Post by Zaim al-Daleel on Aug 5, 2008 20:53:12 GMT -7
As the others prepared the caravan for the day's journey, Turin and Maarouf dressed the dead camel with smooth efficiency. The meat, a delicacy among the al-Badian, was cut into strips and stretched out to quickly dry beneath the desert sun. The hide was folded and tied; it would be dealt with later. Some of the blood was made available to those who wanted a cup full; seasoned desert travelers knew it held strength giving properties that could sustain one in lean times. When they'd finished, the hide and meat was loaded onto the extra camels.
Before the sun had risen very high, the caravan moved north and west toward the distant mountains of the Range of Marching Camels. The green belt that grew along the river al-Adib was soon no more than a dark line on the horizon. Before the party stretched hogback dunes and barren sands, only occasionally broken by exposed hardpack ground and stubborn shrub plants.
Astride the spirited Arabian Sulayman, Amir al-Ahmar sometimes rode ahead to crest a dune and scan the desert for signs of bandits or other dangers. Flying above the caravan, Ali's gen Yakhil soared on the thermals radiating up from the desert floor. Under their watchful eyes, nothing moved but the gently blowing sands and the shimmering of the hot afternoon mirage.
It was another dark night.
"Oh, these camels!" said the always smiling Maarouf. He'd just returned from a last check on the camels as they settled in for the night. "They stamp, and trample, they buck, they quarrel, they weep and take fright – yes! and they laugh; they are helpless, but ever and anon rebellious. They will run like the wind for hours, and all at once stop or refuse to budge. Only with a good rider in the saddle are they erect, proud animals, self-assured, noble, moving with elastic strides. With a dull herdsman seated on its hump, a camel too becomes dull, lazy and - gluttonous."
Old Rajab joined in, recalling his emotions when he bought a magnificent six-year old racing-camel, a fawn with a lion's head and great gazelle eyes. "I had fallen in love with this fine animal at first sight. She was the pride of her captor and she cost me more than I ever dreamt of paying for a racing camel, but she was worth the money. What was most beautiful in her and what charmed me most were the long, ideal line of the back and the high-swung belly-line from the breastbone to the hind thighs. This racing build gave her ample freedom for paces which were a sheer delight – even and soft, easy and long-striding. She was very speedy and untiring in either trot or gallop, as I proved the very day I bought her. It was a pure joy to be privileged to ride this thoroughbred animal; I had not been deceived in her."
"Do you speak of a camel or a woman, Rajab?" Amir al-Ahmar teases the old herder. "Or perhaps you've been in the desert too long to remember the difference?" The desert rider is meticulously brushing and tending to his horse. For yet another night he has declined to food or drink at the campfire preferring the privacy of his tent instead. "Sulayman," he says, fondly stroking the side of the stallion. "Is worth more than any camel or woman and a thousand times more trustworthy than both."
Rajab grinned, revealing his few remaining teeth. "I speak of the camel! Women are no good for racing. Even after a few good lashings! They bellow and lash back!"
He eyed the horse warily. Not approaching it. "You can keep your horses. I'd not trust my life to one."
The evening's conversation was peppered with laughter and good humor, the previous night's attack seemingly forgotten- life in the High Desert was fraught with danger, no need to dwell on misfortune, another would soon come along.
Around the fire, tales were told as Turin scraped the fat off camel hide and snacked on fried bits of hump fat.
For the benefit of the young mamluk Barber Amin, the experienced caravaneers taught him about the "ship of the desert" while he went to work on removing one of old Rajab's teeth. In between the old man's curses, Amin alternatively listened and pulled, learning that camels can live to be up to 50 years old; they have three eyelids- Two of them have lashes, and the third is thin and translucent; and that a camel can close its nostrils.
17th of Safa
The day's journey was hot and uneventful. With each passing hour the mountains drew nearer. The Range of the Marching Camels stretched for hundreds of miles across the High Desert, running generally parallel to the equator with a 120 mile stretch at its eastern end bending toward the northeast.
A hot gusty breeze, laced with biting sand greeted you as the caravan reached a break in the hogback dunes. A look to the east revealed that you'd reached the top of a plateau which stepped down to the Golden Gulf and followed the coast along the entire eastern edge of the High Desert.
Before you stretched a six mile wide corridor between the steep, rocky mountains to the northwest and the plateau's edge to the east.
Ya'qub raised a hand signaling a halt. Camp would be here in the shadow of the mountains.
This was the second night Ya'qub had been assisted by the homely Sahra in his nightly inventory of the trade goods. She'd soon proved herself as good with mathematics as she was with herding camels. Ya'qub caught her gaze lingering on him across the campfire, the low flames dancing in her green eyes.
Talk that night turned to Jamal Oasis. The House of Asad, some 5000 men and women divided into 20 clans, had controlled Jamal Oasis for many generations. They permitted any traveler to use it, however. House Asad is known for many things- chief among them, strong camels, fine sons, and beautiful daughters.
"Easy with their friendship," old Rajab said, scratching at his pepper gray beard. "And just as quick to be offended."
"Daughters of House Asad, they aren't so quick with their friendships," Maaraof laughed, raising an eyebrow knowingly. "Hide behind their brothers when any but a wealthy man comes near, if they even venture beyond their camps."
Ali told several stories, each more amazing than the last. To most Zakarans, adventures where what happened to other people - the magical and fantastical seldom touched their mundane lives. So his stories of the djinni still fascinated most of his listeners.
Khafaz ibn Dahz stroked his neatly trimmed beard as he listened, clearly waiting for a chance to tell his own tale of the djinn.
"Across the bottom of the Jamal Temple minaret," Khafaz said, pausing to bask in the momentary attention, "is written a barely legible phrase, worn down by sand and time."
Turin turned and grabbed a handful of dried camel dung to feed the small fire, earning a glare from Khafaz.
"The only words decipherable are: How can any man born of earth claim to divine the true purposes of the gods?" Khafaz leaned forward. "On nights like this, the darkest nights of summer, djinn meet in the temple to debate the meaning of this aphorism."
Picking a bit of lint of his caftan, "I have debated with them." Self-satisfied grin. "Brought them some fresh apples, and I was allowed to join the debate."
"And what have you brought them this time?" Amir al-Ahmar asks Khafaz. His eyes betray a grin hidden beneath his keffiyeh.
"Perhaps Yakhil can offer his own opinion of this riddle."
Khafaz jutted out his chin with a sniff. "Perhaps on the return journey I shall rejoin the discussion. For now, I prefer to concentrate
on the matter at hand; I am, after all, in my master's employ."
That night, after all the camels are unloaded and hobbled, after the goods have been inventories, and the filling meal prepared and eaten, Ya'qub looks around carefully noting where everyone is. When he is satisfied that the hired help is busy elsewhere and Khafaz and his lackey have retired for the night, Yaq'ub summons the party to his makeshift tent. "I have deep concerns about our dealings at the Jamal Oasis," he announces solemnly as each looks at him inquiringly.
Lum rubbed his eyes, they had grown weary of the endless sights of shifting dunes and circling vultures overhead awaiting any opportunity. "What concerns you Yaq?"
When he's satisfied that the only ones nearby and listening are the members of his own party who have risked life and limb to this point, Ya'qub begins to slowly unfold his tale:
"Noble comrades and brethren," he begins. "After our brilliant success (may Fate be praised!) at the tent of the cowardly doctor (may he know the comfort of a thousand sand gnats in his sleeping blankets), I received my reward of bolts of costly silk. I then proceeded to the bazaar at Tarjar to ascertain the value and perhaps turn a small profit for myself.
"While browsing the stalls of that famous marketplace, I kept my ears open, like an good merchant, for news of the area. There, I heard how well-respected our Patron (may his coffers and camels grow fat with the blessings of Fate) is. However, the same cannot be said of his administrator, Khafaz. While I learned nothing specific, the general consensus of the populace is that he is "devious." It may be nothing, but I am concerned, and I wish to share those concerns with you to see if I am right to be so, or if I am acting like a silly woman."
"That is a vague accusation at best," Amir al-Ahmar says furrowing his brows. His black eyes, the only feature visible above his red keffiyeh, conveys all of his emotion. "Perhaps you have merely heard a rumor told by a spiteful merchant. Or is there a tale of his treachery you have not yet told?"
"Alas! I have told all I know. However, there is something, I know not what, that makes me uneasy around the man. I wish I had more to offer, but I fear that that perhaps the incident with the ankheg (filthy beast!) has my simple mind casting about at shadows..."
"Treachery comes often where it is least suspect," Ali replied to Amir's concerns. "And while you are correct, we have no proof, it costs us nothing to keep our eyes open. What's more, it does him no harm either."
"For my part," he continued, "I will treat him no differently than before save that I will keep what Ya’qub has heard in my mind and be careful."
18th of Safa
The caravan moved out early, still two days from the pass in the mountains that would allow them to turn northwest toward Jamal Oasis.
Spying something close to the ground near the plateau's edge, Amir rode ahead. There he found a feeble old man digging amongst the dry scrub brush with a crude wooden spade.
The old man waved amiably, chattering something in a tribal dialect Amir didn't recognize, then returned to his digging.
Soon the others caught up. Again the old man waved and chattered. Khafaz snorted. "Leave the filthy primitive to his lunacy. Filthy ignorant bugger. Says that his name is Huntab and he is digging for 'orbi', whatever that is." Khafaz lashed his camel and continued on.
"He also asked for our assistance" Sahra said. "He says the orbi plant is an underground vine with edible tubers."
"I know this vine," Amir al-Ahmar says, bringing his horse to a halt. "Though my people had a different name for it." He looked down at the old man with a hint of pity in his eyes. "Usually only the poor or desperate seek it out. Sahra, ask this man why is out here so far from any camp."
Sahra did as asked. The old man replied without looking up from his digging. Looking perplexed Sahra looked up at Amir and translated: "Death rides a fast camel."
Sahra filled the old man's waterskin from her own and filled his pockets with some nuts and dates she carried with her. Then she smiled at him saying, "My mother taught me, 'If you have much, give of your wealth; If you have little, give of your heart.'" Turning, she hurriedly returned to her place in the caravan.
As the caravan passed, Old Rajab bent and gave the nomad some strips of his dried camel meat. "When Fate gives hard bread she gives sharp teeth," Rajab said.
As he passed, Maarouf pressed a handful of dates into the old nomad's hands. "Better a handful of dry dates and content therewith than to own the Gate of Huzuz and be kicked in the eye by a broody camel!"
Before the sun had risen very high, the caravan moved north and west toward the distant mountains of the Range of Marching Camels. The green belt that grew along the river al-Adib was soon no more than a dark line on the horizon. Before the party stretched hogback dunes and barren sands, only occasionally broken by exposed hardpack ground and stubborn shrub plants.
Astride the spirited Arabian Sulayman, Amir al-Ahmar sometimes rode ahead to crest a dune and scan the desert for signs of bandits or other dangers. Flying above the caravan, Ali's gen Yakhil soared on the thermals radiating up from the desert floor. Under their watchful eyes, nothing moved but the gently blowing sands and the shimmering of the hot afternoon mirage.
It was another dark night.
"Oh, these camels!" said the always smiling Maarouf. He'd just returned from a last check on the camels as they settled in for the night. "They stamp, and trample, they buck, they quarrel, they weep and take fright – yes! and they laugh; they are helpless, but ever and anon rebellious. They will run like the wind for hours, and all at once stop or refuse to budge. Only with a good rider in the saddle are they erect, proud animals, self-assured, noble, moving with elastic strides. With a dull herdsman seated on its hump, a camel too becomes dull, lazy and - gluttonous."
Old Rajab joined in, recalling his emotions when he bought a magnificent six-year old racing-camel, a fawn with a lion's head and great gazelle eyes. "I had fallen in love with this fine animal at first sight. She was the pride of her captor and she cost me more than I ever dreamt of paying for a racing camel, but she was worth the money. What was most beautiful in her and what charmed me most were the long, ideal line of the back and the high-swung belly-line from the breastbone to the hind thighs. This racing build gave her ample freedom for paces which were a sheer delight – even and soft, easy and long-striding. She was very speedy and untiring in either trot or gallop, as I proved the very day I bought her. It was a pure joy to be privileged to ride this thoroughbred animal; I had not been deceived in her."
"Do you speak of a camel or a woman, Rajab?" Amir al-Ahmar teases the old herder. "Or perhaps you've been in the desert too long to remember the difference?" The desert rider is meticulously brushing and tending to his horse. For yet another night he has declined to food or drink at the campfire preferring the privacy of his tent instead. "Sulayman," he says, fondly stroking the side of the stallion. "Is worth more than any camel or woman and a thousand times more trustworthy than both."
Rajab grinned, revealing his few remaining teeth. "I speak of the camel! Women are no good for racing. Even after a few good lashings! They bellow and lash back!"
He eyed the horse warily. Not approaching it. "You can keep your horses. I'd not trust my life to one."
The evening's conversation was peppered with laughter and good humor, the previous night's attack seemingly forgotten- life in the High Desert was fraught with danger, no need to dwell on misfortune, another would soon come along.
Around the fire, tales were told as Turin scraped the fat off camel hide and snacked on fried bits of hump fat.
For the benefit of the young mamluk Barber Amin, the experienced caravaneers taught him about the "ship of the desert" while he went to work on removing one of old Rajab's teeth. In between the old man's curses, Amin alternatively listened and pulled, learning that camels can live to be up to 50 years old; they have three eyelids- Two of them have lashes, and the third is thin and translucent; and that a camel can close its nostrils.
17th of Safa
The day's journey was hot and uneventful. With each passing hour the mountains drew nearer. The Range of the Marching Camels stretched for hundreds of miles across the High Desert, running generally parallel to the equator with a 120 mile stretch at its eastern end bending toward the northeast.
A hot gusty breeze, laced with biting sand greeted you as the caravan reached a break in the hogback dunes. A look to the east revealed that you'd reached the top of a plateau which stepped down to the Golden Gulf and followed the coast along the entire eastern edge of the High Desert.
Before you stretched a six mile wide corridor between the steep, rocky mountains to the northwest and the plateau's edge to the east.
Ya'qub raised a hand signaling a halt. Camp would be here in the shadow of the mountains.
This was the second night Ya'qub had been assisted by the homely Sahra in his nightly inventory of the trade goods. She'd soon proved herself as good with mathematics as she was with herding camels. Ya'qub caught her gaze lingering on him across the campfire, the low flames dancing in her green eyes.
Talk that night turned to Jamal Oasis. The House of Asad, some 5000 men and women divided into 20 clans, had controlled Jamal Oasis for many generations. They permitted any traveler to use it, however. House Asad is known for many things- chief among them, strong camels, fine sons, and beautiful daughters.
"Easy with their friendship," old Rajab said, scratching at his pepper gray beard. "And just as quick to be offended."
"Daughters of House Asad, they aren't so quick with their friendships," Maaraof laughed, raising an eyebrow knowingly. "Hide behind their brothers when any but a wealthy man comes near, if they even venture beyond their camps."
Ali told several stories, each more amazing than the last. To most Zakarans, adventures where what happened to other people - the magical and fantastical seldom touched their mundane lives. So his stories of the djinni still fascinated most of his listeners.
Khafaz ibn Dahz stroked his neatly trimmed beard as he listened, clearly waiting for a chance to tell his own tale of the djinn.
"Across the bottom of the Jamal Temple minaret," Khafaz said, pausing to bask in the momentary attention, "is written a barely legible phrase, worn down by sand and time."
Turin turned and grabbed a handful of dried camel dung to feed the small fire, earning a glare from Khafaz.
"The only words decipherable are: How can any man born of earth claim to divine the true purposes of the gods?" Khafaz leaned forward. "On nights like this, the darkest nights of summer, djinn meet in the temple to debate the meaning of this aphorism."
Picking a bit of lint of his caftan, "I have debated with them." Self-satisfied grin. "Brought them some fresh apples, and I was allowed to join the debate."
"And what have you brought them this time?" Amir al-Ahmar asks Khafaz. His eyes betray a grin hidden beneath his keffiyeh.
"Perhaps Yakhil can offer his own opinion of this riddle."
Khafaz jutted out his chin with a sniff. "Perhaps on the return journey I shall rejoin the discussion. For now, I prefer to concentrate
on the matter at hand; I am, after all, in my master's employ."
That night, after all the camels are unloaded and hobbled, after the goods have been inventories, and the filling meal prepared and eaten, Ya'qub looks around carefully noting where everyone is. When he is satisfied that the hired help is busy elsewhere and Khafaz and his lackey have retired for the night, Yaq'ub summons the party to his makeshift tent. "I have deep concerns about our dealings at the Jamal Oasis," he announces solemnly as each looks at him inquiringly.
Lum rubbed his eyes, they had grown weary of the endless sights of shifting dunes and circling vultures overhead awaiting any opportunity. "What concerns you Yaq?"
When he's satisfied that the only ones nearby and listening are the members of his own party who have risked life and limb to this point, Ya'qub begins to slowly unfold his tale:
"Noble comrades and brethren," he begins. "After our brilliant success (may Fate be praised!) at the tent of the cowardly doctor (may he know the comfort of a thousand sand gnats in his sleeping blankets), I received my reward of bolts of costly silk. I then proceeded to the bazaar at Tarjar to ascertain the value and perhaps turn a small profit for myself.
"While browsing the stalls of that famous marketplace, I kept my ears open, like an good merchant, for news of the area. There, I heard how well-respected our Patron (may his coffers and camels grow fat with the blessings of Fate) is. However, the same cannot be said of his administrator, Khafaz. While I learned nothing specific, the general consensus of the populace is that he is "devious." It may be nothing, but I am concerned, and I wish to share those concerns with you to see if I am right to be so, or if I am acting like a silly woman."
"That is a vague accusation at best," Amir al-Ahmar says furrowing his brows. His black eyes, the only feature visible above his red keffiyeh, conveys all of his emotion. "Perhaps you have merely heard a rumor told by a spiteful merchant. Or is there a tale of his treachery you have not yet told?"
"Alas! I have told all I know. However, there is something, I know not what, that makes me uneasy around the man. I wish I had more to offer, but I fear that that perhaps the incident with the ankheg (filthy beast!) has my simple mind casting about at shadows..."
"Treachery comes often where it is least suspect," Ali replied to Amir's concerns. "And while you are correct, we have no proof, it costs us nothing to keep our eyes open. What's more, it does him no harm either."
"For my part," he continued, "I will treat him no differently than before save that I will keep what Ya’qub has heard in my mind and be careful."
18th of Safa
The caravan moved out early, still two days from the pass in the mountains that would allow them to turn northwest toward Jamal Oasis.
Spying something close to the ground near the plateau's edge, Amir rode ahead. There he found a feeble old man digging amongst the dry scrub brush with a crude wooden spade.
The old man waved amiably, chattering something in a tribal dialect Amir didn't recognize, then returned to his digging.
Soon the others caught up. Again the old man waved and chattered. Khafaz snorted. "Leave the filthy primitive to his lunacy. Filthy ignorant bugger. Says that his name is Huntab and he is digging for 'orbi', whatever that is." Khafaz lashed his camel and continued on.
"He also asked for our assistance" Sahra said. "He says the orbi plant is an underground vine with edible tubers."
"I know this vine," Amir al-Ahmar says, bringing his horse to a halt. "Though my people had a different name for it." He looked down at the old man with a hint of pity in his eyes. "Usually only the poor or desperate seek it out. Sahra, ask this man why is out here so far from any camp."
Sahra did as asked. The old man replied without looking up from his digging. Looking perplexed Sahra looked up at Amir and translated: "Death rides a fast camel."
Sahra filled the old man's waterskin from her own and filled his pockets with some nuts and dates she carried with her. Then she smiled at him saying, "My mother taught me, 'If you have much, give of your wealth; If you have little, give of your heart.'" Turning, she hurriedly returned to her place in the caravan.
As the caravan passed, Old Rajab bent and gave the nomad some strips of his dried camel meat. "When Fate gives hard bread she gives sharp teeth," Rajab said.
As he passed, Maarouf pressed a handful of dates into the old nomad's hands. "Better a handful of dry dates and content therewith than to own the Gate of Huzuz and be kicked in the eye by a broody camel!"