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Ealasaid · 06-18-2003, 05:11 PM

Ahmad and Yusef arrived back into the Painted Sand encampment well before dawn, just as Ahmad had expected. Yusef disappeared quickly in the direction of his tent, leaving Ahmad to deal with the horses on his own. That suited Ahmad fine. His exhausted mind was a confusion of thoughts and feelings, memories and half-forgotten dreams. The last thing he needed was to have to listen to anymore of Yusef's barbed comments, or worry about what Yusef might be up to when Ahmad's back was turned. Grateful to be rid of him, Ahmad rode on toward the area where the tribe's communal horses were kept. When he got there, he found Salman and Ratib, two elders from the Rain clan, slumped sleepily in their saddles, watching over the grazing animals. Ahmad greeted them courteously, and, while he wondered why elders should be out watching the horses, he said nothing. Watching the horses was a job for the very young men of the tribe.

But then most of the young men had been acting strangely lately. There was the knifing that Yusef had told him about, the one that had taken place in the evening of the day Ahmad had left for the north. According to the story Yusef told, it had happened shortly after dark as the moon first rose over the peaks of the distant mountains. A quarrel had broken out between two young men of the Rain clan. No one was sure what the quarrel was about, but when it was over, Mahir lay dead and Fouad stood over him, a bloody dagger in his hand and a wild light in his eyes. A mysterious red stone lay in the dust at his feet. It had taken four Rain clan elders to subdue him, but finally it had been done and Fouad had been taken away, bound. The red stone had disappeared, and, as far as Yusef knew, Fouad had not spoken since. At one time, Fouad had been a friend of Ahmad, so the news was that much more troubling. Fouad had never been the violent type. The image of his childhood friend, standing bloodied over the body of his own kinsman, haunted Ahmad's tired mind as he went about his work. Slowly, the vision changed, the mad eyes of Fouad overlapping and bleeding into the cold eyes of Yusef. The drawn dagger. Ahmad gave his head a quick shake. He was too tired. He had to clear his head.

But, then, there was Qirfah. Just as Yusef had said, the Baobab encampment lay to the west, on the far side of the spring, the white tents visible in the dark distance as the two men rode in from the north. She was there. Ahmad could feel her presence in the core of his being, and he knew he would have no peace until he at least saw her tent. The time that had passed since he had last held her in his arms had been too long, yet still no woman could compare to her. He knew that he had given his word to Jamilah, but the desire to see Qirfah again, to hold her again, tortured him. Too often Qirfah's smile danced before his eyelids when he tried to sleep, the memory of her scent still clouding his head as he awoke. If he couldn't see her, he at least needed to be near her, however briefly.

Like a sleepwalker, he finished releasing the tribe's horses back into the herd and saw to the unloading and grooming of the packhorse. It was still dark when he returned to his own horse and rode out of the Painted Sand camp toward the camp in the west. Sham's unshod hooves made a muffled clop-clop sound in the dust as he approached the outer circle of tents of the Baobab encampment. Ahmad dismounted, leading the horse and listening intently for the faint, watery tinkle of glass on glass. Some years before, the Baobab tribe had camped at the foot of an old volcano. In the clear waters of the stream at its foot, the tribe had found a wealth of obsidian, volcanic glass. While many members of the tribe had taken the obsidian and made arrowheads and ceremonial knives, Qirfah had selected only the narrowest, longest shards and, hanging them with twine from a small branch, fashioned herself a windchime. Ahmad knew that the windchime always hung by the door of Qirfah's tent to remind her of that beautiful place and the way the waters of the stream had flowed over the obsidian shards, making them sing.

A steady breeze had been blowing throughout the night. He knew that the windchime would be singing. It would lead him to her.

[ June 18, 2003: Message edited by: Ealasaid ]

[ June 18, 2003: Message edited by: Ealasaid ]

06-18-2003, 05:11 PM	#39
Ealasaid Wight Join Date: May 2003 Location: under a large pile of dirt & gravel Posts: 193	Ahmad and Yusef arrived back into the Painted Sand encampment well before dawn, just as Ahmad had expected. Yusef disappeared quickly in the direction of his tent, leaving Ahmad to deal with the horses on his own. That suited Ahmad fine. His exhausted mind was a confusion of thoughts and feelings, memories and half-forgotten dreams. The last thing he needed was to have to listen to anymore of Yusef's barbed comments, or worry about what Yusef might be up to when Ahmad's back was turned. Grateful to be rid of him, Ahmad rode on toward the area where the tribe's communal horses were kept. When he got there, he found Salman and Ratib, two elders from the Rain clan, slumped sleepily in their saddles, watching over the grazing animals. Ahmad greeted them courteously, and, while he wondered why elders should be out watching the horses, he said nothing. Watching the horses was a job for the very young men of the tribe. But then most of the young men had been acting strangely lately. There was the knifing that Yusef had told him about, the one that had taken place in the evening of the day Ahmad had left for the north. According to the story Yusef told, it had happened shortly after dark as the moon first rose over the peaks of the distant mountains. A quarrel had broken out between two young men of the Rain clan. No one was sure what the quarrel was about, but when it was over, Mahir lay dead and Fouad stood over him, a bloody dagger in his hand and a wild light in his eyes. A mysterious red stone lay in the dust at his feet. It had taken four Rain clan elders to subdue him, but finally it had been done and Fouad had been taken away, bound. The red stone had disappeared, and, as far as Yusef knew, Fouad had not spoken since. At one time, Fouad had been a friend of Ahmad, so the news was that much more troubling. Fouad had never been the violent type. The image of his childhood friend, standing bloodied over the body of his own kinsman, haunted Ahmad's tired mind as he went about his work. Slowly, the vision changed, the mad eyes of Fouad overlapping and bleeding into the cold eyes of Yusef. The drawn dagger. Ahmad gave his head a quick shake. He was too tired. He had to clear his head. But, then, there was Qirfah. Just as Yusef had said, the Baobab encampment lay to the west, on the far side of the spring, the white tents visible in the dark distance as the two men rode in from the north. She was there. Ahmad could feel her presence in the core of his being, and he knew he would have no peace until he at least saw her tent. The time that had passed since he had last held her in his arms had been too long, yet still no woman could compare to her. He knew that he had given his word to Jamilah, but the desire to see Qirfah again, to hold her again, tortured him. Too often Qirfah's smile danced before his eyelids when he tried to sleep, the memory of her scent still clouding his head as he awoke. If he couldn't see her, he at least needed to be near her, however briefly. Like a sleepwalker, he finished releasing the tribe's horses back into the herd and saw to the unloading and grooming of the packhorse. It was still dark when he returned to his own horse and rode out of the Painted Sand camp toward the camp in the west. Sham's unshod hooves made a muffled clop-clop sound in the dust as he approached the outer circle of tents of the Baobab encampment. Ahmad dismounted, leading the horse and listening intently for the faint, watery tinkle of glass on glass. Some years before, the Baobab tribe had camped at the foot of an old volcano. In the clear waters of the stream at its foot, the tribe had found a wealth of obsidian, volcanic glass. While many members of the tribe had taken the obsidian and made arrowheads and ceremonial knives, Qirfah had selected only the narrowest, longest shards and, hanging them with twine from a small branch, fashioned herself a windchime. Ahmad knew that the windchime always hung by the door of Qirfah's tent to remind her of that beautiful place and the way the waters of the stream had flowed over the obsidian shards, making them sing. A steady breeze had been blowing throughout the night. He knew that the windchime would be singing. It would lead him to her. [ June 18, 2003: Message edited by: Ealasaid ] [ June 18, 2003: Message edited by: Ealasaid ]