When the Akar left the Tel, would Zohra come with him? There was some astonishment among the Akar that Khardan had not taken another wife, since he had now fulfilled the god’s wish and married Akhran’s chosen. Several fathers had hinted openly that they had daughters available, and though modesty and tribal custom forbade the girls from making known their interest in the handsome Calif openly, they never failed in any opportunity to cross his path, peeping at him from above their veils.
Khardan ignored the hints and the sidelong glances. Akar gossip finally agreed that he did not want to grant his Hrana woman any increase in power by providing her with a harem— traditionally a stronghold of magic—over which she, as head wife, would rule.
Khardan let them think what they liked, perhaps even accepting this reason himself for his lack of interest in other women. There were times, however, when he admitted to himself that the eyes of the sparrow were dull and lackluster after one has looked into the fiery black eyes of the hawk.
Could one live with the hawk? Yes, if she were tamed. . . .
Closing his eyes, listening to the rain, Khardan smelled again the scent of jasmine and felt the touch of her fingers, soft and light, against his skin.
Zohra, hearing the monotonous dripping of the rain spilling from the folds of the tent’s strong fabric, imagined it nourishing the Rose of the Prophet, tried to imagine the ugly cactus bearing a beautiful flower.
She herself wondered at Khardan’s refusal to take another wife. Deep within, some wayward part of her was glad—the same part that persisted, during the long nights, in remembering the warmth of his smooth skin beneath her fingertips, the play of strong muscles across his back and shoulders as he had lain beside her in their bed on their wedding night.
She had won her victory, she had inflicted on this proud warrior his one and only defeat. That would be a memory to treasure all her life, something between the two of them that neither could ever forget. He had accepted his defeat with grace, she had to admit. Perhaps it was now up to her to accept her victory in the same way?
Her hand closed over the hilt of the dagger she kept beneath her pillow. Drawing it out, she gently pressed her lips against it, closed her eyes, and smiled.
The next day, just as suddenly as it started, the rain ended. The sun appeared. The desert burst into life.
The fronds of the date palm stirred in a mild breeze that bore with it the scents of the wild desert blossoms, lacy tamarisk, and sweet-smelling sage. The horses nibbled tender sweet grasses that sprang up around the oasis. Newborn foals staggered about awkwardly on unsteady legs as mothers looked on with pride, while some of the younger stallions forgot their newly acquired dignity and gamboled like colts.
That morning the Hrana and the Akar, led by their Sheykhs, eagerly gathered around the Tel. Pointing and shouting, the people began to sing hymns of praise to Akhran. Although the Rose of the Prophet had not bloomed with the rains, the cacti had turned green, their fleshy leaves and stems swelling with life. Many among both tribes swore they could actually seen the budding of blossoms. Khardan glanced at Zohra. Zohra, catching his gaze, lowered her eyes, a flush staining her face a dusky rose, more beautiful than any desert flower.
The djinn Sond watched the two of them intently, cast a grim glance at the Rose of the Prophet, and disappeared.
As Jaafar was returning to his tent, rubbing his hands with glee and already preparing for his tribe’s imminent departure, he noticed someone falling into step beside him on his righthand side.
“Congratulations, my Sheykh, on so fortunate an occurrence,” the man said.
“Thank you,” Jaafar responded, wondering who this fellow tribesman was. He could not see his face, hidden by the haik, though he thought the voice sounded vaguely familiar. “Give praise to our Wandering God.”
“Praise be to Akhran,” the man said obediently, bowing his head. “I presume we will be leaving soon, returning to our flocks in the hills?”
“Yes,” said Jaafar, still attempting to place this person, unwilling to risk insulting him by asking his name. Trying to get a closer look at the man’s face without seeming to do so, the Sheykh increased his pace to gain a step or two on the man, peering back at him. This didn’t work, however. The man eagerly quickened his steps and popped around to come up unexpectedly on his Sheykh’s left.
“Eh?” said Jaafar, astonished, turning to talk to the man on his right, only to find him gone.
“Here, my Sheykh.”
“Oh, there you are. What was it you were saying? Something about leaving—”
“Yes, my Sheykh. And after having lived with these horse people for so long, an idea has struck me. Wouldn’t it be an excellent thing to have horses of our own? How much simpler guarding the sheep would be if we did it on horseback! How much better to have horses to drive off the wolf in the night. And other enemies besides the wolf,” the man added in a low voice, with a sidelong glance at the Akar’s side of the camp.
“What an interesting idea,” began Jaafar, turning to his left only to find the man on his right again. “Where? Oh! I—I didn’t you see move around.” The Sheykh was becoming increasingly rattled.
“Then, too”—the man’s voice dropped even further—”it would be some payment for what they have stolen from us over the years.”
“Yes,” muttered Jaafar, his brows drawing together, the old bitter hatred that had been forgotten in the celebrations of the morning burning with a new flame. “I like this suggestion. I shall myself broach it with Sheykh al Fakhar—”
“Ah, do not trouble yourself, sidi!” the man said smoothly, drawing his face mask even more closely around his nose and mouth. “After all, you have a daughter who is married to the Calif. Tell her to make of her husband this one small request. Surely he can refuse her nothing, least of all this. Go to her now. Press upon her the importance. It is a matter of pride, after all. You deserve nothing less, Sheykh of Hrana, who have given these Akar so much.”
“You’re right!” Jaafar said, his usually weak eyes gleaming. “I will go to my daughter and ask her to see the Calif without delay!”
“But she is not to go as a beggar!” the man warned, laying his hand upon the Sheykh’s arm. “She is not to demean herself before that man!”
“My daughter would never do such a thing!” Jaafar shouted fiercely.
“Forgive me my eagerness to see all go well for you, my Sheykh,” the man said humbly, placing his hand over his heart and bowing his head low.
“Humpf!” Jaafar, with a snort, headed off for his daughter’s tent. He had completely forgotten his curiosity over who this strange tribesman might be. His eyes were on the herds of horses pastured around the oasis. Already he felt himself their proud owner.
“So much,” said Sond softly, causing the robes of the Hrana he wore to melt away into the sweet spring air, “for the blossoming of the Rose or any other flower.”
Chapter 5
“Couscous! Ah, what a treat!” The djinn sniffed at the dish with the critical air of one who is accustomed to dining well and often, his large belly and several chins shaking appreciatively as he dipped the fingers of his right hand into the steaming delicacy.
“The secret is in the proper roasting of the meat,” the djinn remarked, his mouth full of almonds, raisins, and lamb. “Too long and it becomes tough and dry. Too little and . . . well, there is nothing worse than underdone lamb. You, my dear Sond”—the djinn kissed his fingers to the other djinn opposite him—”have acquired the proper technique to perfection.”
Following this compliment, the two djinn ate rapidly and without talking, for to speak during eating is to insult the meat. Finally, with a deep sigh and a belch of satisfaction, the fat djinn leaned back upon his cushions and swore that he could not consume another bite.
“Delicious!” he said, bathing his hands in the lemon water his host poured out in a basin before him.
“I am honored by the praise of one so knowledgeable as yourself, my dear U
sti. But you really must try these almond cakes. They come all the way from Khandar.”
Sond offered a plate of the sticky sweets to his guest, who could not offend his host by refusing. In truth, it appeared from his rotund stature that this djinn had not offended a host in the past six centuries.
“And a pipe to finish off a good meal,” said Usti.
The djinn watched with appreciation as Sond placed the hubble-bubble pipe between them. Taking up one of the mouthpieces, he inhaled the tobacco smoke; the water in the pipe gurgling a soothing accompaniment. Sond puffed on the other mouthpiece, both djinn smoking in companionable silence for long moments, allowing their immortal bodies to attend to the important, if illusionary, human function of digestion.
As the two smoked, however, it became apparent to the rotund djinn that Sond was studying him with sidelong glances, and that Sond’s face, as he did this, was becoming increasingly grave and solemn. Whenever Usti looked directly at Sond, however, the tall, handsome djinn instantly glanced away. Finally Usti could stand this no longer.
“My dear friend,” he wheezed, his breath being constricted both by the tobacco smoke and his large belly, “you look at me, then when I look at you, you’re not looking at me, then when I look away, you’re looking at me again. By Sul, tell me what is wrong before I go mad.”
“You will forgive me, friend Usti,” said Sond, “if I speak plainly? We have known each other such a short time. I fear I am being presumptuous.”
Usti waved this away with a graceful gesture of a sugar coated hand.
“It’s just that I note you are not quite well, my friend,” Sond continued solicitously.
Usti heaved a mournful sigh, wisps of smoke trailing from the corners of his mouth.
“If you knew the life I led!” The djinn laid his hand upon his breast.
In contrast to Sond’s bare chest and shoulders, Usti’s large body was swathed in the folds of a silken blouse, a pair of voluminous trousers, and a long silken robe. A white turban adorned his head. The temperature inside Sond’s lamp, where the two were dining, was warm, and Usti mopped sweat from his face as he expounded upon his woes.
“May Hazrat Akhran forgive me for speaking ill of my mistress, but the woman is a menace, a menace! Zohra—the flower.” The djinn snorted, blowing smoke out his nose. “Zohra—the nettle. Zohra—the cactus. This”—he waved his hand over the dishes—”is the first good meal I’ve had in days, if you will believe me!”
“Ah, truly?” said Sond, gazing at the djinn with pity.
“It never fails. I am in the midst of a quiet little dinner when ‘tap, tap, tap’ “—Usti bit the words—”comes on the outside of my brazier. If I don’t respond immediately, if, for example, I decide to drink my coffee while it is hot and then attend to my mistress’s demands, she flies into a rage, which generally ends”—Usti paused for effect and breath—”in hurling my dwelling place into a comer of the tent.”
“No!” Sond was appropriately horrifIed.
“The mess it makes.” Usti shook his turbaned head mournfully. “My furniture is all topsy-turvy these days. I don’t know whether it is right side up or wrong side down! To say nothing of the broken crockery! My pipe has sprung a leak. It is impossible for me to entertain!” The djinn put his head in his hand, his shoulders heaving.
“My dear friend, this is intolera—”
“And that isn’t the half of it!” Usti’s many chins quivered in outrage. “The demands she makes of me! And against her husband, who only tries to persuade her to behave properly. She refuses to milk goats, churn the butter, do her weaving, cook her husband’s food. If you will believe me”—Usti, reaching out, tapped Sond upon his knee—”my mistress spends all the day riding horses! Dressed as a youth!” Leaning back into the cushions, Usti regarded his host with the air of one who has said it all, amen, nothing more.
Sond’s eyes opened wide. The matter being too shocking for words, the djinn squeezed Usti’s flabby arm in brotherly sympathy.
“But Zohra is a beautiful woman and spirited,” Sond began suggestively. “Surely the Calif, Khardan, son of my master, has certain compensations—”
“If he does, he derives them from his imagination!” Usti grunted. “Which is not to disparage the Calif, may Hazrat Akhran look upon him with favor. He proved his manhood on his wedding night with the lioness. Why sleep with claws at his throat? It is just as well Sul, in his infinite wisdom, did not give this woman the power of black magic. I dread to think what she might do to her husband if she could. Speaking of which, are you familiar with the story of Sul and the Too-Learned Wizards?”
“No, I don’t believe so,” replied Sond, who had first heard the story four centuries earlier but who knew the duties of a host.
“When the world was young, each of the Gods, may their names be praised, had his own gifts and graces which he bestowed upon his faithful. But Sul—as center of all—alone possessed the magic. He shared this gift with humans of learned and serious mien who came to him in humility, pledging to serve him by spending their lives in study and hard work; not only of magic but of all things in this world.
“The wizards did as they promised, studying magic, languages, mathematics, philosophy, until they became the most learned and wise men in the world. And so, too, did they become the most powerful. Since they had all learned each other’s languages and customs, they came together and exchanged information, further increasing their knowledge. Then, instead of each looking to his own God, they all began to look increasingly to Sul, the Center. All gradually became of one mind, and this mind told them to use their powerful magic to supplant the Gods.
“As you can imagine, the Gods were furious and reproached Sul, demanding that magic be taken away from the humans. This Sul could not do, magic having become too pervasive within the world. But Sul himself was angered at the wizards, who had become arrogant and demanding. And so he dealt with them harshly, in order to teach them a lesson.
“Bringing the wizards together on a pretense of celebrating their newfound power, Sul took each man and cut out his tongue so that he no longer had the power to speak any language at all.
“‘For,’ spoke Sul, ‘it is meant that men should speak to each other through the heart and this you have forgotten.’
“Next Sul decreed that, since magic was still in the world, it should be given into the hands of women, who are, most of them”—Usti heaved a sigh—”gentle and loving. Thus magic would be used for purposes of good, not evil. Sul stated, further, that magic must be based in material objects—charms, and amulets, potions, scrolls, and wands—so that those who practice it are constrained by the physical properties of the objects in which the magic resides as well as by their own human limitations.
“Thus spoke and did Sul, and the Too-Learned Wizards went home to discover that their wives had the magic and that they— as punishment for their arrogance—were forced to eat soup and gruel the rest of their tongueless days.”
“All praise to the wisdom of Sul,” said Sond, knowing what was required at the end of this story.
“All praise,” repeated Usti, mopping his brow. “But Sul did not have my mistress in mind when he did such a thing. My mistress’s words are sharper than the cactus and sting worse than the scorpion. Just between you and me, my friend”—leaning forward, Usti placed a fat finger on Sond’s chest, poking at him to emphasize his words—”I do not think the Calif regrets overmuch that his wife does not cook for him, if you take my meaning.”
“No!” remonstrated Sond, aghast. “Surely he doesn’t think she would. . . she would—”
“Poison him?” Usti rolled his eyes. “The woman is a menace, a menace!”
“Zohra would not dare go against the decree of Akhran!” Usti said nothing, but raised his hands to heaven.
Sond appeared appropriately alarmed. Lowering his voice, he glanced around the confines of the lamp and then he, in his turn, drew near Usti.
“I do not want to pry into pri
vate matters between djinn and master, but has your mistress ever asked you to . . . well, you know. . .”
Usti’s eyes rolled back into his head so far that only the whites showed. “Not death,” he said softly. “Even my mistress would not dare bring down the wrath of Hazrat Akhran by ordering me to assassinate her husband, when she knows that first I must have the God’s sanction to take a mortal life. But. . . other. . .” He whispered in Sond’s ear, making explanatory gestures with his hands.
Sond’s face registered horror. “And what did you do?”
“Nothing,” puffed Usti, fanning himself with a palm frond. “I pleaded the excuse that several hundred years previously Khardan’s great-great-great-grandfather freed me from the spell of an evil ‘efreet and that I am bound to do the family no harm of any kind”—he emphasized the words—”for a thousand years. Which is true,” he added, “to a certain extent, although the nature of the oath is not quite so binding as I have led my mistress to believe. Since then, however”—the djinn groaned—”my life has been one of torment. If I appear, my mistress throws pots at me. If I hide in my dwelling, she throws me at the pots!”
“What precipitated all of this? It seemed they were getting along so well. . .”
“Sheep! I like sheep in their way,” Usti said with a fond glance at the carcass of the lamb, “but I cannot fathom why such fuss is being made over them. It all has to do with this decree of Hazrat Akhran that the tribes remain camped around the Tel until the Rose blooms, which I may add, it seems to me further from doing than ever. I think, in fact, if I may speak candidly, my friend?”
“You may.”
“I think the wretched plant is dying. But that is neither here nor there. From what I can gather, it seems that Zohra’s people are being forced to trek between this Tel out in the middle of the desert and the foothills to the west where they pasture the sheep. Consequently their tribe is split. Those who are living here worry about those who are living there. They fear raiders from the south. They fear wolves. They fear wolves from the south. I don’t know!”
The Will of the Wanderer Page 15