“Thank you, Musa-effendi. For the wisdom, the story, and so much more.”
“Thank you, my star.” He released her hand and stood from the table.
“Will you not stay for a meal?” Shahrzad asked again.
He shook his head. “I must be on my way. But I promise to visit again very soon. I shall not let so many years pass by this time. And I will cling to the hope that, when I see you next, it will be with Khalid at your side. At your side and the better for it.”
A strange twinge of guilt knifed through Shahrzad’s stomach.
Musa made his way to the satchel of belongings he had left in the corner. He lifted the pack from the floor and paused, as if in consideration. Then he reached inside and withdrew a threadbare, moth-eaten rug rolled tightly in a bundle and bound by a hemp cord.
“A gift for you, dearest Shahrzad.”
“Thank you, Musa-effendi.”
What an odd gift.
“Keep it with you always. It is a very special carpet. When you are lost, it will help you find your way,” he said, with a knowing glint in his eyes.
Shahrzad took the parcel and held it against her chest.
Musa reached over and placed his warm palm on her cheek.
“Let it take you where your heart longs to be.”
THE OLD MAN AND THE WELL
THE DESERT SUN BORE DOWN ON TARIQ WITH THE heat of a brazen fire. It rippled off the dunes, distorting his vision and searing the sky.
He wrapped the hood of his rida’ tight across his face, securing the leather band low on his brow. Whorls of sand curled around the legs of his stallion, trailing a glittering haze with the rise and fall of each massive hoof.
Zoraya circled above, her cries growing louder with each passing hour.
As the sun started to set, they approached the border of Khorasan and Parthia, and Tariq began searching for a place to rest. He knew the Badawi tribes were nearby, but he did not want to run the risk of encroaching on their territory without a full night’s rest, as he had not slept well since leaving Rey almost four days ago. In the morning, he would devise a way to speak with a local so as to determine the current state of affairs in the region.
In the distance, he spotted a small settlement of sun-weathered buildings situated around a decrepit stone well. The horseshoe of cracked mud houses was capped by caving roofs and appeared all but abandoned. An elderly man stood at the well’s edge¸ removing animal skins from across the backs of two aging camels.
Tariq spurred his dark bay Arabian forward, tugging once more on the hood of his white rida’.
When he neared the well, the elderly man glanced over his shoulder.
Then he grinned up at Tariq.
He was dressed in simple clothes of spun brown linen, and his thick beard was stippled with silver. A prominent gap separated his two front teeth, and his hooked nose was broken across the bridge. His hands were gnarled from age and use.
“A fine horse.” He nodded, still grinning.
Tariq nodded in return.
The elderly man reached a shaking hand for the bucket above the well . . .
And promptly knocked it down.
The bucket struck the murky caverns of the hollow, ricocheting with each hit, until it splashed into the water with a taunting sound.
Tariq exhaled loudly.
The elderly man groaned, ripping his rida’ from his head and stomping his feet in the dirt. He began wringing his hands, the dismay on his face as plain as the day.
Tariq observed this melodramatic performance until he could stomach it no longer, and then dismounted from his stallion with a moribund sigh.
“Do you have some rope?” he asked the elderly man as he removed the hood from his face.
“Yes, sahib.” The man bowed, over and over.
“That is not necessary; I am not your sahib.”
“The sahib has a fine horse. A fine sword. He is most definitely a sahib.”
Tariq sighed again. “Give me the rope, and I will climb down for the bucket.”
“Oh, thank you, sahib. You are most generous.”
“Not generous. Just thirsty.” Tariq smiled wryly. He took the rope from the man and secured it to the post over the well. Then he paused in consideration. “Don’t try to steal my horse. He’s a temperamental beast, and you won’t get far.”
The elderly man shook his head with such fervor that Tariq thought it might cause him injury. “I would not do such a thing, sahib!”
His intensity put to question his intent.
Tariq studied the man before extending his left arm and whistling to the skies. Zoraya came hurtling from the clouds in a mass of feathers and wicked talons. The elderly man lifted a trembling forearm to his face, warding away the raptor’s piercing menace.
“She likes to start with the eyes,” Tariq said in a flat tone, as Zoraya spread her wings above his leather mankalah and glared at the man.
“I will not do anything disgraceful, sahib!”
“Good. Do you live around here?”
“I am Omar of the Badawi.”
Tariq considered the man once more. “Omar of the Badawi, I’d like to make a deal with you.”
“A deal, sahib?”
“Yes. I’ll retrieve the bucket from the well and assist you in filling the skins with water. In return, I’d like some information on your tribe and its sheikh.”
Omar scratched at his beard. “Why does the nameless sahib want information on my tribe?”
“Don’t worry; I do not wish them ill. I have a great deal of respect for the Badawi. My father purchased this horse from a tribesman several years ago, and he always said the desert wanderers are among the best horsemen in the world.”