded man get up and walk toward Al-Hamid. He did not see him coming. Harold got up, too, and followed, ready to help Al-Hamid if necessary.
As I was about to leave the market, I felt a large hand land on my shoulder. Startled, I turned about to see a tall, turbaned man in flowing, rich robes. He looked me directly in the eyes.
“Come with me, and I will teach you a better way to live,” the man said as he turned and strode away.
My heart leaped with joy and wonder. I raced to catch up with him, not caring that I might be getting into something dangerous. It was exciting.
Harold followed.
We went to a small stall that served coffee and bread with fruit. The bearded man waved for a server and placed an order for us.
Harold sat in a chair at an empty table across from Al-Hamid and the man. A server came by and cleaned the table. He tried to move the chair Harold sat upon but was unable to do so. Try as he might, the chair refused to move. Shrugging his shoulders, the server simply left. Harold continued to listen and watch the two men.
“My name is Jomana Karim,” said the stranger. “I am a merchant of fine and specialized products. What is your name?”
He spoke with such politeness and dignity. Still, wary, I first told him another name.
“I am Mostafa Nour, the son of Hamid Nour, a local merchant.” I said. He looked deeply into my eyes.
“Now, tell me the truth, for surely you know only truth will get you what you want,” he said.
I hung my head and did not say anything for a moment. His words were kind and his eyes soft, so I did not fear him. I decided to tell the truth, and I am so glad I did, for what followed was a new path for me—a path that has led me to where I am today.
“I am Al-Hamid, a street rat, not by choice but by necessity,” I said with my head lowered and my eyes cast down. I did not tell him I was an escaped slave, but I suspect he knew by the scars on my ankle.
“Is this the life you would choose for yourself? If so, I will buy you a meal and bid you be on your way,” he said.
“No,” I said. “My heart desires to be better, to be a merchant or a soldier or an artisan—anything but a street rat. I do not know how I am going to do these things, but I am resolute. I shall be one of these things, and my life shall be better. Jamal, my friend, laughed at me for such dreams and told me to be content with my life the way it is. He said I should not try to be anything else. I cannot do as Jamal advised, for I feel there is so much more, and I am determined somehow to build a better life.” I spoke with a firm voice but with tears in my eyes.
He listened without interrupting. A smile spread across his whiskered face as he watched me babble on and puff out my chest to prove my resolve. Then, the smile left his face as he looked at his cup of tea.
“I already saw that you are a thief and a liar, but I suspect it is only out of necessity. Am I right?” he asked with raised eyebrows.
I shook my head up and down—yes.
“I see you are determined to change your life, find a better path. Are you willing to do anything it takes to do so?”
I shook my head again.
“Can you keep your promises? Are you trustworthy?”
Again, I shook, yes.
He raised his eyes from his cup and looked into my eyes, searchingly. With a deeply serious tone and demeanor, he said, “I am in need of an apprentice, but I do not yet know if you are worthy. I would teach my apprentice my trade, dealing in highly sought-after items. Such an apprentice would eventually become wealthy and be comfortable in old age. Of course, long hours and years of learning are required, but by following my teachings, my apprentice’s future would be assured.”
He looked again at his cup. “But, as I said, I do not know if you are worthy of such a noble pursuit.”
He then took a sip of his tea.
“Sir, I am willing to do whatever it takes to improve myself. I am trustworthy. Jamal can tell you how I kept the secrets of thieving and worked hard to master them. I am honorable. I carried things belonging to Jamal and returned them to him when asked. I keep my promises—”
Stopping me by holding up his hand, he said, “I will devise a test to see if you are worthy. If you pass the test, then I will take you on as my apprentice. The test will be one in which integrity, determination, and compassion will be required. Can you keep your promise? Can you do what you say you will do with determination and compassion? The test will tell the tale of your wiliness and worth, and in turn, it will write the story of your future.”
I nodded, indicating I could pass such a test.
”Then take some silver coins I will give you, and on the next day, promise to appear with the rare fruits I want—fresh and ripe, mind you—at the Plaza Kolamir by dawn and the time of the call for morning prayer.”
The task seemed simple, but it would prove to be one of the most difficult I had ever faced. “Yes, I can do that easily. I promise to appear with the fruit you request by dawn and the morning prayer call, in the Plaza Kolamir,” I said, smiling, thinking I would surely become his apprentice.
With that, he opened a bag and handed me two silver coins and described the fruits he was looking for. “You promise to complete this task?” he again asked seriously.
“I will,” I said, matching his seriousness.
“Until tomorrow, then.”
We got up from the table and bowed to one another. With that, he walked swiftly away as I watched him go.
I couldn’t believe my luck. In my hand were two silver dinars. It was more money than I had seen in a year.
Harold got up so swiftly to follow Al-Hamid that he tipped over his chair. It crashed
to the floor, causing other people to look around at it, puzzled how a perfectly good chair could suddenly topple over and crash to the floor.
Harold did not notice and followed Al-Hamid.
True Determination
I slept that night by myself, in a place I felt safe. I struggled not to spend the coins entrusted to me. I fought myself to do as I promised. I had to keep the real reward—a better life—in mind. I knew spending the coins would surely doom me to be a street rat for the rest of my life.
Harold’s eyes cleared once more. He found himself watching Al-Hamid get up from his sleep and prepare for the day. Harold followed him.
In the morning, I got up very early, hours before dawn. I wanted to find the particular fruits Jomana had requested. I went to a farmer’s market as it was opening. I went from booth to booth searching for each one. The fruits were expensive, so I used all my haggling skills to meet the challenge.
“Good morning, sir. I see you have rare fruit for sale,” I said to a merchant.
“Yes, my young master. I have the best in the market!” he replied.
“Well, I don’t know about that. I have seen better fruit across the plaza,” I said, holding a piece of the exact fruit I wanted.
“No, no, you are mistaken. You have not really looked closely. See, no marks or bruises on my fruit. Only fresh, ready to eat!” he said, waving his hands across the rare fruits set in small baskets on his tables.
“What are you asking for on about three of these?” I said, nodding toward the bushels.
“The very rare fruit you are holding is at a bargain price of only one silver dinar each.”
“Oh, so you are trying to sell me this rotten fruit for a dinar when this is only worth a quarter of a dinar, if that!”
“No, no, my young master. I only quoted the standard market price. For you, I will give you my best price—half a dinar!”
The Pen- Sultan's Wisdom Page 5