The Pen- Sultan's Wisdom

by Dennis Galloway

  Dear Mr. H. Duncan,

  You have been put forward with a glowing recommendation from one of your former colleagues, the most respected, Mr. R. Fraser. Therefore, we want to invite you to interview for a position with our company. The interviews are at our headquarters in Glasgow on the 14th of the month. We are seeking a senior clerk for our new office in East Edinburgh. The pay is generous and includes holidays..

  Please arrive at our offices in Glasgow on Friday, the 14th, at 9 a.m. sharp.

  Sincerely,

  Mr. P. Jones

  Liberty Publishing

  36 St. Vincent Place

  Glasgow

  Harold reread the letter five times. Each time, his eyes grew wider and wider. His heart raced; tears welled up in his eyes.

  He jumped up from the table, tipped the cup over, and spilled his tea. He danced around in circles, holding the letter up high over his head.

  “Woohoo! Lord, I thank thee most heartily! What a blessing!”

  Harold looked at the letter again and realized the interview was tomorrow. He had much to do!

  He raced upstairs to shave off the two-day old beard, find a clean shirt, and the best suit he had. He inspected both for any spot of soil or wear. He darned the holes in his socks and polished his shoes. He was whistling a happy tune for the remainder of the day.

  Harold looked at the drawing of himself as a clerk at a publishing house and decided to continue each day with more enthusiasm to visualize and feel the words describing his new life.

  “I have an interview! I have an interview!” he told himself. He knew he would get that job; he felt it in his heart.

  After dinner, he went to bed, but he could hardly sleep. So, he decided to get up out of bed, go to his study, pick up the pen, and let the script flow, continuing Al-Hamid’s life story.

  Welcome to the Council

  Harold could hear Al-Hamid narrating his story but he, himself, wasn’t present in any of it yet.

  The next several years were growth years for me. I learned the art and weapons of war, particularly the curved, single edge saif. I learned to ride horses, fast and low if necessary, in an attack mode. I learned hunting skills that I proved to be very good at. I learned the art of survival in the desert, particularly how to find water.

  I helped Abbas and his tribe grow in wealth by obtaining more camels, horses, tents, better clothes, and other items the tribe used in its wanderings. The chief watched me grow in the tribe, becoming respected by all except one of his sons, Beshar. Beshar noticed with jealousy how adept I was at the skills he lacked. He also noticed Abbas smiling at me when I did well.

  Beshar told his brothers that Abbas liked me as a favored son, and jealousy raised its ugly head. Abbas’ sons began to shun me, riding their camels away from me when we traveled to a new territory. I tried to stay friendly with them, and a few responded in kind, but not all.

  When I was in my twentieth year, one day Abbas had a great tent erected in the center of our camp. A great feast was prepared for all who would attend. It was evident he was preparing to issue some official announcement or edict.

  Everyone cleaned themselves up and wore their best clothes. The tribal council wore its special adornments and clean sandals. People crowded into the large tent and settled into places around the edges, keeping the center open.

  Harold’s eyes cleared. He was standing in the large tent, with many people eating and drinking, celebrating something. He could smell the cooking lamb and spices in the air. He could see Abbas in the center of the tent, sitting on some large cushions with his sons and Al-Hamid sitting near him.

  Food, extra oils, and refreshing sharbat to soothe our thirsty throats were set out. At this gathering, the tribe was celebrating our abundance and the great fortune we had in the previous year. Abbas was very pleased and smiling broadly at his tribe, enjoying the festivities. Suddenly, he stood up and, with emotion in his voice, made an announcement.

  “It is not often that a man has a chance to welcome a new son to his family, especially as old as I am. I, today, officially adopt Al-Hamid Akbar as my son.”

  With that, everyone clapped and cheered.

  Abbas had officially made me one of his sons. The news was met with frowns from the sons born to him. While I had grown to love the old man, I declined the adoption. However, he insisted and so it was done.

  Bashar swore my death would come soon.

  The scene changed. Harold saw a small gathering of men, late at night, in a smaller tent. They were drinking herbal tea and talking quietly. Near the end of the tent, on a large cushion, sat Abbas.

  At one particular meeting of the tribal council, Abbas spoke about me.

  “You all know of Al-Hamid Akbar. I have seen him learn skills very swiftly and become a true warrior. He has advanced this tribe with his knowledge freely given to obtain what we need to survive and prosper. He has shown shrewdness in negotiations and cunning in dealing with other tribes.

  “He has expressed to me his desire to stay with our tribe and adopt us as his family.

  “Because of all of this, and because he has knowledge we need to be strong and fruitful, I propose we admit him as a member to the tribal council.”

  Almost all of the council members nodded in agreement, and a low murmur arose quickly.

  Members turned to one another, discussing the proposal.

  Bashar was furious. Rising to his feet, he said to the other council members, “I do not believe it is good to give an outsider such power. Why should a desert foundling gain so much authority in our tribe? Are we going to reward anyone who does a few good things with a seat at the council? I say no!”

  Abbas was taken aback by Bashar’s words, but he said to the other council members, “Bashar has his opinion, but let us look at these few good things Al-Hamid has done. Has he not given of himself to our tribe without asking anything in return? Has he not given us wisdom in our trading so that we have gained much from our goods? Has he not always carried out tasks given him without complaint? Has he not been honest in his trades? Has he not gained the respect of others through his deeds and actions? These are not small things but speak to the character of a person. Such character should be welcomed on our council. It would be wise for us to take advantage of such giving and knowledge so that the tribe may benefit. Is that not the resolve of every member on the council?” Abbas stared at Bashar, daring him to challenge him on this matter.

  Bashar stared back, then turned suddenly on his heels and left the tent in a fury.

  Abbas called for a vote, and I was admitted to the council. Bashar swore he would get rid of me and began to plan my demise.

  Harold saw the anger in Bashar’s eyes and heard his mumbling, swearing oaths as he left the tent, brushing by Harold closely. The men around the tent shook their heads at seeing Bashar’s anger. Abbas simply ignored his son’s fury and clapped Al-Hamid on the back, welcoming him to the council. The men then turned to council business as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  Harold’s vision blurred again, and when it cleared, he found himself in a tent with Abbas and Al-Hamid. They were talking quietly.

  Often, Abbas invited only me to his evening meals, where we discussed business and life’s adventures.

  As not all tribes get along, there were many skirmishes over access to a wadi, trade goods, and hunting areas.

  One evening, over a wonderful dinner, I related to Abbas one of my fears.

  “Abbas, I fear I may be killed in battle,” I said, looking down at my half-finished meal. Abbas put down his bread and looked at me.

  “Let me tell you about thinking you may die in battle or suffer a great loss or even just fail at some mundane task,” he said. “If you think you will be killed in battle, then you will be. But if you think you will be victorious, then you will be victorious.” He picked up his bread, looked at it, and
took a bite.

  I looked at him with a questioning expression.

  Abbas swallowed, took another bite of bread, chewed slowly, swallowed again, then putting the bread down, licked his fingers. Then he looked at me and said, “The great Universe has rules, and one of these is: As you think you are, then so shall you be.”

  He looked at me while I thought about what he had said. He saw the spark in my eye when I finally got it. I nodded my head, yes, in understanding, and he just smiled, feeling he had passed on to me a great truth—which he had, indeed, done.

  After that, I began to think I was brave, strong, and would be victorious in battle, untouched by my enemies. I found that when I thought I was brave, I behaved differently. I stood up tall. I held my head high. My fear disappeared. My vision cleared. I became the brave man I thought about. And so it was. In battles, I was swift and defeated my enemies with ease. My valor was celebrated by the tribe. I became the great warrior I wanted to be. However, my greatest challenge was about to arrive.

  Harold’s dream began to fade, and as it did, his last thought was, I’ve got to remember this wisdom.

  Glasgow

  The dawn broke clear and bright. Harold woke with a start, the smile from last night still on his face. He quickly grabbed a piece of paper and wrote down: The great Universe has rules, and one of these is, as you think you are, then so shall you be.

  Harold ran down the hall to his bath, quickly washed and shaved, and got ready to go.

  “I have an interview today! I have an interview today!” he sang loudly as he ran to his bedroom to dress. He bound down the stairs, grabbed a bit of day-old bread, and stuffed it in his coat pocket. He ran down the hall toward the front door, put on his hat and coat, grabbed the doorknob, and threw open the door with a bang. He quickly stepped through, turned, closed the door with a slam, locked it, and ran down the street toward the train station.

  The air was filled with the chill of the coming winter. Harold bumped and jostled his way through the crowd of people already moving about. Everyone was bundled up against the cold, and their breath could be seen huffing and puffing, rising in great clouds of steam as they hustled to their daily tasks.

  The Hayward train station loomed ahead. Harold crossed the wide boulevard, dodging carriages and other vehicles, and wove his way through to safety. He merged into the crowd streaming past the doors and into the train station itself.

  The station was not large, and it was always overwhelmed with travelers. Built to accommodate the few rail lines in Scotland, the station was swarming with hundreds of travelers carrying luggage, umbrellas, packages, and other items. The noise was tremendous. Trains were waiting at their platforms with steam pouring forth from between the wheels, and great billows rose to the sky. Every now and then, a steam whistle would sound, announcing an impending departure. People were yelling, shoving, waving their hands, and generally in a panic as they crammed onto the platform, waiting to board the trains. The great rush was on. It was pandemonium.

  Harold walked into the station as he was jostled and pushed by travelers in a hurry to board a waiting train. He slowed his pace, pulled out his pocket watch, and glanced up at the schedule board.

  “Glasgow, track 2, 7:00 a.m. departure,” Harold read.

  “Get out of the way!” yelled a passerby, staring menacingly at Harold.

  “Oh, sorry,” said Harold, tipping his hat. He then glanced down at his watch.

  “Oh, my, it’s 6:45!” Harold began to push and jostle others to get to the ticket line.

  Because the station was small, one had to wait in long lines for a ticket to anywhere. Harold promptly got into such a line and impatiently waited his turn.

  Harold spoke over the shoulder of the man in front of him in the line. “Sir, please hurry; my train leaves in less than fifteen minutes!”

  “Oh, push off, mate; mine leaves in ten!”

  Finally, with minutes to spare, Harold stepped up to the ticket clerk, who appeared to be as old as the station itself.

  “One round trip ticket to Glasgow please. And please hurry!” said Harold in a rush.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” the clerk said as he fumbled with the ticket drawer. “Hmm, seems to be stuck,” he mumbled.

  “Please hurry,” Harold repeated.

  A train whistle blew its shrill tune.

  The old clerk finally got the drawer unstuck and pulled out the two tickets Harold needed, but he promptly dropped them on the floor.

  “Oh, my,” he said as he bent down to retrieve them.

  The train whistle blew once more, insisting that all who wanted to go board immediately.

  “Hurry!” Harold blurted out.

  “Here you are; that will be three shillings, please,” said the clerk as he shoved the tickets under the window bars toward Harold.

  Harold grabbed the tickets, tossed a five shilling coin to the clerk, turned, and ran to track two and the waiting train.

  “Sir, don’t you want your change?” called the clerk. Harold did not hear him but was at a full run.

  The Glasgow train blew one more whistle and started to move, slowly.

  People were still running toward the train, coming alongside, and hopping on through an open stairwell. Harold was among them.

  He increased his pace, got in front of some others, and jumped onto the train.

  He quickly walked down the train car and found an open seat. He squeezed in between two large, wheezing, sweating men dressed in business suits. It was obvious they, too, had scrambled aboard at the last moment.

  “Thank you; excuse me; thank you,” Harold said as he settled in his small space. He was on his way. He was smiling ear to ear.

  As the train slowed to arrive at Glasgow station, Harold glanced at his pocket watch. “Half past eight! Oh, my!”

  He leaped from his seat and squeezed himself past the large gentlemen. “Excuse me; sorry.”

  People were already standing in the train’s aisle, holding their umbrellas, boxes, briefcases, and other items, ready to get off the train when it finally came to a halt. Harold had pushed his way to the front of the car and stood near the door, anxious to depart.

  When the train stopped in the small station, Harold and a whole host of people jumped off and rushed through the station, soon creating a bottleneck as they swarmed the exit, weaving through a large crowd flowing into the station to get on a train.

  Harold emerged from the station and went to the outside curb in hopes of grabbing a cab to get him to the interview. He was surrounded by others trying to do the same thing.

  “Cabbie!” came the shouts, while umbrellas or hands waved in the air.

  Harold wasn’t having any luck. As soon as a cab approached, someone pushed past him, leaped onboard, and went away in a hurry.

  Determined to get a cab, Harold sprinted across the boulevard to the far side of the curb. He could see better now and spotted a cabbie coming in fast. Harold ran alongside, grabbed the cab door, opened it, and swung into the cab, shouting the address to the driver. “Thirty-six St. Vincent Place, and hurry!” Harold said as he slammed the door behind him and sat down.

  The driver nodded, stepped on the gas, and away they went in a blur. Harold looked at his watch again.

  “Eight minutes to! Oh, my!” Worried he would not make the interview on time, Harold sat on the edge of his seat.

  The cabbie pulled up in front of a building with huge letters on the façade spelling out Liberty Publishing. Harold leaped from the cab, tossing the cabbie the fare, ran up the front stairs to the door of the building, and entered the lobby.

  As Harold entered, he looked around, trying to decide what to do next. He spotted a person sitting behind a small counter in the middle of the lobby. The man was reading the local paper and did not notice Harold.

  Harold rushed up to the man.

>   “Excuse me, sir; I have an interview at nine. Can you direct me?”

  The man slowly looked up from his paper, collapsed it down on the desk, and said, “Well, let’s see; you can go to room ten down the hall on the right. Or you can go upstairs to room twenty-two and inquire there, or you can go farther upstairs to room thirty-six, where I think new interviewees go.”

  Harold was already climbing the stairs two at a time.

  “Thank you!” he yelled over his shoulder as he ran up the stairs.

  He ran down the hall on the third floor to room thirty-six. He grabbed the knob and swung the door open. At the same time, the hall clock began to chime nine o’clock. As he entered the room, he was shocked at what he saw. It stopped him in his tracks. His mouth hung open at the sight.

  Sitting on benches lined up against both walls were at least fifty people. Everyone was sitting quietly, in their own thoughts, or reading a paper, or mouthing in silence some words, perhaps what they planned to say in the interview.

  As Harold stood in the doorway, another door across the room at the head of the benches opened. A woman stepped through, holding papers in one hand while keeping her other hand on the doorknob.

  “Harold Duncan. Is there a Harold Duncan here?”

  Harold shook his head to clear it from staring at the benches lined with people. “Yes, yes. I am here,” he said calmly.

  “Is Harold Duncan here!” the woman shouted.

  “Here!” shouted Harold in return, raising his hand and waving.

  “You don’t have to shout. A simple ‘yes’ will suffice,” the woman said, frowning.

  “Sorry,” said Harold.

  “Come this way, please,” said the woman as she turned back to the open door. She held it open for Harold, pointing the way with the papers.