Barid's Story

by J F Mehentee

  Gaurang faced him, the arrangement of his saffron robes suggesting that he too had not moved.

  ‘Such hope,’ Gaurang said. ‘And seven years later, it’s all gone.’

  ‘A man like Noor couldn’t survive twenty lashes.’

  ‘But what if he did? What if he did, and what if after paying back whatever he owed, Noor found you like this: a broken man?’

  ‘That’s not fair.’ Barid stood, ignoring how his knees and thighs protested. ‘I believe in Noor. I’ve always believed in him. But I’m no fool, either. I’ve seen what ten lashes can do to a man, forget twenty. He’d never survive such punishment.’

  ‘Then why do you remain here?’

  The question was inevitable. It was one he constantly asked himself. He was glad to hear another raise it.

  ‘Why do I remain here?’ Barid’s hands slapped against his thighs. ‘Because this is what I deserve.’

  ‘Do you think this is what Noor wanted for you?’ Gaurang said. ‘If he thought you deserved this, wouldn’t a better punishment have been for you to remain in Tun Do?’ Gaurang held up a hand before Barid could answer. ‘Have you ever considered what it was that Noor had hoped for when he gave Master Nibras that book and your instructions?’

  Barid opened his mouth, but finding no answer he closed it.

  ‘He sent you away, Barid, in the hope that you might build a future for him, a future that would give him a reason to survive his punishment, to endure the shame and hardship.’

  Gaurang might as well have struck Barid with a hammer. The impact of his words knocked the air from his lungs. He reached up and held on to a rafter to steady himself.

  ‘Come with me to Tun Bistdo, to Sudaypur,’ Gaurang said. ‘Create a life for yourself, one that you’d be proud to share.’

  Barid sat down on the anvil.

  ‘Why would you help me?’ he said.

  ‘Because Sudaypur and the Dragonfolk need a swordsmith. And because a young girl needs a father.’

  ‘Me, a father? After what I just told you. You’ve lost your mind.

  ‘There’s a three-year-old Dragoness in Sudaypur who needs a family.’

  Barid recalled one of Isah Tawfeek’s later lectures, the one describing how the Dragons, having been born among the stars, were brought to Tun Bistdo when their bodies became human and could no longer live a celestial life. No wonder Widow Verma called them the Children of Heaven.

  ‘A child needs a father and a mother,’ Barid said. ‘And besides, I know nothing about children.’

  ‘I know.’ Gaurang nodded. ‘But I wouldn’t worry about any of that.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Barid shook his head. ‘Noor said he’d search for me in Tun Bistse. How would he know to look for me in Tun Bistdo?’

  Gaurang’s eyes had turned to slits.

  ‘Why are you smiling?’

  ‘Because you sound as if you haven’t given up on Noor.’

  The idea of creating a new life he could share with Noor sounded tempting. But he was still unsure.

  Gaurang rose and rearranged the folds of his robe. ‘It’s noon,’ he said. ‘Time to bless the fields and collect the villagers’ alms.’

  35

  The sounds that tumbled over the wall of Amar Jangid’s compound reminded Barid of festival days in Tun Do, days when worries and preoccupations could be forgotten, a citizen’s only concern being whether the sultan would better the previous year’s festival feast.

  These sounds, however, made Barid uneasy. The morning’s dark clouds, instead of shrinking as they watered the mountain range, had passed over them, and now a grey blanket had cast its broad shadow over the land to the west. Gaurang was right: it would rain this evening. Blessing or no blessing, the arrival of rain would provide the crops with the best possible start.

  So why, Barid asked himself, am I so worried about this blessing? What was it about Gaurang he still did not trust?

  Widow Verma was the first to see Gaurang and touch his feet. The veneration continued as the other women swiftly formed a queue, preventing Gaurang and Barid from moving farther into the compound. Unable to watch, Barid studied the faces of the villagers. A couple of the men nodded in greeting and others even smiled at him, which only added to his discomfort.

  Barid turned his attention to the tree at the centre of the compound.

  The tree had not grown since the morning, but it had changed. Its white flowers had fallen, and pears hung from the drooping ends of its branches. Unlike the almost-spherical pear he had given Gaurang yesterday, these pears were tear-shaped. Barid’s uneasiness crystallised.

  ‘Come,’ Gaurang said after the last woman had touched his feet and returned to her family.

  Barid felt his legs move at that single word. He wanted to cry ‘I want no part of this,’ but his lips no longer moved, unlike his legs, which stopped only when he stood beneath the pear tree.

  ‘The rains will soon be here,’ Gaurang said. All the villagers cheered, some turning westward. ‘Each family must take a pear and, between them, eat it so that the blessing will be passed on to the fields.’

  Jangid stepped forward and told the men to form a queue.

  ‘Barid,’ Gaurang said, and then, without moving his lips, he added, Be patient. Trust me.

  Still under Gaurang’s influence, Barid reached up and plucked a pear from the tree.

  ‘The first pear is for the village head and his family,’ Gaurang said. ‘And the next is for Kanishka Verma. When you receive the tree’s blessing, please leave your offering in the bowl.’

  Barid ignored how Jangid’s moustache twitched and his nose wrinkled at having to receive his pear from him. When he fought to resist handing the second pear to Widow Verma, she snatched it from him and held it in both her hands as though it were a large jewel.

  When half the men had received their pear, a box was brought out for Barid to stand on so that he could reach higher up into the tree. Each time he heard something metallic strike the side of Gaurang’s alms bowl, he felt his insides twist. He wanted to tell them that they were being robbed of what little they owned, but Gaurang’s glamour, whatever it was, kept him silent and compliant. So, he looked away from those families who remained in the compound to eat their fruit and, instead, he eyed the others who left immediately, their fields farthest from the kot.

  Standing on tiptoe, his left hand gripping a thick bough for balance and his shoulders aching, Barid picked the last pear with a twist and a yank.

  ‘That one’s for you,’ Gaurang said. He hugged his alms bowl to his chest.

  Except for the two of them, the compound was empty.

  ‘What have you done?’ Barid said. The sound of his own voice caught him off balance. Gaurang held out a steadying hand as Barid stepped off the box. ‘Don’t touch me,’ he said. ‘You’re worse than Boulos, robbing these poor villagers with a lie.’

  ‘What lie?’ Gaurang said, his eyes wide. ‘Please tell me how I could have possibly lied to these people.’

  ‘This tree,’ Barid said, ‘it didn’t grow from the seed of the pear that I gave you.’

  ‘What does it matter? How many trees have you seen grow and produce fruit in a day?’

  ‘That’s not the point. You’ve deceived these people. You’ve deceived them into giving you what little they have.’

  Gaurang shook his head. ‘Every worthwhile outcome has a price, Barid. As those villagers dig and plant, they carry with them a blessing that they have paid for. The blessing’s no longer mine but theirs, and it was earned. I haven’t robbed them, you fool. I’ve helped them keep their self-respect. You’ve spent so long feeling sorry for yourself, waiting for Noor to arrive and rescue you, you’ve lost sight of what’s important. You want Noor to have survived his punishment and you want Noor to come find you, but your desires have blinded you to what Noor needs. How many miracles must I perform before you understand that I came here to give you back your self-respect?’

  Gaurang put down his alms bowl. He p
lucked a pearl from the string of black pearls that had suddenly appeared around his neck. Barid wondered why he had not noticed those pearls before, why Jangid or Widow Verma had not mentioned them. And how was it that he could pull one of them from that necklace without the others spilling to the ground? What else was this man, this Dragon, hiding in plain sight?

  ‘Give me your hand,’ Gaurang said.

  For the first time since meeting him, Barid thought he sounded angry. Still staring at the priceless necklace, he did as he was told.

  He felt Gaurang’s fingertips touch his palm, but then he had to look down, to check, because the pearl felt weightless in his hand.

  A pear seed lay in the centre of his palm. ‘How?’

  Barid glanced up and saw Gaurang’s grin. When he looked down again, he saw that he held a pearl.

  ‘There was no pear seed. You made me plant a pearl.’

  Barid felt Gaurang cup the back of his hand and with the other close his fingers over the pearl.

  ‘Take care of it, Barid,’ Gaurang said. ‘If you decide to come to Sudaypur, show it to the first person you meet. They’ll take you to your workshop.’

  ‘You already know that I’ll come?’ The warmth emanating from Gaurang’s hands seeped into Barid’s forearm.

  Gaurang smiled and shook his head. ‘It’s a possibility, but it’s your decision. Every time I think I understand you Humans, one of you catches me by surprise. It’s not enough for me to know that Sudaypur is the best place for you—you must believe it. You have to believe that the Dragonfolk and I need your help.’

  The warmth, having reached Barid’s upper arm, moved across his shoulder and up into his neck. It made him drowsy but, at the same time, stronger, the way he had once felt when he was El’ Zamu.

  ‘This was the man you once were,’ Gaurang said, ‘and the man you can be again. The man Noor remembers even now.’

  Barid’s eyes grew heavy. When he closed them, he saw Noor standing before him. The Noor he saw was not blurred and faded by the distance of years. He saw again his smile, the sharpness of his cheekbones and the brightness of his green eyes.

  ‘Keep that last pear safe, and don’t eat it,’ Gaurang said. ‘It’s only yours for safekeeping.’

  Barid opened his eyes when he felt the first drop of rain. He was still standing in Jangid’s empty compound. Rain clouds hung overhead. When he looked behind him, he knew that Gaurang had left Kot Pulta.

  36

  The pounding on his door woke Barid. Golden light seeped through the gaps around the window’s shutter. He had overslept.

  The pounding continued.

  ‘Wait,’ he said, rubbing his eyes. He stood, feeling unusually well.

  Again the pounding.

  He lifted the latch and opened the door wide enough to peep through the opening. He saw a woman. There was something familiar about the material of her sari and the way her eyes glinted with mischief.

  ‘Barid.’ The woman’s mouth widened with delight. ‘Look at me,’ she said.

  ‘Yes?’ Barid said. ‘Do I know you?’

  The woman began to laugh. ‘Open the door, you stupid man. It’s me, Kanishka, Widow Verma.’

  Barid opened the door a little wider so that he could take a better look. The woman before him was no more than thirty summers.

  ‘Look,’ the woman said, and gnashed her teeth. ‘I’ve all my teeth again.’ She rolled her eyes, gave the door a shove and stepped into the room. Grabbing Barid by the wrist, she dragged him out into the open and pointed at the fields behind the smithy. ‘Look,’ she said.

  Dazed by the woman’s familiarity, Barid surveyed the green coating of shoots that covered the farmers’ fields. He felt the woman’s hand move from his wrist into his hand. It felt the same size as Widow Verma’s but without the calluses. He heard her sigh.

  ‘Oh, Barid,’ she said, and gazed up at him. ‘All this, it’s a miracle.’

  37

  Barid watched the procession march behind Jiri and Gaurang, all cheers and smiles, singing as the pair headed off down the street toward his daughter’s undertaking.

  ‘All of Sudaypur has come to see her off,’ Kanishka said. As always, she held his hand.

  That morning, fifteen years ago, as she held his hand and they had gazed across the fields of Kot Pulta, she had told him that she was leaving for Sudaypur, that she wanted to live among Dragons. Kanishka had also taken his hand just before they headed west along the Imperial Highway.

  ‘If Noor comes to Kot Pulta, he’ll see the message carved into its bark,’ she had said. ‘Don’t worry. My grandson will water your tree every day as well as his own.’

  She had held his hand when Gaurang brought the three-summers-old Jiri to the workshop, and she never let go during those first difficult months as the three of them learned how to be a family.

  Barid squeezed Kanishka’s hand. ‘I’m worried about her.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ Kanishka said. ‘You’re her father.’ She looked up at him and smiled. ‘That’s what fathers do.’

  ‘But she’s ill. The nosebleeds are more regular now, and she’s weakening. She’s not well enough for an undertaking, especially an undertaking of such importance. What’s Gaurang thinking?’

  Her hand still in his, she led him back to his workshop. She removed her sandals and slid the door open. Only when he was inside the showroom, the door closed behind them, did she turn on him. ‘Stupid man,’ she said, pointing a finger at him. ‘Stupid, stupid man.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look around you, Barid,’ Kanishka said. She tapped her chest with both hands. ‘Look at me. Remember who we were before Gaurang-so came to Kot Pulta. After all these years, the three of us, a family. It’s all thanks to him. How could you question his intentions? What gives you the right?’ She swung her arm and landed a stinging slap to his bicep.

  Barid rubbed his arm. He saw how close she was to tears and smiled. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He opened his arms. ‘Come.’

  She stepped into his embrace.

  ‘I’m going to miss her so much,’ Kanishka said. She started to sob.

  ‘I know,’ Barid said. ‘I know.’

  38

  Barid regarded Pin and hid his annoyance. He was an apprentice with promise, but he was a slow learner. What he learned would sink in only if he made mistakes—numerous mistakes.

  ‘The colour of this clay’s all wrong,’ he said. ‘It has to be darker. If I applied this to the upper edge of the sword, it would crack too quickly when I heat it. This mix won’t adequately insulate the steel.’ He smiled reassuringly when he saw the disappointment on Pin’s face. ‘Don’t worry. You just need to add a little more water.’

  ‘Barid.’

  He looked up to see Kanishka. She was smiling.

  ‘There’s news?’ he said expectantly. A year had passed since Jiri’s departure, and they had heard nothing since. ‘Is she all right?’

  Kanishka’s smile diminished as she shook her head.

  The workshop was not the same without Jiri. She had left a space in their lives that each had found difficult to fill. Gaurang had told them that Jiri would not return, but that did not stop them from asking for news of her whenever he was in Sudaypur.

  ‘Has that widower of yours finally grown some balls and asked you to marry him?’ Barid said, hoping to lighten the mood.

  Pin sniggered.

  Kanishka took three quick steps and cuffed the apprentice. ‘Show some respect.’

  Pin bowed. ‘Sorry, Mistress Kanishka.’

  ‘Remember your place, young man,’ Kanishka said. She winked at Barid. Kanishka’s smile returned. ‘There’s someone to see you.’

  ‘An appointment?’ Barid said. ‘We don’t have any today.’

  ‘Just come,’ she said, sounding impatient.

  ‘But I’m working.’

  ‘Barid Nurti, if you don’t get up right now, I’m going to take that bowl of mud and crown you with it.’

 
‘All right, all right,’ Barid said. He rose, rubbing his aching knees. ‘Start on a new mixture, Pin. I’ll be back soon.’

  Kanishka grabbed his wrist and led him briskly toward the showroom.

  ‘What’s the hurry?’ he said, sliding the door open. ‘If it’s not a customer, who...’

  Barid grasped the doorframe to steady himself.

  The set of his shoulders still suggested a strength of will, though the years had turned his hair grey, and deep furrows now lined his forehead and the corners of his green eyes. He was, however, thinner than Barid remembered, his dusty tunic appearing to only just find purchase on his bony frame.

  The toll those years of service had taken made Barid’s chest ache. But those years could be wiped away. He now understood Gaurang’s final gift. The pear he had brought with him from Kot Pulta, unchanged after sixteen years, still remained where he had carefully stored it, waiting to perform one last miracle.

  Barid opened his mouth. The words, the greeting he had heard himself say each time he daydreamed this moment, would not come. Instead, he shook his head.

  Noor smiled and nodded.

  A note from the author

  Thanks for reading this book. Reviews are an author's lifeblood. Without them, new readers rarely take a risk on a book that appears of no interest to others. Besides, I'd never get to hear about what you like or dislike about my stories! Whether it’s brief or detailed, your feedback will make a huge difference.

  Also by J F Mehentee

  The Dragon Pearl Series

  Book 1 — Hotsuka’s Story

  Book 2 — Barid’s Story

  Book 3 — Omid’s Story

  Book 4 — Madhuri’s Story

  Book 5 — Babak’s Story

  Book 6 — Shernaz’s Story

  About the Author

  J F Mehentee is a British-born Asian with Persian ancestry. A lifelong reader of fantasy and science fiction, he’s always looking for ways to combine his interest in Asian and Middle Eastern mythology with storytelling.