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Thread: {Tales} The Hakawati Speaks

  1. #1

    Default {Tales} The Hakawati Speaks

    --The Hakawati, historian and storyteller from the tribe of Ashem explains why the desert is made of sand.--

    Many ages ago, in a time only the most ancient of magi remember, the desert was a paradise. The Garden of Shem. The oases that now dot the great desert are all that remain of the garden. And even then, the oases are just dessicated remnants of what was, wasting away like the fading memories of old men.

    In the last age of the Garden of Shem there was a Pasha who from his gleaming citadel ruled all the tribes of Shem. Tribes that in time would become the Sons of Shem and the Zuagirs and the Ashimai and the Ribyat and all the other desert tribes we know today.

    This Pasha had many wives but most of his wives bore no children. An unfortunate few gave birth to still borns. Those that carried no children he exiled as dispassionate women, unwilling to fulfill their duties as a wife. Those with still borns he beheaded, claiming they had murdered his child in the womb.

    His one fruitful wife bled her life away in child birth giving the Pasha his only child, a daughter.

    As she died, the wife spoke prophesy. She said a great sorrow would fall over the Garden of Shem if the daughter ever gave her heart to an unworthy man. The Pasha immediately summoned his guards and put to the sword the midwife and all the attendants that heard the prophesy. He alone would know the prophesy, protect his daughter and in doing so protect the Garden.

    But like all the first born daughters of the Pashas before and since, she was to be the Al-Zahar, the Shining Star of Derketo. Though the Pasha wished to keep his daughter apart from men he could not risk angering the Goddess by denying his daughter to Derketo.

    So he gave his daughter to the temple to be raised as the Al-Zahar. But he told the temple his daughter was not to have any contact with men until the time she was ready to perform the sacred duties required by the shining star of Derketo. The women of the temple did not know how they would train the Al-Zahar without her even touching a man but they agreed since disobeying the Pasha invited death.

    His daughter grew and as the day approached when she would assume the duties of the Al-Zahar, the Pasha became worried. What if in her service to the Goddess his daughter fell in love and gave her heart to an unworthy man? He could not bear the thought that his inaction might bring about the prophesy. Distraught and not knowing what to do, the Pasha confided the secret prophesy to his most trusted advisor.

    This advisor was also the Motwihamreed, servant of the immortal magi. When he spoke, he did so with the wisdom of his masters, the magi. The Pasha considered the Motwihamreed’s counsel as he would have considered the counsel of the magi themselves.

    The Motwihamreed told the Pasha that his daughter must become the Al-Zahar. One cannot deny the gods or tradition. He said also that the Pasha could not restrict his daughter once she became the Al-Zahar. But the Paha might make being in the presence of the Al-Zahar impossible to all men save those the Pasha trusted. And the Pasha only trusted the Motwihamreed.

    The Pasha did not know the Motwihamreed had already lain with the Al-Zahar many times. They tangled as lovers on the altars of Derketo under the watchful eye of the Derketi women training the Al-Zahar.

    As the servant of the Magi, the Motwihamreed would one day become a magi and since the Magi are immortal they cannot be men. Thus the women of Derketo did not consider the Motwihamreed a man. And if he was not a man, they reasoned they were not breaking the promise that the Al Zahar would have no man before her training was complete.

    They, however, did not tell the Pasha this.

    The Pasha’s daughter, though, had the weaknesses of a mortal woman. Despite the Derketi conditioning against love, the Al-Zahar’s heart would flutter when the Motwihamreed came close. When alone, she found herself longing for his company and his strong hands roaming over her body.

    And the Motwihamreed desired the Al-Zahar. Her beauty was such that the envious moon shown all the brighter in the Al-Zahar's presence. When the Motwihamreed heard the secret prophesy, he knew the Al-Zahar would be his.

    In convincing the Pasha to punish all other men for seeking out the Al-Zahar, the Motwihamreed ensured only he might be near her. Only he would possess the Shining Star of Derketo.

    The Al-Zahar, a woman desired by men and traditionally denied to none. Yet men could not gaze upon her or feel the warmth of her body under theirs. The Pasha would burn out the eyes of those he thought looked upon his daughter with lust. If a man touched her, the Pasha would have the offender’s hand sawed off. Men speaking flattery to the Al-Zahar would have their tongues gnawed out by rats.

    This angered the emirs of the subject tribes. The Al-Zahar, by offering divine pleasures to the emirs of the tribes, helped ensure their loyalty. A Pasha might give away other daughters as wives to ensure familial loyalty but rarely did a Pasha have enough daughters to give to all his subject emirs. The Al-Zahar was not bound by marriage. She, in the worship of the Goddess, could please any man and the pleasures she gave helped maintain peace and the blessings of fertility in the garden.

    The emirs decided to march their armies against the gleaming citadel and take the Al-Zahar by force. Then they would use her as they desired and in doing so maintain the ancient rites that kept the garden forever in bloom. But the Pasha had spies in all the courts and temples and he learned of the plot. He learned too of the secret meetings between his daughter and the Motwihamreed.

    The garden had not fallen into ruin so the Pasha believed his daughter had not given her heart to the Motwihamreed. After all, the Motwihamreed betrayed the Pasha’s trust and that made him unworthy.

    Betrayal demands blood. That is the immutable law of honor. But how might the Pasha preserve his honor against the Motwihamreed? One cannot simply kill the servant of the magi. The primeval magi are unpredictable. They might do nothing or they might wreak their terrible vengeance through magics that were ancient before Atlantis was even known.

    The Pasha’s army could not stand against the emirs’ host in open battle. So it was that the Pasha summoned the Motwihamreed and told him of the plot by the emirs. The Pasha commanded the Motwihamreed to take one tenth of the army and march against the emirs. The Motwihamreed was to delay the emirati long enough for the citadel to be fortified against siege.

    The Pasha knew even with the magic the Motwihamreed commanded, that this small force would be no match for the combined armies of the emirs. With luck, the Motwihamreed would die in battle. The blood debt would be settled, the wrath of the magi avoided and his daughter free of the Motwihamreed’s influence.

    But the Pasha did not fully trust fate to end the Motwihamreed. In secret, the Pasha summoned his master archer, the Hashaseen, and told the killer to ensure the Motwihamreed died in battle.

    The hearts of the Motwihamreed and the Al’Zahar grew heavy. They could not bear to be apart. The Al-Zahar pleaded with her lover not to go but duty to the Pasha could not be refused. With tears in her eyes she begged him for some token of love. Something she might keep to know he would return to her. And what man can resist the woman he covets when tears gleam like stars on her cheeks?

    That night, the Motwihamreed entered the Necropolis. The deep crypts holding the bones of the long dead would not have the flowers he needed so he stalked about the newer graves for fresh cadaver blossoms. He found two of the pale white flowers on the mound of a shallow grave. The dirt was still wet and pungent with the rot of the body it covered. He waited for the flowers to bloom under the light of the crescent moon and cut them quickly.

    As a servant of the magi the Motwihamreed had learned some of the magi’s timeless magics. He called upon the ancient powers and enchanted one flower with drops of his blood and the other with the tears of the Al-Zahar. The tear stained flower he kept and the blood stained one he gave to his beloved. Should either of them die, the other’s flower would crumble to dust and they would know their lover had perished.

    The Al-Zahar watched from the temple of Derketo as the Motwihamreed rode off to war. Once the Motwihamreed passed out of sight, the Pasha and his royal guards stormed into the temple and seized the Al-Zahar.

    The Pasha’s spies reminded him how the High Priestess broke her promise and allowed his daughter and the Motwihamreed to lay on the altar of Derketo. Enraged, the Pasha he ordered the High Priestess and her acolytes impaled.

    To ensure his daughter would not be tempted by another man, he took the cadaver blossom from her and had her locked away in one of the citadel’s high minarets. There she could not give her heart to any man and the Garden would be preserved.

    The Motwihamreed met the army of the emirs and fought as best he could with the few men he had been given. When his men perished he commanded their corpses to rise and fight on. Such is the power of the magi that their servant might shackle death with but a few words. But even this shambling, fearless army eventually fell to the fire and sword of superior numbers. Only by his magic did the Motwihamreed escape the same fate as his army.

    When he returned to the citadel he found it besieged by the emirs. All around, the garden was being laid waste to build catapaults and all the other war engines. Day and night the emirati catapaults hurled man sized stones against the citadel walls.

    Only the west wall of the citadel remained untouched by the angry flying stones. It faced a tall cliff, making it unassailable. The Motwihamreed knew of a small cave near the base of the western walls. He and the Al-Zahar had met there many times. From there he might scale the walls. His flower had not turned to dust so he knew his lover was still alive. He determined that in the confusion of the next assault he would climb the western wall and take the Al-Zahar away.

    The next morning the Al-Zahar stood in her minaret gazing over the pristine western wall. She could not bear to look elsewhere at the ugly scars gouged by catapault missiles or to the carnage on the eastern wall where men butchered one another in the morning light. How her heart leaped seeing the Motwihamreed crawl over the western battlements. He held in his hand the flower and as he looked up to her minaret an angry black bolt like the flash of a striking falcon hit the Motwihamreed.

    The Hashaseen had not forgotten his duty. An arrow drove into the back of the Motwihamreed’s neck and its jagged black point jutted from the front of his throat. The Motwihamreed toppled back over the wall his limp body bouncing along the rocks and falling into the secret cave.

    Seeing her beloved killed, the light faded from the shining star of Derketo. Her fragile lover’s heart shattered and the Al-Zahar threw herself from the minaret.

    Had she her flower, the Al-Zahar might have known her lover to be alive though he lay as if dead, his body broken and unable to move. With the arrow in his throat he could not call on the power of the magi to mend his shattered bones. In the forgotten cave he watched helpless as the flower in his hand withered to dust.

    For three days the Motwihamreed suffered alone until the flower the pasha took from his daughter finally became dust as well. Except for one petal which turned to stone.

    Scholars say this is because the Motwihamreed is still in that forgotten cave neither alive nor dead. Punishment imposed by the magi for the mortal desire that blinded the Motwihamreed to his part in the prophesy.

    With the sorrows of war at the citadel gates, the lovers dead and the enchanted flowers now only ash, the Garden of Shem began to die. All fell into to dust and desolation. And the sand still spreads, suffocating the memory of what was.

    That is why the desert is endless sand. And why to this day it is forbidden for the Al-Zahar and the Motwihamreed to ever lay with one another.

    Some say theirs was a love so powerful the garden could not exist without it. Some say the Motwihamreed did not know the true power of the ancient enchantment he placed on the cadaver blossoms and that when they died so too did the garden.

    But we, the tribe of Ashem, children of the desert and last of the old tribe, believe the prophesy. Because of her father, the Al-Zahar gave her heart to the only man she had ever known. A man who in his blind lust wanted the shining star only for himself.

    Yet no man may own the stars.
    -There are things in the deep desert that could not be imagined even in the nightmares of a thousand madmen.-

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    --The Hakawati talks about the Magi--

    The Magi are timeless. They were once mortal but no longer live as you or I. They do not have the same desires. They do not feel as we do. They do not know fear or hunger or passion or even remember these things save in whatever dreams they might have.

    The oldest of the Magi are of an age beyond lost Atlantis and crumbling Acheron when gods still walked the world. They have caressed the goddess Nebethet and danced in forgotten rites with Derketo. They have beheld the true faces of the demon Yog and the Great Serpent, Set.

    May Set’s shadow forever fall on our unworthy shoulders and his burning gaze be directed upon our enemies.

    Though they are immortal, the Magi are not gods. Death has come for them but Set has granted them the power to remain forever beyond the grasp of that which in time claims all men. So, they are neither living nor dead. They exist between the two and know the secrets of both.

    The Magi no longer walk in the world of men and remain within the Black Necropolis. This is The Great Serpent’s price for their power. Yet they guide us and the world toward their own, unknowable designs. To do this they must have a servant.

    The Motwihamreed is their servant, some say slave, in the living world and serves in hopes of tasting even a small bit of power held by the Magi. If found worthy, the Motwihmreed might be taught the secret of immortality and become one of the Magi. But in twenty generations no Motwihamreed has survived the rites.

    Honor the Magi but do not worship them. They are not gods and to offer them worship invites the wrath of Set who is the source of their immortality. When you speak of them, speak only in reverence for they hear even the crawling of beetles across the sand and they will wipe your soul from existence with less thought than you give to snuffing out a candle.
    -There are things in the deep desert that could not be imagined even in the nightmares of a thousand madmen.-

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    --The Hakawati speaks about the gods honored by the tribe of Ashem--


    We should honor Bel. The faceless god is the source of cunning. One cannot know his motivations, only the results of his actions. He is an unpredictable enemy and an untrustworthy friend. Assassins pay homage to him with each silent kill and merchants with each profitable sale. Through him the Black Necropolis is kept hidden from the eyes of the unworthy.

    We should honor Nergal. It is by his strength that our enemies are laid waste. He is the unhindered and unstoppable rage of battle. He can be found in the edge of a sword and in the point of an arrow. Each enemy spilling their life to the sand is a prayer to him and Nergal rewards with victory those who pray best. Do not enter blood feuds without offering sacrifice to him. Even for honor killing, Nergal must have his share of blood.

    We should honor Yog. His demon children roam the empty wastes and no good comes from their presence. It is foolish to wander the trackless desert and not offer him sacrifice. But beware his zealots. Yog requires his devout to consume human flesh.

    Worship Derketo. The whore goddess breathes life and fertility to all. Her dark pleasures bind life to the world. She slakes the lusts of men and gods that if left unsatisfied would bring the world to ruin. The women of our tribe must spend at least one season in service to the dark goddess. They learn at the feet of the goddess so they might worship at the feet of their husband. But do not treat the women of Ashem as simple harlots. Our law demands Ashem men protect Ashem women. Do what you wish with foreign women.


    Revere and worship Set above all. He is the whispering sand and the living shadow. He is the asp in the crib and the adder under the rock. Set despises weakness. The eternity of a thousand hells awaits those who the Great Serpent finds lacking. He is the source of the Magi’s power and why in their immortality they are forever consigned to the Necropolis. With a breath Set raises sand storms that rend flesh from bones. All who stand before the Great Serpent whither beneath his gaze. He gives no favors without blood and takes no blood without sacrifice. We among the desert tribes are favored of Set. That is why we alone know the true way into the Black Necropolis.
    -There are things in the deep desert that could not be imagined even in the nightmares of a thousand madmen.-

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    --The Hakawati tells the legend of how Pasha Hassan earned his place in the Necropolis--

    There was many generations ago a Pasha named Hassan bin Assini. Songs are still sung about his great generosity and how he ruled with a firm hand tempered with a wise heart. Pasha Hassan ruled the tribe for many years and had the wealth of many wives and children as well as camels, horses and other animals. So large was his family that seven times seven silk pavilions were needed to house them all. While he was rich in family and slaves and the finery of glimmering satins, the Pasha had little coin and gem. Though he was entitled to the greater portion of such things from the caravan raids, he always distributed his share among the tribe.

    It came to pass that in Pasha Hassan’s later years he wished to visit the Black Necropolis and the tomb of Abduset Al-Shar who had died over 300 years before. Even though his beard was turning grey, Pasha Hassan had not made the pilgrimage to the Black Necropolis. He wished to be entombed within the necropolis but if he did not make the pilgrimage, he could not rest within the ancient crypts along side the venerated dead and the Immortal Magi.

    The Pasha gathered about him a small retinue to make the pilgrimage. It included his chief vizier, the captain of the Pasha’s loyal bodyguard, the Pasha’s eldest daughter and enough slaves and camels to carry provisions for a long journey into the desert. They departed on the first new moon of spring, promising to meet the tribe at the summer oasis.

    The Pasha had been travelling the desert for many weeks and one night after they had made camp a sand storm arose in the west and blotted out the sky. The wind blew the sand about with the violence of a thousand flying daggers. Such a horrible wailing could be heard in the wind that the camels became frightened and many broke their tethers, fleeing into the cutting sand.

    The vizier told the Pasha, “This can be no natural sand storm. Can you not hear the wailing of tortured souls in the winds? No good will come of this. We should not go on. To do so will mean the death of us all.”

    “Better to die as men than as cowards and women, running from sand,” advised the Captain.

    The Pasha then looked to his daughter. As his eldest daughter, she was also the Shining Star of Derketo and possessed of the insights the goddess of seduction gives to her priestesses. She listened briefly to the snapping of tent flaps in the wailing wind before offering advice to her father. “There is something powerful in the storm. It wishes to come into the tents but it knows to enter uninvited would dishonor it so it tries to blow them down.”

    “Then we will refuse it and it will go away,” said the vizier

    “And if it does not leave, we will kill it,” said the captain.

    “No,” said the Pasha. “That is not the way of the desert. Hospitality is to be given to all. I would give even my blood enemy water if I found him thirsting in the desert. As one is judged so is all of his tribe. Let us invite the storm to join us.”

    The Pasha stepped out of his tent. The sand bit at his face like hungry insects but the Pasha said in a regal voice that could be heard above the winds, “I am Pasha Hassan bin Assini Al-Ashem and I welcome you into my humble tent!”

    At that, the storm ceased and the blowing sand formed into a giant demon as tall as seven men. There before the Pasha towered the Sultan of the Efreet. The Sultan’s eyes burned like embers and when he spoke his voice was that of the howling winds. “Who are you, Pasha Hassan, to think you might pass through my desert uninvited,” demanded the Sultan.

    The Pasha knew that the efreet are intelligent but vain creatures so he bowed to the Sultan and spoke with the reverence of a goatherd speaking to a king, “Forgive me, great Sultan of the endless sand. Had I known this was your desert I would have petitioned the most resplendent Sultan for passage of my humble pilgrimage. It would honor me if your exalted presence would accept the hospitality of such an unworthy man as me and pass the night in my tent.”

    Even the Sultan of the Efreet cannot cast aside the traditions of the desert. He could not insult the Pasha by refusing the Pasha’s hospitality. “Very well,” said the Sultan who shrank to the size and form of a man. “Lets us take rest in your tent and speak of this pilgrimage.”


    In the tent, the Pasha and the Sultan sat upon soft pillows scattered about a large silk carpet. The Sultan wore fine red and white silks and a turban wreathed in exotic feathers that glimmered like jewels, but even in the form of a man he still had the glowing eyes and black scaled skin common to his infernal kin. None of the Pasha’s slaves would come close, so great was their fear of the demon lord. So the Pasha’s daughter brought water and sweet cakes of honey for their guest. The Sultan had no need for mortal food and drink but he took of these things enough to be polite.

    “I know this desert,” said the Sultan. “There are no pilgrim shrines here.”

    “We are of the tribe of Ashem and travel to the Black Necropolis,” said the Pasha. “I wish to see the tomb of Abduset Al-Shar.”

    “I know this man,” said the Sultan. “He was a servant of the Magi and a human general who fought my brethren as if he had the heart and blood of an efreet. How unfortunate your mortal lives are so fragile. Such war glory as he gave us should have lasted seven lifetimes. The Necropolis is to the north and a horse might gallop to it in a day or two but you will not find his tomb. The desert has swallowed the entrance to the Necropolis. It would take your entire tribe one hundred years to move the sand.”

    The Pasha’s vizier spoke to the Sultan, saying, “Surely the all powerful Sultan who can take the form of a sand storm might move the dunes with but a wave of his hand.”

    “Or command his army of Efreet to rise from the Hells and move the sand,” said the captain. “Such a thing would be nothing to an army of desert demons.”

    “And do it as a kindness toward a pilgrim,” added the Pasha’s daughter.

    “I could do all of these things,” boasted the Sultan. “But we efreet have no claim to the Black Necropolis and I will not disturb the home of Set’s magi any more than I would enter your tent uninvited.”

    “And I would not ask such of you,” said the Pasha but his heart sank. He would not see the tomb of Abduset and without the pilgrimage his body would be given to the hyenas rather than laid in the Necropolis.

    The Sultan saw the despair in the Pasha’s face. Because of the Pasha’s flattery and hospitality, the demon Sultan took pity on the mortal man. “I will not move the sand,” said the Sultan, “but you may.” The Sultan plucked a gilded feather from his turban and gave it to the Pasha. “Take this feather from the Falcon of the Eastern Dawn. On midsummer morn at the first rays of sunlight prick your palm with the feather’s pinion three times and command the sand to part. But be warned, upon the next sunrise the sand will again cover the entrance to the Necropolis.”

    Before the Pasha could offer thanks, the Sultan transformed into a sand dervish and disappeared into the night.

    “You must not take gifts from demons,” cautioned the vizier. “No good has ever come of such things. We should turn back.”

    “What might we have done with all the feathers on his turban,” wondered the captain. “I should have cut off his head and the Pasha could have had them all. We must find the Sultan and make him help us.”

    “A gift of a handful of salt is more valuable than stealing the barrel,” said the Pasha’s daughter. “For the handful is given freely and without thought of recompense. Thievery only invites retribution.”

    Pasha Hassan considered the words of advice and said, “We will travel north and see if what the Sultan has said is true.”

    For three more weeks the Pasha and his caravan wandered the desert looking for the Necropolis but they could not find the black plateau which housed the ancient crypt city. Pasha Hassan sent slaves riding in all directions but they found only mountainous dunes stretching to the horizon.
    One night the vizier divined from the position of the stars that they were at the necropolis. The captain admitted that he had been seeing shades of fallen soldiers wandering the dunes. The daughter told of dreams where the dead leered at her with lusting eyes. The Pasha had been hearing his name whispered in the hiss of sand beneath his feet as he walked the desert. All these things proved the Efreeti Sultan spoke true. The Desert had covered not only the entrance to the Necropolis but the entire plateau into which it was carved.

    “One hundred years,” exclaimed the vizier. “No, it would take the tribe one hundred lifetimes to clear the sand. We have no choice but to turn back.”

    “I would give a thousand lifetimes for the glory of the tribe,” said the captain.

    “A lifetime is wasted in a place where only the dead reside,” said the Pasha’s daughter. “The dead no longer care for life. One should spend their life sharing it with the living.”

    “It does not matter,” said Pasha Hassan. “I have the magic feather and when the midsummer is upon us I shall use it to enter the Necropolis. I will pay my respects in the tomb of Abduset Al-Shar and guarantee my place in the Necropolis when the life leaves my body.”

    When the dawn of midsummer came, the Pasha pricked his palm three times with the magic feather and commanded the sand to part. A noise like the flapping of giant wings was heard and a great wind arose from the east which blew aside the sand covering the entrance to the Necropolis.

    “We should be quick,” said the vizier. “This necropolis is the temple of the immortal Magi and home to uncounted ghoul. No good will come of the living walking these twisted halls.”

    “Let the ghouls come,” said the captain. “My scimitar will make a meal of any who seek to make a meal of us.”

    “We have but a day before the sands again swallows the entrance,” said the daughter. “Let us not be distracted by fear or glory but be guided by quiet respect toward the tomb.”


    The tomb of Abduset lay deep within the necropolis past the crumbling bones of those dead before man’s first memory. In their journey through the vaults of the dead the small party was not disturbed by ghouls or any other creatures that skulk in the dark of the Necropolis.

    Curtains of gold cloth hung before Abdust’s tomb which, when Pasha Hassan touched them fell to pieces. Gold and jewels covered the walls of the tomb’s chambers in such numbers that they reflected the light of a single torch into the bright splendor of midday. In the center chamber the body sat on a malachite throne and had so much the appearance of life that the Pasha and his party begged forgiveness of Abduset’s corpse for not waiting to be invited in.

    “It is only his body,” said the vizier. “Naptha and spices could not embalm as well as this. There must be old magics keeping the corpse so well preserved. Old magic can do no good. The Pasha should pay his respects and leave.”

    “What a magnificent corpse,“ said the captain. “It looks as if he could still lay waste an army of demons. Why, he must be a full head taller than any of us!” The gilded skulls of fallen djiin, efreet and other desert demons formed the many columns of the inner chamber.

    Pasha Hassan approached Abduset’s corpse. Where ever the pasha stepped, the fine silk carpets and tufted sitting pillows crumbled to ruin. Abduset had the face of a living man and was so well preserved Pasha Hassan at first hesitated to touch the body. When the Pasha summoned his courage and touched the dead man’s hand in respect, Abduset’s clothes mouldered to dust.

    “It would seem the captain is correct,” said the Pasha’s daughter. “Even in death Abduset is a man of great proportion.”

    Pasha Hassan took off his outer robes and draped them from Abduset’s shoulders. “Bring to me my pavilion tent,” commanded the Pasha. “And my clothes and all my belongings on all the camels.”

    When the slaves had brought these things, Pasha Hassan ordered them to make curtains of his tent to replace those that had been destroyed and to spread his own carpets and pillows about the tomb. The Pasha ordered the richest of his clothes be used to dress the corpse and the many chambers of the tomb he infused with camphor and other incense. The things he gave were even richer than those he had accidentally destroyed.

    Upon spreading the carpets it was seen that something had been engraved into the floor. The vizier read it aloud. “Let fear not rule your mind lest your life be lived in fear.”

    “No,” said the captain, it reads, ‘Base not your dignity on your power to harm others.’ “

    “We each see something different, “said the daughter. “I read, ‘Only in reflection might one behold their own face yet the reflection is not what others behold.’ What is it you read, esteemed father?”

    Pasha Hassan looked to the engraving and said, “Nothing. I see nothing.” But he held the truth from the others. What he read in those magic words was this:

    “There shall come to my tomb upon the midsummer, a Pasha of Ashem. He shall honor me though I have no claim over him. He shall dress me in new vestments and adorn my chambers in fine silks and sprinkle sweet smelling essences throughout this tomb. Then he shall depart. But one among his party shall show treachery to me. Only in giving me the traitor shall this Pasha earn a place here among the honored dead.”

    “Come,” said Pasha Hassan. “The sun is nearly risen and we must depart this place or be trapped within.”

    “Great Pasha,” said the vizier, “So vast is the wealth of gold and jewels in this tomb that a few stones might not be missed. And what use do the dead have for them when the living might benefit more. Let me take some of them for we will need to replace the things you have left here.”

    Pasha Hassan replied with great indignation, “Such a thought is that of a thief and not a wise man. Should you wish these jewels perhaps I should leave you here!”

    Ashamed, the vizier hung his head and the glimmer of gold and jewels dulled in his eyes. Of all the things to fear, the displeasure of his Pasha was the most frightful for it would not end well.

    “Great Pasha,” said the captain, “The Sultan’s sand storm caused many of our camels to flee and he offered no apology or compensation for the Pasha’s lost property. The Sultan wished the war with Abduset had lasted seven lifetimes. Let me make a battle standard of these djiin skulls and lead your army against the efreet to seek revenge.”

    “Fool,” shouted the Pasha. “You would trade men’s lives for those of a few camels. I leave in this tomb enough possessions to buy a herd of camels! You would make a standard from skulls you did not take! You would shame the memory of Abduset with such petty acts. I should leave you here to forever beg forgiveness from Abduset’s ghost.”

    The captain hung his head in shame. The glory of war next to the Pasha’s anger burned as a candle compared to the sun.

    The Pasha’s daughter laid a hand on her father’s arm. “Be calm, father,” she said. “They are loyal men and mean no disrespect. In their own way they seek only to praise you and bring glory to Ashem.”

    “Their treacherous acts would cost me my place in the Necropolis,” said Pasha Hasan. “I should leave them both to rot here. No doubt their thoughts have stirred Abduset’s spirit to vengeance.” But the prophesy he read mentioned only one traitor, not two, and this concerned him greatly.

    His daughter saw the worry in her father’s face. “Am I not the Shining Star of Derketo,” she asked. “Let me mount the malachite throne and with the body appease the spirit of Abduset. The pleasures of the Dark Goddess may rouse and placate even the dead.”

    Pasha Hassan granted his daughter’s request since the only other choice was to leave both the vizier and the captain in the tomb. Though vizier was often overcautious and the captain too quick to bare his sword, the Pasha valued both men. For even faults when taken to the extreme might become assets.

    All watched as the Shining Star of Derketo performed such licentious rights that color was seen to rise in Abduset’s face. At the height of her worship with her arms and legs wrapped about the corpse, the Pasha’s daughter screamed out, “Thief!” She saw in a silver circlet about Abduset’s head the reflection of a slave prying a palm sized ruby from the wall. All turned toward the thief.

    “Tomb robber,” exclaimed the vizier. “Nothing good will come of this. Seize him quickly!”

    “Betrayer,” roared the captain. In the singing flash of a scimitar he lopped off the slave’s hand and stood over the man, the point of his blade at the thief’s neck.

    “Master, forgive me,” cried the slave.

    “I will not listen to traitors,” said the Pasha. “Cut out his tongue that I might not hear his lies. Cut off his other hand that he may no longer steal and cut off his feet that he may no longer walk as a man but crawl as a beast.” This the captain did. The vizier then touched a torch to all the wounds so they would be sealed and the thief would not escape punishment by bleeding to death.

    The Pasha took the ruby and set it back in place. When he did glowing runes appeared in the gem. They revealed the location of a place beyond the necropolis where could be found hidden a great store of gold along with casks of the purest gems. The Pasha heard a whisper from near the malachite throne. “I give this to the Pasha of Ashem for the honors he has done me. Live well, for at the end of your days you shall sit at my side.”

    Since the sun was about to rise, they left the thief in the tomb and hurried from the Necropolis. They heard behind them the shuffling of feet and the scream of a tongueless man. But none looked back until they were in the light of day and the sand again swallowed the Necropolis.

    The hidden treasure was more than might be imagined and the Pasha in his boundless generosity distributed most of it among the tribe. The rest he scattered across the desert as thanks to the Sultan of the Efreet for the magic feather that allowed entrance to the Necropolis. To this day that is why we of Ashem sometimes find colored gemstones in the desert.

    In time the Pasha died and on the midsummer morn his eldest son, the new Pasha, used the feather to open the necropolis and carry his father to the tomb of Abduset. There, they found an alabaster throne beside the malachite throne and placed the dead Pasha on it to sit beside Abduset.

    They wondered at the remarkable preservation of Abduset’s corpse and at the handless, footless skeleton at the feet of Abduset. The dead Pasha’s daughter was the only one that had been in the tomb that day many years before and she told them the story. What she did not say was that Abduset’s face was now the face of the thief yet the skin on his hands and feet remained that of Abduset.
    -There are things in the deep desert that could not be imagined even in the nightmares of a thousand madmen.-

  5. #5

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    --The Hakawati explains how Vulture became so ugly --

    Once, Vulture was the most beautiful of all birds. All the birds of the world would sing praise to Vulture for her poise and beauty. Though she was courted by the Falcon of the Eastern Dawn and the Hawk of the Setting Sun, Vulture would never wed either of them. If she became a wife, the other birds would no longer praise her out of respect for her marriage. For only a husband may praise his wife's beauty.

    It happened one night that Vulture was flying to visit the moon because she loved how the moon made her beauty shine all the more. While high above where only gods and demons might live, she beheld something in the desert far below.

    She flew back to earth and found it was a bolt of the finest silk. As she was a beautiful bird, she loved beautiful things so she took the silk to Spider. “Please, Spider,” said Vulture, “make me a dress of this silk and one for yourself as payment.” Spider agreed and in three days wove two of the most divine dresses that had ever been.

    When Vulture returned for the dress she said, “Let me see the two dresses so that I might know which one is more beautiful for I deserve only the loveliest of things.” Spider showed Vulture the dresses and Vulture saw that they were equally beautiful so she took them both in her beak and flew away.

    One day soon after this, Vulture was flying about when she spotted something glittering on the horizon. She flew to the horizon and found scattered about a treasure of rubies and emeralds and gold. As she loved beautiful things, Vulture took the treasure to Beetle, saying, “Please, Beetle, fashion me a necklace of these treasures and one for yourself as payment.”

    Once Beetle finished the necklaces, Vulture returned. “Let me see them,” she said, “and I will take the most beautiful of them since I am the most beautiful bird in all creation.” Both sparkled equally and Vulture could not tell which was better so she took both necklaces and flew away.

    Not long after this, Vulture was flying across the western lands. All of the animals looked up and called to her how beautiful she was. She flew lower that she might better hear their praises when she saw the softest and purest white cotton that had ever been. She took the cotton to Lioness and said to her, “Lioness, please make me a pillow of this cotton and one for yourself as payment.”

    Lioness made the finest pillows from the cotton and called Vulture when they were done. “I am beautiful and require only the best,” said Vulture. “Show me the pillows so that I might have the best one and you keep the other.” But neither pillow exceeded the other in quality or craftsmanship so Vulture took both pillows and flew away.

    Vulture dyed her feathers and her feet with henna and painted her eyes with khol which made her all the more beautiful. She put on both dresses and hung both necklaces around her neck. She folded over both pillows, placed one atop the other and sat upon them as a bride might sit upon her wedding seat. She started to sing:

    Skee-lee-skee-lee
    Beautiful am I, you see
    Skee-lee-skee-lee

    An Emir, who was out hunting, heard the singing and went to investigate. “What a beautiful creature you are,” he said to Vulture. “But you are vain. Spider, Beetle and Lioness have told me what you have done. You must give to them what you promised.” But Vulture sang:

    Skee-lee-skee-lee
    Only the best for me
    Skee-lee-skee-lee

    The Emir drew his best bow and fired his best arrow into Vulture’s heart. She sang:

    Skee-lee-skee-lee
    A wonderful shot is he
    Skee-lee-skee-lee

    The Emir then plucked her feathers and cooked her upon a bronze spit while she sang:

    Skee-lee-skee-lee
    From the fire I cannot flee
    Skee-lee-skee-lee

    The Emir ate Vulture, chewing her until she was soft and swallowing her down. She lay in his stomach until he got up and shat her out at which she sang:

    Skee-lee-skee-lo
    I’ve seen the Emir’s hole
    So red! Red like burning coal

    Vulture to this day remains ugly and must make do eating the carrion no other creature wants.
    -There are things in the deep desert that could not be imagined even in the nightmares of a thousand madmen.-

  6. #6

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    --The Hakawati relates the tale of the poor merchant and his homely wife--


    Once there was a merchant who had only one wife because that is all he could afford to keep. It was not that his wife desired expensive things or forbade him other wives. In that, she was happily free from the flaw of jealousy common in women. So convincing were his words and likable was the man that there was no one to which he could not sell his wares. But no sooner had he earned profit than his wife out of kindness or stupidity had given it away. Still, they lived a meager but tolerable existence.

    His wife was called Taibba which of course means, Burden. She was somewhat plain and not very bright but she was a dutiful wife and served her husband willingly in all ways a wife is to serve. Because of her devotion he cared for her in spite of her homely appearance.

    Whenever he found she had given away their money to some unfortunate wretch, he would just sigh and say, “Taibba, your heart is good but your mind is weak.” He never punished her when she gave their money away. Though, perhaps he should have.

    It happened that the merchant and his wife were in the trade city of Tekk through which pass many caravan routes. In Tekk can be found traders from mystic Khitai and brightly painted wagons from Vendyha. Men from Stygia with artifacts found deep in the black kingdoms mingle with fur traders coming out of Cimmeria and Pictland. It is a city whose god is profit.

    The merchant was there in hopes of building enough wealth that he would no longer have to buy and barter for a living. With a coffer of gold, he could return to the desert and never have to work again. And if he managed to save enough, perhaps he could afford a second wife. One younger than his current wife and, of course, more pleasing to the eye.

    For many months he managed to keep his wife from giving away all he had saved. He did this by never letting her out alone and when he was out in the city trading he would stuff a damp cloth in her mouth and tie her to the bed. He would then bar all the windows and lock the door behind him when he left. He reasoned that in this way she could not call out to anyone or open the door to anyone and no one could come in through the locked door.

    Taibba was a dutiful wife and never once complained to her husband about the treatment.

    One day after the merchant finished reviewing his ledgers and counting his money he said to his wife with great joy, “Taibba, we now have enough to live the rest of our lives among our desert kin and want for nothing.”

    “Wonderful, ” said Taibba. “I want nothing but your happiness. When shall we return to the desert?”

    “In the morning,” said the Merchant. “I will go now and settle the last of our debt to the landlord. I think I might even have enough to support another wife. One younger and more comely than you.” The merchant took just enough money to pay the landlord for use of the house and left. In his haste and elation at having saved enough money, he did not tie his wife to the bed or lock the door.

    Tekk, being a city of caravans is also a city of thieves. One of these thieves had been watching the merchant for several weeks and knew the merchant had amassed a large sum of gold and silver. This thief also knew the wife could be easily conned out of money because she had a soft heart and was not so smart. But the merchant never let her out of his sight so the thief could not approach her. And when the merchant left his wife in the house, he always locked it up and because the merchant tied her up, Taibba never answered when the thief knocked at the door.

    The thief was watching the house when the merchant left to pay the landlord and the thief noticed the merchant did not lock the house this time. He waited for the merchant to be out of site then crept up to one of the windows.

    At the window, the thief heard Taibba lament, “Oh that I was younger and more beautiful. Perhaps my husband would not want a second wife. I want nothing more than his happiness but would give all I have to be the young, lovely thing he so desires.”

    Upon hearing this, the thief seized upon an idea. He stood and called through the open window, “Dear lady, if it is your husband’s happiness you seek I can help you.”

    “How,” asked Taibba. “Are you a Magi? Can you make me young and pretty?”

    “No,” said the thief, “I am a name seller.”

    Taibba, in her simple minded way did not think this unusual. All manner of things were sold by the merchants in Tekk, so why not names? “How can that make my husband happy?”

    “What is your name, dear lady?”

    “Taibba”

    “Taibba,” exclaimed the thief. “Why you are nothing but a Burden! No wonder your husband is unhappy with you. It is because of your plain and unattractive name. I happen to have a name for sale that is much more suitable and is certain to make your husband happy. “

    “What is it,” asked Taibba.

    “Kaajma,” said the thief. “It means ‘Younger Than Spring And More Beautiful Than The Moon’.”

    Taibba’s devoted heart wanted so much to make her husband happy. She thought that if he wanted a young, pretty wife, she had somehow failed to make him happy in that regard. This new name might just make him happy with her. “How much for such a lovely name,” she asked. “I must have it.”

    “Oh, such a pretty name as this is not cheap. It is probably more gold and silver than you have.”

    Taibba excused herself and went to fetch the coffer that held all of her husband’s profits. She held it out to the thief. “Is this enough?” She prayed to Set that it would be.

    The thief smiled. It was more money than he thought the merchant had stashed away. “Yes, that is just enough but no sale is legal without documentation.” The thief wrote in the merchant’s ledger a bill of sale for the name. He gave the ledger to the Taibba who was now Kaajma. “Hang this ledger outside the door and bar the doors and windows from inside. When your husband returns tell him you will not let him in until he calls you by your new name. If he doubts you have a new name, tell him to read the ledger.”

    With the coffer of gold and silver under his arm the thief disappeared into the city knowing he was safe. He had not robbed the house by force. He even left a bill of sale for the name. By the law of Tekk, a sale and not a crime had just occurred.

    When the merchant returned he found all the doors and windows barred. “Taibba,” he called. “Taibba open the door!”

    “I am Younger Than Spring And More Beautiful Than The Moon.”

    “What are you talking about,” demanded the merchant. “You are my wife, Taibba, and you are plain as desert sand.”

    “No, I am Kaajma. I bought the name from a name seller to make me young and pretty so you would be happy.”

    “Stop your nonsense you dim witted woman and let me in!”

    “Not until you say my new name. Read the ledger. You will see I speak the truth.”

    The merchant looked in the ledger and found the bill of sale for the name at the cost of all his savings. “You simple minded cow! We could have lived the rest of our lives on that money!”

    “But the name makes me young and beautiful. Is that not what you wanted to make you happy?”

    “You are the most foolish woman to ever live and I am leaving you. I can no longer forgive your idiocy. I swear by Set that if ever I find anyone more stupid than you I will return and never take another wife for the rest of my days!”

    The merchant stormed off. He now had no money at all. He started back to the landlord hoping to convince the man to give back some of the gold so he could start trading again. The landlord, being an old man, retired soon after the sun set and since it was getting dark, the merchant decided to save some time and cut through a graveyard used by followers of Mitra.

    In the graveyard he was stopped by three thieves who demanded all of his money. When he claimed to have none, they commenced to beating him in order to get his coin. When they found he had no money, they took his clothes and left him naked and unconscious in an unused grave.

    He did not wake until the next morning. While leaving the graveyard he happened across three Mitra women who were coming to visit the graves of dead family. They were astonished to find a naked man wandering the corpse garden and asked him what was wrong.

    “I am newly risen from the dead,” said the merchant and indicated the hole from which he had only recently crawled. “But I did not know that when rising from the dead, you come into the world the same as when you were born. Might I trouble you for some clothes?”

    The women agreed to help the newly resurrected man and hurried home. One fetched a pair of her husband’s soft leather sandals. One fetched her husband’s best pair of pants and the third brought her husband’s finest jacket. Once dressed, the merchant told the women, “I’ll tell you a secret. Tomorrow your loved ones and every Mitra worshipper in this graveyard will rise from the dead but like me they will have no clothes. If you wish to perform a great kindness and honor Mitra you should bring clothes for all of them before moonrise tonight. But you must tell no one and not enter the graveyard until the morning when we have all finished dressing.”

    So the Mitra women brought bundles of clothes to the graveyard. The three women happened to be the wives of the most powerful merchants in Tekk so the clothes they left were of the most expensive silks and satins that normally would touch only the skin of kings. Through the night the merchant gathered up all the clothes and hid them away in a cave just outside of town.

    The next day the Mitra adherents came to the graveyard to find all the clothes gone and none of the dead resurrected. They immediately went to their husbands and told the tale of how they had been tricked. Tekk, being a city of caravans is also a city of mercenaries. The rich merchants hired swords to go look for the man that had tricked their wives into giving away so many expensive sets of clothes.

    The merchant knew he could not sell the clothes in Tekk because the Mitra merchants would be watching the markets for the things they had lost. He needed to sell the clothes in another city but had no way to transport them. The Mitra women had left a few coins in the pockets of the clothes to help the risen dead in their new life and with these, the Merchant intended to buy a cart and an ox. With a cart and an ox he could take the clothes to another city and profit from them.

    As he was walking back into the city to buy ox and cart, the merchant was met by three mercenaries on horseback. “Crom and Ymir,” said one of the mercenaries. “Those are the clothes the women said they gave that man in the graveyard. Seize him!”

    “Mercy,” pleaded the merchant as the milk skinned barbarian’s grabbed him. “I am just a poor farmer.”

    “No farmer wears such fine clothes,” bellowed the mercenary leader.

    “I just sold my only horse and my common clothes to a man for these fine clothes and a pocket full of silver. He said he needed the horse to be fast away from the city and the famer clothes so that none would recognize him. The man you seek must be he that bought my horse. But what is a farmer to do with these clothes? They cannot till the fields or carry wood for cooking fires. I wish I had not sold my horse.”

    “To hell with your horse,” snarled the mercenary leader. “If you were so weak as to be tricked out of it, you deserve to lose it. Now which way did this man go?”

    “North over the fields,” said the merchant. “But the fields are flooded for the spring silting and surely the horse is stuck up to its belly in mud. So too would be your horses. But if you give chase on foot you would certainly catch the man. You cannot miss him, the horse is as white as pearl.”

    “We cannot leave our horses here unattended,” said one of the mercenaries. “What should we do?”

    The merchant gave the mercenaries a few of the silver coins in his pocket. “Leave your horses with me and I will watch them for you. Take this silver as partial payment for retrieving my horse. You should be able to catch the man in less than an hour. I will wait here and give you the rest of my silver as payment for my horse when you return.”

    The mercenaries saw the glimmer of silver and rushed off. What a stupid, weak farmer, they thought. This farmer would end up doubling their pay over a horse. The mercenaries ran into the fields but failed to find a man on a pearl white horse. When they returned to where they had left their horses, they found the merchant and the horses gone.

    “Crom’s bloody beard,” raged the mercenaries. “Tricked by a farmer.” In their single minded anger they did not even consider the farmer really was the merchant they were seeking. “Let us kick the doors in of these farmsteads until we find this man!”

    The merchant hid the horses in the cave. The next day he mounted the strongest horse and rode south through the sprawling vineyards. Tekk, being a city of caravans is also a city of great appetites and its wines are some of the best in the known world. It was not long before he came across a large caravan wagon on the side of the road. Within view through the trees was a small farmstead surrounded by a vineyard. A man sat beside the wagon, his face in his hands. The merchant saw from the tracks that the wagon had come from the vinyard but there was no draft animal to pull it. He saw also a mark of Ibis on the side of the wagon.

    “I am so hungry,” the merchant said to his horse. “By the breath of Ibis I would even give you away for a few spoonfuls of leek soup.”

    The man beside the wagon looked up to the merchant. “What was that you said, friend?”

    “I would give this strong horse for some soup,” said the merchant. “A day ago I was robbed of all my food and goods by three barbarian mercenaries. I managed to escape them on this fine horse but only because the robbers were on foot.”

    “I was robbed of my horses by three barbarian mercenaries,” exclaimed the wagoner. “I was to take this wagon of wine to market but now I cannot. If you are sincere in your oath, brother, I could bring you soup in trade for your horse.”

    “I do not make an oath to Ibis with a slippery tongue,” said the merchant. “For soup you will have this horse.”

    “Wait here,” said the wagoner. “I will return shortly.” The wagoner ran back towards the farmstead. As soon as the wagoner was out of sight the merchant began hitching his horse to the wagon.

    The wagoner rushed into the winery house and commanded, “Wife, heat some water and throw a few leeks into it.”

    “Why,” she asked. “It is not lunch or dinner.”

    “There is a fool who has sworn to give me a perfectly good draft horse for a bowl of soup. Hurry and make it, woman.” The wagoner rushed back with a bowl of thin leek soup only to find that his wagon was gone. A single cask of wine remained behind. On the cask was drawn the mark of Set and the wagoner then knew the merchant followed the All Serpent and the merchant’s oath to Ibis meant nothing.

    In the cave the Merchant mixed some of the wine with ochre. He used this concoction to stain the wooden wagon and paint over the Ibis so none would recognize it as belonging to the Ibis wagoner. He built a fire of olive wood and heated silver coins. He used the coins to brand the horses so that none might claim they belonged to the barbarian mercenaries. He took the bundles of clothes and untied them so none might claim they were the bundles left at the graveyard by Mitra followers. He folded the clothes separately and used them to cover the casks of wine. Once he did all this, he hitched two horses to the front of the wagon and the third to the rear and drove the wagon to his old house in Tekk.

    At the door he called out, “Kaajma, open the door. I have not traveled beyond sight of the city walls and have found people more foolish than you. As I swore an oath to Set, I return and will take no other wives for all the time I remain in this world.”

    Kaajma’ heart soared upon hearing her husband use her new name. She threw open the door and embraced her husband. Together they rode from Tekk. In time the merchant sold all the wine to the finest of hostels and all the exquisite clothes to kings and princes of distant lands. He made enough money to retire and afford five wives but lived the rest of his days in comfort with his wife who was younger than spring and more beautiful than the moon.
    -There are things in the deep desert that could not be imagined even in the nightmares of a thousand madmen.-

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    --The Hakawati talks about Ghouls—


    Many types of ghoul walk the world. They might be man or woman. Some might live like old hermits in the crags of mountains. Some might live in packs like jackals looking for easy prey. Others might have eyes red as blisters and gums full of maggots from the corpses they eat. Of course there are ghouls which look perfectly human. There might be a ghoul sitting among us even now. And these hidden ones are the most dangerous for they could be your friends or someone in your family.


    It is known that ghouls can eat anything, even rocks and dung, but they prefer human flesh. Just as we enjoy figs and dates the ghoul enjoys human meat basted with blood gravy. So insatiable is their unnatural appetite that a ghoul can eat an entire person in one sitting. The followers of Yog are required to consume human flesh on each new moon but they are not ghouls. Yet, they should not be trusted. Especially when the moon is waning.


    The most powerful ghouls consume not just the flesh but the memories and even the souls of their victims. When the spirit eating ghoul consumes a soul they extend their life beyond their natural years. The older they get the more they must devour and the more they devour the more powerful they become. The mage-ghoul, Hamadiin, was over four hundred years old when he was slain. These old ghouls are the most cunning of their kind because they have the knowledge of all those they have eaten. Little good will come from meeting a ghoul no matter what type of ghoul it is.


    Ghouls are not wanderers. They are like lions in that they prefer hunting in their own territory. Look with suspicion upon those who dwell in cities and villages. Such places offer the ghoul a garden of people from which to draw their meals and a place in which they might easily hide themselves among people. Beware strangers who linger at an oasis without the blessings of the Pasha or one of his Emirs. They are likely ghoul and will eat you in your sleep.


    Ghouls may be created any number of ways. A person who consumes the hearts of humans may eventually become a ghoul. It is inevitable that these ghouls go insane. Thus they are easily detected but usually not until they have fallen into madness. A ghoul woman will birth ghoul children no matter if her husband is ghoul or human. Likewise, ghoul men will father ghoul children with any woman. A ghoul may be born of human parents. This is often because the parents have departed from the way of Set or because of a curse placed upon them. The Magi are known to place such curses on those that offend them. Revere the Magi and may their curses never fall upon you!

    With the proper rituals sorcerers may also raise ghouls from corpses. The immortal Magi create these undying ghouls to wander the crypts in the Black Necropolis. Those trapped in the necropolis when it seals soon know the teeth and nails of starving ghouls. Some claim that the Motwihamreed, servant of the Magi, is a ghoul. They say becoming ghoul is the price for learning the Magi’s ancient secrets. But if I were you I would not say such a thing lest the Motwihamreed rip the soul from your body bind it in service to his will.
    -There are things in the deep desert that could not be imagined even in the nightmares of a thousand madmen.-

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    --The Hakawati relates the tale of the Ghoul, the Goatherd and the Motwihamreed --

    Once there was a goatherd who had a young son and a daughter. His wife had died some months before and he had not yet taken another wife. He was not a rich man but he was proud of his goats and had so many that he could not herd them all by himself. His wife would help when she was alive but his children were still too young to manage the unruly herd. Not a day went by that a goat wandered off and never came back. And since the tribe was almost always on the move he could not linger long to look for the missing goats.

    One evening when the tribe was camped at their spring oasis, the goatherd was counting his goats and realized a little brown and white kid had wandered off when he was not looking. It was getting dark and the goatherd knew the hyenas prowled about at night so he gave up the kid as lost.

    The next morning as the goatherd was eating a breakfast of sour yogurt his daughter came to him saying, “Father, there is a strange man outside the tent with a brown and white kid.”

    “Yes,” said the son, “and his eyes are like the pale moon!”

    The goatherd rushed out and there stood a man with the kid that had wandered off the day before. The man wore a dusty grey keffiyeh that he had pulled back to hang loose at the side of his face. The stranger’s skin was such a deep brown the goatherd took him to be from one of the tribes that wander the forgotten places in the desert. Possibly even the son of a djiin since the man’s eyes glimmered like the silver of a full moon. “I see the notch in this kid’s ear matches the notches in the ears of these others,” said the stranger indicating the man’s herd. “I suppose this little goat belongs to you.”

    “It does,” said the goatherd. “That is my mark on its ear. But I thought this little kid lost to the hyenas.”

    “Not lost but hungry,” said the stranger. “I found it in my tent eating my silk sitting rug.”

    In despair the goatherd covered his face with his hands. A silk rug! He could never in his lifetime replace something so expensive. How much better it would have been if the hyenas took the kid! “A thousand apologies,” said the goatherd after recovering some of his composure. “I have no wife. I am the only one that can tend the herd and this kid wandered off. I am afraid I have nothing to offer in compensation for your rug except the kid itself and perhaps one or two other goats.” The goatherd knew even his entire herd would not be enough to pay for a silk rug.

    The stranger knew this, too but said, “Keep your goat. When you are able, you will pay your debt to me even if it takes a lifetime. Until then perhaps you should petition one of the emirs for land around the oasis. You might build a proper pen for your goats so they will not wander away and chew on rugs in other people’s tents.”

    “That would be wonderful,” admitted the goatherd. “But why would an emir grant land near an oasis to a simple man like me?”

    “You might be surprised what the emirs will do. I will make you a bargain. Go to the emir tomorrow and if your petition fails, I will forgive your debt to me. But if your petition is granted, you must give me your daughter as soon as you are remarried. This is my oath and by Set I swear it.”

    Now the goatherd did not want to lose his daughter. Even though she was a girl and not as valuable as a son, he still cared for his little girl because she reminded him of his dead wife. But he also did not want to owe this stranger for the rest of his life so the goatherd agreed to the bargain and swore an oath to Set that he would uphold his part of it.

    The next day the goatherd went to the tent of the emir. He determined to make the petition in such a way that the emir would deny it. That way, the stranger with the dark skin and pale eyes would have to honor his part of the bargain and forgive the goatherd’s debt. When the emir asked what the goatherd wished, the goatherd said, “I want land near the oasis.”

    “Why,” asked the emir.

    “So I can raise my goats and throw their dung at the tents of people who come to the oasis,” said the goatherd.

    “Granted,” said the emir without hesitation. “Vizier, give this crap heaving goatherd two hectares of the best grazing land in the oasis.”

    When the goatherd returned to his tent he found the stranger with the silver eyes waiting. “Well,” asked the stranger, “What did the emir say?”

    “I have two hectares of the best grazing land at the oasis,” said the disappointed goatherd. “I can hardly believe it.”

    “I said the Emir might surprise you,” smiled the stranger. What the goatherd did not know was that this stranger was the Motwihamreed and the Motwihamreed had suggested to the emir that the goatherd be given two hectares of the finest land. Since the Motwihamreed’s voice is the voice of the Magi the emir heeded the Motwihamreed’s words as he would have heeded those of the immortal Magi. “And now as soon as you take a new wife, you must give me your daughter on the first equinox after you are remarried.”

    “I have sworn and oath to Set and it will be so,” said the goatherd. He knew he had somehow been tricked but he had already determined never to take another wife and thus, never need to give his daughter to the man with the silver eyes.

    Many tribes used this oasis and enough people had been granted land around it that a village had formed. The Motwihamreed knew of a woman in the village who claimed to be an acolyte of Derketo. The emirs had never given their consent for her to settle there but because she worshipped the dark goddess they allowed her to live in her small house at the edge of the village. The Motwihamreed knew this woman was a ghoul and that those visiting her might just as easily end up in her belly as between her legs.

    The ghoul knew who the silver eyed man was and when the Motwihamreed came to her small house she invited him in and offered tea and other hospitalities. While visiting, the Motwihamreed told her, “Just as you know who I am, I know what you are. I know too that others begin to suspect your true nature. If they catch you eating a person they will impale you on a glowing hot iron rod. But I know a way you might remove that suspicion.”

    “I would be grateful if the Voice of the Magi would tell how I might do this,” said the ghoul.

    “There is a goatherd who has just been given land around the oasis. He has two young children but no wife. If you were to marry him, others would no longer suspect you when strangers to the oasis disappear in the night.”

    “Thank you for the advice,” said the ghoul. “The Motwihamreed is too kind and by the goddess I would repay this kindness if you would allow.” The ghoul had a comely face and a body that captured the eyes of men like moths to flame so through the night the Motwihamreed used her as any man might use one of derketo’s acolytes and in the morning departed.

    Because of the land the goatherd was given, his herd soon doubled in size and he was seen as one of the most prosperous men in the oasis village. Many women had set their eyes on the goatherd since he was now so well settled and without a wife. When the women visited he would politely invite them into his home but would never speak of the possibility of marriage.

    It happened that the land given to the goatherd made him a neighbor of the ghoul. She would visit often and bring sweet cakes for the children. But the goatherd showed as little interest in the ghoul woman as he did the others that would visit. He was determined to never marry again and thus never have to give his daughter to the silver eyed man.

    The goatherd’s children also became quite popular in the village. His son always seemed to lead the other boys in play and it was remarked one day the boy would grow into a fine man. His daughter, though still very young, had a sharp mind and showed potential to rival the rare beauty found only in priestesses of Derketo and Ishtar.

    The children would often visit the ghoul because the woman was very kind to them and would give them honey cakes and other sweets. “Your father should marry,” the ghoul would say to the children. “It is wrong for a man to not have a wife. He should marry one of his neighbors.”

    “He should marry you,” said the son. “you are always kind to us.”

    “And you are the closest neighbor,” said the daughter.

    “That I am,” grinned the ghoul.

    One night while eating dinner, the goatherd’s son said to his father, “It is over a year since our mother died. You should look for another wife.”

    “The neighbor is a kind woman,” added the daughter. “I think she would make a good wife for you.”

    The goatherd looked to his daughter. “I’ll not again be married until you can carry seven buckets of water from the village well.”

    The next day after the goatherd left to tend the goats, his daughter visited the ghoul and told the woman what her father had said. The ghoul went and filled seven buckets of water and carried them to the goatherd’s house. When the goatherd returned that evening his daughter said to him, “See, father, I am old enough to fetch water from the well. You can now marry our neighbor.”

    “I’ll not be married again until you can knead dough and bake seven loaves of bread,” said the goatherd.

    When the children visited the ghoul they told her what their father had said. The ghoul then kneaded enough dough to bake seven loaves of bread and gave it to the children to carry home. When the goatherd returned that evening his son said to him, “Look, father. My sister has kneaded enough dough and baked seven loaves of bread. You should now marry the neighbor woman.”

    “No,” bellowed the goatherd. “By Set I shall not marry that woman until my daughter can recover the seven black goat kids eaten by hyenas these past few days.”

    When the children told the ghoul this, the ghoul gave them seven lengths of rope and seven silver coins. “Go into the village market and buy seven black goat kids,” said the ghoul. “But do not buy them from people you know. Buy them from those who are passing through the oasis and be sure the goat’s ears are whole. Do this and I will soon be your stepmother.”

    Thrilled at the prospect of having such a kind stepmother the children hurried off and returned with the seven kids on the ends of the seven ropes. The ghoul notched the ears of the kids with the same notch used by the goatherd to mark his property and sent the children home with the goats. It was in the evening when the children returned and their father was already home. When he saw his children leading seven black kids and each kid had his notch in their ear, he had no choice but to honor his oath to Set and marry the neighbor woman. It saddened him to know that in honoring this oath, he would have to now honor the oath to give his daughter to the silver eyed man.

    Soon after being married to the goatherd, the ghoul turned cruel to the children. When their father was not around she would beat them and mistreat them. When a ghoul has not had human meat in some time, their human façade begins to crumble and their true nature is revealed. The goatherd did not see this since his mind worried him over the spring equinox when the silver eyed man would return for his young daughter.

    One day shortly before the equinox the goatherd said to his ghoul wife, “I want tripe for dinner. Slaughter that brown and white goat and have it prepared when I return.”

    The ghoul did so. She cleaned the bowels and entrails and began cooking them along with the rest of the goat for dinner that night. While cooking the goat in a large clay kiln, the ghoul sampled the roasting meat to be certain it was tender enough. Her appetite was so great that soon she had not eaten just the meat but the tripe and all the other parts of the goat. Even the inedible parts like the hooves and horns.

    Without any meat for dinner, the ghoul snatched the daughter by the hair. “Where is your brother,” demanded the ghoul.

    “Out playing,” wept the girl.

    The ghoul threw the girl out the door. “Go find him and bring him back or by Set I will kill you!”

    The little girl wept, she knew what the ghoul intended to do. She did not want to die but she did not want the ghoul to kill her brother either. After a short time the girl came back to the house. “I cannot find my brother,” she said. “He did not answer my calls.”

    This enraged the ghoul and she began beating the little girl with a leather strap then threw her out the window. “Find him or I will boil your eyeballs and eat them!”

    The girl did not call for her brother but he heard her weeping and hurried to see what was wrong. “Why do you cry, sister,” he asked.

    “Our step mother ate the goat father wanted for dinner. She says if I do not bring you home, she will kill me and boil my eyeballs. But if you go home, she will kill you and cook you for dinner.”

    “I will not let you be harmed,” said the boy. “I will rid us of this horrid woman!” With his wooden sword in hand and determination in his heart, the boy rushed home.

    The boy burst in the door but before he could say anything the ghoul snatched him up and slit his throat. She butchered the little boy like a goat and threw the pieces into the cooking kiln. “If you say anything about this the same will happen to you,” the ghoul snarled to the little girl.

    That evening when the goatherd returned, the ghoul was as pleasant as ever. The ghoul, the goatherd and the daughter sat down to eat but the daughter did not touch any of her food. “Why do you not eat,” the goatherd asked his daughter while slurping up a length of tripe.

    “She is not hungry,” said the ghoul. “So that just means more for us.”

    “And where is my son?”

    The ghoul smiled at her husband. “He ate early and went out to play. I expect he will not be back until late. But that is fine. This goat was large enough to last at least another three days.”

    The next morning the goatherd left to tend his goats. He thought nothing of his missing son. The Equinox would be upon them in another few days and he would have to give his daughter away to the strange man.

    When her stepmother was not looking, the little girl gathered up some of her brother’s bones, wrapped them in a small cloth and hurried away. An ancient acacia tree stood at the edge of the village and it was there that the girl dug a small hole and buried the sack. The daughter was weeping in the shade of the acacia tree when a man’s voice asked, “What is wrong, little dove?”

    The little girl looked up to see the man with the silver eyes standing there. “My stepmother is a ghoul,” she cried, “and my father cannot see it. She has cooked my brother and fed him to my father. I have buried some of his bones here but they can eat on my brother for three more days.”

    “Each morning, bring your brother’s dinner bones and bury them here,” said the Motwihamreed. “Do this and on the fourth day you will be rid of the ghoul.”

    For the next three evenings the daughter refused to eat and the goatherd would eat his daughter’s portion of dinner. The goatherd would also accept his wife’s excuse that the son had eaten early and gone out to play. Each morning the girl would gather her brother’s bones that were left over from dinner and bury them under the acacia tree. And each time she would weep until she had no more tears.

    The fourth day was the day of the spring equinox and there was to be a feast in the village. That morning before going to the feast the girl visited the acacia tree. There she found that her brother’s bones had been dug up by a hyena that was busy gnawing the marrow from the bones. She screamed and started to run for help but the hyena called to her, “Sister, do not run! It is me, your brother.”

    “How can this be? I saw you killed and our father eat you.”

    “Oh sister, the man with the silver eyes is the Motwihamreed. He summoned my spirit and bound it into a hyena so that I might take revenge on our stepmother. The price of vengeance is my soul bound to his will and the price of my speaking is that I must eat the marrow of my own bones. I gladly accept both but I was only a little boy and my bones are so very small I fear I will not be able to speak for long.”

    “Then we must hurry to the feast so you can tell your tale. The people there will certainly help us.” She climbed onto her brother’s back and off he raced into the village.

    The hyena caused a great disruption at the feast. Women screamed, children cried and men grabbed their knives to kill the beast but all stopped when the hyena spoke. “I am the son of the goatherd and I have come for vengeance,” said the hyena. “My stepmother killed me and fed me to my father who did not give a thought to where I was. In all the world only my sister has shown kindness to my bones.”

    “What vengeance would you have on your stepmother,” asked the people.

    “Bring my stepmother, the ghoul, to me,” howled the hyena. This the people did for a great many of them had suspected the woman of being a ghoul. They stripped her naked and bound her. They stuffed her mouth with tar and sewed her lips together so that any magic words she had might not charm them. The hyena mounted the ghoul, biting so savagely at her neck that he shredded flesh. Once he finished debasing the ghoul the people impaled her on a white hot iron poker.

    “What vengeance would you have on your father,” asked the people.

    But the powers of speech failed the hyena and with his sister riding his back he ran for home. At their small house they found the Motwihamreed talking to their father. “Because you valued your goats more than your family, you shall have neither,” said the Motwihamreed . “Go, hyena, and eat your fill of goat as your father ate his fill of you.” The hyena, having no choice but to obey his new master went out and ate so many goats his belly swelled to three times its size. Those he could not eat, he slaughtered until none were left.

    “By your oath, your daughter is mine,” continued the Motwihamreed, “and by your blindness to your wife’s nature, you son’s soul is now mine.” The goatherd wept for he knew his own actions had enslaved his son’s spirit and bound his daughter to the Motwihamreed. “But you shall be compensated,” said the Motwihamreed, his silver eyes shimmering. Two slaves pale as death itself carried in a rolled carpet and placed it before the goatherd. The Motwihamreed then left with the goatherd’s daughter and son.

    For the rest of his days the goatherd never again saw the Motwihamreed, his son or his daughter. But he always remembered them because each time the goatherd unfurled the silk rug he found it to be flawless in every respect save that a small corner had once been chewed off by a hungry little goat.
    -There are things in the deep desert that could not be imagined even in the nightmares of a thousand madmen.-

  9. #9

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    --The Hakawati tells why it is unwise to anger a ghoul--


    Once there was a captain of Ashem and his wife who had a son and a daughter. The son was a soldier in the Pasha’s guard like the father and the daughter, being the youngest, was just coming to an age where she could be married. The girl’s name was Halima and her beauty was such she could enslave a man’s heart with but a smile.


    One of these hearts happened to be that of Assidi the ghoul sorcerer who at the time still appeared human and not the putrid corpse-thing he would eventually become. This of course was long before Assidi rebelled against the Magi and became the scourge of the desert and a thing used to frighten children into obedience. Who as a child has not heard that Assidi will come and get you if you do not behave?


    Stricken with Halima’s beauty, Assidi determined to make her his wife. Assidi went to the soldier and demanded his daughter as a wife, offering a dowry that even a lowly swineherd would find pitiful.


    The soldier, being a proud man and one to stand on his honor as a soldier and father became angry. “You are not unknown to me,” said the soldier. “Though your reputation is fearsome and your power more so, do not insult me with such a trifling offer you greedy little snake.”


    “I offer what is fair,” asserted Assidi. “The girl has not even spent the required season learning the ways of Derketo. How am I to know she can please a husband at all?”


    “When her season is finished the Pasha has declared she will be wed to a Captain of the Ribyats so that there is a foundation for peace between Ashem and Ribyat. She will please her husband but it will not be you. Now leave, ghoul, before I carve your black heart from your chest.”


    One must be careful when dealing with sorcerous ghouls. They are spiteful beings who will carry a grudge to their death. Woe to anyone who rouses a ghoul sorcerer’s ire for they are so long lived that their vengeance might span generations of mortals. “So be it,” said Assidi. “If I cannot have your daughter, may your son be struck down and your blood no longer live in the tribe of Ashem.”


    Not fearing the ghoul or his curse, the soldier drew his scimitar and slashed at Assidi. The scimitar tasted the meat and bone of Assidi’s hand but the ghoul with a quick word took the form of a hyena and ran away before the soldier could hack him to pieces.

    Assidi ran all the way to his hidden cave. When he changed back to human form, he found that the scimitar had nearly sliced through the ring and middle fingers on his left hand. The fingers hung by a few scraps of skin and were already turning black at the edges.


    “It will take weeks to grow new fingers,” snarled the ghoul more upset at the inconvenience of growing new fingers than of losing two to a scimitar. Assidi then ripped the injured fingers from his hand. “But I will set these to the business of revenge.”


    He placed the two fingers in a rosewood box and sealed it with the wax of candles made from the fat of rotting corpses. With his own blood he inscribed the outside of the box with runes of black power then on the night of the new moon buried the box in the grave of an assassin.


    By the next new moon Assidi’s fingers had grown back and he went to dig up the rosewood box. The blood symbols on the box had etched themselves into the wood which told the ghoul that the magic had worked. When he cracked the wax seal Assidi found two finger sized homunculi inside the box.


    “What would you have of us, Master,” asked the two tiny copies of the ghoul.


    “Revenge,” said Assidi and this seemed to please the homunculi who by nature are mischievous and malicious creations. “It must be slow revenge and I will tell you what to do once back at my cave.” Assidi closed the box and hurried back to his cave.


    Some months before, the ghoul had eaten alive a particularly plump perfumer. Being a sorcerous ghoul and one able to absorb the knowledge of his victims, Assidi gained all the skills of the perfumer with regard to combining oils and essences. He prepared several fine smelling perfumes with the help of the homunculi while telling them that by pretending to be djiin they would help exact revenge.


    Once the perfumes were created, Assidi took them and the box with the homunculi to market. It happened that each day of the half moon, the soldier’s wife would go to market by herself. Assidi drew a heavy keffiyeh about his face to hide all but his eyes and waited for the wife to pass by.


    “Dearest lady,” Assidi called to the wife, “might you help me?”


    “What is it you wish?”


    “Oh a sad day it is when a perfumer cannot tell the difference between sweet essence and donkey piss,” lamented Assini. “Some rascal has stolen several of my perfumes and replaced them with bottles of urine. Now I have no idea which is my best perfume.”


    “Well, simply remove your keffiyeh and smell the bottles,” suggested the wife.


    “Oh that I could, dearest lady. But in truth my visage has been so ravaged by the indiscretions of my youth that to reveal my face would cause fright for I have no nose. I have a young daughter that normally smells my wares but it is her season with the Derketo temple.”


    “My daughter’s season will be at the next solstice,” said the wife. “And after that she is to be married to a Ribyat captain.”


    “May Derketo bless her with many strong sons!” Asini placed three small bottles of perfume before the wife. “If you could please tell me which one smells of waste, I would be in debt to you. I would be so embarrassed selling urine to someone.”


    “Very well, sir.” The wife smelled the first bottle and it was a heady citrus smell. The second bottle smelled like sandalwood and lavender The last bottle smelled of urine and made the wife wince.. “This last one is the one you want to be rid of,” said the wife.


    “Praise be to Set! You have saved me, dear lady. Let me give you something for your trouble.” Assidi turned his back to the wife and opened his homunculous box. He then stuffed the two homunculi into a perfume bottle and filled the bottle with a lotus perfume. Homonculi do not need to eat or sleep or breathe or drink so Assidi knew this would not harm them. “Please take this, the finest of all my perfumes. I must tell you, it was crafted not by me but by a djiin. No matter who wears it the perfume will never fail to arouse the opposite sex. So you must only wear it at night with your husband and always open it when you are by yourself or else the magic in it will be destroyed.”


    When the wife returned home she made certain she was alone and opened the bottle of perfume to smell it. Out jumped the two homunculi dressed in colored satins as if they were emirs or sultans.


    “We are free,” shouted middle finger homunculous.


    “We are indebted to you, most kind lady,” said ring finger homunculous with a bow.


    “Yee, what is this? Demons in my perfume!”


    “No no,” said ring finger. “Not demons. We are djiin brothers trapped inside the perfume. Since you have freed us from our imprisonment, we are at your command. Though we are small and without our powers we will do what we can to help you in any way. But be warned, we are only bound to your service so long as you do not reveal our presence to anyone and only so long as there is perfume in the bottle.”


    “Very well,” said the wife. “A family of mice is always chewing holes in our grain sacks. They are so small and fast that I cannot catch them and each time they return there are more of them. Kill the mice for me.”


    The homunculi armed themselves with needles from the wife’s sewing kit and in a short time slew the entire family of mice. The wife, pleased with their quick work pledged to tell no one about the two magic servants living in her perfume bottle. In the day the homunculi would scurry about doing the wife’s bidding but at night they would work their mischief.


    When everyone had fallen asleep, the homunculi would crawl from the perfume bottle. The perfume made from lotus extract was, as Assidi said, a powerful aphrodisiac and it never failed to entice the soldier when his wife wore it to bed. Once the soldier and his wife fell asleep, middle finger would crawl inside the wife too scoop out all the soldier’s seed. He would also draw arcane symbols within her womb that would ensure if the wife managed to become pregnant the child would be still born.


    The lotus extract dulled the mind when ingested so at night ring finger would rub the perfume on the lips of the soldier and his wife. He would then whisper in their ears whatever dreams he wanted them to have. For the wife he whispered dreams of her daughter abused by her Ribyat husband. In the soldier’s ear he would whisper dreams of his son betraying the tribe.


    Since the homunculi were part of Assidi, he knew all they did and directed their malevolent acts from afar. A year passed in this manner with the soldier and his wife becoming slowly addicted to the lotus perfume and more easily manipulated by the homunculi. At the end of the year the soldier and his wife received word that their daughter gave birth to a son.

    “We should visit our daughter and see our grandson,” said the wife. “But what gifts shall we bring?”


    “Let us sleep on it,” said the soldier. “Our dreams will certainly tell us.”


    That night the homunculi whispered the same dream to both soldier and wife. They would bring a jar of the purest olive oil, a fat ewe, a sack of the sweetest sugar and all these things they would find along the way to visit their daughter. The next day the Soldier and his wife set out, trusting their dreams that they would find all these things before reaching their daughter. For the journey ring finger hid himself under the wife’s left breast and middle finger hid himself in the collar of the soldier’s robes.


    Three oases sat along the route to their daughter. At the first oasis they happened upon a slave emptying the night’s chamber pots. “There,” whispered middle finger to the soldier. The purest oils!”


    “How much for your oils,” the soldier asked the slave.


    Confused but not wanting to offend the soldier the slave looked up and asked, “You mean these jugs of piss?”


    “Nonsense, boy. Do not disparage your fine wares. My daughter has a new son and I wish to give the purest oils to my daughter as a gift. I will give you this ruby for a jar of your oil.” The soldier held out a ruby the size of a thumb nail. It was the biggest ruby the slave had ever seen. He knew his master would forgive the loss of a piss jug for such a fine stone and shook hands with the soldier over the deal.


    At the second oasis the soldier and his wife came across a shepherd putting down several of his flock that had become diseased. “There,” whispered ring finger to the wife. Fine fat ewes!”


    “Shepherd,” called the wife, “I want one of your ewes. One so plump she has fat dripping from her nose!”


    “There is no such thing,” said the shepherd thinking the woman had been out in the sun too long.


    The wife pointed to a sickly ewe with mucus dripping from her snout and crust around her eyes. “But you have one right there! Why she is oozing fat. I must have it as a gift for my daughter. Take this silver necklace in trade.” The shepherd, being a poor man, readily accepted the fine silver necklace for a diseased ewe he was about to cull anyway.


    The third oasis happened to be close to the Ikawi salt mines. “There,” whispered middle finger to the soldier. “Bags and bags of the sweetest sugar!” No matter how the merchants tried, they could not convince the soldier that he was buying refined salt and not sugar. The soldier and his wife were so confused by the lotus that even when they sampled the salt, the homunculi whispered that it tasted like sugar and that is what the soldier and his wife tasted.


    Soon after they passed into the lands claimed by the tribe of Ribyat they came across a well. “Such a sad well,” whispered ring finger to the wife. “It must be thirsty.”


    “Husband, this Ribyat well looks nearly dry,” said the wife. “We should give it the oil to replenish itself.” The soldier agreed and dumped all of the oil into the well.


    A little further on they came across a pen of dogs that are popular with the Ribyat people for hunting desert hare. “Such lean dogs,” whispered middle finger to the soldier. “They must be hungry.”


    “Wife, these dogs look famished,” said the soldier. “I do not think our daughter will mind if we give the ewe to them. Such a fat thing should fill these dogs up in no time.” So the wife led the ewe into the dog pen. The dogs, being bred for hunting soon fell upon the ewe and began eating it.


    The soldier and his wife then passed through a Ribyat vineyard. “Such sweet grapes,” ring finger whispered to the wife. “Too bad they cannot be made sweeter.”


    “Husband, how much sweeter would these grapes be if we sprinkled our sugar on the ground? Would it not make a better gift to have so much sweet wine than a simple bag of sugar?” The soldier agreed and helped his wife spread the salt over the ground.


    When they came to their daughter’s house they realized they had no gifts. “Forgive us, daughter,” said the wife. “We had the purest oils but used it to replenish a well. We had the fattest sheep but used it to feed starving dogs. We had the whitest sugar but used it to make wine grapes all the sweeter.”


    “That is fine, mother,” smiled Halima. “Your presence in my home is gift enough.”


    The soldier and his wife enjoyed the hospitality of their daughter and son-in-law. They often praised Halima for giving birth to such a fine boy who, by all indications, would grow up to be a soldier like his father and grandfather. However, they never spoke of the dreams they had in their daughter’s house. The soldier dreamed his son out of envy had poisoned the wells, the dogs and the land of Halima’s husband. The wife dreamed of her grandson covered in lice and crying out all his tears until all he could cry was blood.


    Word came one day that one of the wells used by the people had been poisoned so that the water from it tasted of urine. Several hunting dogs had been found dead, the twisted bones of some sheep nearby and the vineyard began to whither and die. All of this happened on land given to Halima’s husband by the Ribyat emir so her husband was summoned to explain why such afflictions had descended upon him. If he was found to have been cursed he and Halima would be cast out into the desert.


    “Something must be done,” middle finger whispered to the soldier. “Your son’s envy has caused this.”


    “I must go,” the soldier said to his wife. “I think that I might be able to help our beloved Halima but it will be at the cost of our beloved son. He has poisoned the well, the dogs and the land and I will have his head for this.”


    “Then go,” said the wife. “I will stay here with Halima and help her with the baby since her husband is answering to the emir for these horrible problems.”


    Everyone thought Halima and her husband had somehow offended Set. Why else would such terrible things happen to them? So, no one would help Halima while her husband was away. She had to tend the animals and the fields by herself. So would leave her baby with her mother. One day the child began crying and nothing could console him. “His head must itch,” ring finger whispered.


    “Of course,” thought the wife, “he cries because his head is full of lice.” She set a pot on the fire and began heating some water. Once it was at an angry boil, she dipped the baby’s head into it until he stopped crying and put him to bed.


    When Halima came home her mother said to her. “My grandson’s head was full of lice and he was crying so much that I boiled away the lice and put him to bed. He has been sleeping quiet ever since.”


    Halima ran to the crib and found her son dead, the flesh boiled and sloughing from his face like greasy meat from a roasted bone. “Get out! Get out,” Halima screamed at her mother. “When my husband comes back he will kill you for this!”


    The mother hurried home, unsure why her daughter was so angry at her. Ring finger stayed quiet beneath the wife’s left breast until they had reached home and found the tent entrance to be sewn shut. “What is this,” wondered the wife. “Little helper, go see what is the matter.”


    Ring finger hopped to the ground and looked up at her. “No,” he said. “you no longer have any of the perfume so I am my brother are no longer bound to your service.” The wife pulled the perfume bottle from her satchel and found it to be empty. “I have stayed only long enough for you to bring us back together that we might leave.”


    Middle finger crawled from under the tent. “It is done,” he said and with ring finger, he ran off.


    At the sewn up tent the wife called out, “Husband, are you in there!”


    “Go away,” said the soldier.


    “Just let me in, husband.”


    “No, you will hate me”


    “Why, what have you done?”


    “I thought our son poisoned the well, dogs and land of our daughter’s husband so I went to confront him,” said the soldier.


    “So! Let me in!”


    “He denied it but I know he did it and you will hate me for what I’ve done,” lamented the soldier. “That is why I have sewn closed the tent.


    “You are my husband,” said the wife. “Whatever you have done, I know you did it because you had to and I will honor you no matter what.”


    “I cut off our son’s head and sent it to the Ribyat,” said the soldier.


    “It was a thing you had to do,” the wife said with her most soothing voice. “Now, let me in.”


    “That is not all, wife. I was so covered in his blood I needed to bathe for three days to be rid of it all. When I was finished I had no way to dry myself. That is when a little man came to me with a sprig of grape leaves. He said there were towels outside by the camel pen and I could use the grape leaves to cover my particulars so I would not have to walk about naked.”


    “So. That is not all too embarrassing.”


    “But wife, the camels were hungry! As soon as I came close enough they saw the grape leaves and one of them bit off my pecker at the root! Another gobbled up the rest of the leaves along with my balls!”


    “Damn you, husband,” shouted the wife. “That was the best part of you and now you are no more use than a gelding.”


    That is how Assidi the ghoul exacted revenge and caused the soldier’s bloodline to end with him.
    -There are things in the deep desert that could not be imagined even in the nightmares of a thousand madmen.-

  10. #10

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    - -The Hakawati relates the tale of the ungrateful widow- -


    Before the Magi caused the desert to swallow the Oasis of Mawt-Jalar it was one of the largest in the great southern wastes. It was so large that seven villages had formed around it, each one populated by people from the seven true tribes of Shem and overseen by seven sheiks and seven emirs. These villages sat around the oasis at each of the eight points of the compass except for the northwestern point which led in the direction of the Black Necropolis. No one wished to build in the northwest because everyone believed the purity of Mawt-Jalar’s water was due to an ancient connection with the necropolis and the Magi.

    In the eastern village there was a Ribyat woman whose husband had died in a blood feud with Ashem. Because of her husband’s loyalty to the Ribyat and the fact they were newly wed and had no children, the Ribyat emir granted her a place in the village so that she might live out her days. She was not old or unattractive and still quite capable of bearing children yet no man would marry her. Not even as a third or fourth. The blood feud her husband had started with the Ashem was so vile that no man wanted her as a wife for fear that we Ashem would come and murder him for taking the wife of someone who had so offended us.

    Alone and with no man to help her, the woman one day said, “Would that I had a child to comfort me. By Set and the Magi I’d have it even if it were just a metal pot.”

    Well, the ears of the Magi are everywhere so one of them granted her plea. But the Magi, being so far removed from life as we know it and having forgotten what it is to be human, granted her plea in the most literal of senses. The woman became pregnant and gave birth to a polished brass pot. Thinking this was punishment for such a frivolous if unintentional prayer the woman cleaned up the pot, put it on a shelf and gave it no more thought.

    When it became known that she had given birth to a pot other villagers began to shun her. Her life which was difficult because she had no man to guide her became all the more harsh as no one would have anything to do with the woman they thought was obviously cursed.

    It was not long after this that the woman was weeping when she heard a voice, “Mother, why are you crying?” She looked around and realized that the pot was talking to her.

    “No one will speak to me and everyone shuns me, child,” she said to the pot. “I cannot visit the markets without merchants closing their shops to me. People avoid me and mumble charms against misfortune whenever I walk by.”

    “Do not worry, mother,” said the pot. “Take me down and set me outside and I will help.”

    Once the woman set the pot outside, it started rolling away. It rolled all the way to the market and stopped right where many people tend to gather and pass by. It was not long before a man walking by took notice of the fine brass pot.

    “Hey, whose pot is this,” called the man but no one claimed it. “Well, if it belongs to no one, it now belongs to me. I have the perfect use for it.” He picked up the pot and took it home with him to the southern village. Once home the man, who was a seller of incense and other fine essences, filled the pot with his best myrrh and camphor and other wares. He placed the lid on the pot and put the pot up on a shelf.

    The next day he went to fetch some of the camphor from the pot to sell to a customer but found he could not get the lid off. Try as he might he could not pry the lid free, even with a hammer and chisel which scratched and scarred the pot. Angered, he threw the pot out the window. The pot then rolled home to its mother.

    “Mother, Mother,” it called when it rolled in the house. “Look what I have brought for you.” The pot opened its lid and out spilled all the fine incense the merchant had placed in it.”

    “What a helpful child you are,” praised the mother. “But you are scratched! Are you hurt?”

    “It is nothing, mother. Just clean me up and put me back on the shelf.”

    The woman cleaned up the pot and placed it back on the shelf. She then used the incense around the house and opened up all the windows. Houses, unlike tents, have windows, you know. Some made of glass. The smell was so wonderful that several neighbors came by to see what was going on. They thought that perhaps the woman was burning incense and making prayers of supplication to atone for whatever act that had caused her to be cursed with birthing a metal pot. When she told the people her child had brought her the incense the neighbors hurried away, mumbling protective charms against the cursed woman.

    The next day the woman was crying and the pot asked, “Mother, why are you crying?”

    “People still hate me,” cried the woman. “The incense are a delight but I cannot eat them. Soon I will starve since no one will sell me anything to eat.”

    “Do not worry, mother,” said the pot. “Set me outside and I will help.”

    Once the woman set the pot outside, the pot started rolling away. It rolled all the way to the market and stopped again right where many people tend to gather and pass by. It was not long before a man walking by took notice of the brass pot.

    “Hey, whose pot is this,” called the man but no one claimed it. “Well, if it belongs to no one, it now belongs to me. It may be scarred from use but I have the perfect use for it” He picked up the pot and took it home with him in the western village. Once home the man, who was a seller of honey and sugar, filled the pot with his best honey. He placed the lid on the pot and put the pot up on a shelf.

    The next day he went to open the pot but found he could not get the lid off. He tried a hammer and chisel but that did not work. He tried banging the lid with a pick but only pitted the lid rather than puncture it. “Cursed pot,” he yelled and threw the pot out the window. The pot then rolled home to its mother.

    “Mother, Mother,” it called when it rolled in the house, “look what I have brought for you.” The pot then opened its lid to show it was full of honey.

    “What a delightful child you are,” praised the mother. “But you are scratched and pitted! Are you hurt?”

    “It is nothing, mother. Just clean me up and put me back on the shelf.”

    She then emptied the honey into several jars and washed up the pot before putting it back on the shelf. The woman made honey cakes and sweet syrup from the honey which she ate for several days but within a week she was again weeping.

    “Why are you crying, mother?”

    “Dear child, the honey will soon be gone and I will have nothing to eat.”

    “Do not worry, mother,” said the pot. “Set me outside and I will help.”

    Once again the woman set her pot child outside and once gain the pot started rolling toward the market. It was not long before a noble woman passing by noticed the pot sitting by itself.

    “Hey, whose pot is this,” called the noble woman but no one claimed it. “Well, if it belongs to no one, it now belongs to me. It may be scarred and pitted from abuse but I have the perfect use for it” She picked up the pot and took it to her home in the northern village. Once home the noble woman, who was the wife of a sheik, filled the pot with her finest jewelry. She stuffed the pot so full of emeralds and rubies and gold necklaces that she had to stand on it to get the lid to close. “No one will suspect such a plain old pot of holding my jewels,” she thought.

    The next day she went to fetch one of her ruby rings from the pot and found she could not open it. She took the pot to a wood carver who tried to use hammer and chisel to open the pot but all he did was scar and scratch it even more. She then took the pot to a stone mason who banged on the pot with a pick axe but all he could do was dent the poor little pot. She took the pot to a blacksmith who hammered on it with such ferocity that the little pot became misshapen. But still it would not yield up its contents.

    “Let us throw it in the fie,” suggested the blacksmith. “Maybe that will soften up the metal and we can rip it open.” The noble woman agreed and they tossed the pot into the red hot coals. The little pot endured the heat until its bottom became black as soot. Unable to stand the heat any longer the pot jumped out of the fire and started rolling away.

    “Catch it,” yelled the noble woman. She and the blacksmith chased the pot but the little pot was too fast for them and was able to run away and make it all the way home.

    “Mother, Mother,” the pot called when it rolled in the house, “look what I have brought for you.” The pot then opened its lid and spilled out all the jewelry.

    “What a dutiful child you are,” said the mother. “But you are scratched and dented and misshapen and covered in soot! Are you hurt?”

    “It is nothing, mother. Just clean me up and put me back on the shelf.”

    The woman cleaned up the pot as best she could and placed it on the shelf. She gathered up all the jewelry and saw it was enough that she might not want for anything the rest of her life. Her neighbors saw that the woman started wearing nicer clothes and would regularly adorn her hands with henna. It was obvious that the woman had somehow managed to become wealthy. Despite still thinking her cursed, the woman’s neighbors began speaking to her again. They thought perhaps to curry her favor and get a small amount of her wealth. The prospect of getting money, it seems, readily overcame their fear of dealing with a cursed woman. The neighbors would help the woman here and there, doing servile tasks like laundry and cleaning and always the woman would offer them a few coins or scraps of gold for their help.

    Weeks went by and the woman became accustomed to having her neighbors as servants. But they were just simple people and she felt she deserved much more so one day she went to the pot. “Child,” she said, “I am going to set you outside and you will bring me more jewels and more gold. Enough to build a palace and have servants attend my every need.”

    “But mother,” said the pot, “Do we not have enough? I am so scratched and dented and my bottom is still black from being in the fire.”

    “I am your mother! Do as I say,” commanded the woman who took the pot down and set it outside.

    The little pot rolled to the market. Like before it sat in a place frequented by many people and waited. It was not long before a man spied the little pot sitting all by itself. It was the incense merchant who had first found the pot.

    “I know you,” he said to the pot. “Though you look to have been misused since last I saw you, you are the pot that stole my finest incense! Curse you and your owner. I’ll give you something to carry back.” Right there in the market he squatted over the pot and shat in it. Once filled he put the lid on it and tied the lid on with a bit of twine. “There! Off with you, shiitpot!”

    The pot rolled home as fast as it could. “Mother, Mother,” the pot called when it rolled in the house, “look what I have brought for you.”

    The woman untied the twine and lifted the lid. Out poured all the fetid waste. But it did not stop. The woman tried putting the lid back on but brown ooze kept leaking out and squirting from the many pits in the little pot. Soon the house was ankle deep and the woman could not open the doors to get out. “Stop it,” she demanded.

    “I can’t,” said the little pot.

    The woman tried to climb out a window but she was so covered in slime that her hands slipped each time she tried to throw open the windows. In no time the ooze was waist deep and the woman could not move. Then it was up to her chest and neck and finally over her head and did not stop until the entire house was filled.

    After a week, the neighbors began to wonder why they had not seen the woman and they went to investigate. They found they could not open any doors or windows so they called the strongest neighbor to bash down the door. When he finished, they found the feces hardened like a camel patty left drying in the sun. And there the woman stayed in her shiit palace filled with little turd servants.


    The ears of the Magi are everywhere. Be careful what you wish for.
    -There are things in the deep desert that could not be imagined even in the nightmares of a thousand madmen.-

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