The Wrath and the Dawn

  Shahrzad chewed on her lower lip for a moment.

  “A joyless one. A calculating one. A bitter one . . .” she whispered.

  She thought of his raw fist and the punishing fury.

  “An angry one.”

  “It was not always thus.” Musa sighed. “He was such a kind boy.”

  “I’ve been told. But it is difficult to believe.”

  “Understandably.” He paused. “Will you permit me to share a story with you, my lovely Shahrzad? About the night I was thrown out on my heels?”

  “Of course, Musa-effendi.”

  “It is a sad story.”

  “I imagine any story that ends in such a manner would be.”

  Musa sat back in remembrance before he began.

  “I was the tutor for Khalid’s mother, Leila. And Leila was a joy. Beautiful and talented. A lover of books and poetry. When she married Khalid’s father and became his second wife, she was young—only fifteen years old. I came along with her to Rey, at her insistence. She was very headstrong. Unfortunately, it was not an easy marriage. Her husband was a good deal older than she, and he had clearly loved his first wife very much. Leila did not appreciate the constant comparisons. I tried hard to rein in her tantrums and bouts of despair, but the disparity between them in age and interests was oftentimes too difficult to breach. It was no one’s fault, really. Khalid’s father was quite set in his ways. And Leila was a spirited young woman.”

  He stopped, his features growing sad.

  “After Khalid was born, I hoped everything would change. I had never seen a more devoted mother. Leila kissed his feet and sang to him as an infant. When he was older, she told him stories every night before he went to sleep. And Khalid loved her more than anything.”

  Musa closed his eyes for a moment, and Shahrzad took a careful breath.

  His mother told him stories at night.

  “I was there the night Khalid’s father learned of Leila’s betrayal . . . when he discovered she had been carrying on an affair with a member of the palace guard.”

  His tenor became low and grave.

  “He dragged Leila through the halls of the palace by her hair. She was screaming at him, calling him horrible names. I tried to help her, but his soldiers prevented me from doing so. In the atrium, he called for Khalid. Leila kept telling Khalid everything would be fine. That she loved him. That he was her world.”

  Shahrzad’s hands curled into fists.

  “And there, in front of her six-year-old son, Khalid’s father slit Leila’s throat. When Khalid started to cry, his father yelled at him. I will never forget what he said. ‘A woman is faithful, or she is dead. There is no in-between.’ After that, I was thrown out of the palace, with nothing but the clothes on my back. I should have fought harder. For Leila’s sake. For Khalid’s sake. But I was weak. Afraid. Later, I heard what had become of Leila’s son. And I always regretted it. From the bottom of my soul, I regretted it.”

  Something had risen in Shahrzad’s chest, forming a barrier that prevented her from speaking. She swallowed hard. Not knowing what else to do, she reached across the table and took Musa’s hand. He wrapped her small hands in both of his, and they sat in this manner for a time.

  And then, with careful respect, Shahrzad attempted to break the silence.

  “Musa-effendi . . . I feel certain you should not hold yourself responsible for anything that transpired, not that night or any of the nights after. I am young, and, therefore, I know my words only carry a certain weight with the world, but I do know enough to realize you cannot control the actions of others. You can only control what you do with yourself afterward.”

  His grip on her hand tightened. “Such wise words. Does Khalid know what a treasure you are, my dearest star?”

  Shahrzad’s eyes furnished him with the smile her lips could not.

  Musa shook his head. “He has suffered a great deal. It troubles me immensely to know he inflicts suffering on others as a result. And it vexes me because these are not the actions of the boy I knew. But as you are young, I am old, and in my age, wisdom becomes less of a birthright and more of an expectation. In my life, the one thing I have learned above all is that no individual can reach the height of their potential without the love of others. We are not meant to be alone, Shahrzad. The more a person pushes others away, the clearer it becomes he is in need of love the most.”

  I could never love such a man . . . such a monster.

  Shahrzad started to withdraw her hand from his.

  But he held on to it.

  “Tell me,” he pressed. “How long have you possessed the gift?”

  Taken aback, Shahrzad merely stared at him, her hazel eyes blank.

  Musa returned her gaze, his warm eyes searching.

  “Then you are unaware. It lies dormant in your blood,” he said to himself.

  “What are you talking about?” she demanded.

  “Perhaps a parent?” he continued. “Does your mother or father possess any . . . unique abilities?”

  Realization dawned on Shahrzad. “My father. He can do certain things. Very small things. But he’s never been adept at controlling it.”

  Musa nodded. “If ever you wish to learn about these abilities, send word to me. I would be happy to share my knowledge with you. I am not extremely proficient, but I’ve learned to . . . control it.” He grinned slowly. As he spoke, Shahrzad saw the flame dancing in the nearby lamp flicker out and spark back to life, unbidden.

  “And I could learn to do this?” she whispered.

  “In truth, I do not know. It is impossible to gauge an individual’s abilities. I only know what I knew the moment I first held your hands in my grasp: that you and I share a common bond. And now that bond extends beyond this mere twist of fate. I beseech you, my star . . . please see past the darkness. There is potential for boundless good in the boy I knew. Trust that the man you see now is a shadow of what lies beneath. If you would, give him the love that will enable him to see it for himself. To a lost soul, such a treasure is worth its weight in gold. Worth its weight in dreams.” As he spoke, Musa leaned over their still-clasped hands, a bright smile of affection lighting his features.

  “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 approach
ed 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.”

  “Among?” Omar smiled widely. “We are the best, sahib. Without a doubt.”

  Tariq offered him a tentative grin. “Do we have a deal?”

  “I believe so, sahib; however, may I ask one last question?”

  Tariq nodded.

  “What is the purpose behind you seeking out the Badawi?”

  Tariq thought for a moment. This elderly man was, at best, a servant. Most likely, a relic sent to collect water on a daily basis so as to maintain an appearance of usefulness in his old age. Giving him information seemed rather harmless.

  “I have a business proposition to make.”

  “Business?” Omar cackled. “With the Badawi? Why would a rich young sahib need a desert wanderer’s help?”

  “I answered your question. Do we have a deal?”

  Omar’s dark eyes twinkled. “Yes, yes, sahib. We do.”

  Tariq directed Zoraya to a perch atop the well, and then turned to his horse to remove his recurve bow. He lashed the quiver to his back and slung the sinew across his chest, for he was not fool enough to leave behind a weapon. Finally, he tugged on the rope to make sure it was solidly rooted before positioning himself on the stone and mortar brim.

  The well was as wide as a man and two times his height, so it was not an especially difficult task to ease his way down and grab the wooden bucket floating on the water’s surface. In short order, Tariq climbed back up the stone hollow and out into the orange dusk of a desert sunset.

  He passed the bucket to Omar. “I suggest tying a rope to the handle, for the sake of future ease.”

  Omar laughed. “A wise suggestion!”

  The two men began the process of filling the animal skins with water and securing them to the camels waiting nearby.

  “So,” Tariq commenced, “which Badawi tribe do you ride with?”

  Omar grinned. “I ride with the al-Sadiq family.”

  “I’ve heard that name before.”

  “Many say it is a great family. From a long line of powerful desert wanderers.”

  “Who is your sheikh?”

  “A sixth-generation son of the al-Sadiq line. Some would argue he’s a bit strange. He studied in Damascus for a time before returning to the desert.”

  “And what did he study in Damascus?”

  “Sword making. He mastered the craft of iron and steel, sahib.”

  “What possessed him to learn this trade?”

  Omar shrugged. “He believes such knowledge gives him an edge over his enemies.”

  Tariq nodded pensively. “He sounds like an interesting man.”

  “As are you, sahib. But I am most curious; what is the nature of your business with the Badawi?”

  Tariq hedged. “It is personal.”

  “Personal?” Omar laughed. “Then you are trying to overthrow a family member or . . . win the heart of a woman.”

  “What?”

  “Why else would a rich young sahib have business of a personal nature with the Badawi? So which is it? Is your father a despicable despot of lore? Are you the hero your people long to serve?”

  Tariq glared down at Omar.

  “Ah! So then you are trying to win the heart of a beautiful young woman.”

  Tariq turned to his horse.

  “She must be very beautiful,” Omar mused. “To bring a handsome sahib with a falcon and a fine al-Khamsa this far into the Sea of Sand.”

  “It has nothing to do with that,” Tariq muttered.

  “Then she is not beautiful?”

  Tariq whirled around. “It has nothing to do with her beauty.”

  “So it is about a girl!” Omar crowed.

  Glowering, Tariq grabbed the reins of his stallion and swung into the saddle.

  “Do not be offended by old Omar, sahib! I did not mean to press the issue. I am just curious at heart, and my curious heart has quite a fondness for love stories. Please! If you follow me, I would be happy to introduce you to the sheikh.”

  “And why would you do that?”

  “For the sake of my curious heart,” Omar replied with a ridiculous smile that emphasized
the dark gap between his crooked teeth.

  Tariq paused in deliberation. The old servant could be lying to him, but this could also be his best chance to meet with a sheikh from one of the most celebrated of the Badawi tribes.

  It was worth the risk.

  “I will follow you to your camp.” Tariq adjusted the quiver of arrows on his back, for good measure.

  Omar nodded, straightening his rida’. “I will be sure to tell the sheikh of your helpfulness at the well today.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Of course, sahib! I am nothing if not honorable.”

  Tariq followed Omar at a wary distance as Omar guided the two camels back into the desert. Omar rode the smaller camel at a steady pace, looking over his shoulder every so often to give Tariq a reassuring grin.

  The sky darkened to blue-black, and the brightest stars began to flicker above, winking white at the edges. After riding for half an hour, a large enclave of tents surrounded by a ring of torches materialized in the sea of rising dunes.

  Omar led the camels directly into the center, whistling cheerfully to himself. As he passed, several men stopped to nod at him, and Omar bowed back, with a hand to his brow. He dismounted from the camel before a large, patchworked tent in the middle of the encampment. The instant his sandaled feet hit the ground, a pattering of footsteps burst from the shadows to the side.

  Tiny burnished arms grabbed at his legs and battled for his embrace.

  “Baba Aziz! Why are you so late?” several children cried in discordant harmony.

  Tariq’s eyes narrowed.

  The flap of the tent opened, and an elderly woman with a beautiful braid of muted copper strode into the moonlight. “Omar-jan, where have you been? Your grandchildren are hungry, and your daughters are irritated, as a result.”

  Omar smiled indulgently. “I’ve brought a guest. Can we make room for one more?”

  She shot her eyes heavenward before shifting to Tariq. “And who are you, young man?”

  “He is our nameless sahib. And my curious heart longs to hear his story. I believe it is a good one, Aisha. About love and its many struggles,” Omar answered with a wink.

  She shook her head. “Well, bring him inside.”