The guide raised his eyes to the sky, holding back a moan, and sighed, praying to the Gods to give him a little wax to plug his ears. Even his camel seemed to share his thoughts, moaning with long hoarse bellows.
The man invited Basim several times to get back on his mount (not so much for safety, but to speed up the journey), but at that moment he needed to move on his legs to vent the anger that had already been going on for a couple of days. Basim had many qualities, which however compensated for his biggest flaw: the ability to sulk for a long time.
He could bite the bullet many times, but if he was seriously offended, he would snort and grumble for a long time.
He usually found food as the comfort he needed to calm down but, unfortunately for him, his abundant pantry was now not at hand and so he had to resort to other methods. He was walking briskly at that moment, dragging his poor camel by the reins, forced to stretch its neck in an uncomfortable position; his face was deep red and certainly not because of the sunny day, even his curls seemed to twist even tighter in anger. As annoying as his temper was, he had good reason to be angry right now.
He had immediately understood that Rector Daysam was an unbearable person... but that he was also uncivilized to the point of calling him Ard kabeereh, had left him speechless. He had demonstrated that he did not care about the effect of his words on others, in fact; immediately after insulting him, he left as if nothing had happened, telling him several times to go home and bring back the dirty laundry that he had taken great care to drag behind him. Neither the guardian Adib nor the other adepts had defended him. The Rector inspired too much fear for anyone to dare contradict him.
If he hadn't had so much respect for the place he was in, perhaps he wouldn't have held back in responding in kind.
His friend Emir came to mind. He was quite right to have a low opinion of the Sand Masters.
His thoughts were a mixture of anger and disappointment.
Before reaching the school, he had imagined an almost magical experience, with guided tours of classrooms and lessons and, who knows, perhaps even the luck of witnessing moments in which the skills of commanding the Sand were put into practice. Serious skills, not acrobat tricks. In the end, however, it all boiled down to a one-way exchange of insults and rudeness. He had had too high expectations, and now it was inevitable that he would feel frustrated.
<< I have to insist, go back and sit on the camel. We are close to the Gilnora path, it is not safe to proceed on foot. >> The guide began at a certain point.
Basim, before rightly complying with the request, grunted annoyed for a couple of minutes. He continued to grumble, in a low voice this time, while inside he felt a strong desire to eat until he was sick so he could forget the bitterness. Despite the change in tone though, due to his guidance, it still wasn't quiet enough for the peace of his ears.
The region above Al Haimat is a small mountainous area within which a green valley is partially hidden. It is located 20 kilometers from the school, to reach it you necessarily must use pack animals. The climate of the area is hot during the summer and mild during the winter, which would make it suitable for sowing, but the valley is exploited for many other purposes.
At least three times a day, the area is tormented by students' practical exercises.
Under the hot sun, future Sand Masters are trained hard so that their technique becomes perfect.
The rocks and mountains themselves have been the object of training for the Masters for centuries, used as targets or objectives on which to unleash the power of the Sand. It immediately catches the eye how the stone appears polished in the same way as the structure of the school, perfectly smooth both to the sight and to the touch. Some rock ridges, by dint of being exploited, have ended up becoming a kind of artistic sculpture, many of which still stand upright only thanks to a thin worn support no wider than a large ox.
The vibrant sound of the Yasirpipe spreads through the air like a sinister howl, masses of Sand move and form depending on how the notes are played, all under the attentive gaze of the teachers. Students have sheet music at their disposal as they compose the jarring melodies, each providing certain instructions on how to move the Sand. There are no musical notes written on the sheets, it's more a kind of sequence of the order of how to hit the keys of the instrument, some of which are marked by the length of time they had to vibrate.
Before the end of their apprenticeship, students will have to memorize all the sequences.
Punishment, the failure.
The kids know this well and this causes tremendous anxiety in many of them, which is also made worse by the teachers who constantly repeat how easy they are and that it is therefore absurd that someone struggles to memorize them. Nevertheless, those "easy" signs appear to some students as untranslatable hieroglyphics that some mysterious spell confuses their eyes, preventing them from learning.
The soft crackle of the quill pen writing on paper was the only noise that could be heard in Daysam's office. The Rector was slowly compiling with almost maniacal care a series of letters announcing the failure of at least a quarter of the students with a list of the related reasons, writing the letters precisely and without smudging. Only in affixing the signature and the seal that highlighted his title on those unpleasant documents did a hint of satisfaction appear on his expressionless face. He had only recently started writing, so the pile of papers in front of him was still high but for him more than a job, he almost considered it a pastime.
The office was claustrophobic.
Small, dark, and cold, a nightmare for anyone who hated tight spaces.
The shelves on the walls, solid pieces of wood, bare and without any decoration, took up too much space and touched the ceiling so much as to give the sensation of removing all the air; two lamps with glacial glasses like bird cages radiated a dim light that made the environment even darker. The desk was made from a fragment of rust-colored stone at the edges of which were installed funnel-shaped glass cylinders containing Golden Sand, one of the most valuable, which moved inside forming weak vortices; another pair of larger cylinders were behind him. The only chair was that of the Rector, forcing anyone entering to remain standing.
The door, with the symbol of the Masters, painted in white in the center, was securely locked from the inside with a double lock. Everyone knew that when that door was closed, they should not dare approach it under any circumstances. When Daysam worked he hated to be disturbed unless there was an extremely serious reason. He was a man with a difficult character, he considered his task a real mission and for this reason, he had always dedicated all his time to it. Even now, despite being old and ill, his extreme zeal and commitment did not fail. The very few breaks he allowed himself were only those he was forced to take to take his medicine. The doctors had also imposed forced rest on him, and although his nameless illness weakened him day by day, he refused to rest all day, considering it a waste of time.
Suddenly someone knocked on the door with three distinct knocks.
The man froze and stared at the door askance, wondering what fool would dare break his rules. A familiar voice asked permission to enter. He incredibly stopped to welcome his guest, despite the amount of work he had to do.
<
<< Old man, you look as gorgeous as the last time we saw each other. >>
<< It could be worse. >>
The newly arrived man was the only one among the rector's acquaintances who could use an informal attitude with him.
His host's appearance did not go unnoticed; his skin was bronze and shiny, he had two sparkles like emeralds and a hypnotic gaze; his hair and mustache were black, thick, and soft as wool; his teeth were shiny and sharp, the canines were much sharper than normal, and when he smiled it seemed like he was trying to point it out on purpose. He had small hands with long, tapered fingers, his nails were perfectly filed into a crescent shape, and he smelled excessively of rose water. The clothing on the contrary was modest, consisting of a very simple black tunic, devoid of any ornaments or embroidery.
<< I knew I would find you hidden in this dark place, among your papers. You really want to die in here, huh? >>
<< I have a lot of responsibilities on my shoulders. >> replied the Rector annoyed. << I don't have time to waste, as you seem to do. >>
<< How can you think that? I came to see you to talk about work. >>
<< If that's the case, at least credibly tell me. >>
<
<< Yes, I know. It will be the hundredth time you repeat it. >>
Daysam sighed, sometimes the man seemed exasperating to him.
Jabar, contrary to how he appeared at first glance, was anything but a fool.
First, he was the General in charge of the Sultan's army. Unlike many soldiers, he had not built his career solely on the battlefield. He was also a man of very fine culture; he loved the arts and sciences to which he dedicated his free time. At important events, he was always a welcome guest, and he liked to participate in discussions between scholars and philosophers, expressing his thoughts without being presumptuous or unprepared. Daysam and Jabar had met at one of those events. Between the two, who shared the same ideas and opinions, perhaps it cannot be said that a true friendship was born, but certainly, a relationship of profound esteem and mutual admiration had developed over time, so much so that they decided to collaborate when necessary.
When the General went to visit the Rector, it meant that there was big news from the royal palace.
The two maintained a very close epistolary relationship and Jabar never failed to inform Daysam of everything that happened within the royal walls, even when it involved small trivialities. Only when the news was of considerable importance did the General appear in person, even for the sole pleasure of communicating it orally with almost exaggerated emphasis. The news of the moment concerned Prince Hazma and the beginning of his military apprenticeship.
<< The prince among the army? >> Daysam said amazed. << What convinced a pacifist like him to join the royal garrison? >>
<< Revenge, my friend. This is the reason. >> Jabar replied, touching the sword hanging at his side.
<< The murder of Master Fawzi has become a matter of honor for the young scion, his father convinced him to look for his killer in person. He even gave him a sword as a "stimulus" for his new career. >>
<
Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.
<< The Captain has orders to tell me everything that happens in the palace. >>
<< Oh. Now I understand... >>
The General chuckled amusedly, pretending to regret having let such a big "secret" slip.
The Rector also had some news to tell about Master Fawzi, although not very interesting compared to that given by the General.
Although it seemed like useless and unimportant news to him, he told him about Basim's visit.
Unlike his guest who loved to narrate everything in detail, getting lost in a thousand details, he was more concise, briefly describing the meeting. The only place where he spent a few more words was in the description of that strange cumbersome instrument that Basim had shown him. He snorted…. It was ridiculous that such an ignorant person could think that this ridiculous thing could be important. Once he finished telling what had happened, he realized that Jabar was looking at him uneasily, his eyes were completely wide and were turning red like fire.
He no longer smiled. He no longer had a relaxed pose.
<
Caught by surprise by this change in behavior, Daysam was unable to adequately describe the object, limiting himself to saying that it was a large, bizarre guitar.
The General began to nervously comb his hair with his hands, huffing repeatedly. He opened and closed his mouth, bit his lips, and moistened them with his tongue. He could tell he was seriously losing control.
<< Do you have any idea what you did? >> he finally said.
<< That "bizarre guitar" as you called it, I've been looking for it for days... and it was here, at your place! >>
Jabar growled and smashed one of the shelves with his fist. Books and documents collapsed at his feet, accidentally tearing in the fall.
The Rector gripped the desk in shock at this sudden outburst. It was the first time he had seen him react that way.
<< What's his name? >>
<< Who? >>
<< The man who came here. What did he look like? Where did he come from? Describe it to me, dammit! >>
<< I... I didn't ask his name. He was a big guy… with long black hair… and he said he was from Baharmis. >>
<< From Baharmis? Seriously? >>
<< Yes. But he looked like a lout, so I didn't… >>
<
<< When? I think three days have already passed... >>
<< Three days. Well. Well. Enough, not too many. I can still reach him. >>
The General started to rush out of the office, but Daysam stopped him before he could put his hand on the door handle.
<
Jabar looked him straight in the eye and said:
<< That was the new command tool of the Sand created by Fawzi. >>
Basim sighed relaxedly.
As soon as he dipped his feet in the crystal-clear water, the tension disappeared as small silver fish approached his toes, tickling him. The oasis had happened like a dream, that little corner of paradise towards which we had rushed at breakneck speed had appeared like a miracle. Even the camel seemed to be happy with the unexpected stop.
The guide had protested, saying it was not safe to leave the main road. Always staying within the limits of the route was the only way to have a smooth journey, he also had said.
Basim, however, was tired of the rules.
He had done nothing but follow them forever. What harm did a little a small exception to the rule could have done? And he was even more tired of always having to do what others told him: how he worked, how he should behave, what was best for him to eat!
So when the little oasis appeared from behind the dune he thought “To hell with everything! I deserve some rest!”.
The silence, the pleasant shade of the palm trees, the freshwater, the carpet of soft grass on which to lie down comfortably... there was no more idyllic place at that moment, even the high-pitched chirping of the crickets, which so often he had found annoying, now it was pleasant. He pondered the possibility of extending his absence from home. He would have liked to stop in towns along the way, meet new people, and visit some new musical instrument shops without having the anxiety of being discovered.
Speaking of instruments… he still had Master Fawzi's with him.
It was on the ground, a few centimeters from him, dusty and slightly scratched around the edges. He had been lugging that burden around the entire time, carrying it on his back without any problems. Now, however, it seemed that the weight had crushed his bones and he felt pain everywhere. What was he supposed to do now? The voice of his luthier friend suggested that he abandon it and wash his hands of it. But for Basim, it was still a musical instrument, therefore something important to him. He thought about it for a few minutes and then decided to keep it. The Masters hadn't claimed him, so there was no problem if he "played" a little.
It was still a strange object, but it no longer had as much effect on him as before. Now he even found it very handsome. He realized that when seated he could manage the weight better and could move his arm better along the entire path of the strings without struggling to hold it. He began to manipulate the knobs, both to understand which string it was paired with and to find the right intonation. It was a process not too different from that used to tune any other stringed instrument, but certainly longer and more complicated. Playing it wasn't easy either; the strings seemed to be made of metal wire which, poor him, did not fail to scratch his fingertips. It wasn't a waste of time anyway, little by little his ear began to get used to that particular sound and to like it. How could he describe it? Well, it was a sort of reverberant, stationary, and transversal buzz. While he was playing, the camel approached curiously to smell the instrument; then, it lay down on the ground and began to bob its head, as if it wanted to dance to that unfamiliar rhythm. It was nice to have someone listen to him, even if not human.
<< Master, we are late. They should have arrived at the village by now. >> began the guide at some point.
He was very agitated, he had respected Basim's wishes to stop, but little by little his patience was waning. He continually disturbed the sand at his feet with the little whip that he used to spur his beast, kicked the small stones, and continually spat with a hoarse gargle.
<< Five more minutes and then we can continue. >> he replied patiently.
<< Five minutes is not good. It's always late. >> retorted the guide. << When moving in these areas you must always be quick and careful. They are dangerous, especially near oases. >>
<< Dangerous? What kind of danger could lurk in a place like this? >>
<< The scorpions, the lions, but above all the… >>
Marauders.
That's what the guide meant to say before his throat was split in half with a crescent-shaped cut.
He fell to the ground like an empty sack, rolling down the low slope of the road. A figure towered there in a brown and white robe that covered him from head to toe, hiding his entire face except for his olive-black eyes, screaming as menacingly as a coyote, and pointing a dagger dripping red high into the sky. Suddenly a cloud lifted behind him, and other screaming figures appeared like a swarm of hungry locusts, riding black, white, and brown stallions, waving long scimitars like flags. There were at least ten of them, too many for a single boy like Basim.
He and the camel understood each other immediately, with a leap he jumped onto it while it sank its hooves into the sand to escape from those screaming madmen.
Poorly positioned on the animal's hump, he meanwhile freed it of any unnecessary weight. The raiders wanted his goods, not him. Or perhaps they thought he was a rich traveler and for this reason, they ran after him, convinced that by kidnapping him they could earn a rich ransom. It was more likely, however, that they would kill him the moment they realized that he was nothing more than a lowly potter. Bandits were not men who liked to waste time.
His heart was already beating very fast, and when two raiders managed to get closer, it seemed to him that it was about to explode. The horses with long, shiny manes snorted and neighed loudly as they came alongside the camel that could not match their speed and their thick hooves kicked up the earth with loud snorts. Meanwhile, their knights tried to stop him in different ways: one tried to unhorse him, and the other instead; grabbed the reins. Behind them, the rest of the group cheered them on with very loud shouts. It is not known whether, by luck or miracle, neither of them managed to block Basim who, even though no one could hear his pleas, shouted for help a thousand times.
Suddenly the camel let out a heartbreaking wail, its humped form falling into what had once been a now-dry riverbed. The depression was very deep and steep, it was impossible to notice it from the top without being right on the edge. The animal fell into it and rolled disastrously to the bottom, dragging poor Basim with it. When they stopped at the bottom, partially covered by stones, sand, and dust, neither of them moved. The animal gasped for a couple of minutes before taking its last breath.
The raiders, from the top of the valley, unable to descend, argued heatedly and then left with poison in their mouths, angry at their lost prey.
About half an hour later, Basim regained consciousness.
He wasn't seriously injured and apparently, nothing was broken. However, he felt severe pain, especially in his head which seemed to him to vibrate like a cowbell, and he found it difficult to think. His mind wandered among many disconnected thoughts. The survival instinct suggested him, first of all, to breathe deeply, remove himself from under the body of the animal that had fallen on him, look around, and check that no one was there. He crawled on all fours a little before stopping and sitting up; his ears were ringing, and his vision was partially blurred. He ran a hand through his curls, trying to figure out where it hurt the most, and pulling it back he took away some hair and blood. It was a shock to see his fingers a different color; he wiped himself on his clothes leaving streaks.
When he raised his head, for a moment everything revolved around him, dazed he wondered if the gods had decided to turn the world upside down for fun. He tried not to look at the poor camel lying nearby with a broken neck; flies had already begun to buzz around him, and it wouldn't be too long before its scent attracted the attention of predatory wanderers. Speaking of "predators", he was slightly reassured to find that the bandits were no longer there. He was alone but alive.
He attempted to climb up the valley, but unfortunately, the slope was unstable and easily collapsed under his weight, causing him to slide repeatedly back to the starting point. He understood that it was useless to continue with that superfluous effort, he would never be able to return to where he had come from. He looked at the horizon trembling from the heat of the ground, he thought that if he started walking, sooner or later he would meet someone. Optimistic in his luck and divine support, he gathered what little he had left and began to walk slowly in an unclear direction.
Riakesh is a territory that is as rich as it is hostile and, without a doubt, also very hot.
Even its inhabitants themselves, who are baptized by the kiss of the sun when they are born, often cannot stand it and complain about it out loud. Even in areas near the coasts, where the presence of water should help mitigate the heat, the incandescent globe does not spare itself. City people don't know what it's like to be hot, only the nomads who live along the borders of the Sahra' alsamt truly understand how unbearable a whole day can be under that golden disk which, apparently; it seems to set fire to anything its rays touch.
A man may surround himself with gold and other precious things in his life, but they become useless when his fate falls into the hands of the desert.
In the hot nothingness, water and shade become more precious than any fabric, spice, or jewel the market can offer, but above all, none of it serves to protect from hours and hours of light.
Basim looked at the sun, not knowing whether it was moving or whether it had decided to remain still in the center of the sky. How many hours had he been walking now? He kept asking himself that repeatedly. He no longer lifted his feet, he dragged them one behind the other leaving furrows, he no longer even noticed the grains that remained stuck inside his sandals and between his toes. He had rolled his hair on his head in a sort of big messy knot, he had covered his head with his shirt to protect it from the heat. Aside from walking he did nothing but wipe the sticky sweat that slid from his forehead to his mouth and had a salty taste that dried his throat. He made a stop, yet another to quench his thirst. He only recovered a water bottle that was still half full. Despite his thirst, he tried to save every drop so that it could last until he found a well or a town. Now and then he felt like throwing it on himself so he could cool off, it would be a wonderful experience at a time like this, but he knew it was too precious right now. The heat wasn't something solid, yet he felt the sensation of an oppressive weight. He could swear he saw steam coming off him as he moved, but with his eyes bleary with tiredness and sunburnt, he wasn't sure if it was real or if he was starting to delirious.
When the sun went down, he left a slight relief.
He felt the air getting fresher, every breath of oxygen filled him with optimism and energy, as well as the hope of making it…. But the night, like the day, was by no means a moment of serenity.
Darkness, with its black and blue cloak, much more easily conceals dangers that are otherwise clearly visible in daylight; even just walking becomes risky because you can end up in a den of scorpions or fall into quicksand. The moon provides a pale aid with its white light and the stars in the sky become only small ornamental points in the drapery of the bluish Milky Way if you are not able to recognize them and use them to orient yourself. Basim, despite not having the slightest education on this matter, persisted in continuing the journey, placing blind trust in his instincts. It was his tiredness that forced him to stop, when his legs seemed to stop of their own accord, giving way suddenly causing a pang of pain not unlike a stab wound. Having no bed or cloth to lie on, he dug a hole at the base of a dune and crouched inside, hoping it wouldn't become his grave. Along with that thought, there were also the sinister sounds of crumbling sand and the low temperature keeping him awake.
Stuffy during the day and freezing at night. This is how it works in the desert.
An absurd climate for a foreigner, but not for its inhabitants.
And the cycle repeats itself every day, every year, without interruption, in a continuous and dangerous succession of climate changes, sometimes shaken by storms that can last for weeks.
The dawn of the second day came too early and already too hot for Basim, tired and dizzy after an almost sleepless night. He felt worse that morning, his head hurt more, and his body was in pain. He moved but was in a stupor. His water bottle had remained open and for a couple of hours he had been dangling from his hand empty, part of his hair had fallen forward partially covering his vision but he didn't seem to notice.
Suddenly everything went dark again. “How strange,” thought Basim.
However, it wasn't the night that had returned early, it was he who had lost consciousness immediately after collapsing on the ground. The faint spark of perception of the world that remained only served to make him hear the sounds of the warm wind and his own heart that began to beat more and more slowly, imagining it as a worn-out drum that was wearing out with each blow.
Before finally falling asleep, he had time to notice something else. It was too unclear for him to decipher with a name or a picture. At a certain point, he was certain that they were human voices.
Then he told himself it wasn't possible and fell asleep.