{Tales} The Hakawati Speaks

[batkalim]

--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.

[batkalim]

--The Hakawati explains why there are two bird kings—


The Falcon of the Eastern Dawn rules over the birds of the east and the Hawk of the Western Sunset rules over those of the west but it was not always so. Once, only the King Eagle ruled over all birds from atop his golden mountain. From the tiniest wren to the largest raptor, all birds of the world paid Eagle homage for he was a powerful warrior and had become king by destroying all who opposed him.

With his loyal generals, Hawk, Falcon and Owl at his side, Eagle subjugated all the bird tribes and made them swear loyalty. Eagle and his generals slaughtered without remorse those tribes that resisted. They left no chick alive or an egg unsmashed and in so doing, erased the resisting tribes from all memory.

One day, after many years of bloody rule, Eagle summoned his generals to the aerie atop his golden mountain. “The feathers on my head have all turned white,” he said to the three generals, “and I find myself preferring the comfort of my many concubines to the troubles of ruling. So, I have decided that I will step down as King.”

“But you have no heirs,” said Owl. “Who will be King after you?”

“All of you,” said Eagle. “You three are my most loyal and trusted generals so I will give to you joint rule over all the birds of sky and earth. I will continue to live on the golden mountain and maintain my aerie but the three of you shall command all the tribes of birds.”

“Wise,” said Hawk. “Though I would have never expected such an honor, I will accept joint rule with my brother generals.”

“As will I” agreed Falcon. “What about you, Owl?”

Owl’s large eyes blinked slowly, a sign the others knew indicated the bird was in deep thought. Of the three generals, Owl was the best strategist and never said a thing or offered advice until he had considered all the possibilities. “This is the wrong choice,” Owl said. “It will lead to ruin.”

“You doubt my wisdom?” bellowed Eagle. The three generals flinched at the flare of anger. Though an old bird, Eagle’s voice still carried enough regal authority to waver the most steadfast soul. “Do you think yourself so important that you may sit there and refuse a gift from the King of the infinite sky!”

Owl bowed his head in respect. “My lord, three cannot rule as one.”

“Which is stronger,” asked Hawk, “one twig, or three bound together?”

Owl looked to Hawk. “Three may be broken as easily as one no matter how tight the binding.”

“Then perhaps two can rule,” said Falcon. “You may not see the wisdom or accept the Eagle’s generosity but Hawk and I are loyal enough to do as the King wishes and can rule without you.”

“The King rules through fear of power,” said Owl. “Birds fear his power to cripple and his power to kill. As his generals we are the instruments of that power; Tools wielded by his will. One does not make a tool a king. One uses tools for their intended purpose.”

“OUT,” Eagle commanded Owl. “No one doubts my wisdom! Because you have proven loyal in the past I will spare your life until the sun sets but hence forth you are no more than a subject of mine. Out of my sight, General Owl, and never again cross it under pain of death!”

Owl left the golden aerie to never again return. Even now Owl is still under sentence of death and only hunts at night in order to avoid the eyes of Eagle.

Eagle retired to the golden mountain leaving Hawk and Falcon to rule over the birds of the world. As there were two of them, they decided it best to divide the sky in half. Hawk would take the west and Falcon, the east.

One day soon after, Sparrow and Swallow came to the golden mountain to ask Eagle to settle a dispute. The two birds had for many years argued over which tasted better, seeds or bugs. Sparrow preferred seeds and Swallow preferred bugs. Neither could convince the other their preferred food was best so they decided once and for all to end the argument and asked Eagle to make the decision.

“What is this nonsense,” roared Eagle. “I retired to the golden mountain to enjoy my last years in the company of my concubines, not listen to the whining of insignificant little pests like you. Go ask the new kings, Hawk and Falcon.”

“Who should we go to,” asked Sparrow. “We do not know if we are birds of east or west or even where we might find the border between east and west.”

For the first time, Swallow agreed with Sparrow. “A valley between two mountains is east of one mountain and west of the other,” added Swallow. “So who is to say whether the valley is east or west of a mountain. It is both.”

Growing irritated, Eagle asked, “Can you not see the sun rise in the east and set in the west? Go to whichever is closest! Now leave me!”

The next morning, Swallow saw that the sunrise was closer than sunset so he went to Falcon. Sparrow did not depart until late in the afternoon and seeing that sunset was closer than dawn, he flew to visit the Hawk. Falcon, hearing only Swallow’s argument decided that bugs were better than seeds. Hawk, hearing only Sparrow’s argument of course decided that seed was preferable to insects.

Confusion spread amongst the birds of the world. How could both be the best, but also how could the decision of a bird king be wrong? Even birds that cared nothing for insects or seed argued for the decision of the king that they favored. Soon, the world was filled with the chatter and shrills of birds arguing over which king was right. So great was the noise that Eagle summoned Hawk and Falcon to the golden mountain.

“All this noise,” complained Eagle. “It disturbs me. I don’t care about seeds or bugs yet all I hear are the arguments on the wind. You will quiet the noise, or else I will see to it that you no longer make any decisions again.”

“You cannot threaten us,” said Hawk. “We are king now, we have the armies. Not you.”

Eagle’s chest puffed at the defiance. “I can still break your wings and crush your spine. Do as I command!”

Falcon dismissed Eagle with an arrogant turn of his head. “You command only concubines, old bird. Do not annoy us with your useless squawking. Come, Hawk, we do not need this fool to settle our differences.”

Falcon and Hawk left, ignoring Eagle’s angry screeching. “Something must be done,” Hawk said to Falcon. “So long as he lives neither of us will truly be Bird King.”

“Gather your armies and I will gather mine,” said Falcon. “Together we will attack the golden mountain and lay waste to Eagle. It will be as in the old days, absolute slaughter.”

All the birds of the world came to the war call of Hawk and Falcon. Hawk attacked from the west and Falcon from the east. They swarmed the mountain, killing the few guards loyal to Eagle. With beak and talon they ripped apart Eagle’s concubines whose bright feathers fluttered away in the wind of a million beating wings. But old Eagle stood his ground in the Golden Aerie. For three days the aged warrior fought alone. At dawn of the fourth day not a bit of the mountain was seen through the corpses Eagle left in his wake. Hawk and Falcon flew to the top of the mountain to confront Eagle and there found the old raptor perched on the only bit of rock not carpeted by bodies.

The blood of innumerable dead dripped thick from Eagles beak to spot the rock at his feet. With his back to Falcon and Hawk, Eagle hung his head and sighed. Hawk and Falcon heard it not as a sigh of resignation or battle weariness but as a warrior’s sigh of regret for what must be done. Never before had Falcon and Hawk heard such a thing from Eagle.

“So many have I killed,” said Eagle looking over the mountain of dead that lay about him. “Brothers all. And now the two I thought were my closest brothers have finally come to die by my talons.” Eagle turned to face the other two. His razor whet talons scraped white scars in the rock and he spread his wings, the feathers heavy with the blood of the slain. “Come then, bothers, and let us with claw and beak rend one another’s bellies and gird this mountain of dead with our own hot entrails.”

King Eagle who had subjugated all the bird tribes in the world and who had for three days fought alone against them all stood before Hawk and Falcon, confident as an avatar of death draped in the sticky, blackening blood of the fallen. Though having come to kill Eagle, Hawk and Falcon faltered. Their resolve shriveled beneath Eagle’s stare. Only then did they realize that Owl spoke the truth. It was not armies, but fear of Eagle’s power that made him king of the birds.

Seeing the fear in their hearts, Eagle folded his wings and turned his back to Hawk and Falcon. “Go,” commanded Eagle. “Live your little lives as little kings. Leave me and never again ascend to the heights of a true king.” Hawk and Falcon flew down from the mountain and that is why to this day only the great eagles may be seen gliding around the mountain tops while hawks and falcons content themselves with lower places.

The issue of seed and insect that began the war has never been resolved. Birds still bicker over which is best because both kings refuse to change their decision. Both wish to be sole king of the birds but lack the fearsome power of Eagle. Occasionally they will send armies against one another and the blood that mists the air from these great battles may be seen as a red haze at dawn and sunset.

[batkalim]

--The Hakawati recites the Tokuus Al Mot which is spoken to those wishing to seek the favor of the Magi and be chosen as the Motwihamreed--


We are, as we have always been, children of the sand. We are tireless nomads of the great eastern wastes. Our endless kingdom lies beyond the haunted oasis of Tal’ib and the crumbling ruins of Kuthchemes where sleeps a dying god. Only the Sun and Moon have seen more secrets in the desert than have our eyes. We know the shift of dune and the hiss of sand. We know the turning of stars and we know the legends behind their true names.

We are not Zuagir, though we will take from weak caravans that which we desire. We are not the Sons of Shem, though their eternal blood is in us. We are Ashem, greatest of the wandering tribes, chosen of Set and the keepers of the Black Necropolis.

Blessed by Set, many of us hear whispers in the wind and in the sigh of dying coals. For some, the voices do not whisper but howl like dust storms across the desert. It is these few that come to the Black Necropolis. Within rests the Eternal Magi, neither alive nor dead, sustained by their covenant with the All Serpent. Those that hear the raging voices walk into the darkness of crooked halls and dead flesh walls to plead the patronage of the Magi. Perhaps one of you might again walk into the light of day as servant to the Magi. Likely none of you will ever leave the necropolis. The Magi will make meals of your souls and a playthings of your corpses. We will not mourn you but pity your weakness before the Magi of Set.

So turn back to the moonlit sand if your heart falters. Turn back if you cling to life as a child to a mother’s breast. It is not you the Magi want. But if your skull aches from the voices of the whispering dead, if you desire the power of the Ageless Ones and if you might withstand the terrible rites that wait within, then cross the basalt seal and seek out the Magi. Enter damnation and if you are chosen as Motwihamreed, return as a servant but one with such power as to make the heavens quiver!

[batkalim]

--The Hakawati tells the story of Halaan’s Noose.--

There lived at the Moufett Oasis a man named Halaan who, despite his young age, had been granted land near the oasis by one of the Emirs as a reward for his outstanding horsemanship and skill in battle. Halaan was also given a lovely slave named Naiima to tend to his needs. Naiima always wore sandalwood perfume and was, by all accounts, a girl of quiet and obedient demeanor. Halaan, however, was known not only for his horsemanship but his morose and often violent disposition.

The hint of lash marks could often be seen creeping beyond the hems and collars of the girls clothes and often she moved with such stiffness that none seeing her could doubt it was from the soreness of unseen lashes and bruises. People shook their heads at her poor treatment but she was a slave and subject to her master’s whims as is any owned animal so head shaking was the extent of the sympathies given the girl. Becoming weary of bondage and of the unpredictable tempers of her master, the girl one day ran away.

Halaan set off in a rage after her, and being an expert horseman it was not long before he overtook her. Having driven her to ground, Halaan tied her by the wrists to his horse's tail and began the ride home. Afterward, he swore that the girl stumbled against the horse's legs which so frightened the animal that it threw him from the saddle and rushed off madly. Halaan said the horse in its frightened running dragged the poor girl about and dashed her death against the rocks.

Knowing how ill tempered Halaan could be and that he was skilled enough to not be toppled from horseback, his neighbors were better inclined to believe that he had, if accidentally, killed the girl. Most guessed he had driven the horse into a gallop, intending to drag the girl for a short distance as a punishment, but in his zeal to punish her had accidentally killed her. On this supposition he was taken before a Cadi and accused of murdering the girl. The Cadi passed judgment that Halaan should have a rope tied about his neck and be dragged to death just as the girl had been.

Some of Halaan’s influential relatives pleaded for the Pasha to hear the evidence since only the Pasha could overturn the judgment of a Cadi. The Pasha agreed and upon hearing the evidence, deemed it circumstantial at best and not enough to outright condemn the man. However, the Pasha acknowledged that it was very likely Halaan had killed the slave girl so he commanded that the sentence not be carried out until Halaan was ninety years old. In the mean time, though, Halaan was to wear a noose about his neck and to show himself before elders and Cadi once a year to prove that he wore the noose as a reminder of the crime for which he had been condemned.

Halaan obeyed the Pasha’s sentence, and there are old people still living in Moufett who claim to remember Halaan as he went about with a silken cord knotted at his throat. He always walked alone and seldom spoke. Gone like the heat of day to the cool night were his rough, commanding manners. When children asked him what the rope was for, Halaan’s lips quivered and he hurried away without a word.

People avoided his house after dark. Rumors said that a shrieking woman passed it nightly, tied at the tail of a giant horse. They said, too that a skeleton in a sheet like a shredded burial shroud had been seen wandering about and looking for a way into his home. From time to time animals heckled the man by groaning and howling beneath his windows.

Halaan neither scoffed at he rumors nor affirmed them when he was asked. He would only look with saddened eyes to person asking and then walk on in silence while tugging at the rope about his neck. Eventually everyone avoided Halaan and he was rarely seen to leave his home. Years rolled on and each one deepened his loneliness. Some people began to whisper that he would make his own way out of the world. Others answered that men who were born to be executed could never be drowned even by their own hand.

In time a new Pasha sat at the head of the tribes. New Emirs and new Cadis came to minister tribal justice. So it was on Halaan’s ninetieth birthday that none were left who could accuse him or execute sentence or remember the exact nature of his crime. He lived another ten years but whether from habit or remorse or self-punishment Halaan never removed the cord from his neck.

When he drew his last breath it was in his own home amid the lonely darkness of old age with the rope still about his neck and a hint of sandalwood in the air.

[batkalim]

--The Hakawati relates the tale of Sayadd the Hunter--

A half days walk from the Jeba Oasis lived Sayaad Amadil. He was known among the people of the area as a master of the recurved bow and it is said he could with one shot pin a hare at full run or a swallow in flight. His tent sat near a small well which of course was marked by white stones so all might know water was to be had. As is tradition, none were denied water at the well. Hunters would sometimes stop to fill their skins at Sayaad’s well and if he was of a mind to do so, Sayaad would take his bow and go hunting with them.

For many years he lived alone in his tent except for the company of Muhan, his hunting dog. Muhan was so large and fast that some people took the animal to be a transformed djiin rather than a dog. Wherever Sayaad went, so went the dog. If one saw Sayaad but not the dog, one could count as certain as the sun rising that Muhan was somewhere nearby keeping a protective eye on his master.

Once, while hunting, Sayaad happened across a small camp of Semirs. With night about to fall, the Semirs invited Sayaad into their camp as a guest for the night. Unlike other desert wanderers, the Semirs allow their women to share the shiqq with the men. Since he was a guest Sayaad said nothing as to how unorthodox this was and intended to leave at first light.

However there was in the shiqq a girl named Maya whose engaging manner and mesmerizing eyes kept Sayaad’s attention. So enamored was Sayaad with Maya that he stayed most of the next day. Over the course of the next several weeks Sayaad found reason to often be hunting near the Semir camp. When Sayaad visited he brought presents to Maya’s father and made such convincing arguments to the man that at last Maya’s father agreed to give his daughter to Sayaad as a wife.

A Semir Cadi performed the simple marriage which involved the sharing of coffee and the slaughter of a sheep which was then cooked for the wedding guests. The celebrations continued long into the night with music and the traditional tribal dances of the Ashem and the Semir to honor the new husband and wife.

With the moon sinking toward the horizon, Maya’s father called for the Blade Maiden to close out the celebrations. The unmarried men gathered in a large circle and an unmarried girl who was chosen from lots cast by the unmarried men stepped into the ring. Bells on her ankles and wrists jingled with each movement and a belt of coins about her hips glimmered in the firelight. She carried in her hand a slim scimitar and upon reaching the center of the ring she used the sword to inscribe a circle about her.

Musicians started tamping their drums and the young girl began dancing, coins and bells ringing with each bump of hip and step of foot. One by one she summoned the men to her. Their task was to try and take a coin from her belt as she danced and rebuffed them with both her movements and the razored scimitar in her hand.

All of the single men gathered for the dance except one, Khalid. “Why don’t you dance, cousin,” Maya asked Khalid. “Do you not find her beautiful?”

Khalid looked to the dancer with tired eyes and a morose expression shadowing his face. “She is more beautiful than the moon and stars but I cannot have her.” said Khalid.

“Nonsense,” exclaimed Sayaad. “Go pluck a coin from her hips. Anything worth having is worth bleeding for.”

Khalid’s jaw tensed, determination setting in. “You are right,” he said and stepped up to the circle.

When the dancer summoned him, Khalid stepped up and circled about the girl as she dervished to the beat of maddening drums. As she spun, Khalid crouched, snatched up a handful of dirt and dashed it in the girl’s face when she again turned to face him. Fast as a hawk, he wrenched the sword from the stunned girl’s hand and rushed toward Sayaad. For years Khalid harbored secret desire for his cousin, Maya. Now seeing Sayaad’s good fortune to have her as a wife and cursing his own cowardice for not seeking her for his own, envy and hatred burned in Khalid’s eyes.

So quick and unexpected was Khalid’s movements that he would have buried the sword in Sayaad’s chest had faithful Muhan not leaped on the would-be assassin. The dog’s massive jaws clamped about Khalid’s arm, tearing flesh and crunching bone. Man and beast tumbled to the ground, the dog snarling and the man wailing in pain.

Sayaad pulled Muhan off and with a sandal beat Khalid to the edge of the Samir camp. The wedding guests encouraged the humiliation, their mocking laughs following Khalid as he fled into the darkness. All approved of the punishment, especially Maya’s father who then knew for certain that Sayaad would be a true husband to his daughter.

A year or so passed. Sayaad and Maya lived happy in their free and simple life. Even more happy were they when Maya gave birth to a healthy infant boy. “He’ll wrestle Djiin and tame the wind,” proclaimed the baby’s grandfather whose joy in the little babe was overcome only by that of Sayaad and Maya.

After his son was born, Sayaad was seldom absent for any considerable length of time. If he went hunting with men that had stopped at the well, he would return by night to his wife and child. One evening upon returning home with a fine hare he had shot, Sayaad noticed the sand and dirt near his tent had been disturbed by some passing foot. His keen, hunter’s eye told him that these were not his wife’s footprints.

The trail led from the well, around his tent then back into the desert. In his tent he found his wife singing gently to their infant as the little babe suckled at her breast. Sayaad set the hare near the cook fire.“Were there any visitors today,” he asked.

“None, husband. Why do you ask?”

“There are footprints outside. Likely just a hunter passing by to get water from the well.” But this troubled Sayaad for it was common courtesy to announce oneself, even though all were welcomed at the well. Concerned, he rested a hand on Muhan’s head. “When next I go hunting, Muhan will stay behind.”

“As you wish, husband,” said Maya who then finished feeding the baby and began preparing the hare for dinner.

The next time Sayaad went out hunting, Muhan started to follow. “No, stay here, old friend,” Sayaad said to the dog. “Watch over my wife and child as you have watched over me. I shall not be long.” The dog obeyed and sat by the tent while his master went out hunting.

Sayaad returned a few hours later to find fresh footprints and pawprints scattered about as if a great struggle had taken place. On nearing the well, he stumbled over Muhan’s body. All around, the ground had become as rust from the dog’s blood soaking into the dry sand. So wide spread was it that Sayaad knew the ever faithful Muhan had died fighting, carrying to his death his master’s last wish to watch over wife and child.

Sayaad rushed to the tent, “Maya,” he called as he burst into the tent. “Where are you!”

Maya answered in a quiet voice, “Shhh. You will wake the baby.”

Sayaad stood as if cursed into stone. Ribbons of skin dangled like bloody tattered cloth from Maya’s face and arms. Her eyes, once like glimmering gems filled with exuberance and joy stared off into nothing. She smiled but it held no meaning, no happiness. She pressed the limp body of her infant against her chest, rocked and cooed gently as if hushing it to sleep. Beside her on the floor lay the child’s little head.

When Sayaad at tried to speak, Maya only whispered, "Hush! Do not wake him."

All the night and the next day Maya rocked back and forth on the floor with her child’s body in her arms. Sayaad tried to comfort her but Maya only insisted he be quiet and not wake the baby. He tried to bind up her wounds which had started turning black. Each time he touched her, though, Maya would wail with such agony that he stopped rather than cause her more pain. He implored her with soft words to tell him what happened but always she told him to hush. Sayaad’s heart knotted in anguish, knowing that his wife would soon follow their child and he could do nothing for her.

Maya’s strength waned the second night. Her soft cooing faded to silence and she offered no resistance when Sayaad lifted her and placed her on a bed of soft pelts. When he gently took their child from her arms, Maya looked up to him and it was as if some spell had been lifted.

“Khalid came,” Maya whispered, her voice breathy and weak. “Muhan fought. He bled so much but he fought until there was no blood left. He tore meat from Khalid’s calf but the man fought like he was possessed. I hid the baby.” Maya’s voice faltered and a tear leaked from the corner of her eye. “Khalid cut and slashed at me to make me tell him where the baby was. I would not tell but the baby started crying. He snatched up our son by the feet, slashed off his head with a knife and threw the body into my lap. All he said was, ‘This is my revenge. I am satisfied.’ Then he left.”

Maya sobbed. “I am so sorry.”

“Shh,” whispered Sayaad laying a gentle hand on Maya’s head. He knew these were the last breaths wife would take and as he placed a soft kiss on her forehead he heard her final sigh.

Sayaad sat for hours in the ruins of his once happy life. Only his breathing and the thump of his heart proved to him that he was alive. When the sun peeked over the edge of the world Sayaad stood and left the tent. There were no tears in his eyes or prayers on his lips. He walked into the desert until nightfall when he came into the Semir camp. They welcomed Sayaad as a friend and relative by marriage but grew alarmed at the dried blood on his hands and clothes.

They earnestly begged him to explain the blood but all he would say was, “Bring me to the Cadi and the father of my wife.”

Word spread quickly that something was wrong and in short time all of the camp was gathered at the Cadi’s shiqq. “What is the meaning of this,” asked the Cadi.

“My wife and child lay dead at the hands of a Semir ,” said Sayyad. “As is my right, I have come seeking blood for blood.”

Confused murmurs ran through the crowd. “Name the killer,” said Maya’s father, “and I will bring him myself.”

“Khalid,” said Sayaad and everyone’s eyes looked about but Khalid was not to be seen.

“I saw him napping under an acacia at the edge of camp,” said a young boy.

Maya’s father shot to his feet. “Then I shall bring him here,” he declared and by Set I pray he resists!”

Maya’s father motioned for two men to follow him and stormed from the tent but the Cadi cautioned them, “Bring him unharmed. We must hear his reply to this accusation.” A short time later Maya’s father and the others returned, shoving Khalid into the shiqq.

Khalid limped to the Cadi and the Cadi growled, “I said he was not to be harmed.”

“We found him this way,” said Maya’s father. “All we did was rouse him from his sleep.”

“Khalid,” said the Cadi,” Sayaad claims you murdered his wife and child.”

Khalid scoffed and waved a dismissive hand at the thought. “He still harbors ill will from the wedding. If such a thing has happened, he accuses me only so that he might further humiliate me.”

“How is it that you limp,” asked Sayaad calmly.

Khalid sighed as if bored and inconvenienced by the questioning. “I was thrown from my horse and injured my leg.”

“Then show us your leg,” said Sayyad. “Before Maya died, she said my dog, Muhan, bit the calf of the murderer.”

Khalid’s resolve began to falter and he glanced nervously to the Cadi. “Must I be insulted in this manner?”

“Show us your injured leg,” said the Cadi.. When Khalid hesitated and glanced toward the tent’s open flaps, the Cadi ordered, “Make him show us!” Mayas father and the two men that helped him bring Khalid to the Cadi seized Khalid and when they exposed his leg all saw the grizzly wound bound in blood crusted bandages.

“We Semir have only one punishment for murder,” said the Cadi and Maya’s father drew his knife, placing it against Khalid’s neck. He looked to the Cadi, waiting for the word to dispatch the murderer.

Before the Cadi could give the order to slit Khalid’s throat, Sayyad spoke. “Give him and his horse to me and I will see that justice is served.”

The Cadi granted Sayaad’s request. The Semir’s bound Khalid’s hands behind his back and a rope about his neck which they tied to the horse’s saddle. Sayaad climbed into the saddle and rode for home with Khalid stumbling along behind the horse. Once home, Sayaad dismounted at his tent and removed the noose from Khalid’s neck. He cut the bindings on Khalid’s wrists and told him. “Run. If you can make it past the well before I get my bow from the tent, I swear by Set that I will let you live.”

Khalid ran as best he could with his injured leg. Half way to the well, he glanced over his shoulder but Sayaad had not moved. Khalid reached three quarters of the way to the well before Sayaad went calmly and without rush into the tent to fetch his bow.

Khalid stumbled past the well just as Sayaad emerged from the tent. He shouted triumphantly. “Fool! By your oath you must let me live. Keep the horse. It is paltry payment for my revenge.”

Khalid turned away, confident that Sayaad would not break an oath to Set and that he would live many more years. Sayaad drew the bow and loosed an arrow. No bird in flight or hare on the run could escape his aim. How easy then for the hunter to pin an arrow in the spine of a man. Khalid’s arms and legs went limp and he fell paralyzed to the ground with an arrow lodged between his shoulder blades.

“You have killed me,” shouted Khalid.

“No, you will live but you will not move for the rest of your days and for the remainder of your miserable life you will live with what you have done.” Sayaad dragged Khalid back to the tent. He went inside and returned with the body and head of his child which he set on Khalid’s chest. He then carried out Maya and laid her face down atop Khalid. Khalid moaned in horror as the gruesome corpse settled on him. He twisted his head and closed his eyes to keep from looking at the once lovely face he had sliced to shreds. Sayaad bound the living and dead together, forcing Khalid’s lips to those of his dead wife. “Since you covet what is mine, “said Sayaad, “you may have it for the rest of your days.”

Sayaad heaved the terrible package onto the horse and secured them with so many knots and cinches of rope that the world would end before they were displaced from the horse’s back. Holding the reins, Sayaad lashed the horse into a foaming fury until with one final sting of the whip, he let the horse rush off into the desert, frightened and confused.

Sayaad set alight his tent and once the last ember floated into the sky he took his bow and wandered into the desert never to return. To this day there are nights around the Jeba Oasis when one can hear the thrum of hooves off in the desert accompanied by mournful pleading, a crying child and a woman’s rueful laughter.

[batkalim]

--The Hakawati relates some of the many anecdotes of Hodja Nusradin’s travels --


One day Nusradin was watering his camel at a well with others when one of the other men asked him. “Nusradin, which is wiser, a camel or a man?”

Nusradin replied without hesitation. “A camel, of course.”

The other men laughed. “Absurd,” said the man that had asked the question. “Why is a camel more wise?”

“A camel will bear a load and not ask for more and when it carries too much, it will fall to its knees,” explained Nusradin. “But a man overburdened with responsibility will often choose to bear even more.”

------------

When visiting Khemi on business, Nusradin was taken in by the marvelous architecture. Never had he seen so many spires and shrines in one place. He saw, too, beggars groveling in the shadow of palaces and felt grateful that he was not forced to beg. He spent so much time wandering around the city that he realized the caravan was about to leave for home without him. He hurried to the temple of Set where he made a small offering and said a quick prayer for a safe journey.

As Nusradin was leaving, one of the priests stopped him. “How pitiful,” scolded the priest. “You insult Set with such a little offering and such a small payer. Go back and make offers and prayers worthy of the All Serpent!”

Nusradin did as the priest commanded, giving up all his money and making the longest and loudest prayer of anyone in the temple. As Nusradin was leaving the priest asked, “Now don’t you think Set found the second round of prayers more satisfying?”

“No,” said Nusradin. “Though rushed, the first prayer was for Set. The second one you made me do was just for you.”

------------

In his travels, Nusradin found himself far to the east in a strange land between Turan and Khitai where he did not know the language. He came upon a group of horse nomads and as luck would have it one of the women spoke Nusradin’s language. Nomads, no matter their culture, tend to be hospitable to strangers so Nusradin was invited to the chieftain’s hut for dinner.

Before going in to dinner the woman who spoke Nusradin’s language advised him, “Do not fart in our chief’s presence. Our people consider it a great insult and he will have your head for it.”

Nusradin nodded his agreement and entered the chieftains’s hut. After just a few bites of dinner Nusradin leaned aside and expelled a loud, flapping fart. The woman looked with horror to Nusradin.

“Do not fear,” explained Nusradin with the calm of a still lake. “I farted in my own language. I am sure your chief did not know what it was.“

------------

Once, Nusradin went out into the desert and became lost. Everywhere he turned he saw unfamiliar dunes and rocks. Having become weary, famished and fearful of the evil djiin that wander the desert, Nusradin pleaded for help from the Djiini Prince. “Prince of all Djiin.” called Nusradin to the empty wastes. “Please help me! If you do, I promise to honor you in all things. I give you my word.”

As he begged for help, a vulture passed over him and dropped a squirt of shiit right on his head.

“Prince,” said Nusradin, “please don’t give me any shiit right now. I am seriously lost!“

[batkalim]

--The Hakawati tells the story of the two farts--

There are so many grand things in Luxor that it would hurt the mind to think of them all and wear the teeth to nubs trying to name them all. Anyone who has been there can tell of the grand palaces and noble estates and of temples that are said to rival the great pyramid of Set in Khemi. Many grand people live in and around Luxor since the city’s wealth and power draw those seeking their share of either or both. Being such a grand city, Luxor is also riddled with the many bureaucracies and ministries required to keep a city like it functioning. If Khemi is a city of priests, then Luxor is a city of bureaucrats, each wanting to attain higher authority.

One of these lower bureaucrats wanting to rise in the city ranks worked for the Ministry of the Third Red House. That is to say, he was one of the men charged with keeping the streets clean of refuse. Or more to the point, ensuring beggars and other undesirables remained mostly unseen within the noble areas and around the temples. Through diligent work, the man had managed to draw the attention of a Vizier to the High Priest of Set in Luxor. The Vizier summoned the man to commend him for such a fine job and to tell him that the High Priest had taken notice that the streets around the temple were pleasantly clean of human garbage.

The man thought that if he could get into the better graces of the Vizier, he might eventually get access to the High Priest and perhaps rise through the city ranks. Seeing this as an opportunity not to be passed up, the man invited the Vizier to dinner, explaining that his wife was an excellent cook. The Vizier agreed and a date was set for the day after next. The man hurried home to tell his wife.

“Oh, but we have nothing suitable for such a grand person,” bemoaned the wife. “I cannot feed the Vizier soup and flatbread.”

“Don’t worry,” said the man and gave her a small sack of coins. “This is all the money we have. Take it to market and buy the finest hen and the best goat you can find. Buy spices and sugar bread and anything else you can. Make a meal fit for a king and it will come back to us a hundred fold when it earns me the ear of the Vizier and a higher place in the ministry.”

At the market she met the wife of man her husband worked with in the Ministry of the Third Red House. When the other woman asked about the fine hen and goat, the bureaucrat’s wife related the story of how her husband happened to invite the Vizier to dinner and how he hoped to get ahead in the ministry because of it.

“Whatever you do, you must not eat with the Vizier and your husband,” cautioned the second woman. “It is unlady-like when in the presence of a man such as the Vizier.”

The wife was not well schooled in such things and it sounded perfectly reasonable to her. “I would not want to be rude,” said the wife, “but I also do not want to go hungry.”

The second woman smiled and though warm and encouraging, it masked the vile envy in her heart. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I will cook something up and bring it to you before the Vizier arrives. That way you will be full and not tempted to eat with the men.”

The wife thanked the second woman and hurried home with her market goods. She slaughtered and slow cooked the goat in a large clay kiln for two days until it meat was so tender it would melt on the tongue. The hen she roasted a golden brown and dressed with all manner of vegetables she cut to appear as small chicks gathered around the hen. She pitted dates and stuffed them with fig, made little honey cakes and thin sugar wafers which she had heard the Vizier enjoyed.

Before the Vizier arrived for dinner, the envious woman brought a pot of cabbage and rice for the wife to eat. “Be sure to eat it all,” she urged with a kind smile. “That way you are not tempted to eat anything in front of the Vizier.” The envious woman left with a smile on her face and no sooner had the wife and her husband sat down with the Vizier than the wife’s stomach began to twist and roll. She could not excuse herself without being rude so she clenched tight, hoping to hold back the building gas.

She lasted all through the meal, smiling despite the growing discomfort. At the end of the meal, the husband asked his wife to fetch some tea and as she stood, she let slip a trumpetous fart that reeked of fried cabbage. Embarrassed and thinking she had just ruined her husband’s chances for advancement, she fled to the kitchen and out into the small garden.

“I have ruined my husband,” she lamented. “Oh if only the ground would swallow me up!” And it did just that. A rift tore open and down into the earth she tumbled with the rip in the earth sealing itself as she fell. She tumbled in the dark for what seemed like hours until a light grew far below. Down she fell toward the light and right onto a pile of silk. When she crawled from the hill of silk she found herself in a vast souk.

Efriit and Djiin and other infernals meandered about the souk. The woman realized that she had fallen all the way into one of the many hells though she was not wise or learned enough to know which one.

“You there! What are you doing in my silk,” demanded a black scaled efriit merchant. “It took me ten years to pile it all up like that!”

“Forgive me,” begged the woman. “I have just fallen from earth. I did not mean to land on your silk.”

The Efriiti merchant began gathering up the bolts of silk and placing them neatly back into the colossal pile. “Well, if you are newly arrived, you’d best go see the Emir, announce yourself and beg his pardon. If he learns a human is here uninvited it will not go well for you. And it will not go well for you with me if you stay.”

The wife thanked the merchant and hurried off into the maze-like souk. She found the Emir’s palace easily enough since it was on the ceiling of a vast cavern. What she first took to be elaborately carved stalagtites hanging from the cavern roof she soon realized were the towers and minarets of the upside down palace. A little winged devil flew her up to the palace and in a short time she was standing before the Emir of Hell.

“What are you doing here, human,” the Emir asked the wife. “You are living flesh, not a fallen soul or one of my subject demons.”

The wife looked up to the Emir. He stood half again as tall as a man and appeared human in most respects except his scaly black skin constantly weeped blood which was slurped up by tiny dragon flies that buzzed about him. “Forgive me, Emir. I was so embarrassed by a fart which I am certain has ruined my husband’s career that I begged the earth to swallow me up which it did. I had no idea I would end up here.”

“A fart, you say?” The Emir pinched his chin, regarding the woman and considering her story. “One of those mischievous little fellows is just recently arrived from earth. Come, we will speak with him and sort all this out.”

In a whoosh of hot air, the woman found herself standing with the Emir in a small café. On a damask pillow at the back of the cafe lounged a little fart wearing a gold trimmed fez and puffing on a shisha stuffed with apple tobacco. “Ah, most esteemed Emir,” said the fart with an obeisant nod and a little flourish of his hand. “An honor. Please join me.”

The Emir looked down at the fart. The wafting of apple tobacco smoke masked the fart’s natural smell. Farts often do this to hide their stink. Just like people sometimes blame the dog to hide their farts. The Emir indicated the wife with a sideways nod and asked the fart, “Are you the stink puff that embarrassed this woman and caused her to fall into hell’s Souk?”

The fart looked to the wife then back to the Emir and nodded. “Unintentional, I assure you. Even as lovely an ass as she has, I was so cramped and squeezed up in her rear that I just had to get out. When the opportunity presented itself and I saw the light through that little star hole, out I ran. And now I am here, free, comfortable and relaxed.”

“Well, I cannot have a human wandering around Hell’s Souk,” grumbled the Emir. “I will send her back but you must make amends for her embarrassment else I will cast you into a deeper, less relaxing hell.”

The fart thought for a moment, taking a deep puff from the shisha. “Then as I slippedfrom her rear, let slip gold from her tongue whenever she speaks.”

“So it is and so it shall be,” said the Emir and with a snap of fingers and wave of hand, he sent the wife back to earth.

When the wife started telling her husband what had happened, gold coins began falling from her mouth. By the end of the tale, enough coins had spilled from her lips to pay for a hundred meals she had prepared for the Vizier. In a matter of days they had enough money that the husband could retire from the bureaucracy and they could live in the noble districts and pay others to keep beggars away.

The tale spread quickly and all were happy for the wife and her husband except for the envious woman. She had wanted to ruin the dinner and thought that if the wife farted in front of the Vizier, then the wife’s husband might not be elevated and the envious woman’s husband would be. In fact, the envious woman’s husband was elevated to the position vacated by the now retired and rich man but this was not enough for the envious woman. She demanded her husband invite the vizier over for dinner, planning to fart and do exactly as the good wife.

The envious woman ate even more cabbage and rice than she had given the good wife but found she could not squeeze out so much as a squeak. All through dinner she grunted and groaned trying to force out a fart. When at last she was able to force out a toot she also shat herself and ran, embarrassed from her husband and the vizier.

“I am ruined,” she wailed. “Not only have I farted but I have shat myself! If only the earth would swallow me up.” And GULP, the earth did open up and she fell through the darkness.

“Damnation,” shouted the Efriiti merchant. “Will it stop raining humans already!” His frustration turned to anger when he saw that his fine silks had also been soiled. “Get out,” he shouted at the woman. “Get out and pray the Emir has mercy on you!”

The envious woman, having heard the story, knew she needed to seek the Emir and the fart that escaped her. How much more reward would she get! Not only had she farted but shat herself in the bargain. That was even more embarrassing and had to be worth even more riches!

“Another human!” exclaimed the Emir when the woman was brought before him. “More living flesh walking Hell’s Souk. Why are you here?”

“Forgive me, Emir,” said the woman. “I was so embarrassed by a fart and a shat which I am certain has ruined my husband’s career that I begged the earth to swallow me up which it did. I had no idea I would end up here.”

“Another fart?” The Emir grumbled and flicked away a dragonfly drinking blood on his shoulder. “These odious little fellows begin to annoy me. Come, we will speak with this fart and sort all this out once and for all.”

In a whoosh of hot air, the Emir and the woman stood before the fez wearing fart who lounged on his pillow sipping coffee. “Ah, my most exalted Emir,” said the fart with a smile. “Please join me for some coffee.”

“I grow weary of embarrassed humans falling into the souk,” growled the Emir.

The fart looked to the woman and wrinkled his nose. “Oh no. That was not me, greatest of Emirs. I come out clean. That was my cousin. You can find him in the alley behind this café.”

In the alley, a dirty little fart shuffled about in the muck dressed only in a tattered old rag someone had thrown out. “Honored Emir,” said the dirty fart trying his best to show respect despite being covered in shiit. “I am humbled by your most austere presence.”

The Emir hooked a thumb at the envious woman and said to the fart. “I suspect you are the one that so embarrassed this woman that she fell from earth into Hell’s Souk.”

The fart looked to the envious woman then back to the Emir and shook his head. “Through no fault of my own! I was so comfortable and warm in her spacious rear, not bothering her or anyone yet she kept trying to evict me. Eventually she sent a turd to batter down my cozy home and out I came covered in crap black as the silt when the Styx floods. Now here I am homeless and a beggar!”

The emir shook his head. “No matter. I am sending the woman back. Your cousin made amends to the woman he embarrassed and so you must reward this woman.”

The woman grinned, knowing her reward was coming. The fart grinned, too, recognizing that the Emir, the crafty demon that he was, said ‘reward’ not ‘amends’ and the dirty little fart knew those were completely different things. “As I was stung by eviction from my comfortable home, let her just reward be stinging scorpions falling from her mouth whenever she speaks.”

“So it is and so shall it be,” proclaimed the Emir and with a dismissive wave, sent the envious woman back to earth.

As soon as she opened her mouth to complain to her husband, black scorpions fell from her lips to sting and pinch her. Her screams only summoned more of the black deaths until she lay covered in them, her dead body swollen and malformed from the stabbing, poisonous stingers.

And that is why you should never try to force the rewards of good fortune but accept the fortune that comes to you on its own.

[batkalim]

--The Hakawati reluctantly tells the story of when he once met the Motwihamreed--


The Motwihamreed, you say? Yes, I have met Batkalim Motwihamreed Al-Ashem and Set willing, I shall not meet him again. I once shared coffee with him in the tent of the Pasha. This was before the Magi sent him to the cities of the West. It is said he was sent to retrieve an ancient book of dreams from the Stygians in which is recorded every dream ever had. It is whispered that he was sent as punishment for touching the Al-Zahar. Ancient Law dictates all men save the Motwihamreed may lay with the Shining Star of Derketo and for this he was sent away. But that is a story for another time.


The Motwihamreed is a man, mortal as any of us, but he is unlike any man I have ever met. He is, as are most nomads, polite to others so long as they are polite to him. One would not know by looking upon him that he is the Motwihamreed. The only outward difference is the network of scars along his arms. These may only be seen when his sleeves rise and if asked about them, he will explain them away as the scars left after once fighting off a wild hyena. But they are too regular to be the random scratches from tooth and claw. Those with knowledge of such things say the scars mark the use of blood rituals.


When the Motwihamreed looks at you, it is as if you are made of crystal and he is looking through you at something in the distance. It is said that when he does this he is seeing your death and the farther he seems to be staring, the longer your remaining life. I of course, did not ask him if this was true for fear that his eyes might focus on me and not the distance.


One would not know by speaking with him that he is anything special for he does not make a habit of revealing who and what he is. When asked, he will say that he is a simple nomad from the tribe of Ashem. Yet, when he speaks his voice seeps into you like water into hot sand. Sometimes it does not even seem to be his voice when he speaks but the voice of something ancient and no longer human.


In fact, so unassuming is he that when we drank coffee with the Pasha I thought him to be another of the tribe invited to share in the Pasha’s hospitality. It was not until the Pasha addressed him as the Motwihamreed that I knew the man was the living voice of the Magi.


The Motwihamreed, servant of the immortal Magi, hears the voices of the dead as easily as you or I hear one another’s voices. So completely does he perceive the real and the ethereal that often he cannot distinguish between the voices of the living and those of the dead. While we sat drinking coffee, the Motwihamreed began speaking but it was not to me or to the Pasha. It seemed strange to me at first what the Motwihamreed was saying and I started to ask what he was speaking about but the Pasha held up a hand to stop me and indicated we should wait until the Motwihamreed’s attention returned to the living world.


Though I hesitate to repeat such things or speculate as to what the Motwihamreed was speaking with, this is what the Motwihamreed said.


“Body parts fall off. It is to be expected.” He said this as if a body falling to pieces was as common as the sun and moon in the sky. “Parts fall off the dead. Parts fall off the living. Whether by the happenstances of accident, war, punishment or the natural atrophying powers of disease and decay, the body will lose its attachments.”


The Motwihamreed paused, apparently listening to one of the many voices of the dead that whisper to him and then scoffed. “Only the uneducated believe magic might regrow limbs. It remains a persistent, foolish myth and is only wishful thinking by those ignorant of the Magi’s true arts. A man is not a starfish that might regrow an arm lost to hungry fish. A man is not a blue tailed lizard who may detach its own tail to escape death. A man is a machine of interconnected bones and sinew. If one knows how the machine functions, one may easily repair it. Or break it.”


“Not regrowing. Rejoining,”said the Motwihamreed as if correcting a student who had misunderstood the master’s teaching. “Any limb can be rejoined to any stump. Of course it works best with the original part and when that lost body part is fresh, with still pliable meat that has yet to putrefy. A poultice of crypt dust and rendered fat from a bloated corpse should be prepared. It needs to be the consistency of honey but should have enough crypt dust to feel gritty when rubbed between the fingers. This poultice should be preserved in an oil pouch made from the skin of the corpse from which the fat is rendered. A woman’s breast or a man’s scrotum works best.”


The Motwihamreed suddenly snarled, growing irritated. “Then find one with large balls! Why do you pester me with trivial details! Interrupt me again and I will consign your miserable little soul to an eternity of rotting in Set’s belly!”


Recovering his composure, the Motwihamreed continued. “One must slather the end of the severed part in the poultice and stitch it back in place. A spell of binding must be muttered over the stitching. When done properly, the bones and muscles of the meat machine will repair themselves. The bindings may be of any material but heavier limbs will require heavier stitching. Twine woven from the hair of dead women is best but care must be taken that the hair is from a married woman. The hair of an unmarried woman, whore or common harlot, will be weaker. These women have no spiritual bindings such as those created by marriage.” At this he paused for a moment and shook his head. “No, love has nothing to do with it. Just marriage. The exception is the woman sacrificed as a willing offering to Set. Though, it is often difficult to convince the priests to let you have the sacrifice’s hair.


“The method of replacing a limb or appendage with another is much the same for the living and the unliving. In most cases the unliving will not require the poultice or special bindings and it will be a simple matter to stitch on a new part. The magics by which the undying are animated lend themselves very well to the attachment of limbs other than the original. In this manner the Magi may perpetuate the preservation of the decaying body by simply replacing the parts.


“Keptanophet has perfected the method of skin draping whereby he uses the skin of a living person to cover his desiccated corpse form. I’ve seen him pull the skin from a man as easily as peels and orange. If the skin is draped properly, the Magi is near indistinguishable from the living. Of course, like a set of clothes, one must find a skin that does not fit too tight or too loose.”


As easily as he had started saying these things, the Motwihamreed stopped. Though the Motwihamreed, Pasha and I were the only three in the tent I swear to you by the blood fangs of Set that I felt something brush by me and that I saw living shadow slither like black quicksilver out of the tent. The Motwihamreed apologized to us for daydreaming. It was as if he believed the words had been only in his head and not on his lips. Then he looked directly at me and said, “You seem to be a man of good health and sturdy limbs.”


Under other circumstances I might have taken that as a compliment but feeling suddenly ill at ease, I thanked the Motwihamreed for his kind words, the Pasha for his hospitality and excused myself. But I should say no more. Whenever I speak if such things I feel unseen eyes staring at me from the shadows.

[batkalim]

--The Hakawati relates a few anecdotes about Nusradin standing before a Cadi and acting as Cadi--



---------


Once Nusradin was brought before a Cadi for stealing vegetables from another man’s garden.

“I caught him in my garden rooting up my vegetables and putting them in this sack,” claimed the man tossing the sack of vegetables at the Cadi’s feet.

“What were you doing in this man’s garden,” demanded the Cadi.

“A djiini wind blew me there,” said Nusradin without hesitation.

The Cadi shook his head. “Unlikely. But even if it were so, how did the man’s vegetables come to be uprooted?”

“I did not want to be blown about any more,” said Nusradin. “So, I grabbed onto the vegetables hoping they would keep me in place. But they were not in the ground deep enough and got pulled out.”

“And how did they get into your sack?”

“Ask him,” said Nusradin pointing to the other man. “They are his vegetables and he should be made to answer for their wandering ways!”


---------


One day Nurradin was brought before the Cadi and accused of beating up an old man, breaking his nose and punching out what few teeth remained in the old man’s head. Nusradin did not deny beating up the old man but still claimed he was innocent.

“Explain yourself,” said the Cadi.

“This man is a Fakir and said he could with but a touch, make anyone able to read. Since I could not read, I demanded that he teach me how.”

“And he did not,” said the Cadi, thinking the matter was done.

“Oh no, he did!” said Nusradin. “The touched my head with his hand and said, ‘Now go read something.’ Which I did.”

“If he made you literate with the touch of a hand, why did you beat this man up?”

“I read that all Fakir’s are fakes!”


---------


One day, a nearly naked man was brought into Nusradin’s tent. “I was just robbed at the edge of this camp,” said the man. “It must have been someone from here. The thief took everything from me. My shoes, my robes, my shirt, my camel, my necklace! He took everything and I demand justice.”

“Hmm,” said Nusradin. “I see that you are still wearing your underwear.”

“I am,” replied the man, confused.

Nusradin said, “Then the man was not from here and I cannot give you the justice you demand. If the thief were from this camp he would have taken your underwear as well. After all, we are very thorough here!“


---------


Once, while camped near the Mehtet Oasis, a woman and man came into Cadi Nusradin’s tent.

The woman, upset, and raging as women do when upset, complained to Nusradin, “I was taking water from the well, when this man, which I do not know, came up to me and kissed me! I demand justice!“

Nusradin scratched his chin in thought. “You do deserve justice,” Nusradin proclaimed. “So, I order you to kiss him and take your revenge.”

[batkalim]

--The Hakawati tells how the Pasha’s wife helped choose a husband for her daughter--

Pasha Amadi had many wives and thus he was blessed with many children. Mostly daughters. As is tradition, his first born daughter was given to the Derketo Temple to become the Al-Zahar. All his other daughters except for one had been given as wives to various emirs in order to solidify their loyalty to the tribe of Ashem.

This one remaining daughter, Nadra, had many suitors, most of which wanted her for a wife as a means to be closer to the Pasha. Nadra was one of the Pasha’s favored daughters and he wanted more than a political marriage for her. So he determined that Nadra would not be wife to a man that already had one or more. She would be given only to an unmarried man of the finest qualities no matter what his station in life.

Of all the men that wanted Nadra for a wife only two proved worthy enough to the Pasha. Zahir and Isaan. Both were strong, young men and well respected members of the Pasha’s personal guard. Both had distinguished themselves in skirmishes with Zuagir raiders and showed all the manly traits expected in the men of Ashem. The Pasha knew both men would make an excellent husband for his daughter but so evenly matched were they that the Pasha could not decide which man would be the better husband.

The Pasha decided to test Zahir and Isaan in order to determine which man was better suited to marry his daughter. He summoned the two men, saying, “You are both equal in my eyes and deserving of my daughter but only one of you may have her. You will undergo tests of strength and whoever is victorious in them shall have my daughter.”

Zahir and Isaan nodded their agreement.

“Excellent,” said the Pasha and clapped his hands. A slave brought out a mahogany seegha board and set it between the two men. “The first test will be of mental strength and the winner shall be whoever wins a single game of seegha.”

Zahir and Isaan placed their stones and began playing. They played through the night and into morning only to end the game in a draw. Twice more they played and twice more the game ended in a draw.

This vexed the Pasha who felt certain one of the men would have been sharper than the other. After a few days of consideration the Pasha again summoned the two suitors. “You prove you are mental equals,” the Pasha told them, “so the next test shall be one of physical strength.” The Pasha took Zahir and Isaan outside where a circle of stones had been prepared. The two men were taken into the center of the ring and their left wrists tied together with a rope two man arms in length between them. “The first man to throw his opponent out of the ring shall be the winner,” declared the Pasha. Zahir and Isaan grappled beneath a brutal sun for a full day before both collapsed from exhaustion.

The Pasha grew more troubled. It seemed that both men were equal in all ways yet he could only give his daughter to one. It was then one morning that Nadra’s mother, the Pasha’s third wife came to him. “Husband,” she said, “as a man you value strength so you give these men tests to gauge their strengths. Perhaps you should test their weaknesses.”

The Pasha considered his wife’s advice. He thought that in testing strengths, he would also be testing weakness since one man had to be stronger than the other. But so far this had not worked. Intrigued by his wife’s notion, he asked, “How might we know their weakness woman?”

“Leave that to me,” said his wife. “Send the men to my tent when the sun is highest in the sky. By the time dinner is ready, you shall know which man is most deserving of our daughter.”

The Pasha trusted his wife so he decreed that he would make a decision at dinner that night and called for a great feast to be prepared so that all might celebrate his daughter’s betrothal.

At noon Zahir and Isaan went to the wife’s tent as instructed by the Pasha. When she brought them inside they saw that the only things in the tent were two folded sitting rugs beside a fire pit. Fist sized stones ringed the pit in which was heaped twigs and a few lumps of dried camel dung. The Pasha’s wife invited the men to sit on the folded rugs and then knelt on the ground opposite them. She stirred up some coals at the very bottom of the pit and a small fire began creeping along the twigs and dung.

“The test is simple,” she said. “I will bake bread for tonight’s feast and the man who stays until I am finished will have my daughter as a wife.”

Simple enough, both men thought. But the wife continued stoking the fire until thick, stinging smoke roiled up from the pit and started filling the tent. She placed a copper bowl large enough to cover the fire pit upside down on the rocks. The dome momentarily trapped the smoke but it soon began pouring out from under the bowl even thicker than before. With the dome heated she began baking the maqooq by laying thin sheets of dough on the copper dome.

She had only made two blankets of bread when Zahir stood. “This I cannot abide,” said Zahir. “Nadra is more beautiful than all the stars in the sky but I will not put up with this even if it means I can never have her.” With that he excused himself and left the tent.

Amaad remained. The smoke choked him and his throat burned dry as rock beneath the summer sun. Tears fell down his face from the acrid smoke stabbing at his eyes. But he stayed until all the bread was baked, enduring the discomfort and never once complaining.

At the feast when it came time to announce his decision, the Pasha asked his wife who she thought would be the better husband. Being a smart and dutiful wife, she did not speak her mind in front of the crowd for it would embarrass the Pasha if her mind was not the same mind as her husband. Instead, she told what had happened and concluded with, “I am certain the Pasha will make the wise decision.”

The Pasha considered the story and said without hesitation, “Then Zahir who left before the bread was done shall marry Nadra. I cannot accept as a husband a man like Isaan who is willing to put up with such humiliation for my daughter. He might be willing to bear even greater humiliation for the sake of himself or my beloved Nadra. A man must have his pride.”

As it turns out, the Pasha and his wife were of like mind.