--The Hakawati tells the how a one legged beggar once helped the Emir’s storyteller—
Many generations ago when Pasha Mosaan led the tribe of Ashem there ruled over the Kaibah oasis one of his Emirs who was extraordinarily fond of stories. The Emir was at once a beneficent patron of many poets but harsh and fickle man. He would reward storytellers for tales he had never heard and have beaten from his tent those Hakawati telling stories that had already passed over his ears.
Like other Emirs and men of importance, Emir Al-Kaibah had a favored storyteller and this Hakawati was known for having so many stories in is head that he might tell them all and never repeat one in a hundred years. The Emir’s Hakawati held the some of the choicest land around the Kaibah and owned many slaves, camels, sheep and other livestock. He was a very rich man but his wealth carried a condition.
Each night he was to tell story never before heard.
The Hakawati had done this for nearly twenty years. Such was his skill that it did not matter what annoyances or other problems plagued the Emir, the Hakawati’s story never failed to please the Emir or ease his mind. And this was a good thing for the Emir’s mind was troubled by Zuagir raiders had taken to preying on the caravans that passed through the oasis. For a year or more, hardly a month went by without a caravan being attacked or the oasis raided.
The Hakawati always rose just before dawn and walked through the oasis, rolling over in his brain what story he might fashion for the Emir that night. But this one morning he found himself at a loss. He walked all around the oasis. He walked through the small souk and along the low walls where women washed clothes and beat them upon the rocks. He strolled through the sheep pens and among the camels but failed to find inspiration anywhere or to think of a story to tell the Emir. After walking the oasis three times, he returned to his house, worry written in his face.
His wife, who had expected him much earlier, knew something was wrong. Her husband was never late for breakfast. His wife placed before him his usual breakfast of yogurt and bread. "Why don't you come so late to breakfast, my dear?" she asked.
The Hakawati dipped the bread into the yogurt but found he had no appetite. "I have no stomach for food," he said and tossed the bread back onto his plate. "For as long as I have been in the service to the Emir, I never once sat down to breakfast without having a new story ready for the evening. But this morning my mind is closed up and I don't know what to do. I might as well die. I'll be disgraced this evening when the Emir calls for a story and he will have me beaten and cast me out."
“You have all day to imagine a new story,” said his wife. “I am sure you will think of something.”
“Perhaps,” said the Hakawati, unconvinced. Though his wife wore a consoling smile, the Hakawati saw worry in her eyes. She had become accustomed to the wealth lavished upon her husband by the Emir and had no wish to be poor. The Hakawati ate a few bites of his breakfast and stood. “I’ll take another walk. Perhaps I might find some inspiration.”
Upon stepping outside, the Hakawati bumped into an old beggar man, knocking the one legged fellow to the dust. The miserable old man’s camel bone crutch toppled one way, the old man another and satchel the old man was carrying yet another.
The Hakawati helped the old man back onto his one good foot. “Forgive me, esteemed uncle,” apologized the Hakwawati gathering up the bone crutch and the satchel. “My mind is so distracted I did not see you there.”
“It matters little,” said the old man. “Few people notice a miserably old, decrepit and lame creature like me.”
“Please come in,” said the Hakawati honoring the nomad tradition of gracious hospitality. “I shall have my wife fetch you some breakfast. It is the least I can do to apologize for knocking you about.”
As much as honor demanded the Hakawati invite the old man in, it demanded that the old man accept the offer to be polite, so in hobbled the old fellow. After helping the old man to a large sitting pillow, the Hakawati told his wife to bring some of the breakfast for their guest and to brew fresh coffee for him.
While waiting for the coffee, the old man reached into his satchel and drew out a small seegha board fashioned of a blue stone polished so smooth that it speared to be made of water. He worriedly inspected the board, sighing relief upon seeing that it suffered no damage when the Hakawati accidentally knocked him down. He inspected as well the seegha stones which themselves were large pearls and cabochon onyx the size of a man’s thumbnail.
The Hakawati admired the board and the stones. “It is not my intent to offend, but that is a fine board for such a drab fellow,” said the Hakawati. “I have seen less grand seegha boards in the tents of Emirs and Sultans.”
“Every man, no matter his lot, has one thing of meaning, one passion, in his life. Seegha is mine.” The old man placed the board between him and the Hakawati. “Perhaps you might care for a bit of sport? To wager on a game?”
“And what would a poor man like you have to wager?”
“Pearl and onyx seegha stones are not the only things in my satchel. I have rubies and emeralds and diamonds as well. I can wager these and you can wager what coin you have.”
The Hakawati’s wife brought in the fresh brewed coffee and poured cups for her husband and their guest. “You might as well wager,” she said. “Perhaps afterwards you will have a story to tell the Emir.”
Each man began placing the stones on the board, the Hakawati choosing pearl and the beggar man choosing onyx. The two men played several games and by the time the wife was bringing the men lunch, the Hakawati had lost every bit of coin he had.
“What a fool I am,” said the Hakawati. “I should have never agreed to wager on seegha with a man whose passion is the game. Not that it matters, the Emir will have my head tonight for not telling him a new story and I will have no more use of money.”
“Will you wager on another game, then,” asked the old man. “I will stake all the coin I have won from you and all the rest of the treasures in my satchel against all that you have left. Your home, sheep, camels, slaves and hunting dogs.
The Hakawati shook his head. “Nonsense. It is bad enough I will leave my wife a headless husband before the next dawn. I’ll not leave her without a roof or a means to support herself.”
“Maybe you would win,” suggested the old man.
“Likely I will not,” said the Hakawati.
“Oh, play him,” said the wife. “I do not care so much about the livestock as I care about you. Besides, we will have none of these things tomorrow if the Emir does not enjoy your story tonight.”
“Very well,” the Hakawati said to his wife. “I have never refused you a thing in the past and I will not start now.” In one game, the Hakawati lost his home and all his livestock.
“Another game?” asked the old man.
“You mock me now? What else have I to wager?”
“I will place all against your wife,” said the beggar.
The Hakawati shook his head and started to rise but his wife stopped him. “Accept the offer,” she said. “Your luck is sure to change now.”
They played another game and the Hakawati again lost. His heart withered not just at the loss of his wife but at the ease with which she sat down beside the dirty old beggar. “So, this is how easily you leave me, woman?”
“I was won,” she said. “You do not want to cheat the man of his winnings do you?”
“One last game,” said the old man clearing the seegha board.
“There is nothing left, you old scoundrel. You have taken everything from me and for some reason I cannot seem to refuse the offer of yet another game.”
The old man placed the pearl seegha stones in front of the Hakawati. “One last game. All I have, every last bit of it, wagered against you.”
Feeling an odd compulsion to gamble just one more time the Hakawati agreed and in just a few moves had lost the game and along with it, himself. “Well,” sighed the Hakawati, “What would you have of me? A two-legged ass to tote you about on my back?”
The old man began packing up the seegha board and stones, placing them with delicate care back into his satchel. “I am curious. If you had a choice, what animal would you be, a deer, a fox or a hare?”
The Hakawati shrugged. “A hare I suppose.”
The old man reached into his satchel and drew out a long silver string that glimmered like moonlight in a lover’s eyes. “Then so be it,” said the old man. He snapped the string like a whip at the Hakawati and the hakawati became a dusky brown, long-eared desert hare.
The Hakawati hopped about, becoming accustomed to his new form which made his wife laugh with delight. “Oh, I know,” she said to the old man. “Let’s see how fast he can run. Aroo! Arai! Come here!” Hearing their names, two hunting dogs poked their heads into the room and upon seeing the hare, gave chase.
The hare dashed out the door but a high wall encircled the Hakawati’s house and no matter how fast he ran, or how high he leaped the hare could not get over the wall. The wife laughed to tears watching the hare twist and double about to avoid the dogs.
He tried to seek refuge near his wife but she just laughed and kept booting him back toward the dogs, until at last the beggar told her to call off the dogs. He snapped the string at the hare and gave the Hakawati his true form once more
"What fun sport, yes?" said the beggar.
The Hakawati stood panting and sweating and could not speak for a few moments while catching his breath. "It might be sport to some," replied the story-teller casting an angry look to his wife then looking back to the beggar. “As for me, I could well live the rest of my days and never again have so much fun. Who are you to take pleasure in making sport of a fellow like me?”
"Oh," replied the stranger, "I am a beggar one day, a prince the next. I am a kind word and a cruel jest. I am all that you see and more that you do not. More will you see and understand should you accompany me. But if you wish it, I will now release you from your obligations to me and leave you to tell this little story to the Emir.”
"As I have wagered myself away in a fair game, I'm not my own master to go or stay," said the story-teller, with a sigh.
The old man smiled, pleased with the dedication shown by the Hakawati in keeping his part of the wager. The stranger twirled his silver thread around on the ground and from the dust arose a powerfully built little man no more than half as tall as the old beggar. “By all you have heard,” said the old man to the little one, “take charge of this lady and keep her safe until our return. “
With that, the old man spun the string about over his head. A whirlwind arose, drawing up blinding dust and sand around the old man and the Hakawati. Scarcely had the dust devil formed when it faded away and the Hakawati saw that he and the old man were standing outside of an encampment.
“We should leave,” said the Hakawati. “I recognize the markings on these tents. They are those of the Zuagir raiders that have been plaguing the Kaibah Oasis and attacking the passing caravans.”
The old man draped his silver thread over the Hakawati’s shoulders and started walking toward the camp. “Don’t worry,” he said. “So long as you wear this string, you will see all and be seen by none. But take care not to leave the camp until I remove the string.”
Once in the camp, the old man was taken to the Zuagir captain, not so much out of desert hospitality but to explain how he had managed to wander into the camp unseen.
Surrounded by his lieutenants, the Zuagir Captain sat in his tent planning the next raid on the Kaibah Oasis. “What is this,” demanded the Captain when the guards brought in the old man.
“We found him wandering into camp,” said one of the guards.
The Zuagir captain turned his attention to the old man. Dark eyes stared at the man from a face tanned leather brown by the desert sun. “Who are you to hobble into my camp, old man?”
“Just a one legged wanderer,” said the old man leaning on his crutch. “I hobble here. I hobble there. I hobble wherever my magic is needed.”
The captain and his lieutenants laughed. “You? A magician?”
“Yes and for four pieces of silver I will show you a magic feat that no other man can perform.”
“Then show us, magician. But know I might have your head anyway for wandering into our camp.”
The old man plucked three straws from a broom used to sweep sand out the tent and placed them in his hand. “I shall blow on these straws,” said the old fellow, “but only the middle one shall fly away.”
“Impossible,” sneered one of the lieutenants.
“Then behold my power,” said the old man to the doubting lieutenant. The beggar placed a finger on each outside straw and blew on his hand. Whoosh, away went the middle straw.
“That is not magic,” said the doubting lieutenant. “Anyone can do that.” The lieutenant plucked three straws from the broom and like the old man, placed a finger on the outer two. But when he blew, his entire hand flew away as if lopped off by a scimitar.
The other Zuagirs found great amusement in their friend’s misfortune. Some laughed. Some chided him now that his sword hand was gone, he was useless. Others laughed that he no longer had had anyone to keep him warm at night when he could not find a woman. In agony, the man ran from the tent.
The captain tossed four pieces of silver at the old man’s feet. “A fine trick,” he laughed though it was a sound of little amusement. “But one of my lieutenants is now useless to me. You grow closer to losing your head, magician.”
“Then another trick,” said the old man. “Of my two ears I shall waggle one but not the other.”
Another lieutenant snorted. “Easy to see that they are big enough, but it cannot be done.”
“Behold!” The beggar man lifted his hand and gave his ear a tug.
“Not magic,” dismissed the second lieutenant. “Anyone can do that.” He lifted his hand, tugged on his ear and pulled off his own head. Spurting blood, his body collapsed and his head rolled to the Zuagir captain’s feet.
Upset at losing yet another lieutenant, the captain shouted, “Stake the magician then bring me his head!”
Guards seized the lame old man and dragged him to the edge of the camp. There, they tied each hand and his one good foot to stakes in the ground. They sliced open his belly, reeled out his guts and lopped off his head. Shoving his head in a sack, they went back to the captain and left the man’s body for the hyenas and vultures.
The Hakawati, remembering that he would remain unseen only so long as he wore the magic string and stayed within the camp followed the guards back to the captain’s tent. He intended to wait until night when most were sleeping to sneak out of the camp. In the captain’s tent the guards pulled the old man’s head from the sack but instead found it to be the head of the first, doubting lieutenant. Only the captain’s anger eclipsed the Hakawati’s surprise. As certain as were the guards, the Hakawati had watched the old man disemboweled and beheaded.
The captain raged, “I said kill the old man! Not one of our own!”
The severed head opened its eyes. “You can’t kill the desert,” it said with the old man’s voice. “But it will kill you.” Frightened, the guards threw the head to the ground and began hacking at it with their swords.
“Find the magician,” demanded the captain. “Kill him!”
“There he is,” said one of the Zuagir guards and cut down the guard standing beside him. The Zuagirs fell against one another, steel singing and blood sluicing through the air. Each saw in their comrades the face of the old man. No sooner had they cut down the old man than he appeared elsewhere. The maddened Zuagirs slaughtered one another until the bloody, setting sun touched the horizon. Only the Hakawati remained standing among the corpses and corpse parts.
“What fun sport, yes?”
The Hakawati turned to see the smiling face of the old beggar. “But, I saw you killed, old man!”
The old beggar tied his satchel over his shoulder and took the string from the Hakawati’s shoulders. “The problem with you mundane types is that you see with your eyes.” Leaning on his camel bone crutch, the old man looked left and right to the bodies scattered about. Already vultures and other carrion eaters started to gather for the feast. “These men saw me in the faces of their companions and look where it got them. But enough, the sun is nearly set and Emir Al Kaibah will be expecting a story.” With that the old man twirled the string about and in a whirlwind of dust; they were again outside the Hakawati’s house at the Kaibah Oasis.
When the dust settled where the old man stood was now a younger man a head taller than the Hakawati and dressed in shimmering blue and gold satin robes. His hair dark as coal and his eyes the gold of a noon sun, he said to the Hakawati, “I'll torment you no longer, mortal. I return to you all I have won. You, your land, your livestock, your money, your wife. Do as you please with them."
"For returning all these things," said the story-teller, "I thank you. But you can keep my wife."
"I have no use for her," said the other. "Do not think ill of her for what she did, so easily sitting by my side and kicking you to the hounds. She couldn't help it. The powers that changed you to a hare and confounded the sight of the Zuagir also changed her mind."
“Who are you to have such power,” asked the Hakawati.
“A servant, much like you. I serve no mortal emir but the Sultan of all Djinn. Your tongue has spoken stories that strengthen my master’s influence and authority and for this he is grateful. Knowing the difficulty you were in, he sent me to give you a story for the Emir.” The satin robed djinni grinned with the diabolical mischief common to his kind. “I could have left it at changing you back to a human. The Zuagirs? Well, that was just good sport with mortals.” The djinn nodded and in a twist of dust, disappeared.
That night in the shiqq, the Hakawati told all that had befallen him and everyone praised the man for such a strange tale. “If only it were true,” said the Emir. “I’d never asked for a new story again if those Zuagirs were indeed killed.” As providence would have it, the next day word came that the Zuagir camp was found destroyed and all the raiders killed. True to his word, the Emir never again troubled the story-teller for fresh stories, but every night as long as he lived he listened again to the tale of the one legged beggar.