The Father of Locks

by Andrew Killeen

  As Abu Nuwas soothed Khalila, a sharp whistle came from behind us.

  “Here, Hawwa! To me! Tch, she still refuses to come when called. There will be no eating left on that dove when she has finished ripping it apart. Still, my bird stole the prize from yours, eh, Abu Ali?”

  It was Salam al-Abrash, the Speckled One, wearing a glove that covered most of his arm. I looked at my master’s furious face, then involuntarily down to where his sword hung by his side. I thought he was about to murder the eunuch in front of hundreds of witnesses. Instead he turned his horse.

  “Let us find somewhere quieter. Chitas and eagles! Is this sport, or a menagerie?”

  We headed away from the royal party, and took a curving path behind the advancing hunt. As we drew further from the centre, the line became more extended, with lengthy gaps between groups of aristocrats. We began to see the beaters, servants with metal cymbals to stir up the game, and long spears to protect themselves in case the beasts came too close. Eventually my grumbling persuaded Abu Nuwas to drop me off his horse, and he rode on alone.

  Walking was a sweaty business in the heat of the afternoon, but I found it far preferable to hanging on the back of a stinking horse. After the madness of Baghdad it was pleasant to be in the open air. The baying of hounds and the shouts of men were distant now, ringing round the valley. I almost convinced myself I was in the wilderness, rather than a few hours ride from the metropolis. It was not until I came across an irrigation canal running between the hills that the illusion was broken.

  The canal was only a few cubits across, and I could easily have jumped it. However it was a hot day, and the water sparkled in the blazing sun. I was wearing my plain Barid clothes, so I had no qualms about tying them into a bundle which I secured around my waist. First I dipped a foot into the water, but the chill sent shivers across my naked skin. Realising that this was no time for half measures, I leapt feet first into the canal.

  The shock was at first agonising, then thrilling. My feet touched the bottom, and as I pushed up my head broke the surface. The canal was so shallow that I could stand upright in it. I gasped, snorted and bellowed as I tried to recover my breath. Then I pushed off and swam lazily along, enjoying the contrast between the icy water and the warm sunlight.

  I had had little opportunity to immerse myself fully since arriving in Baghdad. It would be a brave man that bathed in the waterways of the city, where he would have to dodge the turds and other detritus chucked there by the good citizens. The water of the canal, although a little muddy, particularly where I had crashed in and stirred up the bed, was relatively fresh. Having no real interest in the hunt, I decided to follow the course of the canal until I tired.

  In what seemed like no time I drew close to the cedar grove. Clumps of trees stood by the banks, and I could hear the squawking of strange birds, brought here to be victims of the archers and falconers.

  And that was where I saw the demon with the head of a dog and eagle’s wings.

  Nineteen

  The Tale of the Dog-Headed Demon

  It was a statue, carved from coarse rock. The stone was worn by the weather of centuries and stained with mosses. I guessed it must have been there from the days of the ancients, the Assyrians or Babylonians.

  The demon was twice the height of a man, but emaciated, as if it were starving. Two pairs of wings spread from its back, and a grotesque dog-skull leered above a narrow neck It stood atop a small hill that sloped away from the canal to my left, amid a small copse of cedars.

  I pulled myself out of the water and cautiously approached the statue. As I came closer, I saw that someone stood beside it. I had no difficulty in recognising Brother Catwulf, the Frankish priest with the half-shaved head, who seemed to turn up wherever there was mystery and conspiracy. However it took me a little longer to distinguish the plump figure that climbed the hill towards him. It was Fadl ibn Rabi, the Chamberlain.

  I concealed myself in the bushes, and listened to their conversation.

  “Is it safe?”

  The statue overlooked a clearing in the copse. The Chamberlain leaned against it, panting from his ascent. Brother Catwulf, when he responded, was calm.

  “Have no fear. If we are discovered together we can easily claim that we were pursuing the same quarry. As, in a way, we are.”

  I was almost holding my breath, desperate to remain unnoticed and to catch every word they said. However I nearly let it out in a yelp when a warm hand slapped my bare behind. I span around, to discover that my assailant was the girl Hervor. She started to laugh, and I knocked her to the ground, desperately shushing her. As I lay on top of her, she put her lips to my ear, and whispered.

  “I see you are not so frightened of my body now, boy.”

  I moved off her, suddenly aware of my nakedness. She leaned towards me again.

  “Why must we be quiet?”

  I was so seduced by her brazen intimacy that I nearly told her. The words were at my lips before I remembered that she was an emissary of a foreign power, and it was her confederate on whom I was spying.

  “Because – so we do not frighten the animals.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise.

  “And is it normal practice among your people to hunt unclothed, or your own personal preference?”

  I tried to think of a clever response, but was disconcerted when her shameless gaze fell to my zabb, which had shrivelled to an acorn from exposure to the icy water of the canal. I mumbled an answer to both her question and her stare.

  “I have been swimming.”

  At the same time as keeping the mad girl quiet I was desperately trying to listen to the men talking. The Chamberlain sounded testy.

  “I cannot lay hands on that much gold at a moment’s notice. It will take a week to arrange it …”

  Hervor seemed unaware of their presence, although I found it hard to believe she could not hear them. Her eyes were still fixed on my zabb, and her mocking attention was not encouraging it to resume its normal proportions.

  “Perhaps I too shall try hunting naked. I shall be interested to see what kind of game I catch.”

  With these words she stood up and pulled her shirt over her head. Her pomegranate breasts bore red berry nipples, and her soft belly centred on a succulent navel. My zabb began to stir, but I realised that she would be visible to the Chamberlain and the priest, if they happened to look in our direction. I dragged her to the ground. My arms encircled her waist, and I stopped her mouth with kisses. As her lips parted against mine I felt some guilt that I was making such treacherous use of the lesson Layla had taught me in the rose garden. However I appeased my conscience with the knowledge that I was protecting the Land of Islam from Christian subversion.

  She pushed my head down, and almost without thought, like an animal, I licked and sucked at the berry nipples. By now my acorn had grown to a mighty oak. Hervor ran one hand through my hair and with the other reached down and grabbed my zabb, demonstrating more enthusiasm than delicacy. The blood was raging in my ears, but I could still just about hear ibn Rabi.

  “I need to know that you are not deceiving me. How does the oathbreaker know the secret of the Name?”

  Then Hervor shoved me aside. For a moment I thought she had recovered her modesty, but instead she tugged off her boots and rolled down the leather pants, leaving herself utterly nude in front of me. I had seen women unclothed before, but never had I seen anything to compare with her slim white legs and triangle of golden hair at their juncture. I gawped like an idiot, mouth hanging open.

  “Well, boy, what are you waiting for? Let’s see what you can do.”

  Her habit of calling me “boy”, when she was a year older than me at most, was annoyingly patronising. However, my witty riposte came out as a guttural croak, and I pounced on her. After a few moments of my thrusting optimistically in the general direction of her groin she rolled me onto my back.

  “Wait – let me –”

  She knelt with one leg either side
of my hips, and took my zabb in her hand. As she leaned over me she guided its tip into her breach. I raised my hips, expecting to plunge into her as I had seen men do with whores during a childhood at sea and on the road. Instead she pressed me down with her hand. Slowly she eased herself onto my zabb, and every movement caused intense sensations bordering on pain.

  When the whole sword was buried in her, she dropped limply onto me and lay there, the berry nipples pressing onto my chest. I wondered if that was the end of the business. Unsure of what to do I stroked her cropped yellow hair. Suddenly she revived, kissing me quickly and desperately. I ran my hand down to her hips, and she began to move.

  I felt on the cusp of erupting, but each rise and fall was so slow that I never quite spilled over. The next wave though was a little quicker, and warmer, and softer, and the next better still, and pleasure was replacing the pain. Now I could have easily let go, but I was watching her face, listening to her breath, feeling her heart beat more rapidly as her body pressed against mine. She was utterly serious, eyes closed, frowning and biting her lip.

  Then something opened inside her, and she moaned long and low, slumping back onto me. The change in pressure released me too, and I surged deep into her. The world melted as I put my arms around her. Far away I seemed to hear two pairs of feet running away through the undergrowth.

  It felt as though the wind had changed. When Hervor wrenched away from me, my gasp sounded like the soul being sucked from the clay of my body. She grabbed her clothes and bounded off as if pursued by the Chita. I turned to see the flash of white flesh disappearing between the trees.

  My zabb was shrivelling and sticky now, and felt cold. I heard an ursine grunt behind me. I glanced over my shoulder to see Gorm the Rus staring at me. For the first time I noticed that he had the same delicate blue eyes as his daughter. And there was an odd similarity between her look of lust and his glare of murderous hatred.

  He was not wielding his usual weapon, but instead carried a long hunting spear. I supposed he had to pretend to have been pursuing game. The vision of him lumbering after a deer, roaring like a bear and waving a battle axe, was ludicrous enough that I almost laughed, but I quickly recovered my senses. Although he was some distance away the point of the spear was threateningly close.

  Gorm was a wily old warrior, and did not strike blindly to kill, as would a common thug. He stood on guard, assessing the situation. Too soon though he reassured himself that his only adversary was small and bare, like a hairless monkey, crouching in terror under the scented needles of a cedar tree. He laughed.

  “If you’re going to fight the boy I really think you should undress too. Not only would it be fairer, but it would make it considerably more entertaining.”

  Abu Nuwas stepped out of the trees, his sword drawn, the falcon Khalila still perched on his gloved left hand. However, in the time it had taken my master to drawl his challenge, Gorm had considered and assimilated this shift in the situation. I too had a moment of heart-sinking and largely unwelcome clarity. I realised that when confronted with deadly peril, the poet relied heavily on taunting provocation, to distract and enrage his enemy. This had no effect whatsoever on Gorm, who could not understand a single word he was saying.

  The Rus saw a man with a sword, still some distance away, and an unarmed enemy at the point of his spear. His course of action was clear: dispose of the distraction, then face the real danger. The choice would have been easy even if he had not just come across the distraction in question fucking his daughter. He drew back his spear to strike at me.

  I do not know who the cry came from, whether it was my master or my foe, or whether it burst unbidden from my own lips as the sharp metal thrust at my gut. In the same instant Abu Nuwas jabbed his gloved fist toward the Rus. Swift as a shout the falcon hurtled towards him. There was a blinding pain as the point pierced my skin, but the spear faltered and fell. I heard screeching, and saw Khalila attacking Gorm’s face with her vicious talons, while he tried to swat her away like a fly.

  Now Abu Nuwas was racing toward him. Blood was splattering onto the grass from the cut in my stomach, but I had no time to tend the wound. I reasoned that if I was to be hunted like a monkey I would escape like one, and leapt for a limb of the nearest tree. From here I swung myself up to the highest branch that would hold my weight, and watched events unfold below.

  Gorm’s flailing arms had driven away the falcon, but Abu Nuwas took up the assault, slashing at him with his sayf. The Rus dodged his blows with incongruous grace, and drew a long dagger from his belt. Khalila meanwhile flew up and perched in the same tree as me, where she stared at me, dispassionately assessing my potential as her next meal.

  The two men now stood off and tested each other, with prods and feints. Abu Nuwas had the superior weapon, but Gorm had longer reach in his arms. Evenly matched, each studied his opponent, looking for a weakness or an opportunity.

  When the assault came it was like lightning from a blue sky. The Rus lunged fiercely, but Abu Nuwas sidestepped easily, and swung his sayf at Gorm’s unprotected side. However, he had fallen into a trap. Gorm, expecting the move, brought his left arm down like a club on my master’s wrist. The sword fell from his hand. Abu Nuwas swayed away from the next slice of the dagger, but at the cost of overbalancing and falling on his back.

  Gorm had him now, down and weaponless. There was no way I could have safely descended from the tree in time to save him, even if I were not injured and unarmed. In desperation I flung cones from the tree, and shouted uselessly at Khalila to attack.

  My shouts were drowned out by deep howls that seemed to make the tree tremble. The bushes below me shook, and a creature burst forth. It was white, with a black devil’s face, like a distorted skull. The bearded head was twisted to one side, and a massive single horn protruded from its forehead.

  The beast bounded across the clearing. As it moved I saw that there were in fact two horns, that its unity had been an illusion. However they were vicious twin swords, a cubit in length. The creature was an oryx, favourite quarry of Arabian huntsmen.

  Gorm turned, to see that the oryx was charging directly at him. Even the giant Rus feared being impaled on the sharp horns. He leapt aside, and Abu Nuwas rolled away from the beast’s trampling feet, which barely missed him. Then the clearing was full of hounds, barking and baying, and I realised they were the source of the sound that had alerted me to the beast’s approach. The oryx raced down into the hollow, pursued by the dogs.

  After the animals came a squad of Guardsmen, armed with nets and spears, then three richly dressed men on horses. At the centre of the trio was the Khalifah himself, Harun al-Rashid, in his green and gold robes. He pulled his horse to a halt.

  “Peace, Abu Ali! Are you trying to steal from me the quarry I have been pursuing for so long?”

  My master pulled himself to his feet and made a deep bow of obeisance.

  “Not at all, Commander of the Faithful. Your guest here had become separated from his party. I was merely trying to help him find his way.”

  He put an arm around the broad shoulders of Gorm the Rus, who stiffened, but was smart enough to make no move other than to nod his respect to the Khalifah. Harun gestured to a couple of Guards.

  “Escort our honoured guest back to his countrymen.”

  As the Guards walked over Abu Nuwas turned Gorm to face him.

  “Go carefully, my friend. I look forward with great pleasure to our next meeting.”

  The barbarian may not have understood his words, but he could not ignore the passionate kiss that Abu Nuwas planted on his lips. Gorm stared at him impassively, then uttered a single sentence in Latin simple enough that even I could decipher it.

  “The next time we meet, only one of us will walk away alive.”

  With that he and his escort left. Harun al-Rashid smiled at his favourite poet.

  “So, my friend, how goes your hunting?”

  “Most enjoyably, o Khalifah. Might I enquire what has happened to your Chit
a? I thought it would soon bring down such laggardly prey as an oryx.”

  Harun pulled a face.

  “The Chita does not like to hunt in wooded areas. Nor, it appears, to chase quarry with such fearsomely long horns. I ordered it returned to its cage. Do you know, Abu Ali, I do believe that Chitas are not nearly as useful as they are impressive.”

  “I would hardly credit it, but if the Commander of the Faithful tells me so, then I must accept it as truth.”

  “And what success have you enjoyed, my friend? What quarry have you been chasing?”

  Just as Harun spoke these words, the branch beneath me creaked and cracked. I tumbled downward, bouncing off the cedar’s needles as I fell, and landed with a thump in front of the Khalifah. Mindful that Abu Nuwas had not told him of the battle, I concealed my bleeding abdomen by kneeling with my forehead touching the ground in obeisance.

  Harun al-Rashid looked from the naked boy to the poet, and back again to the naked boy, and drew the inevitable, though erroneous, conclusion.

  “I see. Then I shall leave you in peace, to feast on your prey.”

  He rode away, some of his Guard sniggering at the situation. Abu Nuwas remained in a deep bow until they had left, then looked over to me.

  “How is your stomach, Newborn?”

  I started to pull on my clothes, but he insisted on inspecting the wound.

  “The point did not penetrate deeply enough to damage your organs. Wait here.”

  He disappeared into the trees, and returned leading his horse. When he rummaged in his saddlebag I expected him to produce a poultice or remedy. I was disappointed, though not surprised, when he pulled out a flask of wine. However, instead of drinking it, he splashed a hearty slug onto the cut. I gasped at the sting and the shock, and he laughed.

  “A trick I learned in the desert. It prevents the wound turning bad.”

  He ripped my shirt into strips and bound the injury with some expertise. As he did so I told him of the meeting in the hollow; but not about the girl Hervor.